Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  In a split second, the temptation offered to my mother all those years ago became mine. I guess that’s why they call it temptation. It’s so silky and it seems that giving in will solve all your problems. Just this one time. Just this one thing. Just this, and everything else will be easy. No consequences. The snake in the Garden of Eden was female for sure—or at least spoke the male will with a female voice.

  Then I realized that it offered absolution. I hadn’t done the right thing by my father and I’d lost him. Mother couldn’t give the Winters what they wanted; it would destroy her. But I could. I could get the Winters off Mother’s back and my dreams off mine, and go back to Paris, far enough away that Winters wouldn’t bother to come after me. He just needed the one answer, and I could supply it. I could save my mother. Finally, something made sense, something I could do to make it all come out all right.

  Before I could think about whether using my intuition for the Winters was a good idea, I had to get everyone out of this room alive. The kitchen was filled with knives, hot coffee, heavy cutting boards, too many possibilities to count. If she did something, it would only make her appear more capable of having murdered Hugh, even though she couldn’t have murdered Hugh, right? Because she’d said she hadn’t murdered Hugh, and why would she, and anyway, it had to be one of the Winters because they were evil.

  Stop.

  I shook my head again. I must have looked like a wet dog.

  I glanced at Mother. Her lips were parted, teeth bared, as if she was going to bite some part of Mary Ellen’s anatomy off.

  Okay, I would go with Mother’s version for the moment. I said, “We’re not fortune tellers, Mary Ellen. We don’t see what you want us to see. Whatever intuition we get may have nothing to do with the question you ask, or we may get nothing at all. Asking us the same question over and over will not change the truth. Either way, threatening our lives is a prosecutable offense. A lawyer’s sister should know that.” I stood up. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to get ready for a funeral.”

  Mary Ellen seethed as I spoke, looking at Mother as if I were only the mouthpiece for her ideas. “It’s not Hetty’s funeral you should be worried about,” she spat.

  I followed her to the door and watched her stalk to her car, slam the door and spin angrily around the drive on her way out.

  In the kitchen, Mother was still seated at the table, her hands clenched into fists, her teeth still bared. “Is she gone?” One of the fists held a small paring knife. Where had she gotten that?

  I nodded and shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans to keep them from shaking. Then I had to sit down because I couldn’t breathe and my thighs felt funny, as if they were made of Spritz cookie dough. My head still pounded.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I haven’t been okay for thirty-five years,” she said.

  “Mother, you need to put the knife down.” She looked at me as if I had suddenly registered in her field of vision. “I saw her get in her car and drive out.”

  “Her energy is still here.”

  “It will dissipate.”

  “Only when she is gone.”

  “She is gone, I told you—”

  “I mean forever. We have to get rid of them forever.”

  “Mother. Put the knife down.”

  She hadn’t stopped staring at me. I was starting to feel like a bug under a glass cloche in the middle of a summer picnic. “For the last time,” she said, “I didn’t kill Hugh.”

  “I didn’t—”

  She wouldn’t let me get my protest out. “Andrew won’t stop until he has all the power he can possibly get, and that includes power over individuals and public power in office and the power that wealth confers.” She put the knife on the table gently, as if it were a tender living thing. “That list you have? I can show connections; Kyle will have to investigate. Even if I can’t prove them all, the scandal may be enough to stop that bastard’s campaign.”

  “And if not?”

  “I can’t think about that.”

  “Should we tell the chief about Mary Ellen’s death threats?”

  “He’ll be at the funeral. We’ll tell him then.” She looked up, her eyes fierce and dark. “I will smear Andrew and the Winters name like blood across the tabloids.” She stood. “I’m going up to get ready.” She left the kitchen and I heard her steps tapping across the hall’s wood floor.

  I put the knife carefully away in the drawer.

  Chapter 25

  Mother and I hurried from the car toward the service. The church, a gray stone Episcopal crowning Main Street, rose stark and forbidding from the snow at its base. Low clouds scudded just above its steeple and threatened more snow. Barely a minute before Hetty’s service began, we slipped into the back row. From there, I could unobtrusively study the attendees. Most important, where was the chief, and who was Hetty’s boyfriend? I started methodically scanning, row by row, wondering how I would know the boyfriend when I saw him.

  The service began with a liturgical procession, the priest and choir filing down the aisle, while burning incense drifted up and carried, supposedly, the congregation’s prayers to God. I wondered how many in the room believed that, and how many were here for show. American politicians had to say they believed to get elected; Winters would say whatever it took, but now I knew who he truly was.

  After a hymn and some Biblical readings, the priest, solemn in his vestments and black stole, reminded us how central Hetty had been to town life over the past twenty years and asked if anyone wanted to speak of her contributions. A kind looking, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper-hair talked about Hetty’s farm and meticulous care of her animals. The librarian praised her volunteer work with the kids on a community garden project. A brilliant red-head told us Hetty had been a good counselor, helping him after his wife passed away. The stories reinforced how little attention I’d paid her.

  Hetty and I should have been friends. We’d had fathers die, we had ­stepfathers, our mothers were close friends, we both had an intuitive gift. Yet we’d never clicked. Why? What attracts us to one person and makes another unattractive? Look at Winters and his little bevy of women. How could they be drawn to a man who—to me—was so decidedly evil?

  My attention was pulled back to the service, as Winters, unable to pass up a public gathering, lauded Hetty’s work on his campaign in a brief and self-serving statement of mourning, keeping us all apprised that he was still running for office and still needed our support. He sat down, third row, right side, Mary Ellen and Andrew’s wife Jennifer sandwiching him: Wonder Bread with bologna in the middle. If he was my father, who did that make me?

  Even though half the town had come, and many spoke warmly of her, Hetty didn’t seem to have any friends. No one spoke of closeness, of a confidant who would be missed. She’d been an odd duck, hard to get to know, prickly enough to keep people at a distance. How had she managed to have an affair—and with whom? I surreptitiously observed the faces around me again, looking for men I recognized from the campaign, as well as obsessively checking every few minutes that the Winters remained together and seated. Mary Ellen made me want to sit with my back to a wall.

  By the time we left, both the sky and Mother had cracked into sullen gloom. I hadn’t seen the chief anywhere, although surely he’d attended. Mother, in charge of arranging the reception, refused to let me spend time after the service searching for him, snapping that she would call him later. I was a little relieved to be able to put off our revelations.

  Mother had gotten a caterer and wait staff for the funeral luncheon, and rented everything else—tables and chairs, plates, glasses, linens. I thought Ernie and Loretta’s house might pop like a dried seed pod, but Mother kept all the pieces under control, including persuading Loretta to sit and eat. I greeted and gave condolences and kept trying to figure out which man was involved with Hetty. I came up empty
. I looked at the people eating and thought the shock and guilt we felt were only as real as the rented plates in our hands.

  Most of the guests drifted away by two o’clock. Once, I saw the chief and tried to get his attention, but he merely waved. Later, I noticed Mother corner him and Bailey. Before I could find out her arrangements, Ernie cornered me. He looked exhausted.

  “You and me, we need to talk.”

  “Now?” I said.

  “Fifteen years is long enough to put a conversation off.”

  He led me to a small office created from one of the bedrooms. “This one’s mine,” he said. “Loretta’s got the one next door. When we’re ready for lunch, we bang on the wall.” He tried to smile, but it didn’t make it to his face. “Have a seat.”

  A desk faced the room’s one window, and bookshelves lined two walls. More books lay stacked on the floor, and a well-used red leather wing chair hugged an arched floor lamp with a butterscotch linen shade. I slid onto the leather, braced myself. Ernie sat in his desk chair, a practical looking black job on wheels, and rolled toward me. “You’re grown up, Clara. You’ve had fifteen years to sow your wild oats, figure yourself out. It’s time you came home and faced your responsibilities.”

  “Ernie, I—”

  He held up his hand. “You knew from the moment your father’s will was read that this moment would come.”

  I thought about my father and how much he had loved his work, about all those trips he’d taken me on to show me his work in action. I remembered the smell of worms and dirt, the sharp citrus of green leaves, the silk and glitter of flower petals. I sank into memories, the crumble of dark earth across my palms, the sun’s warm hand on my neck. And then, an image interrupted of my turning away from trying to persuade Mother that he needed help.

  I’d abandoned him. The thought snapped me from the reverie, like an electric shock in my gut. “What do you want?” I asked.

  Ernie gave me a funny look. “What your father wanted was for you to learn the business from the ground up. Sorry, bad pun.” He shook his head. “Half of it is yours anyway; I’ve run it for you, sent your profits to your investment company, and not complained about it, Clara, but I’m not a young man anymore and the responsibilities are getting to be too much for me. The business is growing, and with Hetty gone, Loretta needs me. I need a partner I can trust—someone I can turn the business over to in another five years when I retire. That person should be you. If you don’t want the responsibility, then we need to sell soon, while the market’s good and buyers are interested.”

  I thought about what my nomadic life had netted me. Not much, as Bailey pointed out, besides experience and a soon-to-be ex-husband. I had, however, fallen in love with many parts of the world, and I’d organized my life abroad around visiting major gardens and making friends of their directors. Not being able to pick up and travel at a moment’s notice daunted me, but if I had no meaningful purpose, where was the thrill?

  “What would you think about making us a more international company? Specialty landscaping projects, big installations worldwide.”

  “I think, Clara, that if that’s the kind of business you want to build, you’ve spent fifteen years setting up the contacts for it.” He shook his finger at me. “You’ve got the education and the eye, but you have a long way to go before you understand what it takes to run a business like ours—especially if you want to work internationally. You need a year of supervised time on the job before the state will license you, and you need to start studying to take the LARE exams. CLARB offers the multiple choice part twice a year, and the next sitting is in March.”

  I stared at him, felt my world closing in. Could I really manage a business? Could I handle living close to Mother? What if I had to see my rapist father at Starbucks? Or as my senator in Washington? Getting far away from him was supposed to be my reward for using my gift to save my mother.

  Ernie thought I hadn’t understood him, “The L-A-R-E, Landscape Architect Registration Examination?”

  I shook my head to clear it. “Right, CLARB, the Council of Landscape Architectural Registration Boards.”

  Ernie nodded and went on, as if I had agreed with him. “In the meantime, I’d like you to come to the office. We’re shorthanded anyway; our technology guy just left for another job. It’s a big blow, and it would be great if you could find his replacement.” He shrugged. “That’s just administrative stuff, but it’s as good a place as any for you to start.”

  Wind and sun had creased Ernie’s face, and those long delicate hands showed age spots and loose skin. I knew he was near sixty, so his willingness to give it five more years, well, maybe that was generosity on his part. He loved my father a great deal as did I, but a lot was at stake. “I need a few days to think.”

  I had to deal with Mother’s situation first.

  He nodded, rubbing his hand tiredly across his forehead, and in that moment, I really saw his age. It wasn’t in the physical things; it was in a sort of sagging of spirit, of being worn down by too much responsibility for too long. Hetty’s death would weight him now, too, as would the grief Loretta carried. That grief would always be a heavy piece of their souls. My feelings of guilt and loss around my father were still a heavy piece of mine.

  Ernie said, “How about we give it a couple of weeks? Things will muddle along for a while with minimal guidance before I’ll need to put out some fires. That gives you time to sort out things with Constance.”

  I guess he meant that I needed to make peace with her. I leaned across and squeezed his hand. “You’re right, and I know you’re right. It’s time. I just need to let it all settle.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “And,” he said, “your mother needs you.” He was right about that, too.

  By the time Mother and I sat down to review the blackmail scheme with Bailey, it was nearly five o’clock. A domestic dispute out on Alston Road required the chief’s attention, so we started with Bailey; as campaign lawyer, she had the right to know what we’d found. I dreaded telling her, but I couldn’t let her be blindsided either.

  Mother said Maria was coming, too, but didn’t say why.

  We sat at the kitchen table, another pot of coffee in front of us. Bailey had changed out of her funeral suit into a pair of jeans with holes in the knees, a long V-necked sweater with a lace camisole under it, and a pair of spiky-heeled boots. I wanted to be her when I grew up.

  My mother shoved the list toward Bailey. “There are irregularities in these campaign donations.”

  Bailey turned toward me, a hard look on her face. “You removed data from the office.”

  “You wanted to know if anything was off. You even asked me to use my intuition, said you were worried about Winters. Well, we’ve found something.”

  She started flipping pages.

  Mother began getting containers out of the refrigerator. Hummus, carrot sticks, cheese and crackers, cold cuts and grapes appeared on the table. She put a plate in front of me and began filling it with food.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I don’t care. You’ll eat something because your body has been traumatized and I want you to heal quickly. We need to solve this and fast, so Andrew doesn’t get elected, and we can all get on with our lives.” Her sharp tone made me wonder if she regretted telling me about the rape.

  Bailey looked up. “Andrew doesn’t get elected? That’s your goal?”

  I ate a couple bits of cheese, realized I was ravenous. Maybe the increase in my blood sugar would deal with some of my wooziness.

  As I ate, Mother told Bailey the story of the rape. Bailey’s face snapped through emotions like one of those flip pads we played with as kids: pain, shock, horror, pity.

  “Oh my god, Constance, all these years and you never pursued it? Why?”

  “I didn’t want Clara to have to live publicly with what had happened to me. We could
deal with it privately, and we have. Until now. He thinks he’s gotten away with it. He thinks he’s invincible. Mary Ellen protects him. And I suspect he’s getting bad advice somewhere.”

  She paused, looked thoughtful. “Clara, don’t you think it’s interesting that Mary Ellen showed up on the morning of Hetty’s funeral to ask us, well, what she did?”

  Mother glanced at Bailey. I said, “Bailey knows about the intuition, Mother.”

  Mother looked only mildly surprised and waved her hand like a wand. “I didn’t want to, well…if she didn’t know…”

  “We get it.”

  Bailey tapped a long finger on the table. “You mean, Hetty supplied Winters with psychic predictions and when she died, he panicked?”

  “He can’t go twenty-four hours without a psychic’s help?” I said. “I can’t believe that. And anyway, why would he kill her if she was telling him what he wanted to hear?”

  “Maybe she wasn’t. Maybe she wasn’t a fraud, like Hugh thought, and she’d started telling him the same truths I told him thirty-five years ago.” Mother picked at a cube of cheese with her fingernail, crumbing it onto the plate.

  Bailey frowned. “Hetty wasn’t born when you turned him down.”

  “When he realized what I could do, he became obsessed with his future, but who knows what he did in those intervening years? He needed his narcissistic vision of himself confirmed—over and over. A whole industry of sham phone psychics and card readers and alternative therapists will give clients whatever answers they want.”

  I said, “That’s why Hugh was trying to shut Hetty down? To stop her from reading for Andrew Winters? Was that revenge for you?”

  “Oh, god, no. Hugh worried that her attention-seeking behavior would get her in over her head.” She folded her hands neatly on the table. “People who want that kind of information, some of them will believe anything, and they’re willing to pay anything for it. If you give them the wrong answer, or you don’t know how to read them or phrase what you tell them in a way that’s easy for them to handle, well, it’s a tricky business.”