Magda was a grown woman—that’s what she was, really; at her age, she was young but fully grown, fully developed. Her breasts were heavy and, I imagined, beautiful. Her figure had that kind of youthful fullness, curvy but slim, as though she were floating in water and gravity had no grip on her. She was like a naked nymph walking across the surface of the lake. I could almost see her when I closed my eyes. I could go anywhere with my eyes closed, to the moon if I wanted, listen to the deafening echo of silence as it spun through space. That is the sound of silence, isn’t it? The sound of death? The sound of nonexistence? The friction of not being? Everyone on Earth had heard of death, from time to time. How many have fallen there! Others had lived and died before me.
Walter. After he died, I began to dread the discovery of any hints he might be sending me from the great beyond. I couldn’t even tolerate the thought that he might actually still be there, watching me sob in our bed, in the shower. Watching me scrape the mold off the bread. I sat for hours watching my own drool dribble from my mouth. When the car came to bring me to the university chapel for the memorial, I wasn’t even dressed. I put on an everyday outfit. I’d worn black my whole life. “Who are you?” Walter had asked when he met me. It was a setup. I dressed in black from day one. “Are you some kind of black widow?” I didn’t have to change for death. It was always there. I’d been dressed for his funeral from the day we met. Those ashes. That urn. Walter was still in that lake out there. He hadn’t really left, after all. I wished I hadn’t asked him to stick around. His voice in my mindspace was still like a nosy adversary. Whenever I felt happy or sad, there he came, putting thoughts in my head, asking me to explain myself. I never should have married an academic. They always need to analyze and prove a point about something. Well, prove a point now, Walter, I said to the mindspace. Prove a point with Magda. If you’re so smart. Did Ghod kill her? Where is she? What happened to her?
I looked out at the lake, brightening now with the bold colors of the trees around it. My little island looked sweet and peaceful. I would go out there. Soon, I told myself. But what would I do with Magda’s dead body if I found it? Would I drag it into the rowboat and paddle back to shore? And then what? Would I bury it? I didn’t think I had the physical strength to dig a hole big enough. I might have to hire someone. I’d say I was burying my dog. Or I could cut Magda into pieces. Like the holes I had made in the garden, I’d dig and take little bits of Magda and place them in the black dirt, cover them up, sprinkle water from the can, watch through the kitchen window every morning as the sun shone down. I’d wait for Magda’s roots to grow, a stalk to split through the earth and up into the warm, fizzling spring air. What would that plant look like? Would it bear fruit? Could I eat it? Would it kill me? Perhaps pieces of her were already buried out there. Something had been done in the garden. Why pluck out my seeds if you weren’t going to plant something in their place? But if Magda didn’t grow, that would be terrible. Meat was not compostable. Soon it would rot and start to stink. Charlie could dig up the garden and carry a severed hand into the cabin, bury it between the cushions of the couch. But he was gone. I missed him. I looked at Blake’s poem again. Bones of the dead. Magda wasn’t bones yet. Not unless her flesh had been pecked off by vultures. And I’d seen no vultures circling. She was still intact. She had to be. Could she still be alive?
And with that, it seemed silly to sit around being idle. I decided to be brave. I’d go out and look for Charlie. I’d put the effort in. If I found him dead, at least I’d know. I could get another dog. But it would never be the same. Charlie was my family. My throat clenched, and I choked and coughed as I put on my coat and got my purse and keys and shut the cabin door. I locked it. I didn’t want anyone coming in, burying severed hands in my couch, or worse—burying severed hands in my couch, and then removing them, so that I’d never know. But I’d want to know if someone came and tried to bury hands. I’d never know, unless I left the door open. So I unlocked the door, and did what I’d seen done once on a television show. I got a spool of white thread, which I’d used months ago to sew the split edge of a down pillow when the feathers were coming out—I kept waking up with a mouth full of tiny goose feathers. I unraveled the spool until I had a length of string about a yard long. I tied one end to the foot of the table by the door, about an inch off the floor, and the other end to a tea cup. I looped the thread through the porcelain handle, and set it on the floor so that the thread was taut. If an intruder barged in, he’d snag his foot on the string, but not necessarily stumble. The cup would skid and chip against the wood-burning stove. Then I’d know. Even if the intruder set the cup back in its place, I’d see the cracks. I’d know the truth of what had happened. I closed the door gently behind me and went to the car, ready to drive around Levant with my window rolled down, calling out to Charlie. “Hey, boy. Hey, Charlie. Come out. Come out of the woods and down to the road.” He’d hear me and come dashing, if he could. Soon we would be reunited, and we’d sleep the night curled up together under the covers. A cool breeze would blow. And I’d pet him and kiss him and promise never to leave him alone, not again, not for more than a second. And he’d purr and lick my face and groan and snuggle closer and we’d dream together. It would be so nice.
In the car, I put the key into the ignition and turned it. But nothing happened. The whole car felt dead. Not even a click or a kick came from the engine. I took the key out and tried again. It must be the battery, I thought. It must need a jump. Maybe I had left the lights on, or the door ajar. But what did I know about cars? It could be anything. If I had a phone, I could have called a tow truck, or even asked a mechanic to come give me an estimate right then and there. I could picture the man in his greasy gray overalls, smoking a cigarette and looking down at the lake. “Great place you have here. You know this used to be a Girl Scout camp?”
“Yes, I do know. Now, what about my car? Can you help me?”
“What you have here is a wiring issue. Looks like one of these wires has been severed.”
“Severed, you say?”
“Cut, that means.”
“I know what it means.”
“Now, I’m just trying to help you out, ma’am. I didn’t come all this way to get your goat.”
“There’s no goat, sir,” I’d say. Oh, I’d be huffy. “Who cut the wire? What does that mean?”
“It means someone’s come out and cut the wire. Now, maybe you cut it. How could I know who cut it?”
“Why would I cut my own wire? Do people do such things?”
“Lonely people do. Like when you call an ambulance because you’ve just slit your wrists.”
“My goodness.”
“You think you’re the first?”
“I’m neither the first nor second. I’m none of those people. I haven’t slit or severed a thing.”
“Whatever you say. I’m just here to help you get your wires right.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I’m at your service, ma’am.”
“Call me Vesta.”
“All right, Vesta.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Can you fix it?”
“It can’t be fixed. What you have here is irreparable damage. Don’t you know there is no life after death? You know this is it, don’t you? You aren’t going anywhere.”
“It can’t be. I’ll walk if I have to.”
“You can try, Miss Vesta. But all I can say is that when you walk into that forest, that forest is all you’ll see.”
“Pastor Jimmy says—”
“Pastor Jimmy’s been dead for years. Those radio shows? All reruns. All the same sput sputtered on and on. ‘My husband has testicular cancer. Does that mean he’s having an affair?’”
“How did you know about my husband?”
“Who wouldn’t guess?”
“I couldn’t have. I had no idea.”
“How many have fallen here?” and he’d point to the red rock that jutted out by the water.
“How should I know?”
“You should know these things. Or are you a know-nothing? Have you not been educated?”
“You sound like my husband.”
“He must have loved you.”
“He’s there now.” I’d point out to the lake.
And there’d come Charlie, splashing back in from the lake, a human arm or a whole leg dragging from his jaws.
I didn’t look under the hood. I could have clanked and blown the dead leaves out from under, what have you. I knew it was useless. The thing was dead and fit to be buried. That old hunk of junk. I’d driven it from Monlith to Levant. Sent for all my boxes from the post office in Monlith, prepaid, one by one they came. The furniture was all from the charity shop at the church in Bethsmane.
I walked up the gravel drive and onto the road but did not cross it, and went past the slope that led to the birch woods. I didn’t want any more clues from Blake. I’d had enough of Blake by now. He told me I’d needed to be led, but I felt I was strong enough to do the leading. I had Charlie’s leash in my purse, and when I found him, I’d loop it on and keep it there, tie the loose end around my wrist like a handcuff. And with this leash, I thee wed, I thought. Just as meaningful, I’d say, as that ring that I’d taken off. It was now in a small glass jar, along with Charlie’s baby teeth. I’d found them on the floor one day, canines, although it hadn’t seemed Charlie had any teeth missing. One just assumes, though. And what do I know about canine dentistry? You see, I wasn’t the kind of woman to ask questions. A good detective presumes more than she interrogates. I could presume that Charlie was alive, being held somewhere against his will. I could presume that Magda’s killer was neither Blake nor Shirley nor Leonardo. I presumed the killer was likely Ghod. I did presume all that. And I presumed that my car had died by effect of my having driven it too much the other night. Something had been jangled loose. Or a small animal had crawled up into the works and nibbled through some wire. I presumed there’d been no intentional sabotage. And I presumed that by the end of this day, all my mysteries would be solved. I wouldn’t be troubled by these matters much longer. Because such things can’t last too long without turning into major dramas. And this wasn’t a major drama. It was a little cozy whodunit. A note, a lost dog, an urn of ashes dumped in a lake. I’d come up heads if I just kept going. Soon Magda would be recovering in the hospital, and I’d send her flowers and a teddy bear. It was probably all a gross misunderstanding.
I didn’t know exactly where to walk, but I felt I ought to avoid the birch woods. Charlie wouldn’t be there. The sight of those lovely trees, their soft whiteness blurred through the sunshine, chilled me. I walked up the main road and listed the remaining characters in my story. There was Henry. He had the strength and the bruised spirit to keep a dog tied up behind his store, perhaps as a favor he owed to Ghod. And he was also a kind of earthy, warm person whom Charlie might obey. The walk to Henry’s store was about three miles. I could go there, act as though I needed to use the phone, poke around, jiggle the handles of any doors I found out back. Charlie might be in a basement, tied to an old hissing radiator. He might not have water. Oh, he would be so sad down there. I hoped Ghod or Henry hadn’t been beating him, poor thing. As I walked along the road, I kept to the verge of dirt next to the crumbling edge of the gray paved road. It gleamed nearly white at certain points when I looked ahead of me.
I’d walked about a mile when I arrived at the turn in the road where the neighbors’ drive opened up on the side, a clearing between the pines and a long, twisted lane of dirt. I stopped and stood, considering what I might find if I followed it. A weathered tin mailbox sat on a post at the shoulder. Nobody was watching, so I went and looked inside of it. The mail I pulled out was a coupon circular addressed to “Current Resident” and what looked to me like a hospital bill. I put the bill in my inside coat pocket and was about to continue down the main road, to get at a safe enough distance to tear it open and find out what I could find out about this neighbor’s medical predicament. Maybe these were the charges for stitches to her hand from when she’d grappled with Magda and her switchblade. She may have been an accomplice to Ghod. If Ghod was extorting Magda, he could be extorting the neighbor as well. But tampering with the mail was a felony, wasn’t it? I wasn’t a criminal. I was above the law, yes, in that I was above Ghod. I was higher up on the scales of justice than the police. I couldn’t tamper. I could only engage.
So I started up on the dirt lane through the pine trees, the echo of the day under the open sky immediately dulling and diminishing down inside the dark forest. Bit by bit I could feel my breathing get heavy, labored. I rested, wheezing. It was alarming how allergic I was to those pines. They were toxic to me, and yet I’d managed perfectly well for an entire year staying out of them in such close proximity. I continued on. I would persevere. I saw no paw prints, nor any footprints in the dirt, which was packed down by two running paths of tire marks, the treads like a city skyline. Funny what the imagination will fixate on when one’s lungs are doing what, I don’t know, filling with fluid? Clamping shut? Expanding like pancake batter when you add in the baking soda, frothing up? It was like breathing through a thin straw, the air sharp and stabbing in my chest. From the outside I probably looked like a feeble, worn-down old lady. By the time I reached the neighbors’ gravel driveway, saw their big black car parked, their gray clapboard cabin—bigger than mine but no nicer—sitting there on the lake, I was seeing stars. I made my way to the clearing and stumbled across their lawn—they had grass there—and went and plunked myself down by the lake and waited, thinking almost nothing, and breathing, slowly, slowly, and eventually my lungs began to expand, my heart slowed, and I could inhale and exhale almost normally. By then two distinct forms had appeared to my right, shadows longer than seemed feasible considering the sun’s position in the sky. One was the man and the other was the woman. They looked startled, and I must have as well. They were dressed up. They looked like they’d stepped out of some old-timey postcard, the kind of photograph you have made at a studio where they dress you in costumes and place you in front of backdrops of the Wild West or something. I’d seen such pictures, but of course Walter and I had never done anything like that.
“Can we help you?”
I didn’t answer. I felt for a moment the world tipped on its side. I put a hand out into the grass but kept my eyes on the people. The woman, wearing a tight corseted dress with heavy skirts, brown as mud, took a step forward. She had a bonnet on. The strap cut into the thin jowls dripping at her throat. She was at once elegant and rough in the antiquated getup. Her husband, I presumed, took her arm and pulled her back.
“Are you lost?” the woman asked.
“This is private property,” the man said. “That’s a private road. You saw the sign?”
Somehow I pushed myself up from the ground. The world settled. It was brighter in the grass now, gentler. A few butterflies fluttered. The cabin was, as I noticed, not so drab. There were shutters folded back from the windows painted a dark orange. There were tulips coming up in the mulch around the front steps. There was new, clear glass in the windows. Their view of the lake was better than mine. I could even see my little island from there. A canoe knocked against the pilings of a new wooden dock. This was a real life, here, a man and wife, I thought. I’d intruded.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, my throat now opening. I was suddenly very embarrassed. “I got winded on the walk. This must seem so strange, an old lady coming to collapse on your lawn. I do apologize. I must have taken a wrong turn.”
The costumed figures cocked their heads. The man’s eyes shone through with sunlight. The light was twisting through the large boughs of pines that lined the yard. It was nice there. If it wasn’t for the modern car in the drive, it could have been a colonial homestead. It could
have been a museum, the kind where actors portray people from long ago, and you can stroll around and barge in on them churning the butter, or making lard soap, or roasting a lamb, or looming, or hammering hot steel.
“Can you walk?” the man said. He seemed anxious for me to be off their property.
“Oh yes, yes. I look frail, I know,” I said, then paused. The hospital bill crinkled inside my coat pocket. “I’m fine, fine. I think I am allergic to those pines.”
We were quiet then, the man impatient. The woman whispered something to him. He left, and went inside, the tails of his crumpled suit jacket flapping behind him.
“Do you need help finding your way back to the road?” the woman asked. She approached me now, walking slowly, fluidly, as though she were being pulled on wheels. My head spun a bit, watching her face enlarge.
“I should be all right,” I told her. I began to pull the medical bill from my coat pocket, but I hesitated and stopped. “May I ask, are you dressed up for something?”
“I have cancer,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“We’re having a little party, to celebrate me. Better now than when I’m gone. . . . I’m not doing chemo.”
“I see.”
“The Victorians were obsessed with death. It’s the theme.”
“The theme?”
“The theme of the party,” she said. “We’re making it a murder mystery party. My husband thought it would be fun. A little game, you know. Some of us like those kinds of things. Friends of mine,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say. The coincidence—that we were both engaged in a murder mystery—at first seemed like common ground rather than a conspiracy. I wasn’t thinking straight. I thought to offer the neighbor my wisdom, everything I had learned since I had Asked Jeeves how to solve Magda’s murder. But she was giving me an odd look, as though I was looking down on her. She stepped away.
Death in Her Hands Page 14