The Sullivan Sisters

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  Her backside hurt, and tears sprang instantly to her eyes. The chilled Pacific wind drove into her, harder than before, and Claire allowed herself the indulgence of crying. She let the tears fall fast, soaking the collar of her peacoat. Still crying, she managed to find a foothold on the frost-bitten ground that bordered the road. She got to her feet, limping onward toward Ramsey’s Diner, or whatever public place she found first that was open and had a phone.

  If Murphy wanted to be a whining child, then fine. If Eileen chose to be a liar, okay. Claire had been the responsible one in this family for far too long. Her sisters could fend for themselves, spending another night in that house. Claire was going home.

  The sun was setting fast, turning the world the color of a bruise. Streetlights kicked on along the road as Claire limped forward, careful to look for the telltale glimmer of ice near her feet. This was the street where they’d abandoned the Caravan. She scanned the road, sure that at any moment she’d catch sight of the van’s wood paneling.

  But the Caravan didn’t appear.

  Maybe, Claire reflected, she’d gone crazy. Or maybe the more likely explanation was that someone had reported the abandoned van, and it had been towed away.

  Serves Eileen right, she thought viciously. I hope they impound it.

  She walked on for minutes, listening to the distant crash of waves and watching her breath plume in powdery bursts. Lights glowed from inside the houses she passed—cheery windowpanes dressed with garlands, mailboxes sashed with red bows. No cars had passed Claire on the street. Who would be out tonight, on Christmas Eve, in the aftermath of a violent storm? Especially when they had warm, welcoming bungalows to retreat to.

  You’ll be home tonight too, Claire told herself. A phone was all she needed. A phone, and she’d be out of this living nightmare.

  A new sound reached her, coming up from behind. A running engine. Claire turned in time to see a massive SUV headed her way. A bar of sirens stretched across its roof, and in the fading light Claire could just make out the words painted on its side: ROCKPORT POLICE.

  “Hey!”

  Claire froze, hands clenching at her sides.

  Peering out the open driver’s side window was a face Claire recognized: Kerry, from Ramsey’s Diner. The Rockport sheriff.

  “U-uh,” said Claire, as the SUV braked to a stop across from her.

  Take me, Claire thought, resigned. Lock me up for trespassing, As long as it’s not with my sisters, I don’t care.

  “Podcast girl!” Kerry called.

  She was smiling pleasantly, which Claire assumed was a trick.

  “Uh, that’s me. I mean, my name’s Claire.”

  Any other day Claire would have been on her game. She’d play the role of adult perfectly, saying the right things to cast off suspicion. But today she was utterly spent.

  Kerry asked, “What’re you doing out here? Research?”

  “N-no. I was walking to the diner, for some food.”

  “Where’s your sister and friend?”

  “Oh, um. Back at the … hotel. My sister wanted cheese curds, and when the storm broke, I volunteered as tribute. But, you know, we thought the roads could be bad, so I walked.”

  Kerry frowned. “The hotel? You mean Barbara’s B and B?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Claire was tired of playing games. If Kerry was setting a trap, Claire would go right ahead and step in it.

  Kerry merely nodded again. “It’s been nasty weather. You know, some folks come to the coast for this? Storm watching. They love to see a good wave crash on the shore. I don’t get it. Locals clearly don’t care for it either; haven’t seen anyone out on these roads. Been a good couple days for desk work, though. You wouldn’t believe how it piles up around the holidays.”

  “I can imagine,” said Claire.

  Inside she screamed, What is this? Small talk? What do you want?

  “You been able to get any research done?” Kerry inquired. “Any interviews?”

  “A few.”

  Kerry looked thoughtful as ever. “You kids care way more about a class project these days than I ever did. Missing Christmas at home for a podcast.”

  Claire laughed—a nervous, gulpy sound. “Yeah, overachievers, what can I say?”

  She knows, Claire thought. She’s the sheriff, she has to know about the van, if they towed it away.

  “You’re heading to Ramsey’s?” said Kerry. “Hate to be the one to tell you, but they’re closed. Fact is, no one’s going to be open tonight.”

  Claire’s heart caught on her ribs, slicing in half. “O-oh.”

  “I tell you what, though,” Kerry went on. “I can drive you back to Barbara’s. Doesn’t she have a dinner menu tonight?”

  “Uh.” Claire blinked. “She … does, and it looks great. Murphy just really loves cheese curds.”

  “Then you’re a good sister.”

  Claire’s eviscerated heart gave a pitiful lurch. If only you knew, Kerry.

  “I feel guilty, you know,” Claire said. “She thought it’d be an adventure, coming with us, but now that it’s Christmas Eve, she’s starting to feel homesick.”

  Claire paused, reflecting. Was that a lie or something near the truth? Murphy hadn’t signed up for the yelling, or for Claire’s college confession. She hadn’t asked for Eileen’s deception any more than Claire had. She probably was feeling homesick, and what had Claire done? Yelled at her to shut up, and then left her behind.

  She and Murphy had never been close—that was a fact of life, and Claire had blamed that on Murphy being too young and annoying. For the first time, Claire considered the possibility that she had always just found Murphy annoying. Murphy had only asked questions. Claire had been the one to answer every one of them with a no.

  “Claire?”

  She was suddenly conscious of tears edging her eyes. “Hmm?”

  Kerry looked concerned. “Would you like me to drive you to Barbara’s? It’s a long walk there, and you don’t look that bundled up.”

  Claire clenched her hands in her coat pockets. She’d been trying for minutes to squeeze feeling into her numbed fingers. She looked down the darkened road she’d walked this far. Ramsey’s wasn’t open, and this Barbara person probably had a phone Claire could use at the front desk. Worst-case scenario, she could pay for one night’s stay at the bed and breakfast. Maybe she’d even go back to the house early in the morning to apologize to Murphy and take her away.

  One way or another, Claire could plan her way out of this.

  “Yeah,” she told Kerry. “Actually, that’d be nice.”

  Kerry nodded toward the SUV’s passenger seat.

  It could be a trick, still, Claire reminded herself. Kerry could know about the lies, trespassing, and abandoned van. Claire could be headed straight to jail.

  “Why not,” she mumbled, opening the door and sliding in.

  “Seat belt,” Kerry instructed.

  Claire obeyed, clicking the belt in place, and Kerry began to drive.

  “Sorry for the trouble,” Claire said.

  “No trouble,” Kerry replied. “It’s on my way home, and anyway, I’d hate the thought of you walking all that way back, especially if the storm picks up again.”

  Claire’s skin prickled. “Is it supposed to?”

  “Not according to the latest report. Weather on the coast this time of year can be finicky, though. I’m glad to be off duty. These roads are hazardous after freezing rain. Plenty of accidents in the making. Luckily, most folks here use their common sense and stay put.”

  “How many accidents do you see in Rockport?” asked Claire.

  “Not many. When they happen, it’s mostly summer tourists. People distracted, looking at the view. All told, they’re few and far between. Portland, though? That was a different matter.”

  “You were a cop there?” Claire asked, surprised.

  “Eight years. Born and raised in Rockport, though. Eventually, I figured it was time to come back. My
wife likes the coast, so that was a plus.”

  Claire’s brows shot sky-high. “Your … wife?”

  “Five years,” Kerry said cheerily, lifting her left hand from the wheel and waving a bejeweled finger toward Claire.

  “Oh. I mean, uh … nice.”

  Kerry looked askance at Claire. “You can be a gay cop in a tiny town, turns out.”

  “N-n-no, that’s good to know.” Claire coughed. “I mean, I’m the same way. Queer, I mean. Not a cop.”

  Kerry laughed loud. “And you can be not white in Oregon. A real shocker, I know. My parents were the first Vietnamese family in Rockport.”

  “Was that hard?”

  “Yes. It was.”

  Kerry didn’t offer anything else on that topic. She flipped a turn signal and headed up a road marked BEACHFRONT. Claire made a mental note.

  “Whoo,” Kerry exhaled. “Tell you what, this whole holiday season’s been off. Patrick dying, and now the freak weather. You sure picked a time to come visit, Claire. I hope you’re not too hard on Rockport when you do your reporting. You should come back in June, July.”

  Claire nodded vaguely. She was absorbing what Kerry had said. First, about having a wife. Second, about Patrick’s death. She said, “At Ramsey’s, you said you knew the Enrights.”

  Though Kerry’s eyes were trained on the road, she arched a brow. “Are we in reporting mode?”

  Claire laughed nervously. “No. Off the record. I swear.”

  “Well, in that case, yes, I knew them. Mark, especially. It’s a shame, what happened to him. To all of them, but especially Mark.”

  Claire swallowed. “You … don’t think he did it?”

  “No,” Kerry said, with conviction. “This town likes its gossip, wants its little world to be as dramatic as possible. For them, that meant pinning the blame on Mark. This golden-boy-gone-wrong was a better story than the boring truth that Mrs. Enright wasn’t a good person.”

  “What do you mean?” Claire asked, in a hushed voice. “You think … she killed her husband? And then herself?”

  Kerry drove in silence.

  “It really is off the record,” Claire said meekly.

  Kerry cleared her throat. When she spoke again, she did so slowly.

  “From what the brothers told me, Sophia Enright had so many rules in that house. Not rules you’d expect, either. Neurotic ones, about cleanliness and locked doors and tucked shirts. When the smallest thing went wrong, she went into these … rages. She’d had some kind of incident in California, before. That’s why the family moved up here. I think Mr. Enright thought the change would do her good, but the raging started up again. She’d scream for hours, threaten the boys, throw things in the house if one of her rules was slightly disobeyed. Mr. Enright was gone on work trips often. When he came home, she turned on him as well. To hear Mark talk about it, it seemed every day in that house was a nightmare. John was the oldest, so he was able to get out first, for college. Patrick and Mark didn’t tell anyone how bad it got after that. They were afraid. We were practically kids then. We didn’t know what to do. And then the worst happened, and …”

  Kerry left the sentence unfinished. She slowed the SUV and shifted into park. That’s when Claire saw the sign in the headlights’ beam:

  THE VIOLET INN

  SEASIDE BED & BREAKFAST

  “I’ll say this,” said Kerry, turning to her. “Mark was a good friend of mine. What happened to him was wrong. He was ruled innocent, but this town would never look at him the same way. Those things Cathy said, they were more vicious twenty years back. Most people here still think Mark got away with murder.” Kerry shook her head. “Rumors last forever. They change everything.”

  “You thought Mark was a good person,” Claire said, tentatively.

  “He was,” Kerry said. “I know you might think I’m biased, but my going into law enforcement? What happened here played a big part in that. I’ve looked over the evidence since, read every document from that trial. You might call it a pet project of mine. I can tell you, there’s no doubt in my mind he was innocent.”

  “But Cathy said Patrick testified against him. Wouldn’t Patrick know best what happened in that house? And John … if he believed Mark was innocent, why wouldn’t he come back to town to defend him?”

  “You have a sister, Claire,” Kerry said, her expression flat. “Tell me, is it always black and white at home?”

  Claire stared at Kerry, her torn heart juddering.

  “Family’s complicated,” Kerry added, “wouldn’t you say?”

  Claire coughed the answer: “Y-yes.”

  “If you were to ask me, I’d tell you his girlfriend knew him best. Leslie stuck to that boy through thick and thin. She’s the reason he got acquitted, everyone knows. Only eighteen, and they ran without a cent to their names.” Kerry let out an unexpected laugh. “Nothing but that damned turtle of his. Won him at the county fair and named him Tortue. Know what that means in French? Turtle. Mark could be bizarrely simple like that.”

  Claire’s throat had gone dry, though she wasn’t sure why. Heat poured from the dashboard vents, flushing her face.

  “I wish they’d kept in touch,” Kerry murmured. “Lots of nights, I wonder what happened to them.”

  Discomfort fitted over Claire like a second coat. She shrugged under its weight, feeling this moment was private, and she was an intruder on Kerry’s thoughts.

  “I’m sorry,” she managed. Then, looking toward the inn, “Thanks for the ride. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  She opened the door, setting one foot out.

  “Claire.”

  Her muscles tensed. This was it: the moment Kerry cried “Gotcha!” and took her in to the station for her sins.

  “You and your friend, and your sister—you take care, okay?”

  “I … of course,” Claire said, stepping out the rest of the way, eager to be gone.

  Kerry was studying her, a stitch worked into one brow.

  “Is something wrong?” Claire dared to ask.

  Kerry shook her head, eyes clearing as though she’d been nudged from a dream. “No. I’m thinking too hard of them, I think. Sometimes I see their faces in total strangers.”

  Claire edged away from the car.

  “Well, thanks again!” she shouted, forcing a smile and shutting the door. She hurried down the drive, up the stairs of the inn. She turned the handle of the front door, and to her overwhelming relief, it gave way.

  The room inside was cozy, papered in cheery yellow wallpaper. A fire burned in one corner, and a sign on the counter ahead read RING BELL FOR SERVICE. There was no need to ring, though. A commotion sounded from upstairs, and moments later a woman dressed in an oversize sweater came bounding down.

  “Oh, heavens!” she cried. “Was that door unlocked? I’m sorry, dear, but we’re not open. Not for Christmas. No rooms tonight.”

  Claire still felt overheated from the SUV.

  “I-I-I … ,” she stammered. “That’s okay, I don’t need a room. I just wondered if I could use your phone?”

  The woman puffed at the base of the stairs, looking over Claire quizzically. “A phone?”

  “My car broke down,” Claire explained, racking her brain for one last good lie. “I was on my way home, and the battery died. I wondered if I could call my parents? They only live one town over, in … in …”

  “Seaside?” the woman supplied.

  “Yes.” Claire gave an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, I ran all this way, my mind’s—”

  “Well, of course, of course.” The woman cut her off, bustling to the counter, grabbing the landline phone from its cradle and handing it over. “You call them dear, that’s fine. How far away did you break down?”

  “Um.” Claire motioned vaguely out the window, supplying no details. “Do you have the number for a taxi company, maybe? Some way I can get a ride? I figure it’ll be easier to get home tonight and worry about towing on the twenty-sixth.”

  The woman slo
wly nodded. “Oh, yes, I see. Well, I don’t know how much luck you’ll have. A place as tucked away as Rockport.… You could try getting someone to come out west from Salem, but that’s a good two hours’ drive. Or—ma’am, are you all right?”

  Claire stared at the phone, wordless.

  A revelation had broken in. A truth she’d been too uncomfortable and anxious to see in Kerry’s SUV.

  Leslie.

  Kerry had said that Mark’s girlfriend was named Leslie.

  That there was a turtle named Tortue.

  She’d said, I see their faces in total strangers.

  “Oh my God,” she breathed out.

  “Ma’am?” The woman in the horrible Christmas sweater pressed. “Do you need to sit down?”

  “No,” Claire whispered. “I need to go.”

  She set the phone on the counter, dazed, and headed for the door.

  “Ma’am!” the woman called. “Young lady, I don’t think you should go out. Why don’t you let me—your parents—”

  Claire didn’t listen. She stumbled down the front steps.

  Kerry’s SUV was gone. Good. Claire didn’t want the sheriff following her. Not when she had to get back to Laramie Court.

  “Ma’am, please come back!” called the innkeeper—Barbara, was it?

  Claire paid no mind. She started to walk, then kicked up to a run, following the road Kerry had driven to bring them here. Down Beachfront, then a left on Shoreline, then back, back to Laramie. Claire pumped her legs as streetlights blurred, vignetting her periphery. Cold air filled her lungs, wind stung her face. Her ponytail holder must have come loose, because her hair was no longer bunched atop her head in its proper bun, but flying wildly about.

  Mark.

  Leslie.

  Tortue.

  The three words rang in her mind.

  Then, as Claire turned sharply on Shoreline, her heel gave way, skidding across ice, and Claire hurtled forward, toward the ground. She was going to wipe out again, and she braced for impact.

  Then something slammed against her head—a pole, perhaps, a branch—and the world went black.

  TWENTY-SEVEN Murphy

  Murphy sat on the parlor sofa, hands formed into fists, and counted her protruding knuckles one by one.