Zoe felt numb with dread as she returned to her bedroom. Bending over, she fetched the journal from the floor. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly turn the pages. Taking a deep breath, she sat down and read on:
I’m not sure how much time went by—maybe a few minutes—maybe more. The sound of a siren jarred me back to reality. Someone must have called the fire department. By now the flames were climbing the walls and eating their way through the heavy velvet drapes. Gasping for air, I groped my way down the smoke-filled hall toward the back door. Yoda was already there clawing wildly at the door, trying to get out. Jumping to my feet, I—no, the UberFrau—kicked Yoda aside and slipped outside, closing the door behind me.
Just in time! As I reached the bottom of the concrete stairs I heard footsteps. I quickly ran back up the stairs and pretended to reach for the doorknob just as a firefighter rounded the corner. I cried out, “My dog. I was taking him for a walk and he got loose and ran into the house—he’s trapped! Please help!” Our eyes met and I could see he knew—he knew what a noble deed had just been done. Then he smashed the glass and pushed the back door open. Yoda shot outside yelping and running in frenzied circles, trying to put out the smoldering fire on his hindquarters. It took an effort for me not to laugh out loud. One of the other firefighters scooped him up and, putting out the flame, carried Yoda to the truck.
Then a police officer came over and asked if I’d seen anything. What a fantastic story this is turning out to be!!
Zoe stared at the last sentence of the entry. A story? Was this all just a story—had Grace just made this up? But why? Why would she make up something so nightmarish? The next entry was dated June 24th.
You’ll never guess what happened this evening! Luke proposed to me—at Water Fire! Luke had to work late so I walked downtown to meet him. I had stopped to get a cup of coffee at Kennedy Plaza, when I noticed that homeless bum—Kitty Van Zandt’s grandson as it turns out. He was staggering across Kennedy Plaza, muttering to himself—like he was strung out on drugs. I was early for meeting Luke so I decided to follow him. He turned into an alley off Weybosset Street and disappeared between a dumpster and a parked van.
When he spotted me, he dropped the needle he was using and started shrieking, “I know you! I saw you at grandmama’s that night. Demon! Demon!” I told him to stop shouting, someone might hear him. But he kept right on like a crazy man. Suddenly he lunged at me, and I shoved him away. He slammed into the dumpster, hard, before he collapsed into a drunken trance.
What else could I have done? It felt good knowing I’d done yet another deed for the greater good.
After that I went to meet Luke at the Federal Building, and we walked down to Water Fire. It was so romantic—the gondola ride in the moonlight, champagne, violin music floating from the speakers under the bridges, the woody smell of the bonfires in the river. My heart was fluttering like the wings of a magnificent Luna Moth. Everyone standing along the River Walk cheered when Luke got down on his knees in the gondola and proposed to me. I am floating on Cloud Nine!!!!
Zoe breathed a sigh of relief. A great burden had been lifted from her shoulders. At last, things were back to normal. No doubt Grace had reported that homeless bum of a grandson to the police—just another good deed on her part. Maybe he was the UberFrau Grace had written about in the last entry. Except, wasn’t the UberFrau a she? But then this grandson was crazy—Grace had said so. Maybe he had returned to the house dressed up like a woman like Anthony Perkins in that old Hitchcock movie Psycho.
Satisfied with her explanation, Zoe turned to the next entry:
I moped around most of the day, feeling out of sorts. I feel like I’m living in the Twilight Zone. Nothing is quite real anymore. I slept poorly last night, wondering if anyone saw me coming out of the alley. It was foolish of me to be so careless, but what choice did I have?
Zoe shook her head. It sounded like her aunt was having another one of those killer headaches. She turned the page. A short news article was taped to the back of it. It stated:
Randolph Sprague, 27, was found dead yesterday morning in an alley in downtown Providence. Sprague was a suspect in the recent death of his grandmother, Kitty Van Zandt. The police have ruled his death accidental, resulting from complications due to a drug overdose. According to sources at Crossroads—a center for the homeless in Providence—Mr. Sprague had a long history of drug abuse and mental illness.
Under the article Grace had written:
The police are such idiots. Am I the only person in the world with half a brain?? There was more, but the writing was barely legible. Zoe twisted to one side and held the journal under the lamp, trying to make it out.
At that moment, Yoda jerked to attention and let out a bark. Leaping up, he dashed out of the room. Zoe heard a car turn into the driveway. She slammed the journal shut and shoved it under her mattress.
Chapter Fifteen
Zoe was sitting at the kitchen table with her English book open when Dad walked in.
“Hi, Zoe,” he said, taking off his coat. “What have you been up to?”
“Nothing,” she replied, gripping the edge of the book to keep her hands from shaking. “Just doing my homework.”
“Your mother should be home in a few minutes.”
“Dad, what’s an opus magnum?” Zoe asked.
“It means a great work—like a musical composition or great literary work.”
“Oh.”
He turned and looked at her. “Why do you ask?”
Zoe shrugged. “I just wondered, that’s all.”
Yoda whimpered and looked longingly at the back door.
“Has Yoda been out recently?” Dad asked.
“Uh, no…I forgot,” Zoe said. “I’ll do it right now.”
Dad looked at her wet fleece jacket hanging in the hall and frowned, but said nothing.
Zoe grabbed her raincoat and the leash and headed outside, glad for the solitary company of the rain. Yoda scampered ahead, winding back and forth, looking for the perfect spot to do his business. She pulled him back as a car passed by, its lights on and windshield wipers thumping. It was Mom.
Zoe waved, then leaned over and patted Yoda. She ran her hand over the scars on his rump. In her heart of hearts she knew her Aunt Grace would never hurt anyone and certainly not Yoda. After all, if Grace had really done this horrible thing—wouldn’t Yoda be afraid of her? And he wasn’t—not really, although he did prefer to sleep in Zoe’s room. Dogs, Zoe knew, had this sixth sense about people and knew who was good and who was bad.
Suddenly she had a rush of insight. Why, of course—that is what Grace meant by her opus magnum! The journal entry was part of the draft of Grace’s novel. After all, the entry was much longer and different than the other entries. And her aunt had taken to reading horror novels and thrillers lately—not exactly Zoe’s cup of tea but a lot of people nowadays—including kids her age—loved reading gruesome stories.
She pulled up the hood on her raincoat and pondered this new line of thinking. If the journal was the draft of the novel, this would explain why she had not been able to find the manuscript in Grace’s room. Just last month Zoe’s English teacher Mrs. Slocum had told the class that some novelists—like John Steinbeck for example—actually handwrote their first drafts in what they called their “work-in-progress journals.ˮ Writing in a journal was supposed to free up the creative flow or something like that. That would also explain the newspaper articles taped into Grace’s journal. And Mrs. Slocum had also told the class a lot of writers based their stories on real life events. No doubt, Grace was using these articles to get ideas for her novel. It was all beginning to make sense now.
Zoe breathed a sigh of relief. She could not believe she had actually found the manuscript for Grace’s novel. And to think, it had been there in front of her all this time.
As she walked back up her driveway the silvery clouds parted briefly, letting through a ray of sun before closing again. Surely it was like a sign, l
etting Zoe know her conclusions were correct.
The delicious aroma of Dad’s homemade beef barley soup filled her nostrils as she walked into the house.
Mom looked up from setting the table and smiled at Zoe.
“Hey, Mom, you’ll never guess what I just…” Zoe hesitated. She wanted to tell her parents about finding Grace’s book manuscript. But how could she do it without getting into trouble?
“You just what?” Mom asked.
Zoe cleared her throat, uncertain of whether she should tell her about the journal and the manuscript.
Mom smiled. “Are you trying to tell us you apologized to Billy?”
“Oh, that’s right. How’d you know?”
“Your father saw you walking up Billy’s driveway earlier today.ˮ She set down the last bread plate and walked over and gave Zoe a hug. “You know, there’s nothing like getting something off your chest to make you feel better. Isn’t that right, Steph?”
She looked over at Dad. He stood next to the stove, a haunted look on his face, watching Yoda lapping water as if he was just seeing him for the first time. Yoda’s damp fur was parted, revealing the scars on his hindquarters.
“I said, isn’t that right, Steph?” Mom repeated.
He looked up. “Oh…yes. I’m proud of you, Tinkerbelle,” he said to Zoe. But he seemed distracted, like his mind was elsewhere. He picked up the ladle and filled a large soup bowl and handed it to Zoe.
“Thanks, Dad.ˮ She took her seat at the table, grabbed a piece of Italian bread, and slathered it with butter, then said, “Billy said he was sorry too for all the awful things he said about Aunt Grace, except…well, he seemed kind of down.”
“Why’s that?” Mom asked.
“His dad was supposed to pick him up, but he never did ʼcause he was hanging out with his new girlfriend.”
Mom shook her head. “Billy’s been through a lot with his father walking out on them and his older brother being away at college in California.”
Dad joined them at the table.
“This soup is delicious,” Mom said, taking a spoonful. “By the way, how did the meeting go with Patrick and the lawyer today?”
“It went as well as expected. Patrick agreed to sign over his share of the house in Warwick Neck, but that’s all. Says he needs the money—and by law it does belong to him.”
Mom sighed. “Still, it doesn’t seem right.”
“I agree,” Dad replied. “But on the bright side, Grace had named Zoe and the twins as the beneficiaries on her IRA. So they’ll each get about eighty thousand dollars.”
“Well, that’s good news,” Mom said, reaching over and patting Zoe’s arm. “You can use it for college—or whatever you want, Zoe.”
Zoe could not even imagine how much money eighty thousand dollars was, but she knew it was a lot.
Dad turned to Mom and said, “We—Patrick and I—made the final arrangements for the funeral today.”
Zoe rubbed her arms. She wondered if Aunt Grace’s ghost would be there. She had heard ghosts often came to their own funerals. She shuddered at the thought. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Her mind turned to the journal.
“What’s going to happen to Aunt Grace’s novel?” Zoe asked. “Is it still going to be published?”
“I don’t know,” Mom replied. She looked at her husband. “Did you have a chance to call the publisher about it?”
Dad frowned. “Yes, I did. I called Simon & Shuster this afternoon.”
“And?” Zoe sat forward on the edge of her chair. She was sure it was going to be a best seller.
Dad took a deep breath. “They said they had never heard of her.”
Zoe’s mouth dropped. “But…”
“Are you sure you called the right publisher?” Mom asked. “This has to be some sort of mistake. I mean, why would Grace make up something like that?”
“That was my first thought,” Dad replied, “that it was a mistake. After all, she said she had an acceptance letter from the publisher. She showed me the envelope—although I never personally saw the letter in it.”
“Well, then, we just have to find that letter,” Mom said, setting down her spoon with a thump as though it were a judge’s gavel and she was giving a verdict.
Dad shook his head. “I checked with the police about it. It hasn’t turned up in any of her belongings here or at the house in Warwick Neck or in her office at RIC. Also, the publisher claimed they’d never sent such a letter.”
“But what about the envelope?” Zoe asked. “Doesn’t that prove it?”
“I mentioned the envelope. The publisher said it was probably something to do with an upcoming academic publication. Professors get mail like that all the time from publishers. The person I talked to said he would look into it. But he seemed pretty sure—they simply have no record of her working with them as an author.ˮ
Mom rubbed the back of her neck. “What’s happening?” she whispered.
Dad let out a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
“But I know the novel’s real,” Zoe blurted out, unable to restrain herself any longer. “It’s called Crime and Punishment.”
“Zoe, this is no time for games,” Dad said wearily.
“But it’s true,” Zoe protested. “She showed it to me.”
Dad’s jaw tightened. “Tell me, Zoe,” he said. “This wasn’t by any chance a novel about a man who killed a mean, rich old woman, was it?”
Zoe swallowed. “Yes…that’s the one. It’s about this man called Ran…Rask…” She stared out the window, trying to remember the name. The once silvery sky was now a dreary gray and the gentle rain a steady cold drizzle. “Anyway,” she said, “this man sneaks into the house and there’s someone else in the house too.ˮ She hesitated and looked up at her father.
He gave her that look—the one he got on his face when he was really, really upset at her. Then he said in a slow, stern voice, “And just when did you see this…this so-called manuscript?”
Zoe squirmed in her seat. “I don’t remember.”
“That’s real interesting because Crime and Punishment was written over a century ago by a Russian author named Dostoyevsky.”
“But…” Zoe felt her face redden. She looked down at her hands.
“Steph, leave her alone,” Mom said. “She’s probably just confused. Maybe Grace was writing an academic paper about Crime and Punishment for some ethics journal and that’s what Zoe saw. I know Grace was fascinated with that book.ˮ She reached across the table and squeezed Zoe’s hand. “Don’t worry, sweetie, we’ll get this straightened out.”
The awkward silence that followed was broken by the phone ringing.
Mom got up and answered it. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Worthen,” she said with forced cheerfulness.
She listened for a few seconds, then glanced over at Zoe.
“You found what in Zoe’s room?” Mom asked, the cheerfulness gone from her voice.
Zoe shrank back in her chair.
“What is it?” asked Dad.
Mom frowned and walked over to the organizer on the kitchen counter. “In which drawer did you say?” She pulled open the small top drawer and took out a blue passport. “Yes, I have it. Thank you, Mrs. Worthen. Thank you very much.”
She hung up and opened up the passport and stared at it.
Zoe felt numb all over. Why hadn’t she noticed earlier that the passport was no longer in Grace’s journal? It must have fallen out when Zoe was reading the journal in her bedroom.
Mom handed the opened passport to Dad.
“Zoe,” he demanded. “How did this passport get in your room?”
Zoe bit her lower lip. “I…I don’t know.ˮ
He banged his hand on the table. “No more lying or making up cockamamie stories, young lady. You need to start telling us the truth.”
Zoe’s lower lip quivered as she fought back tears.
Mom shot him a look. “For heaven’s sake, Stephan,”
she snapped. “Don’t be so hard on her. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.”
Dad let out a deep breath and rubbed his temples.
“We need to let the police know about this,” Mom said, picking up the phone. She dialed and left a message for Detective Tasca to call back.
Zoe felt the color drain from her face. She did not want to spend the rest of her young life locked up in a dingy cell in Sockanosset. She felt for sure she was going to get sick right there and then on the kitchen table.
Mom hung up the phone. She came over and sat down beside Zoe and put her arm around her shoulders. “Think, Zoe, this is important,” she said. “You know we have to turn this passport over to the police. Just try to think back. How could it have gotten in your room?”
Zoe stared at her hands.
“Zoe. Your mother asked you a question.”
Mom placed a hand on Zoe’s arm. “It’s okay,” she said. “Just tell us the truth and everything will be okay.”
Zoe remembered how Aunt Grace used to say those very same words to her: “Just tell the truth and everything will be okay.ˮ But how could she do that now? No matter what she did, it wouldn’t be all right. No matter what she did, it would be wrong. She felt suffocated by a sense of impending doom. If only Grace’s ghost would speak to her and tell her what to do. But no words came.
“All I can think of,” Zoe finally whispered, “is that it happened when Aunt Grace came in to say good night. I think it was the night before she…” Zoe stopped and bit her lower lip. Lying had never come easy to her.
“It’s okay, take your time,” Mom said.
Zoe wiped her eyes with her sleeve, then continued, “Aunt Grace came in…and she was holding something—a little book—and she showed me Luke’s picture and said how very much she loved him and how much she missed him. Maybe she dropped it then—when she was sitting on my bed.”
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Dad asked.
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