Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  The boy looked over at the horseshoe pits near the fence. Brightly painted horseshoes hung over one of the fence planks: blue, yellow, red, and white. He considered a moment, then a smile of great sweetness lit up his face. “I git the red ones!”

  While Calven took some practice tosses, Phillip went docilely to pay his respects to Miss Birdie and be introduced to Dorothy. The two older women were ensconced in the Adirondack chairs and Elizabeth was perched on the bench, listening as Dorothy held forth.

  “…and when we got to the church house, there’s a piece of paper tacked up saying as how Preacher’s car’s broke down and mornin’ meetin’s gone to be delayed one hour and a half. And I says to Birdie, ‘Birdie, we cain’t just set here a-suckin’ our thumbs; let’s take us a walk down the road.’ And when we got so far as you unses mailbox, Calven there, he takes a notion he wants to go look at your fishpond. That boy’s got more energy than a feist pup and that’s the truth.”

  Phillip stepped into the little pavilion and three faces swiveled to look at him. Dorothy’s sharp eyes looked him up and down in critical assessment, like a horse trader surveying an unpromising nag.

  “Mornin’, Miss Birdie. Good to see you again.” He bobbed his head at Dorothy, whose mouth was set in an uncompromising line. “Mornin’, ma’am. You must be Miss Birdie’s cousin Dorothy. Elizabeth’s told me about you. I’m Phillip Lee Hawkins.” He smiled in what he hoped was an ingratiating manner. “I’m sure glad you’re able to take that boy in—he needs a good home.”

  “Birdie told me you was Omie Caldwell’s nephew. Now, I knowed your mama, back this many a year. We was in nurse’s aid training together, but then she went on to nursing school. Met that feller from away and they moved off to the coast.” The sparkling eyes studied him. “You do favor her right much, now I come to study you—dark complected and that big nose. Her and Omie always did claim a Cherokee grandmother. How’s Waneeta doin’ these days?”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but my mama passed away back in ’82.” Phillip moved to sit beside Elizabeth.

  Dorothy pursed her lips. “Now, I hate that. But it don’t surprise me none. Some folks just don’t do no good a-tall when they leave these mountains. You look right healthy, though. Reckon you could take on that mean old Bib, was he to come around again, aggravating Lizzie Beth.”

  Miss Birdie leaned forward and put a gnarled hand on his arm. “I’m proud you’re here. I worry about Lizzie Beth something awful. Why, Dor’thy tells me they say that Bib—”

  “Law me, yes!” Dorothy broke in. “They say he got drunk as an owl and was goin’ on to anyone who’d listen about how new people had took what was his and how he was goin’ to make ’em pay. It was down there at the river, where a bunch of them rough old fellers get together and drink beer. And the trash they leave behind them…They say as he was talkin’ plumb wild and wavin’ round a pistol. Then he climbed in his pickup and off he went. Back on Friday night, it was. And ain’t nobody seen him since.”

  19.

  HOME DEFENSE

  Sunday, October 16

  “Elizabeth, I’m serious. You need to do this. Like Rosemary said, I can’t be here all the time. And I’d feel a lot better if you had some training.” Phillip studied Elizabeth’s face, hoping for some hint of acquiescence.

  There had been time for four rounds of horseshoes before Dorothy and Miss Birdie summoned Calven for the walk back to the little church. Dorothy was still fussing and brushing at Calven’s clothes as the trio disappeared around the bend in the road. Phillip could hear her scolding voice—“have to double-bleach that shirt, for sure”—as he and Elizabeth walked back to his car, holding hands. The mariachi music from the rental house had given way to the thump of some sort of Hispanic hip-hop.

  “What do you think, Elizabeth? Can I sign you up?”

  “I’ve got Sam’s gun. And I do know how to use it.” At her smile, little rays gathered at the corners of her eyes. “Why do I need to take a class?”

  “When’s the last time you actually fired that gun? And where do you keep it?”

  She frowned. “It’s in a closet in my bedroom…but I can’t remember the last time I fired it. A while ago, I guess.”

  “Not good enough. If you’re in danger, you need to be really comfortable using the weapon. And you need to be able to carry it with you.” Now’s when I should tell her about the thing with Landrum. If his people tossed her house, the danger’s serious. But I’m not sure…and it’s going to take some explaining. Maybe tomorrow, once Rosemary’s out of the way.

  Impulsively, he pulled her to him. Wrapping his arms around her, he inhaled her smell—shampoo, the lavender-scented lotion she used, and something else he couldn’t identify.

  “Please, Elizabeth. There’s a class next Saturday. Let me sign you up.”

  She nuzzled at his ear. “Okay, Phillip. If you really think it’s important, I’ll sign up for the class and get my—what’s it called?—concealed carry permit?” She pulled back and grinned at him. “How about I get one of those really cool ankle holsters?”

  Elizabeth watched Phillip Hawkins drive away, reluctant to part with him even for a few hours. I feel like a teenager, for god’s sake. If I had a notebook, I’d be writing his name on it, over and over. This is…this is totally amazing. I never thought I’d feel this way again. How…how totally amazing.

  Shaking off the romantic lethargy that suggested it might be nice just to lie in the sun and wait till Phillip returned, she decided to make a quick tour of the greenhouses that lay at the upper end of the big growing field.

  Everything was in order; Julio and Homero were taking diligent care of the trays of cuttings and the tender herbs and lettuces that would provide a harvest through much of the winter. Ben had left the farm in good hands, she decided, pinching off a sprig of basil and inhaling its spicy, clovelike fragrance.

  Phillip’s making such a big deal of this break-in. I don’t know, I guess it couldn’t hurt to take those classes. As Miss Birdie says, “They’s a lot of meanness out there.” But I hate feeling like I have to go around with a gun, for god’s sake.

  A chill ran over her and she felt the tiny hairs on her arms rise. It took a moment to pinpoint the source of her uneasiness, but then she realized what it was. The unexpected sound of quiet footsteps had sounded her internal alarm. Quickly, she swung around to face the door. Through the greenhouse’s curving plastic wall she could just make out a shadowy form carrying…what was that in its hand? It was moving toward the door at the end of the greenhouse.

  Looking around in desperation, her eyes lighted on a metal watering wand. It was laughably light, but as she gripped it she felt a bit more prepared. With noiseless steps she moved to one side of the door and raised the makeshift weapon above her head.

  The intruder seemed to have trouble with the doorknob, but after a few abortive attempts, the door slowly began to move. Elizabeth gripped the slender metal tube resolutely and drew a deep breath.

  As the door creaked open, there was the sound of muttered, unintelligible words, and the scrape of something metallic on the doorframe. Elizabeth braced herself.

  And then, with a gusty exhalation, she relaxed. Julio’s brother-in-law Homero, a long-spouted watering can in one hand, stood frozen in the entryway, his dark eyes wide at the sight of his employer, evidently intent on whacking him over the head.

  “Dios mio!” He dropped the watering can and retreated several paces. “Señora! No me—”

  “It’s okay, Homero!” Appalled at her foolish alarm, Elizabeth dropped the wand and held out empty hands. “Lo siento. I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was you.”

  Homero regarded her warily. In the distance she heard Julio calling out in rapid-fire Spanish. Without taking his eyes from her, Homero called back an answer. He had quite a bit to say.

  “Qué pasa aquí? Whass happening, Señora Elizabeta?” Julio’s familiar form appeared just behind his brother-in-law, who gave him a sp
eedy and, to Elizabeth, largely unintelligible account of the past few minutes. Julio listened briefly, then waved his hands to stem the flow of words. “Hombre, no importa. The señora is a little scary, no más. Those malditos who get in her house make her that way.”

  Homero spat out another stream of words, motioning to the discarded watering wand. Julio nodded and laughed, then explained to Elizabeth, “Homero dice qué you want to scare those pendejos who get in your house, that thing there won’t do no good. That thing—” He picked up the wand and, gripping either end, bent it till the ends met. “—it is a piece of crap. You want to protect yourself, you get a gun.”

  Phillip packed a few changes of clothes, as well as his lecture notes, textbooks, and the pile of ungraded quizzes that would have to be dealt with before tomorrow’s class. He glanced around. It was easy to leave this place. It was a temporary shelter, nothing more. His feeble attempts at remaking it to his own tastes had not amounted to much in the face of so much pastel paint and pink porcelain. Suit me fine not to spend another night here. He smiled reminiscently. Sam, old buddy, she’s everything you said.

  In the kitchen he filled a mug—pink with teddy bears all over it—with tap water and drank. Even the water out there is better—no chlorine.

  As he set the mug on the countertop, a thought occurred to him. He pulled from his waistband the tiny cell phone Gabby had told him to use. A touch of his finger and it was ringing; three rings and Gabby answered. “Yeah?”

  “What’s up? Anything new on the break-in?”

  “Well, I should be asking you. How’s Red’s little wifey doing? She okay?”

  “A little nervous, but basically all right. She’s a gutsy woman.” Phillip hesitated. “The sheriff’s got someone keeping an eye on the place.” No need to say who. This is information Gabby doesn’t need, not yet. “Listen, she thinks—and I guess it’s a possibility—that the break-in was the work of a local fella with a grudge against her. I need to know: do you have any real reason to believe it was Landrum’s people?”

  There was a mirthless bark at the other end. “C’mon, man, get serious here! Of course it was them. They’re in town and they have a limited amount of time. They want the appointment in place by the end of the month: the administration’s set to move quickly. And Landrum’s worst nightmare is that those photos of Red’s will show up. Del’s not willing to risk his entire career without the hard proof of those pictures. And even if you and me backed Del up, who are we? An ex-junkie and a small-town cop. Our word against Landrum’s.”

  Gabby’s voice grew sarcastic. “I’m assuming you haven’t done what I suggested: just asked the widow Goodweather if she knows where Sam might have left some important papers. Hell, tell her about Landrum—I happen to know the woman’s a bleeding-heart liberal; she’ll bend over backward to help once she understands what’s at stake here. Do what it takes, but find that stuff and get it to me ASAP. I can be in DC in a matter of hours, and once he has the deposition and the photos in his hand, Del can go right to the top. Landrum’s political future will disappear and—”

  “Okay, you’re probably right.” Phillip paced from kitchen to living room and back, as if trying to escape the demands of his old shipmate. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’m going to have to take it slow—she has no idea about all this. And I want to wait till her daughter’s gone back to Chapel Hill. Give me a few days.”

  This time it was a real laugh, a knowing cackle. “Need to be alone with the lady, huh? Spend some time getting close, real close to Red’s old lady? You do that, pal, and you can find out what she knows.”

  Damn the cynical bastard. But how the hell am I going to explain this to Elizabeth? Phillip clicked off the cell phone and clipped it back on his belt. It’s taken her this long to trust me, and now…What happens if I tell her it was no accident that I showed up in Asheville? And all the Nam shit—how’s she going to take that?

  “Goddammit to hell!” Phillip Hawkins looked down at his packed bag waiting by the door. With a sudden savage impulse, he snatched up the teddy bear mug and hurled it to the tiled floor. The sound of shattering ceramic made him smile. Stepping carelessly over the pieces, he picked up his bag and left.

  Her jeep was parked by the barn, but Phillip could see no sign of Elizabeth. She was nowhere to be found—neither in the workshop nor the greenhouses. The sound of a slamming door caught his attention.

  “Señor!” Homero was hurrying down the steps of the tenant house. “Señor! Elisabeta she say you drive car. She go—” His thick fingers pantomimed walking and he gestured up the road. “—su casa.”

  “Señor Felipe!” Now Julio had emerged from the little house. He was carrying a primitive-looking machete and brandished it before him as he approached Phillip. “Mira! Homero y yo, we take care of those pendejos if they come back.”

  As he neared the comfortable-looking house nestled on the mountainside, its peaceful aspect called to him. It seemed to offer a promise of quiet content—of shared joys and deep companionship. The three dogs trotted to greet him, just as he had seen them greet Elizabeth—not sounding an alarm, but wagging and bowing, as if welcoming a returning family member.

  Phillip pulled his belongings from the back of the jeep while the dogs milled about him, demanding his attention. He squatted down and patted each in turn, rubbing Molly’s sleek chest, scratching behind Ursa’s ears, fending off James’s frantic leaping attempts to lick his face. All the while, his thoughts kept churning—a continuous, inescapable loop of uneasy foreboding. She’s let me into her bed. But will she let me into her life? Will I lose it all if I tell her the truth?

  20.

  REFLECTIONS

  Sunday, October 16 and Monday, October 17

  “They were in the very back of my closet, underneath an old science fair project—fourteen in all.”

  The cache of “spy notebooks” unearthed, Rosemary had spent most of the afternoon curled up on the sofa opposite the fireplace, head bent over the little hardcover composition books, occasionally sharing a delicious tidbit: “Listen, Mum, this is what Grammer Grey said when she came to visit and found out we didn’t have a real bathroom yet, only an outhouse.” But there had also been long stretches when she was silent, her face grave and her mouth tight as she read.

  After supper, Phillip set up shop at the dining table, grading test papers. His face, too, had been solemn, as he groaned at some hapless student’s particularly unfortunate response to an essay question.

  Stretched out on the other sofa, a well-worn copy of Dorothy L. Sayers’s Gaudy Night unopened on her lap, Elizabeth basked in the warmth of the cheerful fire and the comfortable, companionable presence of the others. I hadn’t realized it, but I’ve been lonely. This—this family life—is what I’ve missed.

  She looked from her daughter to Phillip, both so engrossed in their reading. He’s not what I might have imagined for myself…if I’d felt like looking. He’s intelligent, but not much of a reader, and he’s spent his life as a cop—really, what do we have in common beyond Sam? But here he is, and I like it.

  She glanced down at the book in her lap. I’ve read this probably ten or fifteen times—and it’s still romantic when Harriet finally gives in to Peter. At one time I might have said that Peter Wimsey was my idea of an ideal man—that literary turn of phrase and clever banter, not to mention the title, money, and perfect manservant.

  She studied Phillip, mentally comparing his stocky frame and shiny balding head to Lord Peter’s slim, athletic form and buttercup yellow hair. I like the way he looks—and, after all, Lord Peter’s monocle would have been a bit much.

  As if aware of her gaze, Phillip looked up. He seemed on the point of speaking, then, with a quick smile, looked away and resumed his labors.

  Elizabeth’s face flushed. But the thing that really mattered about Lord Peter, mattered to Harriet Vane, was that he respected her independence, that he prized her for it—all the other stuff just got in the way of her caring for him.
It wasn’t until she realized he saw her as an equal that she gave in to him. Is that what I find so appealing about Phillip?

  She turned her attention to her daughter. Rosemary’s face—high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, and thick lashes—had taken on an added beauty in the fireglow. Elizabeth watched her as she read, luxuriating in the pleasure of having her older daughter near again. Just as Phillip had done, Rosemary seemed to become aware of Elizabeth’s scrutiny. She looked up. “I’m not much company tonight, Mum.” Her smile was rueful. “But you can’t believe how amazing these are—how much stuff I wrote down back then.” She nodded at the stack of notebooks. “I’m about halfway through. There’s a lot that may be useful, but I want to go through all of them before I come to any conclusions. If…if you want, you can read them too.” A look of embarrassment flitted across her face. “Some of the stuff I wrote…well, I know better now. Remember, I was just a kid.”

  Sensing her daughter’s reluctance to offer her private diaries, Elizabeth feigned a disinterest she did not feel. She tapped her own book. “Thanks, sweetie, but I’m involved with Lord Peter Wimsey right now. Besides, I think I’m about ready to turn in. I’ll look at the notebooks another time, if you like.”

  A look of relief flooded Rosemary’s face. “Sure, another time would be fine. And once I’ve gone through all of them, I’ll have a better idea of what’s important and what isn’t.”

  A short while later, Rosemary gathered up her notebooks and said good night, carrying all fourteen slim books upstairs to her old room.

  It feels ridiculous to be sneaking around like this, but…What do I say? “By the way, Rosie, Phillip and I are sleeping together now.” I don’t know—maybe I’ll tell her when she comes back. Though, it’s more likely that she already knows, and is too polite to embarrass her silly old mother.