Art's Blood

by Vicki Lane

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  VICKI LANE has lived with her family on a mountainside farm in western North Carolina for more than thirty years. She is at work on the fourth Elizabeth Goodweather mystery.

  ALSO BY VICKI LANE

  Signs in the Blood

  AND COMING SOON FROM DELL BOOKS

  Old Wounds

  If you enjoyed Vicki Lane’s ART’S BLOOD, you won’t want to miss any of her tantalizing mysteries featuring Elizabeth Goodweather.

  Look for SIGNS IN THE BLOOD, the first Elizabeth Goodweather mystery, at your favorite bookseller.

  And read on for an exciting early look at

  OLD

  WOUNDS

  BY

  VICKI LANE

  COMING SOON FROM DELL BOOKS

  OLD WOUNDS

  Coming soon from Dell Books

  PROLOGUE

  ROSEMARY STARED AT THE GLOWING COMPUTER screen, the only light in the gloom of her tiny, windowless office. She slumped back in her chair and let out an exhausted sigh that spoke of surrender…and relief. At last it was done: the story that had, against all her careful defenses, clawed its way into existence. The story that had haunted her for too many long years, tapping with urgent, insistent fingers on the clouded panes of her memory, the story that she had pushed away like an unwanted and unloved child. Now, at last, she had allowed it into the light, had unbound it and let it speak.

  The words crawled down the screen and she scanned them critically. Enough details had been changed; it would pass as fiction. But the heart of the unresolved matter was there. She had put down all she knew…or all she remembered, after so long.

  She watched as the account of that terrible time passed before her blurring eyes. As the last page came into view she paused, pulled off her reading glasses and wiped them on her sleeve. She drew in a long, shuddering breath, fighting back unwelcome tears. It had been worth it— painful but cathartic. It had been necessary, she told herself. And the story was powerful— her best work ever.

  Rereading the last words, that desolate closing paragraph, she frowned. This was it, wasn’t it? What more was there to say? For a moment she was still, paralyzed by the flood of memory and emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Then, with a sudden decision, she clicked on the PRINT icon. The printer stirred into action and as the white pages began to patter into the tray, Rosemary’s lean body began to tremble. “Maythorn?” It was a tentative whisper.

  Thrusting her chair back, she started to rise but was held in place, mesmerized by the growing paper stack before her. The murmur of the pages falling one upon another mocked her. You think this is all but you’re not done.

  So many questions remained unanswered. I have to keep going. She won’t be satisfied with this. The final sheet of paper inched its way out of the whirring printer.

  “Mary Thorn.” Her voice was stronger now. The name was a declaration of the buried grief and doubt of the past nineteen years.

  Rosemary pulled the sheaf from the tray and stood, clutching the pages to her heart. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face to the ceiling and cried out, in a voice to wake the dead: “Mary Thorn Blackfox, I see you!”

  Still gripping the pages, Rosemary Goodweather reached for the telephone and punched in her mother’s number.

  CHAPTER 1

  Dark of the Moon

  ELIZABETH GOODWEATHER SAT ON HER FRONT porch, staring unseeing at the distant Blue Ridge Mountains that vanished into ever hazier rows along the eastern horizon. She was blind to the nearer wooded slopes with their first gildings of copper and gold, oblivious to the clear blue sky marked only by a pair of red-tailed hawks riding the cool autumn currents, and deaf to their shrill, descending calls. The breakfast dishes in the kitchen behind her were still unwashed; the mug of coffee she held had grown cold without being tasted. Her mind whirled in tumult— seething thoughts and feelings, all unresolved.

  Only yesterday she had been on the verge of …on the verge of what? Phillip asked if I was still grieving for Sam, if I would ever let someone else into my life. And I said something really profound about being willing to take a chance. And I was…I am …but then, just then—

  But just then Rosemary had called. Her brilliant, reliable, eminently sensible, older daughter. Assistant professor of English at UNC–Chapel Hill and not yet thirty, Rosemary had been writing a story based on the disappearance of a childhood friend almost twenty years ago. And in the writing, something let loose. All those years that she wouldn’t talk about Maythorn…and then yesterday…oh god, it was awful to hear Rosie so…so unhinged.

  “Mum!” Rosemary had whispered, sounding more like the ten-year-old she had been than the self-assured academic she had become. “Mum! I have to find out what really happened to Maythorn.”

  Rosemary had been all but incoherent, babbling about her lost friend, about memories that had resurfaced …and Maythorn’s granny and something called the Looker Stone…and what was the really weird-sounding thing?…the Booger Dance? Whatever the hell that is.

  Maythorn Mullins, the child of a neighboring family, had been Rosemary’s friend— she’s my best friend, Mum, and she’s my blood twin! We were both born on January 11, 1976, and we both have brown eyes and we are exactly the same height! We cut our fingers and swapped blood and now we’re blood twins! Rosemary and Maythorn had been almost inseparable for two idyllic years. Then had come Halloween 1986 and, with it, the disappearance of Maythorn from her family’s home.

  A massive search through the hollows and coves of Ridley Branch and the adjoining areas had revealed nothing. Some believed that the child had run away— there were whispers of an unhappy family situation. Others were sure that a kidnapping had been attempted and had somehow gone wrong. Still others shook their heads. They swore that the child was somewhere on the mountain— dead or alive. But, as a weary Sam had said to Elizabeth, on returning from the steep slopes and thickets of Pinnacle Mountain, “Liz, she could be hiding…or hidden…anywhere out there. There’s just no way of searching every inch of these woods.”

  Wide-eyed, but remote, young Rosemary had watched mutely as the futile search continued. Her responses to questions about Maythorn, from Sam and Elizabeth, as well as from the authorities, were little more than dull monosyllables, all negative. Tearless and stoic, Rosemary had shaken off attempts at comfort or reassurance. Elizabeth could still remember the sudden stiffening resistance of her daughter’s thin body when she had tried to gather the child up in her arms for consolation.

  “Don’t, Mum,” Rosemary had said briefly, gently removing herself from the embrace and retreating to her own room. And though she had eventually returned to her usual talkative self, any mention of Maythorn was met by a blank stare or a quick change of subject. Soon it seemed that she had simply chosen to forget the existence of the little girl she had called her blood twin. Elizabeth and Sam, caught up in the thousand details of their new life, had gratefully accepted Rosemary’s return to normalcy. By unspoken mutual agreement, they no longer mentioned Maythorn around their older daughter.

  A local man was questioned by the police and released for lack of evidence. The Mullins family drew in on itself and, after nearly a year had gone by with no ransom demand and no sign whatsoever of the child, they moved away, eager to leave behind the unhappy memories that haunted their home. Marshall County tucked the mysterious disappearance away in a seldom-visited drawer and life resumed its pleasant and accustomed shape.

  * * *

  Rosemary’s unexpected and unsettling phone call the day before had alarmed Elizabeth deeply, scattering all thoughts of romance and Phillip Hawkins like dry leaves driven before an icy wind. She had listened in baffled incomprehension to her daughter’s frantic chatter till Rosemary had run down, had calmed and begun to sound more like her usual self.

  “I’m sorry, Mum.” Rosemary’s voice became quieter and somewhat abashed. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you quite like this. Really, I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve be
en immersed in the story and when I printed it out just now— well, anyway, I’ve got a class in a few minutes and a meeting tonight, but I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve figured out exactly what I want to do.”

  * * *

  Rosie finished talking and hung up and I…I just stood there holding the phone and staring. Elizabeth had stared at Phillip Hawkins, who, at the insistent ring of the telephone, had released her from his embrace and tactfully moved to the cushioned benches at the end of the kitchen, where he busied himself with her three dogs while she answered the call. She had looked at him in bewilderment, as if she had never seen him before, as if he were a stranger who had unexpectedly materialized in her kitchen. Granted, a stranger whose right hand was scratching behind the ears of James, the tubby little dachshund-Chihuahua mix, while his left was busy fondling Molly’s sleek head. The elegant red hound’s black-ringed amber eyes gazed soulfully at Phillip as if she knew him very well indeed. And at his feet, shaggy black Ursa lay on her broad back, offering her furry belly to be scratched by his foot.

  “What?” Phillip’s quizzical smile was rapidly replaced by a puzzled frown. As she continued to stare silently at him, Phillip had disentangled himself from her dogs and come toward her, his tanned face full of concern.

  “Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” At once the stranger was replaced by the familiar friend, the good man she had come to rely on. She put down the phone and burst into tears.

  He had put his arms around her again and she had relaxed against his comforting bulk. When she could control her voice, she asked, “Did you ever see that movie years ago— Alice’s Restaurant? Well, like Alice said, I feel like a poor old mother hound dog with too many puppies snapping at her tits. I mean, I’m already worried about Ben and Laurel, after all that’s been happening, and now Rosie—”

  Her voice was stricken as she continued. “We thought it was all over— that she’d forgotten that awful Halloween and the days and weeks that followed. We were so grateful that she seemed…seemed untouched by it all and we just pretended it never happened, let her pretend there had never been a little girl called Maythorn. But now it’s all come back. I should have known….”

  She looked at Phillip and her face was full of pain. “Don’t you see?…I owe it to her…to both of them…to see it through to the end this time.”

  Somehow it had gotten sorted out. Phillip had listened as she explained the call and, before she could finish, had pulled her to him again. She hid her face on his broad shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, trying unsuccessfully to capture the joyous abandon she had felt before Rosemary’s call.

  Phillip’s fingers traced a path along her cheek. “Elizabeth, it’s okay. I understand how this is something you have to do. And if I can help, you know I will— as a friend of the family, let’s say.”

  Very gently he cupped her chin in his hand and raised her head. “Elizabeth, what we were…where we were heading just before that call— where I hope we’re still heading— that can wait a little longer.” His deep brown eyes were steady on her and he smiled tenderly as he said, “Ms. Goodweather, I want your full attention for what I have in mind.”

  * * *

  Elizabeth could still see his crooked smile as he had said goodbye. This burly, balding man had, over the past year, in almost imperceptible increments, somehow become very dear to her. Almost…necessary.

  The thought was disturbing and she brushed it aside hastily. But he’s added something to my life…and he’s always been patient and kind, even in the beginning when I kept trying to ignore him. Phillip Hawkins and her late husband, Sam Goodweather, had been buddies during their years in the Navy and when Hawkins, a former police detective, had moved to the Asheville area the previous year, he had tried very hard to befriend Elizabeth. She, her emotions still raw with the pain of her widowhood, had rebuffed him until the suspicious death of a neighbor had forced her to seek his help.

  And the more time we spent together, the better I liked him. And now…if Rosie hadn’t called just when she did, I’m pretty sure he’d still be here this morning. I was so ready….

  Impulsively, she jumped to her feet, and hurried inside to the phone. She punched in his number, her thumb flying over the tiny keys. He might not have left for school yet— I think he said his first class isn’t till ten.

  The line was busy. She hit redial. Still busy. Again. Busy. Maybe he’s trying to call me. Okay, Elizabeth, put the phone down. Go do the dishes and—

  The shrill ring of the phone still in her hand startled her and she fumbled eagerly with the ON button.

  “Phillip! I’ve been trying to—”

  “Mum? It’s me, Rosemary. I’ve come up with a plan.”

  Shit! Elizabeth thought. She sat down heavily on the cushioned bench. “Hi, Rosie. Okay, tell me about it.”

  “All right, Mum, here it is. I’ve got Fridays free this semester and my only Monday class is in the afternoon. So that will give me long weekends to be there at the farm and I’m going to work through this— I have to do it if it kills me. I’ve been making a list of places to visit and people to talk to— things that will help me remember. I thought I’d drive up Thursday after class and get started early Friday. If I leave the farm Monday morning around eight, I’ll make it to my class with time to spare. One thing I know I want to do is go over to Cherokee. I need to find out more about the Booger Dance.”

  Elizabeth Goodweather frowned as she listened to her older daughter on the telephone. The frantic whisper of the previous call was gone— Rosemary’s voice was calm and perfectly controlled— maybe a little too controlled.

  “Sweetie, you know I’d love for you to come home. We’ve hardly seen you at all since you bought your house. Laurel was complaining just the other day that it’s been months…and I’d love to go to Cherokee— someone was telling me recently how good the museum is— but, Rosie, did you say Booger Dance? Are you serious? What’s a Booger Dance and what does it have to do with Maythorn?”

  “I’m not sure, Mum…but I think it’s important. It’s something that came to me as I was writing the story…. Iremembered her…I remembered Maythorn telling me all these stories her Granny Thorn had told her—remember?— her granny was a full-blood Cherokee— living on the Qualla Boundary. Anyway, one of the last times we were together Maythorn was telling me how she was making a mask for a Booger Dance so she could stop being afraid of someone she called the Bad One. I went online and found out what I could about the dance. It all seemed really familiar— it’s possible that Maythorn’s granny took us to one that weekend Maythorn and I spent with her. And then…it seemed like more and more about those two years started coming back to me…from the first time I saw Maythorn to right before…right before she disappeared and I remembered a bunch of things she told me. I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t but I do know I have to follow this to the end.”

  * * *

  Phillip Hawkins looked at the clock. This was his first semester of teaching criminal justice at AB Tech, Asheville’s two-year community college, and he had a class at ten. There was still time. He reached for the telephone and began to punch in Elizabeth’s number.

  No. He put down the receiver. What was it she said? Like a hound dog with too many puppies? I need to back off— she’s got enough on her mind right now.

  He stared at the telephone— still undecided. Last night had been the first time he’d seen her cry— Sam mentioned that about her— how she almost never cried, tried to hide it like it was a weakness.

  Back in their Navy days, during that long overseas tour that couldn’t be talked about, he and Sam Goodweather had fought against the boredom, the danger, and the loneliness by talking about their homes and their wives. Phillip had not met Elizabeth at that time— would not meet her till years later, at Sam’s memorial service— but he had known from the picture Sam carried that although she was not really beautiful, her long dark hair and startling blue eyes compelled you to look again.

&n
bsp; Sam had told the story over and over— how he’d gone into a used-book store in Tampa on the same day he’d enlisted in the Navy, in search of something to take his mind off the decision he’d just made. He’d been browsing the crowded backroom, along with several other customers, when he spotted a lone copy of Walden, a book he’d been meaning to read for years.

  “I reached for it just as this tall girl with hair down to there reached for it too. My hand touched hers and I swear to god, Phil, it was like a goddamn jolt of electricity. Then she looked at me with those blue eyes and that was it. I almost passed out. It was like I couldn’t get my breath.”

  The tall girl had insisted that they flip a coin for the book. She had won the toss but when Sam invited her for coffee that turned into lunch and she learned that he was on his way to boot camp soon, she gave the book to him, first writing her name and address in it. A correspondence had ensued and eleven months later they had married. Sam had been assigned to overseas duty, leaving his new wife to complete her last year of college and begin graduate school.

  And me, I had Sandy. No electricity there. Just a pregnancy that wasn’t. A pretty, empty-headed, little cheerleader with a cute giggle…at least, it was cute for the first month or so. Hawkins glanced toward the bookshelf where he kept framed photos of his son and daughter. Still, there were some good times— and the kids— Seth and Janie— they were worth it. I don’t know, maybe if I’d had a different job, we’d still be together. Maybe.

  He shrugged and ran his hand over his shiny, nut-brown scalp. Nah, Sandy’s happier with her life now than she would ever have been with me. She’s got a nice tame husband who goes antiquing with her and plays bridge and crap like that.