Venom and the River (25 page)

Peach rushed across the stage to take Roberta’s arm and soak up some of the applause for herself. She gripped Roberta’s elbow, turning her this way and that to face the cheering women in all corners of the large room. Her lilac skirt billowed as she moved.

Emily and Joe made a break for a side door. They were holding hands.

Peach blew them a kiss from the stage as they escaped. Hundreds of Little Girls laughed.

Leigh dropped back down in her seat, no longer applauding.

The sun had set only a few minutes earlier, but already the path to the cottage was dark. Leigh stumbled twice on tree roots, nearly falling both times. She’d have to learn to carry a flashlight. Not that she’d be in town much longer. As soon as the book was finished she’d be gone. And that was the best-case scenario. Chances were getting better all the time that she’d have a precipitous departure, either fired by Terry’s daughters or her cover would be blown and Terry would have to let her go.

Or none of the above, perhaps. Maybe she should simply get out of town while it was still simmering with Little Girls and Terry’s girls. Take a leave, escort Emily home, get her away from this romance with Joe. Put her arms around her daughter.

There was some sudden movement in the brush along the path, then muffled feminine laughter.

“Emily, is that you?”

A few yards away, almost at the cottage clearing, two shadows slipped out of the trees and ran across the path. “Damn,” one whispered. “Twisted my ankle.”

“Emily?”

Two figures walked out of the trees. One limped.

“Got us!” said the woman on the left, and her companion giggled. “Don’t be alarmed. We’re just on a little nighttime sortie. Roberta’s talk inspired us to see the real brown chair. We didn’t think the guard would be on duty, not when everyone was still down at the book signing and reception.”

Leigh sighed. Little Girls. “Are you okay?”

“Nothing a quick rest in the chair wouldn’t cure,” the woman on the right said.

“I’m sorry.” Leigh stood on the stoop and watched them depart, the woman’s limp getting less pronounced as they disappeared down the path.

The deadbolt gave her trouble until on the third attempt she realized it was already unlocked. Had she left it that way, or was Emily inside with the boy? She opened the door, shouted hello, counted to ten, and flipped on a light.

Her backpack had been moved. It rested on its side on the desk, unzipped and gaping. She righted it and peered in. Her wallet was there, and the red folder still bulged with Ida May’s letters. She moved quickly to the big chair. The first Seville was on the wall; it had been framed and hung the moment Marti had returned it after scanning it for Roberta’s speech. Leigh picked up the old frame and checked between the pieces of cardboard that had backed the drawings. She fell to her knees and checked the floor, then sat back on her heels and sighed. The naughty Seville was gone.

*

Terry’s daughters were framed by the kitchen window. Dara held a large silver pitcher. Delia was shaking her head. Leigh knocked on the door, and the two women jerked around, staring into the dark yard.

Dana opened the door. “You.”

“I hoped I could say goodnight to your dad,” Leigh said, entering before Dana could tell her to leave.

“He’d like that,” Delia said.

“He’s ready to go to bed,” said Dana.

“I know the rules. I won’t be long.”

Terry smiled broadly when she entered the study. He pointed to the brandy. “Pour a night cap for each of us. Don’t be stingy this time.”

Leigh did as her boss commanded. After she’d warmed herself with a first sip, she sat down. She pulled the newly-framed Seville out of her backpack and dropped it on his lap. “I can’t be responsible for that, not another moment. I’ve been told that it’s worth several thousand dollars, and it should be locked up. What’s more, I’d like your permission to invite three hundred women into the cottage tomorrow morning. I promise to stand guard over small objects that could be easily stolen and you can dock any damages from my pay.” She took another sip. Lord, it was good brandy. “And while I’m at it, I sincerely hope you’ve left something—a lot of something—in your will to the local library.” Another sip. “This is really good stuff, Terry. I’ll miss our nightcaps.”

“Sounds like you’re quitting.”

His white hair stood on end. He hadn’t shaved, or been shaved, and his shirt had been buttoned wrong.

She slouched in the chair and sighed. “No. I’m staying. We’ll finish the book. And I’m sorry about mentioning your will and the library. None of my business.”

“Those women finally get to you?”

She nodded.

“You weren’t serious about letting them tour the cottage tomorrow, were you?”

After a moment, she shook her head. “But I am serious about that drawing. Things can disappear.” She rocked her tumbler, watching the brandy slosh in the glass.

The voices in the kitchen became briefly audible. His raised his drink toward the door. “To daughters. You’ll join me in that toast won’t you, Leigh?”

She raised her glass. “To daughters.”

He sipped, then tipped his head back, savoring the taste with pursed lips. He set the glass down hard. “My daughters are busy taking inventory. They’ll want to know about that drawing, that’s for sure. They’ll want to add it to the total.”

She shook her head, thinking about the missing drawing. Surely that was worth even more.

“For two days now I’ve heard them roam all over, just like when they were young. Back then they were seeking hiding places, adventure, the odd relic with a good story. Now they’re counting chicks before they’ve hatched.”

“They may be eyeing the family silver, Terry, but your daughters have made some good decisions for you. The walker will be helpful.” She pointed to the corner of the study where a hospital bed had been set up. “That’s new.”

He swore. “I’m not so decrepit I can’t still handle the stairs. It’s like they’re taunting me, Leigh. Taunting me with my infirmity and approaching death.”

“One fall, Terry—”

“You think I don’t know what falls do to people my age? I thought you were on my side. Where have you been all day? You’ve abandoned me too, just like Geneva.”

“Geneva hasn’t abandoned you. She calls every day. And I am on your side.”

He snorted. “Your turn will come, just wait. That daughter who’s broken your heart will do it again and again and again. What’s she up to tonight? Found a local boy, I bet. Just like her mother!”

“Yes, in fact. My daughter seems to be enjoying the company of Peach Wickham’s son.”

As he laughed, his expression again revealed a gleeful boy. Leigh rose, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. She fell back into her chair.

He wagged a finger. “Now I understand why you want me to let the women into the cottage. Start a ruckus, cause some damage, and by the terms of the trust the Bancroft fortune goes to Ida May’s heirs. Your daughter’s new boyfriend!”

“Very funny, Terry.”

He picked up his glass and smiled into it. “You could have that woman at all your holiday parties the rest of your life.”

“Stop it.”

“You’ve cheered me up tonight.”

“And you’ve cheered me up. Thank you, Terry.”

“No more nonsense about the cottage?”

“None.”

“I’ll think about the library, though. That’s a good idea. It’s been a long time since the Bancrofts gave anything to this town. Granddad had everything tied up so tightly. He sure as hell didn’t give anything to the town or anyone in it. He was so bitter, so angry about the doctor, about how she was treated, how it all ended. The way people rallied around Grandmother.”

“He surely shouldered some of that guilt.”

There was no hint of the gleeful boy in the face of the man who studied her. Then he turned and looked out the window, his hand automatically lifting and tracing the tree.

She’d learned to wait, working with these old men. To sit silently and wait for the rush of memories to ebb and they’d reclaimed a foothold on the present. She sipped brandy.

He dropped his hand into his lap and said, “Granddad told me once that he and the doctor had planned to leave town together when the girl had gone back to college after that Christmas vacation. He had some business in St. Louis to finish up, then he was returning to Pepin to get his lover. They planned to leave town and leave my grandmother forever.”

“But she killed herself.”

Terry stared at her a long moment. “Granddad told me…” his voice broke. “He told me… Oh hell. There’s no proof now and there wasn’t any back then. Granddad suspected something, but what could he do? Accuse his own wife, the mother of his children? That’s why he moved into the cottage. He was heartbroken. His lover was dead, and how could he live with the woman he suspected of killing her?”

Leigh set down her glass. “Your grandmother murdered Susan Turnbull?”

“My grandmother couldn’t even boil water, Leigh. She was a Chandler from Boston, which she never failed to remind everyone, and Chandler women were reared to do nothing but give orders to others. She had help for everything. From the lowest domestic to the county sheriff—everyone in this town hustled when Lila Bancroft gave the word. No, Granddad thought she’d gotten someone to do it for her.”

“But there were suicide notes.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s all part of the Little Girl mythology, Terry. I’ve been piecing it together since I moved to town. Two suicide notes left in the cottage on the fireplace mantel.”

He nodded. “There were. But for a woman who could arrange a murder, creating two letters would not have been a problem.”

“You believe it’s true?”

“Granddad was sick, Leigh. Bitter and sick. He stayed alone in the cottage for years, rarely seeing anyone but a few business associates and the woman who went in to clean and cook. No family. My parents and aunts and uncles were furious with him, because of his treatment of my grandmother. He didn’t care. He was happy they stayed away. He didn’t like anyone else to be in the cottage. Her cottage. But he let me visit. We’d always been great friends. The last time I saw him I’d just started law school and he wanted to know all about that. He told me then all that he believed about Susan Turnbull’s death. Told me about the suicide notes, how he was certain they weren’t written by the woman he loved, how they’d been immediately confiscated by the sheriff after he and the daughter had only one chance to see the note the doctor had left each of them.”

“How did he know it was a fake?”

“The handwriting, I think. Something about the language, maybe. I don’t remember, Leigh. It was so long ago when he told me the story, and the woman’s death had happened long before then. But it wasn’t just the sham of the note that made him suspect my grandmother had a hand in it. The sheriff’s boy was given a good job with one of the Bancroft companies about then, one he surely didn’t earn on merit. And Grandmother’s driver and general dog’s body started his own business. Grandpa thought Josh, the driver, was probably the actual killer. The great-grandfather of the man who fixed your car.” He pointed to a pitcher of water. “Please.”

He drank slowly until the glass was empty. “He didn’t know for sure, of course, but he believed my grandmother arranged the killing, maybe even watched. He believed that, Leigh. To his dying day he believed his wife killed the woman he loved. He sat in your little cottage and thought about it, day after day. And I thought I had a bad cancer.”

His daughters’ voices grew closer and louder. Leigh and Terry held still until Dana and Delia had passed the study and gone up stairs.

Terry closed his eyes. “What the hell, Leigh. Put it in my book. Put it all in. Sylvia. Geneva. Tucker. My grandfather’s obsession with his murdered lover and his murdering wife. Put it all in. And give credit to yourself: Thanks to Leigh Burton, who was interested in the dark side.”

“It’s a political memoir, Terry.”

“You’ll finish it, Leigh, won’t you? No matter what trouble my girls give you, you write my story. And you write it any way you want and put in anything you want. I don’t want anyone saying we didn’t write an honest book. Promise?”

“Yes, Terry. I promise.”

11.

Lights went out in Roberta’s room as Leigh approached the cottage. She entered quietly and got ready for bed quickly, all the while hoping her guest would come out to talk and hoping she wouldn’t. What was there to say after a day like this? Nice speech, sorry about the blackmail, any idea where my daughter is?

Reading was hopeless. She reread the same page of
Paris Nocturne
three times. Even a rather detailed tryst on a train couldn’t hold her attention. She finally gave up. She was about to give up on trying to sleep when she heard the cottage door open and close. Leigh pushed up on an elbow and reached for the lamp when Emily came into the bedroom. “I’m awake. Honey, I’m so sorry about today and—”

Just as the light went on, Emily stumbled into the airbed, sending the lightweight mattress scooting across the bare floor and into a nightstand.
Paris Nocturne
toppled off the small table, hit the mattress, and bounced up just as Emily fell forward.