by Gayle Wilson
Blythe climbed the stairs, deciding to use the phone in Ruth’s bedroom rather than the one in the front parlor. There was less chance of being overheard up here. And she could also do what she’d said she intended and check on Maddie.
She did that first, looking into her daughter’s room on the way to her grandmother’s. The little girl still seemed to be sleeping soundly. From the doorway, Blythe watched the regular rise and fall of the quilt spread over her daughter’s shoulders.
After a moment, reassured, she reached inside the room and pulled the door almost closed. Then she walked to Ruth’s bedroom next door.
Her grandmother’s bed had been made, probably as soon as she’d crawled out of it. Not an item was out of place anywhere in the room. Even the pictures in their silver frames, which covered the dressing table, were all carefully aligned.
Feeling like an intruder, Blythe crossed the hardwood floor and sat down on the edge of the bed. She had already picked up the phone before she realized she didn’t have the number of the sheriff’s office. Since this wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t want to dial 911.
She opened the drawer of the bedside table, looking for the telephone directory. On top of her grandmother’s Bible lay a gun—a very lethal-looking semiautomatic pistol.
Shocked, Blythe immediately pushed the drawer back in as if to hide what she’d seen. Then, remembering that a four-year-old was now living in this house, she pulled it open again.
The gun had belonged to her grandfather, his Army Colt. This was still a society that took the phrase “a right to bear arms” literally. That had been even more true in his day.
Ruth had lived here alone for many years. Although her grandmother would have said that the community was perfectly safe, it wasn’t so surprising, given the culture she’d grown up in, that she would keep the gun beside her bed. What was surprising was that she hadn’t put it away when Maddie had moved in next door.
Gingerly, Blythe picked up the weapon. Its solid weight was unexpected, so that as she held it, the barrel drooped slightly, revealing that the magazine was in place. And if this had been intended for protection, that made perfect sense. Just as putting it where a four-year-old couldn’t reach did now.
She stood, taking a quick survey of the room. There was a narrow drawer at the very top of the chest of drawers. That would do for the time being. The next time Cade was here—
Cade. She’d almost forgotten why she’d come up here. She walked across the room and slipped the gun into the hiding place she’d chosen. She would have to tell her grandmother what she’d done, of course, and insist that Ruth not put the weapon back into the bedside table.
She’d already turned to go back to the phone, intending to call information, when she heard a sound from next door. She stopped, listening for a repetition of whatever it had been.
Maddie was talking, she realized. Her voice was very low. Almost as if she were whispering.
Maybe Delores had come upstairs to get started on the bedrooms. Or perhaps Ruth had followed Blythe up here. It would be just like her grandmother to check up on both of them.
As she neared the open doorway of Ruth’s bedroom, she could hear her daughter’s voice more clearly. She could even distinguish the occasional word. She thought she heard “daddy.” Remembering Maddie’s agitation last night, she stepped out into the hall and hurried toward the little girl’s room.
She was surprised to find that the door she’d pulled to had not been opened. If Delores or her grandmother—
As she pushed the door inward, she realized that she could no longer hear her daughter’s voice. And then she saw that Maddie was in the same position she’d been in when Blythe had checked on her a few minutes ago. The quilt still covered her shoulders, which rose and fell with each steady breath.
Puzzled, Blythe looked around the room, but there was no one here. And there was no radio or anything else to explain the conversation she’d heard.
She took a step inside and then another. From that vantage point she could see Maddie’s face. The little girl was sleeping on her side, her hand tucked under her chin. Her lashes lay unmoving against her cheek.
Unwilling to discount what her senses had told her when she’d been in the bedroom next door, Blythe again scanned the room. Pale winter sunlight, slipping in through the slats of the blinds, painted a pattern on the gleaming wood floor. The pink sprigged spread that she had folded back across the foot of the bed was undisturbed. As was Maddie’s robe, which lay over the arm of the only chair.
Nothing was out of place. No one else was here. And her daughter was still asleep.
So who had she just heard?
“Maddie?” Despite what her eyes were telling her, she wanted to know that the little girl was all right.
And what do you think could happen to her here in your grandmother’s house?
“Maddie, it’s time to wake up now.”
The blue eyes opened, looking at her for a moment without any sign of recognition. And then her daughter smiled, breaking through the cold, mindless terror that during the last few seconds had gripped Blythe’s heart.
“You’re already dressed.” Maddie’s voice rose on the last, making it almost an accusation.
“I’ve been up a while. Come on, Miss Sleepyhead. The day’s a-wasting.”
That was something Ruth had always said to her when she was a little girl. Time in her grandmother’s day was never wasted. It still wasn’t.
“What are we going to do?”
Not, apparently, call Cade, Blythe thought with a twinge of regret. Or maybe she could do that while Maddie ate her breakfast. If not, the questions she had to ask him could wait. After all, he would undoubtedly be very busy this morning.
“I’m not sure. We can talk about it over breakfast. You can come down in your jammies if you want.” She watched Maddie push back the cover with her feet and then crawl out of bed. “You need to go to the bathroom?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Want your robe?” Blythe walked over to pick it up from the chair, but when she turned, Maddie was shaking her head.
“I don’t want it. I want to put on my clothes.”
“You go on to the bathroom, and I’ll lay them out.”
Obediently, the little girl started toward the door to the hall. Before she reached it, Blythe asked the question she had decided not to give voice to.
“Were you dreaming, Maddie?”
Her daughter turned, the blue eyes filled with a reassuring innocence. “Just now?”
“Right before I woke you.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t remember it if I was.”
“I heard someone talking. I was next door in Miz Ruth’s room, and I thought it was coming from in here.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“And then when I came in, you were asleep. So…I wondered if maybe you were dreaming. Talking to someone in your sleep.”
“I don’t think so.”
This was getting her nowhere, but Blythe couldn’t seem to let it go. She needed to understand what was going on. She needed to know what was happening to her little girl.
“You dreamed last night. Do you remember that?”
The blond head moved back and forth, sun-touched strands of hair brushing against her shoulders. The nearly colorless brows drew together as if in concentration.
If this was the breakthrough the psychologist had talked about—an acknowledgment of the depth of Maddie’s loss—then it was something they desperately needed to talk about. Even if it was painful to them both.
“You dreamed about Daddy. And you were crying. Miz Ruth and I both heard you.”
“I don’t remember.”
Frustration made Blythe’s voice sharper than she intended. “You said it was cold and dark. You said he was cold.”
Maddie shook her head, looking bewildered.
“And just now…Just now you were talking. Were you talking to someone, Maddie? Was there someo
ne in here with you?”
As she threw the questions at the little girl, the big blue eyes widened. Slowly they filled with moisture, which welled into tears that spilled down her cheeks.
“Stop crying, Maddie. I need to know what’s going on. Something’s happening here—” Blythe stopped, appalled by the harshness on her tone, something the child couldn’t possibly understand.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“I know,” Blythe said, taking a calming breath. “I know you didn’t. I’m just…I’m just out of sorts. You’ve got a cranky old mommy.”
“Because of the fire?”
On top of everything else.
“That’s part of it.”
“I don’t remember dreaming about Daddy.”
“I know. I know you don’t. You go on to the bathroom, and I’ll get your clothes. Then we’ll find something fun for us to do today. Okay?”
“Okay. You’re not mad anymore.”
“Not at you. You and I—You and I are a team. Just like we have been since Daddy died. We’ll be all right as long as we stick together.”
“Okay.”
The little girl turned, disappearing into the hallway. Blythe closed her eyes. When she opened them, she blew out a breath, loud enough to be audible.
What the hell are you doing? Browbeating a baby because she doesn’t remember dreaming about her dead father? Or talking to a ghost?
It was the first time she could remember actually admitting the possibility. She’d beat around the bush in her conversations with Cade, but…
Did she really believe her daughter was conversing with Sarah Comstock, a child who had been dead for a quarter of a century? Or did the fact that she was even considering that as an explanation for what had gone on since they’d moved to Crenshaw make her crazy?
She walked over to the chest of drawers where she’d put the three outfits she’d bought for Maddie after the fire. Refusing to think about anything but making it up to the little girl for these few unpleasant moments, she methodically ripped off tags, tossing each garment onto the unmade bed as she did.
“I really don’t remember.”
Blythe looked up to find Maddie standing in the doorway watching her. Her hands hesitated as she tried to think how to heal the breach she’d caused. “I know you don’t.”
“I’d tell you if I did.”
Maddie had told her about the little girl the night they’d seen the figure lurking outside the backyard. Maybe she didn’t remember the dreams. Maybe she was telling the literal truth.
“I know you would. It’s…It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I got upset. How about the playground in the park?”
There was only one, centrally located just off the town square. In the summer, the slides and swings were shaded by hundred-year-old oaks. Blythe couldn’t ever remember going there in the winter. However, she also couldn’t think of any other treat to offer. Except…
“And a hamburger and fries and a milkshake for lunch,” she added. “Does that sound good?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then you get your clothes on, and I’ll go down and get our jackets from the front closet.”
In the room next door, the phone rang. Together they listened, neither of them moving until someone downstairs picked up. Still they waited in silence, as if expecting bad news.
Finally, from the foot of the stairs Ruth’s voice floated up. “Phone for you, dear. It’s Cade.”
Blythe stepped to the door, putting her hand on Maddie’s shoulder as she called down to her grandmother. “I’ll get it in your room. Thanks. Go on,” she said, giving her daughter a gentle push toward the bed. “I’ll meet you downstairs. You can tell Miz Ruth and Delores what we’re planning. And ask them to give you a banana to eat on the way.”
Without waiting to see if Maddie obeyed, Blythe stepped by her, heading for her grandmother’s bedroom. When she reached the doorway, she looked back, but the little girl had disappeared inside her own room.
After only a moment’s reflection, Blythe eased the door closed and then crossed to sit on the edge of Ruth’s bed again. She took a breath before she picked up the receiver.
“I’ve got it, Grandmother.”
She waited until she heard the click signifying that the other phone had been placed back on its cradle.
“Blythe?”
She reacted to the sound of his voice. An unexpected warmth that penetrated the chill at her core that she hadn’t been able to shake since she’d heard about Abel’s death.
This was nothing like the sexual response she’d experienced before. It was more like the feeling of relief when you’d been lost, driving down unfamiliar streets, and you suddenly spotted some landmark you knew. A sense of safety. Of homecoming.
“I’m here.”
“You heard about Abel?”
“Delores told us. She said that they thought it might be suicide.”
“If they did, they’d be wrong.”
The silence stretched as she considered the implications. “Someone killed him. At the same place where Sarah was killed.”
“Close enough.”
“Do you know—”
“We need to talk.”
Clearly not a request. “You mean not by phone.”
“I’d rather not. Actually…Why don’t you come down to the office? There’s been enough misinformation put out about this.”
“What does that mean?”
“That whatever Delores or your grandmother overhear will be repeated at circle meeting and prayer meeting. I’d rather not supply them with any more gossip. Not even the factual kind.”
“I promised to take Maddie to the park.”
Another pause, this one slightly longer. “How about if I meet you there? Say…twenty minutes.”
She wanted to meet him, she realized. Just as she had reacted to Cade’s voice on the phone, she wanted to see him face-to-face. Just to be able to talk to someone to whom she’d already revealed the worst of her fears.
“Twenty minutes,” she agreed softly.
The sibilance of the last syllable hadn’t faded when she heard the click that signaled he’d hung up. And although they were no longer connected, she was still strangely reluctant to put down the phone.
20
A s he pulled the cruiser up along the curb, Cade turned, looking out the driver’s side window at the only two people in the park. The day was cold enough to have kept everyone else indoors, so that Blythe and her daughter had the place to themselves. Which suited his purposes.
The serenity of the scene he was watching, however, made him want to delay the inevitable. Blythe was pushing her daughter in one of the swings, the little girl leaning back as far as she could at the top of each arc. Her long blond hair, glinting in the winter sunlight, almost touched the ground. They looked like any other mother and child, out to enjoy some time together.
Within the next few minutes, Cade knew he was going to shatter their tranquility. Maybe forever.
Pulling his gaze away, he picked up the radio from its stand on the dash. When he reached the dispatcher, he made his message as vague as possible, considering the investigation most of the department was involved with right now.
“I’ll be out of touch for a few minutes. I’ll check back as soon as I can. Anything short of another body can wait.”
He replaced the radio and then opened his door. Once on the sidewalk, he deliberately slammed it. The noise had the desired effect, attracting Blythe’s attention.
Even at this distance, their eyes held for a few seconds. He could almost feel her mentally preparing for whatever he was going to say.
So now you’re psychic, too? Must be going around.
As he started toward them across the dead grass, Blythe stopped the swing. She leaned forward to whisper something into her daughter’s ear. The little girl looked up at her before she turned her head to locate Cade.
For a heartbeat there was something watchful, almost wary,
in her eyes. Then, in response to what she’d been told, Maddie slipped off the plastic seat and ran toward the nearest slide.
Blythe’s gaze followed her daughter before it came back to him. The same wariness he’d seen in Maddie’s eyes was reflected in hers. And there was nothing he could do to alleviate the sense of dread all of them seemed to feel about this meeting.
“You said someone killed him,” Blythe said as he approached.
He glanced toward the little girl. She was far enough away that she wouldn’t hear their conversation. Not unless it got more heated than he anticipated.
“Maybe Abel made his claim of ownership of the Hollow to the wrong person.”
“Someone who had a different reason for holding a vigil out there.” Blythe’s comment was etched with a bitterness she made no attempt to hide.
“Or someone who decided that for Sarah, justice hadn’t been served, so they decided to do something about that.”
“Some…good citizen, you mean. Just doing what law enforcement hadn’t done.”
“It’s possible.”
“You don’t believe that.” Her tone was very sure.
“No.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
“I think Abel was doing the same thing yesterday he was doing the day you ran into him.”
“Visiting the scene of his daughter’s murder?”
“And he stumbled onto someone else doing the same thing.”
She waited, holding his eyes. “And?” she prompted finally.
“I don’t know. Maybe something was said that made Abel suspicious. Maybe he made an accusation that whoever was out there was afraid he’d repeat, even when he was sober.”
“So…you’re saying whoever killed Sarah, someone who has evaded suspicion for twenty-five years, just killed again because of something the town drunk said to him.”
No more far-fetched than believing the murderer was so worried about the book she was supposed to write that he’d tried to kill her. If you could swallow one, why not the other?
“I don’t know why he killed Abel. We may never know. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think it was premeditated. I think he was caught off guard and simply reacted.”