Phoebe’s eyes wandered over the faces in the room, some mad, some concerned, and settled on mine.
She wasn’t feeling ashamed or guilty or embarrassed. She didn’t seem to feel the weight of David’s angry stare. None of that was in her face. “You said I’m a part of this—well, what is this? The Inquisition? I like Jonathon, I wanted to make him happy but he squealed like a little girl. I don’t know why. Maybe he’s gay.”
David drew breath in between his teeth but didn’t say anything. Phoebe set one bare foot nonchalantly on the coffee table, admiring her toe rings.
Jack Crady, a good and grave man who has four adult daughters, said gently, “Phoebe, you say you like Jonathon. Didn’t you know that your actions could have cost Jonathon his job? More than that, if Jonathon had been weak enough to accept your offer, do you know he could have been arrested? Jonathon is twenty and you’re a minor, and—”
Phoebe snorted.
Liz stared fixedly at the foot Phoebe had propped on the table. She suddenly leaned forward and pointed.
“Is that my class ring? Are you wearing my class ring on your toe? Mark, that’s my class ring! How did she get my class ring to fit her toe? How did she get my class ring? Have you been going through my drawers?”
Phoebe gave the first smile I’d seen that day. It was a wide, genuine smile. She had been waiting for Liz to notice.
“I cut the back of it with wire cutters. Because it’s real gold, it cuts easy. Bends easy, too. You never wear it. I didn’t think you’d mind. And you go through my drawers all the time. I figured it was like a house rule, a hard-and-fast.”
Liz moved so quick none of us could react. She reached across Mark and slapped Phoebe across the face. Hard. Mark, too late, snatched Liz’s wrist and yanked her back. There were cries and gasps but not from Phoebe who had reeled from the strike, but now stood up straight, shoulders back, eyes burning, the white imprint of a hand across one cheek.
Phoebe said, “If I tell my grandfather you slapped me, he’ll kill you dead.” She said it like she meant it. You could hear dry ice in that voice.
Liz was up, pushing against Mark and leaning toward the girl; her face was a fist, tight and clenched.
“That house is mine. You get that? Everything in that house is mine. Every stick of furniture, every fork, every spoon—the lightbulbs are mine. The clothes on your slutty back are mine—”
We were all on our feet now. Mark caught Liz by the shoulders and swung her around to face him. He dragged her into him until their noses were nearly touching. “Can you get it together or do we need to—”
She jerked free from him. It took her long seconds to calm herself, her breath ragged in front of all the horrified onlookers.
Phoebe surveyed her audience. It couldn’t have been better. She had a good portion of the church’s hierarchy—some of whom numbered among the community’s movers and shakers—here in the room with her. She was incandescent with triumph. This was her moment and she was going to enjoy it.
Her words came as deliberate and measured as an assassin’s bullet. “I’m sorry, did you call me a slut? Is that what you said? My ‘slutty back’? At least I never slept with another woman’s husband. At least I never got pregnant to trap another woman’s husband into—”
Liz’s hand was up again but Mark caught her wrist and held it firm.
Mr. Reece stepped forward decisively and held his hand out to his wife.
“Evelyn.” He looked at his son. “Jonathon.” He addressed me and the other men in the room, never looking at Liz or Phoebe. “We’ll say good-bye. Jonathon will be coming with us. He won’t be back here. He won’t be working for this church. No.”
Jonathon said, “Dad—” but Mr. Reece held a hand out to quiet him. Morse, who’d been busy at the credenza, slipped back to the circle and handed Phoebe a clean handkerchief filled with ice and gestured for her to put it on her face. She looked up at him, her eyebrows high, and put the cold pack to her cheek. He patted her arm and gave it a squeeze and then pulled her down on the couch next to him, an arm around her bony bare shoulders.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Reece told me. “Our prayers are with you. If Jonathon were a grown man, it would be different. I might encourage him to stay and fight the Lord’s fight here. God in Heaven knows you need all the help you can get. But his mother and I will not allow our son to work in this poisonous environment. He’s still young. He’s growing. We’re not ready for our son to be tested by fire. No, sir. No, sir.” Jonathon’s mother nodded her vigorous agreement. There were big tears in her shocked eyes.
There was a rumble of protests at this, with Jonathon’s imploring “Dad!” loudest of all.
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t blame the Reeces. I thought they had made the right decision. For Jonathon, not for us. But we weren’t their responsibility.
Mrs. Reece put her hand in the middle of Jonathon’s back and pushed her son gently toward the door. She said, “Not another word, Jonathon. You will obey your father.”
And he did. One of the most gifted interns this church had ever had the pleasure to employ walked out the door and down another road, to another place and another ministry. His brother lingered long enough to stare each of us down—he saved his most venomous examination for Phoebe. Before he walked out the door, he pointed his finger at her—an Old Testament prophet calling down judgment. She never even noticed.
There was silence in the room after the Reeces walked out. Then Casey Dobbins said to the Pickersley-Smythes, “The elders will have to meet privately to discuss this situation, but until you hear from us, Phoebe may not attend any youth group activities without the presence of one of her parents. That includes classes.” He turned to Phoebe. “I’m afraid, Phoebe, that you may not go on any more overnighters. Period. This isn’t about punishing you, Phoebe. That’s between you and your parents. It’s for your protection as a minor child—”
An elaborate eye roll from Phoebe, who stood cross-armed and sullen, the angry mark from Liz’s hand livid on her cheek. She squeezed Morse’s handkerchief, letting the water drizzle onto the carpet, and then put the ice-filled handkerchief back to her face.
“—and for the protection of the other minor children under our care and supervision.” Casey reached out and took Phoebe’s unwilling hand and held it in both of his. “Your God loves you, Phoebe. We do, too.” He took a breath. “Now, Phoebe, I’m going to ask you a question, and I ask you to answer truthfully.” He paused, watching her face. She blinked.
“Has your stepmother hit you before this? Was this the first time?”
There was a long silence. Phoebe shook her head. Casey said, “Use words, Phoebe. She hasn’t hit you before, or this wasn’t the first time?”
Phoebe said, “This was the first time.”
Casey nodded. He held on to Phoebe’s hand. Now Casey addressed himself directly to Liz and Mark, and his voice was hard. “Let me be very clear, Lizabeth. If I ever, ever, see or hear of you striking your stepdaughter in such a vicious and violent manner, if you ever lay a hand in anger upon the child that God has given into your care, I will report you to the authorities, so help me God, I will. That goes for every man in this room.” He looked at us in turn. We all nodded.
“This is not church business,” Liz said, spitting the words. “This is family business.” All the carefully applied makeup, the elegant, simple dress, the expensive leather sandals—it looked like camouflage to me now. It looked like a disguise. Liz stood before us exposed, and she knew it. The face she directed at Phoebe was so full of hate that I stepped forward. But she didn’t go for the girl. It was costing her a lot, but she was holding herself back.
“Oh, yes, this is church business, Lizabeth,” Casey said. His voice was firm and his face severe. “This is everybody’s business. The protection of children? That’s everybody’s business. And, Mark? We understand that this is a di
fficult time of adjustment for your family, and we want to be of assistance to you in every way we can. You can call on any of us day or night. But you look to the care of your household, young man. This is your responsibility.”
Mark bowed his head. He took Phoebe’s hand, and reached for Liz’s, but she snatched her hand away and shouldered her way out of the room. She would have slammed the door, but it’s got those fancy hinges that slow it down. You can’t slam it. So, no dramatic exit for Liz.
After Mark and Phoebe followed Liz out, and the door had sighed to a close, Brick dropped onto the couch and covered his eyes with an arm.
“I feel like I’ve been through it. I know exactly how sausage feels right now.”
Jason said, “That Mrs. Pickersley-Smythe—do you believe what Phoebe said? About her getting pre—”
“We’re not going there,” I said. “Phoebe was mad and embarrassed. She was trying to hurt Liz.” I pulled up the seat of a folding chair and closed it with a snap. “What Phoebe said? That doesn’t leave this room. Whatever the truth is, it’s in the past.”
• • •
That had been four months ago. I didn’t realize it at the time, but that would be the last time I’d see Phoebe Pickersley alive.
Six
It was now October, and more than four months had passed since that meeting with the Pickersley-Smythes. Four months filled with the excitement of Jo’s stay at the School of American Ballet, her crushing disappointment when she was not invited to join the program during the school year, and her first weeks as a sophomore at Clements High School. Merrie came down from Texas Tech a handful of times over the summer but never stayed more than a weekend except for Jo’s fifteenth birthday, when she stayed four days—that’s what Jo had asked for from her sister. The girls spent every minute together. Merrie even slept in Jo’s room. The girls hadn’t slept in the same room together since they were in elementary school. Merrie must have worked some magic, because when she left to go back to Tech, Jo seemed easier about not getting the opportunity to train full time at the School of American Ballet. She didn’t discuss it with us, but we could tell.
Four months since I had last seen Phoebe, and this time when I saw her, her rosy cheeks were pale, her blue eyes staring, and the last page of her life had finished like the final chapter of a short story that should have been a novel.
• • •
Detective James Wanderley, not yet thirty but carrying the authority of a man his father’s age, arrived on the heels of the EMS guys. Wanderley investigates homicides with the Sugar Land Police Department; he isn’t called out for suicides or accidental deaths. But we had some history and he had answered my text. But he wasn’t happy to see me. He wasn’t happy that I’d moved Phoebe’s body. He wasn’t happy that Jo wouldn’t say a word to him, only kept shaking her head, her eyes hot and dry and her trembling fingers kneading Baby Bear’s coat.
Wanderley isn’t all that easy to deal with when he is happy.
Phoebe’s death was an accident. We all knew it was an accident, it had to be. Except Wanderley said he didn’t know that. Wanderley said it would be best to do a full investigation.
We sat in the family room. Annie lit a fire, even though it wasn’t cold enough for one. Sugar Land is just outside of Houston, and on the Gulf Coast, we feel lucky if we can wear a sweater in October. But I was glad for the bright, dancing flame.
Wanderley was dressed in running clothes—it was the first time I’d seen him without the blazer and fancy cowboy boots he usually wore, clothes that made him look older than his twenty-eight years. In running clothes he looked smaller and less intimidating. Not that I’ve ever been intimidated by Wanderley.
Wanderley pushed his dark hair aside and furrowed the brows that nearly met over his nose. He tried again to talk to Jo.
“What time did Phoebe come over, Jo?” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands loosely clasped. He waited. Finally Jo shrugged.
“You don’t know what time it was when she got here?” Very patient. Very relaxed.
Jo shook her head and Baby Bear licked her chin and stuck his nose in her ear and sniffed. She pushed his great big head away. Annie came in with four water bottles. Wanderley twisted his open and drank. Jo held hers without looking at it. After a minute Annie got up and took the bottle from Jo and set it on the coffee table.
“Was it full dark when she got here?”
Another shrug.
“Jo, you don’t remember if it was dark?”
No response. Wanderley finished his bottle of water, screwed the lid back on and set it on the side table next to him.
I said, “Listen, honey, if you could only tell—”
Wanderley slewed his eyes my way and I shut up. He waited a long time, watching Jo.
Finally she said, “I wasn’t here.”
Wanderley took this in. A blue guitar pick appeared in his fingers and he popped it in his mouth, an odd tic of his.
“How’d she get in? You left the door unlocked for her?”
Another long pause and then a head shake. Jo snaked her hands in Baby Bear’s coat and he grunted and pushed against her. He wasn’t supposed to be on the couch.
“You didn’t leave the door unlocked for her? So . . . how’d she get in?”
“She had a key.”
Annie and I both sat up. I said, “You gave Phoebe a key to the house, Jo?”
Wanderley said, “Bear? Could you please—”
Jo lifted her brown eyes to mine then tilted her head in a futile attempt to keep the tears from spilling out. In a second they were rolling down the sides of her face.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“What didn’t you mean, Jo?” Wanderley said.
“I didn’t mean to give her a key.”
“That’s not so awful, Jo. To give a friend a key.”
“She’s not my friend.”
Annie got up and sat down next to Jo, her arm around Jo’s shoulders, leaving Jo sandwiched between dog and mother, daring us to make a move on her.
“So why did you give her a key?” Wanderley took the pick out and danced it over and under his fingers, magician-like, then put it back in his mouth.
Long, long silence while Jo watched the propane flames leap in the fireplace.
“Because I’m an idiot.”
Annie crooked her arm and drew Jo’s head over to be kissed. “You’re not an idiot,” she murmured. Wanderley didn’t tell Annie to be quiet.
“The time I went over there, to Phoebe’s house? She made a big deal over how her house was my house, friends forever, all garbage. But she gave me a key to her house. So I gave her mine.” My girl looked at me and I nodded. I remembered the night she was referring to; Jo had left Phoebe’s home in the middle of the night. We’d had some words about that.
“I laid Phoebe’s key on the foyer table when I left,” Jo said. “When I saw her at school, I asked for my key back. She said she threw it in the water hazard in back of her house.” Like many homes in the master-planned First Colony, the Pickersley-Smythes’ home backed up to the golf course. Jo shrugged.
I said, “You could have told us.”
Annie covered her eyes with a hand. She said, “Oh, Bear. Oh dear, Bear. Phoebe is our house fairy.”
• • •
The “house fairy” activity had started after we took Jo to New York in late June for the School of American Ballet summer program. It was a quick trip, only the three of us since Merrie was working as a camp counselor in Colorado.
We planned to spend a long weekend in New York helping Jo get settled, and before we left—between making sure that Jo had everything she needed, and getting Baby Bear packed off to the kennel, Annie Laurie turning in her latest project before deadline, and me . . . well, I can’t remember what it was I had to do, but it was important—we left the
house a mess when we drove off to the airport. Not the end of the world.
Once there, we got Jo settled into the barracks-style housing that The School of American Ballet offers the kids in their summer program. I thought the place looked like reform school accommodations. Annie took on the job of explaining to Jo’s snippy roommate from Ontario that just because she had moved into the room first didn’t mean she could take all the drawers in the dresser, to which the nasty little peanut said yes, it did, too, and stood her ground. So Annie and I went out and bought some Rubbermaid containers for Jo’s clothes and Jo stowed them under her narrow bed.
Even though Jo is a vegetarian and a picky eater to boot, we had planned to take her to some of New York’s famous eateries, like the Carnegie Deli—they have lots of salad choices and it’s the kind of place you don’t find in the Houston area. We waited for a table for twenty-six minutes and then Jo ate a pickle. That’s all. She said she wasn’t hungry. Right. Or maybe she wasn’t hungry because after Jo had introduced herself to some of her new classmates, one stick-thin redhead said, “Texas? That explains it. They grow them big in Texas.” Jo is five feet two inches and if she’s not wearing her Doc Martens, she weighs in at less than a hundred pounds. Thanks, Red.
Jo was jittery with nerves and close to tears when we left her in New York. She was putting too much on this opportunity. We knew that. It was a big deal to get into the summer program—the few spots they make available are competed for, and the competition is tough. Jo believed that at the end of the program, she would be offered a position in the year-round school. The school often made one or two offers. One or two out of all the hopefuls who attended the summer program. Jo believed that if she wished it hard enough, it would happen. We believed she was setting herself up for a heartbreak.
We worried over her the whole flight home and hadn’t stopped worrying when we dragged our luggage into the house we had left in a mess the Thursday before.
The house looked perfect. Like a hotel service had come through.
Safe from Harm (9781101619629) Page 9