“Yeah, because your granddaddy loves you no matter what and you’re not even pretty.”
At the time, Savannah’s words hurt Harley’s feelings. She already knew she wasn’t pretty, of course, but those words hurt coming from someone she considered a friend. But even at the age of seven, Harley knew Savannah had meant it as a compliment, that she truly was envious of the unconditional love she received.
“Are you going to come back and play sometime?” Harley asked.
Savannah smiled. “Oh, yes, just as soon as I can. I promise I will.”
But Savannah never did come and play again. Her mother took one look at her dress, her hair, her face, all covered in mud, and said her daughter would never be allowed to play with Harley Henrickson again.
The following week, Savannah went on the pageant circuit, and the little girl underwent both physical and internal metamorphoses, coloring her hair and wearing makeup, miniskirts, and heels. And though she was beautiful, she rarely smiled, as if she were already disillusioned with her life, with the world as it had been determined for her. Savannah never played soccer, never went to summer camp, and never became an archaeologist.
Over the years, Savannah grew increasingly popular at school, while Harley grew increasingly less so. And Savannah seemed to forget the two had ever been friends, even making fun of Harley on occasion to fit in with the other kids. By the time they had graduated from high school, it seemed Savannah Swanson ridiculed Harley more than anyone else in school. And yet, even after all these years, Harley still hoped things might change between them.
36
Masks
Savannah Swanson had not seemed to hear Harley’s approach, or if she had, she did not intend to acknowledge her.
“Savannah,” Harley said with kindness, “they’re looking for you inside.”
Savannah turned her gaze from the cliffside and the sea of sky beyond, then over her shoulder to Harley. Not answering, she returned her attention once more to the night sky.
Okay, Harley thought. She had done what she promised. She had found her. She had told her. Now, she would be on her way.
She turned to leave, and Savannah said, “No, wait. Please don’t go.”
The two women looked at each other in an uncomfortable silence until at last Savannah said, “I’ve been meaning to come by your shop, say hello.”
Her comment, strange at best, took Harley by surprise. The idea of Savannah Swanson stopping by to say hi after years of not speaking to her was baffling.
“You see,” Savannah said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about things lately since I moved back home—about the past. I don’t know …” She returned her gaze to the starry sky. “Maybe I’m just getting more reflective, maybe I’m finally old enough to feel regret. I look at myself now, and—and I don’t even recognize who I’ve become.”
She turned around to face Harley, this time with a pleading expression in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Harley. I’m so sorry for how I treated you.” She moved closer and underneath the moonlight, Harley could see where a bit of her eye makeup had run, bleeding at the outer corners of her eyes. “You’re the only real friend I ever had—as pitiful as that sounds—and I hope that now that I’m back, maybe we can start over, maybe we can be friends again.”
“Of course.” Harley did not wish to further press her already vulnerable state. “Of course we can be friends again.”
But was it really possible?
“You were always the strong one,” Savannah said, “the sensible one. Even when we were little girls. I’ve always wanted to be like you. I bet you never knew that, did you?”
“No,” Harley said in truth. “No, I didn’t.”
“I only ever wanted someone to love me,” she said. “To love me for who I am on the inside. But I don’t even know who that person is anymore. I’ve been fabricating an image of myself for so long, been running this race for so long, I’m lost inside. Lost and exhausted. And I hate myself for it. I’ve hated myself just as I’ve secretly hated the men who’ve desired me, just as I’ve resented women like you who do have something special inside them, just as I’ve hated my parents for making me the person I’ve become. I’m lonely, Harley. Lonely, empty, and ugly.”
In that moment, Savannah Swanson looked at Harley Henrickson with that same hurt look she had seen that afternoon on the farm when they were children.
“I’d like to just go home right now, you know,” she said, “stand under the shower, allow the water to wash off all these layers of makeup, all these layers of pain, let them all wash off and go down the drain, let me be free of it all.” She looked up at Harley. “But I can’t do that, can I? I can’t wash it all away, can’t be free from it. This is my mask,” she said, bringing her hand to her face, “has been my mask for as long as I can remember. And there’s safety in it. I’ve grown so comfortable behind this shell, I don’t even know how to step outside of it. And people who’ve tried to challenge me to do so, people like you—just by being who you are—I’ve only treated as enemies.”
Harley was speechless. All of those thoughts and feelings had been roiling inside Savannah for all of those years, and had at last risen to the surface and exploded. She wondered what had brought about the epiphany. Had it been Patrick’s death? Her engagement to Michael Sutcliffe?
“I don’t want to marry him, Harley,” she said. “I don’t love him.”
“Then don’t marry him. You don’t have to. You can make other choices for your life.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that easy. It’s expected of me. This is what my parents always wanted, for me to marry into a rich family, be a socialite. And Michael’s the key to that, but he doesn’t love me either,” she said. “He’s just like them. I’m just an object to him, his idea of what Mrs. Michael Sutcliffe should be. He’s infatuated with this mask I wear,” she said, pointing to her face again. “And if I marry him, I’m going to lose who I am even more.”
“Have you spoken to him about it? About how you feel?”
“Oh, yes.” She grimaced. “And he’s been very clear about his expectations of me. He doesn’t want me to work after we’re married. Doesn’t want me to go back to school.” She paused, and a brief expression of triumph lit up her face. “But the thing is I have been going back to school.”
“To get a master’s degree,” Harley said, “in history.”
Savannah stared at her in disbelief. “How’d you know?”
“Well, when I heard the rumors about you spending time with Patrick, everyone thought you all were having an affair, but I didn’t believe it, not about Patrick. I figured it must be because you were one of his graduate students. And then I remembered when we were children you wanting to be an archaeologist or work in a history museum.”
Savannah smiled for the first time, her face caught in a momentary glow that made her appear like a little girl again. “Yes. I never quite made it into archaeology, did I? But I’m still looking at that job in a history museum. The thing is though, Harley …”
The smile wilted from her face and the haunted look returned. “I did want Patrick. I did think I had feelings for him even if he was old enough to be my father. He was just so different from so many other men I’d met, genuinely interested in me—my academic career, my bettering myself. It had nothing to do at all with my looks.”
Her voice stuttered with emotion. “I did desire him. I don’t know if it was because I wanted an excuse to break off things with Michael or because …” She took a deep breath and steadied her voice. “And you were right about something else, too. He didn’t share my feelings. Patrick didn’t. At least he never tried anything physically.”
And it was best he hadn’t, Harley thought. Not until Savannah had sorted things out with Michael.
“He scares me. Michael does. I don’t trust him. I think he might’ve …”
“Had something to do with Patrick’s death?”
She exhaled as if she were thankful to have at last tol
d someone. “Yes.”
“Why do you say that, Savannah? Why do you suspect Michael?”
“He’s just so jealous. Always thinking I’m out with somebody else—that I’m cheating on him. I think he used to follow me to Patrick’s house when I went there for our meetings.”
This, of course, was true, because Harley had seen him there herself.
“And then Marcy Cooper—you know her husband, Rick, works for Parks and Recreation—she told me Rick’s been seeing Michael in Briarwood Park at all hours of the day and night walking around. The only reason I could think he’d be going there is to spy on Patrick and me.”
“Because Patrick’s property abuts the park.”
“Yes.”
“And I don’t know where he’s been the last couple of nights,” she said. “He usually stops by my parents’ house for dinner or just to visit, but he hasn’t been coming by. Then I don’t hear from him until the next morning.”
Classical music lilted from the ballroom, and past the French doors, people gathered around the cocktail tables.
“I should get this over with,” Savannah said.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t have a choice. Don’t you see? I’ve never had a choice.”
Then she headed back along the path, her dress catching on stones, her gloomy expression a counterpoint to the merriment inside the lit ballroom.
37
A Revelation
“I’m the happiest man in the world.” Michael Sutcliffe spoke into the microphone then smiled at the crowd of people gathered in the ballroom. Standing behind him, Savannah had reaffixed her mask, a plastered smile of red lipstick and painted eyes that stared emptily into the crowd. Michael lifted his champagne coupe in a toast, and someone called out, “To Michael and Savannah,” which was repeated by the audience.
The clinks of glasses were followed by sips of cocktails, and the crowd mingled in small groups. Tina wove her way through the various clusters, offering a selection of hors d’oeuvres. How she walked in those three-inch stilettos while effortlessly balancing silver platters on her shoulders was an act of athletic prowess, Harley thought.
Harley rested her tired back against the bar, happy things would be over soon, at least for herself, she hoped. It was then that Jed Turner emerged from the crowd, having left Cheri behind to mingle with a group of women from the Notchey Creek Gardening Club. The whippet-thin Cheri made quite a statement in her black leather slip dress and knee-high stiletto boots. As the gardening club ladies presumably spoke of proper weeding and pruning practices, Cheri smiled in rote agreeability, all the while looking over their shoulders for someone more socially desirable to speak to.
Harley was happy to see Jed and Cheri were back together for the moment. Perhaps Jed would be in a better mood. However, this was not the case. He approached the bar and, pushing aside the display of small pumpkins and gourds, rested his elbows on the counter, heaving a bored sigh. He wore a gray silk suit and blue tie, a Super Bowl ring glittering from his finger. The little the barber had left of his brown hair made him appear like a drill sergeant.
“I need to talk to you,” he said with his usual charm.
“Okay.” Harley continued filling rows of champagne coupes.
“Expect me at the shop first thing tomorrow.”
Not saying another word, Jed made his way back to the grateful Cheri, who was by that time up to her stiletto boots in proper pruning and irrigation practices.
“The cocktails were phenomenal,” a male voice said, drawing Harley from her reverie. Eric Winston stood in front of the bar, smiling at her. Yesterday’s fatigue had lifted from his face, as had the day-old stubble, and he looked quite handsome in his black suit and tie.
He was tall and slim with a V-shaped torso, and had chiseled, angular features, accented by striking light-blue eyes. She could imagine him at an exclusive ski lodge in the Swiss Alps, sipping cognac by the fire in between runs on the slopes. Or perhaps on a thirty-foot yacht, his white linen clothes rippling in the breeze as he worked the sails. Afterward, he would change into an expensive suit like the one he wore then and dine on lobster and brut champagne at a five-star restaurant.
And that was the difference between them.
Harley examined her silly uniform, the burden of her red glasses weighing unusually heavy on her nose at that moment. Eric Winston was The Ritz. She was Bud’s Pool Hall.
“So what do you call this?” he asked, holding up his champagne coupe with a smile.
“The Seelbach.”
“Well, it sure is great. I mean, who knew champagne and whiskey could make such a good pairing?”
“Adam Seger. He’s the one who invented it. In the 1990s.”
“1990s?” Eric looked surprised. “I would’ve thought this was a lot older.”
“That’s what Seger wanted everyone to believe. He said he found the recipe on an old menu at the Seelbach Hotel in Louisville. Claimed the cocktail had once been the hotel’s signature drink and it predated Prohibition. And sometimes in the cocktail world, vintage is better, at least if you want to make a name for yourself.”
“Oh, the things people do,” Eric said, shaking his head. “And all for their five minutes of fame. Nonetheless, I’m glad he did it.”
He took another sip of his cocktail and rested the coupe on the bar. “And how are you doing, Harley?” His eyes searched hers with concern. “I was worried about you earlier—after what happened to Patrick. I kept thinking about you afterward. You know, if you ever need somebody to talk to, somebody to listen, I’m here.”
There was something about Eric Winston’s easy manner, his down-to-earth gentility that put her at ease. He was so caring and genuine and easy to talk to despite his intimidating good looks. His handsomeness seemed to matter nothing to him, as if he weren’t even aware of what other people saw when they looked at him.
“Thanks, Eric,” she said. “You’re the first person in all of this who’s taken the time to ask me how I’m doing, the first person to care. I appreciate it, and I can honestly say that I’m doing okay.”
“And you’ll let me know if you need something, right?”
“Of course.”
“Well, now, that I know you’re okay …” His voice adopted a more serious tone. “There’s something I need to tell you about Patrick.” He drew closer to the bar and created an invisible circle around them with his body.
“About the autopsy?” Harley asked, lowering her voice to match his.
“I found bruising on his neck and chest, consistent with having been restrained. Somebody held him down in the water—caused him to drown.”
“So he was murdered then?”
“Looks like it. And as of tonight, Jed’s changed the case from accidental drowning to homicide.”
Eric glanced around the bar area to ensure no one was within hearing distance of their conversation. “And there were drugs in his bloodstream. Not sure exactly what yet. I’ve put a rush on the toxicology reports, but they appear to be hallucinogenic in effect. The amount was significant.” He raised his brows. “If Patrick was acting strangely, as you say, and if he did go to the creek that night hoping to meet somebody, the drugs might explain it. And,” he said, “there’s one other thing.”
Harley waited with rapt attention.
“Patrick was dying.”
Harley braced herself to the bar, gripping the sides with her hands.
“Had cancer,” Eric said. “I spoke with his doctor earlier. He said Patrick had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer recently. A terrible disease—very aggressive. They call it the silent killer because there’s hardly any symptoms before it’s too late.”
“How long did he have?”
“Less than six months.”
Harley shifted her weight against the bar, trying to digest the news. “Everything makes so much more sense now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The reason Patrick had been actin
g so strangely. Not selling the land to Arthur Johnson for the shopping center and deciding to build the history museum there instead. He wanted the museum to be his legacy.” She did not mention that Patrick’s argument with Beau Arson had seemed confessional in nature, nor did she mention his connection to the disoriented homeless man in Briarwood Park.
Eric’s father, Dr. Peter Winston, appeared over his son’s shoulder, interrupting their conversation.
“Eric,” he said, an exasperated look on his face, “could you please go rescue your mother from Mrs. Petree? I have an early morning in the OR, and I need to get home.”
Dr. Peter Winston, a prominent surgeon in town, resembled an older version of his son, but was less handsome and far less pleasant. The perpetual scowl he wore gave him a pinched and soured look, as if he were always suffering from some physical or mental ailment.
“Ah, Dad,” Eric said, turning to look at his father. “You remember Harley Henrickson, don’t you?”
He offered a cursory glance in Harley’s direction, and finding her wanting, returned to his son. “Eric, please. Your mother.”
“Yes, Dad, I’ll get her.”
“I’ll be in the car.” Then Peter Winston made his way through the ballroom to the front of the house.
Eric turned to Harley. “Well, I guess that’s all for me too tonight. If you think of anything else about the case, please stop by my office at the hospital, okay?”
“Will do.”
“It was nice seeing you again, Harley.”
Then he ventured off to do his father’s bidding, rescuing his mother from a still-chattering Mrs. Petree.
Harley decided she would have to be careful around Eric Winston. Already she could sense a growing attraction to him, one she could not control. His gentle manner, his kindness, his intelligence were all very attractive to her. He was so well-adjusted, it seemed, and so stable. He could be someone she could lean on in difficult situations. But people like Eric Winston didn’t fall in love with people like Harley Henrickson.
Murder Comes to Notchey Creek Page 14