Somebody Else's Music (3 page)
Read Somebody Else's Music Online
Authors: Jane Haddam
“Well,” she said instead. “I'd better let you go.”
“Right,” Emma said. “Drop in after work. I'm going to be here all night. George's gone over to Harrisburg to pick up some things.”
“All right,” Belinda said. Then the phone began to buzz in her ear, and she felt an electric jolt of resentment go through her, as if she'd stuck her finger in a light socket. Except, she thought, it wasn't like that, because a light socket could kill you, and she wasn't dead.
Belinda hung up and went back to the railing to see what Laurel was doing now, but Laurel was still talking to the elderly woman, and the library was still mostly empty. Far too often lately, it felt to her as if nothing ever happened in Hollman at all.
3
No matter what Belinda thought, Emma Kenyon Bligh did not go silent every time anyone brought up The Incident, except in the sense that she was struck dumb by boredom, which was not what Belinda meant. Unlike the others, Emma had never really been able to think of The Incident as significant. Yes, Michael Houseman had died, but a lot of people they'd gone to school with had died over the years, some of them even younger than Michael had been. Carolanne Verelli, for instance, had died of leukemia when they were all only eight, and Mitch Wazinski and Tom Kolchek had killed themselves junior year, trying to drive
the complete length of Clapboard Ridge at 105 miles an hour in a Volkswagen bug. Emma found something morbid about this constant picking at an incident that had been finished years agoâdecades ago, by now. It didn't seem to her to matter that they had been out in the same park on the same night, boarding Betsy up in that damned outhouse with those silly little snakes. It was the kind of thing you did in those days. Every school class had a target. It was just the way the world worked. Looked at rationally, from a perspective without sentimentality, it was more the target's fault than anybody else's, and Emma had been very careful to make sure neither of her own daughters was in any danger. What she would have done if one or the other of them had been like Betsy, with that queer turn of mind and the need to be carrying a book around every place she went, she didn't know. At any rate, it hadn't come up. Both her girls had been models of sanity and popularity. Both of them had been cheerleaders, and Tiffany had been both a prom princess and the student council president her senior year. Now they were safely out of the house and settled with husbands, not too far away. They had both gone to UP-Johnstown. They had both gotten degrees in education. They had both quit work for three years after their first children were born. All in all, it had turned out very well, and Emma had not had to worry for a moment that one of them would suddenly develop a desire to move to California or go to medical school. She hesitated to admit itâpeople always took it the wrong wayâbut she had been far more worried that the girls would be too intellectual than she had that they would be too ugly. You could always get ugly fixed with plastic surgery.
the complete length of Clapboard Ridge at 105 miles an hour in a Volkswagen bug. Emma found something morbid about this constant picking at an incident that had been finished years agoâdecades ago, by now. It didn't seem to her to matter that they had been out in the same park on the same night, boarding Betsy up in that damned outhouse with those silly little snakes. It was the kind of thing you did in those days. Every school class had a target. It was just the way the world worked. Looked at rationally, from a perspective without sentimentality, it was more the target's fault than anybody else's, and Emma had been very careful to make sure neither of her own daughters was in any danger. What she would have done if one or the other of them had been like Betsy, with that queer turn of mind and the need to be carrying a book around every place she went, she didn't know. At any rate, it hadn't come up. Both her girls had been models of sanity and popularity. Both of them had been cheerleaders, and Tiffany had been both a prom princess and the student council president her senior year. Now they were safely out of the house and settled with husbands, not too far away. They had both gone to UP-Johnstown. They had both gotten degrees in education. They had both quit work for three years after their first children were born. All in all, it had turned out very well, and Emma had not had to worry for a moment that one of them would suddenly develop a desire to move to California or go to medical school. She hesitated to admit itâpeople always took it the wrong wayâbut she had been far more worried that the girls would be too intellectual than she had that they would be too ugly. You could always get ugly fixed with plastic surgery.
She looked down at the pile of things on the counter that she had stacked neatly to place into a brown paper bag, and realized she had been paying no attention to her customer the entire time she had been ringing up. The customer was not anybody she knew, but she wasn't a tourist, either. Tourists bought yarn dolls on polished wood stands or handmade wooden spinning wheels that could really spin
if they ever wanted to learn how to use them. This woman had bought supplies: thirty yards of yarn; six packets of multicolored pipe cleaners; a wire wreath frame; a bag of cotton flannel scraps that could be stitched together to make the shell of a quilt or a comforter cover. Emma looked up at her and smiled, uncertainly. Her lined elderly face did not smile back.
if they ever wanted to learn how to use them. This woman had bought supplies: thirty yards of yarn; six packets of multicolored pipe cleaners; a wire wreath frame; a bag of cotton flannel scraps that could be stitched together to make the shell of a quilt or a comforter cover. Emma looked up at her and smiled, uncertainly. Her lined elderly face did not smile back.
“It should come to sixteen dollars and forty-six cents, with tax,” the woman said.
Emma took the woman's twenty-dollar bill and started to make change. What gave her pause, what really made her silent when she and Belinda had these conversations, was the fact that she knew something Belinda did not know, and that she had not been able to explain no matter how often she had tried. Unlike Belinda, she had actually seen Betsy once since they all graduated from high school. Maris had gone away to Vassar and come back every summer for vacation, but Betsy had never come back, and Maris had never had that much to say about her.
“She's Betsy Wetsy,” Maris would tell them when they asked. “She has practically no friends. She's not important. She sinks into the woodwork. She isn't an academic star. The college is probably sorry they ever took her.”
From Maris's reports, Emma had expected Betsy to go on looking the same, a little frumpy, a little heavy without being heavy enough to be called fat, her hair hanging limp and her clothes always mismatched and one or two sizes too big. It had occurred to her, once or twice, in high school, that Betsy just didn't
care
about the way she lookedâbut that had seemed so fantastic, she had never been able to maintain the thought for more than a minute and a half. She, like most girls, spent at least an hour a day making sure she looked the way she was supposed to look. She slept every night on rollers the size of beer cans so that her hair would curl up at the ends in exactly the right way at exactly the right place, and if she couldn't find the knee socks that matched the Bobbie Brooks skirt and sweater set she had intended to wear to school, she found something
else to put on. Shoes were Bass Weejuns. Pocketbooks were hard leather shoulder bags in British tan that could only be had at Elsa-Edna's right in the middle of town. Betsy's father had been the richest man in the entire county, a lawyer with a state-wide reputation, but Nancy Quayde had seen it with her own eyes that Betsy bought her school clothes off the rack at Bradlee's bargain store.
care
about the way she lookedâbut that had seemed so fantastic, she had never been able to maintain the thought for more than a minute and a half. She, like most girls, spent at least an hour a day making sure she looked the way she was supposed to look. She slept every night on rollers the size of beer cans so that her hair would curl up at the ends in exactly the right way at exactly the right place, and if she couldn't find the knee socks that matched the Bobbie Brooks skirt and sweater set she had intended to wear to school, she found something
else to put on. Shoes were Bass Weejuns. Pocketbooks were hard leather shoulder bags in British tan that could only be had at Elsa-Edna's right in the middle of town. Betsy's father had been the richest man in the entire county, a lawyer with a state-wide reputation, but Nancy Quayde had seen it with her own eyes that Betsy bought her school clothes off the rack at Bradlee's bargain store.
The woman in Fortnum & Mason's that morning in July had been nothing at all like a frump, and her clothes hadn't come from some bargain knockoff place where all the seams gapped while the clothes still hung on their hangers. That was why it had taken Emma as long as it had to believe she was seeing what she was seeing. She was in Fortnum & Mason's with a tour group. She and her husbandâGeorge Bligh, from the class ahead of theirs at schoolâhad joined it to celebrate their fifteenth wedding anniversary. Neither of them had been to Europe before, and the idea of having a guide and an itinerary to protect them had seemed like the only sensible choice. Emma remembered staying up all night the morning before they were supposed to leave, worrying about everything that could go wrong. What if something happened to the plane? What if they weren't able to make the right connections at JFK in New York? What if they got mugged? What if they got robbed? What if they got lost? Emma did not like to travel, not really. It was too unsettling on too many different levels, and there was always the danger that she would come back somehow changed, so that her own real life wouldn't feel real to her anymore. It was the same problem she would have had if one of the girls had wanted to go somewhere fancy for college. That sort of thing changed youâit had even changed Marisâand Emma had never really believed that a change could be for the better.
It was their last morning in London before moving on to Wales. The tour guides thought that Fortnum & Mason's would be a good place to go for novelties and souvenirs. Emma had already decided that it was not, because it was far too expensive, and the things it carried were far too
odd. One whole aisle was taken up with food she could have bought anytime she wanted to, at home, but at prices so exorbitant they made her breathless even before she did the currency conversion from pounds into dollars. Kraft macaroni and cheese, Miracle Whip, Skippy peanut butter, Niblets brand corn, Twinkiesâwomen in plain cotton shirtwaist dresses and thick cawing British accents snapped them up, telling each other how it was much less expensive when they got a package sent to them from their married daughter in New York, but she was pregnant now and not able to get around as easily as she used to, so they had to pay the prices here. Other aisles contained things Emma didn't know if she believed: eels in gelatin, tins of pate made out of lamb brains and strip bacon and butter. The worst thing was the big glass case with the candy in it. Emma loved candy. It was why she weighed nearly 250 pounds by the time she'd had her second daughter, and had probably weighed 50 pounds more than that on that day in London. No matter how expensive it was, she would have bought candy if she could have found any she liked, but the glass case was full of abominations. Candied violets turned out to be candied violets. They had a bright purple flower hardened by sugar on top of a chocolate shell, and when people bit into them they oozed a bright purple creme. Candied ginger turned out to be candied ginger, too. When you bit into
that
, it burned your mouth.
odd. One whole aisle was taken up with food she could have bought anytime she wanted to, at home, but at prices so exorbitant they made her breathless even before she did the currency conversion from pounds into dollars. Kraft macaroni and cheese, Miracle Whip, Skippy peanut butter, Niblets brand corn, Twinkiesâwomen in plain cotton shirtwaist dresses and thick cawing British accents snapped them up, telling each other how it was much less expensive when they got a package sent to them from their married daughter in New York, but she was pregnant now and not able to get around as easily as she used to, so they had to pay the prices here. Other aisles contained things Emma didn't know if she believed: eels in gelatin, tins of pate made out of lamb brains and strip bacon and butter. The worst thing was the big glass case with the candy in it. Emma loved candy. It was why she weighed nearly 250 pounds by the time she'd had her second daughter, and had probably weighed 50 pounds more than that on that day in London. No matter how expensive it was, she would have bought candy if she could have found any she liked, but the glass case was full of abominations. Candied violets turned out to be candied violets. They had a bright purple flower hardened by sugar on top of a chocolate shell, and when people bit into them they oozed a bright purple creme. Candied ginger turned out to be candied ginger, too. When you bit into
that
, it burned your mouth.
When the woman in the yellow dress walked through the door, Emma's first thought was:
Oh, my God. That's Betsy Wetsy
. Then she backtracked, because she couldn't quite figure out how she knew. Most probably she
didn't
know, she told herself. What would Betsy Wetsy be doing in London, and how could she have transformed herself into this, thisâwhat? It wasn't that this woman was good-looking, although she was, in an odd way that had nothing to do with what Emma had always called “cute.” It was the aura, if there was any such thing, the easy grace that came from a radiating confidence so complete it drew attention from half the people in the room. It was a big room, and
crowded, and noisy, and the woman in the yellow dress wasn't speaking much above the level you'd use to talk to a good friend in a quiet corner over teaâbut people were looking at her anyway, as if she were royalty or a movie star, somebody they felt they ought to know.
Oh, my God. That's Betsy Wetsy
. Then she backtracked, because she couldn't quite figure out how she knew. Most probably she
didn't
know, she told herself. What would Betsy Wetsy be doing in London, and how could she have transformed herself into this, thisâwhat? It wasn't that this woman was good-looking, although she was, in an odd way that had nothing to do with what Emma had always called “cute.” It was the aura, if there was any such thing, the easy grace that came from a radiating confidence so complete it drew attention from half the people in the room. It was a big room, and
crowded, and noisy, and the woman in the yellow dress wasn't speaking much above the level you'd use to talk to a good friend in a quiet corner over teaâbut people were looking at her anyway, as if she were royalty or a movie star, somebody they felt they ought to know.
Emma pinched George on the elbow and said, “George. Listen. Isn't that Betsy Wetsy?”
“Who?”
“Betsy Toliver. From Hollman.”
“There's nobody like that in Hollman,” George said confidently. “I'd have noticed.”
“I don't mean from Hollman now,” Emma said. Sometimes George made her so frustrated, she wanted to break his neck. “From when we were in high school. Betsy Toliver. You know. The girl who was locked in the outhouse at the park the night Michael Houseman died.”
George squinted, as if that could make him see better. He'd run to fat, just as Emma herself had, and for most of the time they had been on this tour he had been uncomfortable. Everything the Europeans madeâchairs, sofas, beds, the aisles in theaters and fancy storesâwas just so small, he couldn't fit into it. Once, at a restaurant in Scotland, he'd had to have a chair brought especially from the manager's office so that he could sit down at all.
“You know,” he said. “I think it is. I think it is Betsy Toliver.”
She was standing at the side of the candy counter, attended by a deferential man with a clipboard, her head bent, listening. There was, really, no mistaking it. It had to be Betsy Toliver. It could be no one else. What Emma had thought was the one conclusive proof she was notâshe was too tallâturned out to be a pair of two-and-half-inch-stacked high heels. The man with the clipboard was nodding, pointing to things on the paper in front of him. Betsy was pushing one long-fingered hand through the thick permed cloud of her hair, and as she did the large diamond on her fourth finger glinted in the uncertain illumination of the display lights.
“Yes, madam, everything is very much in order,” the man with the clipboard was saying. “The package will be delivered to Hollman, Pennsylvania, USA, no later than noon on July twenty-fourth. It's all arranged. Once it reaches New York by international carrier, it will be carried inside the United States by the United Parcel Service.”
Emma was standing so close, she could have touched Betsy on the cheek. Some part of her was signaling that she should do just that. Wasn't there something odd about running into an old ⦠acquaintance ⦠thousands of miles from home, and not even making yourself known to her? If she went back and told Belinda and Nancy and Chris just how this had happened, they would think she was off her head. It didn't make any sense to run into Betsy Wetsy in Fortnum & Mason's and not even find out what she was doing with her life. Still, Emma made no move in Betsy's direction, and George didn't either, because he recognized exactly what she did: there was something about Betsy, something that put her totally beyond their reach, so that either one of them would have been ashamed to have her see them the way they looked now.
The man with the clipboard held it out to Betsy. She took it, took the pen off the metal clasp, and signed. When she handed it back, the man had a candied violet to offer her, and she laughed.
“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I'm going to go eat this on the sidewalk so I don't get the urge to buy a pound and take them home. Have a good afternoon, Terence. I'm sorry I put you through so much trouble.”
“It was no trouble at all, madam. I hope very much we can be of service to you again.”
“Twice a year, Christmas and her birthday. You've been wonderful. Thank you, again.”
Betsy turned around and went across the large open front section between the candy case and the front door, and then she was gone. For a moment, Emma could still see her through the windows, striding out onto the sidewalk. In no
time at all, though, she had disappeared, and Emma found herself counting it all up in her head: the yellow dress, real silk, and fully lined; the shoes; the handbag; the hair; the diamond engagement ring, backed as it was by a thick gold band more like the ones men wore than the ones women did. Emma looked down at her own shoes, good sensible canvas ones so that her feet wouldn't hurt if she walked too much in the city. She looked at her own diamond engagement ring, which George had bought her when she had only been out of high school a year. She looked at the canvas tote bag she was carrying instead of a real purse, because she thought it would be better for carrying the things they bought when they went to the kind of places that really interested her, like the Tower of London.
time at all, though, she had disappeared, and Emma found herself counting it all up in her head: the yellow dress, real silk, and fully lined; the shoes; the handbag; the hair; the diamond engagement ring, backed as it was by a thick gold band more like the ones men wore than the ones women did. Emma looked down at her own shoes, good sensible canvas ones so that her feet wouldn't hurt if she walked too much in the city. She looked at her own diamond engagement ring, which George had bought her when she had only been out of high school a year. She looked at the canvas tote bag she was carrying instead of a real purse, because she thought it would be better for carrying the things they bought when they went to the kind of places that really interested her, like the Tower of London.
“Well,” George said. “
She's
changed a lot, hasn't she?”
She's
changed a lot, hasn't she?”
“You've given me ten cents too much change,” the old woman said, tapping her knuckles against the counter next to her brown paper bags. “I don't think you're paying attention. I don't think you've heard a single word I've said the whole time I've been in here.”
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