Helen Evett ought to know. Whenever visitors came to see her—depending on their ages—they wanted to go to the Witch Museum or the Witch Dungeon Museum or the Wax Museum or the Witch House. If they were the pensive type, they sometimes wanted to sit and reflect at the witch-trials memorial.
Rarely did they wish to take a walking tour of Chestnut Street.
Helen drove slowly down the one-way street, searching for the Byrne mansion. She hadn't been on Chestnut Street in a long while, long enough to be impressed all over again by its magnificence. Salem had plenty of historic houses, of course; but there was something about the way Chestnut Street's mansions stood shoulder to shoulder, united against the outside world, that seemed exceptionally exclusive. Chestnut Street did not permit slaggards. No peeling paint, no sprawling privet here, by golly.
Stuffy little street, Helen decided. Automatically she sat up straighter in the seat of her Volvo.
She had dressed in keeping with the neighborhood, pinning her hair in a knot at the back of her head and wearing a suit much more tailored than her usual soft, flowing dresses.
The preschoolers had noticed the change the minute they saw her. One of them, whose mother was a lawyer, had looked up at her and said, "Do you hafta go to court, Mrs. Evett?"
Helen didn't, but she felt as nervous as if she were appearing in her own defense. It was an illogical, bewildering response to the telephone plea of the night before.
Just who was this Linda Byrne, anyway? She sounded too disorganized, somehow, for such a formal neighborhood. And what about Byrne? Had he been surprised to realize that he'd married a dysfunctional neurotic?
Now, now, Helen told herself. Give the poor lady a break. Headaches can be paralyzing.
The problem was, Helen had never had the luxury of dropping everything to nurse one. Like most other working women, she could only pop a couple of pain relievers and keep on moving.
She pulled up in front of one of the grandest of the grand houses, a brick three-story mansion with an Ionic portico framing a door painted the deepest of greens. Like most of the houses on the street, the Byrne mansion was set back only a few feet from the brick sidewalk and was fronted by an elaborate painted fence; this one curved back to two urned pillars on each side of the portico.
From the copper downspouts to the fittings on the deep green working shutters, everything about the house suggested taste, discretion, and affluence—and a severity that Helen found strangely off-putting. This was no charming ramshackle cottage; no rambling, whimsical Victorian like her own. The painted ivory shutters on the inside of the windows facing the street were all closed, as if the place were put up for the season. Obviously the owners weren't fond of sunshine.
If Helen had seen a rosebush about to leaf out, or a pot of early pansies on the step, then maybe she would've felt less wary. But except for the ivy tumbling discreetly through the spokes of the fence, and the thick, gnarled branches of an old tree nodding close to the second-floor windows, she saw nothing that seemed relaxed or welcoming. If houses reflected their owners, then Helen wasn't sure she'd like these owners.
She got out of the car and slammed the door. It was a simple, mindless act.
But it changed Helen's life forever.
The noise of the car door spooked an owl that apparently had been roosting in the tree. The bird swooped down in front of Helen, then headed directly for her, locking its gaze on hers. Helen froze. Her heart jumped to her throat. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Just as suddenly, the owl broke away and bounded off erratically.
It had happened so fast, in the blink of an eye. Helen was left shaking and weak-kneed, as if a mugger had jumped out of nowhere and grabbed her purse. She tightened her grip on her shoulder bag, not altogether convinced that the owl wouldn't be back for it, and hurried up the three steps to the door of the mansion.
Before Helen could lift the heavy brass knocker cast in the shape of a square-rigged ship, the door was swung open for her. An attractive, thirtyish woman stood in the doorway, oblivious to the raw March wind.
"Ah! You made it!" she said to Helen with a warm, vivacious smile.
Helen was caught off guard at the sight of the slender, auburn-haired beauty. "Mrs. Byrne?"
I knew it, she thought. There's nothing wrong with her.
The woman laughed and shook her head as she stepped aside. "No, no, I'm just the nanny. Peaches Bartholemew. Come in. Mrs. Byrne is dressing to come down. In the meantime, come and meet Katherine. She's been so excited all day."
So. Wrong on two counts. Well, one of them was an honest mistake. Peaches Bartholemew looked and acted like the mistress of a mansion. She was beautifully dressed in a calf-length skirt of fine-spun wool and a sweater that had a lot more cashmere in it than poor Becky's. The apricot color highlighted the delicate flush of her Meryl Streep cheekbones; it was easy to see how she'd got the name Peaches.
A poor and distant relation was Helen's first, old- fashioned thought as the two women made their way down the soaring hall, lit by a wonderful chandelier, to one of the reception rooms. Helen stole a glance at the nanny in profile and realized how striking her beauty was: straight nose, high cheekbones, delicate brows and lashes, makeup artfully applied. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a French braid, more elegant, somehow, than the cleverest cut.
Helen responded to the woman's pleasantry about spring being just around the corner, but she was thinking, I wonder if I would've had the confidence to hire a nanny this pretty.
They entered a room of lofty proportions which clearly served as a music room. A grand piano was strategically placed beside full-length windows that opened to a view of the garden; a deep, well-thumbed assortment of sheet music was scattered across the top of an obviously valuable Federal sideboard with a serpentine table-edge.
"Katie, come see who's here," Peaches called gaily. She had a beautiful voice, rich and musical. No doubt she accompanied the pianist in the family, whoever that was.
"Katherine?" Peaches said again in apparent confusion. It was obvious that a game was being played. "For goodness' sakes ... I thought she was in here."
Suddenly a brown-haired moppet in Oshkosh overalls popped out from behind a Queen Anne armchair and shouted, "Boo!"
The child broke into a fit of giggles as Peaches reached down and wrapped her arms around her, half-tickling, half-turning her to face Helen. "Do you know who this is?" said Peaches to the child.
Without looking up, Katie giggled again and said, "Yes. Mrs. Evett. She teaches preschool," the child added, in case there was any doubt.
Helen crouched to the little girl's level and said, "Hi, Katie. I'm glad to meet you. Your mommy said that you're a very smart little girl."
Katie fixed her bright blue eyes on Helen's gray ones. "I know my ABCs, and I can count to twenty," she said. This she proceeded to do on the spot, except for seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen.
When she was done, Peaches tucked one of her curls back and said, "We've been practicing a lot, haven't we, honey?"
"Uh-huh. And I know how to draw. Want me to show you?"
Helen said yes and Katie ran to the other end of the room where she'd been coloring at a low table, then fell to her knees and began sorting through her pile in search of her best pieces.
"She's determined to make a good impression on you," Peaches whispered to Helen. "I'm not sure what Linda told her, but Katie seems to think she may not get into the class."
"Oh ... no, I wouldn't say that," Helen said vaguely. It was awkward to be put on the spot that way, which is why Helen preferred to do the interviews at school.
The reference to "Linda" rather than to "Mrs. Byrne" did not escape Helen. Over the years she'd met hundreds of nannies picking up their charges at the end of the day. Very few of them referred to their employers by their first names. Maybe Peaches was a relation after all.
To fill the void while they waited for the child to make up her mind, Helen said softly, "Does Katie have many friends to
play with?"
Peaches pursed her lips thoughtfully, cocked her head in the little girl's direction, and sighed. "I wish I could say yes. But all the children in the neighborhood are in preschools, getting ready for Harvard and Yale. Linda was determined to hold out, but the pressure got to be too much.
"Oh, good, Katie," said Peaches to the girl as she came skipping back with a crayon-drawing in her hand, "that was my favorite, too."
Without a word the child handed the sheet to Helen, apparently preferring to let her work speak for itself.
Helen didn't have a clue what the brown and red scribbles were supposed to be. Nonetheless, she was impressed with the little girl's command of shapes. "Oh my," she said enthusiastically. "You must come sit next to me and tell me everything that's in it."
Helen took the girl by the hand and led her to a small camelback sofa opposite the piano, glancing at the entrance to the room as they passed it.
The nanny took the hint. "I'm sorry for the delay," she said at once. "I'll just go see—"
She never got to finish the sentence. A man's voice— loud and urgent and somehow ghastly—cried out from a floor above them, "Peaches! For God's sake, up here!"
Chapter 2
The nanny threw down the words "Excuse me" like a discarded tissue and rushed from the music room, leaving Helen alone with the child.
Whatever had happened wasn't good, but Helen knew better than to let a child see that she was upset. In her calmest, friendliest voice she said, "Now. I was wondering what ... hmmm ... this is," she said, pointing to one of several brown cigars. She was surprised to see that her hand was shaking as she did it.
Katherine, unhooking her forefinger from her lower lip, gestured in a squiggly circle that took in all the cigars at once and said, "That's Daddy's plane. And this is his other plane," she said, pointing to a blue scribble in one corner. "Only I coulddent fit it."
"And this?"
"This is fog. Daddy doesn't like fog because he can't fly his plane. But I like it," she added in a hushed voice. "Because, well, I like it." It seemed reason enough.
"And this?"
The child's blue eyes crinkled above a smile. "That's Polly Panda," she said, slapping the heels of her hands on the edge of the sofa cushion. "Daddy bringed Polly Panda on the plane. She sat in a seat. Mommy was mad."
Helen decided not to follow up on that one, so she asked Katie to show her some more of her work.
It was a hard slog. Katie, true to the artist's temperament, had no desire to explain every last smudge, especially in the more abstract pieces. She began to fidget and demanded to know where Peaches was.
Good question, thought Helen. Really, it was shaping up to be an extraordinary interview, with one odd surprise after another. From the owl to the real Peaches to the elusive Linda Byrne, Helen had been kept continuously off balance. She didn't like it at all.
She'd managed to get Katie working on another creation—though it was clear that the muse had flown—when Peaches suddenly reappeared.
The woman's face was as white as a new porcelain sink. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose still runny; clearly she'd been crying. She forced a pale echo of her earlier smile and said, "I really am sorry ... but something's come up. I'm afraid we'll have to end the interview here. I'm—"
She looked around the room blankly. "Did you bring a coat?" she asked in a dazed voice.
It was Helen's turn to sound blank. "I left it in my car," she said automatically.
"Oh ... of course. Well. I—someone will be in touch, then. Thank you so much for coming."
And that was it. Helen was given the bum's rush out the door.
She stood beside her car, keys in hand, staring at the imposing brick house with its shuttered air of disdain, and thought, What the hell was going on in there?
A car or two passed on the street. Bankers and lawyers were coming home to their suppers. Helen roused herself and stuck the key in the lock of her door, all too aware that her kids would be clamoring for their own meal. A light snow was beginning to fall. More snow, more March, more waiting.
Somehow the interview seemed to fit right in.
****
By the time Peaches hurried back from seeing Helen to the door, Katie had climbed halfway up the unbarred stairs. The nanny raced to intercept her.
"I wanna go by Mommy," the child said, trying to wriggle out of her nanny's grasp.
"You can't right now, honey," said Peaches, carrying her quickly up the rest of the stairs. The stairs wound another flight to the nursery around the massive center hall, itself highlighted by a large crystal chandelier that hung from the third floor ceiling. Peaches made sure the child's face was to the wall, away from the open hall—the heart of the house onto which all the rooms opened. "You know how it is when Mommy has a headache."
"I don't know," Katherine said, frustrated and impatient. "I don't I don't I don't. I want to see her now."
In the distance Peaches heard the sound of sirens. Her heart lurched in her breast; by sheer force of her will, she made it return to a steady, untroubled beat.
"You can't see her now, Katie," she said evenly. Not now. Not ever.
****
Helen ended up waiting a week for the call. More than once, she'd considered calling Linda Byrne herself; but after all her assurances that there was no urgency, she couldn't quite justify picking up the phone.
Besides, it had been a godawful week: A nasty strain of flu was making the rounds, and kids and staff were dropping like flies. Helen had been one of the few left standing, despite a brutal week-long sinus headache.
But Friday had come at last, and Helen was able, finally, to collapse on the sofa with an ice pack on her head. She was dressed in comforting sweat clothes, gazing listlessly through the wood blinds at the last of a bloodred sky and wondering whether she should close the school for a few days, when the phone rang.
"Russ, answer that, would you?" she begged.
She heard his grudging "H'lo" on the hall phone, followed by an assortment of monosyllables: "Yeah ... no ... 'kay ... no ... I'll tell her ... bye."
Russ hung up and came into the family room, which was identical in size to the sitting room on the opposite side of the hall but upholstered in more rugged fabrics. He was buried under fourteen layers of plaid, dressed to go out.
"So? Who was it?"
"Some woman with a weird name," he answered. "She said some kid won't be signing up for preschool that you thought was going to."
"I don't suppose you'd happen to remember the child's name either," Helen said dryly.
"Yeah ... that one wasn't weird. Katherine, that's it!" Russ said, lighting up in the kind of endearing grin that Helen so rarely saw anymore.
"Oh-h ... Katherine Byrne. So it must've been Peaches Bartholemew who called? Well, that's too bad. Katherine's a sweetie." The sadness lingered in Helen's voice as she said to her son, "Going out?"
"Yeah. Over to Mickey's house. Him and Scott and me were thinking of going to a movie. Um ... could I have ten dollars?"
"He and Scott and I. You spent your allowance?"
"Yeah."
It wasn't all that easy to do, since Russ had had to stay home the previous weekend. Because of the grounding— not despite it—Helen decided to give him the money. "Hand me my purse," she said, sighing.
She fished out a bill from her wallet and gave it to him. "I want you home by nine-fifteen."
"Ma-a!"
"Nine. Fifteen."
"That doesn't even leave time for a Coke!"
"The fridge is full of Coke. Have your friends over after the show. I'll be glad to drive them home."
He shrugged, which under the circumstances meant, "Naturally you must be insane," and took off.
Broke again. Russ was always out of money, which was a good-news, bad-news thing for a worrier like Helen. The good news was, he couldn't be dealing drugs. The bad news was, she couldn't be sure he wasn't using them.
Don't be dumb. You know t
he telltale signs; you've memorized them from the public-service ads. Russell Evett is not on drugs. He wouldn't betray his father's memory that way.
Before she could run through the litany of symptoms again, she heard the front door slam. Russell had come back.
He poked his head into the family room. "I forgot. She said someone died."
Helen whipped the ice bag from her head and bolted up. "Died? Who?"
Russ frowned in concentration. "I forget."
"Not—" But she knew the answer would be yes before she said the name. "Not Linda Byrne," she said softly.
"Yeah. That was it. Bye." He pivoted on one Nike.
"Hold it. Miss Bartholemew didn't say anything more than that? What exactly did she say? Think."
This was an utterly pointless demand, similar to many Helen had made of her son. He shrugged and said, "I dunno," with a hapless look. "She died. That's all. Or maybe she didn't say 'died.' Maybe she said 'death.' I'm not sure."
Russ left his mother in a state of shock. Helen began pacing the room in her stockinged feet, wondering whether there was anything she could or should do at this point. Acting on her first impulse, she ran to the phone and dialed the number of the Byrne mansion. She got an answering machine, which she hadn't expected; like a fool, she hung up.
Who should receive her condolences? Poor little Katie? Obviously not. But Helen didn't know the husband. For that matter, she hardly knew Peaches—and anyway, there was something irreverent about offering one's condolences to someone named Peaches.
Besides, the fact that Peaches had given the message directly to the first person to pick up the phone suggested that the call had been the merest courtesy rather than a social event.
Okay, so that was that. Helen Evett and Linda Byrne were simply two ships that had passed in the night. It was sad but hardly extraordinary. Helen picked up her ice bag from the floor and lay back down on the sofa. The pacing had made a horrendous headache worse.
Inevitably, her thoughts focused on her conversation with Linda Byrne. Helen regretted not having been able to satisfy the woman's last request. Not that it was Helen's fault, really. After all, she'd gone to see Linda Byrne the first chance she got. She'd been prepared to accept Katherine into the class. There was nothing more she could have done.
Beyond Midnight Page 2