The Haunting Ballad
Page 25
“That’s why I went to the Mercutio last evening.” Kimla wasn’t holding anything back now. “To see if you two might show up and say something about the song. I needed to find out if you believed it was really from Lorraine. You came in, Mr. Plunkett, but you didn’t say anything about it.”
“I did think it was a little strange that you asked me directly about our investigation. Before that, you’d kept a low profile and didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Anyway, you decided to give us Cardinal…”
“No one really knew what had become of him,” Kimla said softly. “Or if he’d ever return here. So it seemed like there was no harm in aiming you toward him.”
I reworded that. “No harm in sacrificing him, you mean.”
“I’m sorry,” Kimla said, though it wasn’t me she was staring at but Tim.
The youngest Doonan looked like hell. He now got to his feet, and he and Kimla met each other’s eyes for the first time since she’d entered the room. She had given way to heavy trembling, and he looked on the verge of collapse. They moved toward each other. Finding myself unable to watch, I turned away, and I saw that Audrey had done the same.
When I looked back, Smack Wilton, now standing, had parted the couple and was pulling a pair of handcuffs from his jacket pocket. “Okay, miss,” he said without his usual gruffness. “It’s time we got going.”
The skittish Siamese, up to this point unaccounted for, leapt into its mistress’ lap and let out a long plaintive meow. It was a sound both chilling and mournful.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
We exited Mrs. Pattinshell’s in waves. Smack led Kimla away, followed a minute later by Mr. O’Nelligan, Audrey, and me. We left the Doonans behind us, as Patch and Neil gathered up their devastated brother.
When my party reached the street, we were met by cries and chaos. Down the road to our left, Smack lay sprawled on the sidewalk, his fedora beside him. He was gripping his shin and yelling out, “Stop! Stop!” He tried to get to his feet but was obviously hobbled.
Kimla, her hands still cuffed before her, had broken free and was racing our way, not directly toward us but into the traffic-filled street. Horns blaring, several cars barely missed her. It quickly became apparent that her intention was to be struck down. From our right, a wide delivery truck came hurtling toward her. Clearly, it couldn’t stop in time. Without thinking, I shot forward and caught Kimla by the arm. I realized at once that I hadn’t run out alone: Audrey was beside me, gripping the girl’s other arm. The truck’s horn screamed fiercely as we flung ourselves backward. Then the vehicle flew by, its loud wail fading into the distance, and the three of us were lying together on the sidewalk. As Kimla dissolved into tears, Audrey and I, on either side of her, locked eyes. Something unspoken passed between us.
Mr. O’Nelligan crouched down beside us. After assuring himself of our well-being, he whispered, “Thank God,” and helped us lift Kimla to her feet. Smack Wilton and the Doonans converged on us at the same moment.
Smack took his prisoner firmly in hand. “Whadda ya say, sister? Are we done with the shin kicking and traffic dodging?”
Kimla Thorpe, her face smeared with tears, nodded and then turned to Tim to offer a parting glance. Smack led her away, this time without incident.
Mr. O’Nelligan placed his hands on Tim’s shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes. “I know this is an unimaginable burden, lad, but you are young and will prevail. There’s a certain quotation you might keep in your heart—‘By virtue and energy, by wisdom and right action, you shall overcome the sorrows of life.’”
Tim nodded and got out a fragile “Thank you.”
Neil stepped forward and put an arm around his brother’s waist. “Come along then, Timothy.” They moved off together down the street, in the direction opposite to the one Kimla had been taken.
As Patch turned to follow, Mr. O’Nelligan reached out and caught his arm. “As I said before, you are the oldest and your strength will be needed.”
Patch nodded. “I understand, sir.” Then he, too, headed off.
As we watched them move away, Audrey asked, “Where was that quote from?”
“It’s from the Dhammapada,” Mr. O’Nelligan answered. “The teachings of the Buddha. If Kimla cannot benefit from it, then perhaps Tim can.”
* * *
SINCE WE’D COME to the Village in two cars, Audrey took Mr. O’Nelligan with her back to Thelmont, and I drove myself. I was glad, actually, to be traveling alone, grateful for the silence after so much talk and commotion. We reunited at Mr. O’Nelligan’s house, and from there I called Sally Joan Cobble in Pennsylvania. While providing a basic account of what had happened, I didn’t share every single twist and turn. It seemed enough to confirm that someone had indeed killed her cousin, to identify that person, and to give a basic explanation as to why. In describing the final moments on the rooftop, I tried to be as subtle as possible, but I think Sally Joan grasped the image of Lorraine standing there, scheming and taunting to the end.
“Lorraine was more than that, you know,” she said softly. “More than that angry, bitter woman. There was something else in her, something good and passionate that maybe only I saw. I wish you could have known that part of her.”
“So do I,” I said, and I think I meant it.
She thanked me for our work, expressed her dismay that I’d been wounded in the course of it, and promised to send my fee immediately. I told her there was no rush.
I hung up and said to no one specifically, “I wish we could have provided her with a kinder version of her cousin.”
“That was not our lot.” Mr. O’Nelligan was seated in his easy chair. “We were summoned to deliver truth, and so we have. Besides, Sally Joan has her own memories of Lorraine to succor her. That will be her own private truth. In the end, Lorraine Cobble was, like all of us, a complicated being. She encouraged people in pursuing the music in their lives, and yet she also enraged and alienated them.”
“There’s one thing I’m wondering,” I said to my partner. “Why did you set it up so that Tim and his brothers were there for Kimla’s confession? It seemed sort of cruel.”
“That was certainly not my intent,” he answered. “As painful as the episode was for young Tim, I felt it was important that he witness it. Otherwise, he might never have fully accepted the dark reality of what happened that night.”
Audrey was seated beside him. “It’s all so strange. When it comes down to it, it was love that brought Kimla to that terrible moment. Her love and Lorraine’s hate.”
“Well expressed, lass,” my colleague said quietly. “Perhaps sometimes a love ballad can also be a murder ballad.”
“Then there’s Loomis Lent,” I noted. “He also acted out of misguided love.”
Mr. O’Nelligan nodded. “Yes, his affection for Lorraine. Without question, much tragedy has arisen from the human heart.”
Audrey turned to him. “What was that Yeats poem you quoted yesterday? The one about the heart longing?”
“It’s actually not a poem,” our Irishman answered. “It’s a bit of prose from The Celtic Twilight, his book of folktales and faery legends. The full lines are thus: ‘Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.’”
Audrey smiled to herself. “I like that. It’s kind of lovely and kind of frightening.”
“As is the world around us,” said Mr. O’Nelligan. “Lovely and frightening and worthy of our best songs.”
* * *
AFTER DECLINING OUR host’s offer of tea and sandwiches, Audrey and I said good night to him and headed out the door. Standing in between my Baby Blue and her Buick, with the Thelmont Twilight settling over us, we embraced, holding on to each other tightly.
When we finally stepped apart, she said, “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”
“Several long days.”
“Yes, seve
ral.” Her face registered something between calm and weariness. “I didn’t get to tell you, Lee, but yesterday afternoon I got a call from my friend Delores Polk. Remember her?”
“The travel writer, right? Your one wealthy pal.”
“She’s not wealthy, but she’s doing nicely for herself. Anyway, she’s working on a new book and wants an assistant. A travel companion.”
“You mean…”
“She wants me, Lee.”
“But … for how long?”
“A month, at least. Maybe more.”
“Five months? Ten? A few years?” There was no agitation in my voice. I was too bone tired for that, but her words had left me off kilter. “What about us?”
“Us doesn’t change,” Audrey said firmly. “But you know I’ve been feeling the need to get out and explore. This is my chance to see something besides the streets of Thelmont. Delores says we might even go to Europe.”
“Europe…”
“I talked to Mrs. Jerome. She has a niece who can fill in at the five-and-dime right away. So I could leave soon. Very soon.”
Then there was silence. Not an awkward silence; not an angry one or a sad one; not a silence that comes from confusion or mistrust. It was the silence born of a long, disorienting day—one day and many days—that had left us in an odd new place. A place where we didn’t quite recognize ourselves or each other.
And, strangely enough, maybe that was a good thing.
I was the one who finally spoke. “I hope you get to see the Eiffel Tower, Audrey.”
“Yeah?” She smiled; there was relief and gratefulness there.
“Yeah. And the Taj Mahal and the pyramids and the malt shops of Mars. Especially the malt shops of Mars.”
“You know there are too many calories in Martian ice cream,” she scolded. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“Just trying to expand your horizons.”
“More like my waistline. I much prefer Saturn sherbet.”
“Oh, you would.”
I reached out and pulled her to me. Our kiss was long and deep, accompanied by the trilling of a bird in the distance. Maybe it was a cardinal. Or a scarlet ibis.
Maybe it was better not to know.
ALSO BY MICHAEL NETHERCOTT
The Séance Society
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL NETHERCOTT is the author of The Séance Society, the first O’Nelligan and Plunkett mystery. His work has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies including Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Best Crime and Mystery Stories of the Year, Thin Ice, and Crimestalkers Casebook. He is a past winner of the Vermont Writers’ Prize, the Black Orchid Novella Award, the Vermont Playwrights Award, and the Clauder Competition, and was a finalist for the Shamus Award. Nethercott lives with his family in Vermont.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
THE HAUNTING BALLAD. Copyright © 2014 by Michael Nethercott. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request
ISBN 978-1-250-01740-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-5650-9 (e-book)
eISBN 9781466856509
First Edition: October 2014