The Tale of Halcyon Crane (21 page)

I looked deeply into his eyes and knew I was hearing the truth.

“By the way,” he asked, as he rolled onto his back and stretched. “When did you have time to make dinner?”

I wasn’t sure what he meant. “I didn’t.”

“Somebody did. There’s a pot of something on the stove. I noticed it when I went down to the kitchen to get the wine.”

We both pulled on robes and investigated. It was true, there was a big pot of barbecued boneless spareribs simmering on the stove, along with cornbread muffins in the oven. Suddenly, I was famished.

“It looks fabulous,” he murmured.

After I had set the table and served us both big plates of ribs, I explained. “Must’ve been Iris.”

“This is the second time you’ve mentioned her. Who’s Iris?” Will wanted to know. It struck me as funny that, on an island this small, he didn’t already know her.

“The housekeeper,” I explained. “I found her going through Madlyn’s things the first day I moved in. She told me she had been keeping house here for decades. Her mother worked here before her, when the first Hills built the house.”

“Oh, right,” Will said slowly. “I vaguely remember Iris. I haven’t seen her in years. But of course I haven’t been to the house in years. Madlyn and I would do all our business in my office.” He thought a moment. “Iris was old thirty years ago,
or she looked old, at any rate. She must be—what—pushing eighty now?”

“More than that, I think,” I told him. “She told me she knew the triplets, used to play with them as a child. But that was ninety years ago.”

“And she still comes here to clean?”

“She cleans like a tornado.” I laughed. “Look at this place, it’s spotless. She cooks, too, as you can see.”

Will squinted at me. “Don’t you think it’s time Iris retired, slave mistress?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried to rip that dust mop from her hands on more than one occasion. I feel guilty every time she’s here, working like a dog while I sit around watching soap operas. But she won’t let me help and gets off ended when I tell her to take it easy.”

“She’s proud.”

“Yes, that’s it. She feels a sense of ownership of this place, and rightly so. She grew up here.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“You’ve got to meet her sometime. I’m telling you, Iris is the eeriest human being alive.”

“How so?”

“It’s her manner,” I mused. “She seems to have taken her persona right out of a Vincent Price film. Dour, ashen-faced. She wears a long black dress and winds her white hair into a tight bun on top of her head. And she comes and goes whenever she wants. I’ll get up in the morning and discover she’s been creeping around while I slept. She was down here in the kitchen today while we were—upstairs.”

Will laughed. “She sounds lovely.”

“Hey, at least she leaves food in her wake,” I said.

When we had finished eating, we went back upstairs, watched a Woody Allen movie, and then snuggled down in my bed. I slept better in Will’s arms than I had during my entire stay on this island: no ghostly visits, no scary dreams, nothing that went bump in the night—except each other.

T
he next morning I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee with Will when the phone rang. It was a call for him, oddly enough. He had given my number to his answering service, apparently, and now real life—a client from the mainland—was intruding on our love affair. I had imagined we’d spend the day together.

“Duty calls,” he said, kissing me goodbye. “I wasn’t expecting this conference call, but I’ve got to get to the office.”

I pouted. “That’s what they all say.”

He stopped and scooped me into his arms. “Dinner tonight?”

“I’ll cook,” I said. “I’ll make my famous Cornish pasty. You’ll love it.”

“I knew you’d force me into eating English food sooner or later.” He grinned as he made his way out the door.

A short while later I was climbing out of the shower and heard a soft whirring; someone was vacuuming downstairs. I pulled on my clothes and went down to greet Iris.

She scowled at me. “You’ve had an overnight guest.”

I wasn’t sure if she was simply making conversation, in
her strange and uneasy way, or if she was passing judgment on the fact that Will had spent the night. In any case, what business was it of hers?

“Yes,” I said, a bit too loudly, over the vacuum. “Will Archer. I hope to see a lot more of him.”

“Your choice, of course,” Iris muttered darkly, and went back to her vacuuming.

I was about to deliver a sermon about minding one’s own business when I thought better of it. Perhaps I could coax Iris to sit down with me again today. Maybe she’d tell me another story about the past. I could’ve sworn I saw a slight smile creep across her face as I walked past her toward the sunroom, as though she knew what power she held.

I whistled for the dogs, and we walked down the hill to the grocery store, to stock up for dinner tonight and for the coming weekend. It felt good to get out of the house and into the bright blue day. The dogs ran ahead, playing and barking and then circling back. They never strayed too far.

I’d learned that the grocery store had a delivery service for residents who didn’t have the means to get the bags back to their homes. Just pick out your groceries, pay for them, and they arrive on your doorstep within the hour. I was immensely grateful for this as I walked leisurely through the aisles, finding the ingredients for Cornish pasty and wild rice soup and throwing in some cheeses, fruit, crackers, and wine as well.

When I finished shopping, I went outside and whistled for the dogs. To my horror, there on the other side of the street stood Julie Sutton’s parents. I was not up for another confrontation with these people, so I tried to slink around the building
into the alley, but then I heard my name called. “Halcyon! Please wait!”
Damn it all.
I turned to find that they were walking across the street in my direction, so I steadied myself and braced for a fight.

I didn’t get one.

“Halcyon, I’m Frank Sutton,” Julie’s father said to me, extending his hand. “I believe you met my wife, June, the other day.”

I nodded, wondering where this was going. “That’s right.”

“I’m just sick about the way I treated you,” June Sutton said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I had no right to talk to you the way I did, and I want you to know I’m sorry.”

I squeezed her hands. “I can’t imagine what you went through back then. I can only tell you that I didn’t know anything about it until I got here to the island.”

“I know,” June said. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. It’s just that, after all these years—”

I could see she was close to losing it again, so I spoke up. “Please, think nothing of it. We’ll put it behind us and start fresh.”

The Suttons nodded, each suffering the particular hell that only parents who have lost a child can know, and we went our separate ways. I was more determined than ever to learn the truth about what had happened to their daughter, once and for all.

I walked up and down the streets of town, one destination on my mind. Finally, two blocks off Main Street in an old three-story brick building, I found what I was seeking: the police station.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the door to find a
man seated at a desk immersed in paperwork. He looked up as I walked in. “Ah . . . I’d like to inquire about the possibility of gaining access to the police files dealing with a closed case.”

He squinted at me. I wasn’t sure if he knew who I was or not. “Which case?”

“Well, it’s something that happened here on the island thirty years ago, and—”

He cut me off. “You’re Halcyon Crane.” He was not smiling.

I nodded, putting my hands on the counter. “That’s right. I’d like to see the file of the Julie Sutton investigation, please.”

“The Sutton
murder
,” he corrected me.

“Her death.” I could feel tension in the air between us, as though the very mention of the case was making this man angry.

He shook his head. “No can do, I’m afraid.”

I knew I couldn’t just waltz into the police station and emerge with the file, so I was prepared to fight. “Aren’t police records of closed cases, especially ones this old, a matter of public record?” I wasn’t sure about this, but I thought I’d seen it on a
Law & Order
episode.

He nodded. “You’re right. Closed cases
are
a matter of public record. But this case isn’t closed.”

“But”—I was confused—”it happened thirty years ago and the suspect is dead. Maybe you hadn’t heard that my father died a few weeks ago.”

“Dead or alive, his status has no bearing on the case,” the policeman told me. “It’s an open investigation.”

“I don’t understand. Are you investigating another suspect?”

The policeman shook his head. “In this state, all murder cases are considered open until they’re solved. We haven’t looked into this case since your father’s death—since he went
missing
thirty years ago. But that doesn’t mean the case is solved.”

“So there’s no way for me to get a look at the file.”

“Unfortunately, no.” And he went back to his work, or pretended to. Defeated, I gathered up my purse and went outside into the sunshine.

“Lost the battle but not the war,” I muttered to myself as I walked up the street.

Back at the house, I saw Iris had already set out some leftovers for lunch—ribs, bread, and a steaming cup of stew from the day before. She was at the stove when the dogs and I burst in through the back door.

“Won’t you join me for lunch, Iris?”

“No, miss, I’ve already eaten. This lunch is for you.” She also handed me a cup of tea, steam filling the air in front of me. It was a scent I didn’t recognize—a strange herbal concoction of earthy smells: moss, leaves, and autumn. “Your mother’s special blend.” Iris smiled, remembering, as she sat down at the kitchen table beside me, and I knew it was time for her to continue her story.

“I told you that Hannah recovered from the loss of her girls with strength and courage,” Iris began, “but that’s not entirely
the case. She did go on with her life, and she and Simeon did have another child: your grandfather, Charles Hill. He lived and died in this house. But that’s a story for another day.”

I took a big bite of the ribs, chewing slowly as she continued.

“Hannah went on with her life after the girls died, it’s true, but it was not without suffering and not without foolishness. She was destroyed by the loss of her daughters, as any mother would be. But the difference between Hannah and any other mother was that Hannah knew she had conceived those babies only with the help of the Witch of Summer Glen.”

I felt that familiar chill creeping up my spine. Iris’s eyes grew dark and cloudy.

“For weeks after the girls’ deaths, Hannah was consumed by a sort of madness. She was convinced that the children, while not actually alive—she had been at their funeral, everyone on the island had attended—were still hovering near her. Unexplainable things would happen around the house: a clock falling from the fireplace mantel, glasses shattering, doors opening and closing of their own volition. Hannah came to believe that the girls were causing these things to happen, and she concluded, to her horror, that her precious daughters were someplace between life and their heavenly reward. The girls hadn’t made it to heaven, Hannah believed, and she was frantic for their safety.”

“What did Simeon think about all of this?” I interrupted.

“Simeon?” She sneered. “He was a good man, to be sure, but an extraordinarily practical one. He put no stock in the otherworldly. Clocks falling, glass shattering, doors opening
and closing—these things could be easily explained. This was, and is, a drafty house.

“He had no idea, remember, that Hannah had visited the witch Martine in order to conceive those babies and that his daughters were the direct result of a spell. So he humored his wife. A bereaved mother must be permitted ample time to grieve, after all, no matter what form that grief takes.

“Privately, however, he visited with the minister on the island—a devout missionary with no tolerance for anyone who did not conform to the line of strict church doctrine. He also consulted her doctor, who quietly suggested medication or even committal if Hannah’s hysteria didn’t resolve itself in short order. So Simeon held his breath and waited, watching his wife closely as he talked to her in the most gentle of tones.

“One afternoon when Simeon had gone to work, she saddled up her horse and rode to the other side of the island. She had questions, and she knew only one person who could answer them.”

“Martine.”

Iris nodded. “Although it had been nearly nine years since she had last seen her, the witch was waiting. Hannah told Martine the whole tragic story: her daughters had perished in the blizzard but had somehow managed to guide their mother to safety, sparing her their tragic fate.

“ ‘I am convinced they are still with me, there in the house,’ Hannah said to the witch.

“ ‘How do you know this?’ Martine asked, absently handing Hannah a cup of tea.