by Vicki Lane
Phillip rushed through the doorway with Elizabeth just behind him, just in time to see Kyra, her right hand covered in blood, pluck a long triangular shard of glass from the shattered mirror. She held it like a dagger, turning it this way and that, catching the light of the single bare overhead bulb and sending random flashes about the room. Then, with a haunted half-smile that hinted of irredeemable loss, Kyra turned and lunged at her old nurse, knocking the unresisting Reba down and burying the cruel sliver deep in her stringy neck.
“No! Kyra, don’t!” At Elizabeth’s shout Kyra pulled out the deadly sliver of mirror and threw it across the room to break against the wall. A guttural keening sound escaped her lips as she sank to the floor beside the gasping Reba. Phillip was on his knees, trying vainly to stop the red fountain that pulsed from the severed blood vessels.
Kyra crouched there in the housekeeper’s blood, whispering frantically. “She told me she had the Sight— she said that things were going to happen— that people would fall aside and I would emerge. That’s why I did that piece, Entelechy. She told me she could see the future, and she could— she could—because she was making it happen.”
Reba lay still, the color draining from her face, her dimming eyes fixed on Kyra. Slowly she lifted her blood-wet hand to Kyra’s face and, with a look of infinite longing, began to wipe away the flowing tears. For one last moment, she caressed the young woman who had been her life. Then her arm fell and Reba was gone.
CHAPTER 39
LILY GORDON’S LAST WORD
(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)
BEFORE MARVIN PETERSON LEFT TO FOLLOW THE squad car carrying his daughter to the police station, he went to his SUV and brought out an envelope, which he thrust at Elizabeth. “Buckley brought me this today. Miss Lily had left it for me to read. You know everything else about our family; you might as well see this too.”
The fire engines that had arrived just behind Phillip and the others had done their work. The flames had remained confined to Kyra’s studio and, though still smoldering, had not spread beyond. The door had been hacked down and the last vestiges of fire extinguished. Ben had been roused and, supported between Hank and Phillip, moved to the back of Phillip’s car, where once again he was asleep.
Elizabeth and Phillip sat in his car and, by the light of her flashlight, she read him Lily Gordon’s final letter.
My dear Marvin,
You will find this letter painful; believe me, I, too, have suffered in the writing of it. But recent events have forced me to see that past sins, whether of commission or of omission, will out.
Kyra must be stopped. We have excused and explained away too many past events, hoping always for the miracle of therapy or medication that will normalize her behavior. Indeed, for the past several years she has seemed normal, the sweet loving child that we have wished her to be.
It was a mistake, I see now, for me to let slip about her adoption. Oh, you and Rose acted out your little deception well but I was not deceived. I let you believe that I was taken in but I have always known. And, I suppose I thought that, by now, in these days of adoptive children seeking birth parents and so-called open adoptions, it was of no consequence; indeed, that part of Kyra’s imbalance might be due to the lie that her whole life was founded on.
Forgive a meddling old woman, Marvin. I soon saw that Kyra had been made insecure by my information and that she felt threatened by your new wife’s pregnancy. I know that she gave her stepmother a tea made from dried raspberry leaves— a harmless preparation, Prentice assures me. I should be interested to know what else might have been in that tea. The country women in the mountains were said to make use of the common tansy flower when they wished to bring on an overdue period— a nice circumlocution for causing an abortion. Reba would have known this. And Reba, I think, is besotted with Kyra to the point of madness. She may be deeply involved in these events. I no longer know what to believe.
I have not been best pleased to see another woman in my beloved Rose’s place but trust me when I say that I wept to hear that Kimmie had lost the baby.
Now Kyra is bringing me herbal tea. It’s good for heart troubles, GeeGee, she says and looks at me with what one would think was perfect love.
Perhaps I should drink it and accept my fate as payment of my debt. I did drink the first cup some days ago and found myself a little later with palpitations and extreme weakness.
The next day I was somewhat recovered and she was there again, bringing my medicine and the honey-sweetened tea. And so it has been each day.
But I am not so credulous an old fool as she seems to think. I pretend to sip and then, when her back is turned, empty the cup into the fern by my bed. I doubt it will survive— they seldom enjoy overwatering. I saved back a bit from today’s cup and have given it to Buckley to take for analysis.
Marvin, you must act. I fear that she is a cowbird chick and will destroy anything that threatens her dominance. I even believe— I can hardly write the words— I believe that she may have been responsible for the death of my darling Rose. You knew, did you not, that Rose had just discovered that she was pregnant? I believe that she told Kyra this and, so doing, doomed herself.
Please, Marvin, forgive me and think kindly of me. But you must act at once.
Lily Gordon
Elizabeth slowly folded the pages and returned them to the envelope, offering it to Phillip.
“Mrs. Gordon was fooled, just like we all were. No one noticed Reba— the perfect servant, invisible in the background. But always there, always knowing what was going on, and able to manipulate events. She was like the negative space Daphne was telling us about.”
Phillip shot a puzzled look at her, then took the envelope. “Hank said there was a sample of that tea Buckley had brought in. It had a strong concentration of hawthorn, not harmful to most people but, in time, lethal to an old woman on digoxin.”
“But this letter— she said she didn’t drink any more after that first cup.”
“That’s right, that’s what Buckley said. He said that Mrs. Gordon had avoided the tea but that she had died anyway— of a broken heart.”
CHAPTER 40
CLIFF’S EDGE
(SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1)
IT WAS GOING TO BE A NEAR PERFECT DAY. THE HEAT AND thunderstorms of the previous week had given way to bright, unusually cool, autumnal weather. During the night the thermometer on the back porch had dropped into the fifties and, rather than close the windows, Elizabeth had pulled out the fluffy winter comforter for her bed. She had awakened to the pinks and lavenders of a foggy sunrise and realized that the warm body pressed against her back was James, a pudgy canine substitute for a hot water bottle. Or a man.
She rolled over and sat up to enjoy the dawn. The three big windows framed what could have been a delicate Japanese ink drawing— all muted colors and simple lines, with the hazy mountaintops poking through the low-lying fog like islands in a pale gray sea of mist.
And Phillip Hawkins was just across the hall in her guest room. She considered this fact, then turned her thoughts to the previous evening.
* * *
Phillip had tried starting the jeep, looked under the hood, had even gotten down behind the car and shone his flashlight at the underside. Finally he announced that he was baffled, and insisted on driving her home. “You’ll need help getting Ben over to his cabin— it’s going to take a while for that stuff to wear off.”
“What stuff?” she had asked. “He seems drunk to me.”
“I don’t think so. Hank found a plastic bag of Rope in that kitchen where Aidan was—”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember? I told you about the date-rape drug the autopsy found in Boz? Rohypnol— same stuff. Just little white tablets.”
He had glanced back at Ben. “As far as he’s concerned, a lot of tonight never happened. It may take a while to explain it all to him.”
“So that’s what Reba was talking about when she said she gave B
en a cold drink. She could knock them out with that stuff and…” The image of Aidan’s helpless body and blood-soaked hair haunted her.
“I’d say you’re probably right, Sherlock.”
“And it was all about Kyra being the star, the only one. That was what Lily meant by the cowbird. But it wasn’t Kyra— it was Reba who wanted Kyra to have it all. So Kyra could do what Carter Dixon called the ‘Yoko Ono/Courtney Love shtick.’ ” Elizabeth considered. “Not that I think Reba would have had the slightest idea who those people were, but you know what I mean—”
Phillip nodded. “Reba might have been content just to have Aidan in jail and out of Kyra’s way on the art scene, but when she found out who he really was—”
“She had to get rid of him permanently. I think, in the end, it was to do with the money— Marvin’s and Lily’s money. Reba wanted Kyra to be the last man standing. I really believe that she felt she could kill Aidan and Ben and blame it, as well as Boz, on Marvin Peterson. He’d be put away and her Miss Kyra would end up with everything. And she’d have Kyra.”
* * *
Elizabeth could smell the fresh coffee as she left her bedroom. Through the kitchen window she could see Phillip, sitting in a rocking chair, Molly and Ursa at his feet. She poured herself a cup and went out to the porch.
“What a way to start the morning!” He lifted his cup to her and nodded at the view. “You’re a lucky woman, Ms. Goodweather.”
“I know it.” She took the chair beside him.
* * *
“Mum, what’s happened? There’s a rumor going around that…that something’s happened to Aidan…that he’s dead…and that Kyra’s flipped out and she’s been arrested! Have you talked to Phillip? Do you know anything about this?”
Elizabeth hesitated, berating herself for not having thought to call her daughter sooner. “Oh, Laurel sweetie, I’m so sorry.” There was a silence at the other end. “There’s no good way to say this…. Yes, Aidan was killed last night. Kyra didn’t do it, but she is responsible for a death. She’s been taken into custody, rather than arrested, I think.”
As succinctly as she could, she laid out the course of events. “And Reba evidently used some drug called Roe-something. What was the name, Phillip? Oh, I remember, Rohypnol.”
There was a silence at the other end. Then Laurel said in a voice that quavered and threatened to break, “Well, at least one good thing came out of this whole stupid mess. He’s a great guy, Mum.”
“Laurel, it’s not like that—” But her daughter had hung up.
* * *
Phillip seemed in no hurry to leave. She left him doing dishes while she went over to the cabin to check on Ben. He was still asleep, but this time could be awakened fairly easily. He sat up gingerly. “Holy shit, what did I drink last night? And how did I get home?”
Leaving the difficult explanations for later, Elizabeth told him to come over for breakfast, “or lunch, if that’s when you get up. We’ve got some stuff to talk about.”
* * *
The dishes were draining in their rack and Phillip was in the living room with the dogs, when she returned.
“If you’re not in too big a hurry, Phillip, would you stay for lunch? I have a feeling I’m going to need help explaining all this to Ben. It’s like you said: he doesn’t remember anything. Then after lunch, maybe you could give us a ride to get our vehicles. At least, Ben can get his, wherever it is. I probably ought to go on and call AAA for a tow truck for my jeep.”
“I’d really like to stay for lunch but…” He ran his hand over his head. “I gotta tell you, your car’s okay. Somebody, probably Reba making sure you couldn’t go for help, shoved a wad of rags in the jeep’s exhaust pipe; pull ’em out and it’ll run fine. I could have fixed it when I saw them last night, but I wanted to drive you home.”
“And you figured I’d be too stubborn to accept your help.” Elizabeth laughed. “You know me too well, Phillip.”
* * *
When the morning chores were done, she asked Phillip to go with her to deliver one of the ripe pumpkins to Miss Birdie. “I promised her one to make preserves with. And she would be thrilled beyond belief if you came with me. She’s been eaten up with curiosity and it would make her day to meet you. I know you’ll like her; she’s a lot like your aunt Omie.”
* * *
Miss Birdie was on her porch, Pup at her side. She looked Phillip up and down with an appraising eye. “Well, sir, you’re taller ’an I thought seein’ you pass by all these times. But I believe I need to thank you for helpin’ Lizzie Beth find out what hit was happened to my boy last year. Git you a chair.”
The visit proceeded in a predictable fashion: Phillip explaining his Marshall County connection via Aunt Omie, a discussion of people Birdie had known who knew Aunt Omie, a not-so-subtle inquiry into Phillip’s marital state, a sly marveling that he had gotten out to Full Circle Farm this morning without Birdie’s seeing his car pass.
“We’ve got to get back for lunch, Miss Birdie.” Uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going— hah! Inquisition’s more like it—Elizabeth stood.
“Ay law, Lizzie Beth, I like to forgot. Dor’thy come by yesterday to tell me ol’ Franklin Ferman was gone. She said she went by to take him some soup she had fixed and he didn’t answer when she called in the door. Said she feared he might of fell or summat and she went on into the house.
“He weren’t in the front room nor in the kitchen neither, but when she went on back to that bedroom where Loretty died, there he was, a-layin’ on that bed under all them quilts, the Bible open acrost his chest and dead as a hammer. Dor’thy said he had the happiest, most peaceable look she’d ever seen on a corpse.
“ ‘Well, Dor’thy,’ I says, ‘I reckon he’s gone to be with his Savior.’
“And she come back just as quick, ‘Don’t you fool yoreself none, Birdie, hit’s his Loretty ol’ Franklin’s gone to be with.’ ”
* * *
Ben wandered into the kitchen while they were making sandwiches. He looked hungover and irritable but he accepted a glass of orange juice and sat down to listen to their account of what had happened the night before. His eyes widened as Elizabeth related her escape from the locked room. He frowned as she told of finding him and shook his head. “I don’t remember anything like that.”
When she began to describe the sequence of events, he shook his head vigorously. “That can’t be true; I don’t believe it.”
Phillip took over, first explaining the Rohypnol and its effects and then detailing the discovery of Aidan and ending with Reba’s death and Kyra’s breakdown. Ben continued to shake his head as the story proceeded. As it drew to an end, he stood, his face turned to stone. Elizabeth moved to hug him but he gently pushed her away.
“No, Aunt E. I need time to think this over. I’m going back to the cabin.”
* * *
What can I do to help him through this? Will Kyra ever be normal after spending all of her life under the domination of that twisted woman, or is she irreparably damaged? What about Laurel? I thought there was beginning to be something between her and Aidan— but the news didn’t seem to hit her nearly so hard as I would have expected. I can’t help worrying though. Elizabeth’s heart was aching. So much pain and Ben won’t admit that he’s suffering. It’s not good that he’s so alone.
Phillip was clearing the table and she was filling the dishpan with soapy water when he put down his plate on the counter, ran his hand over his head, and cleared his throat.
“That story you told me on the way back from Miss Birdie’s, about the old man reading the Bible to his dead wife, it got me to wondering.” He picked the plate up again and set it back down. “Thing is, I don’t want to…oh, hell. I need to know. Elizabeth, do you miss Sam like that? I mean, do you think you would ever…that someone else might…”
She stood, hands deep in the soapy dishwater, carefully considering her answer. Finally she turned to him. “Not long ago I’d have said, ‘
No, never. I’ll never take that risk again of loving someone only to lose them.’ But recently, I think I’ve come to accept that risk is part of life.” She smiled, suddenly remembering the tarot card, her card. “You know, Phillip, I think I’m willing to be like the Fool on the Tarot card, the one who’s smiling just when he’s about to step off a cliff. I think—”
“You’ve told me what I wanted to hear.” His face was close to hers and his arms were around her again. They stood quietly cheek to cheek and she began to think through the logistics of getting down the mountain to stuff the dishtowel in the exhaust pipe of his car.
And then the telephone rang.
It was Rosemary. Rosemary, whom she and Sam had always considered the practical daughter, the grounded, mature, unemotional Rosemary was on the verge of tears and her voice was trembling.
“Mum.” It was an urgent, strangled murmur. “You know that stuff you sent me…about my friend…about…about what happened back then. I read it and I was working on that story I had in mind. And then I started remembering things— a bunch of things about that summer before…before she disappeared and I remembered some things she told me.”
At the other end of the line Rosemary was breathing hard and struggling to speak. Finally it emerged— a desperate, hollow whisper. “Mum…I don’t need this in my life right now but…I have to find out what happened to her. Mum, please, I’m serious…I’ve got to come home. I know that if I do, if I go to the places where she and I used to play, then the memories will get clearer. And I need to go to Cherokee and the Qualla Boundary, where her grandmother lived. It’s like I’ve never healed from that terrible time…that Halloween. Mum, I have to find out what happened to Maythorn Mullins.”