by Sarah Graves
If the book was real. But it wasn’t. Relief flooded me; all I had to do was tell her that what she feared wouldn’t happen.
“Mhhhh.” My lips flapped rubberishly.
Darn. That hadn’t worked. I wasn’t scared anymore; whatever she’d given me had taken care of that just fine. But it had also disconnected what was left of my brain from my speech apparatus.
She turned the shower off. On the far side of the door the little dog, Caspar, scratched harder, then apparently began hurling himself against it.
But with a murderess looming over me I couldn’t spare much thought for her canine companion. And anyway I had no thoughts. They’d gone somewhere; swirled down the shower drain, maybe.
Merrie grabbed handfuls of my hair, one on the right side of my head and one on the left.
“I’m so sorry,” she told me, and she probably was, for her own twisted value of sorry. “But I’m too old to start over, Jacobia. Once you are gone there’ll be only that foolish fellow out there to finish off.”
DiMaio. My eyes unfocused, cold spreading through me as if embalming fluid had already been injected in my veins.
She did not, I thought clearly, even realize that Wade was still waiting for me in the driveway.
But it didn’t matter. Her hands lifted my head, cruelly gripping my hair. Calmly I waited for the downward thrust, the impact at the back of my skull that would smash my lights out.
“After that,” she droned, “I’ll get the book. Being as I’m a local-history expert there’ll be no trouble about giving it to me once you’re gone. And there’ll be an end to—”
Then two things happened fast: the door crashed in and came violently off its hinges, one breaking with a deep crack! and the other pulling slantwise from the wall with an agonized creak.
And she let go of my head. Through the commotion behind her I felt it begin dropping, slowly at first and then faster.
A lot faster. Merrie’s round wrinkled face still hung hugely over my own with a look of surprise, anger, and—inexplicably—pain.
Falling and falling, I had a last glimpse of the brass shower head with its dozens of round black holes, each seeming to stare down at me like a wide-open eye.
Finally my head hit the stone edge of the shower enclosure, just as Merrie had intended.
And all the eyes snapped shut.
If you ever find yourself in the unenviable position of wanting to reverse a serious narcotics overdose, there’s a dandy little injectable medication called Narcan that will do the trick in a lot less time than it takes to tell about it.
Boom, the stuff runs in through an IV and it’s over: heartbeat, pulse, and respiration abruptly restored, blood pressure rising and awareness slam-banging inside your head like someone was crashing together a lot of pots and pans in there.
Which doesn’t do much for your mood, combining as it does the opposite situations of (a) being glad you’re not dead and (b) wishing you were, if only so your awful headache would stop.
Meanwhile, Merrie Fargeorge hadn’t survived her shower-stall encounter with Dave DiMaio. While I was in the ER being revived, she was in the next cubicle being treated unsuccessfully for a blow to the back of her own head. After bursting in, he’d grabbed that stone soap dish I’d admired so much and hit her with it while Wade still waited, all unaware, out in the truck.
All of which was still on my mind ten days later, when my father took me upstairs to unveil with a flourish—ta-dah!—the newly remodeled bathroom.
“Oh,” I said softly, feeling my throat tighten. “It’s just beautiful.”
I’d come home only that morning; X-rays they’d taken in the ER just to be safe showed that when my head fell onto the edge of Merrie’s shower stall, I’d fractured a small bone in my spinal column near the base of my skull. A specialist operated the next day—someday I’ll describe just how much fun that was, three hours on my back in an ambulance to Bangor, wearing a thick foam collar—and reassured me afterward that the damage was fixed.
Or as fixed as he could make it. “You’re sure you like it?” my father asked hopefully. “George and his guys helped.”
“It’s wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.”
In the end, he’d decided to have the old tub refinished after all. And he’d had the floor sanded and coated with enough high-gloss polyurethane to waterproof a submarine.
The shower walls were built of special, moisture-resistant concrete board covered with ceramic tile. The pipes had been fixed, the flush replaced, the window weatherized, and the massive old cast-iron radiator sandblasted and enameled a pale cream color.
Next to it stood a brand-new sink set into a cabinet; above that hung a mirror with pinkish lights all around, so when I used it I wouldn’t look like Dracula’s daughter.
Or not quite so much. Surgery and recovery had definitely given me a bloodless, horror-movie appearance. But there were still a few weeks of fine weather left for the regaining of my normal skin tone, Ellie had assured me cheerfully.
“Oh.” Bella sighed when I took her upstairs to see all the improvements; until now my father hadn’t been letting anyone in.
“My stars and garters, doesn’t that look lovely?” she said.
Peering into the tub, she put an experimental finger on the smooth, stain-resistant surface, so shiny it looked as if it not only repelled all dirt but ker-whanged it into space, molecule by bounced-off molecule.
“I’d of missed the old monstrosity if you’d got rid of it,” Bella confessed. “And I’m glad you didn’t move the wall.”
The bathroom was no bigger but it looked bigger; pale paint and smooth surfaces. She avoided my father’s gaze.
“No sense changing just for change’s sake,” she said. “Most things’ll do, you leave ’em the way they are.”
“Hmm. We’ll see,” I said. My dad’s face gave nothing away. “But while we’re up here, Bella, let’s look at the third floor.”
Because while I was away, George and his team had been working there, too; now we’d see if it had been worth it.
“Right this way,” I said, going ahead of her up the stairs. They’d been fixed, and the banisters repaired, as had that tub-battered front door, all while she was gone on a week-long, ordered-by-me vacation.
Peering past me as we approached what had been my work area, she frowned. “What’s this? Why’s there a lock on that door all of a sudden? It’s never been locked before.”
Then, turning to look down at my father, who was bringing up the rear: “I suppose you had something to do with this, you stubborn old coot.”
Inserting the brand-new brass key into the brand-new lock, I opened the door. “Step in,” I invited with a smile that I hoped hid my sudden nervousness.
Because she might not approve, even though George and his team had transformed it into a cozy hideaway with a big, well-lit sitting room, a large bedroom with two closets, a galley kitchen, and a bath with a glass shower stall, his-and-hers sinks, and a towel warmer.
So my dad could keep his house. Bella could keep hers. And when they were here . . .
Bella’s eyes widened. Walking from room to room she put her hand first on the rocker by the woodstove in the sitting room, then on the spotless white surface of the studio-apartment-sized stove. There was even a bottle of Kapow! on the counter.
Not that she’d need it. Everything was new and as easy to maintain as I could arrange. “Like it?”
“Yes,” Bella whispered, resting her chin on her clasped hands to keep it from trembling. Hastily she grabbed a corner of her apron and dabbed her eyes with it.
My dad stepped forward cautiously, ready to hop back again; Bella’s elbows were sharp and accurate.
“Oh,” she breathed again into the apron; then a sob escaped her, and cautious or not, he knew what to do about that.
“There, there, old girl,” he said, slinging an arm around her. “Don’t cry, now, you’ll spoil that pretty face of yours.”
A snort burst
through the apron. “Hush up, you old fool,” she said, seizing the red bandanna he offered. “Something wrong with your eyes,” she scolded, “if that’s what you—”
Think. But he did. I closed the door on them. Downstairs, Sam was probably already waiting; he’d asked me to go to an AA coffee-klatsch before the meeting with him tonight.
But when I reached the back hall, to my surprise Dave DiMaio was there instead.
“Hey,” I said. “I didn’t know you were still in town.”
He bent to smooth Prill’s ears as the big red Doberman gazed adoringly up at him. “I haven’t been. I called the hospital to see how you were doing, they told me you’d been sent home. So I came back.”
He frowned. “Bert Merkle’s ashes were scattered off the Deer Island ferry, today, too. I guess I thought somebody from the school should be there for that.”
Bert had died without regaining consciousness. “He’d left—”
“Instructions, yes. For the disposal of his remains. There’s a fund for things like that, for alumni.”
“Well. It’s good of you to handle it, then, after . . . anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been wanting to thank you.”
“I was in the right place at the right time, is all. Got the tie pin back, too, by the way.” He tapped his chest.
It was in his tie; a silver quill with a drop of ink hanging from the tip. Or I supposed it was ink.
“Merrie Fargeorge had it all along,” he told me. “Must’ve found it where I dropped it. And she had Horace’s house key,” he added, “in that big glass jar she hit me with. When I woke up, there it was, lying in front of my nose.”
“You recognized it? Among all the other . . . ?”
“Horace had painted a raised dot of enamel onto it so he’d know it by the feel,” Dave explained, “coming home from his walks at night. When I saw the enamel dot, I knew it was his.”
“So that’s how she got in after she . . .”
He nodded. “It wouldn’t have been like Lang not to lock up the house, no matter how upset he was. She must’ve taken it off Horace’s body after she killed him, and in all the confusion afterward no one ever thought of looking for it.”
He paused sadly. “She’d kept the weapon, too. Some kind of reproduction of a medieval tool.”
I recalled the one missing from Jason Riverton’s collection.
“So we have at least a part of the story of what happened, even though she’s not around anymore to tell it,” he finished.
But I wasn’t finished. “How did you know? Walking around out there in the fog that night, how did you—”
The yard lights had been on, so he could have seen me going in. And the house hid Wade’s truck from his view as well as from Merrie’s. But none of that would have told Dave the most important thing, so what had?
“She never asked.” Dave’s eyes met mine. “I’d spoken with her, you see, told her I knew Horace, and she knew I’d met you. The obvious connection was the old book and in a town like this I felt sure she knew about that, too. But she never mentioned it. And when I saw you going into her house that night, all at once I knew why.”
It was precisely the same thought that had struck me with such force while I stood in her shower: that Merrie was such an avid finder and collector of Eastport artifacts.
But she’d never asked me about this one. Not once, as if by the force of her silence she could erase its very existence.
“But if Merrie’s ancestor was a Fargeorge by marriage and took over the Fargeorge homestead,” I began, “then why—”
“Why would Merkle decide to hide a fake book in your house instead of hers?” Dave asked. He followed me to the kitchen where I got out cups and began making tea; Sam might want some, too, when he got here.
“I wondered that also, and it turns out there’s an answer,” he said. From atop the refrigerator Cat Dancing opened a crossed blue eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.
“Do you happen to know two elderly sisters named Izzy and Bridey?” he asked me. “They make,” Dave added, “very good cookies.”
When I said I did he continued. “They seem to think Merrie’s servant-girl ancestor didn’t go right to the Fargeorge house from Halifax. They’d heard she worked somewhere else first. Although,” he added, “not for long.”
Of course. “Here. In my house.”
He nodded. “Maybe the original family caught on to her wicked ways and sent her packing. Or maybe they just didn’t have a marriageable son.”
Dave looked regretful. “Merkle would’ve known. He’d’ve made sure to get his history straight before starting his own plan.”
The kettle whistled. “I imagine it’ll be a mess trying to sort out all Bert’s other book forgeries,” I said.
DiMaio watched me pour boiling water into a pot. “Yes. Lang Cabell’s been hired by some of the dealers Bert sold to, to help identify them. Not that anyone will get any money back, but it’s important figuring out what’s what.”
“And Liane?” I asked. “Is she still suing you? Or trying?” I’d forgotten about the girl, but seeing Dave reminded me of her again.
“For the moment she’s given up the idea.” His lips pursed judiciously. “We seem to’ve taken Liane under our wing, Lang and I. We’ll see how that works out.”
I poured the tea. Outside the kitchen windows, the pointed firs at the edge of the yard cut sharp black outlines on a fading sky.
“So how’d you ever learn to swim like that, anyway?” I asked as he sipped. “Jumping in after Ann Talbert that way.”
He shrugged modestly. “The school where I teach has a pool. Water safety,” he added cryptically, “is quite a large part of the curriculum.”
Probably there was a story behind that, too. But I let it go. Then, getting to the heart of the matter: “Dave, how did you happen to lose the tie pin in the first place? Way out there on Dog Island.”
He glanced up alertly. “Well,” he began, preparing to lie. But my look must’ve told him not to bother.
“Did you by any chance hear the story about the Fargeorges’ servant girl quite early on?” I asked him. “From Bridey and Izzy, maybe, when you were going around Eastport asking local-history questions?”
He might’ve met them on the street, or in one of the shops. And his air of being such a nice young fellow not having deserted him even in middle age, he might’ve engaged them in conversation.
And the girls, as everyone here still called them, did like to talk.
“And what you heard made you feel curious,” I said. “So you called Merrie Fargeorge, or . . . no, she called you, didn’t she?”
His face said I was right. “Thinking maybe she could charm you somehow into going away,” I added.
“Why would she want to do that?”
“Maybe her guilty conscience convinced her your interest in local history was really a cover for something else. Curiosity about the manner of Horace’s death, perhaps. But at any rate the conversation didn’t develop as she planned, did it?”
I filled two cups. “Because Merrie didn’t realize how much you’d already learned. Did the two of you end up swapping war stories? Two experienced teachers like yourselves trading tales out of school? She might’ve tried that, to soften you up.”
He smiled into his tea as I continued. “First she told one, about, say, a kid named Jason Riverton?”
Monday came in, laid her glossy black head on my knee. “She wouldn’t have hesitated mentioning Jason to you. Her frustrations with him as a student, even her contempt? In a way, it would have helped divert suspicion, her willingness to express that.”
It was the reason behind the wine and the book, I thought: Here is the antidote, here are the instructions for using it. Too bad you’re too stupid to take advantage of them. The initials on the computer screen, Merrie’s insistence that Jason couldn’t have typed them—misdirection, I thought, meant only to confuse.
Bottom line, Merrie didn’t really care who took the bla
me as long as the boy’s murder aimed any suspicion away from herself. “Then it was your turn to tell a story,” I said. “Only it wasn’t about a student, was it? It was about a servant girl from long ago.”
He waited expressionlessly. “It was a test,” I continued. “What Bridey and Izzy told you made you wonder . . . had Merkle not killed Horace after all? Was there some other reason for Horace’s murder?”
Still no response. “You panicked Merrie on purpose. To see what she would do or say. And her reaction confirmed your suspicion.”
I waited, thinking how difficult it must’ve been for her, putting a good face on for the party at my house after killing Jason and talking with DiMaio. Not that she’d kept it up for long; by the next day, she’d been acting like her old, irascible self again.
But what she really must have felt was pure panic.
“Maybe you didn’t even mention the Fargeorge girl by name,” I said. “Maybe you just hinted. But that was enough to confirm what she feared, that you were indeed a threat. And whatever she said to you in response must’ve told you that, for a woman whose life revolved around the human equivalent of a dog’s pedigree, that book was plenty of motive for murder.”
Dave’s smile had vanished. “Merrie was the one who’d pestered Horace about it, not Ann Talbert,” I said. “Maybe she thought if she could get hold of the thing even briefly, she could destroy it.”
I put down my cup. “You probably saw her calendar, showing that she traveled all over the state for lectures and meetings. Maybe it said she’d been in Orono that night, I don’t recall.”
His face said he did recall, and that it had. “So did you, Dave? Was that when you met her? Did you go out there to see her after she called you, and tell her a story, and was that when you lost your tie pin?”
Because if he had, he’d tipped over a final domino, spurring Merrie’s fear to even greater intensity and leading eventually to my final encounter with her.