The Shadow Bird

by Ann Gosslin

  After a cursory look into Stern’s bedroom, hotel bland with its beige carpet and utilitarian furniture, they trooped downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Oh, look, there’s Lulu,’ Stern said, ‘wondering when I’m going to quit yakking and take her on our walk.’

  Through the window, Erin spotted a sleek Irish setter standing in the yard, brown eyes hopeful. The three of them pulled on their coats and headed outside.

  Lydia took a few snaps of the barn and the duck pond, where a cluster of mallards eyed them nervously. As they moved around the property, Erin discreetly checked the signal on her phone. Poor, fading to nothing in the hollows.

  As they circled back to the house, Stern fell in step beside Lydia. ‘May I ask you, Ms Belmont, if you’re from the islands?’

  She gave him a puzzled look as she buttoned the collar of her coat against the chill.

  ‘I thought I detected the hint of an accent.’

  ‘I was born in the Bronx,’ she said, primly. ‘Not long after my parents immigrated to New York from Trinidad.’

  ‘Ha!’ He smiled. ‘What did I tell you? I’ve always had a knack for accents.’

  Erin stiffened. She’d seen enough. It was time to make their escape.

  Back in the brightly lit kitchen, she couldn’t help but notice the shadows under Stern’s eyes, and the sagging skin on his cheeks. All this hopped-up enthusiasm had clearly worn him out.

  ‘There’s a powder room down the hall, if you need to freshen up before you go,’ he said. Just the excuse she was looking for. Erin was itching to get a closer look at that photo, and this might be her only chance.

  Near the den, she listened to be sure Stern was still in the front room with Lydia. She eased the door open and in three quick steps stood before the photo. A much younger Stern held a cocktail glass in the air, while his other arm was slung around a dark-haired man in checked shorts and a lime-green polo shirt. The blonde woman in the orange and white diamond-patterned dress gazed at Stern, her eyes hidden by sunglasses, her mouth open in mid-laugh. Was that the murdered wife?

  A memory flashed and faded away, slippery as a trout. She tried to haul it back. There was something about the design of the woman’s dress, and the white headband around the candyfloss hair, shining in the sun. Around her neck, the gold sunburst pendant glinted in the light. Erin had seen that necklace before.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Her heart stopped.

  When she turned to face Stern, their eyes locked. ‘I was just looking for the bathroom.’

  For a fraction of a second, the televangelist bonhomie vanished in a spasm of anger, before the smile flashed again. ‘It’s the door on the left. Easy to get lost when you don’t know the house.’ He beckoned her to follow and closed the door firmly behind him.

  *

  Erin and Lydia were silent as they drove away from the farmhouse. Halfway on the road to tiny Matlock, with nothing to offer but a general store and a lunchroom, a gunmetal-grey sedan barrelled past, nearly forcing them off the road. The woman at the wheel held a phone to her ear. Erin couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Stern’s housekeeper.

  They didn’t speak until they turned onto the main road, a narrow artery through the forest, and headed west. Lydia adjusted the rear-view mirror and switched on the heater.

  Erin massaged the tight muscles in the back of her neck. ‘So, what did you think?’

  ‘He seems to have made rather a charmed life for himself.’ Lydia dabbed her nose with a tissue. ‘Though I dare say the poor man deserves it after what he’s been through.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Erin cracked the window for some air and closed her eyes, drained by Stern’s high-octane enthusiasm. Like a carnival huckster flogging tickets to the greatest show on earth. Why try so hard? If he’d been dishevelled and the house a dump, the state would still be happy to send Tim there. The home visit was merely a formality, as far as the state was concerned. ‘Are prospective carers required to take a drug test?’

  Lydia puffed out her cheeks. ‘You think he’s on drugs?’ ‘

  I’d like to rule it out,’ Erin said, turning to look out the window. It was a habit of hers, difficult to break, to guess what medications someone might be on. Endless stands of dark spruce scrolled past. ‘What I really want to know,’ she said, closing the window, ‘is what the family was like when Tim was young.’

  Lydia swerved sharply to avoid a pothole, pitching Erin against the door. ‘Sorry about that.’ The clove-scented air freshener wafted through the car. ‘But who’re you going to ask? Tim won’t talk about it. The father will say everything was fine, and the others are dead.’

  True. The immediate family was gone, but there must be someone. Aunts, uncles, cousins. But even if she tracked them down, they might refuse to talk to her. Neighbours and former classmates, anyone with no emotional stake in what happened, might be a better bet. But digging into Tim’s past had a dark side. It would mean returning to Belle River. Something she’d vowed never to do. Just the thought of seeing the town again made her blood run cold.

  The sky had darkened, and a few flakes of wet snow splattered against the windscreen. So much for spring. She shut her eyes again as a wave of fatigue swept through her. That photo in the den. The diamond-patterned dress and sunburst pendant had sparked a distant memory. And there was something about the dark-haired man with his arm around Stern. With only hazy recollections of the man who’d died when she was nine, and no photos to remind her, how could she be sure? But somehow, she was. Clear as a mountain stream.

  The man in the photo with Stern was her father.

  19

  Belle River, Maine

  June 1977

  Smoke from the barbecue drifts through the kitchen’s screen door. Why they can’t eat off paper plates on the patio like normal people is a mystery, but the old lady’s pulled the plug on that idea. Too buggy or something. An hour ago, she disappeared to lie down, so he’s stuck in the kitchen with Izzy making the potato salad and devilled eggs. While he chops onions with a cleaver, Samurai-style, Izzy cuts the potatoes in perfectly uniform slices. He looks at her sideways, at the curious creature she’s become, hoping to catch her popping a potato in her mouth or licking mayonnaise from her fingers. But not a crumb crosses her lips. Delicate as a sandpiper, with skinny legs to match, a tiny blue vein throbs at her temple. He can’t remember when it began, his sister’s strange relationship with food.

  At a quarter past six, his mother appears in the kitchen, wearing some floaty kaftan thing that looks like a nightgown. Tangerine. The colour makes her skin look bad. Her hair is flattened on one side and her eyes are glassy. Nervously, he checks the clock. At six-thirty sharp, his father will pull into the driveway, stone-faced and pissed off about something. After dropping his briefcase in the hall, he’ll head straight for the drinks cart to pour a double Scotch. If dinner’s not ready and on the table two minutes after he walks in the door, there’ll be hell to pay.

  But it took ages to get the coals started, and time’s running out. The last day of school and it was his idea to celebrate with a barbecue. But nothing’s ready, and he’s a mess of nerves. Already in the doghouse, and another screw-up won’t help.

  Coughing from the greasy smoke, he grabs a pair of tongs and transfers the meat onto a plate. Two burgers slither free and drop on the grass. The chicken looks dried out, and the burgers are charred. When he stumbles up the back steps and into the kitchen, his mother is leaning against the sink, a cigarette in one hand, a highball in the other.

  She looks at the pile of smoking meat in bewilderment. ‘You kids did all this?’

  Off in la-la land again. Not much point in talking to her when she’s got that glazed look in her eyes.

  ‘Clara, come on! Help set the table.’ He stands at the top of the basement steps, holding the bowl of potato salad. It’s 6:25.

  His sister drags herself up from the cool nether regions of the house and into the steamy kitchen. She grabs plates from the cupboard and carrie
s them to the table, her eye on the clock. Two minutes to go and the table is set, a paper hat at each place. The meat’s in the oven keeping warm. Outside, a party of blue jays cackle and scold in the branches of the dogwood tree.

  They wait in the kitchen, nervously eyeing the clock. His mother pours another drink. At six forty-five, his father still hasn’t come. No sign of him at five to seven when his mother suggests they sit down to eat. But as soon as they’ve filled their plates, his father bursts into the kitchen.

  ‘Dorrie! What the hell…?’

  He looms in the doorway, half-moons of sweat under his arms. Tim nearly chokes on the piece of chicken in his mouth. If thunder had a human face, this would be it.

  ‘You couldn’t wait ten lousy minutes?’ He flings his briefcase onto a chair. ‘I’m at the office all day busting my ass for this family, only to come home and… What the hell is this?’ He eyes the platter of barbecued meat.

  ‘We only just sat down,’ his mother says, looking anywhere but at her husband. ‘The food was getting cold.’ She stands from her chair, wobbling, to fix him a drink. ‘It was the kids’ idea, the barbecue. To celebrate the last day of school.’

  His face is the colour of putty, and he sways on his feet.

  ‘Whatever.’ He drops into a chair. ‘Give me that,’ he snaps, grabbing the bottle of Scotch from Dorrie’s hand. ‘Christ, what a crappy day.’ His father pins his mother with a look. ‘He’s out, you know.’ He tosses back his drink and pours another. ‘Since last Friday.’

  ‘Who’s out? Oh.’ Her cheeks flush.

  Tim wants to ask who they’re talking about, but the look on his father’s face could slay a dragon.

  ‘Well, we knew it was coming. What a weasel. How I rue the day I ever…’ His father pokes at one of the charred burgers in disgust. ‘But he won’t bother us.’ Ice cubes rattle in his glass as he knocks back another drink. ‘I can assure you of that.’

  20

  Belle River, Maine

  April, Present Day

  The scent of seaweed and brine drifted through the air. Out in the bay, brightly painted lobster boats in yellow, blue, and green bobbed on the water, and a raft of gulls rode the swell. As she drew close to the town line, time collapsed, and Erin was twelve again, dejected and afraid. Perched on a bluff, trying to work up the courage to plummet to the rocks below.

  On the road since dawn, every time she passed a turn-off, it was a struggle not to wrench the car around and turn back. But as the miles scrolled past, and her courage grew, the one clear memory she had of her father flickered like a filmstrip in her head. Standing at the helm of a motorboat, wind-tossed and bouncing in the chop, his face pink with sunburn. When he’d turned to say something over the sound of the motor, his voice was snatched by the wind. Three months later, he’d skidded off the coast road on a rainy October night. The car had caught fire on impact, and his body was burned beyond recognition.

  Her family had driven up to Belle River for the Columbus Day weekend, where they’d slept at a motel instead of Aunt Olivia’s house because she was having her kitchen painted, or some such excuse. That weekend, the rain fell non-stop, but her father went off with some friends to go duck hunting up the coast. When the news came of the car wreck, she was hustled off to bed with a glass of hot milk. No doubt spiked with something to make her sleep. If there was a funeral, she hadn’t gone to it. When she asked to see his grave, the answer was like a slap. No grave, no plaque. His ashes scattered offshore.

  That none of his family had travelled from England to pay their respects was another mystery. Stranger still, no framed photos were ever displayed in honour of his memory. It was as though he’d never been. Floppy dark hair, kind brown eyes. Lime aftershave, and the sharp scent of gin during the cocktail hour. Though she wanted to believe it, with so little to go on, she couldn’t be sure the man in the photo at Stern’s was her father.

  Welcome to Belle River, pop. 3,719.

  At the first crossroads, she turned right to avoid the house on Gardiner Road. Prison and refuge in turns. This trip was fraught enough, and she wasn’t quite ready to travel down that particular memory lane. Seven years had passed since her aunt Olivia’s death, and for all Erin knew, Vivien had inherited the house. Perhaps, even now, not two miles away, she was holding court in the big front room with its view of the sea.

  The weight of the past squeezed her chest. At the first stoplight, her heart thumped like a rabbit in a trap, and she considered turning back. If there was such a thing as a fool’s errand, this was it. What could she possibly hope to find here?

  A stiff breeze blew the wind-tossed sea onto the rocks at Nelson’s cove. The tang of salt filled the air. Saturday morning, but the streets were nearly empty. Tourist season was still three months away. A woman with a head of pink curlers covered by a polka dot scarf wrestled a loaded trolley out of the Stop & Shop.

  As Erin crested a rise, the bay came into view, glinting like a fistful of tossed coins in the morning light. Farther out, near the point, two fishing boats churned towards shore. In the town, patches of dirty snow crusted the pavement where the sun didn’t reach.

  At first glance, little had changed in twenty years. The stone edifice of the First National Bank looked solid as ever. On the corner stood the newsagent where she’d once bought cherry Lifesavers and packs of bubblegum. But a closer look showed the face of change. Where the hardware store used to be was a coffee house called the Dream Bean Café. The bookstore had morphed into an antiques shop, its front window crammed with dark furniture and foxed mirrors. Always a little forlorn in the off season, the town would blossom in June, when the summer people brought a little gloss and glamour to the streets.

  She fingered the quetzal pendant and reminded herself to breathe. Nothing to be afraid of. A model New England town, and despite the chill of early spring, it played the part well. Even the wind in the trees seemed to whisper: spend your holidays in bucolic Belle River, where nothing bad ever happens.

  Except that one unfortunate incident, quickly hushed up, when a family was slaughtered in cold blood.

  *

  At the Moosewood Inn, Erin parked out back and dragged her suitcase along a gravel path to the front door. A pale-eyed woman in a lilac dress and grey cardigan greeted her at the front desk.

  ‘First time in Belle River?’

  ‘My first time in Maine,’ she said. Liar. She took her wallet from her bag. ‘Is it all right if I pay for the room in cash? I only need it for one night.’

  The woman gave her an odd look. ‘Sure, okay, if that’s what you want.’ She accepted Erin’s money and handed her the room key. ‘We serve coffee and tea in the lounge every afternoon at three. Breakfast starts at seven.’ She looked at Erin, uncertainly, as if expecting another odd request.

  Up on the second floor, the room boasted a canopy bed and two large windows, one with a view of the bay, the other facing the forest. Erin stood at the window for several minutes, studying the dark sweep of hemlock and pine. Nothing moved amongst the trees.

  *

  Before heading back into town, she made herself a cup of tea in the lounge and settled into a chair by the window. After changing into a pair of navy trousers, Erin had tied her hair into a ponytail and planned to wear a baseball cap while she wandered the streets, though the chance that someone might recognise her was small. The only likely giveaway might be her eyes, but they were easy enough to hide behind dark glasses.

  The tea and hushed atmosphere of the inn had soothed her jitters, and she felt ready now to drive by the house on Gardiner Road. Even if Vivien had taken ownership of the property, it was unlikely she would be up here at this time of year. To be on the safe side, she took the long way round through the forest, skirting past blueberry farms and potato fields, as a way of sneaking up on the house through the back roads.

  Lulled by the drive on the empty road through the woods, she rounded a sharp curve and there it was. A modest frame house set back amongst dense stands of h
ickory and birch trees. The white clapboards were dingy, and it was much smaller than she remembered. Squinting at the letter box at the end of the drive, it was a relief to see the name stencilled in chipped paint: Thompson. So Vivien hadn’t got the house after all. She smiled. Good for Aunt Olivia. Olivia the good. Olivia the godsend, who’d offered Erin sanctuary after the horrors of Danfield. A roof over her head and a private tutor to make up for lost schooling. It was Olivia who’d obtained a copy of her father’s birth certificate so Erin could apply for a British passport, her escape route to another life. Ian Marston. Born September 8, 1932, Birmingham, United Kingdom. RIP.

  Midday, and the town centre was showing signs of life. In front of the Rite Aid drugstore, a woman in a pink puffy jacket with bright blonde hair was herding two children in front of her. Was that Becca? Erin glanced back as she passed. Though she hadn’t seen her old friend in two decades, there was something familiar about the woman’s face. The desire to stop and call out was like an ache in her throat. How wonderful it would be to chat over coffee, and to find out how life had treated her over the years. A good friend during a difficult time, Becca would surely be glad to see her, wouldn’t she? Even though Erin had disappeared without a trace.

  But it was a door she couldn’t risk opening. When Erin caught sight of the woman’s face in the rear-view mirror, she was relieved to see it wasn’t Becca, and tried to focus on the task ahead. This trip wasn’t about her own history, it was Tim’s life she’d come to excavate, mining the town for whatever nuggets of truth remained.

  *

  In the library, all was quiet. As she closed her eyes and breathed in, the familiar scent of old books, worn leather, and wax polish pulled her back in time. The woman at the front desk with frizzy dark hair was too young to be Ruth Davis, the librarian who’d been kind to Erin as a child. How many times had she sought refuge here amongst the stacks of books, while everyone else was at the beach or on the water? The library had been a sanctuary and Ruth Davis a lifeline.