Art’s Blood

Vicki Lane

A DELL BOOK

TO FLETA AND JOSIE, FOR ARTISTIC INSPIRATION,

AND TO JOHN, FOR ALL THE POPCORN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

IT MAY NOT QUITE TAKE A VILLAGE TO PUBLISH A BOOK, but it does take a lot of folks. These are some who have helped me along the way.

Kate Miciak always pushes me to do better. What a great editor! Ann Collette, my terrific agent, is a source of encouragement and funny e-mails. Jamie Warren Youll designed the beautiful covers for Signs in the Blood and Art’s Blood. Deborah Dwyer’s copyediting kept me straight. Thanks to Caitlin Alexander, Loyale Coles, and Katie Rudkin— all part of the team at Bantam Dell.

Thanks are due as well to Candace Aldridge Rice for creating and maintaining my Web site. Rachel Mosler gave me a glimpse into the life of a River District artist, and Sebastian Stuart helped with background tidbits about Boston. Victoria Baker showed me around her beautiful herb and flower farm and told me about the business of growing herbs and flowers. Thanks to Karol Kavaya for proofreading again.

Many thanks to the Bag Ladies of Waynesville, North Carolina, for astute comments re Phillip Hawkins, and to Dr. Marianna Daly, Kimberly Bell O’Day, and Christie Hughes for advice about poisons.

Note: The twice-yearly studio strolls in Asheville’s River District take place in June and November, not in September. Art’s Blood is, after all, fiction….

The following books were useful to me: The Proper Bostonians by Cleveland Amory (E.P. Dutton & Co., New York, 1947); Jane Hicks Gentry: A Singer Among Singers by Betty N. Smith (The University Press of Kentucky, 1998); and Gift from the Hills: Miss Lucy Morgan’s Story of her unique Penland School by Lucy Morgan with Legette Blythe (The Bobbs-Merrill Company, Inc., New York, 1958).

PROLOGUE

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— FIRST ENTRY

I still see the bed— its wide white expanse floating like a snowy island on the deep pearly carpet— the creamy tufted silk coverlet neatly folded back— the soft heaped pillows, their pale lace soaked and stiff with her blood. Even the smells come back to me— Chanel No. 22, that sweet, springlike fragrance she always wore— the scent of the white roses on the nightstand— and something else— a harsh, ugly, insistent smell— cloying and faintly metallic. And after all these years I still see her satin slippers beside the bed, placed neatly parallel to await a morning that never came— and the shadowy marks of her heels on the linings almost too much to bear.

On that day and until the day we buried her, he had seemed broken— weeping and bewildered, letting himself display a weakness none would have imagined. Was it genuine sorrow, I wonder now, or only a charade, as subsequent revelations would seem to suggest? And the child— so beautiful, so like her mother that it broke my heart to look at her— the child remained dry-eyed and quiet— already, I see now, beginning the long retreat that has transformed her into what she is today. And these are the scenes, the faces that haunt my nights.

I have noted, as the years go by, that I seem to require less and less sleep. But recently the dreams have been so persistent— I awake each morning haggard and weary, and at the end of the day, the bed is no longer a comfortable refuge but a loathsome penance. I approach it, in the words of Bryant’s “Thanatopsis,” “like the quarry-slave at night, / Scourged to his dungeon.”

* * *

My faithful Reba was aware of these tormented nights almost before I had allowed myself to see the pattern forming. At first she was content to dose me with her chamomile or catnip tea at bedtime, but when these had little effect on the dreams, she nagged at me until I agreed to see Dr. P. Not a usual thing for her, as Reba generally puts her faith in herbal nostrums and her supposed healing powers as seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Remarkable, to find the old beliefs still so strong in this new century. I’m certain that the imaginations of my Biltmore Forest neighbors would be titillated by the news that Lily Gordon’s housekeeper is a self-proclaimed “witchy-woman.” What a delicate morsel of fresh gossip for their cocktail hour now that the years have leached the juice from the old scandals.

After a second week of troubled nights, my witchy-woman conceded defeat. Miss Lily, you ain’t doin no good, she pronounced in her flat mountain voice, stripping the rumpled sheets from my bed with her usual brisk efficiency. Woman your age, you need your sleep. You kin fire me if you want to but I’m callin that doctor of yourn. We’ll see what he says about all this dreamin.

And after a consultation and the usual tedious rounds of inconclusive tests, it was at Dr. P’s suggestion that I began this journal. There’s no obvious physical explanation for your disturbed nights, he said, tapping the sheaf of papers on the desk before him. I could write you a prescription that would ensure sleep, even dreamless sleep— but I’d rather you try something else first. The fewer medications, the better, is my opinion. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a slim, blue-covered book, and offered it to me.

It’s a diary, he said, looking a little sheepish as I raised my eyebrows. I want you to record everything that keeps you awake— doubts, fears, even confessions. We all have our sins of omission as well as commission. If something troubles you, write it down. No one will ever read your journal; I want you to do it for yourself alone. Just write everything down and then let it go, he said. Burn the pages as soon as you finish them, if you like. I smiled grimly as I took the little book from him. A woman of my age had best keep the matches near to hand, I told him.

Dr. P patted my shoulder in that irritatingly patronizing manner of his and called me a wonder. With all you’ve weathered, he said, it’s not surprising that you have bad dreams. He explained, as if to a child, that dreams are often caused by the mind’s sifting through matters inadequately resolved in the waking hours— experiences, thoughts, emotions too unpleasant to be dealt with and so, repressed. Earlier, P had the effrontery to suggest that I see a psychiatrist, to work through some of these issues, as he called them, but I dismissed that idea as preposterous. And thus he proposed the journal.

If only you were a Roman Catholic, he chuckled. There’s much to be said for a routine examination of conscience followed by confession and absolution. Clears the mind, so to speak. Many people blame themselves for trivialities when they’ve lost someone. They think, If only I’d done this or hadn’t done that…He helped me up and walked with me to the door where Buckley was waiting. P is a fool in many ways— there are things I would never speak of, even to a priest. But P could be right in this instance. Perhaps putting these memories down on paper, giving them a shape, however ephemeral ( for I do intend to burn these pages), will help me to a less troubled sleep.

So now I have my journal to keep me company through the interminable afternoons— the quiet, tedious hours when the tick of the clock in the hall seems to slow and hang suspended like a dust mote in the fading light— the light that dims inexorably, as if in rehearsal for the long night which creeps closer with every heartbeat, like the fog rolling in across the harbor in my childhood. In these times, as I drowse in my chair, the pen slipping from my fingers, the past is present, the dead still live. And it is at these times that I see F as she was then, my mountain flower, my heart, my soul.

CHAPTER 1

DON’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT ART, BUT…

(SATURDAY, AUGUST 27)

FROM HER VANTAGE POINT AT THE TOP OF THE STEPS leading into the gallery, Elizabeth Goodweather regarded the pile of burnt matchsticks with an expression that wavered between hilarity and disbelief. The heap of pale wooden slivers, some charred just slightly at one end, others little more than a fragile curl of carbon, sat in the exact middle of the room on a low pedestal covered with a sheet of thick red vinyl. The assemblage was about four feet in diameter and its peak was knee high. And growing.

The stark bone-white walls of the gallery had been covered with a fine grid of narrow scarlet-lacquered shelves bearing red and blue boxes of kitchen matches in uniform rows. As Elizabeth watched, one after another of the dinner-jacketed and evening-gowned throng of art patrons took boxes from the wall and began striking matches, extinguishing them, and adding them to the charred accumulation that was the focus of the evening’s event.

Seemingly all of Asheville “society” had turned out to mark the late August opening of the Gordon Annex: a long-awaited and costly addition to the Asheville Museum of Art. It was the munificent gift of a single benefactor— Lily Gordon. This elegant little woman—“somewhere in her nineties,” whispered a woman to Elizabeth’s left— had cut the crimson ribbon that stretched across the entrance to the annex and had spoken a few brief words in a voice that, though slightly cracked with age, was clear and carrying. Her spare frame was upright, conceding not an inch to age. Now she sat in a comfortable chair with the museum’s director crouched by her side and the chairman of the board leaning down to catch her words.

The old woman wore a simple but beautifully cut evening dress of black satin accented with white—“vintage Chanel,” Elizabeth’s neighbor had informed a friend— and her arthritic fingers were covered with rings that glittered as she reached up to accept a glass of champagne from the chairman of the board. Behind her chair stood a tough-looking, gray-haired man in a dark blue suit. His craggy face was expressionless and his eyes scanned the throng without stopping. More like a secret service agent than an art lover, Elizabeth decided.

Fascinated, she studied the little group, wondering what this very old woman made of the scene unfolding before her apparently amused gaze. “She’s always been the museum’s greatest patron,” someone behind Elizabeth murmured, “absolutely millions of dollars. Her house is literally crammed with art— Picasso, Kandinsky, Pollock— just to name a few. She and her husband began collecting just after World War II. Of course…”

The voice moved away and Elizabeth smiled, wondering if she looked as out of place as she felt in this rarefied crowd.

“You are coming in for the opening of the Gordon Annex at the museum, aren’t you?” Her younger daughter Laurel, on a visit out to the farm a few days earlier, had fixed her with a demanding eye. “It’s this coming Saturday.”

“Ah,” Elizabeth had hedged, “Saturday…Well, I…”

“Mum, this is a really important show! And you know the artists— Kyra and Boz and Aidan. They’re just across the hard road which makes them neighbors. So the least you can do…”

As an aspiring artist herself, Laurel was very much a part of the burgeoning art scene in Asheville and had done her best to develop Elizabeth’s appreciation for the latest trends. Last year Laurel’s passion had been outsider art; this year, performance art was evidently the next new thing. Although she supported herself with a job tending bar at an upscale restaurant, Laurel devoted most of her free time to constructing vast mixed-media “pieces,” as Elizabeth had learned to call them. Recently, however, Laurel had begun to speak wistfully about the “ephemeral beauty” of performance art and of the “spiritual purity” of a carefully choreographed presentation that would never be repeated.

Laurel had been relentless. “It’s going to be something really special— the people attending the show will participate in the creation—” She had broken off, seeing Elizabeth’s face, which unmistakably said, Oh, great. “— if they choose to, I mean. And then Kyra and Boz and Aidan will be taking pictures during the piece and next month there’ll be a show at the QuerY to display the photographs. And—” she continued, with the air of someone producing a trump card, “there’s going to be a really awesome twist to the whole thing that I can’t tell you about now but it’s going to generate some incredible publicity for those guys.”

Elizabeth had, without enthusiasm, agreed to meet Laurel at the Saturday night opening. Kyra and Boz and Aidan were neighbors and one did for neighbors whenever possible. Even if it means going to some ridiculous performance and dressing up for it— evening clothes, my god! Elizabeth had fumed, rummaging in her closet for something to wear. At last she found a long black skirt of heavy polished cotton that she had worn to some forgotten event, and a white silk shirt still in its gift box, a Christmas present from her sister two— or was it three?— years past. A narrow jewel-toned scarf, discovered crammed in the back of a drawer of socks and underwear, would work as a cummerbund. Suddenly her mood had improved. They’re just kids, after all. To have a show at the Museum of Art is a big deal for Kyra and Boz and Aidan.

KyraandBozandAidan: one tended to think of them that way. Indeed, when they had first moved to the little house across the road from her farm, Elizabeth had assumed they were a ménage à trois. Laurel, however, had explained, with the careful patience of one speaking to the elderly and unhip, that while at first Kyra and Aidan had been partners, when Boz had come on the scene they had briefly experimented with a three-way relationship. Eventually Kyra and Boz had excluded Aidan from the king-size futon that dominated the larger of the two bedrooms. However, no matter who slept with whom, the three still functioned artistically and domestically as a single entity and seemed to live in relative harmony.

When Dessie, her old neighbor across the road, died, Elizabeth had been saddened to see the once neatly kept yard growing up in weeds. It had been welcome news when one of the daughters called to say that the house was rented. “They said they was friends of Laurel and they seemed real nice, though they are awful hippies. They want to fix up the ol’ barn fer a place to do their paintin’ and such.”

And the three young people had settled into the rural mountain community with uncommon ease. Boz and Aidan had been quick to offer help with simple carpentry and plumbing repairs for some of their older neighbors and were said to be “right good hands to work,” while Kyra— whose nose ring and tattoos were the source of much head-shaking and tongue-clicking among the local women— Kyra had won hearts by joining in, friendly and competent, at a quilting bee held at the volunteer fire department.

Elizabeth had taken her new neighbors a round loaf of homemade bread and a basket of fresh herbs when they first moved in. But chores of the farm had kept her busy, and beyond a quick chat the few times she met one or another of the trio at the mailboxes, Elizabeth had seen little of the three in the six months since they’d arrived.

There had been the occasional encounter in Ransom, the nearby county seat, a somnolent country town that had only recently attained its second stoplight. She’d seen her neighbors most recently in the hardware store where she was purchasing hinges to repair a sagging door. All three were clustered around a metal bin, evidently assessing the artistic potential of a mass of nails. Boz, at six five and in his customary red cowboy boots, towered over the other two. His frizzy brown mop of hair, wide, crooked nose, and acne-pitted face were unattractive, at best, but his deep voice and booming laugh seemed to mark him as the trio’s obvious leader.

Aidan was as handsome as Boz was ugly. Really…beautiful, rather than handsome, Elizabeth had thought at the time. Slender, but well muscled, Aidan stood not quite six feet tall with smooth tanned skin and long pale blond hair that he usually wore in a sleek ponytail. Only his lower left arm and hand marred the perfection, carrying as they did the discolored marks of some long-ago injury and three permanently crooked fingers.

Kyra was tiny, barely reaching Aidan’s shoulder. With her spiky hair dyed a jet black, nose ring, and multiple tattoos, she was an incongruous sight amid the hardware and farm implements— yet in spite of all these distracting affectations, Elizabeth had suddenly realized that Kyra was a very pretty young woman.

* * *

Shaking herself out of her reveries, Elizabeth tried to pay attention to the scene unfolding around her. Strike on Box had been billed as participatory performance art and had been accorded the honor of being the inaugural “piece” to be presented in the museum’s new wing. Kyra and Boz and Aidan, billed simply as The 3— the name they signed to all their joint artworks— were moving around the gallery, each armed with a digital camera. Kyra was flitting about the room, chatting easily with onlookers and encouraging their participation. Aidan’s camera was focused on the growing pile of burnt matches, and as Elizabeth watched, Boz, snapping shot after shot, approached the chair where the old woman was seated. He thrust the lens close to her unsmiling face and said something. An expression of distaste pulled down the old woman’s thin lips, but she did not reply. Instead she raised one hand slightly.

Instantly the blue-suited man came forward and motioned Boz to move away. Boz stared down in disbelief at the smaller man, then laughed. The smaller man took a step forward and spoke briefly. After a moment’s hesitation Boz shrugged his shoulders and moved on. The other man watched him go and then turned to the old woman, whose displeased look had not wavered. She raised a finger and the man bent his head close to her mouth. She spoke a few words, then resumed her aloof study of the evening’s entertainment.

Elizabeth looked on, bemused, as the flamboyant Boz moved through the crowd, seemingly unfazed by the recent rebuff. He moved to one wall where a voluptuous blonde— trophy wife, Elizabeth decided— was stretching to retrieve a box of matches from the topmost grid. Boz crept up behind her, aimed the camera at her stiletto heels, and slowly, lasciviously, shot the length of her tightly gowned body, lingering on the rounded buttocks, then, as she turned, zooming in on her abundant cleavage. Her squeal expressed surprised delight, and a tanned, silver-haired man who had been wordlessly watching burst into a raucous guffaw. “He’s immortalized that expensive ass of yours, babe. I always did say you were a work of art.”

Across the gallery a little knot of attendees burst into laughter. From their midst emerged a trim middle-aged man in beautifully tailored evening clothes. His head was completely bald and shone as if waxed. Diamond studs sparkled in his earlobes, and a vest, lavishly embroidered in deep metallic blues and greens, could be glimpsed beneath his dinner jacket. A man’s voice somewhere to Elizabeth’s right said in a low tone to an unseen companion, “He’s here to protect his little investment. I warned him that he was taking a chance with a loose cannon like Boz, but oh no, the big gallery owner knows best. He swears that the photographs from this performance will fly out the door, once he mounts the show at the QuerY.”

“I’d heard that he likes them rough,” sniffed the other man. “I, personally, don’t care for the acne-pitted look. Now, the other one…that blond boy…quite delicious. Just like that gorgeous elf in the Lord of the Rings films.”

The owner of Asheville’s newest gallery had succeeded in gaining Boz’s attention and was trailing after him, speaking urgently as the young artist continued his circuit of the room, seemingly intent on capturing images of all the attendees. After a few minutes, Boz turned the camera on the bald man, aiming first at his shining head, then, as he had done with the shapely trophy wife, slowly panning the gallery owner’s body, pausing at his crotch, then crouching down to angle for a rear shot.

The bald man whirled, his face flaming, and melted back into the crowd. Pleased snickers erupted from the pair at Elizabeth’s right, and they, too, moved away, trading delighted speculations as to whether or not those particular photographs would show up at the QuerY.

Elizabeth looked around the crowded room for Laurel, who seemed to have disappeared. Standing on tiptoe, she tried to catch a glimpse of her daughter’s fiery mop of dreadlocks amid the careful coiffures of the society matrons who were giggling like teenagers as they struck match after match.

But Laurel was nowhere in sight. Elizabeth began edging toward the door that led to the smaller gallery where photographs of rural Appalachia were on display. She had seen them before, but…All this silly carrying-on, she thought, I need to look at something real.

She wove her way between the chattering art patrons, feeling safely invisible in her anonymous black skirt and white shirt. Maybe not exactly invisible, she thought, as a pair of men thrust empty glasses in her direction while continuing to squabble amicably about the stock market.

At the door to the smaller gallery, Elizabeth stopped and scanned the crowd once more for sight of her daughter. No sign of Laurel, nor, she suddenly realized, of The 3. She hesitated, wondering if a new phase of the performance was about to begin. But the smell and smoke of hundreds of matches were beginning to be annoying. Deciding that she would risk missing whatever was next, Elizabeth shouldered her way between two brittle-faced women who were regaling each other in piercing tones with horror stories concerning the outrageous demands of their respective au pairs.

The smaller gallery was blessedly quiet and almost empty. A few patrons studied the large black-and-white photographs whose subjects were so like many of Elizabeth’s neighbors. Straight ahead of her was a picture of a sturdy white-haired woman in a housedress leaning down to milk a cow. That looks familiar. Elizabeth smiled, remembering her recently deceased neighbor. She moved slowly around the gallery, working her way to her favorite picture— a shaggy workhorse being led down through a snowy barnyard toward a rude gate— when she heard voices.

She paused to read the artist’s statement, which was on an easel by the door. Beyond the door stretched a small hallway where restrooms and an elevator were located, and glancing out the door, Elizabeth saw The 3 reflected in the glass of a framed poster hanging beside the elevator. She was about to move away to avoid being caught skipping out on their performance piece when she heard Aidan say, “And you’ll show up before they actually arrest me?” In the reflection she could see him tossing his long ash-blond hair back in a strangely girlish gesture. “I don’t want to end up in a cell with some big Bubba type who fancies me for his bitch.”

She could see the mirrored Boz clap Aidan on the shoulder and hear the growl of his deep voice. “Don’t worry, man; I’ll be back in time to save your skinny ass.”

Her curiosity fully in gear, Elizabeth strained to catch what Kyra was saying. The young woman’s voice was pitched low and she sounded distressed: “…tell us where you’ll be…danger…” That was all Elizabeth heard before Boz’s deep rumble cut off Kyra’s murmurings.

“Naw, baby girl, it’s better Aidan don’t know where I’m at. They might want to give him a lie detector test and he’d spill his guts. Now you two get on back in there and we’ll get this show on the road.”

Hastily, Elizabeth moved away from the door and hurried back to the main gallery and the pile of burnt matches. Without the presence of The 3 and their busy cameras, the attendees/participants seemed to have grown a little weary of the game. Many were frankly ignoring the unopened matchboxes still on the gridded wall. Most of the men seemed to be huddled discussing financial matters or golf, and the table where champagne was being poured was doing a lively business. The ancient benefactress and her bodyguard were gone, but no one had presumed to sit in her chair. The director and the chairman stood on either side of it, deep in talk, each holding an empty champagne flute.

“What do you think, Mum?” Laurel, her tall, slender frame draped in a floating garment made of red-orange silk shot with gold threads, materialized suddenly at her mother’s elbow and waved her glass at the pile of matchsticks on the red circle. “Look at the composition that makes! And the grid on the walls— well, obviously it references Mondrian, but the ongoing depletion speaks so clearly to a postmodern sensibility!” She nodded toward the dark lattice of shelving. It was mostly empty now, but for a few untouched matchboxes, and Elizabeth had to admit that it did have a certain…

“Well,” she ventured, “in the words of the philosopher, I don’t know much about art, but— where did that outfit come from, Laurel? It looks expensive.”

Laurel grinned and struck a pose. “It’s an original— a friend lent it to me. We did a trade; I’m going to model some stuff for—”

She broke off as Kyra and Aidan reentered the room and began snapping pictures again. Elizabeth was amused to note that many of the patrons who had been busy with their champagne and gossip were suddenly moved to resume the lighting and extinguishing of matches. Just as one particularly expensive-looking woman was elaborately placing her scorched match at the very apex of the pile, there was a loud hissing sound.

The crowd of art patrons parted, revealing Boz, carrying a hefty fire extinguisher in one hand. His other hand held its hose and he grinned with manic glee as he aimed the dripping nozzle at first one woman and then another. Each brief hiss was accompanied by a little jet of white foam.

The crowd shrank back— but not too far— eager to see what the next act of the performance piece might hold. Boz advanced steadily on the pile of burnt matches and the blonde woman in the blue-green dress, who seemed frozen there, her hand extended over the twisted and blackened slivers.

The onlookers stared in delighted anticipation as Boz, brandishing the hose, came nearer and nearer to the stricken woman. She uttered a tiny sound— fear? excitement?— but stood stock-still, as if hypnotized. Boz, his face set in a demonic rictus, raised the fire extinguisher as if in salute, then slowly lowered it and covered the cowering woman and the pile of burnt matches with white foam.

There was stunned silence and then Boz spoke. “Aidan, you pathetic shit, it’s over.” He dropped the fire extinguisher and walked calmly over to Aidan and Kyra. A woman behind Elizabeth whispered, “Isn’t this exciting! I just adore performance art! But I had no idea that Marilou was going to be part of it.”

Marilou, evidently the woman who had been sprayed with foam, didn’t act as if she had known either. She was wiping the white froth from her arms and making sputtering noises as she stared down at the ruin of her turquoise silk gown. The throng of guests made no move to assist her as they watched eagerly to see what would happen next.

Elizabeth was confused. Aidan and Kyra seemed to be cowering away from Boz as he approached. He strode toward them, his body massive in the black slacks and black T-shirt that were the uniform of The 3, his red cowboy boots resounding on the slick floor. The two stood mute while Boz reached out, snatched the cameras from their hands, and hurled them to the floor. With a sardonic grin he ground his boot heel into a metal case. There was a sharp crack and a lens popped out and skittered across the polished floor. The boot heel came down again, crushing the second camera.

“Boz, you crazy fucker!” Aidan’s anguished howl reverberated in the stunned silence as he dove for the sad little pile of broken components. “You’re destroying the show!”

“You got it, little buddy,” replied Boz. Satisfied that the cameras were ruined, he walked placidly over to the nearest wall and began pulling down the flimsy shelves. Kyra was crying helplessly and the woman who was standing behind Elizabeth whispered again, a little dubiously this time, “It’s all part of the art, isn’t it?”

CHAPTER 2

“I’LL BE BACK”

(SATURDAY NIGHT, AUGUST 27, AND MONDAY MORNING, AUGUST 29)

AND THEN,” ELIZABETH SAID, “BOZ RAISED HIS fist and shouted, ‘That’s the end of The 3!’ And he looked over at Kyra, who was sobbing her heart out by now, and he did this big wink and said, ‘I’ll be back,’ you know, like in that movie, and then he walked out while everyone just stood there. A few people started to clap but with Aidan looking so furious and Kyra so terribly upset, really, no one was sure what was going on.”

Elizabeth and Ben were sitting in her kitchen, sharing a late-night snack of rum-soaked peach slices and fresh blueberries. She had returned after the show to find her nephew sprawled on the sofa, watching a movie and obviously waiting to hear about the performance. Three years ago, Ben, her sister’s son, had graduated from college with a degree in philosophy. After a year of travel, financed by odd jobs of every description, he had come to live with her at Full Circle Farm, asking only room and board in exchange for his labor in the fields and drying sheds. Ben had spent many summers on the farm and had already proven himself a reliable worker. Furthermore, he had a relationship with the aging tractor that, in Elizabeth’s opinion, bordered on black magic. Whereas she was often baffled by its seemingly random breakdowns, Ben always knew exactly what fluid to add or which widget to replace in order to appease the sulky mechanical brute.

She had welcomed him, happy for the company, now that both of her girls had lives elsewhere, and grateful for his help. Ben had moved into the old cabin across the creek from her house, and within three months, he, with the help of Julio, a Mexican worker who lived in a house near the drying sheds, had taken over most of the day-to-day operations along with all the heavy lifting. His efforts had almost doubled the farm’s revenues, and Elizabeth had made him a partner in the business.

“Well, hell,” he said, staring gloomily into the empty bowl that sat on the table before him, “now I wish I’d gone. I was afraid it would be kind of lame and I had work to do here, so…you say Kyra was crying? Was she really upset? Or do you think it was just part of the act?”

Elizabeth studied Ben narrowly. For some time now she had suspected that her big, handsome, and unattached nephew was more than a little interested in their pretty new neighbor. Several times he had commented on “the way she lets those guys take advantage of her,” and his frequent visits “just to see how they’re getting along” had not gone unnoticed.

“Hard to say, Ben. You see…” and she told him what she had overheard just before the final scene. “I guess it was all planned but Kyra did look really…I guess the word would be ‘distraught.’ She ran off after Boz and then Aidan just stood there for a while. He didn’t say anything, just kept looking around at the mess Boz had made of their stuff. There was foam everywhere and the cameras were completely trashed. Then he just kind of stomped out of the gallery. There was a little applause again but that died out pretty quickly and everyone left— well, as soon as the champagne was gone, everyone left.”

“What did Laurel think?” Ben rose and stretched, then collected their bowls and carried them to the sink.

“She wouldn’t say anything…just looked smug and hummed a few bars of that old gospel song— you know the one, ‘Farther along we’ll know all about it,/Farther along we’ll understand why.’ ”

* * *

Twenty-one years, Elizabeth thought, as she unpinned her long coil of dark hair, brushing it and plaiting it into a loose braid. She noted the white hairs that silvered the braid, more every day, and shrugged. Her deep blue eyes looked unseeing into the mirror. Sam and I came to Full Circle Farm twenty-one years ago. And Rosemary is twenty-nine; Laurel, the baby, is a sophisticated twenty-five…and you, Elizabeth, are fifty-three. When did all this happen? It seems like forever…and it seems like yesterday.

It had been an idyllic life, raising their two daughters on this beautiful North Carolina mountainside. She and Sam had been fortunate in so many ways, not least in their shared love for the land and each other.

In the early years they had grown tobacco like their neighbors: plowing the steep hillsides with mules, growing the plants from seed, setting them in the long rows, hoeing the rocky soil to discourage the rampant weeds, topping the tall plants by cutting off the pink flowering shoot at the top to encourage the main leaves to grow larger, snapping off the useless suckers. They had been willing acolytes to the endless familiar ritual that bound the families of their rural community. At one with our brothers in the Third World, Sam had said one spring day as they set out plants using crooked sticks to dig holes in the muddy fields. But when the sprays— herbicides, fungicides, sucker control— needed to make a crop became ever more numerous and ever more toxic, Sam and Elizabeth had gone organic, turning their fields over to flowers and herbs.

Now, after some lean years, Full Circle Farm’s fresh herbs and edible flowers were in constant demand among Asheville’s growing number of trendy restaurants. And the luxuriant wreaths of dried flowers and herbs that Elizabeth designed and constructed in her workshop, with part-time help when big orders came in, sold briskly.

The work kept me going, the work and the girls…. It’ll be six years in December, she thought, as she turned out the bathroom light and sought the comfort of the old brass bed. Sam was whistling “Good King Wenceslas” as he headed out the door. And that was the last time I saw him.

Six years ago, Sam had died in the crash of a friend’s small plane. And she had gone on.

* * *

Monday morning came and with it a necessary trip into Asheville for various items unattainable in Ransom. Most of her errands accomplished, Elizabeth swung by her daughter’s studio, hoping to take her to lunch. Laurel’s mixed-media work, requiring ever larger canvases or wooden panels, as well as a flea market’s worth of odds and ends—found objects, Mum, they’re called objets trouvés— had overflowed her tiny Asheville apartment. Finally she had rented a space in the River District where a motley collection of old warehouses and mills had been reborn as studios for much of Asheville’s thriving art community.

The district was a bit of a mixed bag: spread over several miles along railroad tracks that ran near the French Broad River, it contained some carefully restored buildings, some that were minimally habitable, and some that were empty ruins; the majority, however, were simply aging structures that had been brought into compliance with code as cheaply as possible in order to be reborn as low-rent studios.

The space Laurel had taken was in The Wedge— a three-storied clump of buildings that housed potters, fiber artists, painters, a world dance studio, and four sculptors, including one whose raw material was steel. Elizabeth had visited briefly when Laurel had moved in and had come away with the impression of a busy, if assuredly eccentric, community. It really gets you fired up, Mum, being around other artists, Laurel had explained. If you’re working hard, no one will bother you. But if you lose momentum, all you have to do is walk down the hall— there’s a communal kitchen where you can fix a cup of tea or something to eat— and you’ll always find someone to talk to.

She found her daughter in the parking lot behind The Wedge, standing beside her recently acquired secondhand VW van. Ragged overalls splattered with bright paint hung loosely on her spare frame. A greasy young man was deep in the tiny engine compartment, and as Elizabeth approached he withdrew his head and held up some unidentifiable engine part. “Fahrvergnugen!” he declared, and flashed a dazzling grin before plunging back into the bowels of the van.

“Oh, Mum, thank god you’re here!” Laurel scooped her knapsack from the cracked pavement and loped toward the jeep. “Can you give me a ride down to the junkyard? I promised Rafiq I’d be there at noon and Milo says he has to rebuild the engine before the van’ll move.”

Elizabeth forbore saying that she had warned Laurel that old VW vans were notoriously unreliable, that she and Sam had had one, possibly even this same one, twenty years ago, and it had given them nothing but grief. Like her parents before her, Laurel had been seduced by the cozy little camper setup, and, with visions of a cross-country trip luring her on, she had traded her aging but reliable Subaru for this hippie cliché.

“The junkyard?” Elizabeth frowned at her daughter. “I was thinking more along the lines of maybe going somewhere for sushi.”

“We can do that after.” Laurel settled herself in the passenger seat. “Let’s just get going and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

During the drive to the junkyard, Laurel explained that Rafiq was a friend of hers, an artist who did sculpture from junk cars. “He’s crushing one today at noon— he always does them at noon or sunrise or sunset— he has this thing about portals— he, like, casts the car’s horoscope and when and where the car was built determines how he aligns it in the crusher and when— Oh, it’s totally hard to describe—” Laurel broke off. “But I wanted to go and take pictures. It’ll just take a few minutes and then we can go somewhere for lunch.”

As they pulled into the junkyard— Hensleys Salvage, according to the crudely painted sign— Elizabeth interrupted Laurel’s exhaustive analysis of the relation of time and place to the creation of art— true art, Mum, not just commercial crap—to ask, “What about The 3? Do you know if Boz is back? I didn’t see anyone at their house this morning. And what was the point of that whole—”

But Laurel had spotted her friend, a short, swarthy man in his forties, and was out of the jeep and bounding toward him. He began shouting and gesticulating wildly in response to her greeting, but Laurel simply looked amused. Elizabeth parked her car and hurried toward the pair.

“Mum, this is Rafiq. Rafiq, this is my mother, Elizabeth. I brought her to see the crushing. Or she brought me.”

Rafiq nodded briefly in Elizabeth’s general direction. “’Allo, Laurel’s mother.” His voice was mournful and his dark eyes tragic. He closed his eyes and hit his forehead with the back of his hand. “Laurel, I tell you…is already done. That Travis he do it already. Is ruined. No time portal.”

A young man with a substantial beer gut and a Caterpillar cap emerged from behind a pile of wrecked cars, wiping his hands on his grease-encrusted jeans. “I didn’t do no such thing, Ray-fiq. I thought you come durin’ the weekend and done it yoreself.” A massive rottweiler followed him, eyeing the strangers coldly.

“No matter, is ruined.” Rafiq flung up his hands, then folded his arms across his chest and turned his back.

“Let’s just go take a look at it.” Laurel touched his shoulder gently. “Did you set it up yourself and put it in the crusher?”

“Of course. Was all ready, waiting for noon. I get it ready Friday night but the stars say Monday noon is best for creation. So I go home, drink beer, wait for Monday. Travis never crush on Monday, so I think is okay. And now…”

He shrugged and began to walk toward the crusher, a strange-looking, iron, box-shaped affair. They followed him, picking their way around the carcasses of wrecked and rusting cars that littered the oil-soaked junkyard dirt. The harsh smell of burned motor oil mingled with the sickly-sweet scent of corruption.

“That dog of Travis, it kill the rats but do not eat them. They sometimes run under the cars to die. Is why such a stink,” Rafiq explained matter-of-factly.

The crusher was surrounded by hydraulic hoses and huge pistons and seemed to be leaking oil. Rafiq stood in front of it, hands on hips, his face a picture of disgust.

“Rafiq, why don’t you go on and take the piece out of the crusher and let us see it? I know Mum would be interested. And it’s going to look awesome, no matter who pushed the button or when they did it.”

“Okay.” The man’s voice was listless. “But without proper timing, is not art. Is just junk, a dead thing.” He pushed a button at one side of the contraption and with a series of mournful creaks and groans, the compressing walls drew back to reveal a rectangular crumple that was the end result of thousands of pounds of pressure on a metallic blue Pontiac. The planes of shiny blue and silver interspersed with rusty blacks and browns were rather attractive, Elizabeth thought, though she couldn’t quite see it sitting in her living room.

“I like that splotch of red down near the bottom.” Elizabeth’s Southern-lady upbringing compelled her to find some positive comment to make. “It…ah…really ties the whole thing together and sets off the…sets off the…”

She was saved from having to complete her sentence for, as they all drew closer to the block of crushed steel and chrome, it became obvious that the dark clots pooled beneath the “sculpture” weren’t just oil and brake fluid. The splotch of red that Elizabeth had admired was a cowboy boot— attached to a twisted black-clad leg that disappeared into the tangle of metal.

CHAPTER 3

BLACK ROSES

(MONDAY, AUGUST 29)

WHEN THE POLICE HAD FINISHED THEIR QUESTIONS and dismissed Elizabeth and Laurel, neither was in the mood for lunch. “I don’t want to go back to my studio, Mum.” Laurel paused with her hand on the jeep’s door. “At least not until they find out for sure who that is— was—in the car. All morning everyone in the building kept showing up in my studio to talk about The 3 and Strike on Box and they all think I know where Boz is. And now— oh, shit— I don’t even want to think about it.”

Her blue eyes were clouded as she pulled her coppery dreadlocks back into a ponytail, securing it with a piece of twine from her pocket. Sighing, she added, “I really don’t want to have to be there, Mum. And Milo said there’s no way he can get my van ready till tomorrow. Could we just go back to my apartment? We can fix some coffee or something. I’ll ride my bike in to work tonight and out to the studio in the morning.”

They drove in somber silence back to Laurel’s apartment. Sitting at the little table by the kitchen window, Elizabeth studied her daughter’s face, pale against the cheerful coral walls that were the legacy of a previous tenant. Laurel peered doubtfully into her refrigerator. “How about iced tea instead of coffee? It’s awfully hot.” Without waiting for an answer, she poured the tea into two tall glasses, added ice, and set the glasses on the table, pushing aside a litter of colored pencils and sketch pads. Then she retrieved a paring knife from a jumble of dishes in the sink, gave it a perfunctory rinse, and cut a lime into wedges, which she placed carefully on the table. “I don’t know— do you want a sandwich or something? I’ve got some pimento cheese….”

“No thanks, Laur. This tea looks good though.” Elizabeth took a sip and fixed her gaze on her daughter, who had slumped wearily into the opposite chair. “Did you tell the police everything you knew about the plan Boz and the other two had made?”

“Mum, of course I did! About how they’d planned the big scene in the gallery and how Boz was going to disappear and make it look like he had been murdered. They wanted it to look like Aidan did it but then Boz was going to reappear just in time to keep Aidan out of jail.”

She leaned toward her mother and planted her elbows on the table. “It was a great idea— a way to get them publicity— you know, start a buzz. They were hoping for an article in Art World and maybe an invitation to one of the big New York galleries. Carter Dixon— he’s the owner of the QuerY, where the show of the photographs is supposed to be— has more connections than you might think. I’m not sure…maybe the phony murder bit was Carter’s idea. Anyway, they had some friends shooting the whole thing on videotape and stills. Besides, you said you overheard them talking about their plan. Isn’t that corrob— what’s it…corroborating evidence?”

Elizabeth looked out the window that overlooked busy Charlotte Street. The comforting aroma of fresh bread drifted up from the bakery below and a jogger chugged along the tree-shaded sidewalk across the street. Just an ordinary day. Except— except— She turned back to face the young woman whose deep blue eyes, so like her own, were glaring at her.

“Sweetie, I’m not suggesting you were lying.” Elizabeth squeezed a lime quarter into her tea, then stirred it thoughtfully with her finger. “I just wondered if you left out anything. Is there any possibility this was an accident? Could Boz have gone to the junkyard to hide out and gotten in the car and—”

“Mum, for one thing, the car was already sitting in the crusher on Friday night. You heard what Rafiq said.”

“That’s right.” Elizabeth drew a spiral in the dewy condensation blooming on the side of her glass. “And both Rafiq and the guy who runs the junkyard deny having operated the crusher.” Laurel was back at the refrigerator. She refilled her glass, then pulled out a container of bright orange pimento cheese and plopped it, along with the paring knife and a bag of hard rolls, in front of her mother.

“We don’t know for sure that it was Boz in that car,” Laurel said. “He may be back at Dessie’s place now, having a good laugh with Kyra and Aidan.”

Elizabeth thought that this was highly unlikely but didn’t say so. “Laur, what do you know about Kyra and Aidan and Boz? Where are they from, who are their folks?” God, I sound just like my mother, an inner voice lamented.

Laurel wrinkled her brow and began to spread pimento cheese on one of the rolls. “I don’t really know much about the guys, not even their last names. My generation isn’t into all that ‘who’s your family’ stuff that you older people care so much about. I mean, it’s who a person is themselves and what they do that matters, especially in art. I mean—”

“Laurel, sweetie, just indulge me. Tell me what you do know.”

“Okay, let me think.” Laurel set down her roll untasted and closed her eyes. “Well, I do know that Aidan grew up in Asheville and his mother lives here. He calls her an aging hippie…I think she works at Mama Earth Co-op. He’s never mentioned a father. Oh yeah— this is cool— Aidan and his mom lived in India for a few years— in an ashram run by some holy guy. Aidan says she’s still really into that stuff. But he thinks it’s all a little sketchy. And Aidan went to college somewhere up north…. I think on an art scholarship…. I’m pretty sure Boz didn’t go to college…. He used to tease Aidan and call him a preppie…. Boz says you can’t learn to be an artist in school.”

“So what do you know about Boz’s background?” Elizabeth suppressed the desire to shake her daughter, whose education had included a pricey two-year stint at Savannah College of Art and Design, thanks to a loan that Elizabeth was still paying off.

“Boz?” Laurel’s eyes opened and she began to devour her sandwich. Between bites she continued the story. “Well, Boz just rolled into Asheville a few years ago and starting hanging with all the people who were doing the really experimental stuff. He didn’t have anything but a motorcycle and a sleeping bag. I heard he’d lived in the Southwest and done earth art but that all the photographs and drawings of his best work had been destroyed in a fire. He also said that he’d worked on an oil rig in Texas.”

Laurel smiled but her face was sad. “You never knew when Boz was telling the truth. He could be the biggest bullshitter in the world. But he was so…so confident about his art that everyone just accepted him.” She began to twist a silver ring near the end of one of her dreadlocks as she continued.

“He crashed with Aidan and Kyra that first winter; he’d had a squat in one of the abandoned buildings down in the District, but when it got cold they felt sorry for him and let him move into their studio. Plus they’d started doing art together as The 3. Boz really energized Kyra and Aidan—”

“And they all three got along? Even after Kyra switched her…her attentions from Aidan to Boz?” And now I sound like someone’s maiden aunt. Elizabeth winced.

“Well, by then they were getting established as The 3 and none of them really wanted to go it alone. Boz has…had a kind of funky charm; he can annoy you one minute, then be really nice the next. And with Boz you never know what will happen next— kind of like a carnival ride— scary but exciting.”

“What about Kyra?” Elizabeth went on, trying to turn their thoughts from the crushed car and its mangled occupant. A team of men armed with acetylene torches had been at work on the blue Pontiac when she and Laurel had finally been allowed to leave the junkyard.

“Kyra’s really sweet.” There was no hesitation in Laurel’s reply. “I actually don’t know the guys very well but I got to know Kyra when she worked with me on a project at the Women’s Center. She’s had a horrible life and I think being part of The 3 was the closest she’s ever come to a real family.”

“What do you mean? I guess I assumed she was from a wealthy background— that little sports car she drives— something Italian, is it? Ben said it was really expensive.”

“Oh, she’s got money.” Laurel jumped up to refill Elizabeth’s glass, adding more ice from the refrigerator’s tiny freezer. “Her dad is Marvin Peterson. You’ve probably heard of him. Big guy in Asheville. But Kyra’s mom was murdered six or seven years ago. There were lots of newspaper stories about it; Kyra has a whole scrapbook full of them. It was in the news for weeks.”

Marvin Peterson. Elizabeth remembered the story; the murder had been a hot topic around Asheville at the time, and a friend who worked at a women’s shelter where Mrs. Peterson volunteered had, during one long lunch, confided the entire sad tale.

Peterson was a wealthy man, rather vaguely identified as an investment consultant. His background was mysterious; he had appeared on the scene in Asheville when in his twenties and had been involved in various quasi-legal businesses, each one a little more successful and a little less shady than the previous. Soon he had gained a reputation as a benefactor of various charitable and cultural organizations and had eventually begun to move in the upper echelons of Asheville society. His generosity and his political power won (some said bought) him many friends, and his handsome face and impeccable demeanor made him welcome in the most exclusive society. Even so, there had been considerable muttering when he married the lovely Rose Sheffield, debutante daughter of one of Asheville’s oldest families. It was whispered that the marriage had been “necessary, my dear, if you know what I mean,” but their only child, a daughter, had been born a decorous year and a half after the wedding, thereby depriving their fellow country club members of that particular topic of speculation. The Petersons’ palatial Italianate house in Biltmore Forest was always on offer for charitable functions, and the oddly paired Marvin and Rose seemed as devoted a couple as society could wish. Their daughter, little Kyra, was often seen at plays and concerts with her parents, and it was frequently remarked how much this golden-haired child resembled her beautiful mother.

As the years went by, the Petersons had continued to play a leading role in Asheville society. Kyra seemed to float through life on the wings of privilege, effortlessly attaining the top rank in her local prep school, spending vacations with her mother at European resorts in winter, finally enrolling at Vassar. Her summers were devoted to honing her considerable equestrian skills. With the help of her private instructor (himself a former Olympian) and Marvin’s purchase of two staggeringly expensive horses, Kyra had been on her way to becoming the youngest member of the U.S. Equestrian Team when a tragic stable fire had destroyed her horses and, it was said, the young woman’s desire to ride.

Rose Peterson had always been deeply involved in various charities, both as a patron and as an organizer of lavish fund-raisers. When Kyra went off to college, Rose began to seek more responsibility in the hands-on side of some of her special interests, especially the women’s shelter. She began by working the hotline; in time she was helping injured women face-to-face.

“A real angel,” Elizabeth’s friend had said. “It was amazing, considering her background, how well she could relate to our clients. Rose had a gift of empathy and compassion that was truly astonishing. I saw her once, hugging some poor woman whose boyfriend had just knocked her front teeth out. The woman was dripping blood all over Rose’s beautiful clothes, but Rose just ignored it.”

And if Marvin Peterson was often away on business, well, that was just the price to be paid for the house, the travel, the schools, the horses— in short, for the lifestyle the Peterson family enjoyed.

Then one day, while Marvin was away on one of his lengthy business trips, Rose Peterson was discovered in her bed, killed with a single bullet to the back of the head. “Execution style,” the papers called it, and the twenty-year-old Kyra, at home on semester break from Vassar, had been the one who found her mother.

The murderer was still at large. None of Rose’s many valuable pieces of jewelry had been touched; nothing was missing. The servants had, with the exception of the housekeeper, all been out on various errands, and the housekeeper, busy with accounts in her office at the time of the murder, had heard and seen nothing. Marvin Peterson, summoned home from wherever he had been, was distraught and seemingly inconsolable. At the graveside his daughter was seen to support him as he sagged helplessly against her when the mahogany casket with its blanket of shell-pink roses was lowered into the red clay.

He had remarried six weeks later and installed his new wife (who had been first his secretary and then, for the past five years, his mistress) in the house that he had shared with Rose. It soon became clear that Peterson’s many “business” trips had simply been cover-ups for the time he spent with his mistress in a nearby town. His neighbors in the exclusive section of Flat Rock where he maintained the mistress and a second home knew them as Mr. and Mrs. Max Parker.

Laurel picked up the story. “Well, that’s when Kyra moved out. She told me that when he moved the bimbo in, she had to get out of there. She said that the housekeeper, who’d been with them forever, left too. Oh, Kyra’s father gives her a huge allowance— she calls it ‘guilt money’— but she never goes back home. And when her father remarried, she dyed her hair black, and started getting all those tatts.”

“Tatts?”

“Oh, Mum, as in ‘tattoos.’ Haven’t you noticed, they’re all black roses? Like, in memory of her mother. First she got one over her heart, then one on her right calf, then a circle of black rosebuds around her left ankle, then—”

Elizabeth was somewhat neutral on the subject of tattoos, seeing them as a rather silly manifestation of herd mentality. Poor things, their parents were long-haired hippies who advocated “doing your own thing.” How do you rebel against that? But… “Sounds pretty extreme to me.”

“Oh, that’s the point. You see, Kyra has dinner with her father four times a year— she has to if she wants to collect her allowance— and she gets a fresh tattoo every time, right before she meets him. She says she wants him to see that she hasn’t forgotten her mother, even if he has. One time, she said, the new tattoo was actually oozing blood and it bothered her father so much that he couldn’t eat his dinner.”

“Gross,” said Elizabeth, reverting to the language of her youth. Then a light dawned. “Is Kyra just angry about his marrying his mistress or does she think—?”

“Oh, she’s absolutely sure that her dad put a contract on her mom. She just has no way of proving it…yet.”

* * *

Back at the farm late that afternoon, Elizabeth sat in her car, postponing the wearisome task of unloading the groceries. The image of the twisted metal and the red boot kept returning. How soon would the police be able to identify the body in the crushed car? After everything that Laurel had told her about Kyra Peterson’s sad family history, Elizabeth wondered how the young woman would handle the death of her lover. But there’s not much I could do to help— maybe call Laurel and get her to come out. And it could turn out to be someone else in that car.

She considered calling Phillip Hawkins. Hawkins, formerly a police detective himself, maintained extensive connections with the local law enforcement community. He had been a friend of her late husband’s when the two had served in the navy and had looked up Elizabeth on moving to Asheville the year before. Phillip had taken her to dinner several times (Elizabeth would not call these occasions “dates”), and she had enlisted his aid when a neighbor’s son had been found dead in the river under suspicious circumstances. During the past year Phillip had often found reasons to visit the farm, and he and Elizabeth had developed a casual, if slightly cautious on her part, friendship.

He’s easy to talk to— and he makes me laugh. Such a nice man but… That was the thing. Phillip was long divorced and had shown clear signs of wanting to take their relationship to another level. And I really like him. But whenever I think about getting involved again after Sam… Strange. It wasn’t so much a sense of loyalty to Sam that kept her from loving another man. No, it was the irrational, nagging feeling that Sam had betrayed her by dying and that she would never let another man do that to her.

That’s stupid, Elizabeth, she chided herself. She grabbed the canvas shopping bags with the cold items first and started for the house. When she reached the porch, the dogs, Molly and Ursa and James, roused themselves to greet her. Suddenly, tubby little James ran to the edge of the porch and let out a shrill peal. Half dachshund, half Chihuahua, and the worst half of both, Ben had said when the little stray had appeared at the barn one morning. Among other annoying habits, James was given to extravagant and mindless barking, so Elizabeth ignored him and reached for the screen door.

“Mrs. Goodweather?” The quiet voice made her gasp. Kyra Peterson was coming up the steps. Her face, free of its usual heavy black eye makeup, was tear-streaked and pale. “Mrs. Goodweather, is…is Laurel here by any chance?”

The spiky black hair was limp now. Kyra was wearing baggy blue running shorts and a loose white T-shirt. She looked fragile and helpless and Elizabeth felt a surge of maternal emotions.

“Kyra, has something…? Did they…?”

She couldn’t ask the question but Kyra said, “Boz is dead. They’ve arrested Aidan.” And then the tears began again. The moisture brimmed up in her clear green eyes and spilled softly down her face. Unlike most women, whose faces reddened and contorted in grief, Kyra could still look pretty while crying.

Elizabeth set her grocery bags on a rocking chair and stepped forward to put her arms around the weeping girl. When at last Kyra was quiet, she let herself be led inside to the comfort of a glass of iced tea. The dogs followed, eager for the cool of the kitchen fan. Molly, the sleek red hound whose black-rimmed yellow eyes and haughty attitude had led Laurel to speculate that the dog was a reincarnated Egyptian princess, composed herself gracefully in front of the fan. Ursa and James, both more sociable by nature, vied for Kyra’s attention, Ursa lying at her feet and little James jumping up on the bench beside her.

“I wanted to see if Laurel was here, if maybe she could come stay with me for a while.” Kyra’s voice was a whisper and she kept her face averted, stroking the insistent James on the head. “It’s too quiet with Boz and Aidan not there.”

She brushed her hand across her eyes. “The police came and asked Aidan where he’d been Saturday night after the show and all day Sunday. I told them that he’d been with me but…” She looked up at Elizabeth with a piteous face and pushed James away. “I guess I’m not a very good liar; they kept asking me different things and I got confused.”

“But why did they arrest Aidan?” Elizabeth sat down beside Kyra.

“Because they think he killed Boz,” of course. The words hung unsaid between them. “Laurel said she told you about our plan. Just before the show I sent an anonymous letter to the police saying that Aidan hated Boz and had threatened to kill him because he’d stolen me from him. And that Boz hadn’t wanted Aidan in The 3 but let him stay because I insisted. Well, it’s worked in one way: we’ve got plenty of publicity.”

Her laugh was bitter. “It’s just that Boz was supposed to come back before Aidan actually got arrested.”

“But Kyra,” Elizabeth asked, trying to keep her voice gentle, “where was Aidan after the show and on Sunday?”

Kyra looked down at her hands, which were wrapped around her glass of tea. Following her gaze, Elizabeth noticed the small single black roses tattooed on the backs of three of the fingers on her guest’s left hand.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Goodweather. Aidan wouldn’t tell me. He came in last night. Or this morning— it was pretty late, maybe one or two. He asked when I thought the police would get the note and the fun and games would start. He was really happy and we smoked a bowl and then…” She hesitated, studying the roses on her fingers as if seeing them for the first time. “We slept really late and then had breakfast…and we were in bed together when the police came this afternoon. That may be part of why they wouldn’t believe me. Aidan and Boz are both…important to me, just in different ways.” Her expression was defiant as she looked at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth attempted her best nonjudgmental face. “You wanted Laurel but she’s not here. I think she’s working nights for the next three or four days. But if you don’t like staying by yourself, I have a guest room—”

“Mrs. Goodweather, could I? Just for a while till…till things get better?”

Shaggy black Ursa roused herself to rub against Kyra’s knees, seemingly aware of the young woman’s distress. Kyra gave her a pat and continued to look pleadingly at Elizabeth.

“Of course you can. But enough of the Mrs. Goodweather. Please, I’d rather you call me Elizabeth.”

“All right…Elizabeth.” Kyra took a deep breath. “There’s one other thing. Laurel told me that you have a boyfriend who’s a detective or something. I wonder if he could help me? I could pay—”

“He’s not a boyfriend!” The retort was instant and her irritation more obvious than she had intended. Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt at the shocked surprise on her guest’s face and softened her voice. “He’s just…he was a friend of my late husband. But I guess I could call him for you.”

CHAPTER 4

AUNT OMIE

(TUESDAY, AUGUST 30)

WHY ARE YOU TAKING SO LONG TO GET dressed, you idiot? Just put on something clean and decent. It’s not Oscar night.

Clad only in her underwear, Elizabeth was standing in front of her closet, trying to decide what to wear. She and Phillip were going, she for the first time, to visit his Aunt Omie in Shut In, the little community beyond Hot Springs. She pulled on a new lime green T-shirt and just as quickly pulled it off, deciding that it was too sloppy looking for a visit to a lady way up in her eighties. And the teal blue silk camp shirt seemed too dressy when she looked in the mirror—this is the country, Elizabeth— so she settled on a noncommittal navy blue linen shirt. A clean pair of khaki slacks completed the outfit. Then there was the question of her hair— up or down? For special occasions she sometimes piled her dark, silver-shot hair into a braided coronet or twisted it into a chignon. Was this a special occasion?

Somewhat reluctantly she had called Phillip Hawkins on Monday night. Kyra had begun to tell him her story but, overcome with emotion, had wordlessly thrust the phone at her hostess and disappeared into the guest room, her face once again streaked with tears. Elizabeth had tried to explain the complicated scheme worked out by The 3: what she had overheard and what she had been told. She had lowered her voice to give Phillip a little of Kyra’s background. “She’s had a really rough time, Phillip. I’d like to try to help her. She feels sure that Aidan’s innocent.”

Phillip had already heard some of the story from a buddy at the police department and was surprised to hear of Elizabeth’s involvement, however peripheral. Actually, he had said, “On the trail again, Sherlock?” but had agreed to talk with Kyra. “As long as she understands I’m nothing official, no connection with the Department, no PI license.”

He had Tuesday free and would come out in the afternoon to hear what more Kyra could tell him. “But first, Elizabeth, will you do me a favor? I told you about my Aunt Omie over in Shut In, didn’t I? Well, I promised to go out there tomorrow for a visit. Would you go with me? I know she’d like to meet you and I think you’d get a kick out of her. Besides, don’t you make quilts? Aunt Omie has some beauties, some that her mother and even her grandmother made.”

The persuasion was blatant but the temptation had been too great; Elizabeth had rapidly rearranged the plans she had made for Tuesday (weed eating and sowing fall lettuce) and had agreed to meet Phillip down at her lower barn at ten-thirty. “It’ll take about an hour and Aunt Omie will fix lunch for us…. No, she’d get her feelings hurt if she couldn’t feed me. Besides, her cornbread alone is worth the trip.”

So it was that Elizabeth found herself riding with Phillip Hawkins through the twists and turns of the road beyond Hot Springs. She had seen little of him since April, when after a pleasant dinner he had abruptly announced that he had to go back to Beaufort for a time. She knew that his ex-wife lived near there and wondered if that was the reason for the trip, but she refused to ask any questions and Phillip volunteered no explanation. He had called her again, was it back in June? to say that he had returned, but she had been too busy with her garden and the responsibilities of the farm to accept his invitation to a concert. And when he had called a second time, she had had some other pressing engagement, probably washing my hair, she thought. She glanced over at Phillip, whose whole attention was focused on the narrow winding road.

He’s not exactly handsome, she told herself, not like Sam was. But he’s pleasant looking and he has soulful eyes. And he looks good bald. She remembered that she had once described Phillip to a curious friend as looking “like Danny DeVito but tall.” Not real tall, but about six feet and solidly built.

Phillip suddenly glanced at her and she felt herself flush. He smiled and said, “What’s on your mind?”

“I haven’t asked you about Janie.” Elizabeth grasped at a topic while wondering if Hawkins had been aware of her careful appraisal. “What’s she doing now? And Seth, what’s he up to?”

Phillip’s daughter Janie, a sometime student at UNC–Asheville, was one of the reasons he had relocated from the coast. Emotionally volatile, Janie seemed to respond well to the continuing presence of her father, and his patient attempts to keep his daughter on track were one of the most endearing things about this big bear of a man.

“Janie’s back in school and doing really great this semester.” Phillip’s face radiated pride. “She’s switched to psychology and likes it. And Seth’s got a fellowship to stay and do graduate work at ECU. What about your kids?”

“Rosemary’s still at Carolina— assistant professor in the English department. She’s working on a book about present-day Southern fiction— people like Lee Smith and Clyde Edgerton and Sharyn McCrumb and Tony Earley. She’s happy as can be, has even bought a little house outside Chapel Hill. Laurel’s doing art and tending bar, not much change there. And of course Ben’s my mainstay on the farm.”

She hesitated, seeking the right words. “Phillip…I feel bad that it’s been so long since we got together. I’m glad you asked me to come with you to see Aunt Omie.”

Phillip kept his eyes on the road. He said nothing but a smile began to creep over his face.

* * *

She was waiting on the porch of her tiny log cabin. Though bent with age, Omie moved spryly and skittered down the worn plank steps as nimbly as a much younger woman. She was beside the car as it came to a stop and began talking before Phillip could open the door. “Well, Phillip Lee, I sure am proud you come today. And you brung your lady friend too.”

Bright blue eyes in a cheerful, wrinkled face surveyed Elizabeth unabashedly. “Look at that pretty braid of hair. Law, hit hangs ’most down to your waist. Come right in and get y’uns a chair. I got our dinner all ready. Mind that bottom step, hit’s a mite slick.”

At Aunt Omie’s insistence they took seats at the chrome and formica kitchen table that seemed to be de rigueur in mountain homes. Once Elizabeth had wondered what had happened to the rustic wooden tables that must have originally been in use in these old houses but, after a trip to an antique mall in Asheville, she had realized that they were now collectors’ items, selling at prices that would make their original owners doubt the sanity of the modern world.

The kitchen was very warm and full of the smells of cooking; Aunt Omie had evidently been using the white enamel Modern Maid wood-burning cookstove, but the back door stood open and a cross draft lifted the brightly printed curtains at the window over the sink. A dozen jars of what looked like apple jelly sat on the counter, partly covered by a faded dishtowel, and an assortment of battered cookware crowded the vast range top. Omie set three worn Blue Willow plates on the table and began to dish up the contents of the various pots and pans. Creamed corn, smothered potatoes, green beans cooked with pork, and a small dish of fried sausage patties were the center of the feast. But the old woman kept producing dish after dish: a big pat of bright yellow home-churned butter to go with the cake of white-meal cornbread that she dumped out of a black iron skillet onto a plate, big, soft, lightly browned biscuits—“I fixed ’em fer breakfast but they might go good with some of this new jelly”— a pint jar of bread and butter pickles, thick slices of ripe red tomatoes, blackberry jam, the still-warm apple jelly, and a choice of buttermilk or sweet milk to drink.

There was a lump in Elizabeth’s throat as she thought of how many times she had eaten almost this identical meal at her neighbor Dessie’s house, back when Dessie had been strong and able to keep a cow, to churn, and to can. The old ways were dying with this generation; Dessie’s children had jobs away from home and grabbed a fast-food lunch, often as not. And those who stayed at home were usually content with peanut butter on Wonder bread.

When Aunt Omie finally took her seat, she fixed Phillip with a piercing gaze. “Will you return thanks, Phillip Lee?” Without waiting for an answer, she bowed her head and clasped her hands.

Phillip and Elizabeth did the same and Phillip began. “Our blessed, divine, heavenly father, bless this food to our use and…and…” He faltered. “…this food to our use…”

“And to the nourishments of our bodies,” Aunt Omie prompted without opening her eyes.

“…and to the nourishments of our bodies. Help us and guide us; keep us where wouldst have us. In Jesus’ holy name, amen.”

Phillip rattled off the remainder of the prayer without hesitation and gave the older woman a relieved smile. She looked at him for a long moment, then sniffed. “Was you to say that three times a day, you’d not fergit it.”

As they ate, Phillip and his aunt caught up on family news. Elizabeth smiled to see the little woman treat Phillip as if he were a teenager. The age he was when he used to spend all summer with her. She still doesn’t think he has any sense.

When they had eaten far more than was comfortable, including outsized helpings of meringue-topped banana pudding, Phillip pushed back from the table. “Aunt Omie, I told Elizabeth you’d show her your quilts. She makes quilts too. And I’ll do the dishes.” He held up a forestalling hand. “Just the way you taught me.”

“Well…” Aunt Omie’s brow creased and she pursed her lips. “All right then. I’ll just hot up the fire a mite. You want the water in that kettle bilin’ hot to rinse off them dishes. And mind you wash the glasses first.”

“The quilts is back here in my spare room.” Omie glanced over her shoulder into the kitchen where Phillip was stacking dishes beside the sink. “Ay law, I hope that boy don’t break Mommy’s willow pattern plates.” Elizabeth followed her hostess down a narrow hallway and into a little bedroom with pale lavender walls and a linoleum floor patterned in swirling misty grays and blues. An old white-enameled iron bed with a blue-and-white woven coverlet filled most of the space.

“What pretty colors.” Elizabeth glanced down at her hostess, who was reaching for the long hanging string to turn on the bare bulb in the center of the white-painted ceiling.

Omie beamed. “How do you like my pretty linoleum rug? I put hit on layaway in nineteen and fifty-one and paid hit off in nineteen and fifty-four. Law, I was proud when hit went down. Now the quilts is in the chest at the bed foot. Just pull them piles of newspapers off the chest top and put ’em on the floor.”

Most of the quilts were similar to ones Elizabeth had seen in the homes of her neighbors: string-pieced squares and diamonds that used even the smallest scraps of cloth. Many of the quilts appeared to be pieced of the flowered feed-sack material that had been popular in the thirties and forties. There were a few bright examples that used scraps of double-knit polyester and one heavy wool quilt of somber gray and blue and brown rectangles, probably a tailor’s discarded samples. The women of these mountains took what they could find and turned it into art, Elizabeth thought as she opened out a beautiful Lone Star pieced in purples, pinks, and reds on a deep green background.

“Now this here is my pride and joy.” Aunt Omie lifted a flannel-wrapped object from the bottom of the chest. “This here is the Fanchon quilt.”

She laid the bundle on the bed and began to pull aside the flannel as reverently as a priest unveiling a holy relic. “You’ll not never see one to equal hit.”

* * *

“Phillip, I don’t know why I didn’t bring my camera. Anyway, I’ve got to go back and get a picture of that quilt. It’s just incredible.”

“Are you talking about the one with all the animals on it? Aunt Omie used to let me have it on my bed when I stayed with her. I’d make up stories about the different squares.”

“That’s the one. Do you realize that quilt is probably worth thousands of dollars? It’s a folk art masterpiece! Your aunt said it was originally commissioned as a gift for President Roosevelt but then it was stolen and hidden away before it could be taken to Washington.”

They were on their way back to Full Circle Farm, driving past fields of ripening tobacco, deep greens shading to bright yellow in the rich bottoms by the creeks. Snowy-white Queen Anne’s lace drifted along the roadsides, and waves of blue chicory washed over abandoned fields. In one late-planted field two Mexican workers were topping the very last row of tobacco. Bees, butterflies, and even hummingbirds swarmed frantically around the few remaining clusters of fragrant pink blossoms on the untopped plants.

Elizabeth watched the scene with a little pang of nostalgia; topping had been her favorite job back when she and Sam had raised tobacco. The smell of the flowers had been sweet and strong and the work relatively easy. But “’baccer’s over,” as Miss Birdie had told her in the early summer when Elizabeth had marveled that so few of her neighbors were planting their usual acre or two of the traditional cash crop. The government support system for tobacco, which had once assured farmers of a minimum price, had ended, and only a few big growers were willing to take a chance and invest in a crop with no guaranteed return. All across the county, little fields had been turned to pasture or left to grow up. A way of life was ending.

“I remember now.” Phillip’s voice brought her back to the present. “There was an odd story connected with that quilt…someone named, what was it, something weird—?”

“Fanchon— she’s the one who made the quilt. Aunt Omie told me all about it. Fanchon and Tildy lived on a neighboring farm back in the thirties, when your aunt was just a little girl. She evidently just worshiped Fanchon, who was older. Your aunt got all misty-eyed talking about her— said that Fanchon was the prettiest, smartest girl around. She could play drop-thumb banjo and sing all the old ballads and tell stories and buck dance— but I guess you know all this—”

Phillip smiled, his eyes on the road. “It’s been a long time; you go on and refresh my memory.”

“Well, it sounds almost like a fairy tale. Fanchon was an orphan who was taken in by Tildy’s family when both girls were toddlers. According to your aunt, Tildy was homely and sullen, as different from Fanchon as night and day.”

Aunt Omie had been explicit. “Jode and Marthy laid out to make no difference ’twixt the two girls when first they took in little Fanchon. Their other children had died of the Spanish influenza, like so many did back then, and they thought Tildy would be happy for a sister. But that Tildy had been a colicky baby and her temper was just plumb sour from the beginning. From the earliest I can recollect, Tildy was just hateful to poor Fanchon.”

“So where does the animal quilt come into this?” asked Phillip, slowing for the turn up the half mile of gravel road that was Full Circle Farm’s driveway.

“I think Aunt Omie said a ‘Yankee woman’ commissioned a quilt to be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt. There was a lot of interest back then in reviving the traditional crafts and helping the mountaineers, as they were called, to market their stuff. So anyway, the quilt was months in the making. You know how each square has a family of animals on it— bull, cow, and calf, possum and babies—”

“That was my favorite— the possum with her tail curved over her back and all the little possums hanging from it by their tails.”

“Well, anyway, Fanchon must have put in hundreds of hours of work— I can’t even imagine. And she and the Yankee woman were going to the White House to give the quilt to the President and ‘all kindly of fancy goin’s on,’ as your aunt put it. But when the Yankee woman came to take Fanchon to the train station, the quilt couldn’t be found. They searched high and low but it had vanished.”

“I remember now,” said Phillip. “The trip was called off; Fanchon married a local boy, and they moved to Detroit. Everyone suspected that Tildy had been the one to take the quilt because she was so jealous of Fanchon. But evidently Fanchon didn’t hold it against her, because when Tildy’s parents died, she went to Detroit to live with Fanchon and her husband.”

“And then, almost twenty years later, Aunt Omie found the animal quilt in an old trunk in her own barn loft,” Elizabeth added. “But when she wrote to Fanchon about it, Fanchon wrote back to say that the quilt had bad memories for her and she didn’t want it.”

Phillip parked the car beside Elizabeth’s waiting jeep. Elizabeth was a little surprised to see Kyra emerge from the barn that was the wreath-making workshop. She came toward them, smiling shyly. “Hi, Mrs.— I mean, Elizabeth. I was getting Ben to show me how to do the wreaths. I thought maybe I could help out some while I’m staying with you.”

Ben came out of the barn with a big grin on his face. He carried a small wreath made of gray-green rosemary sprigs accented by a cluster of dark red dried roses. He held up the fragrant circle for Elizabeth’s inspection. “Real good for a first try, wouldn’t you say?” He patted Kyra’s arm. “Talented and good-looking.”

Kyra murmured, “Ben, don’t,” then looked up at Phillip and held out her hand. “I’m Kyra Peterson. You must be the detective Laurel told me about. I really appreciate your coming out to help me.”

Elizabeth was amazed to see Phillip’s darkly tanned face blush. He shook the outstretched hand briefly. “I’m Phillip Hawkins. I’m not a detective anymore; I want to make that clear. I’m just here as…as a friend of the family.” He shot an enigmatic glance at Elizabeth.

Kyra continued to gaze up at him. “Laurel said that you had lots of friends in the Asheville Police Department. Maybe you can help me; I need answers to some questions.” Elizabeth noticed for the first time just how thick and long the eyelashes that framed Kyra’s green eyes were, how they lowered slowly, then fluttered upward.

“Well, my buddy Hank is working the case,” Phillip admitted. “I talked to him last night and he told me a few things. What is it you want to know?”

They all moved to the low stone wall by the barn and sat in the welcome shade of the big dogwood that stretched its limbs above them.

Kyra looked at Phillip, her eyes wide and pleading. “I need to know about Boz. The police wouldn’t tell me anything except where they found him and that he was…that he was dead.” She hesitated, drew a soft breath, and went on. “They arrested Aidan, so I guess that means they believe Boz was murdered. But I’ve been thinking. You know, the plan was for Boz to go somewhere to hide out. Maybe he thought it would be funny to use one of Rafiq’s cars. Everyone knew that Rafiq wouldn’t be at the junkyard till Monday. Boz could have gotten in the car and…and maybe he passed out. He’d been drinking a lot at the performance. And then…I don’t know…some kind of weird accident…maybe the crusher just started on its own….” Her voice trailed off in confusion as Phillip slowly shook his head.

“Kyra, didn’t the arresting officers mention that Boz had been shot?” His gravelly voice was unusually gentle as he spoke.

“Shot? Shot? How?”

“It was in the morning newspaper, but I guess you don’t—”

“How was he shot?” Kyra’s tone was demanding, her eyes emerald ice. “Just tell me— how was Boz shot?”

With a face full of pity, Phillip met her gaze. “In the back of the head. What they call execution style.”

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— SECOND ENTRY

C called with the news before I was even downstairs. He has so many contacts and he loves gossip more than any woman. When he began, I cut him off, telling him that I knew all about it, K having warned me so that I could leave if I so chose, before the charade began. Charade, my dear Lily? he said, bursting with excitement. Over the phone, I could almost hear his eyebrows arching. Yes, charade, I said, annoyed at being kept from my tea, my toast and marmalade. Surely everyone has realized that by now.

Then you haven’t heard, he exclaimed, with indecent delight. That very ugly young man, really too rough trade, well he’s turned up dead. And they say that the beautiful boy— Aidan, isn’t it?— will be arrested.

By the time he had disburdened himself of all the ghastly details, I no longer wanted my breakfast. I rang for Reba and told her to send Buckley to me, but she said he had taken the car in for servicing and wouldn’t be back till after lunch. Sometimes Buckley acts too precipitously. I hope—

No, surely not. I had only told him—

Enough of these silly speculations. I lay back in bed to consider how this would affect K, still so fragile. The telephone rang again and it was her father, evidently with the same concern.

I have been asked by some why I maintain a cordial relationship with M after his second marriage and the accompanying revelations. Generally I ignore such questions out of existence, but in this journal, I am forced to acknowledge that I don’t entirely know the answer.

I have always had great respect for M as a self-made man. Furthermore, he has invariably given me excellent advice about my portfolio— I am many times wealthier today than I was when my husband died. In the matter of his second marriage— let me be plain for once— the matter of M’s mistress— I reserve judgment. There were circumstances unknown to everyone but R, M, and myself.

Love— pure, deep love— can exist without carnality, though not nearly so easily as carnality without love. I believe that to be true but my mind flies back to my parting with F and I am no longer sure.

I think that, here in these pages, I shall for the first and last time set down the story that I have carried, like a pearl within an oyster, an irritation in my heart, for so many years. Perhaps once I have done so and when these pages are nothing but black ashes, I can forget.

Very well. It began in Boston in 1933. Although the Great Depression was under way, my life went on much as usual— Symphony, lunches with Mother at the Chilton Club, shopping at Stearns— but the sight of the many unemployed men on the streets and the lines at the soup kitchens turned my thoughts away from social frivolities and toward what my grandmother had always called Good Works. In spite of being a regular participant at Sewing Circle and being involved in various volunteer opportunities through the Junior League, I longed to do more. Indeed, had I been a Roman Catholic, as Dr. P facetiously suggested, I might well have entered a nursing order, such was my desire for sacrifice. I had offered my services at a soup kitchen run by our church, but my mother, unhappy at seeing me in such company, had contrived to find excuses to keep me with her almost every day.

My twenty-first birthday had just passed when I attended a lecture at the Chilton Club and learned of the Appalachian missions. The women who spoke told of the rugged mountaineers, living amid great natural beauty, but in circumstances of appalling poverty and backwardness. I remember Miss Carolyn, her plain face shining with excitement as she threw wide her arms and called out in a voice that quivered with supplication, Please, Women of Boston, listen! Hear the mournful call of your sisters in the southern mountains! They are begging, crying for your help.

The audience was generous with contributions but, though I gave to the extent that my dress allowance would permit, I was not satisfied. I was determined to take an active part in the efforts to lift these backward folk out of their squalor and misery. I was eager to be of service, to suffer hardship in order to do good, to expunge some of the guilt I felt at leading a comfortable life while all around me people went hungry. And— for I am being honest here— I was eager to leave home, eager for the adventure of meeting with the mountaineers of whom such a compelling picture was painted by Miss Carolyn Hedley and Miss Geneva Mills.

These two inspiring ladies had spent the previous three years in western North Carolina, helping local women to develop and market their handicrafts. Miss Carolyn and Miss Geneva told thrilling stories of riding on muleback up lonesome hollows to ramshackle cabins peopled by a hardy folk who spoke a dialect that Shakespeare would have recognized. They told of discovering women who still spun wool from their own sheep, dyed it with decoctions of their own making, and wove it into intricately patterned coverlets on great rude looms handed down from their grandmothers.

There are women and girls all over those mountains, said Miss Geneva, who work like slaves in the fields. They are barefoot; they are ragged; they are worn out before they are forty. If we can help these women to supplement the meager income of the farm with their handicrafts, we can bring them a step closer to the modern world.

I was one of several who spoke with Miss Hedley after the talk and then and there I committed myself to their mission in Shut In, a tiny community in the mountains near Asheville.

It was fortunate that my mother and father (typical insular Bostonians) had heard of Asheville. Indeed, Mother’s best friend’s son had attended The Asheville School after being asked to leave Groton under circumstances that were evidently so outré he was exiled from the usual acceptable schools and sent south. I’m sure that Eleonora told me that they have a Junior League there, Mother said, clutching at straws. You can transfer your membership and that way you’ll meet the right people.

So I let them believe that I would be staying in Asheville. It made leaving so much easier. My parents had become weary of my idealism and my scorn for their (our!) way of life, and I think they put me on the train for North Carolina with something of relief. I overheard Father telling my mother that they might as well let me get this foolishness out of my system, that I would be home before six months was past, and that at least it wasn’t Bolshevism like the Lawrences’ daughter….

CHAPTER 5

THE NANNY

(TUESDAY, AUGUST 30)

AT THE WORDS “EXECUTION STYLE,” A SMALL, INVOLUNTARY sound escaped Kyra’s lips and she turned away, burying her face in her hands. Instantly Ben was at her side, his arms around her.

“Aunt E, let’s go up to the house.” He helped the trembling Kyra into the backseat of the jeep and climbed in beside her.

“Phillip, please, come with us.” Elizabeth took her place behind the wheel without waiting for an answer. Phillip hesitated a moment, then climbed into the passenger seat. All four were silent on the short bumpy ride up to Elizabeth’s house. In the rearview mirror, Elizabeth could see that Kyra’s head was on Ben’s shoulder, her eyes were closed, and she appeared to be shaking with silent sobs.

Once inside the house, Kyra regained her composure and they all sat around the dining table with glasses of the inevitable iced tea. “I’m sorry that I acted so…so…” She fought back her tears and continued. “It was just that…” She shot a penetrating look at Phillip. “Do you know who my father is? And do you know how my mother died?”

“I told Phillip a little about your family, Kyra,” Elizabeth admitted. “I thought he’d need to know in order to help you better.”

“Did you tell him that my mother was shot in the back of the head?” Kyra’s words tumbled out in a relentless torrent. “That I was the one who found her? Did you tell him about my father’s second wife? Did you tell him—” There was an edge of frenzy to her voice now.

Phillip broke in, his words calm and reassuring. “Elizabeth gave me the story as it was reported in the newspapers, Kyra. Now you need to tell me what you know about Boz.”

Kyra buried her face in her hands and spoke in muffled tones. “I think it was my father. Maybe he didn’t pull the trigger but I think he made it happen. Just like my mother—” The fingers of her right hand sought the tattooed roses on her left hand and began to rub, as if to imprint them on the bone beneath the skin. “He hated Boz even more than Aidan. But this way they’d both be out of the way…” She looked pleadingly at Phillip. “I don’t know how I can prove it. He’s smart; he’s always gotten away with things.”

“Have you ever told the police that you suspect him of being involved in your mother’s death?”

A bitter laugh twisted Kyra’s lips. “My father plays golf every Saturday with the chief of police. So, no, I haven’t bothered with the authorities.” She pressed her hand to her mouth for a moment. “Right after it happened…after my mother died, when I went back to school, I did tell Miss Wingate. She was one of my teachers at Vassar and I really felt close to her. Anyway, she knew what had happened and went out of her way to make sure I was okay. She was someone I really trusted and eventually I told her that I thought my father had something to do with the murder. I told her how for as long as I could remember I’d been afraid of him. And I think my mother was too.”

Kyra looked around the table. Her fingers caressed the tattooed roses, more slowly now, but still without a pause. “I told Miss Wingate all this and the next thing I knew, I was being sent to a private clinic in Massachusetts to recover from my so-called nervous breakdown. I was at the clinic for the whole semester. When I went back to school, Miss Wingate was gone and no one would tell me how to get in touch with her. Everyone was really nice to me, but if I wanted to talk about my mother’s murder, they would just ask if I’d taken my meds. That’s when I dropped out of school.”

Kyra told them how she had often seen dark bruises on her mother’s arms. “She’d try to hide them and if I asked, she’d just laugh and say something about how clumsy she was. But I’m sure he had hurt her. She always slept in her own room but I remember, when I was little, sometimes I’d wake up at night and hear her crying and pleading with him— I think she was terrified of him. Reba, our housekeeper, told me things…. She didn’t mean to but she was my nurse back then and sometimes she let things slip. She’s always tried to protect me….”

The fingers of Kyra’s right hand arched into claws and began to scratch at the tattooed roses in a steady, relentless rhythm as she continued. “Reba said that they didn’t have sex anymore. I don’t know— maybe that’s why he had a mistress. But, in public, Mother always acted the part of a loving wife— she couldn’t admit to her family that she’d made a mistake by marrying him.”

The restless fingers lay still at last. “Everyone’s afraid of him. I try not to be; I defy him with stupid little things like moving out, dyeing my hair, the tattoos. And I know I can get to him. But I never thought he’d go after Boz and Aidan.” She paused, and then looked at Phillip, her eyes wide and pleading. “It’s my fault that Boz is dead and Aidan’s in jail. That’s why I want to hire you to help me prove that my father had Boz killed. Because then they’ll have to reopen the case about my mother.”

* * *

Later that evening Elizabeth sat on her front porch, enjoying the sounds of the crickets and the cooler night air. Kyra had swallowed a few bites of supper and, pale with exhaustion, had gone to bed early in the quiet guest room at the back of the house. Ben had retired to his cabin, and Phillip, after declining to be hired as a private investigator, had at last said, “I’ll see what I can find out, unofficially, of course.” He had turned down Elizabeth’s offer of a sandwich for supper, saying that Aunt Omie’s banana pudding was still with him and the walk down to his car would do him good. He had promised to be in touch soon, and Elizabeth had watched him go with a vague feeling of disappointment.

The sweet fragrance of night-flowering nicotiana vied with the earthy odor of the three dogs lying at Elizabeth’s feet. Hypnotic chirring from a thousand crickets almost drowned out the sound of a distant car down on the hard road.

Elizabeth was busy thinking over Kyra’s story when she heard an unfamiliar buzzing inside the house. Puzzled, she went in to investigate and soon realized that the sound was coming from a cell phone lying on the kitchen table by Kyra’s knapsack. She hesitated, knowing that her guest was probably asleep by now— it was well after nine— but feeling that the call should be answered. Reluctantly, she picked up the little device and, after fumbling to find the right button, said, “Hello, this is Kyra’s phone. Elizabeth Goodweather speaking.”

There was a silence at the other end. Then a peremptory voice said, “This is Marvin Peterson. Let me speak to my daughter.”

“Just a moment. I’ll see if she’s awake.” Elizabeth went quietly down the hall toward the guest room. Kyra’s door was closed and no light showed under it.

“She’s asleep, Mr. Peterson. I’d rather not wake her; she’s had a rough day. Do you want—”

“You’re the neighbor, right? So she’s run to your house. I sent a car out for her when I heard about what had happened to her boyfriends, but my man said she wasn’t at her house.”

She could hear him speaking to someone in the background and could just catch the words “…next time…” He sounded furious but when he spoke to her his voice was calm and deliberate.

“Mrs. Goodweather, is my daughter okay? She’d probably refuse to talk to me anyway, even if you did wake her up. I don’t know if you realize how emotionally fragile she is.”

“She’s told me a little about…” Elizabeth considered and chose her words with care. “…a little about her mother. And of course she’s upset at Boz’s death and Aidan’s arrest—”

“Aidan!” snorted Peterson, “now there’s a piece of work! A useless parasite like all of them. Artists! They say I ought to support the arts— what bullshit! I figure that the very generous allowance my daughter gets is supporting the arts— both those useless little shits were living off her money—‘but it’s Art,’ they whine…Art, my ass— a bunch of fags and dykes painting themselves with chocolate or saving bottles of their own piss and they want to tell me it’s Art. Well, I say it’s bullshit!”

He paused to collect himself and Elizabeth could picture him wiping the foam from his lips. She remembered that the newspaper stories at the time of Rose Peterson’s death had made much of her husband’s humble beginnings and his swift transition from an ordinary, so-called uncultured, working-class Joe Six-Pack to a smooth-spoken, custom-tailored patron of the arts whose accent hinted at Harvard or Yale. Evidently Marvin Peterson had not entirely forgotten his roots.

“I think Kyra’s all right—” she began.

“Mrs. Goodweather,” Peterson interrupted. His anger was leashed in now and his voice had returned to an even pitch. He sounded almost, almost conciliatory. “Mrs. Goodweather, I’ve just been in touch with the doctor who treated Kyra during her breakdown after her mother’s death. He was very insistent, warned that a second trauma could send her totally off the deep end, said that I should get her into therapy as soon as possible. I have to talk to her about going back to the clinic for a while.”

Elizabeth’s feelings were torn— the angry vulgarian had abruptly been replaced by what? Suave diplomat…or concerned father? Is he trying to help his daughter…or get her out of the way?

Her inner questions still unresolved, she assured Peterson that she would have Kyra return his call. His voice was full of warmth, and something else that could have been anxiety, as he thanked Elizabeth for taking care of his daughter. By the time the call ended, Elizabeth realized that she was beginning to be swayed by the man’s charm— the charm that had kept Peterson in the forefront of Asheville society in spite of his dubious past.

After replacing the cell phone by the knapsack, Elizabeth went to the door to call the dogs in for the night. Down in the front yard she could hear Ursa beginning an alto howl in response to a distant siren. Then Molly chimed in with her deep hound’s baying and at last James broke into a high-pitched yipping. Elizabeth smiled at the sounds of the dog chorus, then frowned as she realized that the siren was getting much closer. She stepped quickly out to the porch and listened; yes, it must be just down the road on Ridley Branch.

With an abrupt gurgling noise the siren stopped and Elizabeth was horrified to see a red glow tinting the night sky, just in the direction of Dessie’s house. Pushing her feet into her boots, she started for her car, then turned and hurried back to the guest room.

“Kyra!” She rapped urgently on the door. “Kyra, wake up!” There was no sound within. Elizabeth opened the door and said again, “Kyra—” The light from the hallway revealed an empty bed. The French door leading outside stood ajar.

Elizabeth hesitated. The path beyond the door led down the mountain by way of Ben’s cabin. Maybe Kyra had—

“Dammit, Elizabeth, don’t just stand there,” she said aloud. Stepping out the open door, she faced Ben’s cabin. Lights were still on and for once he didn’t have his music turned up loud. “Ben!” She pitched her voice to carry, and called again. “Ben!”

Almost immediately the cabin door opened and Ben emerged, wearing only boxer shorts. “Aunt E?” He peered into the night, straining to see. “Is something wrong?”

“I think there’s a fire down on the road— maybe Dessie’s place! We’d better go down and see. Is Kyra…” She paused. “Have you seen Kyra?”

“No,” he called back, sounding puzzled. “Isn’t she over there? Gimme a second to get some clothes on and I’ll meet you at the car. You might want to grab some rakes and shovels in case they need help with brush fires.”

As Elizabeth went back through the house she called Kyra’s name but still there was no response. She was throwing two rakes and a shovel into the back of her jeep when Ben appeared, clubbing his long hair back into a doubled-up ponytail. The dogs were howling again and more sirens could be heard. “Did you find Kyra, Aunt E?” he asked as they hurtled down the road.

“Not a sign of her. I don’t understand—” Her words were cut off by the sight of Dessie’s house, windows glowing red and flames shooting from the roof. Three fire trucks were parked in the yard of the little house, and yellow-suited volunteer firemen aimed heavy fire hoses at the conflagration.

Ben and Elizabeth left the jeep at the foot of their drive and sprinted across the paved road to the fire. It seemed confined to the house; the barn that The 3 had used as a studio was untouched, and the surrounding vegetation, still damp from a heavy rain the day before, was not in danger of burning.

“Jerry!” Ben hurried over to a heavyset man who, though completely togged out in firefighting gear, was leaning against the truck and seemed to be observing, rather than engaged in, the work at hand. “Was there anyone in the house? The girl who lives here—”

“She’s over under that tree, Ben. Howdy, Miz Goodweather. Yep, that little gal come runnin’ down your road just about time we got here. Said she had her a feelin’ somethin’ was wrong. Tried to run in the house after some of her things but we had to stop her. She’s all tore up about it, some picture of her mama, I believe she said.”

In the glare of the fire engine headlights, Elizabeth could see Kyra leaning against the trunk of the big sugar maple that dominated the little yard. The girl was looking away from the house, and once again she was obsessively rubbing the tattooed roses on her left hand. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and she didn’t turn when Elizabeth sat down beside her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Kyra said softly. The words were soft and devoid of emotion. “I could hear music over at Ben’s cabin and thought I’d go over and talk to him for a while. There was a flashlight there by the bed and I thought I could find the way. But when I got outside, I had this funny feeling that something was wrong and I just started walking down the road. Then I heard sirens and I started running.”

She hugged her knees tighter. There were no tears and her face was a mask. “When I got to the top of the hill by the old graveyard, I could see the flames. And then the black car. It was on the road above our house, just sitting there with its lights off. And when the fire truck came down the road, the black car took off around the mountain.”

“Was it a car you recognized?” Elizabeth asked. “It might have been just someone passing by, maybe watching but then afraid of being suspected when the fire truck arrived—”

“I recognized it,” said Kyra, her voice still lifeless. “It’s always around. The driver’s a mean-looking guy in sunglasses. Sometimes he pretends he’s reading a newspaper, or looking at a map, but really, he’s watching me. I call him my nanny.”

CHAPTER 6

WILLOW

(WEDNESDAY MORNING, AUGUST 31)

THE EARLY MORNING MISTS LAY HEAVY ON FULL Circle Farm. “For ever’ fog in August, they’ll be a snow in winter” was the local saying, but though Elizabeth had tried keeping track of these fogs and the allegedly resultant snows, she had never been able to prove or, for that matter, disprove this particular old wives’ tale. What was important to her about these frequent morning fogs was that they provided a cool interval before the heat of the day— an interval she was using now to pick her tomatoes.

Kyra was still asleep— exhausted after the events of the previous night. Ben was in the house— working on the farm accounts, he had said. “And when Kyra wakes up, I don’t think she should be alone. I’ll be right here if she needs me, and I can get that billing done.”

The tomato vines, heavy with fruit, were sagging on their baling twine supports. The lower leaves were spotted and rusty with incipient blight. They would have to be clipped and burned, but the upper parts of the vines were continuing to put out tender new growth and starlike yellow blossoms. Elizabeth began to fill her plastic milk crate with the long, firm San Marzanos and Romas that would form the basis of herb-rich sauces to be stored in the freezer, as well as providing leathery oven-dried tomatoes bursting with the concentrated flavor of summer. There was also a small basket for the tiny grape tomatoes whose seeds a cousin had brought from France— the first choice for a tossed salad or eating out of hand. Finally, there were the enormous slicing tomatoes— the aristocracy of the garden— deep crimson Brandywine, dark Cherokee, Black Krim, and a bright yellow nameless beauty whose seeds had come from Miss Birdie, a little bland in taste perhaps, but so gorgeous in company with the others. Elizabeth laid these giants carefully in her big willow basket, envisioning a cobalt blue platter heaped with rounds of red and yellow interposed with slices of creamy fresh mozzarella, the whole glistening with generous amounts of olive oil, a prudent sprinkling of balsamic vinegar, shining crystals of sea salt, and fragrant ribbons of fresh green basil.

She laughed as she realized that her mouth was beginning to water at the image she had conjured up. “Eight-thirty A.M. and thinking about dinner already. Elizabeth, you are hopeless!”

The sound of a car’s straining engine cut through the peaceful morning air. What new adventure? She carried her basket to the end of the row and peered down the road. Too early for Jehovah’s Witnesses and it’s not the farm truck. Whoever it is, it doesn’t sound like they’re going to get much farther.

Below the barn she could hear tires spinning desperately on the gravel, a moment of silence, and the sound of the vehicle backing. Probably just someone who took a wrong turn, she assured herself and began loading the crates and baskets of tomatoes into the back of her jeep. But then she heard the high-pitched whine of a car engine being pushed to the limit and around the corner of the barn shot an ancient green Volvo, bucking and swerving on the steep road.

“Ouch!” Elizabeth winced as the low-slung car hit the water break, a deep trench across the road used to carry rain off into the ditch. There was the scrape of metal on rock but the Volvo kept coming. Elizabeth quickly stepped out into plain sight and signaled the driver to stop. “You’re going to tear up your muffler if you try to make it any farther!” she shouted, hurrying toward the car.

But the driver had pulled over to the side and stopped the engine. She put her head out of the window and called out in a slightly accented, flutelike voice. “Namaste. Is this the place where Kyra has found refuge?”

Without waiting for an answer, she got out. She was a small, fair woman whose pale hazel eyes were ringed with kohl. Her trailing skirt of rainbow-hued gauze did not quite hide her rather dirty bare feet, and her sagging breasts swung loosely inside a long sleeveless tunic of thin lavender material. A length of white cheesecloth was draped lightly around the tangle of faded blonde hair carelessly pulled back and twisted into a knot secured by an orange lacquer chopstick. Apart from the kohl, she wore no makeup. Her face, framed by dangling beaded earrings and smiling up at Elizabeth, was pretty in an old-fashioned way.

“Namaste.” She pressed her palms together just under her chin and bowed slightly. “I am Willow. Aidan is my son.” Her expression saddened and a single tear tracked its way through the kohl.

Elizabeth hesitated. She started to put out her hand, stained and sticky from the tomato vines, reconsidered, and wondered if she should instead bow in return. Settling on a friendly nod, she said, “I’m Elizabeth; yes, Kyra’s staying with me for now.” She studied the smaller woman briefly. As Laurel said— aging-hippie type. Probably forty-something. And what’s with that accent? Oh, yes, she and Aidan lived in India for a few years.

“Thank Spirit that Kyra is safe.” Willow flicked her eyes heavenward, then fixed Elizabeth with her pale gaze. She continued in her soft, singsong lilt. “I felt guided to speak with Kyra about…about recent events. I rose before dawn so that I could arrive early when our energies were strongest. But when I saw the house…all blackened, smoking ruins…I did not know….”

Her eyes closed and, flattening her palms against her midriff, she inhaled and exhaled slowly and deliberately three times before continuing. “Many official cars and trucks were there and I saw uniformed men poking about in the rubble. I felt trapped in some terrible nightmare— Boz dead, my beautiful son in jail— and fear for Kyra overtook me. I parked by the studio and stayed in my car, taking deep, healing breaths. At last a man came to me and shared what had happened. He said that he was the sheriff and he assured me that Kyra was unharmed. He shared that you had taken her into your home and he pointed to your driveway.”

Willow smiled and held out her hands, palms up. “And here I am. Spirit is working in all things. Kyra is safe and the fire has harmed no one.” Her expression hardened and the lilting accent disappeared. “And they can’t fucking blame my beautiful Aidan for it— since they have him locked up. Maybe this will start them looking for the real murderer. I mean, how could anyone think that a gentle soul like my boy could have done something so—?”

She shook her head vigorously and made a gesture with her hands as if shaking them free of some noxious substance. “No, I will give no more energy to that thought.” The accent returned. “It is in the care of Spirit. I have been guided here to support Kyra, to help her to embrace this transition in her life.”

Willow opened her arms wide and turned in a slow circle, her multicolored skirt flaring out around her. “How beautiful it is here— the loins of Mother Earth,” she trilled, motioning to the wooded slopes above them, “and her bounty.” She encompassed the garden tiers and the baskets of tomatoes in a vague wave. “There is deep harmony and healing in this green place.” Reaching up, she suddenly pulled the gauzy wrap off her head. “I sense that this will not be necessary here.”

“No,” agreed Elizabeth, “you won’t need that. The gnats were bad back in May but they’re mostly gone now.”

“Gnats?” Willow smiled indulgently. “Oh, no, no, no, the veil is a protection against evil influence and negative energy. Sri Namanandapura blesses these veils and bestows them on his disciples.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, reconsidered, and closed it again. Take a deep healing breath, Elizabeth, she admonished herself.

“So, Willow, let me get the rest of these tomatoes into the jeep and then I’ll give you a ride up to the house. I’m sure Kyra will be glad to see you.”

The tomatoes were stowed in the back of the jeep for the short trip up the hill. Willow climbed in beside Elizabeth, confiding that though, on principle, she didn’t believe in SUVs, she could see that one might be necessary on a mountainside farm.

“I visualize myself on a farm someday,” she said in a dreamy voice. “A place of rebirth— of healing and enlightenment— my own milk goats, sheep— I’ll learn to spin and weave. My dream is to make all my own clothing from cloth I myself have woven— just like Gandhiji. I see, too, a beautiful organic garden with healing herbs— and perhaps a hospice for AIDS patients. But I have to be able to travel as well.”

Elizabeth said nothing, having heard such fantasies before. Travel and farms were, in her experience, incompatible. Milk goats required milking— twice daily. She smiled quietly, remembering her own years of keeping a cow— milking in all weathers, early and late. A neighbor had once asked her, “Know the difference ’tween bein’ in jail and keepin’ a milk cow? Iffen you’re in jail, you don’t have to milk the durned cow.”

Willow helped carry the tomatoes onto the porch. The cheerful twangle of a bluegrass banjo blared from the CD player in the living room, and through the kitchen window Elizabeth could see Ben and Kyra sitting together on the built-in corner bench, coffee mugs in hand. Kyra, who seemed much recovered from her shock of the night before, was actually giggling at something Ben was showing her in a magazine. Her hair had been washed and had dried naturally, leaving a fluffy mass of black ringlets curling around her face. Without the heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick that she usually affected, Kyra looked very young.

Elizabeth led her visitor into the kitchen. The two young people were still engrossed in the magazine— a Roz Chast cartoon spread in The New Yorker, Elizabeth noted. Kyra looked up with a start as the CD ended.

“Willow!” She jumped up and ran to hug her friend’s mother. “What’s happening with Aidan? Did you see our house? I tried to get our stuff out but they wouldn’t let me….” The girl’s pale face was taut with suppressed emotion. “At least most of our paintings and other pieces were in the studio.” Continuing to cling to the little woman, she whispered, “Tell me Aidan’s all right.”

“Now, now, little one, calm yourself.” With gentle firmness Willow held Kyra to her. “All shall be well. Aidan is in Spirit’s hands. I have surrounded him with a pure white light and given him into Spirit’s care. I have also,” she said, stroking Kyra’s hair back from her face, “retained an excellent lawyer who assures me we will have Aidan out on bond quite soon.” Once again, the Indian accent had disappeared.

Elizabeth sent Kyra and Willow to the front porch to talk while she and Ben sorted and washed the tomatoes. Through the open window they could hear Kyra telling her visitor about the fire. “Terrible, terrible!” Willow exclaimed in response. “But only material objects were lost— all maya, all illusion. And Spirit is obviously looking after you and has sent you to the right place. I sense that Elizabeth will be good for you— did you know she’s a nurturer?— her aura is a beautiful green.”

Ben smirked at Elizabeth and whispered, “That reminds me, Kyra asked me to call Phillip and tell him about the fire. She asked him if he could come back out. He said he was free late this afternoon— he wanted to speak to you but I told him you were in the garden. I also told him I knew you’d want him to stay for dinner this time— being as you’re such a nurturer.”

Elizabeth began a retort but stopped, intrigued by the turn the conversation on the porch seemed to have taken. “…blackmail!” Willow was saying. “Aidan told me that he thought that Boz knew something damaging about someone and that this someone would pay anything, do anything to keep it quiet. Had you heard this?”

Kyra’s answer was barely audible but it seemed to be negative and Willow continued. “Anyway, my lawyer’s looking into it. And it would be good for you to share this knowledge with the investigator you were telling me about— the more people working on this, the better.”

Curiouser and curiouser, thought Elizabeth, intrigued by the idea of another suspect in Boz’s murder, and noting, yet again, how Willow’s slight accent seemed to come and go. The last of the tomatoes were washed and laid on dishtowels to dry when Kyra and Willow returned to the kitchen. Willow reached up to envelop Elizabeth in a patchouli-scented hug. “Thank you, Elizabeth, for taking care of our Kyra. This is exactly the place she needs to be at this time. She’s a very special girl— to me, as well as to my Aidan.”

She released Elizabeth, stepped back, and once again brought her palms together. “Namaste to you all and Spirit’s blessing and protection on this sacred ground.” A beatific smile spread across her face. “Now I must return to Asheville. I have a class in etheric healing this afternoon, so I will say farewell. I shall walk slowly back down to my car, feeling Mother Earth all around me and making affirmations for Aidan’s speedy release. Namaste.”

And she was gone.

* * *

By noon the heat was fierce. Elizabeth put away her weed-eater and wearily sought the porch’s inviting shade. She paused on the top step to enjoy the sight of the neatly trimmed herb garden and flower beds and the intoxicating smell of fresh-cut grass drying in the August sun. Beautiful, even if it would have to be done again in two weeks. She hung her straw hat on the back of a porch rocker, then took off her sweat-soaked purple bandana and draped it over the railing to dry. Sinking gratefully into one of the rockers, she loosened her boot laces and pulled off the filthy, grass-covered lumps that had lost all resemblance to the sporty hiking boots they once had been. She leaned back in her chair, savoring the absence of noise and vibration. The weed-eating had taken several hours and she was ready for a rest.

Ben and Kyra had left shortly after Willow’s departure. Kyra had to go to the sheriff’s office to make a statement, and she desperately needed to do some shopping, having brought only a single change of clothes to Elizabeth’s house. “I’ll take her into Ransom and on into Asheville, Aunt E,” Ben had said. “There’s some stuff I need to get and I don’t think she should be on her own, not till we find out more about the fire.” They had headed down the hill, Ben looming protectively over Kyra.

Elizabeth had watched them go, bemused. “Smitten,” she murmured, smiling at her nephew’s back as he shepherded his charge down the road. But I don’t know…Kyra seems nice enough but she’s got a lot of baggage…and I always pictured Ben pairing up with some granola-Birkenstock type— someone who’d be into farming like he is. Certainly not an artist of the Goth or whatever-it-is persuasion.

She had mulled over this conundrum as she worked and had come to the conclusion that it was none of her business. Now as she sat rocking gently, feeling a little breeze dry her sweaty face, she told herself that she was grateful Ben was there to help Kyra through this difficult time. He’ll be fine, she assured herself. He’s just responding to the old damsel-in-distress situation. If what Willow said is true, Aidan’ll be free soon and things will sort themselves out. “Or not,” she told a sleeping Ursa, standing to brush the bits of grass off herself.

She fixed a quick lunch— thick slices of dead-ripe, garden-warm tomato, liberally salted and peppered and piled on homemade bread. The quintessential summer sandwich, she decided as she swirled the pale yellow mayonnaise on the bread. The mayonnaise, a treasured recipe from her grandmother, was slightly sweet and slightly lemony— and a slightly guilty pleasure.

When the last delectable crumb had been consumed, she settled in front of the computer with a glass of iced coffee and checked her e-mail. A long message from Rosemary, whose busy schedule made such communications all too infrequent, was a welcome sight.

Hi Mum—

Hope all is well at the farm. I had hoped to get up there for a few days but the combined trials of home ownership and two new classes to prepare for are keeping me here. I love my new house and as soon as the plumbing situation is dealt with and I can get the drywall repaired and painted, I hope you and Laur can come for a few days. I think you’ll like it— lots of big trees and a backyard that badly needs flowers. Maybe you could bring some daylilies or something. I can’t afford landscaping right now as I owe my soul to Mr. Dooley, the plumber. Mr. D’s quite a character— and has been really nice about dealing with the emergencies generated by my antique pipes.

Two new classes: one in women’s studies, concentrating on some of the classics— Austen, the Brontës, George Eliot, and Mary Shelley— the usual suspects. I could do most of it in my sleep but want to work up some new angles. The other is contemporary regional fiction of the South— pretty much what my book covers. I really look forward to it, but there’s a fair amount of prep if I want to do things right.

At least the book is mostly done. My editor is reading it now, but I’m reasonably confident that he won’t want too many changes. Which brings me to another thing. I have an idea for a short story— maybe even a novel. Remember the Mullins family and that terrible Halloween? I think I want to base my story on that. You know that I’ve never quite come to terms with what happened back then, and a friend has suggested that I write about it— fictionalize it, of course. At first the idea seemed pretty ghoulish, but the more I thought of it and imagined the different answers there could be, the more it nagged at me. So I’m going to give it a go.

It would be awfully helpful, Mum, if you would check at the Ransom library for articles in the local paper about the tragedy. It was Halloween of 1986. Maybe you could make copies of the articles and send them to me. I really think this is something I need to do. No big hurry— just when you have the time.

Haven’t heard from Laur or Ben recently. Or you either. I know this is a busy time on the farm but let me know what’s happening. Has Ben found true love? Or Laurel? Or what about you? Laur mentioned Phillip hadn’t been around in a while.

I hope to get home for fall break, at least.

Love you,

R

P.S. Do you have any idea where the Mullins family went when they moved away?

CHAPTER 7

STREET ANGEL, HOME DEVIL

(WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AUGUST 31)

THE MULLINS FAMILY. ELIZABETH SAT AT THE computer, staring at her daughter’s words. Rosemary had been a school friend of the oldest Mullins child— we’re best friends, Mum. And we cut our fingers and swapped blood so now we’re blood sisters! When the tragedy occurred, so horribly, so unforgettably on that Halloween nineteen years ago, the ten-year-old Rosemary had gone silent for almost a week, refusing to go to school or even to leave the house. Sam and Elizabeth, after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, had made an appointment with a child psychologist, but before the first meeting, Rosemary was back to normal— a little quieter and more thoughtful than before, but willing once again to participate in life. The meeting with the psychologist had been unrevealing and Rosemary had balked at further visits. I’m fine, Mum, she had insisted. I just don’t want to have to talk about it anymore. And she never spoke of her friend again.

A terrible time. A terrible tragedy. And never solved. The Mullins family had moved away eventually and the story had been all but forgotten. All but.

Elizabeth began to tap the computer keys, composing a return message to her daughter. She was writing, not to the self-assured, brilliant young rising star of the UNC–Chapel Hill English department, but to a skinny pale-faced ten-year-old who wouldn’t cry, who had grown up overnight.

She keyed Send, then remembered that she had told her daughter nothing of the recent events— the death of Boz and the fire at Dessie’s house. It’ll keep, she thought. Rosie hasn’t been home since they moved in. She wouldn’t know who I was talking about.

It was only one o’clock and far too hot to go back out to the garden. Elizabeth decided to make a trip to the grocery and to the recycling center. And the post office and I might as well swing by the library.

* * *

The articles were easy to find. Seated at the microfiche machine, Elizabeth followed the screaming headlines of those first few weeks of November to the more subdued stories of the following months. Eventually, when no solution to the case was found, the story had disappeared. Elizabeth chased the sad tale from issue to issue of the county’s weekly paper, making a copy of each article. She was gathering the pages together, a sorry few to recount such a tragedy, when Barb, one of the longtime librarians, came into the research room.

“Find everything you needed, Elizabeth?” Barb looked doubtfully at the slim sheaf of paper.

“Thanks, Barb. I think I found everything there was. What do I owe for the copies?”

“Today they’re on the house. The library has a big favor to ask. We want to do a quilt exhibit of Marshall County quilts— old and new— and someone said you’d be a good one to ask.” Barb looked embarrassed but continued. “And we’d really like to do it by the end of September— there’s this big meeting….”

* * *

“ ‘I’m jist a girl who cain’t say no….’ ” Elizabeth belted out the only line she knew of the tune from Oklahoma! then pounded on the steering wheel. “When will I learn?” She groaned and thumped the steering wheel again. “Bloody hell! Pull together a quilt exhibit at such short notice! Even if Barb will print up the labels and signage, I’ve still got to write up the stuff. And collect the quilts. And make hanging sleeves for them. And bloody return them.”

She made a quick trip to the post office to mail the copies of the newspaper stories to Rosemary. Still fuming about this new commitment of time and energy, she came to Gudger’s Stand and turned onto the bridge that would take her to Ridley Branch. The little park below the bridge was crowded with buses and vans from the various rafting companies that used this spot as a put-in point for their white-water trips down the French Broad. Several cars were parked on the bridge itself, their passengers standing beside them watching a flotilla of rubber rafts filled with shrieking preteen girls set off on their trip to Hot Springs.

As always, turning onto Ridley Branch’s quiet country road filled Elizabeth with a sense of peace. Though she was, in the local vernacular, a “transplant,” twenty-some years had allowed her roots to grow deep, and she loved this place with all her heart. The natural beauty of the land coupled with the deep integrity of its people spoke to her in a way that she couldn’t begin to explain. Suddenly her irritation over the added responsibility of the quilt exhibit vanished. It’ll be a chance to visit some of the realold-timers, she reminded herself. It’ll probably tickle them to see their quilts hung up and treated like the artworks that they are.

And she liked Barb and the library. And she always liked seeing quilts, making them, talking about them. It was just the timing— this was a busy season at the farm, harvesting and drying the herbs and flowers, constructing the wreaths, packing and shipping them to the stores or for the catalogues that carried them. “So, when isn’t busy, Elizabeth?” she said aloud. “Just get on with the job. And if Aunt Omie will lend the animal quilt, we’ll have a perfect centerpiece for the show.”

As she neared her neighbor Birdie’s house, a thought occurred to her. Birdie’s got some quilts and besides, she probably wants to hear about the fire. Impulsively, Elizabeth braked and turned across Miss Birdie’s plank bridge, causing an unfamiliar car that had been behind her since Gudger’s Stand to slam on its brakes, then swerve around her. Miss Birdie was sitting on the porch, leaning over the ladder-back chair in front of her. Her face broke into a smile of greeting at the sight of Elizabeth’s car.

Miss Birdie, a widow in spite of the name she was known by, was in her eighties and lived alone after the recent death of her son— her only child. She was one of the last of the older generation on the branch and very dear to Elizabeth.

“Well, Lizzie Beth, that fool feller like to run into you.” Birdie peered after the shiny black sedan that was disappearing around a curve. “Don’t know who that feller is but I see him comin’ and goin’ right often. Wearin’ them fancy dark glasses like he thinks he’s some movie star.” She shook her head in disapproval and went on without waiting for a response. “What about that fire? I heared the sireens last night and seen the light in the sky. I called down to Robertses and they told me what was happenin’ and said not to worry fer the fire engines was there. I walked down there this mornin’ to see fer myself. They ain’t a thing left of Dessie’s house but the cement steps.”

Elizabeth touched her neighbor’s arm and said softly, “I know, Miss Birdie, it’s sad. I hate it that even Dessie’s house is gone now.”

Miss Birdie fixed Elizabeth with a bright-eyed gaze, then resumed her work on the mule-eared straight chair she was rebottoming. “That old hickory-bark seat lasted its time but it’s give out now. Talk is, the high sheriff says somebody meant to start that fire.” Her knobby-jointed hands tugged at the baling twine that she was double-warping around the front and back rails of the chair seat. “Got to git this part tight and straight or I won’t do no good when I come to weave.” She jerked her head in the direction of another straight chair, this one with a bright, new woven seat. “Git you a chair, Lizzie Beth. See how that one sets.”

Elizabeth obeyed silently, fighting back tears brought on by the memory of Dessie— another good friend, now gone.

Tying off the warp ends with a snug knot, Miss Birdie mused, “Reckon who could of done such a thing? I heared that the big feller was dead and they had the other one in jail. Reckon they fell out over that little black-haired gal. She’s up at yore place, what I hear.”

Elizabeth smiled. As usual the local grapevine was swift and accurate. With only a weekly newspaper serving the county, most of her neighbors relied on one another for the news. “That’s right, Miss Birdie; Kyra’s staying with me— she was at my house the night of the fire.”

“Reckon why she wants to put them flower pictures all over herself?” Frowning, Birdie cocked her head. “I asked her would they wash off and she said they weren’t supposed to. And a ring in her nose like an ol’ bull— I never heared of such.”

The little woman measured out a double length of twine, secured it to the side rail of the chair, and began to weave. Over three, under two, over three, under two. “I hate it about that big feller. He was a pretty good somebody. Did you know he come down and cleared out my gutters atter that last big rain? I offered to pay him but he wouldn’t take no money. So I give him a jar of my bread-and-butter pickles— I’d just finished three runs of them. He set right there where you’re a-settin’, Lizzie Beth, and et ever last pickle in the jar. Said they was the best he’d ever tasted.” Birdie smiled happily at the memory. “’Em three was right quare dudes but leastways they was always friendly. Not like them Florida people moved in down the branch, won’t even throw up their hand when they ride by.”

It was quickly established that Birdie knew what there was to be known about the fire. Except for the part about the so-called nanny, thought Elizabeth. Kyra must not have told the sheriff about that last night.

“I guess we’ll know more about it when they get done with the investigation, Miss Birdie. Kyra’s going to be at my place for a while—”

“Reckon that’ll be all right with Ben.” Birdie glanced sideways at Elizabeth and smiled knowingly. “I seen ’em go down the road together this mornin’.”

Elizabeth sighed and wondered briefly if anything ever happened on Ridley Branch without Miss Birdie’s knowing about it. “Miss Birdie, one reason I stopped by was to see if you could lend me some quilts.”

Some were on the beds; some were folded on closet shelves. A once-beautiful Grandmother’s Flower Garden, now tattered and faded to a pale shadow of its original splendor, was in use as an ironing board cover. Triangular scorch marks dotted the little pastel hexagons that some hand had so carefully stitched together. “Ain’t much left of that one,” Birdie remarked cheerfully, seeing Elizabeth run her hand gently over the old quilt’s soft surface. She dumped two quilts from the closet unceremoniously on the bed. “These here is in the best shape.”

“These here” were a gaudy red-and-blue Jacob’s Ladder in prints and plaids from the fifties and a crazy quilt made from thin woolens in autumnal colors. A determined herringbone embroidery stitch covered every seam, and embroidered flowers, animals, names, and initials were worked in many of the larger patches. Elizabeth spread the quilt out to study the embroidery. Some was crude and straggling; some was beautifully executed. “Who made this one, Miss Birdie?”

The plump little woman frowned. “Ay law, let me think on it. Now, I believe that one belonged to my brother’s wife. Britty Mae’s been gone, must be twenty-four years come November. And Lexter, he died in a car wreck two years after she went. Didn’t none of their childern want this quilt, so I took it.”

The old woman leaned down to peer at an embroidered motif in the center of the quilt. A heart encircled the names Britty Mae & Lexter and the date 1931. “I believe she told me that some of her friends from home give it to her when her and Lexter got married. Look at that piece of wool crepe.” Her gnarled finger rested lovingly on a mulberry-hued triangle. “I had me a dress out of goods just like that.”

Miss Birdie’s fingers absently traced an embroidered flower. “Britty Mae weren’t from here. She was raised up over beyond Hot Springs— place called Shut In. But she had went to school to learn to be a beauty operator and she got her a job in Ransom and went to boardin’ there. That’s where Lexter met her— saw her in the dime store. He come home and told me he’d seen the girl he aimed to marry.”

“I went to Shut In yesterday,” Elizabeth offered. “A friend of mine has an aunt—”

“I seen you and your feller headin’ out.” Miss Birdie gave a knowing nod. “He ain’t been around much lately, now has he? I figgered you and him must of fell out. Now look at this,” she continued, ignoring Elizabeth’s attempts to set her straight, “ain’t that the purtiest thing?”

Her fingers rested on a large embroidered sunflower— the most beautiful of any of the work on the quilt. The many petals twisted and fluttered as though caught in a breeze, their carefully shaded yellows and golds adding unusual depth to the stitchery. The dark brown center was a swirl of tiny French knots representing the ripening seeds. Just below the graceful heart-shaped green leaves on the flower’s sturdy stalk were tiny embroidered letters.

“Can you make that out, Lizzie Beth? What does it say?”

Elizabeth leaned closer. “Tildy…it looks like…Rector.”

“I might of knowed,” sniffed Birdie. “Couldn’t no one else ’broider like that.” She straightened, pressing the backs of both hands to her back. “Ay law, Tildy Rector. I ain’t thought of her in many a year. Course I didn’t really what you might say know her. Only seed her the oncet. But Britty Mae knowed her good. Her and her sister.” The old woman frowned. “Now what was that sister’s name? I cain’t remember nothin’, seems like.”

Birdie leaned back over the bed, scanning the quilt intently. “Her name had ought to be on here too. Now where—?”

“Is this it?” Elizabeth held up the lower left corner of the quilt. A blue daisy consisting of a lumpish French knot surrounded by six uneven loops for petals was stitched loosely above crooked block letters spelling out FANCHON TEAGUE.

Elizabeth studied the daisy, then looked back at the sunflower. Something seemed wrong, something…

“That’s her. I mind Britty Mae showin’ me them two flowers. She laughed about it— how them two girls was so different. She said that Fanchon could do ever thing in the world— sing and play the banjo and make all the young fellers to fall in love with her— but when it come to needlework, she might as well of had two left hands. Tildy was ahead of her there. Seems like Britty Mae said that didn’t nobody like Tildy much— said Tildy was as plain as an ol’ boot and had a way of allus sayin’ just the wrong thing. Tildy didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Britty Mae said, but most folk took against her. Fanchon was the one that ever one made much of, her so pretty and sweet-talkin’. But fer all that, it was Tildy that was Britty Mae’s friend.”

Miss Birdie’s gaze lingered on the sunflower. “Law, how it all comes back to me now. Tildy had told Britty Mae about the way that Fanchon done her— why, it was a pitiful thing— and Tildy the rightful daughter. I mind it like as it was yesterday, Britty Mae standin’ there in her and Lexter’s bedroom, holdin’ this very quilt and a-sayin’, ‘Fanchon may fool a lot of folks, like she fools Miss Caro and Miss Lily, but I’ll tell you what’s the truth— that huzzy is a street angel and a home devil.’ ”

* * *

It was late afternoon. The sun had dropped behind the mountain and Elizabeth was in her salad garden, tearing out the bitter old lettuce that was bolting in spite of the shade cloth. She packed the uprooted plants into an old feed sack and was on her way down to delight the chickens with a treat of fresh greens when she became aware that a single heifer was loitering on the flat spot under a big tulip poplar at the edge of the woods— the same heifer, if she wasn’t mistaken, that had been there early in the morning. She looked toward Pinnacle’s peak— yes, the rest of the herd had moved up the mountain for the lusher grass at the top.

“I wonder— there was one heifer that Ben said was bagging up— maybe I ought to go check to see if her calf’s starting to come.” She left the bag of lettuce and started for the gate into the pasture.

For the most part, the cows of Full Circle Farm gave birth unattended and with little trouble. Occasionally a heifer bearing her first calf would require assistance, particularly if she was small. But as Elizabeth neared the big poplar she was delighted to see a small dark red calf curled up on the ground. The cow, a heifer no longer now that she had produced a calf, lowed softly and began to lick her tiny offspring. The little creature at once rose, hind end first, balanced on wobbly legs, and teetered to its mother’s swollen bag. It thrust its little head at the udder in a series of surprisingly hard butts, captured a dripping teat, and began to suck.

“What a good mama! A fine baby and it’s a heifer too!”

After a quick check to be sure that there was no retained placental tissue dangling from the cow’s rear, Elizabeth decided to walk on into the woods for a little way. Now that the sun had set, it was almost cool among the huge poplars and hemlocks, maples and hickories. She walked on, savoring the breeze that rustled the leaves above her and listening to the small scurryings and tappings of the wild inhabitants of this bit of the farm. The staccato hammer of a pileated woodpecker brrred out like machine-gun fire, and a gray squirrel’s raucous warning chatter sounded from a tree just ahead.

Suddenly, she heard a single explosive bang just as something whistled past her head. Incredulous, she stood frozen. There was complete silence for a moment, then a clatter of wings as the big black and white woodpecker flapped away.

At last she found her voice. “Goddammit, get out of here! No hunting! There’re cows and dogs and people here, for god’s sake!”

She waited, listening hard. At last she heard a stealthy rustling that quickly diminished into nothingness. Idiot kids, she raged, probably the Robertses from the next holler. I know Ben’s had to run them off before. By god, I think I’m going to call Morris Roberts and complain. We’ve always gotten along just fine but now that his new wife’s kids are living with them…

Fuming, she turned back, the pleasure of the walk spoiled. The pale splintered wound in the big maple just a few yards behind her made her catch her breath. Sweet Jesus, that was close. Her heart was pounding as she strode quickly back down the path toward the garden.

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— THIRD ENTRY

Today I came across an article about Leo Frank, the Atlanta Jew who, years ago, was unjustly accused of the rape and murder of a young Gentile girl. I had almost forgotten the story— but I was struck by a photograph of him in the courtroom— a faraway, doomed stare, as if he knew what lay ahead— the unjust guilty verdict, the anti-Semitic crowds, the rabid lynch mob, the noose and the slow strangling death. I remember too being moved by that same expression not long ago in a film on the television— The Last of the Mohicans it was— the kidnapped girl at the edge of the cliff— her Indian captor beckoning her to move away from the perilous edge and that same lost, hopeless look— the look of a spirit already leaving the body— crosses her face before she turns and deliberately plunges to her death. And I have seen it one other time— not in a film nor a photograph, but on a face I loved, a face whose eyes looked into mine, then turned away forever.

But I run ahead of myself. I must tell the story as it occurred and in its entirety, beginning with my arrival in Hot Springs, North Carolina— early April of 1934.

I had changed trains in Asheville without time for a look at this thriving Southern town. My only impression was that it was certainly no Boston. And as the train for Hot Springs sped along the narrow railway that clung to the rocky cliffs high above the dashing French Broad River, it seemed to me that we were on a journey back in time. From my window I could see log cabins, rudely built unpainted barns, ramshackle outbuildings, men turning the red soil behind teams of mules or even oxen. A tiny child, sitting on a quilt at the edge of a field, waved at me when the train made one of its many stops to pick up or discharge a passenger at some rural crossroads, and I saw that his feet were bare though the air was still cold.

Miss Geneva, as she was called by one and all, met me at the train station in a quaint farm wagon pulled by a sorrel mule. She raised her eyebrows at the amount of baggage that I had with me, but said nothing beyond, I hope we have room; I’ve been buying supplies.

Indeed, the wagon bed was heaped with boxes and bags and it was only with much careful maneuvering that my three large valises were added to the rest. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that I had not, as Mother wished, brought my steamer trunk too.

Miss Geneva, a short sturdy woman of about forty, handled the reins skillfully, urging the red mule into a quick walk as we turned onto the rutted wagon road that led to Shut In and the Appalachian Women’s Crafts Center. She explained that while the Center owned an automobile, it was difficult to manage on the unpaved back roads, as well as being prone to inexplicable breakdowns. And as I’m no mechanic, she told me, and Caro won’t even learn to drive an automobile, we bought old Pete and the wagon from a family that was moving to Detroit.

I replied somewhat absently for I was looking all about me in wide-eyed wonder, trying to absorb the new sights. Miss Geneva said nothing for a time, then exclaimed, I hope you’ll stay longer than our last recruit. She took one look at our outhouse and had me drive her back to the station. I shuddered inwardly but answered that I was prepared to “rough it.” Miss Geneva laughed, not unkindly, and said, We’ll see.

We had been traveling for some while when we pulled up at a big log house with a tidy front yard a-bloom with jonquils. I’m going to pick up work from two of our girls, Miss Geneva said, handing me the reins. Pull back hard if he tries any foolishness.

She climbed down from the wagon and approached the house, calling out, Fanchon! Tildy! Almost immediately the front door opened and one of the loveliest creatures I had ever seen stepped out to the porch. Be right there, Miss Geneva, she sang out. The faded shapeless housedress could not conceal her perfect form, and her thick, wavy red-blonde hair skewered in a loose knot atop her head brought immediately to mind the words “crowning glory.” At this time almost all other girls of her age had succumbed to the Dutch bob or Eton crop— short severe haircuts that made pretty girls plain and plain girls ugly. Fanchon’s hair, as I would learn later, fell below her waist.

She ducked back into the house for a moment, then reappeared with a large bundle wrapped in burlap. Behind her with a similar bundle was another girl, also in her late teens but of such different appearance. She was lumpish and sallow and her mousy brown hair, cut fashionably short, frizzed uncontrollably around her blotchy face. Hard luck on her if they are sisters, I thought.

The girls brought their bundles out to the wagon and were introduced. Fanchon, the beauty, was shy and would hardly look at me, but Tildy at once peppered me with questions about where I had come from and what was my dress made of and whose picture did I have in that there locket. I could understand less than half of her chatter, so thick was her mountain brogue, and I found her eager importuning a trifle distasteful.

As indeed, I think, did Miss Geneva. The minute the bundles were crammed in amongst the supplies and my valises, she climbed back to the wagon seat and took the reins. That’ll do for now, Tildy. Miss Lily will be at the Center when you come to get your earnings and to pick up more material. Miss Geneva hesitated, then said to her, almost unwillingly, We have a special project in mind for you. Her tone was brusque but her voice softened when she turned to Fanchon. You come too, child.

As we traveled on, Miss Geneva told me about the two girls— both did handicrafts that were marketed through the Center. Fanchon hooked rugs and Tildy was one of the Center’s most accomplished needlewomen. It had been decided to entrust to her the making of a wonderful quilt— a showpiece for her talents— that would be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt in appreciation of their work for the poor of the area. It should help to bring the Center more recognition, Miss Geneva said. If only we can get our name better known, then we can build a wider market for our ladies’ work. We sell a good amount in Asheville through The Three Mountaineers, but Caro and I have set our sights on outlets in big cities like New York and Chicago.

We arrived at the Center— a modest farmhouse with a barn that had been converted to a workroom. Miss Carolyn came to meet us, a tall slender woman with something of a vague and ethereal manner. She was trailing bits of wool and brushing at the white fluff that clung to her skirt. Welcome, my dear, she cried, holding out her hand to help me down from the wagon. Please excuse my appearance; I’ve been spinning and it does so adhere!

We hauled my valises to what would be my room; I was shown the dreaded outhouse and was delicately instructed in the use of powdered lime, then told to settle in while the ladies unloaded the wagon. I was glad for a little time alone to absorb the new atmosphere. It was far more rustic than any place I had ever visited but nothing like the horrors my mother had imagined. I decided, however, that I would not mention the outhouse in my letters home.

My room was simple and scrupulously clean. An iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a small table and chair, and a wooden rocker were the furnishings. A row of pegs on one wall were my closet; a kerosene lamp on the table, my illumination. But there was a soft pink and green hooked rug on the floor, a white and pink quilt on the bed, and airy white embroidered curtains hung at the window. Outside the window was a gnarled apple tree and beyond it lay a charming vista of rolling meadows and wooded slopes.

I had done no more than remove my hat and tidy my hair when Miss Carolyn tapped at my door. The kettle’s on the boil, she trilled. Why don’t you join us in the kitchen for a cup of tea?

We sat around a battered old wooden table, its top worn smooth by use. The pungent aroma of mint rose from the teapot— a heavy-looking thing of dark brown pottery. Miss Carolyn beamed as she filled my mug— more heavy pottery— and I smiled to think of Mother’s pronouncement that tea may only be served in fine porcelain— preferably of an eggshell thinness.

We dry the branch mint ourselves, Miss Geneva explained, and the honey’s from a neighbor’s gums.

I looked apprehensively at the little jar of dark honey and Miss Carolyn giggled. Oh, Geneva, we’ll have to teach her the language.

They quickly explained that bee gums were a rude type of hive made from a section of hollow log. Branch mint, I learned, grew not on a tree limb but in the shallow water of a creek— locally called a branch. Miss Caro began to recite a vocabulary— And there’s poke for bag and gaum for a mess and if they say mess, it means a lot of, like a mess of beans—

And, Miss Geneva broke in, if they say, I wouldn’t care to, it means that they would do whatever it is, not the other way round. The misunderstandings we had till we figured that one out!

The two women were eager to introduce me to their chosen way of life, and their words tumbled over one another’s as they told me something of their history. Geneva had been raised in Atlanta; Carolyn in Charleston. They had each come to North Carolina to attend a weaving class at Penland School for Handicrafts. It was there that they had met and there that the idea for their Center had been born. Both held Miss Lucy Morgan, Penland’s founder, in considerable esteem, and they readily admitted that their venture was modeled on the Penland example.

Miss Lucy’s been at Penland since 1920, Carolyn told me. We were among the first outside students in ’29. Oh, Miss Lucy is such a delight! She has a fund of wonderful stories about the natives—

At this Geneva began to smile. Go on, Caro; you know you want to tell that silly tale about Uncle Sol.

Carolyn needed no further urging. With a broad smile she began: Well, it seems that Uncle Sol had a steer calf that he wanted to teach to pull a plow. But the only yoke he had was for two calves. So he got his son Price to come and help and first they put the yoke on the calf and then Uncle Sol put his own head in the other side of the yoke. Here Carolyn hunched over and began to speak in the same mountain twang I had heard used by many of my fellow passengers on the trip from Asheville to Hot Springs. Now, Price, she said, assuming the character of Uncle Sol, you pick up the rope I done tied to the yoke, walk us around, and see how we does. So Price led the ill-assorted pair up and down and Uncle Sol says, Well, we’re doin just fine, ain’t we? This calf ain’t a-goin to be no trouble to break, no trouble a-tall.

Now, Price, says Uncle Sol, git that little sled from out the barn and hook us up and see how we pulls. And this next step went smoothly too, so Uncle Sol said, Now, Price, let’s see how we does with a load. So Price stepped onto the sled— and sat down—

Then Miss Geneva broke in, barely holding back her laughter. But by now, the calf was tired of this game, and he started trotting down the road toward the pasture. And Uncle Sol had to trot too, yoked together as they were. Price hauled on the rope to slow the calf but the rope broke. So Price hung on to the sled as his father and the calf dashed over the rocky ground. The calf was going faster and faster, frightened at the sound of the wooden sled bouncing along behind him, and Uncle Sol had no choice but to run faster too or have his neck broken.

Just then, exclaimed Miss Carolyn, around a bend in the road came Uncle Sol’s wife Mariah, on her way home from the store. Mariah! shouted Uncle Sol. Ketch us, Mariah! We’re a-runnin away!

So Mariah ran up to Uncle Sol and the calf, grabbed Uncle Sol’s overalls, and hung on for dear life. Gol darn it, Mariah, Uncle Sol bellowed. Turn a-loose of me and ketch a-holt of that thar calf! I’ll stop!

I can still see the two, shaking with helpless laughter as they told the story. Indeed, for years after my marriage I dined out, as they say, on that story. I could mimic the mountain twang to perfection and was always called on to “do” the story of Uncle Sol and the bull calf. And I was happy to oblige, for there were other stories that I could never tell.

CHAPTER 8

THE OBVIOUS SUSPECT

(WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AUGUST 31)

THE COOLER EVENING AIR WAS A RELIEF FROM THE warm house when Elizabeth and Phillip brought their after-dinner coffee out to the porch and settled in the rockers. The chirr of crickets was incessant and from the kitchen came the sounds of Ben and Kyra, laughing as they finished up the dishes.

“Ah, the resilience of youth.” Elizabeth propped up her feet on a low bench and stretched wearily. “How she can be so cheerful after all that’s happened…”

Phillip was silent, all of his attention apparently on his cup of coffee. He had arrived at six and he and Kyra had had a lengthy private discussion while Ben tended to the grilling chickens and Elizabeth finished up dinner preparations. All four had enjoyed the food and, by unspoken common agreement, had not talked of the fire nor any of the recent unhappy events. Kyra was wearing some of her new clothes and, in her jeans and pale green T-shirt, her face free of makeup, she looked prettier than ever. She and Ben had obviously enjoyed their trip to Asheville; both were in high spirits.

Elizabeth had watched Kyra carefully, wondering if this gaiety, following so close on the heels of Boz’s death, Aidan’s arrest, and the fire, was a sign of the mental instability Marvin Peterson had mentioned. But there was no manic quality to Kyra’s demeanor, she decided. Rather there was a kind of relief— as if the girl felt safe and surrounded by friends.

“We thought we’d take a little walk.” Ben came out of the door, flashlight in hand, dogs at his heels. “The dishes are all done.” He lowered his voice. “She’s feeling a lot better, I think.”

Kyra slipped out of the door and came to Elizabeth’s side. “Elizabeth, thank you so much for everything. You and Ben have saved my life….” She paused and turned to Phillip. “And Detective Hawkins. I really appreciate your coming all the way back out to talk with me again. It feels so good to have someone like you on my side.” Even in the dim light from the kitchen window, Elizabeth could see the mothlike sweep of Kyra’s eyelashes.

Too dark, however, to see if Phillip was blushing again. He nodded briefly. “Not a problem. I like coming out here. But, remember, I told you— it’s not ‘Detective’ anymore. Just ‘Phillip’ will do.”

“Whatever.” Kyra’s hand brushed Hawkins’s shoulder. “I just want you to know how very much I appreciate your help.”

James, impatient for the walk he’d been promised, began to bark and make little dashes between the steps and Ben. Molly and Ursa bumped at Ben’s knees, eager to be off.

“Okay, you dogs, let’s go.” Ben reached for Kyra’s hand. “The rock path is pretty uneven; better hold on to me till your eyes adjust to the dark. We’ll go along the top of the pasture. The moon’s not up yet and we can get a really good view of the Milky Way.”

They set off, accompanied by the three joyful dogs. Elizabeth could hear the crunch of the gravel under their feet as they walked down the road, hands still linked, with James close behind. Molly and Ursa ranged ahead, all their hunting instincts sharpened by the spell of the night. Finally, when the sound of footsteps faded away, Elizabeth scooted her rocker closer to her silent companion.

“Phillip, have they found out anything about the fire yet? Have you talked to any of—”

“How serious is Ben about that little girl? He seems pretty protective—”

“Who knows?” Elizabeth studied her enigmatic companion, trying to read his expression in the faint light from the kitchen window. “He is, as you say, protective. And I know he’s been kind of interested in her ever since she and the others moved to the branch. But, obviously, she was involved with Boz and Aidan.”

“And they’re both out of the way now.”

“What are you saying, Phillip? You can’t possibly—”

“No, Elizabeth, you can’t possibly. I’m afraid you’re too close to Ben and maybe you’re getting too close to Kyra to be objective about all this.” He reached out and patted her hand. “You have good intuitions, no doubt about it— Blaine is still talking about what went down last year and how you managed to be right in the middle of all that crap. But—”

“Dammit, Phillip!” Elizabeth jumped to her feet and stood staring down at the gently rocking Hawkins. “I will not be patronized and I will not have my hand patted! You’ll be saying ‘There, there, little woman,’ next. Just tell me if you— or Sheriff Blaine, for that matter— have any real reason to suspect Ben of being mixed up in this.”

“No, no real reason.” Phillip smiled calmly. “I was just making a point— giving you an example of why you’re not exactly in a position to study this case objectively.”

She opened her mouth to make a quick retort, thought better of it, and resumed her seat. “Okay. Point taken. But, Phillip, I need to talk to you about all this stuff before Kyra and Ben get back. Her father’s worried about her— says that she’s emotionally fragile and—”

“Her father? Peterson? Did you talk to him?” Hawkins was alert now. He leaned forward, his attention focused on her, waiting for her reply.

“Her cell phone rang last night. She had left it on the kitchen table and I thought she was asleep. So I answered it and it was her father—”

“What’d you think of him? Hank— you know, my buddy in the Asheville PD— Hank didn’t say much when I brought up the Rose Peterson case. Matter of fact, he was downright edgy— just hinted that someone important had shut down the inquiries and that the word at the watering hole had been that the murder was related to Peterson’s previous connections to organized crime. Kind of a settling of old debts. So what did Peterson sound like?”

Elizabeth considered, trying to replay last night’s conversation in her mind. “Well…I don’t know— he was kind of crude at first but it seemed like he was genuinely concerned about Kyra.”

Hawkins continued to stare at her, waiting for more. She tried to remember— oh yes, the little tirade about Art! “And not very fond of Aidan. I mainly got the impression of a powerful man, used to having things his own way. I also got the impression that he’s not a supporter of the arts.” A thought occurred to her. “Phillip, what if he was calling to make sure Kyra was awake and could get out of the house before his goon, the nanny, started the fire? I mean, maybe Peterson just wanted to get Kyra out of there and back into Asheville where he could keep a closer watch…could that be a possibility?”

Phillip made a noncommittal noise and then glanced at his watch. “You talk to him long?”

“Not really. Maybe five minutes at the outside. But, Phillip—”

“Then what happened— when the call was over?”

“I hung up, put the phone back by Kyra’s knapsack, and came out here. That’s when I heard the sirens and discovered that Kyra was gone—”

“Yeah, she told me about how she couldn’t sleep.” The tone of his voice revealed nothing. “When did she go to bed?”

“Right after we ate…say seven or seven-thirty. And it was well after nine when her father called, and I remember looking at the clock in the car when Ben and I were heading down the road to see about the fire. It was ten-thirteen. But what does all of this have to do with anything? She did tell you about the black car— the guy she calls her nanny?”

“Oh yeah, she told me.”

“Well, don’t you think it’s a possibility that this nanny person is working for her father…that he set the fire so Kyra would have to go back home? Or at least back to Asheville, where she’d be easier to keep an eye on? Or what if this is part of the same organized-crime vendetta thing— what if they’re after Kyra now?”

Her questions hung unanswered in the still night air. Down the road she could hear the crunch of gravel and low voices as Ben and Kyra neared the house. In the dim light she could see that Hawkins was running his hand over his head— a gesture that, she decided, meant he would like to change the subject.

“Phillip, quick, before they get back! Who does Sheriff Blaine suspect? I know you two are old friends; don’t try to tell me you haven’t talked to him!”

Phillip hesitated, then, as the voices came nearer, said quietly, “You probably don’t want to hear this, but the obvious suspect in any fire is the first person on the scene.”

“And that would be the man in the black car— the nanny.”

“Um…” He was hedging again. Elizabeth looked toward the steps but the sounds she heard indicated that Ben and Kyra were still out of earshot.

“Well, wouldn’t it?” She urged, trying to wring an admission of some sort from him.

He leaned closer and gently covered her hand with his. “Elizabeth, an objective law enforcement type like Blaine— or like myself, for that matter— would have to say we only have Kyra’s word for it about the nanny. No, Kyra’s the one Blaine’s going to be the most interested in at this point.”

Elizabeth considered this for a moment, trying to ignore the hand that was resting atop hers, then made a grudging admission. “Okay, I can see how that might be. But he will be looking into other possibilities, right?”

“Oh sure, no-stone-unturned type of thing.” Phillip started to pat her hand again, then hastily withdrew. “Sorry.” In the dimness, he might have been grinning.

Ben and Kyra seemed to be no closer. The distant murmur of their voices suggested that they were sitting on the rock steps that led to the upper garden.

“There were a couple of odd things that happened this afternoon,” Elizabeth said. “Let’s go get some more coffee and I’ll tell you about them…as objectively as possible.”

As they moved toward the kitchen, she told Phillip about the gunshot in the woods. “And I figured it was just kids playing around, because they got right out of there when I yelled. But when I called Morris Roberts— he’s the stepfather— he told me that the ‘young uns’ had been in Asheville all afternoon with his wife. And he’s not the sort who’d lie to spare the kids. He takes as dim a view as I do of shooting guns around livestock.”

Phillip frowned. “You said they ran off— how many were there?”

“I couldn’t see. I suppose it could have been just one person.”

“Did you think about calling the sheriff?”

“I told you, I thought it was the neighbor kids. And since they…or he…or she, for that matter— I couldn’t see anything— since whoever it was left rather than trying again, I just assumed it was an accident.”

Phillip seemed to be weighing this assumption. At last he said, “Yeah, that’s likely. Probably was just kids— if not your neighbor’s, some others. And what was the other thing?”

She told him about the black car that had almost rear-ended her; she pointed out that Miss Birdie had seen the same car several times. Phillip’s maddening and only response was to comment that there was probably more than one black car in the county. But he agreed to look into the matter.

Footsteps on the porch announced that Kyra and Ben were returning from their walk. As the two came blinking into the bright light of the kitchen, it seemed to Elizabeth that some essential change had taken place. She looked from Ben to Kyra, trying to pinpoint the elusive shift in demeanor, but there was nothing concrete, nothing beyond a fleeting expression. Kyra thanked them both again for their help and, yawning, announced that she was going to bed. Ben too made his good nights and headed for his cabin.

“Well, time for me to get going too.” Phillip stood and stretched. “I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow.”

They walked together back to the porch, where James was waiting to be let in. Phillip addressed the small dog solemnly. “What have you done with your girlfriends?”

James fell on his side and wriggled, delighted at the attention.

“Molly and Ursa spend the night out a lot— usually excavating a groundhog hole, if the dirt on their noses the next morning is any clue.” Elizabeth held the door open and James shot in, making for his pillow in her bedroom. “It was good of you to make the trip out again, Phillip. Kyra—”

“Kyra’s not why I come out here, Miz Goodweather.” He switched on the powerful little flashlight he had taken from his pocket and started for the steps. “Good night, Elizabeth.” He paused. “By the way, I’ll see if I can find out who made the 911 call. That could give us a lead.”

“A lead.” Elizabeth muttered as she watched the beam of his flashlight bob down the dark road. “He needs a lead when it almost ran into me.” She went back into the house, turned off the lights, and headed for her bedroom, noting the yellow line of light under Kyra’s door.

“Good night, Kyra.” She kept her voice soft, in case her guest was asleep.

“Good night, Elizabeth,” came a yawning reply. “Sleep well.” There was a click and the line of light disappeared.

In the bedroom James was curled in a tight little ball on his pillow in the Windsor rocking chair. Elizabeth turned on the ceiling fan, then stepped into her bathroom and filled the old claw-foot tub with warm water, dumping in enough lavender oil to fill the small room with its soothing fragrance.

As she settled into the comforting embrace of the bath, her mind turned inexorably to Phillip and to his suggestion that Kyra was the chief suspect in the fire. How can he suspect her? Why would she want to destroy her own house? But it’s not her house, is it? And her art stuff was all out in the barn.

Still, what would she gain? Sympathy? Attention? She already had that with Boz’s death. No, it just doesn’t make sense.

She leaned back and closed her eyes. Maybe I should make a list— things to look into, people to talk to. From what Phillip says, the police are likely to tiptoe around Kyra’s father.

She stretched out a foot and turned the tarnished brass tap, letting a little more hot water into the tub. A soak in the tub before bed was one of her greatest pleasures. Usually she brought a book with her and read till the water became too cool or till she dozed off. Occasionally her book would dip into the water as her eyes drifted shut, but she had made it a rule never to read borrowed books in the bathtub. Once wet, a book was never quite the same. It would eventually dry out, but always in a puffed-up, outsize version of its former self.

I’d like to know more about Marvin Peterson’s former self. The fact that the murder of his first wife is a taboo subject at the police department must mean something. Could Peterson have influence there as well as the organized-crime connections Phillip mentioned?

The urge to make a list became overpowering. Elizabeth pulled herself up, wrapped a towel around her dripping body, and padded soggily to her bedside table. Taking a notepad and pen from the drawer, she returned to the bath, noting that the warmth was just right. She stretched luxuriously in the scented water and began to write, holding the notepad high.

Her first entry, in big block letters, was BE OBJECTIVE! She smiled and began her list.

1.

Check out MP past— newspaper stories, friends (who?)

She paused. But the real question is Boz. Did Peterson kill him? Kyra’s convinced he did— or at least made it happen. But who else might be a possibility? Willow was saying something about blackmail— that Boz had something on someone. I’ll try to find out from Kyra what Willow said.

2.

Willow/Kyra— what blackmail?

And at the opening, that flamboyant bald guy who got so pissed when Boz shot a picture of his crotch— he’s the one with a gallery who was going to be giving The 3 a show— the photos from the performance piece. But Boz destroyed the cameras and someone destroyed Boz. So there’s no more 3. But what was the name of the gallery?

3.

Kyra— name of gallery/owner?

And the crushed-car artist and the junkyard operator— I need to find out more about them.

4.

Junkyard guys

was added to the list followed by Laurel’s name.

It’s a start. I know Phillip’s supposed to be looking into all this, not to mention the police, but if all of them think Kyra might have burned down her own house… The intoxicating fumes of the lavender oil filled her nostrils. Elizabeth tossed the pen and pad onto the pile of folded towels resting on the small chair behind the tub, extricated a gardening magazine from under the towels, lay back, and began to read.

She awoke with a start. The water was cool and English Gardens was lying open on her belly. Or rather, floating.

With a sigh of disgust, Elizabeth lifted the sodden magazine and let it drip, then laid it gently on the towels. She yanked the drain plug loose and the water began to run out with a mocking gurgle.

When she was in the oversize T-shirt that was her nightgown, she turned her attention to the magazine, hoping that it could be salvaged. Carefully, she spread it open to a double-page photograph of a luxuriant garden. Roses cascaded from trellises, arbors, and trees— in all shades of pink, coral, and red. The title shouted in bold turquoise print: “Don’t Forget the Rose.”

She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and her mind. For a few seconds she stood there, staring at the soggy pages. Then she wrote on her notepad: There’s always a previous murder.

CHAPTER 9

QUERY AT THE QUERY

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2)

QUERY, THE ASHEVILLE GALLERY THAT HAD BEEN slated to exhibit the photographs from The 3’s ill-fated performance piece, was on a street lined with galleries, antique stores, and an ever-changing array of restaurants. As she hurried along, just a step behind the fast-moving Laurel, Elizabeth noticed a place where she had eaten lunch with a friend back in the spring. At that time it had been a serene, expensively tasteful establishment, sparely decorated in shades of gray and serving even sparer Asian fusion cuisine. Now it was painted with a dizzying kaleidoscope of patterns in hot tropical colors and called itself Jerk Kitchen. It was, however, closed and a sign on the door read Coming soon— In the Raw— A Natural Foods Eatery.

“So, Laur,” Elizabeth called after her daughter, hoping to slow her pace, “reckon it’s a clothing-optional restaurant?”

“Oh, Mum!” Laurel paused in her long-legged stride. “You need to get out more. Raw food—it’s a big deal just now. They do all kinds of fancy stuff with juicers and dehydrators and they never heat the food above, oh, like 115 degrees. That way all the enzymes are preserved. They say it’s really the only healthy way to eat because you get the complete nourishment from the food.”

…to the nourishments of our bodies… thought Elizabeth, remembering the blessing Phillip had stumbled through and the bountiful meal, all no doubt cooked at well over 115 degrees. And Aunt Omie is way up in her eighties and spry and sharp. My god, I bet she even uses lard. What would the food police say? A picture formed in her mind of Aunt Omie chasing the food police— an earnest cadre of hemp-clad, Birkenstocked vegans and fruitarians— out of her kitchen with a broom.

“Mum! You’re grinning like an idiot!” Laurel tugged impatiently at Elizabeth’s arm. “What is so funny? No, never mind, I don’t even want to know; just hurry up. Carter agreed to talk to us at eleven but said he could only give us about fifteen minutes.” Like an anxious sheepdog, Laurel herded her mother down the sidewalk toward the gallery.

It was Friday morning and the streets were busy. Casually dressed tourists, many carrying multiple shopping bags, strolled along, wandering in and out of the various shops. Self-important professional types in impeccable suits hurried by, cell phones firmly affixed to their ears. And here and there, in little clots on the sidewalks, the street kids of Asheville expressed their individuality with their dreadlocks, tattoos, body piercings, and curiously uniform clothing. They sprawled across the pavement, lounging on their bulging knapsacks, arguing, eating, smoking, reading, and sleeping. Girls in long skirts added to the impression of a gypsy encampment.

“All that’s missing is a little campfire and a kettle hanging from a tripod. They could make stew from pigeons,” Elizabeth muttered to herself. She hurried after Laurel, detouring around a young woman who was executing a self-absorbed little dance, swaying and waving her arms languidly to the hollow tones of a long wooden flute played by a bearded man.

“Mum, this is it.” Laurel gestured to a broad display window. Inside, an arrangement of rounded forms poured across the floor. Three birdlike objects crafted from rust-covered metal and suspended on thin wires hovered above the— were they river rocks?— pottery? The placard in the window simply read Intermezzo— a mixed-media installation.

As they pushed through heavy glass doors banded with pristine brass, the heat and bustle of the streets gave way to an air-conditioned chill and a hushed, somewhat reverential, and definitely expensive, atmosphere.

“Well, Laurel, you just made it.” A slender young man in a black silk shirt and exquisitely tailored trousers oozed from behind a desk. He arched an eyebrow as he looked at his gold wristwatch. “You know how anal Carter is about punctuality— among other things.” The last was delivered in an undertone and accompanied by a smirk.

Without waiting for a reply, he continued. “He’s in his office—” Then he hesitated, regarding Elizabeth with suspicion. His gaze took her in from head to foot— the long gray-shot braid, the loose linen shirt and non-designer jeans. And the sneakers— Elizabeth suddenly wondered if they bore evidence of her stop-off to feed the chickens before heading in to Asheville. The constriction around the young man’s nostrils suggested that they did.

Hastily, she moved away to study a wall hanging that consisted of stained white satin covered with rusted straight pins in swirling rows. Behind her she could hear the pained question, “And this…lady is with you?”

“Yes, Anthony, she is.” Laurel lowered her voice slightly. “She’s a collector— a little eccentric but a definite player. She has a summer home near here and she’s buying art for it. She usually concentrates on the big names— Lee Krasner, Chuck Close, Cindy Sherman— but she’s decided to branch out to some regional and emerging artists. I met her— Well, it’s a long story. But I owe Carter a favor, so I’m bringing her in to see what he has to show her.”

“Well…I had no idea—” From the corner of her eye Elizabeth could see the young man smoothing back his dark hair and straightening his impeccable tie.

“I know you didn’t, Anthony.” Laurel raised her voice. “Elizabeth, I’ll take you back to see Carter now.”

The QuerY occupied a large four-storied corner building, previously a car dealership. The old brick walls, some painted white, some burnished to a soft rosy hue, together with beautifully refinished hardwood floors, formed a striking backdrop for the varied artworks on display. Huge abstract paintings in sea greens and indigo blues dominated one wall, while the central area of the gallery was given over to more of the rusted metal birds— if they were birds.

Elizabeth followed her daughter toward a door at the back marked Private. They picked their way through an obstacle course of rectangular white pedestals, each supporting a slightly different tangle of some fibrous material. Elizabeth glanced at a placard under one particularly random-looking mass and shuddered when she saw the price.

“Not her best work.” Laurel’s comment was thrown over her shoulder as she continued toward Dixon’s office. “But it sells.”

“Laurel, wait a minute.” Elizabeth stopped by a triptych featuring a delicately painted nude stretched out across three panels. A beautiful woman with a perfect body— all of it covered by quite realistically rendered fuzzy spiders. Elizabeth shuddered again.

“I can’t believe you told that guy all those lies. You’re not going to tell Carter Dixon I’m a rich collector, are you? It is not a role I could sustain for over a minute— if that.”

“Relax, Mum. I was just messing with Anthony. He’s such a self-important little jerk now that he’s Carter’s flavor-of-the-month. Don’t worry, it’s cool. Carter’s always liked me ever since I worked here that summer. God knows why; I’m definitely not his type. But anyway, when I called, I told him we were trying to help Kyra and Aidan and I mentioned you and Phillip and how Phillip’s helping—”

“There is no ‘me and Phillip’—” But Elizabeth’s words were lost as Laurel rapped on the door and was answered by a curt “Come.”

The room they entered was large and airy. One wall was covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling; another was hung with a series of large black-and-white photographs that at first Elizabeth took to be abstractions but on inspection resolved themselves into fragments of seashells— every whorl and spine in close detail.

A huge desk— one long slab of some highly polished purplish-brown wood— faced a row of windows that looked out on a small courtyard. A man, his back to them, was speaking into the telephone. Without looking around he motioned imperiously to a black leather sofa against the wall. Laurel and Elizabeth wordlessly sank into its deep cushions and waited.

“Yes, I know about the Guggenheim. But this is the South, David, and the veritable buckle of the proverbial Bible Belt. Buyers are just a tad conservative down here…. Well, send me the slides and I’ll take a look….No, they haven’t!… Well, I think we saw it coming…. Listen, David, I have people in my office; we’ll talk later.” A chuckle. “No such luck. Later.”

The phone dropped to the desk and the high-backed chair whirled around. “Laurel, my darling, you’re here at last.” Carter Dixon was on his feet and leaning down to kiss the air beside Laurel’s right ear. “And your charming mother?” He took Elizabeth’s hand and bent the polished dome of his head in an approximation of a Continental salute, then straightened and appraised her.

“Yes, I think I see the likeness— the same, shall we say, free spirit and indifference to fashion.” He dropped back into his chair and leaned forward earnestly, all his attention directed to Laurel. “And how may I help?”

Laurel stood and walked over to the windows. She gazed out, unconsciously twisting one beaded dreadlock— a nervous habit Elizabeth had thought abandoned years ago. Then she came back to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Carter, I don’t actually know that you can help…. But we had to start somewhere. Like I told you on the phone, my mother and I are trying to help Kyra and Aidan. Mainly we just want to clear up some questions about the performance at the museum. I mean, I know the police are investigating, but Kyra says—”

“The police!” Dixon waved his hand dismissively. “A herd of yokels. Do you know I had them in here last year when there’d been a break-in and the officer in charge tried to impound Marbuto’s installation? They were sure it was evidence— lovely fragile shards of lightbulbs and the inflated surgical gloves, so evocative— you saw that one, of course?”

“Powerful.” Laurel nodded. “He definitely speaks to a certain—”

“Mr. Dixon,” Elizabeth overrode her daughter’s voice. “What can you tell us about the performance piece at the museum? Were you surprised by the way it ended?”

The gallery owner turned a quizzical face toward her. He seemed to be weighing his response. “Well…the fire extinguisher was a surprise. Marilou is still trying to decide who she can take to court. That dress was an original…or so she says. Personally, I think Boz did her a favor. Turquoise! No one wears turquoise now!”

“But the outburst, the destruction of the…the piece,” Elizabeth persisted. “Did you know that was going to happen?”

“My dear, of course. I was there when they came up with the idea. Months ago.” Dixon’s smile was a nice mixture of pity and tolerance. “I had them to dinner in my apartment upstairs so we could finalize plans for the show I’m giving them here. And I need to talk to you about that, Laurel. I want you to—”

“Wait a minute,” Elizabeth interrupted. “Was it part of the plan for all the cameras to be destroyed? How could there be a show then…with no photos?”

Again, Dixon waved his hand airily. “Those cameras that Boz trashed were dummies. The 3 switched cameras just before the big scene. And we’d planted three other people in the crowd with cameras— Cory and Candace were shooting stills and Judith had a videocam. Oh, we’ve got it all. No worries there. As soon as Kyra pulls herself together and prints the pictures, we’ll do the show.”

He leaned back with a smug smile. “And the sooner the better, while everyone’s still talking about it. What about it, Laurel? Do you think Kyra’s ready to get to work?”

“Carter, give her a break…. Boz is dead, Aidan’s in jail, and did you know her house burned down a few nights ago?”

Laurel’s voice was fierce but Carter Dixon seemed unperturbed. “Well, thank god I have the cameras here. You just tell Kyra what I said— the sooner the better. She can do this on her own. In fact, from a publicity point of view…” His eyes closed and his voice grew thoughtful. “Yes, I think I see the angle…the brave survivor, making her art against all odds. The Courtney Love/Yoko Ono shtick.”

He rocked gently back and forth in the chair. Its butter-smooth gray leather cradled his body and set off perfectly his narrow black trousers and sage green silk shirt. One glossy black loafer tapped rhythmically on the pale gold of the bare oak floor. “Yes, this could be really big for her. But she’s got to get her head out of her ass and get busy. The show’s booked for next month.”

Laurel hesitated. “I don’t know…for sure you’re right about the publicity. But can she do it alone?”

“Laurel, my love, Kyra can do it if she wants it badly enough. You talk to her and tell her that I have to have a definite commitment from her by Monday morning. Otherwise I’ll have to hustle around and put together another show. Tell her that I’m sorry for her loss and all the usual but if she wants a show at QuerY, this is her chance. I don’t usually give shows to artists as little known as The 3.”

“Then how did you come to offer to do a show for them in the first place?”

Elizabeth’s question seemed to catch Dixon off-guard. He looked at her with quizzical amusement, as if surprised by her persistence. Then he leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers together across his chest.

“Well, dear lady, one must venture…and, as a matter of fact, I agreed to the show as a favor to a dear friend— a friend who, I may say, insists on anonymity.” A tight little smile said that the anonymity would be preserved.

“Someone told me,” said Laurel, “that you did it as a favor to Boz.”

“Boz!” Dixon spat the word. “Well, my dear, someone was mistaken. De mortuis and all that, but Boz was one of the last people in the world I’d do a favor for. Great loud-mouthed, ugly poseur. Boz may have fooled everyone else but his was not the talent behind The 3.”

Dixon stood and paced across the floor, pausing to study his reflection in the glass of one of the photographs. “Laurel, my love, can we wrap this up? I have an important client coming by soon.”

“One more thing, Mr. Dixon.” Elizabeth stood, swinging her purse onto her shoulder. “Who do you think might have wanted Boz dead?”

Dixon whirled to face them. “The list is long, I should think. Boz did have one major talent and that was pissing off the wrong people. Or should I say on?” His voice was venomous.

The gallery owner smirked. “Literally, my dears. He was an animal. The night I had The 3 to dinner to plan the show, we were out in the rooftop garden having coffee and liqueurs. Boz was leaning over the railing, watching people down on the sidewalk and making unkind comments about most of them. Then, before I know what’s happening, he’s climbing up on the railing and calling out, absolutely bellowing, ‘This is for you, you double-crossing fucker.’ And he pulls out his schlong and starts pissing on someone below.” His face expressed a delicate revulsion. “Well, if I hadn’t already committed myself to the show, I think I would have backed out at once. Too disgusting. But there it was. Anyway, the great lout just stood there laughing. Finally he climbed down, zipped up, and got another drink. He muttered something about someone who screwed him in a deal of some kind.”

Dixon seemed to have forgotten his meeting with the important client. He leaned against his desk and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard that Boz was involved with some meth lab out in Marshall County— why else would he have dragged Kyra and Aidan out to that godforsaken farmhouse? They had cows, of all things, practically in their backyard. The only place I want to see a cow is as Steak Diane.” There was a thoughtful pause. “…or in one of those formaldehyde installations the Saatchi did so well with…. But where was I? Oh yes, Boz— why Aidan and Kyra ever got involved with him is a mystery to me— beyond a certain, shall we say, brute energy, Boz really contributed very little. For example it was Aidan— no, perhaps it was Kyra who came up with the plan for Boz’s outburst and disappearance. It was that very night— I had explained to them how a certain amount of buzz would help the sale of their photographs. Of course, as it’s turned out…”

Dixon tried valiantly to suppress the look of eager greed that threatened to replace the solemnity required by death. “Well, sad to say, but the…ah…tragedy will get them priceless publicity. Art World has been in touch; they plan to send someone to cover the show. If there is a show. And that, my dear Laurel, is why Kyra had better get her pretty little ass in gear.”

CHAPTER 10

IN THE CORNCRIB

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 2)

DIXON HAD EASED THEM OUT OF HIS OFFICE SAYING that he would be happy to answer more questions but just now, my dears, à bientôt. They left the gallery quickly, avoiding the unctuous solicitations of Anthony, who had trotted after them and pressed his card into Elizabeth’s unwilling hand.

The heat and noise of the sidewalk were disconcerting after the chill hush of the QuerY, and Elizabeth stood blinking and feeling a little stunned. Laurel pulled her sunglasses from her pocket, put them on, then touched her mother’s shoulder. “Mum, I’m working this afternoon and I need to stop by the apartment and change. Did you say you were going to the library?”

“ ‘A certain amount of buzz,’ ” Elizabeth repeated in a thoughtful tone, then frowned and looked at her daughter. “I’m sorry; I was thinking. Yes, I’m going to the library. Do you have time to get some lunch first?”

“Sorry, Mum, gotta bounce. But you ought to try the new burrito place. It’s right on your way. Get the one with sweet potato and goat cheese— totally brilliant!” And Laurel was gone, sprinting down the street toward the parking garage where they had left their cars.

Through the gallery window, Elizabeth could see Anthony keeping a furtive eye on her. Repressing a grin, she leaned forward to study the objects in the window display, trying to exude a knowledgeable interest. She pulled a notepad and pen from her shoulder bag and made a few spurious notes while peering at the placard that gave the artist’s name. Next she paced to the far end of the window and viewed the installation from that vantage point. She made more notes, frowning and tapping her teeth with the pencil, hoping that she looked like a wealthy woman, a trifle eccentric in her choice of clothing, perhaps, but utterly serious about Art.

Now, where do I see these charming metal birds or whatever they are?…the house in Southampton? the lodge in Aspen? or perhaps the villa—

“Elizabeth?” An amused voice broke into the silent performance she was giving for an increasingly enchanted Anthony. “What are you up to?”

Phillip Hawkins, resplendent in sports jacket and tie, stood there at her side, looking first at her and then at the objects in the window. “I don’t get it.” He shook his head and scowled at the installation. “A bunch of rocks and some scrap metal? Is this supposed to be art? And what were you doing anyway— all that note-taking?”

“Oh, just…I was just messing with Anthony. He didn’t like my shoes.” Elizabeth ignored Phillip’s baffled look. “Have you had lunch?”

* * *

The burrito place was jammed but they were in time to get the last booth. While they waited for their food, Elizabeth described the interview with Dixon. Phillip listened intently, a little smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, but made no comment when she finished her account; instead he leaned back against the red vinyl of the booth’s bench and smiled knowingly.

“What?” She glared at him. “What is that look?”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Well, like I said when you first called me—‘At it again, Sherlock?’ You can’t stay out of things, can you?” He leaned toward her. “It’s understandable. I guess. That little Kyra probably appeals to your maternal instincts and all—”

“Less of the psychological profiling, please.” Elizabeth tried to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “I’m just curious. And attempting with all my might to be objective. Furthermore, since Laurel used to work for Dixon, it seemed like a good chance to ask some questions.”

Phillip had stopped smiling. He swirled a tortilla chip in the murky green salsa the waiter had brought with the menus. “True enough. And you and Laurel probably got more out of him than someone official would have. It’s just…”

“Just what? Am I encroaching on someone’s turf?”

“In a way. But that’s not what has me concerned.” He looked up and his dark brown eyes were full of a weary sadness. “Elizabeth, this isn’t a game— somewhere in back of all of this there’s a killer. I don’t want to see you or Laurel or Ben hurt. Or find out someone’s torched one of your barns or houses.”

An involuntary chill raised the hairs on her forearms as Elizabeth considered what Hawkins had just said. She closed her eyes and the picture of the crushed car and its grisly passenger was instantly vivid in her mind, giving way to the burned-out shell of the house where Kyra had lived.

She sat quietly for a moment, then opened her eyes and locked gazes with Hawkins. “I can’t leave it alone, Phillip. I was there; I saw the crushed car; I saw the house burn; I heard Kyra’s story—”

“Goddammit, Elizabeth! I ought to—”

His words were cut short by the arrival of their burritos. The server topped off their iced teas and ascertained that they were happy with their selections— beef and cheese for Hawkins, the sweet potato and goat cheese for Elizabeth, and finally, with a breezy “Enjoy, you guys,” left them alone.

Elizabeth ignored the steaming burrito and stared at Hawkins, waiting for him to finish his interrupted threat. He started to speak, then closed his mouth and sat silently scowling. At last he breathed deeply and put up both hands, palms out. “Okay, Elizabeth. I’ll just say this: Please be careful. Keep an open mind and be careful.”

“Of course.” She relaxed, happy not to be told that this was none of her business. Was it her business? Not exactly. “Thank you for not fussing.”

He grunted an ambiguous response and bit into his burrito. She decided to press a little further. “There is one thing…. Did you find out who made the call to 911…about the fire?”

“It was a man. And from a cell phone. That’s all they know at the moment.”

“The nanny.” Elizabeth nodded knowingly. “That’s who it had to be.”

“Could be. But it doesn’t necessarily mean he set the fire. Listen, Elizabeth, what you were telling me about your talk with Dixon— he said he knew all about the big scene at the end of the performance and that the whole thing was planned, right?” Phillip jabbed his half-eaten burrito in her direction. His dark eyes bored into hers.

“All but the fire extinguisher, he said.” Elizabeth finished her last bite and wiped her lips and fingers with the minuscule paper napkin that had been provided. “Dixon said they came up with the idea when The 3 were having dinner at his place— according to Laurel he has this really gorgeous apartment on the top floor of the gallery— anyway they were making plans for the show at the QuerY and that’s when they came up with the plan for the big ruckus and Boz’s disappearance.”

“They came up with the plan? Dixon? Was it Dixon’s idea for Boz to disappear?”

“No…at least, I think he said it was Aidan’s idea…or maybe Kyra’s.” Elizabeth struggled to remember the conversation. “One or the other.” She glanced at the front of the restaurant where a clump of customers, all intent on lunch, were waiting like vultures for the next available booth. “We probably ought to finish up and get out of here.”

“Yeah…okay.” The burrito was halfway to his mouth when Phillip paused. “But…say Dixon was lying about whose idea it was. There’s a thought for you, Sherlock.”

* * *

As they left the restaurant, Phillip looked at his watch. “You’re going to the library now? I’ll walk with you, if that’s okay.” They set off down the crowded sidewalk, and he continued. “I’ve got an appointment at AB Tech at three. That’s why…” He wordlessly tugged at his tie. “Looks like I’m going to be teaching some classes in criminal justice starting next month. One of their instructors is having to leave unexpectedly. But I need to ask you a favor— since you plan to be involved in this…ah…unofficial investigation anyway—”

“What? What do you want me to do?” Elizabeth tried very hard not to sound eager. Casual, no big deal— or he’ll think I’m…what, an overage Nancy Drew?

“Well, this is a little off-the-wall but it could be useful. I was trying to get a line on Peterson— find out a little more about him and his current wife. I found out— please don’t ask me how— that she’s always taking these continuing ed classes at AB Tech— drawing, ceramics, cake decorating, you name it— anyway, she’s signed up for a beginning painting class that starts next week.”

A scruffy-looking young man with a nondescript dog on a leash accosted them. “Hey, man, spare change? I need to score some food for my dog.”

A smile spread across Phillip’s face and Elizabeth was surprised to see him reach into his jacket pocket, even as he said, “Son, panhandling’s regulated in the Code of Ordinances, Section Eleven-dash-five, and this is a restricted zone. But you’re in luck— just this once, I can help you out.”

With the air of a magician producing a rabbit, Phillip pulled a shiny pouch from his pocket, tore it open, and poured a little pile of soft kibble at the edge of the sidewalk. The dog sniffed dubiously at it, politely nibbled a few pieces, then sat down to lick his private parts, turning his back on the pile of red-brown bits.

Phillip smiled benevolently. “Glad I could help, son.” He touched Elizabeth’s elbow and the two continued on their way.

“Fuckin’ smartass!” the young man called after them.

Elizabeth laughed and glanced at Phillip, who was ambling along contentedly with a smug look on his face. “Smartass, indeed. Were you making up that number, that eleven-dash something?”

Smug was replaced by sheepish. “As a matter of fact, I wasn’t. Remember last year I told you that Janie was hanging out with a bunch of street kids and doing some panhandling as some sort of self-expression crap? I had occasion to check out the ordinances to try to keep her out of trouble. I don’t know— that number kind of stuck with me.”

“I like it that you had the dog food. Though I must say that dog looked pretty well nourished.”

“The kid too.” Hawkins grinned. “I recognized him. Janie pointed him out to me when we were in town together one day. His street name is Mountain but she found out that his real name is Wendell Something the Third. His family owns a big car dealership and he has a major trust fund. The begging is something he does to make some kind of statement— I forget what.”

They were almost to the library when Elizabeth asked, “So what was the favor you were going to ask me— something about helping—”

Phillip stopped and ran his hand over his head. “Like I said, it’s off-the-wall. But I thought if you’d sign up for that painting class, you could maybe get to know the second Mrs. Peterson. As far as I can tell, she hasn’t made any friends since Peterson moved her from Flat Rock to Asheville and—”

“Painting? The only thing I’ve ever painted is a wall. Phillip, I don’t think—”

“It’s beginning painting; you could learn.” He looked at her innocently. “You did say you wanted to help.” Pulling out his wallet, he extracted a folded piece of paper. “This tells you all about it— when, where, what supplies—”

Elizabeth took the paper and read it. “Thursday mornings, that’s doable. I could take care of a few deliveries first— give Ben or Julio a break, then do my grocery shopping in the afternoon. I don’t know…it starts next week….”

She considered briefly. Hawkins was watching her closely, but said nothing. “Okay, Phillip, let me think about it. But there’s nothing here about where to sign up, or how much it costs.”

Now Phillip was studying his fingernails intently. “Ah…it’s taken care of…see, the class was almost full so I signed you up already.”

“You did.” She tried to decide if she was annoyed and was surprised to find that she wasn’t. She smiled. “Okay. At least it’s not cake decorating. I’ll be there next Thursday.”

Hawkins beamed at her. “That’s great— I have a feeling we could learn a lot from the second Mrs. Peterson.” He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I forgot to tell you: that kid Aidan, he’s out on bail. Just last night. And here’s an interesting thing— the bail was set pretty damn high, but his mama waltzed in, cash in hand, and got him out. Now, I did some checking on her and I’m wondering where she came up with that kind of money.”

Elizabeth remembered that Laurel had said Aidan’s mother worked at a grocery store. And that old car— she certainly didn’t look very prosperous. I wonder—

“Phillip, Carter Dixon hinted that Boz was involved with a meth lab out in Marshall County— he claims that was the reason The 3 moved out there. Do the police know—”

“Oh yeah, they had an anonymous call suggesting that. So right off, they went back to the junkyard to talk to, what was the guy’s name…?”

“Travis?”

“Yeah, they’d had an eye on him for a while— suspected he was distributing. But when they went by, the yard was closed. And they couldn’t find anyone who knew anything about Travis’s whereabouts.”

A quick stop at the grocery store on the Ransom bypass and Elizabeth was on her way home. Her mind was still so occupied in turning over the various bits and pieces of information provided by her trip into Asheville that she almost didn’t notice Ben standing by their farm truck at Hinkley’s gas station. The truck’s hood was up and Jim Hinkley’s legs protruded from underneath the front end. At once she slowed and pulled into the station. “Ben, what’s up? I thought you were staying with Kyra.”

Her nephew looked unhappy. “Yeah, I was. But we got a call from Lidio— their usual supplier had let them down and they have a huge wedding party tonight and their chef was pitching a fit because he didn’t have fresh nasturtium petals for the salads. Well, you remember how hard I tried to get that account last year— it would be a biggie for us, but they already had a supplier. Anyway, the manager said if I filled the order in time, she’d dump the other supplier and go with us. Kyra and I picked all the nasturtium blossoms— get this, the chef only wanted red ones, no orange, no yellow.

“So I took off for Asheville— Kyra said she’d rather stay in the workshop— she’s really been having fun, reading up on herbs and making wreaths. And she had her cell so she could call 911 if anything…” Ben looked unhappy. “Anyway, I got the delivery made and was heading home when the truck started acting up. I thought I better let Jim look at it— I have another delivery first thing tomorrow.”

A small quiver of misgiving nagged at the edges of Elizabeth’s attention. “Julio’s there at the farm, isn’t he?” She made the question as casual as she could.

“Yeah, but he was going up to work on the fence at the top of the mountain after lunch— I thought I’d be back sooner but—”

The grease-stained Jim rolled out from under the truck, nodded to Elizabeth, and said to Ben, “Try it now.” The motor roared and Jim slammed down the hood.

Elizabeth pulled out of the gas station first, but Ben, seemingly infected by her concern, roared past her in a no-passing zone. She was right behind him, however, fifteen minutes later, when they pulled up to the big red barn that was the workshop. The door was open and, as she got out of her car, Elizabeth could hear the radio playing loudly. Ben stood in the door of the workshop calling out, “Kyra!”

The big room was empty. The bunches of drying flowers and herbs hung in neat rows, and on the big worktable lay a half-finished wreath of bay, oregano, sage, and rosemary. A tall mug of coffee had overturned and was soaking a heap of yellow and purple statice that lay on the table next to Kyra’s cell phone.

“Maybe she’s gone up to the house.” Ben ignored Elizabeth’s helpful suggestion and stepped out of the barn. Again he shouted, “Kyra! Kyra!”

Elizabeth turned off the radio and followed her nephew outside.

“Kyra!” Ben shouted.

As they stood in hopeful silence, a tiny whimpering sound came to them. They looked around for its source but it had been so faint and so brief. Scarcely breathing, they waited, motionless, straining to hear. At last, it came again. So small a sound— it might have been an injured sparrow or some exhausted creature caught in a snare.

“The corncrib!” Ben sprinted to the old structure. The corncrib was a relic of the days when the previous owner of the farm had grown field corn to feed his cattle, his mules, his chickens, and his family. The corn was harvested after drying on the stalk in the field, and the unshucked ears were stored in the small slat-sided building that was lined with rodent-proof woven wire to protect the precious golden bounty. Nowadays, the corncrib stood empty, but for a few ancient moldy corn shucks.

Ben was at the crib’s small square door, pulling out the nail in the hasp that secured the door. “She’s in here, Aunt E! Kyra, are you okay? What happened? Kyra?”

Ben squeezed through the little door and Elizabeth heard him swear vehemently. She peered into the narrow space between two slats, trying to see inside, but could only distinguish a pale mottled shape in one corner of the dusty enclosure. Ben was crouched over it and cursing.

Suddenly her eyes focused and she could see that it was Kyra, naked and partially smeared with some black substance. The girl lay curled on her side, facing the wall, the white curve of her spine shocking in its fragile beauty. She stirred and rolled over, then held out her arms to Ben, who picked her up tenderly. Elizabeth helped Kyra through the little opening, then supported the trembling girl while Ben wriggled out. He swore tersely and immediately pulled off his T-shirt. “Put this on, Kyra, and tell us what happened.” His voice was full of barely contained rage.

Kyra pulled the shirt on and let out an anguished wail as her hand touched her head. “My hair!”

It was only then that Elizabeth realized that Kyra’s hair had been shorn. Bare patches of scalp shone here and there amid the grease-soaked stubble that remained.

“Used motor oil,” Ben said, sniffing at the blackened towel he was using to gently wipe the oily sludge from the shivering, weeping girl. “Kyra, let’s get you to the house— it’s going to take a lot of detergent to get this stuff off. That dishwashing liquid’s the only thing that’ll work. Remember, Aunt E, that time James rolled in the puddle of oil when the truck was leaking so bad? I had to lather him up and rinse him off three or four times.”

Ben continued to talk calmly as they covered the front seat of the jeep with a frayed blanket from the workshop and bundled the sobbing Kyra into the vehicle. Finally, as the jeep bumped up the road, the cries died away and Kyra’s story emerged in halting phrases.

“I was in the shop, working on a wreath. The radio was on— they were playing something by Gillian Welch— and I was singing along. I was so happy….” She touched her hand to her oil-smeared head. “I…I—”

“Kyra, who did this? We need to call the sheriff.” Ben’s voice was soft but firm.

“No, please, it’s no good…. Ben, I don’t know who it was. Like I said, I was working on a wreath and the radio was on real loud. Then I thought I heard a truck and I went over to the window to see if it was you.” She sat silent for a moment. “I was looking out the window and someone grabbed me from behind and put something around my neck. They kept squeezing and I couldn’t breathe, and this creepy low voice kept saying the same thing over and over…‘bitch, whore, slut’…and…some other things.” Her head was bowed and her words barely audible.

“Did you recognize the voice?” Elizabeth leaned forward from the back seat to catch Kyra’s answer.

“No…I don’t think so. It was real hoarse and low. It sounded…I don’t know…like a crazy person.” Kyra’s eyes were squeezed shut and she had wrapped her blackened arms around herself. In spite of the heat of the day, she was shivering. “It all happened so quickly…and the thing around my neck kept getting tighter…I couldn’t breathe…. I guess I passed out. When I woke up, my clothes were gone and this black stuff was smeared all over me. I was in that…whatever that place was.” Her voice quivered. “It was like a cage. And my hair…” She covered her ravaged scalp with her hands and sobbed. Ben reached out to put his hand on her arm and drove one-handed the rest of the way to the house.

* * *

While Kyra showered, Ben returned to the workshop to look around. In almost no time he was back, fuming with rage. “He used the oil I drained out of the truck yesterday— I’d left it in an old canner behind the barn till I could get some empty milk jugs. That’s where her clothes are— what’s left of them. They’ve been cut to shreds. A pair of the workshop scissors is back there too—” He choked and went on. “Fucking pervert! I’d like to—” His voice failed him once more then, in a painful whisper, he added, “Clumps of her hair are all over the place.”

* * *

Three bottles of dishwashing liquid and forty-five minutes later, Kyra came into the kitchen, where Ben and Elizabeth were discussing his findings. Her normally pale skin was pink from the repeated scrubbing, and a bright scarf covered her head. Angry-looking scratches were plain across one cheek and on both arms.

“Are you all right? Maybe we should get a doctor to take a look at you. I’ll give the clinic a call—” Elizabeth was appalled at the sight of the tiny young woman, so frail and battered. “Or we can take you in to the urgent care place in Weaverville. And I’ll call the sheriff. Maybe he can—”

“No.” Kyra’s voice was low and determined. “No doctor, no police. I wasn’t hurt. I just want to go home to Reba and GeeGee.”

“Reba and GeeGee?” Ben asked. “Who’s that?”

“Reba was my nurse when I was little. Now she’s GeeGee’s housekeeper. GeeGee’s my great-grandmother. You probably saw her at the museum that night. She lives in Asheville, in Biltmore Forest. Her name is Lily Gordon.”

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL—

FOURTH ENTRY

It was dusk when Reba announced Kyra’s arrival. I was sitting in the library with this journal and my sherry. Reba seemed agitated, though like the perfect servant she has always been, she attempted to hide her distress. It’s Miss Kyra, she said, her plain face illuminated with a strange mixture of pain and joy. She’s— Reba hesitated, then began again. That lady she’s been stayin’ with has brought her home.

At that moment Kyra burst through the door and ran to me, dropping to her knees beside my chair and burying her head in my lap, just as she did as a small child whenever she was in trouble. Oh, GeeGee, she sobbed, I’m so afraid. I don’t want to be punished anymore.

I laid my hand on the scarf that she had wrapped around her head and murmured, as I had done so many times before, There, there, child, GeeGee’s here.

Reba’s voice finally made itself heard over Kyra’s weeping. Miz Goodweather, ma’am. And her nephew, Mr. Hamilton.

Standing there in the doorway was a tall dark-haired woman— I took her to be in her forties— and an attractive young man with long sun-bleached hair. Both had the look of people who spend a great deal of time out of doors. As the woman came nearer, I saw that there was gray in her hair and realized that she was older than my first impression. Striking blue eyes stared out of a tanned face that was handsome rather than beautiful.

She introduced herself as Kyra’s neighbor and began to explain what had happened. I could see that she was taking care not to alarm me (at my advanced age!), but she did not patronize me in any way (as do so many young people). I was surprised to find that she spoke like a person with a good education, though with a certain amount of the mountain accent I expected. She and her nephew both seemed quite at ease. On the whole, I formed a very favorable impression of Mrs. Goodweather— Elizabeth, as she asked that I call her.

I thanked Elizabeth and her nephew (who is obviously smitten with Kyra, as they all are) and, after asking to be kept informed on Kyra’s condition, they left. I told the child to go to bed and I would have a tray sent up. Reba, so delighted to have her old charge back in her care, hovered solicitously, proposing warm milk, cinnamon toast, a little omelet. She shepherded Kyra up the stairs to her old bedroom, one arm around the child and whispering to her all the way. It’s a sad thing that Reba never married and had a family of her own— Kyra is all in all to her and when the day comes that Kyra no longer flies back to her GeeGee and to her childhood nurse in times of trouble— when, perhaps, a young man provides a more tempting shoulder to cry on— then I fear that Reba will be lost. As, perhaps, will I.

But as for her story— I reserve judgment. The child has been through so much— in the past, and now more recently. And the old ghost of mental unbalance is always there, hiding behind those so-candid sea-green eyes of hers.

My thoughts are tumbling wildly— I doubt I’ll sleep tonight. Perhaps I’ll quiet my mind by resuming the account of my time at the Center. I find that I can lose myself in these memories. Dr. P would be pleased to know how well his prescription has worked.

Little Kyra— so young to have experienced so much. I remember how innocent I was when I came to the mountains thoselong years ago. I close my eyes and I can see myself, proper Boston miss that I was, on my first morning at the Center, creeping stealthily into the kitchen in hopes of being able to fix a pot of tea. In my world heretofore, morning tea had appeared at my bedside, brought by our Irish housemaid, Biddy or Bridey or Katie— there was an endless succession of these girls, fresh off the boat and eager for work till they could find husbands.

There was no sign of my hostesses but suddenly a door opened and Miss Geneva emerged, tucking in her waist and yawning deeply. Before she shut the door behind her I glimpsed a double bed and Miss Caro sitting on the edge pulling on her stockings. It suddenly was clear to me that these two women shared that room, that bed.

Of course, even a sheltered young lady from Boston knew of spinster couples living together in genteel domesticity— indeed, Boston marriages, some called this arrangement. But these associations were generally assumed to be for the sake of expedience, certainly not…

Oh, how shocked that prudish Lily Cabot of 1934 was! And what a hypocrite! She had read of just such liaisons years before— read, savored, devoured, dreamed—

It was 1929, just before the Crash. I was spending a month with my best friend Evelyn Endicott and her family at their summer home in Dark Harbor. Many of our crowd summered in this part of Maine, and the little island was a hive of social activity. A hive— I write the cliché unthinkingly and then realize how fitting it is. Social insects, swarming together, acting out their preordained roles. But a hive it was and, among the younger crowd, Helen, Evy’s older sister— just back from Europe and a bit of a flapper according to my mother— Helen was the queen bee. Evy and I were not yet sixteen and Helen was twenty— as fascinating to us as some exotic being from a world we could only imagine.

Helen had little time for us for she was part of a “fast” set of young people from Boston. There was always some activity afoot— boating, tennis parties, and, it was whispered, road-houses where liquor run in from Canada was readily available. Helen came in late, slept till noon, and then was off again. Evy and I hung about the front porch to see her leave— usually in an open roadster surrounded by exuberant young people.

One lazy afternoon Mrs. Endicott had gone to call on a friend and Mr. Endicott and the boys were down at the cove with their sailboat. Evelyn and I watched enviously as Helen drove away with a carload of her friends, all shrieking with laughter. I know what let’s do, suggested Evy with a sly grin. We’ll go up to Helen’s room. She brought back the most shocking lingerie from Paris. I heard Mother telling Mrs. Lawrence about it.

Helen’s room was in terrible disorder. The Endicotts chose not to have a full staff while in Maine, making do with a cook, a man of all work, and a housemaid. We were expected to make our beds and, in general, keep our own rooms tidy. But Helen’s bed was a tangled swirl of sheets, and bits of clothing lay strewn about— a pair of silk stockings and a single red pump were atop the dresser; a beaded dress puddled in a glittering pool in the midst of the braided rug; and tiny silken wisps that I assumed must be examples of the shocking lingerie traced a trail to the bed.

She sleeps naked, whispered Evy, disapproval vying with awe in her expression. Mother sent me to wake her once and the sheet had slipped down…. Her voice trailed off and she picked up one of the wisps.

While Evy rummaged the drawers of the bureau in search of more lingerie, I was drawn to the untidy pile of books protruding from under the dust ruffle of the four-poster bed. I had been a voracious reader all my life and had already exhausted the meager resources of the bookshelves in the Endicott summer home— all comfortable old favorites— Louisa May Alcott, Gene Stratton-Porter, Mark Twain, and the like. But here were five books I had not seen before. The authors were unknown to me at the time but now I know that these were all books that had been banned in Boston— Hemingway, Dos Passos, Sinclair Lewis…I picked up the book on top, attracted by the title that gleamed in gilt letters on the black leather binding—The Well of Loneliness. I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and traced the words with my finger.

Oh, take the silly old book and read it later, cried Evy. Helen’s gone for the weekend. She’ll never know you borrowed it. Let’s try on her clothes. She was already pulling off her middy blouse. Look at this dress! It’s got no back at all!

And I did take and I did read and I knew at last that I was not alone.

* * *

Reba came in to light the lamps and chided me for sitting in the dark. Why, you like to give me a fright, just settin’ there, staring at nothin’, she scolded. Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. She fussed around the room, straightening a magazine on the coffee table, needlessly plumping up the throw pillows on the sofa. Little Kyra was sound asleep when I took her tray up, Reba said. I’ll check back later to see if she wants somethin’. The expression on her worn face was softer than usual and she was clearly delighted at the prospect of having Kyra under her wing once more. Yes, it’s a great pity. Poor Reba— never to have experienced motherhood except in her surrogate care of other people’s children. But I believe that she would defend her little Kyra as fiercely as a tigress her cub.

At last she left me in peace. Reba is an excellent woman and I would be lost indeed without her. When I go, she will be handsomely rewarded for her solicitous care of me. But, how she does fuss!

The Well of Loneliness—I had a hidden copy for years and eventually came to recognize its many weaknesses. Therehave been so many other books dealing with the subject more frankly, more beautifully. But I treasured it, for it had been a clarion call— awakening me to the reality that there were other women whose desires turned to women, not men.

I felt— how shall I say it?— I felt as if a veil had been lifted and now I could see. I also, at the tender age of fifteen, felt that it was enough to know that I was not a monster, unique in the history of the world. I would keep my feelings, but— and it was a solemn vow to myself— I would never reveal my true nature. It was inconceivable that I could ever do such a thing and risk bringing shame on my family.

All these fine resolves came back to me that chilly April morning at the Center. It had begun to snow— outside the kitchen window, fat fluffy flakes swirled and sat on the pink blossoms of a young peach tree. Miss Geneva rattled some sticks of wood into the cookstove and quickly had a fire going, all the while reassuring me that the freak snow wouldn’t last long. Caro’s like a little squirrel, she said fondly. She would stay snuggling in a warm bed all day if I’d let her.

I busied myself filling the teakettle at the sink for I could feel a blush rising. Unbidden images filled my mind— soft pink limbs intertwined in creamy sheets. But one couldn’t, I told myself. One would become a pariah, an outcast— beyond the pale.

CHAPTER 11

SNAKE IN THE GRASS

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3)

AS SHE OPENED THE DOOR TO THE CHICKEN RUN, Elizabeth was aware of an ominous stillness. There was no sound from the new gang of chicks that should have been peeping and scratching about in the deep litter of the chicken house or even venturing down the little ramp out into the morning sun. And the three old hens that normally met her at the door, bustling and eager to see what delicacies were in her scrap bucket, hunched in a wary little knot at the far end of the enclosure. With a grim foreboding, Elizabeth set down the bucket of vegetable trimmings and freshly pulled weeds, grabbed the worn hoe hanging by the entrance to the chicken house, and stepped inside. A cluster of black, yellow, and gray chicks were huddled in the corner behind the can of feed, and in the middle of the floor, a huge blacksnake had a fluffy gray and white chick squeezed tight in several loops of his thick body. His jaws were wide around the chick’s head and neck as he endeavored to swallow his victim.

Down slashed the hoe, with all the force Elizabeth could muster in that confined space, breaking bones and opening a gash just behind the reptile’s shiny head. She hooked the heavy, still-writhing body out of the chicken house and out of the enclosed yard, hoping to avoid traumatizing the chickens any further. The broken head of the snake looked up at her with one dimming black eye, and the pale mouth gaped and closed with an inscrutable message.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity of chopping at the bloody pulp of thick muscle, Elizabeth lofted the snake’s head into the nearby bushes with a flick of the hoe. She stood panting and wiping the sweat from her eyes. At her feet, the headless body continued to coil in lazy curves. The movement was measured and beautiful and utterly nightmarish. She shuddered and stepped back, wondering how long it would take before the snake’s body accepted the fact of its death.

“Mum!”

The shocked exclamation broke the silence and Laurel descended upon her mother like an avenging angel. Her blazing red dreadlocks were quivering with indignation. “I was coming up to see you and Kyra and— why did you kill that snake? I thought you always caught the blacksnakes and moved them.” She crouched mournfully by the still undulating body, long cords of auburn hair falling forward around her face. “He’s so beautiful; he must be almost six feet long. You always say they’re good snakes— rat killers and stuff like that. Why didn’t you just take him across the river like you usually do?” Her voice was harsh and on the edge of tears.

Elizabeth wiped her face again on the sleeve of her faded blue work shirt. “Oh, Laur. He’d killed a chick— you remember that really feisty gray and white one that I said might be a rooster— and was swallowing him— or trying to. I doubt he could actually have done it.”

Laurel’s silence accused her. Elizabeth started to explain but no words would come. Finally she caught up the satiny black corpse with her hoe and tossed it, still writhing, into the bushes. “A coon or something’ll get that tonight,” she informed her daughter tartly. “If not, I’ll come bury it tomorrow.”

Laurel still crouched there, looking at the ragged patch of blood-soaked dirt. “It looks like some kind of battle went on here. I was walking up the road and kept hearing this thwacking sound over and over.” Indignation had replaced sorrow in her voice.

“He wouldn’t stop moving.” Elizabeth took a deep breath, hating the shaky way her own words sounded. “I probably killed him with the first couple of blows but he kept moving and I wanted to make sure he wasn’t suffering.” She touched her daughter’s shoulder. “That snake was in the chicken house yesterday and he got away from me when I tried to catch him. I could have killed him then, but I didn’t, and now the chick is dead and it’s my fault.”

Inside the chicken house, the survivors had recovered from their fright and were pecking and scratching unconcernedly around the unmoving gray and white body. Elizabeth picked it up gently, noting that the fluffy form was still warm. For a moment she thought there was a heartbeat, but then she realized that it was her own elevated pulse she felt. The chick’s limp and dangling neck, wet and elongated from the blacksnake’s attempt to swallow its prey, was obvious proof of death, but for another moment, she cradled the little body in her hands. Then, leaving Laurel to refill the waterer and scatter feed for the old hens, she carried the dead chick outside and tossed it too into the bushes, to await a scavenging coon or possum.

“Is Kyra still asleep?” Laurel emerged from the chicken yard and looked up toward the house. “I get the impression she’s more of a night person—”

“Kyra’s in Asheville, at her great-grandmother’s.” Elizabeth started up the road. “She—”

“But her car’s down at the workshop.”

“Ben and I drove her in last night.” Elizabeth stopped and sat wearily on a large flat boulder by the side of the road. “It’s a long story….”

* * *

When she had heard all the details of the attack on Kyra, Laurel hurried ahead, saying that she would call her friend at once. She moved more quickly than her mother, who, at fifty-three, was content to climb the steep gravel road in a deliberate and meditative fashion. Watching her long-legged daughter striding effortlessly up the hill, Elizabeth remembered how, when she and Sam had moved from Florida to the mountains, she’d despaired of ever getting used to the seemingly near-vertical land that was Full Circle Farm.

It’s all bloody up or down! she’d wailed after slipping on the slick grass or the loose road gravel yet another time. But she had learned at last to go slowly, to wear boots instead of sandals, and to stop and enjoy the view when out of breath.

Elizabeth watched as the three dogs met Laurel and followed her joyfully through the periwinkle-blue front door. The house that she and Sam had built looked much older than its real age. The board-and-batten siding had been left to weather and darken as it would, and the trees and shrubs that they had planted during those early years had attained full maturity. Most people, seeing the typical mountain look of the house with its capacious front porch and shiny metal roof, assumed that it had been an existing structure, added on to by the newcomer couple.

And that’s what we wanted. Sam and I never wanted to stand out. We tried to learn the old ways, plowing with mules, milking a cow, raising a garden, but we brought something of our background to add to life here. A quiet melding.

* * *

Laurel was coming out the door as Elizabeth stepped onto the porch. “Mum, I just talked to Kyra. I’m going to head back to Asheville so I can see her before I have to go to work.” She reached over to hug her mother. “Sorry I couldn’t stay awhile but I’ll be back out before long.”

Laurel hurried down the steps, then paused and turned. “Mum, Kyra said to remind you that she definitely did not want the police involved. She was kind of agitated and said that it was really important that you not call them.”

Elizabeth watched till the tall figure disappeared around the bend below the big barn. The heat of the day dissuaded her from going to her garden to battle the weeds. Like the poor, they’re always with us, she decided. I’ll go back down when it’s cooler.

She had just sunk into a rocker to consider her next chore when the insistent ring of the phone demanded attention. With her standard and slightly pessimistic mental response— What new adventure?—she sighed and pulled herself up.

It was Phillip. “Elizabeth, have you seen Aidan? Has he been out there yesterday or today?”

Her negative reply brought an explosive response. “Son of a bitch— I bet they’ve skipped. He was supposed to be staying at his mother’s place, so I went by there this morning to see what he could— or would— tell me about Boz. His mother owns this big old ramshackle place in the Montford area, and a girl who said she rooms there told me that— what’s her name— Rainbow—”

“Willow,” Elizabeth interjected.

“Whatever the hell it is— Princess Shiningstar Go-lightly or whatever she calls herself packed up last night and took off. Told the girl to take care of the cats and that she’d be in touch eventually.”

“What about Aidan— was he with his mother?”

“The girl I talked to said not. Said he’d been there for an hour or so in the morning, helping his mother pack up stuff, but left in a borrowed car around noon.”

“Oh, shit.” Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Phillip, someone attacked Kyra yesterday afternoon.”

She quickly outlined the details of the incident and explained that Kyra had been insistent that the police should not be called. “It was weird; she was adamant about it. She said if I did call the sheriff, she’d deny that anything had happened and say that she’d cut her hair herself. I backed off because she was so emotional and—”

“Jesus Christ— I’m not believing this. And Kyra’s with who now?”

“Her great-grandmother. Out in Biltmore Forest in a house like a fortress. And with a housekeeper who combines the elements of a perfect servant, a mother hen, and a tigress.”

“And would it be too much to hope that nobody’s tidied up the crime scene?” Phillip spoke with exaggerated politeness. “I’d like to take a look.”

“I’m pretty sure nothing’s been touched. Ben had deliveries this morning and Julio’s—”

“I’m on my way.”

Forty-five minutes later, from her shady seat on the low rock wall beside the workshop, Elizabeth could hear the crunch of gravel and the sound of an approaching car. Hawkins’s anonymous-looking gray sedan pulled to a stop next to the little bridge that led to Julio’s house. Elizabeth stood and walked over to the car.

Phillip was scowling behind his dark glasses as he emerged and slammed the door behind him. “You still think nobody’s messed with anything since the attack?”

“I’m reasonably sure nobody has— do you want me to show you what we saw?”

She walked him through the various pieces of the puzzle— the overturned coffee cup in the workshop, the window where Kyra was standing when the attack occurred, the little pile of torn clothing, the scissors and the hair clippings, as well as the container half-full of used motor oil. Hawkins examined everything without comment, silently picking up the scissors with a pencil and dropping them into a paper bag. The corncrib elicited the most intense scrutiny— the dry dust under its attached shed was trampled with footprints, a muddle of overlapping marks.

“I don’t guess any of this is very helpful; Ben and I were both here helping her out of the crib.”

Hawkins mumbled something under his breath as he scanned the dirt. Suddenly he bent down and pointed to a rusty object. “This the nail that was in the hasp? You said Ben opened the door?” From his pocket he took a plain white envelope and scooped up the nail. “I doubt they could even get a partial from this but you never know.”

Shoving the envelope into his pocket, he turned his attention to the crib itself and to the hasp that had secured the small square door. Squinting, he studied the worn wood surrounding the ancient piece of hardware, then shook his head in disgust. “This old oak is so tough— it’s not likely to show anything.” He stood a little longer, considering and scowling. Elizabeth waited silently.

“Oh, what the hell.” Phillip sighed and began to squeeze his way through the little door of the corncrib. Once inside the storage area he sneezed twice and grumbled something about mold. Elizabeth watched as he examined floor, ceiling, and walls of the cagelike room.

“You got some holes in the wire here and there,” Hawkins informed her, “but none very big. I don’t see how the hell…” He pulled the door shut and she could see one finger probing at a hole near the hasp. “Nope.”

“What are you— Can you possibly think Kyra locked herself in?” Elizabeth pulled open the door and stared at Phillip, who was sifting through the sad pile of ancient corn shucks that were all that remained of the corncrib’s onetime bounty.

He sneezed once again. “Just wanted to see if it was possible. But you said she was naked when you two pulled her out, and I’m assuming you would have noticed if she’d had a long piece of wire or some such in her hand.”

“Yes, I think even I would have noticed. But then, we were mainly trying to help her out and get her up to the house where she could get clean. And I guess it never occurred to us that someone would go to such lengths to…to…do what?” In spite of her effort to remain calm, Elizabeth’s voice rose. “I do not understand you, Phillip. I thought you suspected Aidan—”

“Hang on there, Elizabeth.” Hawkins was awkwardly climbing back out the narrow door, after a last look at the area inside. “I just wanted to rule out something.”

He stood there, brushing the dust and bits of corn shucks off his clothing and sneezing repeatedly. Pulling a red bandana from his hip pocket, he wiped his eyes and blew his nose loudly. Finally the sneezing subsided.

“Those old corn shucks are moldy,” he explained. “My only allergy.” He glanced at Elizabeth, who was standing with her arms folded, waiting.

“Yeah,” he conceded, “it could have been Aidan. He may think she set him up to be arrested.”

“But she did…they did. It was the plan. And Aidan was in jail when the house burned. Why couldn’t it have been the guy she calls the nanny?”

They were standing there glaring at each other when the putt-putt of the farm’s little four-wheeler could be heard coming down the road. Julio was returning from his work on the line fence at the top of the mountain.

Julio had worked at Full Circle Farm for several years and had recently moved into the small rental house across the branch from the workshop. If all went according to plan, his wife and their two young children would eventually join him, leaving their home in Chiapas for the better life offered by the States. Ben and Elizabeth had come to rely on this hardworking man whose rough toil-worn hands could do seemingly anything, from delivering a calf to stringing barbed wire to transplanting delicate seedlings. He had become an integral part of the farm life as had so many migrant workers in Marshall County.

As more and more of the county’s young people found jobs in Asheville or farther away, farm labor was increasingly being done by workers from Mexico and Central America. The old family farm, a modest holding that, with the labor of parents and their numerous children, had produced all its own vegetables, meat, milk, and eggs, with extra to sell, as well as an acre or two of tobacco as a cash crop, was rapidly giving way to entrepreneurial farmers who, with leased acreage and hired labor, might grow thousands of pounds of tobacco or some other crop but get their food at the grocery store.

Most of the workers were seasonal: men like Julio who had left families in Mexico; but as time went on, more and more of these migrants began to find year-round work and bring their families to the States. The local grocery store now featured such exotica as tomatillos and nopalitos, and slowly the newest of the new people were being absorbed into the community.

“Buenos días, Elizabeta. Buenos días, Señor Felipe. Qué pasa? I come back for more fence posts and the chain saw.” Julio pulled off his pale straw cowboy hat and wiped his shining brown face on his shirtsleeve. “Un árbol grande—a big tree is rompe—is break the fence.”

“Julio, I know Ben told you about what happened yesterday,” Elizabeth began.

Julio’s face fell and he began to twist his hat in his big hands. “Lo siento mucho. I should have been down here— that way nothing happen—”

Elizabeth interrupted his apologies. “It’s not your fault, Julio. But Phillip’s looking around to see if he can find out who might have been here.” She turned to Phillip to explain. “Julio was at the ridge yesterday when it happened.”

“All the way at the top, Julio?”

“Sí, the fence is a piece of crap, like Ben say, and I am putting new metal posts for the old ones de madera—of wood. They are crap— no good.”

Phillip Hawkins gazed thoughtfully up at the partially wooded slopes of Pinnacle Mountain. “You can see a long way from up there, can’t you? Elizabeth, when you and Ben took me up there last year, I remember how we could see all the fields and the road. We could even hear a log truck coming around the mountain.” He smiled at Julio. “Of course, that was back in the winter with the trees all bare. Now you probably can’t see much of the road.”

Julio considered. “Un poco. Can see the road by the mailbox. Recuerdo que—I remember that I see Ben and the truck going out.” He scratched his nose and added, “Ben say the truck is a piece of—”

“Did you notice any other cars?” Elizabeth interposed quickly. “Or trucks?”

“That Shane Roberts come home; I see his truck. And another car turn up the road to the old cementerio… the place for los muertos. And when I stop to drink water, I see a car I don’t know.” Julio struggled to frame his thoughts. “It go slow at mailboxes.”

“Did it turn up our driveway? Was it a—” a black car? Elizabeth bit off the end of her sentence and began again. “What kind of car was it— where did it go?”

Julio shrugged. “Yo no sé—I don’t see where it go. Just then goddamn cows come along and go through where fence is down. I go after them, run them back. Don’t see car no more.”

“Julio,” Phillip asked, “what did the car look like?”

“Big, probably SUV. White.”

CHAPTER 12

ASSUMPTIONS ARE DANGEROUS

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3, AND THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8)

WHAT COLOR CAR DID YOU SAY THAT NANNY fella was driving?” Hawkins asked as soon as Julio had left to load the four-wheeler with more fencing materials. Elizabeth looked at Phillip suspiciously but his face wore an expression of purest innocence.

“Black,” she said. “Kyra said black.”

“Do you know what kind of car Aidan has?”

“I think the van was his— when they were all living at Dessie’s house, there was a beat-up yellow pickup, Kyra’s fancy green sports car, and a kind of anonymous beige van. I’m pretty sure the pickup belonged to Boz and the van to Aidan. But—”

Phillip put up his hand. “Wait a minute. Let’s go sit in the shade and think about this.”

They sought the low wall outside the workshop. Above it the graceful wild dogwood’s twisted trunk stretched out from a steep wooded slope. Lush variegated hostas and pink and white impatiens flourished in the pool of shade beneath the old tree. Phillip dropped gratefully onto one of the smooth capstones of the wall, and Elizabeth sat down beside him.

“Okay, let’s look at the various possibilities here.” Phillip raised two fingers. “Start by considering two things— opportunity and motive. Elizabeth, who do you think did this to Kyra?”

“Well, I would have said the nanny— but it was a white car Julio saw.” She reflected. “But we don’t know that the white car had anything to do with this, he just saw it going slow at the mailboxes— it could have been someone leaving a flyer or someone looking for an address.”

Hawkins nodded approvingly. “Yeah, forget the white car. Or, don’t forget it; just put it on the back burner. So you vote for the nanny. What would his motive be?”

“According to Kyra, he works for her father. So maybe Mr. Peterson sent him to scare Kyra into moving back to Asheville…. If that was the case, it worked.” She frowned. “But I don’t know— it seems like a more…more vengeful act. Maybe it was Aidan. You said he was out of jail— and that he left his mother’s house around noon. He would have had time—”

“Motive?”

“Like you said— maybe he thought she set him up. I don’t know— I guess it’s possible.”

“Keep going.”

“What about the guy at the junkyard— didn’t you say he’d dropped out of sight? What about him?”

“And what would—”

“I know, what would his motive be?” She frowned. “I have no idea…. Say he is involved in a meth lab out here and maybe Kyra knew about it…could he be trying to intimidate her into keeping quiet?— That could explain why she was so insistent about not calling the sheriff.”

Phillip’s eyebrows lifted but he said only, “Go on.”

“I can’t think of anyone else— unless we assume that this might be the person who murdered Boz.”

“Assumptions are dangerous but let’s hear who’s on that list.”

Elizabeth laughed. “I think you’re getting some advance practice for your upcoming criminology classes, Professor Hawkins. Okay, I’ll play the game— how about Carter Dixon? Maybe he wanted Boz dead for…oh, say personal reasons. I know he didn’t like Boz. Say he thought Boz’s death would contribute to the success of the show at the QuerY…though I can’t see how an attack on Kyra…No, scratch Dixon. For one thing, I can’t imagine him messing with the motor oil. He might ruin his nice clothes.”

“Anyone else who could have wanted Boz dead?” Hawkins was smiling now.

“There’s Rafiq— it was his crushed-car sculpture Boz was in. That’s the opportunity part. But motive— no, not a clue. I’ll have to ask Laurel if Rafiq and The 3 were connected in any way.”

“You’re doing good, Sherlock. You got to keep an open mind and consider all the possibilities—”

The roar of the farm truck interrupted Phillip’s words. Ben pulled to a stop and began unloading the various coolers he had used for his morning deliveries of fresh-picked herbs and flowers.

“Afternoon, folks.” Ben paused on his way into the workshop. “Aunt E, you did explain to Phillip that Kyra didn’t want the police in on this—”

“No problem, Ben. Elizabeth made that very clear. We’re just doing a little amateur investigation here.”

“So, any idea who might have attacked her?” Ben peered at Hawkins over the stack of Styrofoam coolers in his arms.

“Ideas, but nothing positive.”

“Aidan is out on bail, Ben,” Elizabeth offered. “He could be—”

“He’s out? Has anyone told Kyra?”

“I don’t know—”

“I’m going to give her a call.”

Ben disappeared into the workshop and Phillip stood. “Time for me to get back home— stuff to do. But I have one more name for your list.”

“Who?” Elizabeth frowned as she tried but failed to think of another possibility.

“Tawana Brawley.” And with this cryptic utterance, Phillip Hawkins took his leave.

* * *

Elizabeth was pondering this name when Ben came out of the workshop. “I spoke to the housekeeper. She said Miss Kyra was taking a nap. I got the impression she didn’t want me talking to Kyra, but I’ll call back in an hour.”

He looked down the road where the gray car was disappearing around a bend. “What was that Phillip was saying— Tamara Brawley? Who’s that?”

Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. “Tawana Brawley was a teenager, an African-American teenager who went missing for several days in New York. She was found— alive— in a garbage bag. She was smeared with dog poop and— how do they say it?— racial epithets were written on her.”

“When was this?” Ben grimaced with disgust. “That’s terrible— what makes people do these things?”

At first Elizabeth didn’t answer, her mind full of the memory of the impassioned eleven-year-old Rosemary, following the case for a current events project. The Tawana Brawley affair had engaged all of Rosemary’s budding idealism. At the time, Sam and Elizabeth had been surprised at so much fervor on the subject in their young daughter until Sam had suggested that it could be a reaction to the Mullins tragedy of the year before.

“Maybe Rosie feels like she couldn’t do anything about what happened there and she wants to do something for this little girl,” Sam had said, watching his daughter carefully pen a letter to Tawana. “There must be some connection.”

Ben’s voice broke into her memories. “Was this recent, Aunt E? The name kind of rings a bell but I don’t remember hearing any—”

“No, you probably wouldn’t have— it was in 1987.”

Ben was solemn as he said, “It does sound kind of like what happened to Kyra, but I don’t see the connection. I mean, if it happened that long ago—”

Elizabeth looked at the corncrib just a few yards from where they were standing and remembered the naked, frightened young woman who had been imprisoned there. It was hard to find the words but finally she spoke. “It was a hoax, Ben. Eventually Tawana Brawley confessed she’d done it to herself.”

Ben said nothing for a moment. He stared angrily down the road and seemed to be thinking hard. “That theory is—”

“— a piece of crap?” Elizabeth asked, hoping to lighten the moment.

“Shit. That theory is a piece of shit. I can’t believe you would listen to something like that— not after seeing her, the way she was—” He broke off with an impatient gesture and started back for the truck.

“Ben!” She hurried after him. “We have to consider all the possibilities. Kyra’s father says that she’s unstable— that she had a kind of breakdown after her mother’s death. I don’t know…maybe the shock of what happened to Boz—”

Ben climbed into the truck, slamming the door with unnecessary force. Over the roar of the engine, he shouted, “I’m going in to see Kyra— before your boyfriend puts her in jail. What the fuck is he thinking?”

“Ben!” Elizabeth called, “Ben, wait!” but he was gone.

* * *

He had come back, of course— eventually. The next morning he had been busy in the greenhouse taking cuttings and starting seeds for the fall and winter crops. Elizabeth had come down to help, but Ben’s cool manner and monosyllabic responses to her attempts at conversation had driven her away and she had spent the remainder of the day in the workshop constructing wreaths. The following days had seen a gradual warming trend— as long as the subject of Kyra was avoided. Though he had not said so, Elizabeth guessed that when Ben left the farm every evening as soon as the last bit of work was done, he was going to see Kyra. She was heartsick at the barrier that now existed between her and her nephew— but she was unable to share his complete faith in Kyra’s story.

On Tuesday Ben announced that Kyra was doing much better and that he was helping her to get set up in a studio in the River District. “It’s not in The Wedge where Laurel’s studio is,” he said. “It’s in a funky old place called the Candlestation. Kyra’s gotten really energized about getting her show together for the QuerY. She’s even working on a new piece— a kind of homage to Boz.”

When Elizabeth asked if he thought Kyra would be safe at her studio, Ben looked at her coldly before replying. “There’re lots of studios in the Candlestation and people all around. And she’s still spending most nights at that mansion in Biltmore Forest. Besides, safe from who? You and Phillip don’t think there was any attacker.”

* * *

All of this was in Elizabeth’s mind on Thursday morning as she made the farm’s scheduled deliveries: fresh packaged and potted herbs to the organic supermarket; herb, baby lettuce, and flower petal mélange to four different restaurants. She squeezed in a quick trip to the art supply store to purchase some of the materials for the painting class, then ate the sandwich she had brought with her as she drove to AB Tech, arriving a little before one.

The parking lot for the Pines Building was crowded. Elizabeth at last found a place on the far side, parked the farm delivery van, gathered up her bag of supplies, and made her way to the low brick building. She was surprised at the variety of the students: all ages and ethnicities were represented. Ahead of her on the sidewalk, two young men in vast baggy jeans, the crotches sagging almost to knee level, trudged through the deep water of their adolescence. Each held up his voluminous garment with one hand, a necessary sacrifice to fashion. Two beautiful Asian girls hurried by, giggling at some shared secret. In the building’s lobby a knot of intense-looking young people argued in what, to Elizabeth’s unaccustomed ear, sounded like Russian. Gray-haired ladies pulling sewing machines on little rolling carriers hurried purposefully down the hall, and a gaggle of cheerful, developmentally disabled adults was shepherded out the door toward a garden plot across the street.

A cluster of more young people gabbling away in rapid Spanish were entering a room labeled ESL. Elizabeth looked around, hoping to find a similar sign directing her to Beginning Painting. She couldn’t see one but she did notice a small, bespectacled woman, carrying a bag from the art supply store and heading down the hall to the right. Elizabeth followed her.

“Excuse me, are you in the beginning painting class? I’m not sure where to go.”

“I am.” The woman smiled and pointed to a sign on the wall. “Down here.”

The room was full of long paint-spattered tables. The chairs at the tables were almost all taken, but Elizabeth found a seat on the far side of the room and began to study her classmates, wondering which one was the second Mrs. Peterson, the woman who had become Kyra’s stepmother. It’s got to be one of the younger ones— in her thirties, I think Laurel said. That narrowed the field considerably, as most of the members of the class were on the far side of fifty. There were three candidates in that age group, Elizabeth decided. There was the beautiful young woman with long straight chestnut brown hair, a shining face, and a white T-shirt tucked into tight jeans. Too young and innocent, Elizabeth decided, turning her attention to the tired-looking woman sitting next to her wearing polyester pants with a matching top. She smiled nervously at Elizabeth, then began copying the schedule that had been chalked on the blackboard— And this one’s too dowdy to be a homewrecker.

Finally there was the glamorous blonde with big dangling gold earrings, an oversized white linen shirt that suggested a painter’s smock, tight cropped pants, and high-heeled sandals that Elizabeth recognized from the pages of The New Yorker. My god, those must be, what’s the name, something about a train— Jimmy Choos. Oh boy, I’ve got a real feeling this is the one.

The low murmur of conversation stopped as an attractive woman with a mop of gray-blonde ringlets entered the room. “Good afternoon, class. I’m Daphne and this is Beginning Painting. We’re going to start right in with a warm-up exercise, and I’ll be coming around with the attendance sheet and a parking permit card for you to fill out before you leave. We have three hours and I want to make the most of it.”

Daphne began passing out large sheets of newsprint and an assortment of ratty pencils. “We’re going to start with blind drawing—”

“I thought we were going to be painting,” the blonde whom Elizabeth had tagged as the second Mrs. Peterson complained. “I did drawing last year.”

“Drawing is the basis we begin with.” Daphne continued on, unperturbed. “This exercise is almost a meditation; it helps you to focus on seeing, which is vital to a painter. Too many people draw their ideas rather than what they actually see. As a painter, you need to approach your subject without preconceived ideas and rely solely on what your eyes tell you. Now, I want each of you to draw your hand, using a continuous line and without looking at the paper. Begin at the wrist and let your eye travel very slowly around the outline of your hand. While your eye is moving around the outline, your pencil should be making the same outline on the paper.”

There were a few muffled groans and the blonde was heard to say, “We did that in my class last year.” But soon the whole group was at work, each focused intently on drawing.

It was like a meditation, Elizabeth realized as her eye slowly followed the outline of her little finger: up…up…slowly…out and back a tad…and again for the wrinkle at the knuckle…slowly…slowly…dip down for the cuticle…back around for the fingernail—

“De-doo-deedle, de-doo-deedle-doo.” The tinny computer melody of a cell phone broke into the heavy-breathing silence of the class. Elizabeth gritted her teeth and tried to regain her concentration.

“Well, when can you get to it?” the blonde was saying. “I don’t want my husband to see that scratch. He’s a maniac about his cars.”

Elizabeth looked up to see the blonde, cell phone trapped between ear and shoulder, drawing blithely on with repeated glances back and forth from hand to paper. At the front of the room Daphne was frowning as she handed the attendance sheet to an elegant white-haired woman.

“I don’t care about that,” the blonde went on without lowering her voice. “I’m bringing the car in today at three-thirty and I expect you to take care of it right away. God knows we’ve given you enough business—”

Elizabeth watched in amazement as she saw the small woman she had spoken to before class rise deliberately and take the blonde by the elbow. A look of mild amusement was on her face as she escorted the surprised blonde, in midconversation, out the door. The smiling woman returned immediately and took up her pencil. Elizabeth caught her eye and grinned, giving her a thumbs-up signal.

Elizabeth’s neighbor whispered, “I’m glad she did that; I sure wouldn’t have had the nerve. But I hate it when people do like that with cell phones. It’s just so rude. I know how that lady feels though— about getting her car fixed. I’m driving my husband’s car while mine is in the shop and I’m in fear and trembling of getting a scratch on it.”

Back to the hand, another fingernail…slowly…and down…down…a little jog at the knuckle…have my handsalways had all these spots?…are they freckles or those old-lady things, what did Gramma call them? liver spots?…slowly…slowly—

“Okay, let’s stop and take a look.” Daphne came to the center of the room, ignoring Blondie, who, her call completed at last, was returning to her seat.

“But I haven’t finished—”

“It doesn’t matter whether you finish; this is just an exercise. Now, people, what do you think about your drawings?”

They were amazingly good. Most bore a real resemblance to hands, allowing for occasional squiggly digressions. Elizabeth’s neighbor shyly held out her drawing. “I thought that was fun. I was pretending there was a tiny bug crawling around the outline of my hand and my pencil was following him.”

The woman’s face didn’t look tired anymore. Her gray eyes were shining and a sweet smile lit up her otherwise plain face. “I love classes like this. They can just take your mind off all your problems.”

The time passed quickly. Daphne discussed the supplies they would need, outlined what they would be doing in the coming weeks, and finished the paperwork attendant to the class. They did more blind drawing and then gesture drawing— working rapidly this time instead of slowly. By four o’clock, Elizabeth was happy that Hawkins had asked her to take the class. Then, with a rueful start, she remembered why she was there.

Omigod, I’ve got to make friends with Blondie. I don’t know, Phillip. That may be asking too much.

When Daphne called for the class to finish up, Elizabeth took her parking permit card up to the desk. The attendance sheet was lying there and she could see, in rounded printing with a little heart to dot the i, for god’s sake,the name Kimberly Peterson. With an inward groan, she hurried back to her table and collected her belongings. The blonde was making for the door, her high heels tapping as she dialed a number on her cell. Elizabeth called a hasty “See you next week” to her neighbor and dashed for the door.

She caught up with her quarry outside. Blondie was moving toward the parking lot, stiletto-heeled sandals setting a rapid, clicking pace as their wearer chattered once again into her phone. “I’m leaving class now; I have to go by the car place…she didn’t!” The enormity of whatever it was she didn’t do halted the blonde in her tracks, and Elizabeth was forced to resort to hastily stopping and investigating the contents of her shopping bag as if she were looking for some missing item.

Finally the call ended and the blonde made for her car, a shiny red BMW with a small scratch on the right front fender. As the red door swung open, Elizabeth, just passing by, on the way to my car, stopped and said, “Wow, that’s a beautiful car!” She stuck out her hand and added, “Hi, I’m Elizabeth— how did you like the class? I think Daphne’s a good teacher. I’m really looking forward to next week when we start using paint.”

The blonde looked up and stared blankly at Elizabeth. “Oh, were you in there? Well, I guess she’s okay but she should have given me more time to finish.” She studied her fingernails. “I’m going to miss next week anyway— we’re going to the beach house.”

“How nice.” Elizabeth forced a smile. “Well, see you week after next, then— what did you say your name was?” Lame, she thought with an inward groan, very lame.

The BMW purred into life and the blonde, checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror said with a yawn, “Sondra…with an ‘o’…Sondra Shields.”

“Well, hell,” said Elizabeth, watching the BMW shoot off. Sondra was on her cell phone again and narrowly missed a young man crossing the street in an electric wheelchair.

“I swear, those things are a real curse.” The soft voice at her elbow belonged to her neighbor from class, the quiet-looking woman with brown hair. “My husband put one in my car but I always pull over to use it.” She smiled shyly at Elizabeth. “Daphne kept us so busy we didn’t even get to introduce ourselves— I’m Kimmie.”

“And I’m Elizabeth. Nice to meet you.” Elizabeth tried not to let her face reveal the major reshuffling of assumptions that was taking place at this moment. Kimmie! As in Kimberly? Surely this dowdy little mouse can’t be The Bimbo?

“And it’s good to meet you. I think this is going to be a really fun class.” Kimmie peered around the parking lot. “I swear, I forgot I was in my husband’s car. Oh, there it is, over there. Sometimes I can’t remember anything.”

Kimmie—Kimberly?— gave a little waggle of her fingers and continued on to her car— a huge white SUV. Elizabeth stared after her. Could there have been a Kimmie on the class roll as well as the Kimberly Peterson she had seen? She didn’t think so. But how in the name of goodness could this sweet-faced frump be the mistress Marvin Peterson had married so indecently soon after his wife’s murder?

As the big car pulled out of the lot, Elizabeth saw its license plate and her questions were answered. The vanity plate read, “MP # 1.” She was pretty sure it had nothing to do with military police.

CHAPTER 13

WHAT MISS BIRDIE SAW

(THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 8)

OH, REALLY GREAT JOB, SHERLOCK! TERRIFIC! What astute profiling! Oh yeah, real good…Phillip’ll be proud of you all right. What’s that thing— don’t “assume”— it makes an ass out of you and me.

Elizabeth was still berating herself as she drove across the bridge on her way home. How could she have spent the whole class sitting next to her quarry and, effectively, ignoring her? “And how the bloody hell can Kyra call that meek, ordinary-looking woman a bimbo?” And what about the white SUV? She said it was her husband’s car. What if it was Kyra’s father that Julio saw down by our mailbox? Would he have done something like that to his own daughter? Sick— this whole thing is sick.

As Elizabeth neared Miss Birdie’s house, the sight of her little neighbor on the porch gave her an idea. Maybe Birdie saw the same white car Julio saw— she always pays attention to the comings and goings around here. Let’s see what she can tell me.

Birdie was sitting on one of the newly bottomed straight chairs, a pile of beans in her lap. A bushel basket two-thirds full of fat, pale green runner beans was beside her, and a long, sharp darning needle glittered in her hand as she added another bean to the string she was making. “Git you a chair, Lizzie Beth. I’m just stringin’ these soup beans here in the cool of the evenin’. I do love a bowl of shucky beans come wintertime.”

Long strings of the fat, yellowy-green beans—“shucky beans” or “leather britches” they were called— festooned the backs of most of the chairs, hung to dry— the oldest way of preserving beans. Doubtless, Birdie had already canned dozens of quarts of beans, but old ways die hard and she always strung and dried at least one picking of her cornfield beans.

“Do you have another needle, Miss Birdie?” Before Birdie could answer, Elizabeth saw the plump red pincushion and the ball of thin string (saved, she knew, from innumerable bags of chicken feed). “I’ll fix some too.”

“Ay law, honey, you don’t need to do that,” Miss Birdie fussed as Elizabeth began to thread the big needle. “I reckon you’ve put you up a world of beans by now.” The bright eyes peered shrewdly at Elizabeth.

“Probably not as many as you, Miss Birdie.” Elizabeth leaned down and took a handful of beans from the basket there between them. “You know I take the lazy way and freeze most of mine— except for a run or two of dilly beans.”

Miss Birdie shook her head. “Now I wonder why is hit all the new folks pick their beans afore they fill out? Hit don’t make sense to eat them afore they have some nourishment to them. They have them little beans up to the store, not as big as a pencil. I’d not pay money for somethin’ like that, would you?”

Elizabeth smiled. She had grown up eating green beans— fat, well-developed green beans— strung and snapped, then cooked with fatback till they were of a melting tenderness. She liked them that way. But at some point she had also become aware of the delectable taste of thin baby beans, barely steamed and still slightly crisp.

“I don’t know, Miss Birdie. Different people like different things.”

The little woman snorted and continued stringing. “What’s that nephew of yourn up to these days? Seems like I see him goin’ down the road long about this time most ever evenin’. Reckon he must be courtin’ somewheres.” She favored Elizabeth with another long look. “Sometimes he don’t come back till mornin’.”

Elizabeth considered her answer carefully. “Ben’s helping a friend in Asheville move into a new place; that’s all I know. But speaking of going down the road, Miss Birdie, remember that black car we were talking about last time I was here? Have you seen it around anymore?”

“He ain’t come around this week, far as I know.” The satisfaction was evident in Miss Birdie’s voice. “You know, hit purely worried the life out of me, seein’ that car loaferin’ up and down the branch all the time and me without no idea who hit was. No, I ain’t seen him since…now let me think…hit were last Friday. I was takin’ me a little walk down the road— you know the doctor says I need to walk for a half an hour ever day— and I seen that black car parked up alongside the road just beyond you unses mailbox. Well, thinks I, I’ll just walk on down there and see who can that be.

“Now, Lizzie Beth, you know I don’t git around as good as I used to, but I was hobblin’ along at a right good clip when here comes this big white car I ain’t never seen afore. Well, lo and behold, Mr. White Car pulls up alongside of Mr. Black Car. I see Black Car’s winder go down and figger them two must be talkin’ to one another. And hit weren’t but a short time and Black Car takes off comin’ back this-a-way and White Car goes on around the mountain.

“So I come on back and set here on the porch. Afore too long, hit might have been a half hour or so, here comes White Car, hightailin’ hit fer the bridge. And hit weren’t so very long atter that I seen you in yore vehicle and Ben in his truck come home in a big hurry. Ay law, I thinks, what in the world? Lizzie Beth, honey, you went by so fast you didn’t even throw up yore hand. And then, hit weren’t hardly an hour later, I was in the house, but I was nigh the winder and I seen you and Ben and that little black-haired girl goin’ back out in your car.”

Miss Birdie took another handful of beans from the basket. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I tell you what’s the truth, Lizzie Beth, I’m thinkin’ we’re gonna have to have us a stoplight on Ridley Branch, much traffic as we’re havin’.”

Pup, Miss Birdie’s black-and-white mongrel, came slinking up the porch steps. Avoiding Birdie’s disapproving eye, he sidled up to Elizabeth and insinuated his nose into the midst of the beans in her lap. “Pup, you git on off this porch.” Miss Birdie leaned over and took an ineffectual swipe at her dog. “What do you mean puttin’ that wet nose all over my beans?”

The dog’s head drooped and he inched his way toward the steps, pausing to look reproachfully at Miss Birdie. “Oh, all right, go lay down on yore bed.” The old woman’s fierce expression softened as she watched the dog’s head lift and his feathery tail swing ecstatically back and forth. He scuttled to a piece of carpet in the corner of the porch, circled twice, and lay down, head resting on his forepaws and eyes fixed resolutely on Miss Birdie.

“Law, I’m bad to spoil that dog.” Birdie draped her finished string of beans on the back of a nearby chair. “When Luther was alive, he’d not let a dog on the porch. But now I’m by myself…well, I think a dog can be right good company, don’t you? They got more sense than a body might think. Look how he watches— I believe he understands near about ever word I say.”

“I believe he does.” Elizabeth smiled fondly at her little neighbor. “I’m glad you have him. Is he much of a watchdog?”

Miss Birdie laughed. “Watch is about all he’ll do. Dor’thy was sayin’ as how with all these strange cars back and forth on the branch I orter have me a dog that barks.” She rethreaded her needle and impaled a bean. “But I sleep light and I got me a shotgun by the bed.”

The basket was empty now and Elizabeth tied off her string and put it with the others. “Miss Birdie, what did that white car look like— old, new—”

“Hit was kindly like yore jeep but a sight bigger— one of them SUBs they’s always talkin’ about. Looked brand new.”

Trying not to sound too excited, Elizabeth asked, “When you were walking down the road, did you happen to notice the license plate on the white car?”

Birdie frowned. “I was namin’ to see hit but I never did git close enough to make hit out. My eyes ain’t sharp as they use to be. Hit were a North Carolina plate; I could see that much. But the numbers was just a blur.”

Elizabeth helped Miss Birdie to carry the strings of beans into the back bedroom where they would be hung to dry. The quilts for the show at the library were still on the bed, and she paused to look at the crazy quilt more closely.

“I left them quilts out to git rid of that musty smell,” Birdie explained. “Why don’t you go on and take ’em with you?”

“I think I will, if you don’t care. I need to sew sleeves on the back so we can hang them up. And maybe I’ll take pictures and use the pictures on a flyer for the show.” Once again Elizabeth admired the beautiful embroidered sunflower that topped the tiny embroidered letters spelling out the name Tildy Rector.

Tildy? She looked again at the straggling blue daisy with the crooked letters: FANCHON TEAGUE.Wait a minute. That’s what was bothering me before. Phillip’s aunt said— “Miss Birdie, I had heard that it was Fanchon who was so good at needlework, not Tildy. But—”

Birdie began to fold the quilts. “No, honey, hit was Tildy done all the purty work, not Fanchon. Law, seems like there was somethin’ I was namin’ to tell you, had to do with these quilts. Dor’thy was over the other day and she was a-lookin’ at ’em— now what was it she done told me?” Birdie stopped in midfold, clutching the crazy quilt to her chest. “Ay law, I got a good forgetter. Reckon hit’s that Old Timer’s disease workin’ on me.” Her eyes twinkled. “Although the young uns is just as bad. Look a-here what I found down behind my couch the other day.”

Miss Birdie went to the bureau, which seemed to be the repository for a year’s worth of the local newspapers, ancient shape-note hymnals, and a stack of well-thumbed yellow Old Farmer’s Almanacs. A spiral-bound artist’s sketch pad balanced incongruously atop the pile.

“That little black-haired girl— Kylie or whatever her name is— she left her drawin’ book here.” Birdie held out the pad to Elizabeth. “She come down here— hit was way back in the cold weather— and she wanted to know could she draw my picture whiles I was settin’ and watchin’ my stories. She had her two or three of these here drawin’ books with her and I reckon this one slipped off between the back of the couch and the wall. I found hit just the other day when I was after a mouse.”

Birdie gave Elizabeth a sly look. “If you don’t care, why don’t you take hit along with you.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Reckon Ben could give hit back to that little girl— next time he’s in Asheville…a-helpin’ that friend.”

* * *

Miss Birdie, in simpler times you would have been burned for a witch. Elizabeth smiled as she loaded the quilts into her truck. Her little neighbor’s unfailing perspicacity was a constant source of amazement. She always knows what’s going on, just by sitting on her porch and paying attention…. But if only she’d gotten close enough to read the license plate on the white car….

* * *

At home, Elizabeth put the quilts on the steps up to her sewing room. It would be necessary to hand stitch hanging sleeves on each of them for the show. One more job. She opened out the crazy quilt to look once more at the flowers done by Tildy and Fanchon. I’m sure Aunt Omie said that Fanchon was the one who made the animal quilt. She even called it the Fanchon quilt. She looked again at the blue daisy and shook her head. And that one was made in…I think it was ’34. This one says ’31. Well, either Fanchon suddenly got a lot better or…maybe Aunt Omie just got it mixed up.

Putting the puzzle of the quilts aside, she changed her go-to-town clothes for a faded pair of jeans and a clean but permanently stained T-shirt, then went to the kitchen to see to the dogs’ dinners. A flurry of high-pitched barking from the front porch greeted the rattle of dog chow into the steel bowls.

“Okay, you guys.” Elizabeth came out to the porch and dealt out the three bowls of dry kibble, each topped with a little canned dog food. Molly’s was first and the elegant red hound sniffed at the dish with aristocratic hauteur before deigning to taste it. James, the barker, danced about on his stubby little legs as Elizabeth slid his dish under a low table where only he could reach it. Ursa, as usual, sprawled disinterestedly on the worn wooden planks of the porch. When Elizabeth put the third bowl in front of her, Ursa yawned deeply, her long pink tongue curling out like an anteater’s. Having thus established her indifference to the proffered cuisine, she lowered her head to the bowl and ate every morsel while still lying down.

Back in the kitchen, Elizabeth opened the refrigerator and considered. Normally, Ben ate dinner with her on Thursday nights. They used this time to discuss the business of the farm and to make plans for the coming week. But yesterday her nephew had mentioned offhandedly that he would be in Asheville tonight. Just as well— she wouldn’t bother cooking— a big salad would be fine.

Three lettuces— romaine, chartreuse buttercrunch, and deep red merlot— went into the blue pottery bowl, accompanied by a few judicious sprigs of arugula and a generous amount of feathery dill weed. Crisp sweet cucumber slices, thin purple onion slivers, a handful of little grape tomatoes, sweet red pepper, and big chunks of tandoori chicken from last night’s dinner were next, followed by crumbled goat feta. A dollop of homemade vinaigrette and her dinner was ready.

The mail was on the dining table and Elizabeth sorted through it as she ate— bills, junk, a brochure for a new magazine dedicated to the country woman. In its pages, artistically posed photos showed attractive young women in faded overalls or long billowing skirts, cradling armloads of dewy flowers or baskets piled high with sumptuous assortments of perfect vegetables. In one picture, an ethereal-looking blonde in a swirl of lavender skirt, her hair a voluptuous tangle of curls, sat in a meadow of wildflowers and reached languidly for the udder of the immaculate Jersey cow cropping daisies at her side. An antique blue and white china pitcher in the would-be milkmaid’s other hand completed the charming rural scene.

“Right!” Elizabeth said and tossed the folder into the pile of junk mail. “In the first place, she’s on the wrong side of the cow for milking; in the second place…Oh, forget it, Elizabeth. Let them have their fantasies.” She smiled grimly, remembering her own days of keeping a milk cow— the mucky barn floor; the udder, often manure-crusted, that had to be washed with warm water before milking; the cow, almost always emptying her bladder copiously halfway through the milking. She smiled again, less grimly. It had still been fun. But it had been no bed of daisies.

The sketch pad that Kyra had left at Miss Birdie’s lay there with the mail. Idly curious, Elizabeth began to leaf through it as she ate her salad. There were a number of drawings of Boz and Aidan, all beautifully executed. Why would someone with this kind of talent waste her time with something like that…that Strike on Box thing? Elizabeth sighed and studied the page before her. Boz was shown seated on a wooden chair, left ankle resting on his right knee, a sardonic smile on his face, which was turned toward the viewer. His shirt and jeans were indicated by sketchy strokes but the cowboy boots were drawn in careful detail.

The next page was a surprise. The artist had done full justice to the strong legs and buttocks of the young man who sprawled naked on what seemed to be the rumpled sheets of an unmade bed and had paid special attention to the musculature of the back. The long hair, clubbed in a ponytail, was no more than a few hasty lines, and the face, seen in partial profile, was merely hinted at, but no matter— it was definitely Ben.

“Well.” Elizabeth stared at the page. Well, what, Elizabeth? You knew he was interested in her. And just because he posed nude for her doesn’t mean diddly— this is a different generation, as Laurel is fond of reminding you.

She studied the picture again— it’s really good— what a talent she has. But, O lord— Ben!

A meticulously rendered picture of Miss Birdie, stretched out in her old recliner, was next.

The following page showed three quick studies of Pup. In one the dog was curled in a ball on his bed; in another he sat obediently, ears alert and head cocked, evidently waiting for a treat. The last sketch showed the mongrel resting his muzzle on Birdie’s comfortable lap. Just her housedress, legs, and worn slippers could be seen, but there was no question— it could have been no one but Birdie.

Elizabeth turned back to the beginning of the sketchbook, captivated by the skill of the drawings. There were many rapidly executed studies of familiar barns and houses, most done in wintry surroundings. One page was devoted to sketches of cows, another to a series of male feet. There was a lovely pen-and-ink drawing of Lily Gordon that captured her timeless aristocratic beauty while celebrating every wrinkle and line of her aged face. And there was a similar drawing, left incomplete, of a stolid-looking woman with fierce black eyes and a fringe of dark hair cut unbecomingly short above thick black eyebrows. Her severe expression was tempered by the hint of a smile playing about her thin lips.

Who is that? She looks familiar but… Elizabeth stared at the picture, trying to remember where she had seen this stern visage. No, it wasn’t coming to her. Probably just reminded her of someone.

One page in particular captured Elizabeth’s attention. It was done in pencil and incorporated large abstract forms and small, precisely drawn, seemingly unrelated images. She frowned as she puzzled over the picture— a series of arches, each containing an image: drooping white flowers, a dark rose with a bird of some sort flying up and out of it, and a pair of cowboy boots were the recognizable forms, placed seemingly at random among many abstract shapes. At the bottom were three words: RESURGAM, THE PHOENIX, and ENTELECHY. This last word was underlined three times.

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— FIFTH ENTRY

During my checkup at Prentice’s office today— everything as usual, no need to adjust the digoxin— I became absurdly annoyed when the physician’s assistant— the callow young man who performed the preliminaries of temperature, blood pressure, etc.— addressed me as “young lady” and uttered that fatuous inanity, “ninety years young”! Do you suppose, I asked him with all the haughtiness I could muster, that I am senile enough to be flattered by being called a young lady? My name is Mrs. Gordon.

Thank God that so far I have escaped many of the indignities of old age— I have seen them— the poor creatures whose minds have deserted them— they wander the halls of their nursing homes, drooling and clutching their pathetic stuffed animals. My money protects me from the worst, even if my mind were to go. I have left instructions.

There can be dignity in age, but only if age is not denied. I see so many pathetic creatures with their masklike faces and dyed hair, their absurdly youthful clothing. Some do it better than others, no doubt, but in the end, most simply look foolish. But I’m too young for gray hair, the forty-year-old wails, and promptly repairs to the beauty salon. And once the telltale gray is gone, will the time ever come for her to admit that now she’s old enough?

The Goodweather woman’s hair is graying, silver streaks in that dark braid and white at the temples. Around her eyes are the wrinkles of someone who is out of doors a great deal— or someone who laughs often. Probably both. I liked Elizabeth Goodweather.

Who was it that said the tragedy of all women is that their bodies age while their minds remain young? I think back to the young Lily Cabot, remembering the welter of feelings that assailed her that first summer at the Center. No, I am not the same, nor would I be. But still, the memory is haunting— a bittersweet pleasure to be savored one last time.

* * *

May in the mountains— the weather had warmed from the unseasonable cold of my April arrival. A song sparrow sat in the apple tree outside my window and trilled aria upon aria to lure a mate, towhees whistled their “Drink your teeeea,” and from the woods came the burbling gobble of wild turkeys and the drumming of ruffed grouse. All the trees were clad in lush new green, and Fanchon appeared at the kitchen door with a shy smile and a basket of tiny fragrant wild strawberries— for Miss Lily, special, she had said.

Miss Caro and Miss Geneva now found useful work for me, mainly in keeping the books of the Center and in writing letters to solicit new clients and supporters. Both had quickly determined that I was useless at the weaving and spinning they sought to teach the local women and so had set me to working with some of the girls to improve their reading skills. I had a small group aged fourteen to sixteen and Fanchon was among them. These were girls who, it had been determined, should be tutored and encouraged to enter the Asheville Normal School for Teachers.

They were all bright but woefully uneducated. Their schooling had been often interrupted by family needs and only a few had been able to attend the high school in Hot Springs. It was my task to improve their reading skills and introduce them to some of the classics. None had ever read a novel or a magazine or anything beyond their schoolbooks and the family Bible. Indeed, many of their families actively discouraged the very idea of reading for pleasure.

We had a varied selection of books to choose from. I began ambitiously with readings from Shakespeare and was amazed at the ease with which these untutored girls understood the antique language. (When I voiced my surprise at this, Miss Geneva pointed out that many of the mountain colloquialisms that we found so quaint were, in fact, survivals from the Elizabethan dialect.) One jolly young woman in my reading group took a particular liking to Romeo and Juliet after we read the balcony scene and begged to borrow the volume so that she could read more at home. I got to see what happens, Miss Lily, she said, clutching the book to her. I fear there’ll be trouble with the families if them two runs off together.

The next time our little group met, she told me that her father had seen her reading the play and had decreed she hadn’t ought to read such. But Daddy, she had wailed, hit’s Literature what Miss Lily is teachin us. Well, he had told her grudgingly, you can read it but you better not enjoy it.

Most of my students were delightful— lively and eager to know more of the world beyond their mountain coves. They were happiest when I would tell them something of life in the city— many of them had never been as far as Asheville and a few never even to the county seat. They were like a litter of pups, wagging and eager for attention.

Especially Tildy. She always accompanied Fanchon (her adopted sister, I had learned) to my reading group. Tildy, I must admit, was probably the brightest of the lot, but she was so pushing— and so unattractive— that I found myself pretending not to see her eager hand when I asked for volunteers to read. When she did read, it was in a fast, high-pitched nasal whine, words run together so as to cover as much ground as possible in her allotted time, her eyes always darting toward me in search of approval.

Fanchon was just the opposite— she would have to be coaxed to read, but when she did it was in a low musical tone. Somehow the mountain twang that made Tildy’s speech harsh changed on Fanchon’s lips to a sweet lilt.

She was a favorite with everyone. She sang the old ballads—“love songs” she called them, though many dealt with death and murder— in a lovely clear soprano and was quite accomplished on the five-string banjo. Indeed, a young man from “outside” had recently spent a week in Hot Springs, traveling every day to the Center to record Fanchon singing these ballads. I learned that he was the latest of the “songcatchers” who were mining the Appalachians for the old songs that had traveled from Scotland and England and Ireland to America. Marshall County was full of men and women who knew these old ballads. A little community called Sodom was said to have numerous singers, and in Hot Springs they still boasted that their own Jane Hicks Gentry had known more of the old songs than anyone in the state.

I began to notice that whenever Fanchon performed for us, Tildy would make a point of being hard at work on the wonderful quilt she was making. This quilt was the inspiration of Miss Caro, who, seeing the truly exquisite needlework Tildy was capable of, had drawn on squares of muslin pictures of the various wild animals of the mountains— opossum, raccoon, squirrel, chipmunk, turkey, deer, skunk, bobcat, groundhog, box tortoise— the list was long. And Tildy, with appliqué and embroidery, was executing the blocks for this special quilt. It had been Caro’s idea that this quilt be presented to President and Mrs. Roosevelt, thereby gaining the Center nationwide attention.

Poor ugly, eager Tildy. I can see now what a trial it must have been for her to have the lovely Fanchon as her adopted sister. The way of the world is to favor the handsome and beautiful. They are born with an advantage not unlike inherited wealth, while their plainer brothers and sisters must clamber to catch up. Even Tildy’s parents seemed to favor Fanchon. And small wonder: Tildy, with her homely face, was sour and unpleasant— awkward, except at her needlework, while Fanchon, Fanchon of the quiet charm and radiant beauty, was like a fairy child, blessed with all the graces.

I was fascinated by her from the beginning and began to imagine a wider life for her as my protégée, something even beyond the wonders of the Asheville Normal School. Voice lessons, beautiful clothing, dainty shoes for those slender feet. And travel— I would show her marvels beyond her imagining.

Let me be honest, as I have promised to be. I was in love, as besotted with Fanchon as Ben Hamilton is with my great-granddaughter. But my intentions were pure— or so I believed.

CHAPTER 14

THIS IS NOT A THREAT

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 9)

THERE WAS A BLACK CAR PARKED NEAR THE WORKSHOP when Elizabeth came down from her house early Friday morning. She was in search of Ben, hoping to talk with him and smooth over the misunderstanding— is that what it is?—that threatened to undo their usual happy working relationship. She had Kyra’s sketchbook with her, planning to give it to her nephew to return on his next trip to Asheville.

Elizabeth hesitated, then pulled in next to the strange car and got out, looking around for Ben. This is getting ridiculous, she thought as she peered into the workshop. We’re going to have to communicate better. And whose car is that anyway?

“…fuck do you think you are?” Ben’s voice, loud and furious, came from the tractor shed below the workshop. “Are you fucking threatening me, is that it? Well, you can tell your fucking boss—”

An unfamiliar voice interrupted her nephew’s angry outburst. “No, Mr. Hamilton, this is most definitely not a threat. My employer was very clear. Let’s just call it— good advice. From a friend. It could be dangerous for you to continue to see Miss Peterson— dangerous for both of you.”

The diesel engine of the tractor sputtered and caught. The green and yellow tractor roared out of the shed and headed up the road, Ben at its wheel. His jaw was set and his cap pulled low. A dark-haired, heavyset man wearing a white polo shirt, dark trousers, and sunglasses came striding toward the black car.

Catching sight of Elizabeth, he paused, his hand on the car’s door handle. “You must be Mrs. Goodweather.” It was closer to an accusation than a question. “I suggest that you encourage your hotheaded nephew to take seriously what I just told him.”

Elizabeth shook herself out of the stunned paralysis that had seemed to affect her and called out, just before the car door slammed, “Who do you work for?”

The dark-tinted window lowered with a faint hiss. The sunglasses glinted at her. “The family,” said the unsmiling lips, and the window slid shut.

The black car purred down the long driveway. At some distance behind her the scraping and clanking of the tractor’s bucket against the dirt and gravel of the road suggested that Ben was digging out the water breaks. She considered briefly, then took the sketchbook out of the jeep and put it on a table in the workshop.

The tractor was still noisily busy and Elizabeth decided to give Ben’s temper a little time to cool down. She checked the bulletin board where upcoming orders were posted, assembled her materials, and settled down at the big table to work. Dried flowers— fragrant lavender, airy baby’s breath, yellow and blue statice, and rosy-red cockscomb celosia— filled baskets on the table before her, and she settled into the task of arranging the blooms into small bunches and fixing them to a straw wreath form with long U-shaped pins. The heady smell of the lavender and the muted colors of the dried flowers made this task a sensory delight, and she lost herself in the pleasure of creation.

She was almost finished with her second wreath when she heard the tractor approaching. Hurrying to the door, she waved at Ben to stop. He cut off the motor and waited, unsmiling.

“Come in here in the shade a minute, Ben. I need to talk to you.”

Once in the cool of the workshop, he seemed to relax slightly. “I didn’t know you were down here. Did you see that guy? The one in the black car? I’ve got a real feeling that’s the one Kyra calls the nanny. And probably the one who attacked her.” He went to the tiny refrigerator in the corner, pulled out a jug of water, and drank deeply.

“I heard some of what he was saying—” Elizabeth began.

“Bastard was warning me to stay away from Kyra!” Ben pulled off his shirt and wiped his face with it. “Gave me some crap about she’s psychologically unstable and it would be best for both of us—”

“Did he say who sent him?”

Ben looked puzzled. “Well, that would be Kyra’s father, don’t you think? I mean, the guy didn’t actually say so; just ‘my employer feels’ and ‘my employer suggests’ and I assumed— well, hell, who else would it be?”

Elizabeth frowned. “You’re probably right.”

“I was getting so pissed that I was ready to deck him, thinking about what he did to Kyra, but I knew I didn’t have any proof, so I decided just to get out of there.” His smile, the first Elizabeth had seen since the Tawana incident, was slightly embarrassed. “I thought I’d go work on the water breaks— some of them have gotten so shallow they won’t carry all the water if we ever get a big rain— and, with hurricane season, we probably will.” He pulled his shirt back on. “I dug them all out deeper except for the two nearest your house. I’ll get them the first of the week. Right now I’m heading in to Asheville.”

“Ben…are you—”

“I’m going in to see Kyra. I told her I’d help her set up for the studio stroll tomorrow.”

Elizabeth turned back to her wreath making. Ben’s truck went down the road with a friendly beep of the horn as he passed the workshop. She smiled, happy that she and her nephew were back to their old easy relationship. Then she saw the sketchbook.

Shaking her head in dismay— must be that Old Timer’s—she turned back to her work.

* * *

Up at the house for lunch, Elizabeth dialed the number she had written on her hand. There were two buzzes, then a soft voice said, “Yes.”

“Kyra, this is Elizabeth Goodweather.”

“Elizabeth, hi, how are you? I feel bad that I haven’t been in touch to thank you for taking care of me out there.”

“I guess we didn’t take as good care of you as we should have…. Are you doing okay now? Has anything else happened?”

Kyra laughed. “I’m being a good girl and staying with GeeGee. Nothing’s going to happen to me while I’m there. And I’m working in my studio in the River District— getting ready for the show at the QuerY. Ben’s a big help— there’s a studio stroll tomorrow and he’s coming in this afternoon to help me hang some things.”

“That’s one reason I called,” Elizabeth admitted. “I have a sketchbook of yours that you left at Miss Birdie’s a good while back. Your cell phone number was on the cover, so I thought I’d let you know the book’s here. Ben just left, on his way in to see you, and I forgot to give it to him but we’ll get it to you as soon as possible.”

“My sketchbook?” Kyra’s voice was doubtful. “What kind of stuff was in it? I don’t remember….”

“I saw a wonderful sketch of Miss Birdie in her recliner.” Elizabeth was pleased with her Jesuitical answer. No need to mention what else I saw.

“Oh …that book.” There was a guarded quality to the girl’s voice.

“So, anyway, it’s down in the workshop and I’ll try to remind Ben to bring it in—”

“Oh, don’t worry; I’ll remind him too. I’d wondered where that sketchbook was.”

“Kyra, I need to ask you something,” Elizabeth said impulsively. “There was a man out here this morning, a man in a black car…” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, but Elizabeth persisted. “He said he was from ‘the family’ and he more or less warned Ben to stay away from you.”

“Do you think I haven’t done the same thing?” Kyra’s reply was quick and bitter. “I warned Ben that my father takes an unhealthy interest in my boyfriends— I told him that he should think about what happened to Boz. Elizabeth, I don’t want Ben hurt, but he just laughs when I say anything.”

Her voice was becoming shrill and Elizabeth broke in. “Kyra, I—” but the girl overrode her, agitation growing with each word.

“Don’t worry— I’m going away after the opening of the show at the QuerY. GeeGee knows a place where I can be away from all of this and I can do my art….” A sob interrupted the spate of words.

“Kyra, sweetie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Elizabeth, you blundering idiot— remember “emotionally fragile”? “I just wanted to ask if the guy in the black car could have been the one you call your nanny.”

A sniffle at the other end and then Kyra answered in her usual voice. “Probably. What did he look like?”

“Heavyset, in his forties, I’d say. Dark hair cut real close, sunglasses.”

“Bingo.”

* * *

The afternoon was hot and Elizabeth lingered on the porch with her after-lunch iced coffee. She had attempted to reach Phillip Hawkins but had only been able to leave a message. I want to tell him about the nanny and get his opinion— not that it would matter to Ben. He’s in deep enamoration, as the girls used to say. But is he in danger? And Phillip may be interested in Kimmie and her white SUV— but I’ll just leave out the part about my careful study of Blondie. No point embarrassing myself. Sherlock, forsooth!

Across the valley the nearest mountains were veiled in the late-summer heat haze. Far beyond, the Blue Ridge was completely obscured and the very air seemed to lie heavy on the land. But in the usual seasonal pattern, several days would go by, each one hotter and hazier than the last, till it seemed, at times, a struggle even to breathe in the thick atmosphere. Then would come the towering thunderheads, creamy billows of cloud that dropped great quantities of cooling rain, suddenly washing the air clean and revealing those far-off peaks in crystalline clarity. Those were the days when the sky was a deep clear blue and the beauty of the fields and woods and gardens beyond words.

But it’s not bad right now, Elizabeth decided, gazing with complacency down at her garden— the bright cadmium yellows of the sunflowers and black-eyed Susans complemented by the butterfly bushes’ soft blues and purples and the mauve mops of joe-pye weed. In the little fish pool below the porch, the fantailed goldfish hung almost motionless. Only the filmy orange and white veils of their tails and fins swayed in some gentle current.

As Elizabeth surveyed her domain, a thought struggled to articulate itself. It’s like a painting— a Monet or maybe a van Gogh. But it’s dynamic, changing all the time. And isn’t that part of the beauty and the challenge as well— to make a garden that will be beautiful year-round? Maybe that’s a reason to paint a landscape— to capture a place at a particular moment…and maybe eliminate the weeds.

She looked down at her little pond, noting that the lotuses whose lush blooms had been so breathtaking in July were now spreading ominously, threatening to take over the entire pool. The flowers, with their many petals of pink-tinged translucent white, had been coolly fragrant. She had showed them proudly to visitors, explaining how the Hindus used the lotus with its long stem reaching down to the mud as a symbol— beauty arising from darkness. Now, however, those large round leaves held high above the water were advancing relentlessly on the open half of the pool, and green pods, like drooping showerheads, stood ready to release their ripening seeds. If she didn’t want her goldfish pond to become a lotus swamp, something would have to be done.

Monet had gardeners tending his pond, ripping out the water lilies that would cover the surface of the water if left to their own devices. He made sure that a pleasing proportion of water showed, that the water lilies lay in artfully artless patterns. And then he painted it. I wonder if he looked at his work and thought “There, that’s how it will be for all time.”

She smiled at the thought, then, pulling off her boots, grabbed her pruning shears and pattered down the steps to the pool. As one of those grand old ladies of gardening— Vita Sackville-West? Gertrude Jekyll?— said, “Hoick ’em out!” At least it’ll be cool in the water.

* * *

She was covered in the rank pond mud and the pile of uprooted lotuses and cattails had grown to massive proportions when she heard the telephone ringing. She attempted to ignore it, secure in the knowledge that the voice mail would pick up before she even got to the steps. She pulled herself out of the little pool and picked up the filter in its bucket. It was choked with mud. It would need to be taken apart and its mesh netting sprayed clean with the hose.

The phone was ringing again. She wiped off her hands on the few remaining dry parts of her shirt and hurried for the steps. Too late; the ringing had stopped, but when she picked up, there was a voice mail from Phillip. Quickly she dialed the number.

“Hi, I was cleaning out the fish pond,” she said when he answered on the first ring. “Did you call twice?”

“Only once,” he replied. “I wondered how your painting class went. Did you make friends with the second Mrs. Peterson?”

“I sat next to her.” Jesuitical again, Elizabeth, she scolded herself. “And she was driving her husband’s car— a white SUV.”

“Interesting but not conclusive” was the reply. “We don’t want to start making assumptions.”

“How right you are,” she agreed, remembering Blondie. “Phillip, a weird thing happened this morning….” and she recounted the story of the man in the black car and the advice that wasn’t a threat.

He listened without comment, then said at last, “Tricky. Warning Ben off is just going to make him stick all the closer to that little girl. By the way, Aidan and his mother have dropped off the map entirely and his court date is coming up. It’s looking more and more like there’s not going to be sufficient evidence for a murder charge but they’ll still forfeit a big wad of money if they don’t show. On the other hand,” he went on in a thoughtful tone, “maybe they just feel safer staying out of sight till time for the hearing.

“And just to complicate things a little more,” he added with a note of satisfaction, “when I went back to what’s-her-name, Willow’s house, I asked the girl who’s taking care of the cats what kind of car Aidan was driving that last time she saw him, the same afternoon you found Kyra in the corncrib…”

Elizabeth noted that he had carefully not said “the afternoon Kyra was attacked.” “Oh, let me guess, was it a white SUV?”

The rich chuckle filled the earpiece. “Got it in one, Sherlock.”

Suddenly, inspiration struck. “Phillip, there’s a studio stroll in the River District tomorrow. Laurel’s studio will be open and Kyra’s and probably Rafiq’s. It might be a good chance to, I don’t know, hear what’s being said about Boz. We could just kind of troll— and see what we catch.”

“And maybe keep an eye on Ben?”

“That too.”

It was almost five. The sun had finally dropped behind Pinnacle Mountain and the air was cooler. Elizabeth was hauling the last of the evicted lotuses to her compost pile at the edge of the garden when she heard a car coming slowly up the road. With a rueful look at her filthy clothes, she stood and waited.

The vehicle was out of sight below the barn and it didn’t sound like Ben’s truck. Neighbors rarely visited at this time of day and it was too late for the meter reader. She wiped her dirty face on the filthy tail of her T-shirt.

The white SUV came into view on the curve below the barn. Majestically and effortlessly it negotiated the newly deepened water breaks, moving relentlessly toward her. She stood there as if hypnotized, unable to move as the big vehicle stopped by the compost pile. The window slid down and a harsh voice said, “Ms. Goodweather, I presume? Marvin Peterson. We have a problem.”

CHAPTER 15

SUGAR PIE AND THE GOOD OL’ BOY

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10)

…AND THERE I STOOD, COVERED IN MUD and pond scum, my mouth hanging open, while this very handsome, very suave silver-haired guy, in a navy blue blazer with monogrammed gold buttons, for god’s sake, is telling me that we have a problem. He’d said ‘Marvin Peterson’ but it simply did not register at first. I mean, after my phone conversation with Marvin Peterson the night Kyra’s house burned, I had a totally different picture of the guy— more…what can I say without being offensive? More nouveau riche, more…more tacky. This guy looked like a bloody British aristocrat! Or at least, my idea of one.” Elizabeth slumped back in the car seat. “I suppose if I ever met an actual British aristocrat, he’d turn out to look like one of the made men on The Sopranos.”

“So what happened?” Phillip’s eyes were fixed on the road as he pulled into the passing lane. They were on their way to the studio stroll in the River District with a planned stop at the junkyard where Boz’s body had been found. Elizabeth had driven in to Phillip’s rented house in Weaverville— the first time she’d ever seen his place, a somewhat shabby Arts and Crafts–style bungalow— and he had insisted on taking his car.

She always found it a little disconcerting being a passenger; since Sam’s death it was a rare occurrence for her and she was trying hard to relax. As Phillip slid the car into a marginal gap between two speeding eighteen-wheelers, she had to bite her lips to avoid making that sound dear to all backseat drivers: the long, slurping intake of breath between clinched teeth that said one would die, horribly mangled in a car crash, rather than give driving advice, no matter how badly needed.

“So did you invite him up to the house for tea and crumpets?” Phillip persisted, one eye on the rearview mirror.

“Not exactly; I did manage to ask if he’d like to come up to the porch, but the dogs were leaping about and I suspect he feared for his trousers. No, he stayed in his car and we had our little talk right there by the garden.”

* * *

Marvin Peterson had cut the motor and pulled on his emergency brake. “I have to be back in Asheville,” he had said, glancing at the slim watch on his wrist, “in less than an hour, so I don’t have much time. But it was important enough that I came out myself to ask for your help, Ms. Goodweather.”

“My help?” she had echoed, sounding half-witted, even to herself, and resisting the urge to lean against the spotless white vehicle. “About what?”

Peterson had pulled off his sunglasses and fixed her with a candid, blue-eyed gaze that took in the entirety of her sweaty, mud-soaked person. “I know you have my daughter’s best interests at heart. And, as I told you when we spoke earlier, I’m concerned about her mental state. The doctor who works with her was quite clear— she should not get entangled in another relationship at this point in time.”

“That’s what your guy in the black car said,” Elizabeth had countered, instantly irritated at the smug superiority of the man. “Only he made it sound like a threat.” She had begun to feel both indignant and reckless. Putting a muddy hand on the spotless car door, she leaned in closer to Peterson. The rich aroma of the car’s leather interior, coupled with the scent of subtle cologne, had only heightened her annoyance and she had heard herself sputtering, “So, Mr. Peterson, are you going to have your…your goon break Ben’s legs if he goes on seeing Kyra?”

* * *

“And then Peterson looked at me like I was a raving idiot. He got a little huffy and said he didn’t know what I was talking about— what goon? what black car? Then he said some more about Kyra’s mental state and that Ben would be safest staying away from her— for his own good. It sure sounded like a threat to me; what do you think?”

“I think Peterson’s too sharp to do anything that could be construed as actionable. He’s got a daughter with a history of mental instability—” Phillip glanced over at Elizabeth, then continued, “I checked into it: after her mother’s death, Kyra had a little time-out in an expensive private clinic up in New England. And since her boyfriend has just been murdered—”

“She told us about the clinic that afternoon you were at the farm. Remember? The day I went with you to Aunt Omie’s? But what if it’s not true, the mental thing? What if she got sent to that clinic because she suspected her father of being responsible for her mother’s death? What if that was his way to shut her up, as well as discredit everything else she ever said from then on?”

At first Phillip made no reply, but as he turned the car into the entry of Hensley’s Salvage, he nodded briefly. “There may be something in that. I guess we both need to keep open minds.”

They pulled to a stop in front of an old trailer that boasted the sign Office by its crooked metal steps. A tiny, dripping air conditioner hummed and rattled in one of the windows.

“I’d prefer not to identify myself here,” Phillip told her as he cut off the engine. “I have no authority and no right to ask any questions.” He glanced at Elizabeth and winked. “No, I’m just a good ol’ boy looking for an alternator for a ’82 Chevy Chevette and you’re my lady friend, along for the ride.”

“Along for the ride? Phillip, I was one of the witnesses when they took that car out of the crusher. I know middle-aged women are more or less invisible to young men, but don’t you think there’s just a chance ol’ Travis might remember me as the lady with the wild-looking redhead the day they found Boz?”

“You got a point, there.” He considered. “Okay, I’m the good ol’ boy looking for the alternator and my lady friend told me about what happened here and I’m curious. Can we go with that? At least it has the advantage of being partly true.”

“ ‘Merely corroborative detail intended to give artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative,’ ” Elizabeth muttered, then, seeing Hawkins’s puzzled look, added, “Gilbert and Sullivan— The Mikado.” The metal door of the trailer squeaked open and the same young man with the same greasy Caterpillar cap and, Elizabeth noted, possibly the same greasy T-shirt ambled down the steps. He sauntered around to Phillip’s open window and inquired in a disinterested drawl, “What kin I do you for?”

“Reckon I might could find me an alternator for a ’82 Chevy Chevette? The one on my mama’s car is all burnt to hell and the dealer wants an arm and a leg. And that’s just for a rebuilt one.” Phillip got out of the car and stood leaning against the door in a nonchalant attitude. Elizabeth was fascinated by how easily he had slipped into the mountain speech and manner. The summers he had spent with Aunt Omie had served him well, she thought. At any moment now, he would probably spit.

It was Travis who spat, a long stream of amber liquid. “Might could be there’s one out there. I kin show you where there’s some Chevettes.”

“Son, just point me in the direction and you can go back in the cool.”

“Can’t do it.” Travis glanced wistfully at the air conditioner. “Insurance. My daddy’d tear me a new one if I was to let you go roamin’ around on yore own.”

“Okay, then, we don’t want to rile up your daddy.” Hawkins leaned down and looked in the window. “You gone come with us, Liz?”

* * *

“Liz!” “Rile up your daddy!” The man’s having a ball with this, she thought as she trudged behind Travis and Hawkins through the rows of wrecked cars. The two men were like long-lost buddies, discussing the merits of Chevys as opposed to Fords; hunting dogs (Travis inclined to redbone hounds while Phillip favored Plotts, going on at tedious and improbable length about the exploits of Ol’ Clyde); NASCAR legends (they both agreed on the superiority of the late great Number 3, aka Dale Earnhardt); the iniquity of liability suits; and the general low-downness of lawyers.

The alternator for the mythical ’82 Chevette was found and removed from a rusting car, its rear end compressed accordion-like and its windshield marked with two spiderwebs of cracks. “Didn’t nobody walk away from this one.” Travis wrenched open the driver’s-side door and pointed to the ugly stains on the rotting upholstery. “You see some mean things in this line of work.”

Phillip peered into the car and grimaced. “Speakin’ of mean things, what about that old boy they found in your crusher? Now that beat all.”

Travis’s eyes gleamed. “You want to see the crusher? It’s just over yon, behind all them tires.”

* * *

The three of them stood looking at the boxlike structure in a reverent silence. Phillip was first to speak. “Son, I tell you what: that’s a hell of a way to die. Reckon why he got in there in the first place?”

“I reckon someone must of put him there. He had a bullet hole in the back of his head.” The young man’s reply was smug.

“You didn’t tell me that, Liz,” Hawkins reproved Elizabeth. “I guess you didn’t get that close.” He turned to Travis, who, for the first time, was looking straight at Elizabeth. “Liz was here when they found that feller.” Hawkins stepped closer and threw a burly arm around Elizabeth’s surprised shoulders. “Near ’bout made her puke, didn’t it, Sugar pie?”

Caught off-guard—“Sugar pie!”—Elizabeth forced a weak smile and said, “It was pretty awful, all right.”

Travis looked at her hard and with an immense effort of recollection said, “You’re the one was here with that redheaded hippie chick.”

“That’s Liz’s little girl and it like to worry us to death, her runnin’ around with crazy foreigners like that Ray-fiq and all that crowd the dead feller was in with.” The arm slipped down to Elizabeth’s waist and hung there. “There’s talk out in Marshall County that some of ’em was runnin’ one of them meth labs.”

“You two from Marshall?” Travis was suddenly suspicious.

“Liz has her a farm right across the hard road from where that feller in the crusher used to live.” Hawkins’s face assumed an insinuating leer and he squeezed her waist in a proprietary hug. “I just visit whenever I get the chance.”

They walked back to the trailer, Phillip solicitously keeping his arm around her. “I shouldn’t have taken her back there; she was all to hell after she come here before— like to bust out cryin’ when first she told me about it.” He leaned toward Travis to confide. “You know how women are.”

“That feller in the crusher prob’ly got what he had comin’,” Travis replied. “Way I heard it, he’d been layin’ up with some sweet thing and he was treatin’ her bad. They say her daddy was out to get him.”

He spat again, this time in the direction of the rottweiler that had just emerged from under the trailer. “But it could of been that Ray-fiq. He knows more about it than he lets on, that’s what I think.” He started up the steps. “Lemme ask Daddy what he wants fer that alternator. He’s in here watchin’ wrasslin’. Ever since he had his stroke, he can’t do much, but he’s got all the prices in his head. I try to get him to retire and go stay with my sister, but he won’t do it. This place is home to him.”

The rottweiler advanced step by cautious step, its stump of a tail wagging. Elizabeth put out her hand to be sniffed, at the same time disentangling herself from Hawkins’s arm and muttering, “You know how women are!”

He said nothing, just hummed, almost under his breath, the first few bars of “Your Cheatin’ Heart.”

Travis was back out in a few minutes, carrying a grease-smudged invoice. Hawkins paid from the fistful of wadded bills he pulled from a pocket. “Glad we caught you— I come by couple of weeks back of this and the place was closed up tight.”

“Yeah, I had me some business to take care of and I couldn’t leave Daddy here— he’s bad to try to do things he oughtn’t to. Had to take him over to my sister’s fer a few days.” Travis chuckled. “He like to had a fit; them young uns of hern kept pesterin’ him to let ’em watch cartoons when his wrasslin’ show was on. Said he just hid the remote and told ’em it was busted. Only thing is, he done hid it and then he fergot where it was. I had to buy my sister a new one ’cause couldn’t none of us find it. Son, I tell you the truth, old folks can be a pain in the butt.”

“I hear you, good buddy.” Phillip nodded in heartfelt agreement. “You’ll likely be seein’ a lot more of me; my mama aims to hang on to that car till she can’t drive no more. And I’m the one she calls when anything tears up.”

“You uns come back when you need anything,” Travis said. “Nice doin’ business with you.” He started back up the steps, then turned. “Daddy says Ray-fiq might could be one of them terrorists.” He spat again and fixed Elizabeth with a somber gaze. “Was it me, I’d keep that redheaded gal away from him.”

“That was fun.” Phillip was grinning from ear to ear as they drove away. “I was afraid for a minute that you were going to slug me when I called you Sugar pie.”

“Or at least draw myself up to my full height and say, ‘Sir, I’ll thank you to remember that my name is Mrs. Goodweather.’ ” Elizabeth smiled. “No, I was probably more surprised by the ‘Liz’— Sam’s the only one who ever called me that.”

There was a brief silence and she glanced at Phillip. “You do a great good ol’ boy impression.”

“I was pretty convincing, if I do say so. I’ll probably come back another day and spend a little more time with Travis— maybe Mama’s Chevette’ll need something that takes more time to get at. I might bring along a six-pack and ask a few more questions.”

“About Rafiq being a terrorist?” Elizabeth frowned at Hawkins. “Surely you don’t think…?”

“Nah, what I think is Travis’s daddy probably watches too much television. But we did learn one interesting thing….” He waited a beat.

“I wondered about that,” Elizabeth answered the unspoken challenge. “He knew about the bullet hole!”

“Yep, and—”

“And there’s been nothing in the news about how Boz actually died…has there? Just that he was presumably dead before he was put in the car. And the police were the ones who removed the body and they had the area cordoned off…. So how did Travis know there was a bullet hole?”

CHAPTER 16

STROLLING AND TROLLING

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10)

THE NARROW STREETS AND REHABILITATED BUILDINGS of the River District were teeming with visitors. Art lovers, tourists, and the idly curious were drawn to the twice-yearly studio stroll, and their cars crowded the parking area nearest The Wedge. Just as Elizabeth and Phillip had resigned themselves to continuing on to one of the outer lots, a champagne-colored Lexus driven by a harried-looking man with four chattering women as passengers pulled out of a shady parking spot near the oddly shaped building where Laurel had her studio.

“I thought we’d go up and see Laurel first, and find out where Rafiq’s studio is. And then go to Kyra’s studio; Ben said he’d get some sandwiches and we could eat there,” Elizabeth told Phillip as they made their way past an impromptu jam session on the sidewalk. An upright bass plucked by a bespectacled man in a beret was flanked by two rapt drummers and a thin teenage girl who was tormenting a washboard into a syncopated rasp.

The narrow doorway was blocked by a tall, handsome African-American man with thick dreadlocks almost to his waist. Dark red dancer’s tights were his only clothing. His bare chest glistened with oil and he gesticulated wildly as he spoke to a statuesque blonde wearing gold and purple belly-dancer garb. “I cannot work under those conditions. I told Sorayae that if the fire dancers—” He broke off his tirade and courteously moved aside, allowing Elizabeth and Phillip to pass.

“Laurel’s studio is upstairs,” Elizabeth explained, seeing Phillip gazing curiously into an open studio to his left. A demure woman with white hair and a comfortable figure draped in a pale blue caftan was standing by a twice life-size painting of a nude, evidently herself. The gallery space was crowded with people, and a frowning woman in an immaculate linen sundress had just asked about a large, seemingly abstract piece that was a welter of dripping reds, pinks, and purples. “No, dear, it’s a vagina,” Elizabeth heard as she started up the staircase.

A noisy crowd of studio strollers was descending in a clatter of clogs and chitchat. Elizabeth and Phillip flattened themselves against the peeling paint of the stair wall till the group had passed. “…that tall redhead with those awful dreadlocks,” a lean middle-aged woman with jet-black hair pulled back in a neat ponytail was saying. “She’s a friend of Kyra Peterson’s. I heard she knew The 3 very well and Carter told me…” Whatever Carter had told the woman was lost to hearing as the group went out the door.

“I had a feeling that The 3 might be a big topic today,” Elizabeth told Phillip as they reached the top of the stairs. “Laurel said the rumors just keep flying.”

“Good reason for us to be here, then. Might find some new angle on this mess.” Phillip looked around at the art-bedecked walls, shook his head, breathed deeply, then followed Elizabeth down the hall.

The interior of The Wedge was dim, mazelike, and claustrophobically hot. Clusters of sightseers wandered through the building, from studio to studio, clutching maps of the District and gazing, often without comprehension, at the works on display. Narrow hallways had been pressed into service as galleries; progress toward Laurel’s space was slow.

Hawkins paused at a grouping of photographs: an assortment of life-size faces, all of which, Elizabeth sincerely hoped, had been digitally altered. Eyebrows grew to extravagant lengths; a tongue, riddled with ovoid holes, stretched up to touch the end of a nose, the nostrils of which were delicately scalloped; a mouth gaped to reveal tiny stalactites of pink flesh hanging from the hard palate. Below the faces were photographs of feet. One had toes the length of fingers; another sported toenails grown into twisted talons; a third showed a pair of feet, seemingly joined at the heels and transmogrified into a fluke.

“What the hell’s the point of all this?” Phillip murmured close to her ear. “Can you imagine hanging something like this in your house?”

Elizabeth averted her eyes from a photograph in which the facial features had been morphed into genitals. “You know, there’s a phrase, ‘épater les bourgeois’—I’m probably not saying it right— but I think that’s the point: to shock the ordinary person.”

“I get it.” Phillip gave the photographs a last disparaging look. “If you can’t be good, then be outrageous.”

They followed the sound of pulsating reggae to Laurel’s studio, a long room at the back of the building. A window fan provided some respite against the suffocating heat and an orange ice chest bore the sign Bottled Water—$1. Three women were examining the large multimedia pieces that leaned against one wall; a fourth was writing a check, evidently for the small collage that Laurel was holding. Catching sight of her mother and Phillip, she grinned triumphantly, then returned her attention to the buyer. “Yes, all the illustrations and printed material are from fifties-era magazines. That’s right; those are prizes from Cracker Jack boxes.”

The collage was soon wrapped and handed over to its purchaser. The four women left and Laurel bounced over to hug her mother. “Thanks for coming, Mum. You too, Phillip. I didn’t know you were interested in art.”

“Oh…ah…sure I am.” Hawkins was peering closely at one of Laurel’s larger pieces— a door-sized panel covered with some plasterlike substance that had been deeply textured before being painted. Faded black-and-white photos, enlarged to the point of graininess and hand-tinted, as well as odd bits of disassembled kitchen implements were embedded in the surface. A smiling woman labeled “Mom,” wearing a neat shirtwaist dress, pearls, high heels, and a frilly apron, peered out from behind a sieve. Above her, “Dad,” a handsome man with pipe and slippers, sat in a plaid easy chair, reading the newspaper, sadly oblivious to the shrimp deveiner poised to strike him between the eyes. Other groupings showed various members of the idealized nuclear family— Sis, Buddy, Baby Bitsy, Granny, Pops, Sparky, and Fluffy— all in peril of being mashed, gutted, julienned, tenderized, grated, or otherwise harshly treated by the contents of their kitchen drawers.

“It’s called Kitschen Kin— A Nightmare.” Laurel moved to Phillip’s side. She studied her work appraisingly. “Of course, this sort of thing’s been done to death, but I got a great deal on a boxful of old kitchen gadgets at the flea market, and the whole piece just kind of put itself together.” She fixed Phillip with an intense gaze. “What do you think?”

Phillip looked alarmed. “Well…you’re certainly creative, Laurel. I…ah…I think it’s very…ah…creative.”

The serious set of Laurel’s face dissolved into an enchanting grin. “Hey, no biggie. It’s really okay if you don’t like it. I mean, the art that my generation is making doesn’t always suit the stereotypes that your—”

A husky voice with a British accent interrupted her. “Laurel, my angel, it’s hot as a bloody crotch down in my studio. If I could just stand in front of your fan for half a tick.” A tall, rawboned woman with thick makeup and a hairdo in the manner of Dolly Parton paused dramatically in the doorway, then made for the window. She stood in front of the fan and lifted the front of her calf-length flowered skirt. “And tights— what was I thinking on a day like this?”

“Don’t mind us,” Laurel said to her visitor’s back. “Mum, this is Jess. Jess does really outrageous glass pieces— mostly slumping and fusing. Jess, this is my mother, Elizabeth, and her…her friend Phillip.”

“Lovely to meet you both.” Jess didn’t turn but continued to air herself in front of the fan. “I’m about to slump and fuse myself.” The fluttering skirt billowed around legs that Elizabeth suddenly noticed were exceedingly muscular. And quite hairy under the pantyhose. And the high heels, they’re huge. What size would those be?

At last the skirt was lowered and Jess turned to smile at Elizabeth and Phillip. “One must suffer for one’s art, you know. When Grayson Perry went from being just another potter to the darling of the British art world— you know he got the Turner a few years ago— all because he wore frilly little girl dresses and called himself Claire, well, I decided to have a go at my inner Jessica.”

As Jess spoke, Elizabeth became aware first of the faint shadow along the jawline, imperfectly masked by makeup, and then of the Adam’s apple that nothing could hide.

“Of course, Grayson really is a tranny. He gets a kick out of wearing all that gear, but it’s nothing but aggro to me.” Jess tugged at a bra strap and went on. “The bloody thing is, people will pay almost anything for Jessica’s glass, so I can’t afford to quit dressing up like a raving nutter. Places that would have booted Jess out the door a few years ago are on their bloody knees begging to give Jessica shows.”

From down the hall came a shrill whistle. “Bugger! That’s my wife. Bloody reporter scheduled an interview and she’s letting me know he’s arrived. Charming to meet you people; Laurel, you’ve saved my life.” And Jess was gone with a floral swirl and a castanet-like tapping of high heels.

“He’s a trip,” Laurel said, looking out the door after the vanished glass artist. “And his wife’s amazing. She’s the one who thought up the cross-dressing thing. She’s American and she convinced him to leave London and come over here. She thought they should go straight to New York but he said he wanted to try out the Jessica thing somewhere small. He said that he wanted to be comfortable in drag before hitting New York.”

“So, it’s all just a gimmick?” Elizabeth moved in front of the fan. Phillip was lost in contemplation of another of Laurel’s large works. This one involved bits of string that appeared to have been hurled at the wet canvas, much as one tosses a strand of pasta at a wall to test for doneness. Indeed, the title Al Dente suggested that this was the artist’s inspiration.

“A gimmick? Oh, absolutely. Jess is a terrific artist but there’re a lot of terrific artists out there. You have to do something to get noticed, one way or another.” Laurel opened the cooler, extracted three plastic bottles of water, and handed them round. “Compliments of the house.”

“So, Laur, how’s it going? I saw you just sold a collage.”

“So-so. A few small pieces and there’s this one guy who I’m pretty sure is going to take the kitchen piece— he wants to hang it in a restaurant he’s opening. And I’m doing great with the bottled water.”

“We were thinking of going by Kyra’s studio. And your friend Rafiq— didn’t you tell me he has a place here in this building?”

“Oh yeah, you don’t want to miss that.” Laurel pulled a brightly colored pamphlet from a stack on the windowsill. “This is a map of the River District and all the studios are shown. But you probably ought to visit Rafiq’s right away. He was up here early this morning before the stroll started, and he’d already started drinking.”

Phillip swigged down the last of the water and tossed his bottle into a bin marked for recycling. “If what you said about gimmicks is true, Rafiq must be doing pretty well.”

“That’s the problem,” Laurel said. “Almost all his stuff has sold. His show’s a huge success…but for the wrong reason. That’s why he’s drinking so much.”

* * *

Rafiq was, indeed, well on his way to becoming a spectacular drunk. His voice, slurred and high-pitched with anger, could be heard as they approached his studio on the ground floor of The Wedge: a huge room with giant metal overhead doors that were open to a loading dock. The cavernous space was filled with people clustered around the eleven rectangular crumples of steel and chrome that were the centerpiece of Rafiq’s exhibit. On the corrugated metal walls hung abstract pieces composed of a miscellany of metal parts welded into strangely suggestive forms.

“…no, no, no, the ‘death piece’ as you name it is not here! I tell you again, it was no good. Was never art! I have telled you. And then police take it apart and now is evidence! Vultures! What do you want? You want art or you want blood?”

The dark eyes scanned the eager listeners with a contemptuous gaze. Rafiq brought a half-full Stolichnaya bottle to his lips, threw back his head, and drank. Then he elbowed his way through the throng, moving unsteadily toward a dilapidated old purple sofa at the back of the studio. As he passed Phillip and Elizabeth he paused, then looked closely at Elizabeth.

“’Allo, Laurel’s mother.” He stood there, swaying slightly, then said, “You come sit. We talk.”

Elizabeth shot a quick glance at Phillip, then followed the staggering artist. Phillip ambled after them. Rafiq collapsed onto the tattered middle cushion of the sofa, then patted the cushions on either side of him, sending up small clouds of dust. “Laurel’s mother. Laurel’s mother’s boyfriend. You sit. We talk.”

They sat. Rafiq thrust the vodka at Elizabeth. “Drink!”

Taking the bottle, she began to lift it to her lips, but as Rafiq turned to Phillip she hastily set it down on the bare concrete floor beside the sofa.

Rafiq was glaring at Phillip. “So, you are policeman? You come to arrest me?”

“He’s not a policeman,” Elizabeth objected. “Who told you that? He used to be one but now he’s a teacher.”

Rafiq turned back to stare at her with mournful eyes. “It was Laurel tell me that, Laurel’s mother. Do you know I love Laurel? So beautiful, so brave…” His voice trailed off and his eyes drifted shut. His head lolled back. “I see her this morning and tell her I am at an end with it. All the questions, all the fools who want to know why I kill Boz. I tell them I don’t like Boz but I am artist— I don’t ruin my work to kill termite like him.”

Rafiq turned his head toward Elizabeth but did not open his eyes. “That piece, the one you and Laurel come to see, that was final piece in Zodiac series.” He flipped an unenthusiastic hand in the direction of the eleven tangles of metal. “Would have been my finest work. But now…” He made an unpleasant sound in the back of his throat. “Now is incomplete. No Sagittarius.”

“But it looks like you’re getting a lot of attention. Are—” Elizabeth hesitated, not liking to inquire about the financial success of his show.

Phillip had no such inhibitions. “I noticed little red dots on most of your stuff,” he said. “That means it’s all sold, right?”

“Most sold before show.” Rafiq’s voice was disdainful. “These people who buy— they know nothing. They don’t care am I good or no good. They just buy because of Boz.”

Slowly, drunkenly, the story emerged. Rafiq, who seemed to be susceptible to younger women, had been in love with Kyra. “So frail, so helpless. I would have take care of her but first she go with Aidan, then with Boz. She still come see me sometimes; help with casting charts for the cars. But I am just like oncle, ‘Oncle Raf,’ she call me. I warn her Boz no good; he is selling crank but she don’t believe me. And that other one— Aidan— what kind of man to share his woman that way?”

The artist’s head rolled toward Phillip as he muttered, “That termite Boz is good he’s gone. Kyra is better without him. You going to arrest me?” The brown eyes drifted shut once more and Rafiq sank into a noisy, snoring slumber.

CHAPTER 17

AT THE CANDLESTATION

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10)

THEY LEFT THE COMATOSE RAFIQ SPRAWLED ON the sofa and emerged blinking into the sunlight. Elizabeth fished her sunglasses out of her shoulder bag. “Let me look at this map Laurel gave us. I think it’s too far to walk to the place where Kyra has her studio.”

Hawkins wandered to the end of the loading dock while Elizabeth tried to orient herself in relation to the map. When she had figured out which way they needed to go, she looked up to see Phillip studying the unusual fence at the end of the building. It stretched seven feet high and was composed of various iron and steel objects welded together to create a functional if eccentric barrier. Grates and grilles, pulley wheels, solid metal circles that Elizabeth recognized as parts of a disk harrow, the side of a shopping cart, and any number of forms that seemed once to have been parts of some sort of machinery— all had been shaped into the fence that ran along a steep, narrow flight of crumbling concrete steps up the side of The Wedge. Just beyond the fence a wasteland of weeds stretched beneath the soaring concrete supports of the Riverlink Bridge— a busy highway spanning the French Broad River as well as Riverside Drive and the railroad tracks. Squalid refuse seemed to suggest that the area under the bridge was frequented by some of Asheville’s homeless people.

“This fence is pretty cool,” Phillip said as Elizabeth came to join him. “Reminds me of stuff I’ve seen people out in the country do— Aunt Omie has a garden gate her neighbor made out of the headboard of an old iron bed. And the neighbor down the road has a fancy apparatus in the yard made from the tines of an old hay rake. It looks kind of like a giant umbrella without cloth, and it’s got baskets full of pink and red and orange flowers hanging from each tine.”

“I’ve seen one of those. Miss Birdie’s husband used to make them.” She smiled at the memory. “When Sam and I first moved to the farm, Luther was still alive. He had his own little forge under a big beech tree and he never threw away any metal stuff that might come in handy. He mostly just repaired his farm equipment but he made those flower hangers and he used to make really nice knives from old circular saw blades.” She gave the steep steps along the side of the building a dubious look. “Okay, onward and upward— to the Candlestation!”

* * *

“What did you think of all that stuff Rafiq was saying? Was any of it reliable or was it just the vodka talking?” Elizabeth closed her eyes and leaned back. The air-conditioning had finally cooled off the car interior, and the blower could be cut back to allow for conversation. They drove slowly down Lyman Street, savoring the cold air.

Phillip considered before answering. “Mostly the vodka, I’d say. The police looked into Rafiq pretty thoroughly. They decided that they had a better case against Aidan.”

“Well, obviously, since it was Aidan they arrested.” Elizabeth turned the vent to blow directly at her face. “That’s it, up here on the left with the yellow flag. Could we just park and keep the AC going till I quit sweating?”

“ ‘Horses sweat; men perspire; ladies glow.’ ” Hawkins grinned at her as he pulled into a parking place. “Sandy used to tell Janie that.”

“As my mother told my sister and me. And her mother told her. But it’s been a long time since I’ve felt ladylike.” Elizabeth wiped her face with a bandana from her shoulder bag. “Phillip, all that stuff Rafiq was saying about being in love with Kyra and hating Boz…couldn’t that have been a motive? Did Rafiq have an alibi for the time of death?”

“Remember, he also said he was in love with Laurel. But about the alibi…According to Hank— you know, my friend in the department— one of Rafiq’s pals was with him the night of the murder and they both got to drinking. The friend swears that Rafiq passed out but he fell asleep. Said he slept pretty late and the next morning Rafiq was still passed out.”

“But Rafiq could have been faking it and left while the other guy was asleep and got back before he woke up.”

“Possible, but—”

“On the other hand, Rafiq said Boz was dealing crank. That’s methamphetamine, isn’t it? And you said there was some rumor that your good buddy, ol’ Travis back there, was involved with a meth lab. And Carter Dixon said—”

“Yeah, I don’t think there’s any doubt that Boz had some dealings with a meth lab. Hank said that if Boz hadn’t turned up dead, he would probably have been arrested soon. Evidently they have the lab under surveillance, hoping to identify all the manufacturers and distributors.”

“What about your buddy Travis?”

“They’re not sure. They think the junkyard’s used for distribution but it may be happening without Travis’s knowledge. That’s part of why they haven’t made a bust yet— waiting to see if they can get something on Travis.”

There was a tap on the window and Elizabeth turned to see Ben, leaning down and grinning knowingly. Somewhat reluctantly, she climbed out of the car into the dusty heat of the parking lot.

“…heading out to pick up some sandwiches but I’ll be back in a few,” Ben was saying. He pointed to a set of skeletal iron steps that snaked up to a blue-painted door on the second story. “The quickest way to the studio is up that fire escape. It’s kind of our personal entrance. Kyra’s just inside the door waiting to show you the way. You’ll need a guide; the place is like a maze.” He turned to go, then stopped. “By the way, Aunt E, I forgot to pick up that sketchbook of Kyra’s. Did you bring it with you, by any chance?”

“Sorry, Ben. I left it for you in the workshop and forgot to check to see if you’d gotten it.”

Her nephew frowned. “Well, hell. She’s been kinda bugging me about it.” He brightened. “I’ll just have to come back in tomorrow and bring it to her then, I guess.”

The fire escape rattled unnervingly as they climbed it. “I never have liked these things,” muttered Elizabeth. “Not since fire drills back in grammar school.”

“Maybe there’s another way up—” Phillip eyed the rust-covered handrail. Several of the bolts that held it to the side of the building were missing. “Sure doesn’t look like this thing gets much use.”

The blue door swung open and Kyra smiled down at them. “Elizabeth! And Phillip! I’ve been waiting for you.” She met them, hands outstretched, as they reached the landing at the top. Though little more than a week had passed since her hair had been shorn, a fine golden down covered her scalp. The black clothing that she had worn as one of The 3 was gone, and she wore a very short dress comprised of a white satin slip with a floating transparent overlay of the palest apricot. Her eyes seemed a deeper green; her previously pallid complexion showed hints of gold. The nose ring was gone, replaced by a tiny emerald stud. Only the tattoos were the same. And the eyelashes, thought Elizabeth, watching Kyra gazing up at Phillip as she clasped his hand in both of hers.

“I’m so glad you came. My studio is back this way.” She seemed to have forgotten to let go of Phillip, and she tugged him along after her through narrow hallways and strange open spaces.

The Candlestation, according to the map Elizabeth had perused on the way over, took its name from one of the businesses it housed. Dating from the final years of the nineteenth century, when it had been built as a tannery, it was actually a pair of buildings, one in front of the other, joined by a kind of enclosed bridge. As she followed along after Kyra and Phillip, Elizabeth had a quick impression of small studios, one after another, giving way to dark hallways and crumbling walls.

At one point they passed through a large open area where rubber mats and traffic cones seemed to define a course of some kind and the words “…obedience training…lots of dogs…” drifted back to her as she hurried to keep up.

At last they arrived at a glossy red door. Kyra stopped and gestured down the hall. “There are a few more studios back here: a potter and a wreath maker— you’d enjoy seeing her stuff, Elizabeth. And there’s a community kitchen down at that end with a pay phone and a bathroom. But the studios on either side of me are empty right now, so I lock the door when I leave.” She twirled the dial on the combination lock that secured a shiny new hasp.

The studio was a long narrow room. All the walls had been recently painted a severe white, and the old wooden floors seemed to have received several coats of varnish. The half of the room that the door opened into was given over to display of framed drawings, paintings, and mixed-media pieces. A table draped with a piece of heavy old celadon-green brocade held a pile of brochures and a tall cut-glass vase filled with roses of every hue. Beside the door a VCR sat atop a television showing scenes from the show at the Museum of Art. Elizabeth started as Boz’s big, acne-pitted face filled the screen, mugging for the video camera.

Kyra extended an arm and made a sweeping gesture. “Ben helped with all the painting and varnishing. I couldn’t have been ready for the stroll if he hadn’t come in almost every night. And that reminds me, Elizabeth—” The delicate face, shockingly beautiful, the eyes seeming larger than ever, smiled up at her. “Did you remember to bring my sketchbook? Ben’s just hopeless. I told him I really needed it—”

“Oh, Kyra, I’m hopeless too. I meant to check the shop to see if he’d gotten it, but I was running late and drove right by without thinking about it.”

The angelic smile disappeared and Kyra turned away. Her voice was brittle. “It’s okay. I had just—” She broke off on seeing two women enter the studio.

“Kyra honey, I love your hair!” squealed the taller of the two, a lean, tanned woman in a linen shift, the probable price of which, Elizabeth decided, meant that its color would be described as aubergine rather than muddy purple. The tall woman leaned down to kiss the air just beyond Kyra’s ear. “It’s charming. I just wish I dared—”

“Kyra!” The second woman, a plump, deep-bosomed little person with shaggy, streaked blonde hair, grasped Kyra’s hand. “Darlin’, how are you doin’? We’ve all been so worried about you—”

“I just couldn’t get a moment to speak to you at the performance the other night,” the taller woman broke in. “You know the girls were all there, all of your mother’s friends. We’re just so proud of you and how you’ve taken hold after losing her and now you’re making a name for yourself with your art. I told Cameron, it just doesn’t seem right for one little person to suffer so much. And listen, honey, I convinced him to buy some of the photographs from Strike on Box. I know they’re going to be just wonderful. I heard how you switched the cameras before the finale and I told Cameron, those pictures are going to be historic. We’ll need ten or twelve, I think, depending on the size. We’re having the house redone and I told Cameron some nice black-and-white photographs would be perfect for the library. Our designer is covering all the books in shiny red paper and lacquering the walls and woodwork Prussian blue—”

She paused, looking troubled. “Now, honey, are you sure you’re going to be all right? Are you still going to have the show? With one of your partners gone and the other—”

“Hush now, Harrison!” The plump woman still held Kyra’s hand and beamed at her. “Kyra’s goin’ to be fine. I just know it.” She leaned in to hug the young woman, shooting her friend a meaningful look as she did so. “I heard you were stayin’ with Miss Lily. And your faithful Reba’s there too! We saw her in the parkin’ lot— she said she’d brought you some of Miss Lily’s roses. I’ll bet those two are tickled to death to have you there. Now you just stay put and let them spoil you for a while. You’re goin’ to be just fine.”

Kyra skillfully disentangled herself from the older woman’s embrace and motioned to the studio walls. “I am going to be fine— see, these are all things I’ve done on my own. And yes, there will be a show at the QuerY. Carter’s making it a kind of tribute to The 3, with photos and videos from Strike on Box. But it’ll also be the beginning of my solo career, and Carter wants to devote a major section of the show to just my work.”

The limpid green eyes widened and Kyra turned aside for a moment. She passed her hand over her face and turned back to her mother’s friends. “Don’t you see? I have to keep moving forward. Boz and Aidan were a part of my life and my art, but I can’t stay in the past. Not now, not ever. Carter thinks that my best work may be ahead of me and I—” Her voice faltered and again she turned aside.

“But I heard that Carter was in some kind of trouble and might have to close the gallery. I told Cameron—”

The plump woman jabbed her friend’s side with a vicious elbow. “Harrison, that’s just wild gossip. There’s probably nothin’ to it.”

Elizabeth and Phillip had moved to the far end of the studio when the two women entered and were attempting to ignore the conversation by studying the various half-finished works propped against the walls or lying on tables.

Elizabeth, a lifelong bibliophile, was drawn immediately to a small crate of books. Art books, for the most part, and several titles on healing herbs that she recognized from her own collection. She smiled: Kyra was true to form for her sex and generation, refusing to abandon the care of her health to mere doctors. If only these amateur “wise women” would realize how dangerous some of the herbs can be.

During the few days she had spent at the farm, Kyra had quizzed Elizabeth relentlessly about the medicinal uses of the various herbs and plants. “Reba, my old nurse, grew up in Marshall County and she knows all about what different plants are good for. She said that her mamaw was a witchy woman and taught her all the old ways.” Elizabeth had carefully explained that she dealt in the culinary herbs and that, though she was aware of the potential uses of the many medicinal herbs that grew on her farm, she was cautious about using them.

Phillip seemed to be engrossed in a piece that involved torn bits of pencil drawings and personal letters assembled jigsaw-style on a canvas and highlighted with splashes of transparent glazes in shades of red and umber. He was, however, Elizabeth noticed with some amusement, listening intently.

As was she. But now the ladies were studying the works for sale at their end of the studio and demanding detailed explanations of each one from the artist. The plump woman had her checkbook in hand and was avidly scrutinizing a painting of an elflike child emerging from a partially opened white rose.

Roses figured heavily in Kyra’s work. Painted almost photo-realistically in some pieces, drawn in pencil, rendered in ink with watercolor washes— the medium changed but the subject matter did not. Elizabeth moved quietly among the various pieces, noting the intensity and skill that the young woman brought to her art.

One particularly large piece in the work area was on a heavy easel, facing away from the rest of the studio. Curious, Elizabeth edged around it to have a look. At once there was a feeling of familiarity— the rose, of course, was there. But there were other forms taking shape that seemed—

“Elizabeth, if you and Phillip don’t mind, I really prefer not to have my work seen till it’s completed.”

The two friends had departed, though Harrison’s gabble could still be heard as they disappeared into the gloomy hallway. “…and I told Cameron…”

Kyra came toward them, her sweet smile softening the steely edge of her words. “Silly, I know, but—”

Feeling absurdly guilty, as though she’d been caught peeping through a keyhole, Elizabeth felt her face flush as she tried to move out of the corner from behind the heavy easel. “I’m sorry, Kyra. I just got carried away, looking at all your beautiful pieces. You do so many different things— what’s your favorite? The paint? Mixed media? Drawing?” Who’s gabbling now? she thought. “You do them all so well.”

“Thank you, Elizabeth.” Kyra’s voice was cool as she shepherded them back to the other end of the studio. Phillip, a half-smile on his face, said nothing but moved to the wall to examine the works for sale. “I think I would say that my favorite is whatever I’m working on at the moment.”

She turned to Phillip. “Did you hear what they said about Carter? Just this morning a friend who has a studio in the Cotton Mill told me there’s a rumor that Carter has been using the QuerY for some kind of illegal stuff and he could be arrested.” The eyelashes came into play again. “Well, of course I called Carter and asked him— here I’ve been doing all this work to get ready for the show. So I felt I had to make sure there was even going to be a show.”

“And what did Dixon say?” asked Phillip.

“He just laughed and said not to worry: there’d been worse rumors about him before this and that the show was definitely happening.”

“And there are definitely sandwiches.” Ben came through the door brandishing a bulging paper bag. He grimaced. “Well, hell, I forgot to get us something to drink.”

“Oh, Ben, can’t you remember anything?” Again, Kyra’s smile was at odds with the tone of her voice, but she patted Ben on the arm and slipped past him out the door. “I’ll just run down the hall; I left some mineral water in the refrigerator in the kitchen.” She looked back at Elizabeth and Phillip. “If no one’s ‘borrowed’ it.”

“She’s still pissed I forgot that sketchbook.” Ben laid out the wrapped sandwiches on a table near the window. He pulled a wooden stool over to join the three folding lawn chairs that clustered around the table. “Hell, she hadn’t even missed it till you found it. Then that creepy housekeeper came by a while ago with those roses and that fancy tablecloth and had to start asking about it. Seems there’s a picture of Reba in that sketchbook and she’s hot to see it finished.”

He dug some rumpled paper napkins out of the bag. “The sandwiches are all the same— Greek salad wraps with lots of feta and kalamata olives.” He finished his preparations and stood looking at the vase of roses. “You know, it’s a weird thing about the housekeeper. It’s ‘Miss Kyra’ this and ‘Miss Kyra’ that, but I get the feeling that as far as Kyra’s concerned, Reba is still the grown-up in charge.” He shook his head. “Which doesn’t make any sense, when you look at the way Kyra stands up to her dad. But she’s always calling and checking in with Reba and then there’re these long whispery conversations— lots of ‘yes, Reba,’ and ‘I will, Reba’— that kind of crap. I said something about it to Kyra but she just laughed.”

He perched on the stool, then frowned and looked toward the door. “What’s taking her so long? The kitchen’s just a few doors down—”

Suddenly Kyra appeared, clutching two bottles of mineral water. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing hard.

Ben jumped up. “Kyra, are you okay?” He took the bottles from her. “What happened?”

“He was out there.” Ben wrapped his arms around her and she continued, her voice muffled against his chest. “I looked out the kitchen window and saw this big guy going down the fire escape. He seemed kind of familiar, so I watched to see if I could tell who it was. He got to the bottom of the steps and stood there just looking around. Then when he went to his car I recognized him. My nanny, the one who’s always there.” Her voice rose. “I can’t stand it anymore, being watched like this all the time.”

She broke loose from Ben at the sound of an approaching group of strollers. For a moment she looked wild and distraught, then she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and, opening her eyes again, told them, “I’ll be fine. I saw him drive off anyway.” She looked at the table. “Maybe having lunch here wasn’t such a good idea— I didn’t think there’d be so many people—”

“You’re absolutely right, Kyra.” Elizabeth gathered up Phillip with a glance. “We’ll take our sandwiches and find a shady place somewhere outside. Ben, you’ll be here, won’t you, in case…”

A noisy group of middle-aged women crowded into the studio. Several greeted Kyra effusively and began to bombard her with questions. Elizabeth and Phillip quietly made for the door, edging through the throng and mouthing a silent goodbye to Kyra and Ben.

“Elizabeth,” Kyra called after them, “please be sure to remind Ben about the sketchbook tomorrow. I promised Reba.”

* * *

Trying to find their way back to the fire escape, they found themselves passing by a studio that was devoted to soft sculpture. Nightmarish babies the size of linebackers lounged and leered on either side of the open door. Just inside, on a sofa, reposed three almost life-sized dolls, made to represent voluptuous women. Naked, voluptuous women. Actually, beyond voluptuous, was Elizabeth’s considered opinion. “Morbidly obese” are the words that spring to mind. Their faces were painted as if heavily made-up and they were adorned with wigs in garish neon colors.

“We took the wrong turn back there.” Elizabeth looked away from the sluglike creatures on the sofa. “We should have passed that freight elevator by now.”

“Someone’s taken a wrong turn, all right. I think it could be the art schools.” Phillip was still muttering as they came to the open door that led to the old fire escape.

“It looks worse going down.” Elizabeth stepped out onto the landing, averting her eyes from the cracked concrete pavement below. “But I refuse to be a wimp. I came up this thing and I can certainly go back down.” With an assumed air of bravado, she grabbed the handrail and started down the rusty iron steps. There was a grating sound and the handrail gave way. Elizabeth’s foot slipped on the metal step and she pitched forward.

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL— SIXTH ENTRY

Kyra seems to be reinventing herself— again— possibly the influence of that handsome young man who follows her around so like a persistent puppy. The ugly black hair is gone and she resembles an angelic waif. I had thought that she would wear a scarf or a hat till her hair grew a few inches but not she! I’m not embarrassed, GeeGee, she said with a defiant thrust of her chin that brought back so many memories.

Reba too is transformed with joy at having Kyra here, though her ugly black hair is unchanged. For as long as I can remember, ever since she first came to Marvin and Rose, her hair has been an uncompromising jet-black. Home-dyed, of course— that unpleasant, unnatural look.

She was still a young woman when she first appeared on the doorstep, saying that she’d heard we needed help with a baby. And why we trusted her— no references, no training— I still wonder at it. But the fact is that neither the uniformed nurse nor the English nanny from the expensive agency had been able to soothe the wailing infant, and my poor little Rose was in a state of prostration. (Amanda, of course, had not bothered to come down from Connecticut. A cesarean section for her champion bitch took precedence over her own daughter’s accouchement.) And so, when Reba marched in the door, put out her arms, andsaid, Give me that young un, I ( for I had been futilely endeavoring to comfort my longed-for great-granddaughter) simply handed the squirming, fretting Kyra over to this strange mountain woman. She took her and, I think, has never let her go.

She proved to have a way with the child that was almost magical. When Kyra outgrew the need for a nurse, Reba stayed on as a maid and later as a housekeeper. And always as a confidante, mentor, watchdog for Kyra. It was only Rose’s death and Marvin’s remarriage that brought Reba to me. I’ll not stay another minute in that house, she told me, when, once again, like some Appalachian Mary Poppins, she made her sudden appearance at my door. And, once again, I handed her what she wanted.

Reba has made an excellent housekeeper and, though she is somewhat unpolished, I enjoy hearing the mountain speech. And she is fiercely loyal. I believe that she would have come here in any capacity whatsoever just for the chance of seeing Kyra from time to time. I hear her in Kyra’s room often, the two of them chattering away, Reba making pronouncements in that flat, uncompromising voice; Kyra murmuring sweetly in assent, humoring her old nurse.

I believe that this temporary return to childhood has not been unwelcome to Kyra. Her foray into the independent life of the artist has been fraught with disaster. Yes, the child seems happy now, but yet, in some indefinable way, strangely unsettled. She comes to my room every morning, drinks tea and nibbles at some toast as I breakfast. Then she’s off to her new studio. I gather that she’s working on some things for the show that Carter is still determined to have in spite of the growing whispers.

He called yesterday to ask if I’d heard the rumors. When I told him that I had, he asked if I believed them. I’m old enough, my friend, I told him, to ignore rumors until they prove themselves one way or another. He thanked me effusively and reminded me how important a show could be for Kyra at this point. She needs to take all this publicity and use it to her advantage, he urged.

And she badly needs a distraction, I thought but did not say. Between the loss of her two— friends? lovers?— associates, I shall call them for want of the mot juste, and the revelation that her father is very soon going to have to make, I feel that she will need every shred of validation that a success with her art could bring.

Marvin came to visit yesterday as he does every week. He is always thoughtful and I could see that he was brimming over with some news that he was at once eager and reluctant to tell me. So we spoke instead of my portfolio, of the weather, of his concern for Kyra. Miss Lily, he said finally, you know how hard I’ve tried to bring her home. But she won’t do it. Kimmie has tried to approach her but…

So strong and so near tears. His reputation as a cold and heartless opportunist is no doubt well deserved in the business sphere, but I know the other side of the man.

He was silent for a moment and then he said, But now, I’m glad she’s with you. There’s a new development which I’m afraid is going to be difficult for her.

When he finally unburdened himself of this “new development,” he begged me to keep it to myself so that he could be the one to tell her. Only after I promised solemnly to say nothing did he leave, kissing me heartily and thanking me for my understanding.

I am very troubled by what he has told me. I remember the past and I fear the future.

* * *

I remember the past…. This journal has become a melancholy pleasure— almost an addiction. I relive those long-ago times and once more I see that beloved face.

Fanchon. Just to write the name gives me pleasure. I notice that I quickly abandoned the coy use of initials with which I began this account. Names hold power and by writing them I seem to summon up the whole persona. No one would trouble to read these pages now: it remains my firm intention to consign them to the flames once the whole story is told.

* * *

Fanchon. She came to the Center three days a week and I fretted like a caged beast on the other four. When she was at the Center, I always found little tasks for her to do that would keep her near me, but I began to notice a growing tendency on the part of Caro and Geneva to seek out the pretty child and involve her in their work rather than mine. One day Caro came into the room where I was helping Fanchon with her handwriting— she was copying from Sonnets from the Portuguese and reading softly as she formed the words on the paper. Fanchon, child, trilled Caro, leave the fusty-musty and come with me for a ramble. I need to collect dye-stuffs and your help would be welcome.

She went, with a reluctant backward glance at her work and, I believe, at me. But I fumed as I watched them cross the open field, Caro linking arms with her and bending close to whisper in her shell-like ear.

Infamous, I thought. That such a woman— and I thought of that double bed— that such women…words failed me, even in thought. But I resolved that I would find a way, a means to remove Fanchon from the unnatural corruption of these two. For my love, the inner voice whispered, my love was and would remain pure…platonic, I think I told myself.

There was another obstacle to my dream of taking Fanchon away from the Center. She was being courted by a local ruffian with the unlikely name of Bragg Strother, and he was known as a dangerous man to cross. Illiterate, uncouth, and, for the most part, unwashed, Strother had set his sights on this loveliest of girls and often appeared at the Center on the days Fanchon was there to “carry” her home in his rattletrap old Ford, the same vehicle with which, it was said, he hauled quantities of the illicit spirits manufactured by his notorious family.

Fanchon seemed indifferent to his attentions. I noted with approval that she would not ride with Strother unless Tildy or one of the other girls accompanied them. When I teased her about her suitor, she smiled shyly and said, He’s always after me to marry him but I ain’t wanting to. They’s— there’s things I want to do and learn. Not but that he is a fine-looking man. And he vows that when— that if we wed, he’ll stop hauling liquor.

My heart sank. If Strother persisted, and I was sure that he would, within the year my beautiful girl would be married, expecting, and on her way to a life of brutal, mind-numbing work. Fanchon would become like so many of the mountain women: her graceful hands would redden and gnarl, her pearl-like teeth would be stained with snuff, her flawless skin would grow leathery, and her sparkling eyes would turn dim and vacant with weariness…. I grew more determined than ever to remove Fanchon from Strother…and from Caro.

The way soon appeared. October came with its glorious golds and reds painting the hillsides, its endless blue skies and sharp cold mornings when a dusting of frost silvered the world outside my window. Tildy had completed the wonderful animal quilt and Caro and Geneva began to plan the trip to Washington.

I had been able to help them in gaining access to the White House, for one of Father’s friends served as an advisor to President Roosevelt. The ladies planned to accompany Tildy to Washington, hoping to use the meeting with the President to press for government aid to their program. But then my father’s friend wrote, offering to me and my little protégée, as he put it, the hospitality of his home in Washington, adding that he would see to it that we met as many important personages as possible. The ladies conferred and decided that I should be the one to accompany Tildy.

I was wretched at the thought of such an opportunity being wasted on the unlovely Tildy. She could not, did not, represent the charming young women for whom we were seeking aid. One evening I ventured to mention this to Miss Caro and Miss Geneva.

There, what did I tell you, Caro? cried Geneva.

If only it were Fanchon who’d made the quilt, mourned Caro. She’s so pretty and well-spoken; she’d charm the funding right out of them. But Tildy, oh my, she’s a caricature, and a greedy, pushing caricature at that. Sometimes I think that she could do us more harm than good.

I have an idea, I said. Let me speak to Tildy.

I am not proud of what I did. At the time, I told myself that it was for the good of the Center. I spoke with Tildy and offered her five hundred dollars to put Fanchon’s name on the quilt, to let Fanchon be presented as the quilt’s creator. I made a feeble excuse, saying that the President wanted to hear some mountain music. And Fanchon can play and sing and you can’t, can you, Tildy? I told her. You must think of the needs of the Center.

Miss Lily, she said, her sallow face growing blotchy, you mean I wouldn’t git to ride on the train? And meet Mr. Roosevelt?

Five hundred dollars, Tildy, I said. Think what five hundred dollars can buy. At the time this was a sum far above the average family income in Marshall County. Indeed, the sum was not inconsiderable to me, but I had recently been the recipient of an inheritance from an elderly aunt and it seemed a small price to pay to save my beautiful girl. So I reasoned with Tildy. I showed her what five hundred dollars looked like. I had made a special trip in to Ransom to have the check from my aunt’s lawyer transformed into one hundred five-dollar bills. I felt certain that the sight of so much cash would plead my case far better than a check.

And so it did. Tildy went to Geneva and Caro. I had coached her carefully and she was word perfect. I think that Fanchon should go instead of me, she told them. She kin do better than me at talkin’ with all them high-up people. And she kin sing and I ain’t able. Besides, I got stuff to see about at home.

It does them credit to say that the ladies were at first unwilling to accept Tildy’s sacrifice. But she was resolute and even handed over the wonderful quilt, showing them how she had picked out her embroidered signature and replaced it with Fanchon’s name.

Hit don’t matter, she said, I know who done the work. And she left the Center, never to return.

Caro and Geneva were thrilled at the opportunity for Fanchon. Neither questioned me as to how I had effected this miracle. Plans were put in motion to take Fanchon to Ransom to purchase suitable clothing for the trip. I offered up more money, delighted that my scheme was close to realization.

And Fanchon? She accepted the new arrangement with the sweet equanimity I had expected. Her eyes grew wide as I described some of the things we would see on our travels. O Miss Lily, she said, and threw her arms around me. I feel like something magic has happened. Are you my fairy godmother, like in the stories?

The memory of her innocent embrace kept me awake far into the night as I lay in my bed, still feeling the burning circle of her tender arms.

CHAPTER 18

SOME INVISIBLE THRESHOLD

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, AND SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 11)

THE UGLY CRACKED PAVEMENT WAS COMING nearer and Elizabeth twisted, trying to catch at something to stop her descent. One, two, three— four iron steps slipped by before she managed to grab one of the upright supports and arrest her fall. Oh sweet Jesus, don’t let anything be broken, she begged as she clung to the slender bar that had halted her precipitous fall. Just below her was a landing and she carefully inched down onto it. She sat crumpled there, half stunned.

Phillip was at her side almost immediately. “Elizabeth, are you hurt? Do you want me to get help?” Already he was reaching for his cell phone. “Don’t try to move—”

“No, I think I’m okay. Just give me a minute.” Slowly, painfully, she pulled herself to a more upright position, then extended her legs. “I think everything works but my knee’s going to stiffen up if I don’t start moving around right now. I hit it pretty hard.” She started to stand and reconsidered. “What the hell— I’m going to have to go down the rest of the way on my behind— I don’t trust this knee.”

Mercifully, though at that point she didn’t give a damn, there was no one in the parking lot to see her ignominious, painful descent. When at last her feet were on solid ground, Phillip took her hands.

“Elizabeth, please just sit there. I’ll bring the car over and—”

“No, just help me stand up. Like I said— if I don’t keep moving, I’ll seize up.” She stood, pulling against his strong hands. Her knee was throbbing and her shoulder and elbow felt badly bruised. She looked across the parking lot to Phillip’s car. “I can make it.” With her first step, the injured knee buckled and she fell forward.

Phillip caught her and held her close. For a moment she relaxed into his embrace. She closed her eyes and remembered the blissful feeling of being cared for and protected— by a husband, a lover, even back to the idyllic days of early childhood when there was always a grown-up to come between her and whatever threatened. She did not open her eyes but rested her head on Phillip’s shoulder. His arms tightened around her.

“Elizabeth.” It was a statement. She stood there, eyes closed, breathing hard.

At last she opened her eyes. Phillip was watching her with infinite tenderness. “Elizabeth,” he said again and continued to hold her. It seemed that some invisible threshold had just been crossed.

“Phillip,” she heard herself say, and pressed her cheek against his.

* * *

Just down the road from the Candlestation they stopped at an unpaved area by the river to eat their sandwiches. Phillip began to rummage in the compartment between the seats. “I should have some ibuprofen in here somewhere. If you took some now, it might help— but you’re still probably going to hurt like hell in the morning.”

Elizabeth shook out four small brown pills and swallowed them with some of the mineral water. Her mind was busy with two consuming questions. The first concerned the man beside her. The feeling that had swept over her as he held her…her own acquiescent response: where was this leading? But that question could be deferred. The second one, however…

“Phillip, what about that handrail? I noticed some missing bolts as we went up but I know it was still attached at the top. But it was the top that tore loose when I grabbed it to start down. I think we ought to go back and take a look at it. And we need to warn Ben and Kyra— maybe put a sign on the fire escape so no one else—”

“I already looked at that top bolt.” Phillip’s expression was worried. “When I went back for the sandwiches after you got in the car. I’d dropped them there at the top of the fire escape when I saw you fall.” His hand touched her shoulder lightly and rested there. “I thought…” He left the sentence unfinished.

“What did it look like? Had the bolt just worked loose?” She was supremely aware of the hand on her shoulder. “Did you find it?”

“No.” The hand stirred, fingers brushed her neck gently and withdrew. “I looked for it on the stairs and then on the pavement. If that bolt had just accidentally fallen out, I would have found it. But it was gone.”

With an effort that she felt was probably visible, Elizabeth tried to concentrate on this information. “Phillip, remember Ben said that fire escape was like their private entrance? If someone knew that only Kyra and Ben used those stairs, then it would be easy to booby-trap them— and remember, Kyra said she saw the nanny going down those stairs just before we left!”

Phillip swept his hand over his bald scalp in the familiar gesture. “Yeah, that’s what she said. You know, I’m guessing this was more of a warning than anything else. Whoever removed that bolt probably didn’t actually expect to really hurt someone. On the other hand…” He shook his head. “I’d say we’re dealing with a person who doesn’t care what happens.”

* * *

They returned to the Candlestation so that Phillip could warn Ben and Kyra about the treacherous handrail. “It’ll just take a minute,” he said. “You stay here. I’ll get them to put a sign on the fire escape. And suggest they contact whoever the landlord is and get that thing fixed.”

It felt good to sit in the cool car. Elizabeth watched as Phillip cautiously made his way up the iron stairs, pausing to inspect the handrail’s remaining bolts. He had also made a second careful inspection of the dirt and pavement beneath the fire escape. He hadn’t found the missing bolt. When he had disappeared behind the blue door, she finally began to assess the extent of her injuries. One swollen and stiffening knee, a bruised and scraped elbow, a shoulder and hip that, she felt sure, were undoubtedly blooming into spectacular blues and purples. But nothing broken.

You’ve had worse, she told herself, remembering the time old Poll, on the way to the barn for the morning milking and pursued by a too-eager cow dog, had knocked her down and run right over her. The imprint of the cow’s cloven hoof, in an ever-changing gamut of stormy colors, had decorated her upper thigh for days.

Elizabeth noticed that, so far, all the studio-goers seemed to be parking at the other end of the large building and entering by a door where a yellow flag fluttered— the River District’s emblem for open studios. And a good thing too, she thought. At least no one else is using the Stairs of Doom.

The cars in the parking lot were a mix of shabby clunkers, fancy SUVs, and expensive luxury cars. In particular, two white SUVs caught her eye. A gray-haired man in a chauffeur’s cap leaned against the nearer one, idly looking around. Elizabeth strained to make out his features, which seemed somehow familiar.

As she watched, a group emerged from the farther door and made their way to the waiting cars. Three cars pulled out and two people remained— a small blondish woman in a flowing purple skirt and a slender young man, his fair hair pulled back in a ponytail.

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “My god! It’s Aidan and his mother. And Phillip thinks they’ve skipped.” She fumbled for the door handle, then realized that her seat belt was still on. It took a few moments to release the unfamiliar latch. As quickly as she could, her aching body protesting violently, she pulled herself out of the car and began to hobble toward the other end of the parking lot. She was halfway there when she saw the white SUV back out and head for the exit. Its passengers didn’t look back.

* * *

By the time Phillip returned, both SUVs were long gone. “Two white SUVs, Phillip. And one was Willow and Aidan. The other was a guy who looked familiar but—”

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, so I guess Aidan intends to be here for that hearing after all. Evidently he’s got a real fireball for a lawyer— dismissal is a definite possibility. But I got to wonder— where’s the money coming from, first for the bail and then for this attorney? And, it looks like, a new car.” He scratched his head. “What is it with all the white SUVs anyway?”

* * *

Sleep was slow in coming that night. Elizabeth was intensely aware of the chirr of crickets outside and the heavy breathing of the sleeping dogs in her room as well as the aching of her bruised body. She lay on her back, turning the day’s revelations over and over, trying to make sense of them: there was Rafiq’s obvious hatred for Boz; Boz’s involvement with the meth lab; the rumors about Carter Dixon; the handrail that gave way just after Kyra saw the nanny; the reappearance of Aidan and Willow.

Again and again the same scenes replayed. My brain is churning, she thought, then smiled at the appropriateness of the image. Just like when I used to make butter. Fill the churn with cream, then beat that cream over and over till the fat hardens into butter and floats on top of the buttermilk. She yawned. By that analogy, if I keep at it, sooner or later I’ll separate the sheep from the goats.

A very mixed metaphor, Elizabeth. She turned on her side and slid to the cooler side of the bed— Sam’s side. At once a confusion of images assaulted her— she closed her eyes and relived those few moments after she had fallen— when she had surrendered herself to the comfort of Phillip’s arms, there in that hot, dusty parking lot. She could still feel the pressure of his arms and the smooth fabric of his shirt against her cheek. She lay still, willing that moment back into reality, and doing so, fell asleep.

* * *

“Phillip, I haven’t…” she was saying as a growing chorus of whines and muted barks broke into her dreams. James was on the bed, trying to lick her face, and Ursa and Mollie were pawing impatiently at the closed bedroom door. Elizabeth burrowed into her pillow and tried to return to the tender and significant moment that was rapidly fading from her memory.

To no avail. Now all three dogs were howling. Molly’s deep-throated baying could wake the dead. With the addition of Ursa’s contralto accompaniment and little James’s ridiculous high-pitched yipping that occasionally achieved a shrill howl, the noise in the bedroom banished romantic dreams. Slowly, aching in every joint, Elizabeth dragged herself out of bed.

When the dogs had been released from the house for their usual morning run, she dressed, trying to remember the exact content of the dream. But aside from the memory of Phillip or was it Sam…or was it Sam but he looked like Phillip and the feeling that she wished the dream could have gone on, details were sketchy. He was holding me. And there was danger of some kind but because he was there I wasn’t afraid.

By the time she had made coffee, the reality of the day had firmly replaced the fantasy of the dream. That brief embrace in the parking lot …I was upset— he was comforting me— just a friendly gesture, it doesn’t mean anything. Indeed, but for that brief and undeniable feeling of a line crossed in the sand. They had returned to Phillip’s house, where he had insisted on cleaning her scraped arm with peroxide. He had asked her to stay for dinner. But her knee had been throbbing from the fall and she ached all over. “Phillip, I think I just need to go home and lie down for a while,” she had said, common sense beating out inclination.

“Why don’t you let me drive you home? You could come in tomorrow with Ben and pick up your car.”

“No, really, I’m fine to drive. I just think I need to go home.”

“You’ll call me when you get there,” he insisted. It hadn’t been a question.

* * *

When she called him, the line had been busy. Almost as soon as she put the phone down, however, it rang. “Elizabeth, how are you feeling now?”

“Stiff, sore, a little sorry for myself. But I’m going to put an ice pack on my knee and stretch out for a bit.” She hesitated. “Phillip, I wish I could have stayed for dinner but I think this was the right thing to do.”

“Yeah.” His voice had been unenthusiastic. “I guess so. Thing is, I just got off the phone with the folks who’re renting my house back in Beaufort, and there’s evidently some major problem with the roof. I’m going to have to go back and see if it’s as bad as they say. They think I need to spring for a whole new roof but I’m hoping it can be patched. If I leave early in the morning, with any luck I can take care of things and be back by Wednesday. That way I’ll only miss one day of classes.”

“Oh.” Elizabeth had tried not to sound disappointed. “Well, have a good trip. Give me a call when you get back and I’ll bring you up-to-date on what’s happening with Kyra.”

“I thought I’d check in with you every night, Elizabeth.” He had sounded tentative, but determined. “Keep up with things that way. I hate leaving just when…when things are getting interesting….”

* * *

Interesting. As she ate her breakfast she wondered exactly what he had meant. I feel like someone in junior high, she thought. It seemed as if things should be simpler now. After all, in this age of “hookups” and “one night stands,” it’s a little silly for me, a “woman of a certain age,” to be spending this much time and speculation over what was, after all, no more than a friendly hug. It may not have meant anything.

Or it may have meant everything, whispered a voice from the other side of that threshold that she had passed the previous day, back in the hot dusty parking lot.

CHAPTER 19

LORETTY’S LEGACY

(MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 12)

BY MONDAY THE BRUISES WERE AT THEIR MOST SPECTACULAR and the knee, though sore, was mending. Phillip’s call the night before (she had carried the phone with her around the house, as eager as a teenager for its ring) had been long and chatty. His parting words, “Sleep well, Elizabeth,” had come true and she had awakened smiling, ready for what the day might bring.

She spent the morning making herb vinegar. Down in her garden she filled two baskets with sprigs of herbs— oregano, thyme, Italian parsley, dill, garlic chives, sage, basil, and tarragon. Back in the kitchen she rinsed off the leafy bunches and shook the moisture from them. She had already washed out her gallon jars— eleven of them— and she divided the herbs among the jars, stuffing nine of them with a mixture but reserving the tarragon for just two. Tarragon, the “little dragon” of herbs, was too overpowering to mix with milder flavors. “Does not play well with others,” she mused as she filled the jars with slightly warmed apple cider vinegar.

She set the jars on the table under the window. There they would sit for several weeks as the herbs’ essences permeated the vinegar. Then she would strain the vinegar and throw out the now pulpy and unattractive herbs. The savory vinegar would be decanted into attractive bottles, each of which held a peeled clove of garlic and a few sprigs of an herb in flower— blue thyme, yellow dill, or white chives. The finished bottles, corked and sealed with wax and labeled with the Full Circle Farm label, would go to a specialty grocer in Asheville.

She swept out her kitchen and wiped the countertops, considering what to do next. Her body still felt too battered to want to attempt much work outside. And, for September, it was a staggeringly hot day. She decided to eat some lunch and then go visit Miss Birdie to get more leads on quilts for the show at the library.

* * *

As she pulled across the bridge to Birdie’s place, Elizabeth smiled to see the pale blue Fairlane parked beside Birdie’s old truck. That meant that Birdie’s cousin Dorothy was visiting. Dorothy, having worked as an aide in a nursing home for many years, saw no reason to cut back now that she was officially retired. It was her custom to spend varying amounts of time with her elderly friends and relatives, cleaning and cooking and “seein’ ’bout” their sundry needs. She was always full of good humor and funny stories, and Birdie looked forward to her visits. “Though to tell you the truth, Lizzie Beth,” Miss Birdie had confided after an extended stay by Cousin Dorothy, “hit’s summat more peaceable without her. She’s awful bad to talk all the day long. And run that sweeper! Ay law, she like to wore out the linoleum rug.”

As she came up to the porch, Elizabeth could hear Dorothy’s voice, rising above the murmur of a soap opera. “Now, Birdie, you ought to let me take down them window blinds and wipe the dust off of ’em. And while they’re down, I’ll just go ahead and wash them windows too. No, it’s not too much for me. I ain’t happy just settin’ and watchin’ the TV. Why, look who’s here! It’s your friend Miz Goodweather at the door!”

“You come right in, Lizzie Beth,” Miss Birdie called out. “Hit’s some cooler in here. That sun’s full on the porch right now and hit’s just a-bakin’ out there.” Miss Birdie, enthroned in her recliner chair with one eye on the television, motioned Elizabeth to the sofa. “You got all the quilts you need fer that thing they’re puttin’ on at the libery? I was tellin’ Dor’thy about you borryin’ some of mine and she said that you had ought to go see ol’ Franklin Ferman—”

“That’s what I told her all right.” Dorothy came out of the kitchen with a step stool and made for the nearest window. She pulled up the wooden slats, climbed on the stool, and began to detach the blind. “You know, Franklin’s wife Loretta was a good hand to quilt and she had her a stack of purty quilts on her bed. I looked in on her time and again when she was bed-bound, there at the end, and I never saw so many colors and patterns.”

The blind came loose and Dorothy handed it to Elizabeth, who stood waiting to receive it. “Franklin lives in that little green house near the bridge, just above that new double-wide. You ought to go down and see them quilts; they’re a sight on earth.”

Elizabeth expressed cautious interest in seeing these quilts, saying that she could use a few more for the show. The words were barely out of her mouth before Dorothy had Franklin Ferman on the telephone, arranging a visit from “that nice Miz Goodweather who lives up to the ol’ Baker place. You know, that Florida woman that Birdie’s friends with.”

Elizabeth smiled ruefully. She and Sam had bought their place some twenty-one years ago and had christened it Full Circle Farm, a nod to the farming backgrounds of their various great-grandparents, and had, in the eager pride of ownership, put the name on a sign at the entrance. But to the neighbors it was still “the ol’ Baker place” no matter what their sign said. And she was still “that Florida woman.” Would always be “that Florida woman.” And should Laurel or Rosemary eventually move back and have children, those children would never be considered “real” Marshall County natives. As an elderly neighbor had said years ago, “Well, way I see it’s like this: ol’ cat might have her kittens in the oven, but you wouldn’t call ’em biscuits, now would you?”

Dorothy hung up the phone and beamed triumphantly at Elizabeth. “I told him you’d come down after you and Birdie’d had your visit. He’ll be lookin’ for you.” She leaned toward Elizabeth as if to confide a dark secret. “Franklin acts like he don’t like folks but it’s along of he’s awful shy. Always has been. Just don’t pay him no mind— he’ll be tickled to see you.”

“I was tellin’ Dor’thy how I let you borry them quilts of mine and I got to tryin’ to remember who all hit was had worked on that quilt for Lexter and Britty Mae. When I named Fanchon and Tildy—”

Dorothy broke in, almost bouncing with excitement. “I said, ‘Law, Birdie, they used to be a Fanchon and a Tildy livin’ up at the Golden Years Home when I was workin’ there.’ Shared a room, they did. Of course, that was several years back of this and I reckon they’ve passed on by now, poor old things. They didn’t seem to have no family but each other— I believe they was sisters.”

Dorothy was back on the step stool, ready to detach the last set of blinds, but she stood there, lost in memory. “My, how them two ol’ biddies did fuss. I’d go in there and one would take on and say that the other had stole her clothes and that other one would just act so meek and mild and not sayin’ nothing. Pretty soon I’d find ever what hit was that was missin’ and put hit back in hits right place and then, come the next day, seemed like the meek one would take a mean streak and just devil the life out of the other. She’d drink up both glasses of juice at juice time and eat up all the cookies at snack time and the other poor old thing’d be cryin’ like her heart would break. Hit was just pitiful how them two carried on.”

“Britty Mae always said that hit was Fanchon was the mean one.” Birdie looked up from her television “story.” “Called her a home devil. I reckon hit was her caused most of the trouble, wasn’t hit?”

“Law, Birdie honey, I never could keep them two straight.” Dorothy had brought a sponge and a bowl of soapy water from the kitchen and was beginning to wipe down the blinds that she had spread out on the floor. “They was about the same size and they looked so much alike I couldn’t hardly tell one from t’other.”

“They looked alike?” Elizabeth frowned. “Someone told me that Fanchon was really beautiful and Tildy was very…very plain.”

“Might have been that was true in their early years.” Dorothy was kneeling on the floor, bent over the blinds. “But, law, when I saw ’em they was just two fat old women. Honey, old age done got ’em both.”

* * *

Forty-five minutes later Elizabeth was on her way to visit Franklin Ferman. She pulled her car into the driveway and waited to see if he would appear on the porch, but the only signs of life were a few scrawny red hens scratching around the base of a mildewed lilac bush at the side of the house. Elizabeth got out of the car, slammed the door loudly, and waited a few minutes. When no one appeared, she climbed the steps to the porch, knocked vigorously on the frame of the sagging screen door, and called out, “Mr. Ferman? It’s Elizabeth Good—”

“Come in the house.” The peremptory voice seemed to come from the depths of the little dwelling. Elizabeth stepped into the front room. An oil stove, a disgraceful old upholstered chair, and an upended wooden box lay to her right; to the left was a narrow bed, its white-enameled iron frame dotted with patches of rust. A moth-eaten army blanket and a faded pink chenille bedspread covered the hillocky mattress, and one almost flat pillow, its striped ticking plain through the worn yellowing pillowcase, lay at the head. The room was dark and stuffy and smelled strongly of mice.

“Back here.” The voice was husky, with an unused quality to it. Elizabeth followed it through the door by the oil stove and found herself in a small, grimy kitchen. The sink and countertops were piled high with unwashed dishes: their sour smell suggested they had been there for some time. Franklin Ferman was sitting at the ancient enamel-topped kitchen table, busily spooning soup beans from a saucepan into his toothless mouth. His false teeth lay by his left elbow, just beside the remnants of a somewhat charred cake of cornbread. An overturned box of cereal, a jar of sorghum molasses with a steady stream of ants climbing and descending its sides, and an assortment of more dirty dishes crowded the rest of the filthy tabletop.

“Git you a chair.” He nodded toward a straight-backed wooden chair. Its hickory-bark seat had a gaping hole that had been covered by a narrow board. Elizabeth pulled the chair up to the table across from her host and sat down carefully.

“Thank you for letting me come over, Mr. Ferman. I’m Eliz—”

“Dor’thy told me who you are.” The noisy inhalation of food continued. “I’ll show you them quilts quick as I get done. I got that ol’ sugar in my blood and iffen I don’t eat regular, I’m like to pass out.”

“That’s fine, Mr. Ferman; I’m in no hurry.” She composed herself to wait, trying to ignore the teeth grinning up at her from the table. Covertly looking around the kitchen, she tried to imagine what it might have been like when Loretta Ferman was alive. The grayed and tattered remains of sheer ruffled curtains edged in red hung at the window over the sink. The cabinets, beneath layers of grease and dirt, showed that some loving hand had once enameled them a bright yellow and adorned them with decals of baskets overflowing with fruit. A brilliantly painted (beneath the grime) plaster hen and rooster decorated the wall beside her, and behind Franklin Ferman’s head hung a large framed print of Leonardo’s Last Supper. Elizabeth had to suppress a smile when she saw that the nail it hung from had been pressed into double duty: a rusting metal flyswatter hung down the middle of the picture, entirely covering the figure of Jesus.

She looked away from the Last Supper to see a terrified mouse peeking out of the cereal box there on the table. Black bead eyes seemed to consider the options. Suddenly the tiny creature made a break for it, darting toward the side of the table.

Franklin Ferman took the spoon from his mouth, smacked the mouse hard on the head, and, without missing a beat, resumed shoveling the beans into his toothless maw. “That’ll learn him,” he commented moistly.

The little gray form quivered and was still. Elizabeth sat, listening to the prolonged slurping sounds of the old man and studying the small corpse. Finally she stood and gingerly picked up the mouse by its tail. The kitchen door was open to the back steps and she walked over to it and tossed the dead mouse toward some scraggly boxwoods.

The body was instantly pounced on by a lean speckled hen that snapped it up in her yellow beak and darted under the back steps, eagerly pursued by two red chickens intent on stealing the treat.

With a satisfied belch, Franklin Ferman pushed the saucepan aside. He picked up his dentures, put them into his mouth, then said, “You keep chickens?”

Elizabeth turned from the door. “Yes, I have a few—”

“Loretty was plumb foolish over them things.” The old man pulled out a ragged blue bandana and blew his nose loudly. “I wish you could’ve seen this place when she was alive. I ain’t much of a hand to keep house, but back when Loretty was able, ever thing was just so.”

He stood and started toward the other room. A heavy man, stooped with age, he was wearing overalls that had been worn and washed almost to handkerchief thinness. He walked slowly, as if his feet were painful. “Come on this away.” He passed through the front room to a little hallway that appeared to run down the side of the house. “Back here is where her quilts is.”

She followed him down the narrow hall, picking her way around the cardboard boxes stacked to one side. The old man stopped before a closed door. “This here room was mine and Loretty’s. But when she took so sick and got to where the least little sound’d waken her, I fixed me a place in the front room.” He blew his nose again. “After she went, I thought I’d keep the room just how it’d been when she was livin’. Thataway, when I get to feelin’ low, I come in here and set with her.” Franklin Ferman’s redrimmed eyes peered at Elizabeth. “I’d just as soon you not mention my foolishness to Birdie or Dor’thy.” He pushed open the door.

“No, sir,” said Elizabeth and followed him into the room. She looked around apprehensively. Long-forgotten memories of Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho flooded her consciousness. You’re being ridiculous, Elizabeth. Do you really think this old man has a mummy in the back bedroom?

No. No mummy. Just a simple room, an oasis of tidiness within the squalor that was the rest of the house. An old chest of drawers, topped by an embroidered cloth, supported an age-streaked mirror. Beside it was a rustic wooden bed, piled high with bright quilts, one atop another. Family photographs hung on the walls, ranging from oval-framed sepia-toned likenesses that, to judge by the clothing and hairstyles, dated from the early 1900s, to full-color family groups from the fifties and sixties. Dust was thick on everything except for the straight-backed wooden chair pulled up to the bed and the worn black Bible that lay on the little bedside table.

The old man shuffled to the chair and lowered himself onto it. “Loretty liked for me to read to her from the Book. I kindly got in the habit and I still come in and read her a chapter ever mornin’.

“These quilts is all ones what she made. She put her whole heart into ’em— I reckon that’s why she seems near when I’m in this room. But I believe that she’d be proud was folks to see ’em.”

A gnarled hand caressed the pinks and greens of the topmost quilt. “She was so cold-natured there towards the end, she kept askin’ for more covers. And I’d bring her another one of her quilts and she’d just smile up at me like an angel when I laid it over her.”

He turned the top quilt back to reveal a faded brown and blue Nine-Patch. “Just look till you find what you want, Miz Goodweather.”

There were eight quilts there on the bed. Many were in tatters, worn out from use, but there were two that had evidently been kept “for best.” After making sure that Franklin Ferman was willing to part with them for the month that they would be on display, Elizabeth took them from the bed. One was a Double Wedding Ring, pieced in soft Depression-era pastel prints with a background of creamy unbleached muslin. The other was an eye-dazzling array of six-pointed stars, pieced from dress and lightweight upholstery fabrics.

“Will you put her name on ’em?” The old man’s voice was anxious. “I want folks to know it was Loretty what made them quilts.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ferman. I’ll make sure her name will be there. These are creations to be proud of.” A lump in her throat made it difficult to speak.

They left the bedroom, Ferman closing the door gently behind him. Back at the front door, Elizabeth took her leave. “Once the quilts are up, would you like for me to come get you and take you up to the library to see them?”

The old man considered briefly. “I reckon I would. And iffen you don’t care, tell Dor’thy I’m sorry I run her off that last time she was here. That woman like to talk my ears off.” He looked around him thoughtfully. “She’s a right good hand to clean though.”

CHAPTER 20

“THE MOST WONDERFUL THING…”

(THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 15)

ZINC WHITE, CADMIUM RED, QUINACRIDONE RED, cadmium yellow, Hansa yellow, cerulean blue, cobalt blue: the names were as beautiful as the colors. Elizabeth squeezed a blob of each in a careful line along the top of the glossy freezer paper that was her makeshift palette.

“It doesn’t matter how you arrange your palette,” Daphne was saying. “I usually put a larger amount of white over to one side because it’s used so much for mixing. And it’s probably a good idea to keep your colors next to each other: the cool yellow next to the warm yellow, the two reds together, and so on. Just find what works for you and stick to it.”

The Thursday afternoon beginning painting class was under way. Elizabeth had once again made the deliveries to the farm’s clients and had managed to get to class early enough to take the same seat that she had occupied for the previous lesson. As she was unpacking her painting necessities, spreading them out to take up the space next to her as well, she had heard two women at an adjoining table holding a spirited discussion. The words “Carter Dixon” and “tax fraud” caught her attention, but then Kimmie Peterson had walked through the door, laden down with art supplies.

Elizabeth had called out, “Hi, Kimmie!” and had cleared the tabletop to her right. “There’s plenty of room over here,” she added, and Marvin Peterson’s second wife had taken the seat next to her. They had chatted briefly, comparing the paints they had brought with them, as the rest of the class took their places. Elizabeth had thought that the younger woman seemed quietly excited, as though she were concealing some delicious secret that she was longing to reveal. In fact, she had just turned to Elizabeth and said, “The most wonderful thing has—” when Daphne entered the room and class began.

Daphne handed out sheets of heavy poster board and had encouraged them to experiment with different combinations of the colors she had directed them to lay out. “I want you to put only the primary colors and white on your palette. I’ll show you how to mix all the colors you need—”

“I just went on and bought all the colors,” one woman said. “I love purples and greens and I didn’t see how I could paint a picture without them. And you forgot to tell us to get black.”

Unperturbed, Daphne continued. “I’d like you to start by just using the three primaries: red, yellow, and blue with the white. Now take a little of one of your yellows and a little of one of your blues…”

They daubed and dabbled, thrilled to discover the endless variety of greens that they could produce. Further directed experimentation yielded purples, violets, mauves, lavenders. Coral, pinks, oranges, turquoises, aquamarines were created, as well as some less lovely grays and browns. By the time Daphne had led them around the color wheel, they had acquired a new respect for the possibilities that lay within the trio of primary colors.

“My stepdaughter’s a real artist,” Kimmie whispered to Elizabeth as they worked at producing ever-lighter tints of pink and orange. “We aren’t close but I’m hoping that someday soon things’ll get better and this will give us something in common, something to talk about.”

“Be careful with the cadmiums,” Daphne was cautioning the class. “They can be toxic, so if you get some on you, be sure to wash it off. It’s a good idea just to be aware—”

Elizabeth heard a sudden gasp at her side. Kimmie was staring at her hand where a large streak of yellow crossed her palm. Quickly she jumped up and hurried to the washbasin at the back of the classroom, where she began frantically scrubbing at her hands.

“I didn’t mean to alarm anyone.” Daphne raised her voice slightly. All of the class were now examining their hands and whispering to one another. “It’s not going to kill you just to get a little paint on your skin; what I was trying to say is, you don’t want to ingest any paints, especially the cads, so washing your hands when you finish a painting session is just good sense.”

Kimmie returned to her seat and whispered to Elizabeth. “I guess I overreacted but I want to be so careful now.” She blushed slightly. Her plain face glowed with happiness and her lovely gray eyes sparkled. “I just found out I’m pregnant. My little test had two purple stripes! And the doctor said it was true this time!”

* * *

When class was over, Elizabeth walked with Kimmie out to the parking lot. The younger woman was bubbling over with happiness and eager to discuss her joyful news. “I never expected this— my doctor had told me I might not be able to get pregnant— my husband was really nice about it— he said it didn’t make any difference. Of course, he already has a child from his first marriage— I told you I have a stepdaughter. She’s all grown up and she…” Kimmie’s voice faltered and her face lost its blissful quality. “Well, I told you we aren’t close. You see, Kyra— that’s my stepdaughter—”

I have to tell her. It’s going to come out sooner or later and if I don’t say something now, it’ll seem odd. This passed through Elizabeth’s mind in a flash, and before she could reconsider, she heard herself speaking. “Kyra? I know a Kyra….”

* * *

Kimmie seemed delighted to have found someone with whom she could discuss her difficult stepchild. “And you’re the one Kyra was staying with after the fire? My goodness, if that isn’t a coincidence! I guess it really is a small world. Marvin told me she was staying with a neighbor, the mother of a friend…and it was you! I swear, if that isn’t amazing.”

Kimmie paused, then, like a shy child asking for a treat, said, “Would you come have a cup of coffee with me? I’d like your opinion on something…it’s about Kyra and, at this point, you probably know her better than I do.”

Unable to resist those seductive words—“I’d like your opinion,” Elizabeth followed Kimmie’s car (a Mercedes today) to a nearby coffee shop. After getting their coffees— a latte for Elizabeth, a decaf vanilla Frappuccino for Kimmie— they took their mugs to a table in a far corner. Kimmie thanked Elizabeth effusively for agreeing to help with her problem.

“You see, I said my stepdaughter and I weren’t close.” The gray eyes grew clouded. “It’s worse than that, a lot worse. Kyra hates me because her father and I were…together before her mother died. And then he married me so soon after…” Kimmie’s elaborate drink was untouched and she was tearing her napkin to shreds. “I didn’t want us to get married then: I thought we should wait— out of respect for the dead. And I thought…” Tears were brimming up but she plowed ahead. “I really thought that if we waited, then eventually I could get to know Kyra and we could be friends. She wouldn’t have had to know that her father and I…”

The tears overflowed. “But you see, just before that terrible thing happened to Marvin’s wife, I found out that I was pregnant. I didn’t mind that we couldn’t be married and I knew that Marvin would always take care of me and our baby. But then his wife died and it was like he went crazy.”

Kimmie stared unseeingly at the table. “He had always told me that he would never marry me while she was alive, and I accepted that. I even knew that he loved her more than he loved me. I think something had gone wrong somewhere in their marriage— Marvin wouldn’t talk about that; he just said that he needed me and loved me but that she would always come first with him.”

Elizabeth started to speak but Kimmie went on. “Of course it hurt— knowing that— but I had no right…I hated myself for being a homewrecker. Except, I wasn’t really that, was I? She was still his wife. But then, suddenly she was gone. I didn’t see Marvin for almost a week. And then he came to me and said we were getting married right away so that our baby would be legitimate.”

Her right forefinger traced slow circles on the tabletop. “Sometimes I think it’s God’s punishment on us for our adultery. Kyra won’t come back home. She refuses to be around me and she only sees Marvin when it’s about money.”

“Kimmie,” Elizabeth asked, “what about the baby? You said you’d just found out you were pregnant when Kyra’s mother…died. Did—”

“There wasn’t a baby.” The younger woman’s voice was as expressionless as her face. “It was a mistake. The little test from the drugstore was positive and then we got married in such a hurry. But when I went to the doctor, she did an exam. She said that I wasn’t pregnant; I had something in my uterus called a…” She paused and pronounced the words with care. “…a hydatidiform mole.”

She looked at Elizabeth with a crooked smile. “I almost died when she said that. I thought she meant there was some kind of mole creature in there…like in that awful movie, you know? And it would dig its way out of me?”

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Dr. Knightly was really sweet; she didn’t laugh at me or anything. She explained that it wasn’t a real mole; it was a growth of some sort, shaped kind of like clusters of grapes. It had to be treated and she said there was a chance I might not be able to get pregnant afterwards.

“And Marvin was real sweet too; he understood that it wasn’t my fault— he even said it was probably just as well. But it was all for nothing— if we’d waited maybe Kyra wouldn’t hate me now.”

She drew a shuddery breath and fixed Elizabeth with a hopeful gaze. “Now that I’m really pregnant— I went to the doctor to make sure— I couldn’t trust the test after last time— this child will be Kyra’s little brother or sister. I can’t help but think that she will want to know him or her…be part of their life. I was an only child, just like she is, and I would have given anything if…I asked Marvin to tell Kyra about our baby but he keeps saying it isn’t the right time.” Kimmie’s eyes were imploring. “So yesterday, I just sat down and wrote her a letter sharing our wonderful news and telling her that now she would be a big sister. I told her how anxious I was for us to be on better terms.”

The younger woman played nervously with the packs of sugar and sweeteners in the plastic basket at the center of the table, rearranging them by color— three browns, four blues, four pinks, five whites. “She’s staying with her great-grandmother and I sent the letter there.” Now the packs were reshuffled: blue, brown, pink, white, blue, brown, pink, white— till the unequal numbers baffled Kimmie and she abandoned her fidgeting.

She looked up, eager for the response that had not emerged. “Do you think I did the right thing, Elizabeth? Don’t you think Kyra will have to come around? I want so much for us to be a family.”

Elizabeth stalled, unable to tell Kimmie what she obviously wanted to hear. It seemed doubtful to her that bitter and self-absorbed Kyra would suddenly melt at the news of a prospective sibling— a half-sibling, Elizabeth reminded herself. The best she was able to offer was a meaningless assurance that things would probably work out. This, however, was enough to elicit a delighted hug from Kimmie.

“That’s just what I told Marvin! Things always work out for us.” She was radiant again, and when they parted in the parking lot of the coffee shop, she hugged Elizabeth. “Thanks so much for listening. It was really my lucky day when I joined the painting class and we sat next to each other!”

Kimmie’s ebullience showed in her step as she walked to her Mercedes. “I’ll see you next week,” she called back over her shoulder. Then, with a final cheerful wave in Elizabeth’s direction, she pulled out of the parking lot and was gone. A white SUV came from behind the building and sped after her. Elizabeth, busy searching for her grocery list, looked up just in time to see the car and to notice that the driver was the same gray-haired man in a chauffeur’s cap that she had noticed outside the Candlestation last Saturday.

He still looked familiar. And she still couldn’t place him.

* * *

She did her shopping and drove home, eager to see if there would be, perhaps, a message from Phillip. He had called the previous night to say that he was back but would be busy with classes and preparation till Friday. “I don’t have any classes tomorrow and I thought that maybe you and I could go out to Aunt Omie’s and pick up that animal quilt. I’ll get up with her and see if that would be okay.”

Back at the farm Elizabeth unloaded the coolers from the farm truck and rinsed them out. As she was taking them to the workshop where they would be packed for the next delivery, she saw a note from Ben on the workshop door reminding Julio that the sage plants were ready to be pruned again for drying. Back early morning, the note ended.

Elizabeth read the note a second time, shook her head, and hefted the coolers into the workshop. She was taking them to the back room where the fresh herbs and flowers were sorted and packed when she saw Kyra’s sketchbook lying on top of a pile of wreath boxes. Well, hell, Ben, it looks like you moved it and then forgot it again. She picked it up and hurried on, anxious to get her groceries to the house and check her voice mail.

The phone was ringing as she walked in and she made a dive for it, dumping her canvas bags of groceries on the floor. She was rewarded by the sound of Phillip’s voice.

“What do you think? Are you up for another trip out to Shut In? Aunt Omie’s happy to lend the animal quilt for the show, but she was pretty clear— she wants me to bring you back.” He chuckled. “She wants to tell you some more about Fanchon, at least that’s what she said. She also said,” and he slipped into the mountain accent, “ ‘Now, Phillip Lee, I tell you what’s the truth, I like that Miz Goodweather and I want you to bring her back out here. She seems like a sensible somebody.’ ”

They made plans for the next day and he told her of his frantic maneuvers to get a roofing crew to deal with the problem at his house in Beaufort. It was only much later, when she was in bed and falling asleep, that Elizabeth realized that she had forgotten to tell him about Kimmie’s news.

CHAPTER 21

THAT YANKEE WOMAN

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16)

AND SHE SAID SHE WAS PREGNANT WHEN ROSE died and that’s why they got married right away. But then it turned out she wasn’t pregnant after all, it was some weird growth that mimics pregnancy. She said the medical term but I can’t remember what it was— something about a mole— but whatever it was, now she really is pregnant. And she thinks that this is going to bring Kyra back to the bosom of the family— or at least, she hopes that’s what will happen.”

Phillip’s brow furrowed and he moved one hand from the steering wheel to run it over his head— that familiar gesture signifying heavy thought, uncertainty, and/or perturbation. “What’s your take on Kimmie, Sherlock?”

They were traveling along 25–70, the beautiful winding road running through Pisgah National Forest to Hot Springs and, beyond that, Shut In. A few backpackers were crossing the Appalachian Trail footbridge that spanned the road high above the car. The hikers looked hot and tired in the unseasonable muggy weather.

“She surprised me.” Elizabeth tried to sum up her perceptions. “She’s very…well, very ordinary and very sweet. Not at all the bimbo that I had expected. Of course, I was going on thirdhand information— Laurel told me what Kyra told her. But Kimmie’s…well, I like her. She seems, maybe a little naive, but—”

“You believe that about wanting to get Kyra back on good terms with her dad?”

Elizabeth hesitated. “I believe that’s what Kimmie wants. I’m not so sure about Kyra— or her dad.”

* * *

The kitchen table was set and the same endless procession of dishes appeared. Today there was a small dish of thick, crisply fried bacon instead of the sausage, and the smothered potatoes had been replaced by fat roasted sweet potatoes, melting chunks of home-churned butter oozing in their split-open tops. “Git you a chair and we’ll eat hit up while hit’s hot.” Omie, clearly delighted to have company, poured their glasses full of icy buttermilk and urged them to heap their plates.

As before, Phillip was asked to return thanks, and this time he did not stumble over the words but recited the grace from beginning to end with practiced ease. As he concluded, he smiled happily at his aunt, who reached out and patted his hand. “That’s a sight better, now don’t you think so, Phillip Lee?”

Their plates piled high, they settled into the serious business of doing justice to Aunt Omie’s cooking. Elizabeth asked about the bacon and was not surprised to learn that it was home-cured. “My neighbor kills two pigs ever year. He’s a widder man and I make him a pie or a cake now and again, so he brings me pig meat when he butchers. I can some, like them sausages we had last time. And some I salt down and hang in the meat house. Course when hit get so awful hot like hit done back in July, that meat’s like to go blanky. So I take whatever’s left and make hit into portions and put hit in the freezer.” With a jerk of her head she indicated the mammoth white chest freezer, humming quietly on the back porch.

“I wouldn’t take nothin’ fer that freezer.” Omie leaned confidentially toward Elizabeth. “Phillip Lee bought me that back in nineteen and eighty-four. I keep my butter there and a feller comes around ever month and buys hit off me. Pays me good too. They sell hit at a store over to Hot Springs. He’ll buy ever last pat I can make.”

Omie jumped up and retrieved a pot from the stovetop. “There now, I was like to fergit the okra and maters.” She gave them each a generous helping from the spicy, steaming red and green stew and resumed her seat.

“Well, Phillip Lee, you gettin’ along good over there in Asheville? How’s that little girl of yourn doin’ with her schoolin’?”

Phillip paused in his buttering of a third wedge of cornbread. “Janie’s doing fine, Aunt Omie. She stays so busy with classes and homework that I don’t see much of her, but I’ll try to bring her out next time—”

“Reckon she’s got her nose out of joint, along of you havin’ a lady friend.” Omie peered at Phillip. “Some young uns is like that. That widder man who give me the pig meat could’ve found him a wife after his old woman died— there’s a sight of widders around here— but his children took on so bad if ever he named another woman that he just give hit up and stayed single. And don’t none of ’em children live near enough to do for him. Hit’s a pure shame, what hit is.”

When they had gorged themselves to repletion and beyond, Omie quickly cleared the table, then stepped out to her back porch and returned with a Tupperware cake container. “Now, this here is one of my yaller cakes with that car’mel frostin’ you like so good, Phillip Lee; git you a big ol’ slice.”

She beamed at her nephew, who was dutifully cutting a huge wedge of the cake. “Law, when he was a young un, now he could hide him some cake!”

They were permitted to turn down second helpings on the condition that Phillip take the remainder of the cake home with him. As before, he was grudgingly allowed to do the dishes, and, as before, Elizabeth accompanied the old woman to the back bedroom where the quilts were kept.

“Don’t you pay no mind to Janie.” Aunt Omie looked up at Elizabeth. “She ain’t a bad young un but her mama raised her to think that folks out here is nothing but a bunch of ignorant hillbillies. Law, first time Phillip Lee brung that wife of hisn to see me, that Sandy like to had a fit when she found out there weren’t no commode. I heared ’em fussin’ out there on the front porch. ‘You take me back to a mo-tel,’ says she. ‘There’s one in Hot Springs we drove right past.’ And he done hit too, and come back hisself and stayed the night here.”

Omie shook her head sadly. “That was the first and last I seen of Sandy. When they got the divorce and the children was some older, Phillip Lee brung ’em up to see me one summer. But they was their mama’s babies, all right. Fussed about havin’ to go out to the little house, fussed about there weren’t no TV; the boy was plumb scared of the chickens and little Janie girl wanted to change her clothes ever whipstitch— any time she got the least speck of dirt on ’em, here she’d come a-bawlin’, ‘Doighty! Doighty!’ ”

“I’ve not seen much of Janie,” Elizabeth said. “She’s been out to my farm with her father a few times, but, like Phillip said, she does stay busy with school. Besides, Phillip and I are just friends; there’s nothing for her to be jealous of—”

Aunt Omie’s bright blue eyes glittered up at her. “In the Book hit says that love is strong as death and jealousy as cruel as the grave. I see what I see. Phillip Lee’s a good boy and he’s due some happiness in his life. I don’t want him to buckle under to his young un like my neighbor done. Now, let me git at this newspaper piece I wanted to show you.”

The little woman began to delve into the chest from which she had taken “the Fanchon quilt,” as she called it. When all the quilts and blankets, woolen winter coats (there was one that surely dated from the forties, Elizabeth judged), as well as a miscellaneous assortment of punitive-looking corsets and long winter underwear, had been removed and laid on the bed, there remained a layer of folded newspapers, brittle and yellowing.

“I always saved these whenever somethin’ big happened.” Omie carefully lifted out a stack of papers. The bold headline on the topmost issue read VICTORY IN JAPAN.

“This here is the one I thought you might want to see.” She made a space on the bed and gently unfolded the crumbling newsprint.

Local Girl to Meet President and Mrs. Roosevelt. The story was long and fulsome:

Fanchon Teague, a Shut In lovely best known for her sparkling talent with the banjo and guitar as well as her soulful renditions of the old mountain ballads, will travel to our nation’s capital to present a quilt of her own making to President Franklin Roosevelt and the First Lady. Miss Teague, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Jode Rector of Upper Shut In, will be ably representing our own Appalachian Women’s Craft Center and will be accompanied and chaperoned by Miss Lily Cabot, a debutante from Boston and a recent charming addition to these mountains of ours, whose labors as a volunteer instructress at the Center have brought a taste of the classics to the fair daughters of the hills.

The article continued in flowery tones, lauding the work of the AWCC and expressing firm expectations that the trip would result in more funding for the Center and a concomitant growth of the local economy. Beside the article was a picture of four women, all dressed in the severe garb of the Depression era.

Elizabeth peered closely at the images, eager to see the beautiful Fanchon. Two women, evidently in their forties and dressed in tailored skirts and blouses, were identified as Miss Geneva Mills and Miss Carolyn Hedley: “Founders of the AWCC and tireless workers for the furthering of our Native Arts and Crafts.” A slender teenager wearing a dark, long-sleeved dress with a gored skirt, her light hair in a loose knot, smiled at the camera. She was identified as “Fanchon Teague, Marshall County’s talented ambassadress to the White House.” The fourth was “Miss Lily Cabot.” A pale-haired woman in her twenties, she seemed, as far as could be told from a faded photograph, to be more stylishly and expensively dressed than the other three. She was standing by Fanchon, her arm protectively circling the younger girl’s narrow waist. She alone did not stare into the camera; her head was turned toward her lovely charge.

“I don’t understand,” said Elizabeth, looking up from the faded newspaper. “I thought the trip never happened.”

“Well, now, hit didn’t. But that story there come out a week afore they was supposed to git on the train. And they was a play-party for ’em up at the Center the night afore the big trip. Folks from all around come but that ol’ Tildy wouldn’t even set foot on the grounds. Eat up with jealousy, some said, and of her own sister. You could tell hit made Fanchon feel right bad, but that Yankee woman kept on a-talkin’ of all the things they’d see and how they’d send postcards and letters back.

“I weren’t but a little thing but my whole family went and we was all there at the depot the next day, waitin’ to see ’em git on the train and go to meet Mr. Roosevelt. But the train come and the train left and no sign of the Yankee woman nor Fanchon.”

Omie was sitting on the edge of the open trunk, her eyes faraway. She touched the Fanchon quilt lovingly. “Well, some said they might have been an accident. Bragg Strother was ’posed to fetch ’em from the Center in that car of hisn and carry ’em to the train. And some said that Bragg weren’t none too happy to see Fanchon go off and that he might have made them late a purpose. And folks is standin’ about and sayin’ what they think might have happened when here comes the Center’s old wagon.

“Miss Geneva’s drivin’ and beside her is the Yankee woman and the wagon bed is filled up with fancy grips and boxes and such. That Yankee woman’s settin’ up just as straight, not lookin’ to one side or t’other. Her lips is pressed together tight and her eyes is red like she’s been cryin’ hard. Everyone crowds around the wagon but Miss Geneva just says, ‘Please, would some of you men get out Miss Cabot’s luggage. She’s catching the next train to Asheville.’

“And not one more word would she say till that Yankee woman was on the train and out of sight. Then she told us that the quilt had disappeared and that Fanchon had gone off with Bragg Strother. And they weren’t goin’ to be no trip to see the President of the United States.”

* * *

As they drove back toward Ridley Branch, Elizabeth had repeated to Phillip the story of the Fanchon quilt. “And it wasn’t till twenty years later, long after the Center had shut down and the ladies had moved away, that your aunt found the quilt.”

Elizabeth looked at the fragile newspaper that lay across her lap. “I asked if I could make a copy of this story to put up along with the quilt. I think it might be interesting to find out a little more about these four women. Miss Birdie’s cousin Dorothy may have known Fanchon fairly recently.”

“They’re probably all dead by now, wouldn’t you think?” Phillip slowed to let a state trooper’s car pull past him. “Or very ancient.”

“Probably. But it would add some extra interest to the quilt exhibit to give a history of the Center. I have to be a little careful though. It’s not clear why exactly the whole D.C. trip didn’t come off, and there seem to have been some bad feelings. For example, I asked your aunt what happened to Miss Cabot and she said that she came back almost ten years later looking for Fanchon. She said, ‘That Yankee woman come by, ridin’ in a great fancy car with a colored man in a uniform drivin’ her.’ ”

“I wondered what was taking you two so long back there.” They were behind one of the numerous yellow school buses that swayed along the mountain roads in the afternoon. Two young boys stared out the back window at them, making faces and laughing. A shoe flew out of a side window and the bus pulled to a lurching stop on the shoulder. The driver’s arm motioned Phillip to pass.

“So you got the backstory, did you?” Phillip pulled around the bus and they continued on.

“More than you might think.” Elizabeth smiled, thinking of all that Omie had told her about Phillip’s ex-wife and children. “Your aunt had a lot to say, that’s for sure. She remembers events down to the last detail. You know, most of my older neighbors up here are that way— I think it comes of growing up without radio and television: a real oral tradition. Aunt Omie made it sound like a mystery— the strange affair of the missing quilt— the return of the Yankee woman.”

Omie had delighted in telling the story as she remembered it. “When the Yankee woman come to our house, now that would’ve been in ’43, she told my mommy as how she had got married to an Asheville lawyer and lived there now. Said she had her a little girl. She asked my mommy where Fanchon was at, for she had stopped at the old Rector place and seen that there weren’t no one livin’ there. Course, by this time Bragg had got him a job in one of them automobile plants and him and Fanchon had moved to De-troit. And then Tildy went to live with ’em after her folks died. My mommy told the Yankee woman all this and sent her over to see could Miss Caro and Miss Geneva tell her how to git up with Fanchon.

“So off she went in that fancy car. But someone told me that when she sent that colored man up to knock on the door, the ladies just pretended they wasn’t there. Everwhat did happen, that Yankee woman went away and never come back.”

And there it had ended. Omie knew no more of what happened to Fanchon and Tildy or to “that Yankee woman.” Omie said that Miss Caro and Miss Geneva had moved away shortly afterward when one of them had developed an illness of some sort. “I believe that hit was some female problem but didn’t no one rightly know fer sure. The ladies was closemouthed about hit. But they left out right quick; they give away the looms and such and sold the house and outbuildings.”

Elizabeth wound up the story. “As I said, your aunt made it all sound very dramatic and mysterious. Anyhow, I’d like to know more. I’m going to see what I can find in the newspaper archives in Asheville.”

* * *

The moon was near full, washing the trees with silver and illuminating the pastures where the dark shapes of grazing cattle moved quietly across the slopes of Pinnacle Mountain. Elizabeth sat on the porch, sipping her coffee and thinking about the tangled relationships that surrounded her. Phillip had declined her offer of a light supper, saying that Janie was coming over and he needed to get back home.

Is Janie jealous of me? Does she wish her father and her mother weren’t divorced? Probably. But that happened years ago; Phillip said his wife got tired of playing second fiddle to his job as a police detective. Maybe Janie just wants his undivided attention, after so many years of seeing him only on weekends. But she’s busy all the time, according to him.

And what’s the real truth about Kyra and her father? She accuses him of murder but he seems extremely protective of her. Is she lying? Is there some weird Oedipus— no, that’s not right. Electra— Electra complex going on? And what about Ben?

Yet again, Ben was gone for the night. His truck had been pulling out of the driveway when she and Phillip returned. He had waved briefly but had kept going.

Later that evening as she was rereading the article in the old newspaper and once again studying the picture of the four women, a vague memory began to tease at the edges of Elizabeth’s thoughts. Where did I put that handout from the museum? She went to her bedroom closet and found the long black skirt she had worn to the Strike on Box performance. There, in one of its pockets, was the folded handout that announced the opening of the Gordon Annex.

A picture of the benefactor, Mrs. Robert B. Gordon, was followed by a brief biography. Elizabeth skimmed down to the third paragraph.

Mrs. Gordon has long been involved in the arts. A native of Boston, the young Lily Cabot first came to the mountains in 1934 and worked with the Appalachian Women’s Craft Center in Marshall County, helping to keep alive the native arts and crafts. Following her marriage to Robert B. Gordon of Asheville, she devoted her energy to the furtherance of the arts in her adopted city.

“My god! I’ve met her! Kyra’s GeeGee is the Yankee woman….”

In the yellowed newspaper photo Lily Cabot was young and attractive, though completely unremarkable. She could have been any fair-haired, pretty young woman. Lily Gordon, on the other hand, seventy-some years later, as pictured in the museum’s handout was obviously a force to be reckoned with. Dark hawk eyes glared from the professional photo, and her wrinkled face was set in an uncompromising take-no-prisoners expression. The young Lily Cabot had possessed a tentative prettiness, but Lily Gordon at ninety clearly knew herself to be a beauty. Whatever trials, joys, sorrows, and temptations she might have passed through, all had been written on her countenance and all had shaped her into the formidable woman who reigned from her mansion in Biltmore Forest.

CHAPTER 22

THE GORGON OF ASHEVILLE

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, AND SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 17)

THIS IS ELIZABETH GOODWEATHER— KYRA’S neighbor. May I speak with Mrs. Gordon?”

A man on the other end of the line said politely that he would ascertain if Mrs. Gordon were available. A few minutes passed. Then she heard the precise tones of the distinguished old woman who had spoken at the opening of the new annex to the art museum. “This is Mrs. Gordon. How may I help you?”

“Mrs. Gordon, this is—”

“Yes, Mrs. Goodweather. Buckley told me. Is it something about my great-granddaughter?”

“No, ma’am, at least I did want to ask how she was, but I wondered if you could help me with something entirely different. You see, I’m putting together a quilt exhibit for our local library, and a friend’s aunt has lent the most amazing quilt….”

Elizabeth worked her way through the story, ending by explaining her interest in learning more about the long-defunct Appalachian Women’s Craft Center. “…and I wondered if you could answer some questions for me?”

There was a silence on the other end and then a weary sigh. “Questions. I don’t know, Mrs. Goodweather. It’s been a very long time.”

“Oh, I understand. But there are so many things that only someone who was there could tell me.”

Again the old woman seemed to echo her. “Someone who was there…” And then her voice grew stronger with some hidden resolve. “Perhaps you’re right, Mrs. Goodweather. Yes, I’ll answer your questions. But it wearies me to use the telephone for any length of time— my hearing is not what it was.”

“I could come in—”

“I believe that I would enjoy a ride in the country tomorrow. I’ll have Buckley bring me out in the afternoon— he knows the way.”

Elizabeth hesitated. “Mrs. Gordon, it’s a four-wheel-drive road up to my house and then a flight of steps. I could meet you at the lower place and drive you up, but I don’t know…can you—”

A low chuckle came from the other end. “You’re very thoughtful, my dear. If I can’t manage your steps, Buckley will carry me. And we have a four-wheel-drive vehicle. Shall we say half past three?”

* * *

The gray-haired man in the chauffeur’s cap lifted the exquisitely dressed little nonagenarian from the white SUV, carried her along the rock-laid footpath and up the six steps to the porch as if she were a clutch of phoenix eggs on a silken cushion.

“Thank you, Buckley. Please return for me in an hour. You have the keys to the barn where Kyra’s remaining possessions are, I believe.” It was not a question. Buckley touched the brim of his hat and retreated wordlessly down the steps. Elizabeth watched him go.

So it had been Buckley outside the Candlestation— and Buckley who was following Kimmie. Was he working for Marvin Peterson, as well as Lily Gordon? Surely this frail and elegant old woman wouldn’t use her driver as a…a henchman. Elizabeth looked closely at her guest.

Lily Cabot Gordon was leaning on her gold-headed ebony cane and surveying the surroundings. “Well,” she said, after an inspection that missed nothing, from the patchwork cushions in the rocking chairs to the fish pool below the porch to the dogs’ half-gnawed bone that Elizabeth had hurriedly kicked to one side. “Kyra has told me so much about your home. I’m delighted that you would allow me to visit. It’s been many years since I’ve seen Marshall County.”

“And I’m delighted that you could come out, Mrs. Gordon. I have some tea ready, if you’d like to come inside.” Elizabeth smiled, restraining the impulse to curtsy. I haven’t totally forgotten how to play the lady game. Gramma would be proud of me.

* * *

As soon as she had hung up the phone on the previous evening, Elizabeth had gone into a whirlwind of activity to be ready for a visit from Lily Cabot Gordon. She had tidied; she had vacuumed; she had mopped. And she had made a lemon pound cake.

In the morning she had picked fresh flowers— black-eyed Susans and some deep blue-purple wild lobelias— for her dining table and living room and had given the wooden tabletops a swipe with fragrant lemon oil. She had taken out and washed Gramma’s Haviland teacups and saucers and had unearthed a wispy square of embroidered linen that had graced many bygone tea tables.

What the hell are you carrying on like this for, Elizabeth? She had asked herself this question as she was cutting excruciatingly thin slices of homemade white bread, having, at some point, decided that cucumber tea sandwiches, as well as bread and butter, would be nice with the lemon cake.

But as she ushered Lily Cabot Gordon into the cool, clean, lavender-scented living room and saw her guest’s face light up appreciatively at the sight of the tea things laid on the low table, she knew the answer. I think I did all this for Gramma, as much as I did it for Mrs. Gordon. Gramma would be pleased to know that her pretty china and linen are being used, that the old ways aren’t forgotten.

“This is lovely, Mrs. Goodweather.” The old woman settled into a comfortable armchair and accepted a cup of tea. “So few people have time for tea anymore. I’m afraid you must have gone to a great deal of trouble. I believe Kyra said that you have no help.”

“It was my pleasure, Mrs. Gordon.” Elizabeth offered her guest the plate of tiny sandwiches. “My grandmother and I used to have tea like this, and I enjoyed fixing it. This was her china. It’s nice to have an excuse to use it.”

By the time they had finished their tea, Lily Gordon had deftly elicited the pertinent facts of Elizabeth’s background: schooling, marriage, decision to move from Florida to the mountains, children, and widowhood. She had particularly inquired about Ben and had nodded approvingly as Elizabeth related his story.

“A fine young man, I’m sure. Lovely manners, unfortunately rather unusual these days, don’t you find?” The old woman put down her empty cup and leaned toward Elizabeth. “I hope that you won’t misunderstand me when I say that I am concerned about his…infatuation for my great-granddaughter. It won’t do, Mrs. Goodweather.” The hawk eyes were piercing.

“But you wanted to know about my involvement with the Center.” Lily Gordon segued easily and firmly into her story, overriding and ignoring Elizabeth’s surprised expression at the reference to Ben. The old woman’s face lit up as she spoke of her youthful idealism, her eagerness to bring a richer life to the young women of Appalachia. She described the programs offered at the Center, her interest and participation and then, ultimately, her disenchantment.

“I like to believe that we did good, that lives were changed for the better, but somehow…” Her hooded hawk’s eyes dropped. “There were conflicts, as there always are, and as time went on I began to feel that the two founders of the Center were…not entirely suitable for the task they had undertaken. I left the Center and went to stay with friends of my family in Asheville.

“And then I met Robert. He was the eldest son, a young lawyer, recently graduated from Harvard, and from the moment he saw me, he was determined that I would be his wife. I was not in love with him but he was persistent. And, speaking frankly, I had battled my parents so fiercely in order to be allowed to come to the mountains that I was unwilling to return to Boston and admit my disillusionment. So Robert and I married and I gave up social work.”

Lily Gordon looked at the thin platinum and diamond band that was almost hidden by the massive diamond solitaire on her left ring finger. “I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

“Let me show you the quilt and the article I told you about.” Elizabeth went to her desk, took up the fragile newspaper, and handed it to her guest. “The quilt’s in my workroom; I’ll just be a minute.”

When she returned with the folded quilt, she saw that there were tears in the old woman’s eyes and that her thin finger was tracing one of the faces in the photograph. “So young,” she said, as if to herself. “So young and impetuous.”

She looked up as Elizabeth spread the quilt out on the sofa beside her chair. She inspected the charming squares of appliquéd and embroidered animals politely, but with a strange lack of interest. The gray woolen owl, the rust-colored fox, the cardinal— its shining red silk still bright— the various birds and beasts of Appalachians, all so skillfully portrayed, received only a cursory glance. The old woman’s gaze seemed to linger slightly on the embroidery in the lower corner: ornate script that read Fanchon Teague~Marshall County, North Carolina~1934.

“Yes,” she said at last. “This is the quilt that was to have gone to President Roosevelt. I never expected to see it again. I suppose you’ve heard the story?”

“I’ve heard a story but it was thirdhand, at least. I wondered what you could tell me.”

Lily Gordon made a harsh sound that was not quite a laugh. “I spoke of being disillusioned. This quilt, as well as the accompanying disaster, was the final straw. You see, Mrs. Goodweather, I had worked very hard, using all my family’s influence, to arrange a meeting with President and Mrs. Roosevelt. There were high hopes for increased exposure and funding that would allow us to expand our programs.

“Fanchon Teague, this girl in the photograph, was chosen to present the quilt. She was the most personable and talented of all our girls, really quite charming and naive. I had rehearsed her over and over in a simple speech and she was to sing a ballad as well. The ladies agreed that, of all our girls, Fanchon would present the best picture of the Center, and we had pinned our hopes on her. I bought train tickets and suitable clothing for this girl with my own money…and two hours before we were to leave for the depot, she eloped with an uncouth local man, a lout and a bootlegger.”

The bony hands began to close as if to crush the yellowing pages, but Lily Gordon restrained herself and carefully laid the newspaper on the table beside the tea things. “I had been too generous in my belief that this backwoods girl could rise above her beginnings. Blood will tell, after all.”

“But what happened to the quilt?” Elizabeth asked.

The old woman lifted her eyebrows. “It was nowhere to be found. At the time, we assumed that Fanchon had taken it with her. There was talk later that her stepsister had destroyed it in a fit of jealousy. But for me, the whole affair was over. I left the Center the same day.”

Lily Gordon looked at the quilt with something like displeasure. “And when did this come to light?”

“A lady in Shut In, the aunt of a friend of mine, says she found it in a trunk up in her barn loft some time in the fifties. Her place is next to where Fanchon lived.”

“Is this ‘friend’ the ex–police officer Kyra told me about? The one she’s asked to look into the death of that young man after that ridiculous performance at the museum?”

Dark eyes held Elizabeth, who suddenly recalled whispers at the museum opening to the effect that Mrs. Robert B. Gordon was also known as the Gorgon of Asheville.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve, that is, he’s been following up various leads but—”

Lily Gordon held up a forestalling hand. “Perhaps I can help you. Has Kyra told you that she believes her father is involved in this young man’s death? And in the death of her mother as well?”

Elizabeth squirmed, feeling uncomfortable with the old woman’s directness. “Well, she…ah…” The icy gorgon glare froze her. “Yes, ma’am, she did.”

To Elizabeth’s great relief, Lily Gordon closed her eyes and leaned back. “Mrs. Goodweather, Kyra is a very troubled child. She is my only living relative and I love her dearly— but not blindly.”

The eyes reopened but now the gaze was soft and the old woman smiled sweetly at her hostess. “Sit down, Mrs. Goodweather, and indulge an old woman by listening to a little family history.”

Feeling a bit like the Wedding Guest faced with the Ancient Mariner, Elizabeth sat and listened.

“My daughter Amanda married William Sheffield, the child of another old Asheville family. Amanda was only eighteen and he was in his thirties— a boring man but an excellent lawyer. Rose was born when Amanda was twenty, but there was never another child. My daughter didn’t particularly enjoy maternity— she was completely engrossed with raising show dogs— those yappy little Yorkshire terriers. She was a rather…detached mother. So Rose was often with me and we were quite close.

“Oh, Amanda did her duty— saw to it that Rose went to the right schools and came out at the Rhododendron Ball. And she had a stuffy young lawyer picked out for a son-in-law. But Rose was a rebel. She met Marvin somewhere and was head over heels in love before her parents had any idea what was going on. In fact, the first hint they had of his existence was when Rose announced that she was expecting— four months along, she claimed— and was marrying Peterson, with or without their approval.

“Rose told me all about it. As I said, we were very close, far closer than Amanda and I had ever been. My granddaughter came to me because she knew that I would understand, having been a rebel myself— she had always loved hearing how I left my sheltered Boston home to work among the savage mountaineers of Marshall County.”

The old woman’s expression softened. “Rose was smitten, as was Marvin. They were Romeo and Juliet, Héloïse and Abelard, Dante and Beatrice— at any rate, Rose made these comparisons. At the time of their marriage Marvin was not up to such literary flights of fancy, but he did love my granddaughter extravagantly.”

Lily Gordon sighed heavily. “My daughter set her face in a frozen smile and gave Rose the lovely wedding that she had so carefully planned. But as soon as the couple left on their honeymoon trip to Europe, Amanda and her husband announced that they were moving to Connecticut. They are both gone now but while she was living, Amanda never returned to Asheville, not for her granddaughter’s birth nor even her daughter’s funeral.”

The old woman paused and Elizabeth refilled her cup, asking, “Kyra seems to be very angry with her father now. Do you still see him since—” She broke off, hesitant to bring up the subject of the mistress and successor to Lily Gordon’s beloved granddaughter.

“Marvin?” The old woman sipped at the tea. “We are on very good terms. He visits me at least once a week.” She put the cup down again. “A woman of my age has few friends to gossip with, but I hear the whispers. They ask how I can maintain a friendship with the man who led a double life while married to my darling granddaughter. The man who married his mistress a week after Rose’s death.”

The gorgon eyes bored into Elizabeth’s. “But a woman of my age can ignore the whispers. I know the circumstances that led Marvin to behave as he did, and knowing them, I can forgive. And it is my firm belief that Marvin would never have hurt my Rose in any way.”

“Does he…do you have any idea who might have been responsible for her death? There are still rumors that it was done to harm Mr. Peterson— a disgruntled…business associate or something of that kind.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” the old woman said. Her face was suddenly very weary. “Before their marriage he had had many…shall we say, questionable business arrangements. Probably nothing to touch the activities of some of the corporate executives of today.” A hint of the rebellious Lily Cabot flared and subsided. “But when they married, Marvin swore to Rose and to me as well that all his dealings would henceforth be completely legitimate— and ethical, as well.”

The thin lips sketched a sardonic smile. “The two don’t always go hand in hand, you know. But Marvin has, from that time, conducted his various business enterprises with the utmost rectitude. It never seemed reasonable to me that a— how did you phrase it?— a disgruntled associate from long ago would have waited so many years for revenge.”

“Could the motive have been burglary?” Elizabeth persisted.

“No, there was no burglary, nothing taken. I went through Rose’s jewels myself. Her grandfather and I had given her several very nice things, as, of course, had her parents and Marvin.” The wrinkled brow furrowed deeper. “I could find only one thing missing: a pendant we gave her on her sixteenth birthday— a small platinum rose covered in tiny rubies with a single diamond dewdrop on one petal— not particularly valuable but a pretty piece. Robert had it made to his own design— he gave me this brooch the same year.” She indicated the jewel at the neck of her pale gray silk blouse: a graceful calla lily in pavé diamonds with a ruby spadix and an emerald leaf and stem.

A peal of barking rang out on the front porch. Elizabeth excused herself and went to the door to see Buckley easing the SUV up the road. She quieted the dogs and returned to her guest.

“Your driver’s back, Mrs. Gordon.” She hesitated. “It’s probably none of my business, but— do you have him follow Kyra occasionally? Or anyone else?”

The old woman stiffened. Then she fixed Elizabeth with that bone-freezing stare. “Kyra is my only living relative. Her mother was my only grandchild. My daughter Amanda died two years ago, shortly after her brother, my only other child, was killed in a hit-and-run accident. He had never married. So there is only Kyra. Like many old families, we are diminished. So yes, sometimes I feel the need to take particular care of what remains.”

A discreet triple knock at the door announced that Buckley had arrived. Elizabeth let him in and he helped Mrs. Gordon to her feet. She thanked Elizabeth for the tea and Elizabeth walked with her to the porch, expressing her gratitude for the information about the Center. “It will be so much more interesting to have some actual history to accompany the quilt; I really appreciate your coming out to talk to me.”

As Buckley picked up the fragile old woman, she called, “Oh, Mrs. Goodweather, it just occurred to me: perhaps you’d like to speak with Fanchon herself. She’s at the Golden Years retirement center just south of Asheville— or rather, they are.”

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “What? Excuse me, I don’t understand. I didn’t know she was still—” Elizabeth stared at the little woman who was smiling serenely from her perch in the arms of her driver.

“Oh yes, Fanchon and her stepsister Tildy are both still alive— they’re much younger than I. Of course I haven’t seen them in years. Tildy had a stroke and finds it difficult to communicate. And Fanchon and I really have so little in common.”

As Elizabeth struggled to assimilate this news, Buckley began to descend the steps with stately care. At the bottom he turned and Lily Gordon lifted her hand in farewell.

“One last thing, Mrs. Goodweather. Your handsome nephew. You must persuade him to stay away from Kyra. It really isn’t safe.” The thin lips stretched in a charming smile. Above the fluffy white coiffure of his employer, Buckley’s face was impassive. Then his eyes narrowed. He held Elizabeth with a stern gaze and gave a slow nod.

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL—

SEVENTH ENTRY

The Goodweather woman is no fool. I believe that she will take my warning seriously and I will not be forced to extreme measures.

She is an interesting woman, a lady, one would say, with education and some breeding, who has, nevertheless, chosen to live her life working like a farmhand. Puzzling. Her home is rustic but attractive— she has an eye for beauty. Wide-planked oak floors, comfortable denim-covered sofas, somewhat shabby, a nice reproduction Sheraton secretary, fresh flowers in a fine old silver pitcher, some antique tables, worn Persian carpets— all very welcoming and tasteful, if a little doggy in places. (How Reba fussed as she brushed off the black skirt I had worn on my visit!)

I found myself quite moved by her hospitality. She had taken some little trouble to lay a proper tea. A really excellent lemon cake— I found myself enjoying the visit and remembering little Rose and her love for “tea parties.” Indeed, I spoke more freely than I intended and forgot, till the last moment, my reason for making the trip back into the mountains of Marshall County.

The old newspaper story with that photograph— I had believed those guilty feelings, those wretched memories long since buried. And that quilt, with its lying signature— the shock of seeing it again almost undid me. But I am well practiced. I concealed my feelings. I am not yet at peace with that quilt either. If money could expunge a wrong action, I should be guiltless many times over— the cost of that place is quite exorbitant— but still— and I have not always behaved charitably in these latter years.

Perhaps it no longer matters— we are all so near the end. But here toward the end, my memory grows keener as if I must relive that moment, that turning point, yet again.

* * *

It was November 1, 1934, the day that we were to embark on our train trip to the capital. Caro and Geneva had taken our bags to the depot, where a crowd was gathering to bid farewell to the travelers. I had acceded to Fanchon’s request that her admirer, the Strother lout, be permitted to drive us to the train in his automobile, but I had insisted that Fanchon come to the Center first so that I could help her dress and put up her hair.

The kitchen was prepared so that she could bathe before donning her new traveling outfit. I emptied the zinc tub that I had already made use of. More water was heating on the cookstove and I laid ready clean towels and a new cake of my own perfumed soap.

Fanchon tapped at the door and when I let her in I could see that she was almost giddy with excitement and apprehension. A warm bath will calm you, my dear, I told her and led her to the kitchen. I showed her the new clothes hanging ready: the tailored suit of soft blue-gray wool, its bias-cut skirt flaring like a trumpet flower, the pale silver-gray silky blouse with its elegant drape, the deep blue beret, the narrow low-heeled pumps and matching bag of a buttery caramel-colored leather, the suede gloves of the same color. I had chosen them with such care, imagining how the soft blues and grays would set off her beautiful red-gold hair.

You’ll look like a princess, I promised her, and then I busied myself with filling the tub. Go on and get out of those things, I said, pouring in cold water from the bucket at the sink, then moderating it with boiling water from the kettle. That soap came from England, I said. Smell it.

Oh, she said, smiling rapturously. It’s just like the little lilies with the white bells. She had pulled off her worn jacket and her faded old dress and stood there in a shift that had been sewn from bleached flour sacks. The faint shadow of red lettering marched across her breasts. I was happy that I had sent off for three sets of silk undergarments to surprise her with.

Those flowers are called lilies of the valley, I said. The French call them muguet de bois. Maybe you’ll go to France someday. I did not add, With me, with me, but oh, how I thought it.

I left her to her bath and went to the front room. The box containing the presentation quilt waited by the door, wrapped in oilcloth and corded securely. I leaned my forehead against the cool window glass, for the heat of the cookstove had made my face uncomfortably warm. Outside the window, the leafless trees and brown hills held no interest for me; my entire being was just behind the half-closed kitchen door.

I could hear the gentle splashing and could see, with my mind’s eye, the fragrant soap passing over those perfect limbs. It seemed difficult for me to draw a deep breath and then suddenly she called out, Miss Lily, would you come pour some rinse water on my back? I’m feared I’ll get it all over the floor.

Hardly able to speak I went into the kitchen and immediately began to fill the bucket, again being careful to mix the hot and cold to the proper temperature. I had tried not to look at her as she stood there, but I knew that a lock of her red-gold hair had escaped the hairpins and tumbled down across the gentle swell of her breasts. I knew that her waist and hips made me think of a lyre, I knew that I had never seen so beautiful a creature. (Nor have I, in the long years since that moment, ever had my heart so stirred, my passions so moved.)

Yet I had tried not to look at her. At last the bucket was ready and I took it to her. She laughed and said, Mommy always has me to turn around while she pours. She began to revolve slowly and I poured, watching the water cascade down the slopes and valleys my hands and lips longed to travel.

When all the water was gone, we stood facing each other. The battered zinc tub was a scallop shell and she— she was Botticelli’s Venus. I felt a buzzing in my head as I set the bucket gently on the floor. Still she stood, her face an enigma. Fanchon, I whispered and put one hand around her neck. I drew her to me and pressed my lips to hers. She stood there unmoving and then I brought my other hand to her breast and put one finger on the soft pink cone of her nipple.

It tightened under my touch and her mouth opened slightly under mine. Then suddenly she sprang back, stepped quickly out of the tub, and caught up a towel to cover herself. She fixed me with an unreadable stare.

I stammered, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, as I backed away. It was then that I saw that hopeless gaze. She held my eyes as she slowly wrapped the towel about her. Then she looked away and I ran from the room to the back porch, hoping that the cool air would quench the burning of my cheeks.

When at last I ventured back into the kitchen, she was gone, as were the clothes she had worn. The suit that she was to wear for the trip to Washington was still on its hanger. The front door stood ajar and the package with the quilt was gone. The road outside was empty and the bare trees and vacant fields seemed to mock me.

I could barely see through my tears as I took the bucket I had used to fill the zinc bathtub and began laboriously to empty it now. The cloudy bathwater was still warm and smelled of her. Cupping my hand, I dipped it into the water. Then, seeking a communion that would never be mine, I drank.

CHAPTER 23

A NEW BEGINNING

(WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 21)

MUM, WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH BEN? HE’S IN A really pissy mood.”

Laurel had appeared, as was her wont, unexpectedly, and announced that she was in need of some farm time. “I have a few days off and I thought I’d just hang out, maybe give you all a hand with the wreath making or in the greenhouses. So, anyway, when I got here Ben was taking cuttings and I offered to help but he kind of acted like he didn’t want me around. You know, one-word answers, that kind of thing. What’s going on with him? You’d think he was PMSing.”

She dropped her backpack and perched on the rock wall just below where Elizabeth was spreading litter from the chicken house around the towering ferns of the asparagus. The day was overcast and muggy; too warm for almost October, Elizabeth thought as she removed her old straw hat, pulled the sweat-soaked bandana off her head, and replaced it with a dry one from her pocket. She spread the wet purple square over one of the tomatillo plants that grew between the clumps of asparagus, and considered her answer.

“It’s not you, Laur. He’s mad because he wanted to spend today and tomorrow in Asheville helping Kyra get ready for her show at the QuerY— it’s coming up soon. But I reminded him that we were already a week behind on taking cuttings to root and kind of insisted that he stay here and do them.”

Elizabeth abandoned her mulching and sat beside her daughter. “You know what, Laur; I’m worried about this thing with Ben and Kyra. He seems serious but I really don’t know about her. I’m afraid he’s going to get hurt— and maybe not just emotionally. And that’s according to Kyra’s father, Kyra’s great-grandmother, and Kyra herself— not to mention some goon in sunglasses who said he works for the family.”

As Elizabeth filled her in on the events of the past few days, Laurel listened, shaking her head slightly so that the beads and baubles in her dreadlocks rattled softly. At last she said, “You’re probably right— I mean, Kyra’s a friend of mine and I’m sorry for all the crap that’s gone down in her life but…well, I’d hate to see Ben get seriously involved with her. She tends to really mess with guys’ minds. The whole Aidan-Boz thing, for instance. Why Aidan didn’t get out of that relationship when Boz took over, I’ll never understand. But he was happy just to stay around, like some pathetic dog waiting for crumbs to fall.”

Laurel shifted restlessly, then stood and moved to the unmulched section of the asparagus bed. “I’ll pull weeds, okay? Then you can finish with the mulch.” She began a ruthless uprooting of the various intruders into the bed. Elizabeth felt that her daughter had more to say, but knew that it would come only when Laurel was ready. She put her straw hat back on and went to the edge of the garden to retrieve another of the feed sacks bulging with manure-rich straw from the chicken house.

The two worked in companionable silence till the entire bed was weeded and covered with a heavy blanket of mulch. The sun was at its height when they trudged up the road to the welcome cool of the shady porch.

As they sat in the rocking chairs, pulling off their boots, Laurel seemed to make up her mind. “You know, Mum, it’s all such a mess. Now the police have taken Rafiq in for questioning. They think the guy at the junkyard is mixed up with a meth lab and they’re suspicious of anyone who’s been around there a lot. And of course Rafiq was there all the time when he was working on his zodiac series. They let him go but it really freaked him out— he’s pretty paranoid anyway. Not only that, I’ve been listening to the buzz around the River District and some people are saying that Carter Dixon is in big trouble with the IRS.”

“Kyra told us something like that the day of the stroll. But she said she’d talked to him and he denied—”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” Laurel lifted her heavy dreadlocks to let the air cool her neck. “You know, I’ve about had it with the Rasta look. It was fun but now that I see how good Kyra looks with next to no hair…what do you think, Mum?”

“Sweetie, I think you’ll do what you want to.” Evidently Laurel was ready to change the subject, Elizabeth thought, fanning herself with her straw hat. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled when you started with the dreads— your hair in its natural state is gorgeous, in my outdated opinion. But I’ve gotten used to the way you look and I have to admit, now that they’re long, the dreads have a certain…a certain…well, they’re very striking…and I like all the little beads and doodads you put in them. Like those tennis players.”

Laurel groaned. “That’s the problem. At first the dreads were kind of unique, especially for a white person. I thought it would be a good look for an artist: it never hurts to stand out in a crowd. But now, every other stoner kid hanging on Lexington has them.”

She flipped the heavy red cords of hair disdainfully. Elizabeth studied her daughter, trying to read her mood. Suddenly Laurel jumped up and disappeared into the house, emerging moments later with a pair of scissors. “Okay, let’s do it.”

Elizabeth stared at her. “Laurel, are you sure? It’s taken you years…maybe you ought to think about it awhile—”

“Nope. Now. I am so ready to be rid of these things. If you won’t cut them off, I will.” Her expression was fierce. “If you do it, at least what hair’s left’ll be mostly all the same length. If I do it myself, I’ll probably cut too close in places and scalp myself.”

Her mood seemed to lift as, one by one, her mother gingerly severed the thick dreadlocks. By the time the amputated cords of hair lay in a grisly row on the porch railing, Laurel was bubbling with good spirits.

“Oh, wow, that feels awesome!” She ran her fingers through the ragged red stubble, none of it over two inches long, and shook her head with delight. “It’s like going barefoot after wearing boots all winter— I love it.”

Then she bounded into the house to check her reflection in the mirror near the entry. There was a delighted peal of laughter. “It does make me look a little butch; I’ll probably be making lots of new friends.”

Elizabeth began to collect the severed dreadlocks from the railing. They were fat and solid in her hand. An eclectic assortment of beads and rings had been worked into the long cords of red hair, and Elizabeth realized that she was seeing some of the adornments as if for the first time. Laurel’s always in motion; no wonder I never noticed what allshe had in her hair. Here’s the little jade ring we gave her for her…was it her tenth birthday? And this is the turquoise and silver ring she bought when her middle school class went to Cherokee.

As a teenager, Laurel had succumbed to the fad of wearing rings on every finger. Now Elizabeth began to recognize them— one made of tiny purple and green beads strung on wire, another carved from wood, several inexpensive embossed silver circles, one with minute bells attached, a deep blue enameled hoop with little star-shaped cutouts— for several years Laurel had requested and had received rings on any and all gift-giving occasions.

“You’re not throwing away my dreads, are you? All those little doodads, as you called them, are important.” Laurel came back to the porch, her hands still busy exploring the altered terrain of her head. “I’ve got a plan for them. I want to incorporate them— and the dreads— in a biographical mixed-media piece— the story of my life.”

Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up and she quickly suppressed a grin.

Laurel grinned back. “Pretentious? Moi?”

* * *

While her daughter showered and washed her newly shorn hair, Elizabeth took down a large bowl and began to make a lavish tossed salad for their lunch— mixed lettuces, grape tomatoes, thin-sliced purple cabbage, green pepper slivers, hard-boiled egg, the last of the smoked mozzarella— the refrigerator was full of odds and ends that could be added. Crisp cucumber, carrots, basil, some left-over garbanzos— she could hear Laurel singing in the shower, “Always look on the bright side of life,” followed by a whistled version of the tune from Monty Python’s Life of Brian.

As she carried the bowls of salad to the table, Elizabeth wondered if this sudden haircut had any deeper significance. She had known other women who had chosen a radical haircut to mark some significant change in their lives— it seemed almost instinctive. Indeed, when Sam had been killed, she herself had experienced a wild urge to give her sorrow a physical expression: to wail, to keen, to tear her clothes, to scratch her cheeks, to cut her hair.

But of course, being a civilized woman at the end of the twentieth century, she had done none of these things. Not even black to the memorial service— just dark blue. I wonder…if I had done some of those primitive things, would I have put my sorrow behind me sooner? It took five years.

It was only recently that she had begun to feel the stirrings of an emotion that she had thought buried with Sam. Strewn, she corrected herself, Sam was strewn.

She was standing bemused, salad bowls in hand, when Laurel reappeared, clad in orange polka-dotted boxer shorts and a faded green T-shirt. She was vigorously toweling her head. “My scalp and every follicle on it thank you. I had forgotten how terrific it feels to really wash your hair.”

Coppery ringlets were forming in the damp hair and Laurel’s deep blue eyes were sparkling. Elizabeth put the salad bowls on the table and hugged her baffling daughter. “You look adorable, sweetie. Like a tall elf.”

* * *

“I’ll wash the dishes, Mum.” Laurel brought their bowls and glasses from the table and stacked them by the sink. She plucked a tiny, overlooked tomato from the salad bowl and popped it into her mouth.

“Thanks, Laur, but I’ll do them.” Elizabeth filled the teakettle with water and put it on the stovetop. “Really, I need to. Nothing like dish washing to get my hands clean after playing in the dirt. You go check out that latest copy of The New Yorker: there’s a great R. Crumb and Aline thing in there.”

The hot soapy water felt good to her tired and sore fingers, and she quickly had the few dishes lined up in the drainer. She was wiping the wooden countertops when she heard the telephone. It rang twice and then she could hear the murmur of her daughter’s voice coming toward the kitchen.

“Mum, it’s for you. Someone named Kimmie.” Laurel set the telephone on the cutting board and returned to the living room, open magazine in hand. Elizabeth dried her hands and picked up the phone, a little apprehensively.

“Elizabeth, this is Kimmie— you know, Kimmie Peterson from painting class? I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, this is fine. How are you, Kimmie?” Elizabeth switched the phone to her left ear and grabbed the whistling teakettle from the stovetop. She carefully filled the French coffee press while listening to the hesitant voice at the other end of the line.

“Well, that’s why I called. I’m sorry to bother you but I think I’m coming down with something and I don’t see how I can make it to class tomorrow. I was wondering, if it’s not too much trouble, could you call me tomorrow when you get home and tell me what you all did? I thought maybe if it was something simple, I could try and do it on my own. I just hate to miss the class but I really am under the weather. Marvin says it’s probably the flu— he had a touch of it a few weeks ago. It didn’t hit him as hard, though.”

“I’m sorry you’re feeling bad, Kimmie. Let me find a pen and I’ll get your number. I’ll be glad to call and tell you what happened in class.” Elizabeth opened the cabinet above the counter and scrabbled through the jars of herbs and spices for the pen she kept handy to her ongoing grocery list on the cabinet door. “Okay, I’m ready.”

Kimmie gave her the number and then said, in the same tone of quiet excitement that had accompanied the announcement of her pregnancy, “Elizabeth, remember I was telling you that I wrote Kyra a letter? Well, it turned out just like I had hoped. I think she just needed an excuse to get over being angry at her father. She actually came to dinner a few nights ago! And, Elizabeth, she said that she was so happy that she wouldn’t be an only child anymore and that she wanted to be a part of a family again.”

Kimmie rattled on. “She’s really excited about having a little brother or sister. You just can’t imagine the change in her. She brought a darling fluffy stuffed lamb for the baby and she brought me some really special tea from an herb shop— a tea that’s good for pregnant ladies. I think Kyra said it was made from dried raspberry leaves. Oh, Elizabeth, it’s an answer to prayer— a new beginning! Marvin can hardly believe what’s happening.”

The call came to an end and Elizabeth stood thinking, I can’t believe it either.

CHAPTER 24

SANCTUARY

(THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 22)

THE VOICE MAIL PICKED UP ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. This is the voice mail of Mr. and Mrs. Marvin Peterson. Please leave your message at the tone.

“Hi, Kimmie. This is Elizabeth from painting class…what we worked on today was pretty fun and you ought to be able to do it at home. Do a pencil drawing of a chair— a real one. We used just a plain classroom chair. Then paint the drawing using complementary colors— one for the background, one for the chair. You know, red and green, or blue and orange, or yellow and purple…I guess that’s it…. I hope you’re feeling better; if you have any questions, give me a call. See you next week.”

Laurel and Ben were in the kitchen, collaborating on an exotic pizza for dinner. Ben’s bad mood had eventually dissipated and he had put in long hours catching up with the work that had been neglected. “Sorry I was a jerk, Aunt E. And it turned out Kyra didn’t need me to come in just yet anyway. She said she’s working on a piece that’ll be the focus of her show and she has to be alone so she can concentrate.”

Elizabeth had accepted this change gratefully while wondering if Kyra was attempting to distance herself from Ben. And if that’s what she’s doing, is it to protect him or is it something else?

Judging by the sounds emanating from the kitchen, Ben was not pining. He and Laurel were reminiscing about bygone years, when he had come from his home in Florida to spend the summer on the farm.

“You were too!” Laurel’s words were mixed with laughter. “Remember the first time you came, you and Rosemary and I camped out. We all slept in a tent over there by the gate into the cow pasture. Aunt Gloria and whichever stepfather it was had brought you up and were leaving the next day. The three of us were all in the tent and were just about asleep when you hollered, ‘I’m getting out of here; there’re things breathing out there.’ And before I could tell you it was just the cows, you had grabbed the flashlight and headed for the house. Mum told us later that you burst in the door and hid under the coffee table. She said you begged Aunt Gloria not to make you sleep in the tent.”

“Hey, Laur, give me a break. I was a little kid used to traffic sounds at night, not big mysterious creatures munching and whuffling all around me. And besides, who’s living here and who opted for the bright lights of the big city?”

“Big city, my ass. It’s just Asheville. Once I’ve established myself as an artist, I’ll be back. I already have an idea for an awesome house in the woods above the workshop.”

Elizabeth smiled. She picked up the Fanchon quilt and continued stitching on the sleeve that would be used to hang the heavy piece. It’s good to hear them jabbering away like that. And it’s good to know that Laurel wants to come back eventually. Rosemary’s said the same sort of thing— I think she has a house site picked out too “for someday.”

Rosemary. How had she felt, sifting through the sad little bundle of newspaper stories that were all that remained of her childhood friend Maythorn? Had she begun writing the story that she had hoped would provide some catharsis? Elizabeth resolved to call or e-mail her daughter as soon as she finished her work on the quilt. Just a chat. But I’d like to be sure she hasn’t unleashed too many bad memories of that time.

* * *

The last stitch was in place and Elizabeth turned the quilt over. One of the animal appliqués— the copperhead snake— was coming loose. I’ll just tack the edges lightly, she decided, and rethreaded her needle with a dark brown to match the coils of the reptile. Then she stopped. All of the other animal appliqués had been sewn down with a tiny, precise buttonhole stitch in black thread— a technique common in the thirties. But the copperhead had been attached with an invisible stitch.

Her first impulse was to change her thread to black and bring the copperhead square into uniformity with the others. No, you can’t make any changes— Fanchon did it this way and you have to honor that— whether it was intentional or not. She began to sew.

A sharp buzz from the kitchen surprised her just as the last invisible stitch was in place and she was about to investigate when she realized that it was Laurel’s newly acquired cell phone. The noisy chatter in the kitchen stopped and she could hear Laurel speaking to someone.

“No, I’m sure it would be okay…. No, I’m out there now…. Hang on, I’ll check.”

Laurel came into the room, phone to her ear and a worried expression on her face. “Mum, it’s Aidan. He says some weird things have been going down and he and his mom need to get out of town for a while. So I told him it would be okay if they came out here for a few days. He could stay with Ben and she could have the guest room.” Her face was urgent as she stared at Elizabeth and nodded vigorously.

Elizabeth frowned and then shrugged. “Sure, that would be fine. Tell them to come along. You can meet them down at the barn— no, they have a four-wheel-drive now, don’t they?”

Arrangements were quickly settled and Laurel clicked off her phone. “Sorry to spring that on you, Mum, but Aidan sounded really freaked. I just thought this would be a safe place for them.”

Really? After what happened to Kyra down at the workshop? And the gunshot in the woods? And are we sure that Aidan didn’t have something to do with all of this? The words trembled on the tip of her tongue but Elizabeth shrugged again and said only, “Okay. When are they coming?”

* * *

While Laurel put clean sheets on the bed in the guest room, Elizabeth went to her bedroom and phoned Phillip. As soon as the voice mail picked up, she remembered that he had a class on Thursday nights. She left a brief message with a request that he call, no matter what the time, and then went to the linen closet to get fresh towels for her guests.

* * *

It was a little after nine when, alerted by the barking of the dogs, Laurel hurried to the porch and ushered in mother and son. Willow, clad in her usual trailing skirt and loose blouse, looked haggard, but managed a palm-pressing bow and a fervent “Namaste!” in Elizabeth’s direction. Aidan, following in his mother’s wake, nodded, thanked Elizabeth for taking them in, and disappeared with Laurel into the kitchen, where Ben was finishing the dishes.

“And so you see us, two refugees throwing themselves at your feet in search of sanctuary. I trust that we will not be a burden to you for so very long: Spirit assures me that all of this ugly disharmony will resolve itself soon.” The lilting Indian accent of her previous visit was very strong. As on her previous visit, she unwound the gauzy wrappings from her head. “A green sanctuary— and a wise woman to welcome us.”

Elizabeth was at a loss. What the hell does one say to that? Finally she motioned her guest to a sofa and took a place opposite. “I hope that you’ll be safe here, but there sure aren’t any guarantees. Did you hear about what happened to Kyra? Have you seen her—”

Willow waved an airy hand. “Kyra is undergoing trial and testing. And the poor child is in deep conflict with her shadow self. But Spirit tells me that the true Kyra is emerging.” She smiled the beatific smile of one who has the secrets of the universe at her fingertips. “I had a warning today that I should take my son and flee the city. My first thought was to return to Mother India, where we spent so many happy years, but there are reasons—”

“Well, I guess. You’d forfeit Aidan’s bail if you left—”

“And that is indeed a concern. No, I could not take such a step. But where to turn? There had been…incidents and we no longer felt safe either in my house or in the…” Her smile was almost sly. “…the undisclosed location to which we had been sent. And so I threw the I Ching.”

“You did.” You would. The ancient Chinese method of divination had enjoyed a surge of popularity during the sixties and seventies, and Elizabeth’s first college roommate had started each day by consulting the Book of Changes and throwing a bundle of dried sticks to find the hexagram that would advise proper conduct for the day. Unfortunately, the book advised inaction about as often as action, and that particular roommate had quickly surpassed her allowed number of cuts. She had not returned to college for a second semester.

“Indeed, I did.” Willow was smug. “The yarrow sticks manifested Hexagram 52— Ken. And ken means ‘mountain,’ so naturally…” Her words trailed off.

“Naturally.” Elizabeth leaned forward. “Look, Willow, what really made you decide to come out here?”

Willow’s eyes opened wide but she said nothing. From the kitchen door, Aidan answered, his voice full of resentment. “She has a friend; I’m not allowed to meet him but he’s evidently very important in her life. He’s the one who swore we’d be safe out here.”

He came into the living room and sat down beside his mother. “Isn’t that right? Can’t you leave all the phony New Age crap out of it?” He glared at his mother, then turned to Elizabeth.

“All my life there’s been this mysterious person running things. Mom gets a phone call and we pack up and go wherever. Or say we need something: Mom makes a phone call and before long, the money’s there for school or a car or—” a harsh laugh interrupted his story, “or bail, as the case may be. When I was little, I thought she had a direct line to God— or at least Santa Claus. But no matter how many times I asked, she refused to tell me who it was and why—”

Willow buried her face in her hands. Her muffled voice quavered as she spoke. “I made a solemn promise never to tell. I can’t tell— if I did, the money would stop and…there might be other…consequences.”

Aidan ignored his mother and went on. “At one point— I think I was about eight years old— I decided that our benefactor must be my unknown father. My father— that was another thing she’d never talk about. Once, when one of those mysterious calls was going on, I got on the other phone and yelled, ‘Dad? Dad? It’s Aidan. I want to see you.’ ”

He looked at his mother, who turned her head away and bit her lips. “How pathetic is that?” he asked bitterly. “Mr. Benefactor evidently didn’t like the sound of my voice, because right after that call we were on our way to India for a nice long stay in Sri Bananaforashura’s little work camp—”

“Aidan! Those were precious years! Sri Namanandapura is a very holy man. Your spirituality soared during that time.” Willow looked indignant but Aidan continued.

“Right. About then is when I decided that the person on the telephone wasn’t my father …or Santa Claus. No, I went back to my original theory— it’s God and God has a really warped sense of humor. And I’ve gotten over wanting to see him.”

He stood and stretched with a conscious grace. Like a golden tomcat. He has Willow’s hazel eyes too— or are they green? Elizabeth watched him, wishing she could offer some comfort. Such a handsome boy and so angry. Probably with good cause. Once again she noticed the extensive scarring on his left arm.

“Mum, I’m going to go over to Ben’s cabin and hang with the guys for a while. Ben has some new CDs I want to hear.”

Laurel and Ben came out of the kitchen carrying mugs of coffee. They scooped up the scowling Aidan and made for the back door.

“Sleep well, Aidan. Tomorrow may bring great changes,” Willow called out as her son disappeared through the door. Then she turned to Elizabeth.

“It is a terrible situation indeed, but I have to believe that Spirit is working in all things. For instance, when Aidan was incarcerated, he tells me that he was treated very kindly and was not put in with the other prisoners. He does not know it but I am sure that it was the work of the one he calls our benefactor.”

“And you can’t tell him who the…benefactor is?”

“I am absolutely forbidden to; I shouldn’t be talking about this matter at all.”

“Because the money might stop?”

“Because I don’t want to lose my son.”

* * *

Willow had refused to be drawn into further conversation, begging only to be shown where she would stay. “I choose to spend this time before sleep in meditation and affirmation— I will undo the negative forces that Aidan has awakened.”

Elizabeth took her to the guest room and made sure that she had everything she needed. The heavy thump-thump of Ben’s CD player wafted through the window.

“I’ll holler over to him to turn that down—” Elizabeth began, but Willow put up a restraining hand.

“When one truly meditates, the senses are turned inward. I will simply choose not to hear those sounds.”

“Okay, if you’re sure…” Elizabeth started to close the door behind her, then paused. “Willow, what happened to Aidan’s arm?”

Willow, who was unpacking the contents of her little duffel bag, looked up warily. “Why do you ask?”

Good question. Very rude behavior on the part of a hostess. But… “I don’t know…it just looked as if it must have been a really severe burn…. I wondered if it had had some adverse effect on your son…. He seems so unhappy.”

“That mood will pass. As for the injury…it occurred when he was an infant and he has no memories at all of the circumstances. Nor do I wish to arouse them. The burns have healed, he has the use of his arm, and of course Spirit is protecting us both.”

Willow came to the door where Elizabeth was lingering and took hold of the knob. “Blessings on you and on this green sanctuary, Elizabeth.” The door began to close, gently but firmly. “Good night.”

There was a click as the lock engaged.

* * *

Elizabeth was in bed and half asleep when the phone rang. She fumbled for the receiver. Phillip’s familiar gravelly voice filled her ear and she smiled and stretched out on her pillows.

“Thanks for calling.” She told him about her houseguests and tried to give him the gist of Aidan’s impassioned rant about the mysterious benefactor.

“And all that Willow will say is that Spirit is protecting them. But there’s something really strange about all of this.”

“I’ll say. I just finished talking to Hank. We met after my class for a beer and he says that the whole case against Aidan is very likely going to be thrown out. Talked about some heavy pressure being brought to bear and someone caving. But that was all he knew— or all he would say. About Aidan, anyway. Oh, Hank was full of interesting scuttlebutt— the old man at the junkyard’s been picked up—”

“Travis? He’s hardly an old man.”

“Not Travis— his daddy. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Why don’t you come out tomorrow and stay for dinner? I imagine that Willow and Aidan will be here.”

“Elizabeth, I don’t need any extra incentive to come see you.” His warm chuckle was surprisingly intimate in her ear. She lay there in the dark room, enjoying the comforting rumble of Phillip’s voice and remembering how her girls had sometimes fallen asleep during marathon phone conversations with the boyfriend of the moment. And how she and Sam would enjoy sleepy, end-of-day talks, snuggled comfortably against each other.

“Phillip, I—”

The telephone began to crackle and beep. “Elizabeth, I think my battery’s giving out. Dammit all…I’ll call you tomorrow. Sweet dreams.”

There was a final series of beeps and then nothing. She lay there holding the silent telephone. Sweet dreams.

CHAPTER 25

THE GOLDEN YEARS

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23)

THE FLORIST HAD CALLED EARLY THAT MORNING. A rush order— twelve fresh herbal wreaths for a wedding at six P.M. Could Elizabeth possibly…the price would be doubled. And deliver them to the church by two? In south Asheville? Wonderful! You’re a lifesaver. Just whatever fresh herbs will hold up in a wreath; we’ll add ribbons when they get here.

* * *

Baskets of freshly cut herbs marched across the back of the worktable, heaped high with the aromatic harvest. There were branches of sage— the ordinary gray-green, the rich purple-leafed, and a judicious helping of the variegated, mottled with cream, purple, and green. Silvery lavender stems and bristly deep green rosemary lay in piles. The sage branches bore thick purple blooms, and tiny blue flowers sprinkled the tips of the gently curving rosemary. Too bad there aren’t any lavender spikes, but we harvested all of them earlier. That’s okay, these wreaths are going to be really nice anyway.

The smell of the herbs was intoxicating: the sage, with its powerful, somewhat leathery aroma, seemed to strike a dominant masculine note, tamed and complemented by the sweeter, soothing lavender and the teasing, astringent rosemary. My god, I could be describing The 3, Elizabeth thought as she looked at the herbs she had chosen. The sage would be Boz, of course— a little goes a long way. The lavender for Kyra and the rosemary for Aidan— there’s more to him than I had realized. Rosemary for remembrance— he has too many bitter memories. But so does Kyra.

She was staring at her baskets of herbs when she heard voices outside the workshop.

“Hi, Mum, need some help?” Laurel and Aidan came into the shop. Aidan’s eyes were busy, missing nothing. He seemed more relaxed than he had the night before and gave her a little smile.

“Put me to work. Laurel’s been showing me the farm.”

“Thanks, you two. I need to do these wreaths myself. But I’ll think of something. Laurel, I’ll be taking these into town right after lunch— it’s a rush order. On my way home I’ll drop the quilts I’ve collected so far for the show at the library. They’ve got more room to store them than I do. And…oh yes, Phillip’s coming out late this afternoon and staying for supper. What’s Willow up to? I think she was still asleep when I left the house.”

“She’s down on the deck doing her yoga.” Laurel grinned. “The dogs love it. Molly and Ursa are watching and James keeps trying to lick her face. But really, Mum, we’d like to be useful. Ben’s off being manly on the tractor— what can we do?”

Elizabeth thought. “The blueberry bushes need more mulch— if you want to do that it would be a big help. There’re some buckets and gloves in the shed and you could use the little truck.”

She watched them go, and was suddenly struck with the realization that Laurel seemed…what…particularly interested in Aidan. Get off it, Elizabeth. These interests come and go. She laid out her wreath forms and began to assemble the tools she needed: wire, pruning shears, hemostat…the hemostat was missing.

A handy though not indispensable tool, the hemostat had serrated jaws that could lock around a cluster of stems, holding them in place and freeing both of her hands for the tedious task of unobtrusively wiring the clusters to the grapevine bases. She pawed through her supply shelf but the hemostat was nowhere to be seen.

“Dammit, Ben…if you could get in the habit of putting things back…” A glance at the clock on the wall reminded her that she had a deadline to meet. With a final inward snarl at her absent nephew, she abandoned her search and reached for a handful of sage.

* * *

The florist met her at the church, lengths of lavender-blue ribbon trailing around her neck.

“You’re a saint, Elizabeth. Can you believe it? At the very last minute Mama decided that we just had to have wreaths. She saw a picture in the latest issue of Martha Stewart and it sounded like we might as well call off the whole wedding if we couldn’t have fresh herbal wreaths. Jesus! Clients can be such a pain in the butt and the mother of the bride is always the worst! But I made her pay through the nose. Send me your bill and double— no, by God, triple it. That woman has gotten on my one last nerve! Kiss-kiss!”

The harried woman and her even more harried assistant carried the boxed wreaths up the church steps and disappeared inside. Elizabeth turned back to the van. That was profitable— now, is there anything I need to do as long as I’m in town?

No, she’d done her errands and grocery shopping the day before, after painting class. But she could reward herself with a trip to the bookstore. Humming cheerfully, Elizabeth started the van and began to pull out of the church parking lot. Just across the street a discreet sign caught her eye: The Golden Years: Assisted Living Facility—2.2 miles. The arrow pointed to the right.

She hesitated. On the seat beside her was the bundle of quilts for the library. The animal quilt— the Fanchon quilt— was on top, carefully wrapped in an old cotton sheet.

What the hell— it must be a sign, she decided and turned right.

* * *

The Golden Years facility looked more like a so-called stately mansion than a nursing home. It lay in parklike surroundings: huge old trees, well-tended flower beds, and carefully mown grass. A network of wide, winding paths, smoothly paved to accommodate wheelchairs and slow-moving seniors with walkers, snaked through the grounds. Attendants in cheerful pastel uniforms accompanied the aged men and women who rolled or tottered along the paths.

It was a beautiful scene, far removed from the institutional horrors that many elderly were forced to endure. No doubt the facility was luxurious on a scale that the young Fanchon in the poverty-stricken Appalachia of the thirties could hardly have imagined. But Elizabeth, assailed by a feeling of deep melancholy, wondered if the Fanchon of today ever looked beyond these manicured grounds and brilliant, orderly flower beds. Did she lift her eyes to the mountains rising dark in the distance and lament the past?

Elizabeth entered the spacious front hall, the Fanchon quilt bundled under her arm. Gleaming parquet floors, tastefully upholstered chairs and sofas, fine mahogany tables adorned with elaborate arrangements of silk flowers: all whispered that this was a facility for those of discriminating tastes— and deep pockets.

The coolly elegant woman at the information desk looked puzzled. “Teague? I’m afraid there’s a mistake. There is no Teague among our residents.” She opened a register and ran a lacquered fingernail down the page. “I’m so sorry; perhaps—”

“My fault. That was her maiden name.” Elizabeth struggled to remember. “No, I don’t know her married name. But I believe that she shares a room with a Tildy Rector. And her first name is Fanchon.”

The woman’s haughty expression immediately rearranged itself to a charming smile. “Oh, Fanchon, of course! I should have known— she’s the one they all come to see.” She pressed a button on her desk. “If you’ll just sign in, I’ll have an attendant take you to their suite.”

* * *

As she was escorted down the immaculate hallways, Elizabeth learned that Fanchon was something of a favorite at Golden Years. “Oh my, yes, Fanchon’s been with us— well, it’s over ten years since she and her sister came to live here.”

The attendant was chatty and knowledgeable. “They were both in their midseventies back then and I’m sure Fanchon wasn’t in need of our services. But Tildy required expert care and since Fanchon’s husband was dead, she decided to come here too. She said Tildy just wouldn’t be happy away from her. They have a lovely suite— our very nicest.” The cheerful middle-aged woman lowered her voice. “You wouldn’t believe what the monthly rate is. Are you one of those folklore people from the university?”

Elizabeth quickly explained about the quilt and the library exhibit. “I’d like to get some more information on the quilt, and maybe I could get a picture of Fanchon as well.”

“Why, she’ll be tickled. That little lady is a born entertainer. From the time she and Tildy first moved here, she’s had people coming to hear her tell those old tales and sing the old songs. Of course, her voice is gone and the arthritis keeps her from being able to play the banjo. They say she used to be quite a musician. But she still can hold an audience. And how she loves the spotlight! It’s the cutest thing: she just glows when she’s got a crowd to tell her stories to.”

The attendant paused. “Of course, it’s hard on Tildy. There she is, trapped in a wheelchair and not one word in ten will come out right. And nobody pays much attention to her when Fanchon’s around. But that’s the way it sometimes falls out with sisters— one’ll have all the gifts and the other’s left to eat herself up with jealousy.”

The woman looked around furtively and lowered her voice. “When they first moved in, Fanchon brought her banjo and had it hanging on the wall. The arthritis was already too bad to let her play but she said it made her feel good just to see it there for old times’ sake. And what do you think that spiteful Tildy did?

“Well, she was weak on her left side but she had full use of her right arm. And one day while Fanchon was in the dining room giving one of her entertainments for the residents, Tildy took her cane and hooked the banjo off the wall, and beat it till it was past repair. And Fanchon never let on that it bothered her a bit; just said her sister wasn’t rightly responsible sometimes.”

The paneled door bore a small card in a brass frame: Mrs. Fanchon Strother and Miss Tildy Rector. The attendant tapped at the door, then pushed it open. “Fanchon honey, there’s someone to see you.”

Two fat old women…old age done got ’em both had been Dorothy’s pronouncement, and as Elizabeth looked at the occupants of the room, she saw it was sadly true. Two stooped, rotund figures sat on either side of an elegant Queen Anne–type table. Both had sparse white hair, permed into easy-care tight curls, and both had faces that had melted under the weight of the years into pudding-like countenances.

Cards were laid out on the table but as Elizabeth looked closer she saw that only the old woman on the left was playing— some complicated form of solitaire, it seemed to be. She slapped down a final card and croaked triumphantly, “There!”

Her companion stirred in her wheelchair and struggled to speak. “She…she…sheet!” Saliva flew from her lopsided mouth.

The attendant was at her side, plying tissues and gently scolding. “Now there, Miss Tildy, don’t go getting all worked up. Look here, a nice lady’s come to see you and your sister.” She caught Elizabeth’s eye and whispered, “She’s a little cranky sometimes. They get awful frustrated when they can’t say what they want to.”

She straightened the slumping woman, removing and plumping the small pillow at her back. “Now be sweet, Tildy. This lady wants to talk to Fanchon.”

A small tray with two empty glasses and some crumpled napkins caught the attendant’s eye. “I’ll just take this away and leave you all to enjoy your visit. Fanchon, if you need me, just buzz. I’ll be back at juice time with our nice snacks.” She slipped out of the door, leaving it slightly ajar.

The card player fixed Elizabeth with an inquisitive eye. “You want to hear the story about Obray and the pig? I cain’t sing no more, but I kin talk you through ‘Lord Randall.’ What school you from? You know, they wanted me to go up to the big folk festival in Washington, D.C., but I ain’t up to hit no more. Besides, I got to stay here and look after her.”

Elizabeth quickly explained that she was not a folklorist and that, though she would love to hear the story and the ballad, what she really wanted was Fanchon’s memories of the wonderful animal quilt. She told them how she happened to have it in her possession and that it was going to be the centerpiece of an exhibit at the county library. “We’ll have your name on it and take pictures to keep a record so people in years to come can see this wonderful thing and know that it was Fanchon Teague who made it. We may even make a book with pictures of the different quilts in it.”

As she began to unfold the quilt and drape it across the table, a sudden change came over the two old women. The woman in the wheelchair took one startled glance at the quilt and then she looked away, rocking back and forth and muttering the same two syllables over and over—“So-ree, so-ree, so-ree.”

The talkative card player, by contrast, laid both hands on the quilt and silently devoured it with her eyes. As each square received her intense scrutiny, tears began to creep down her wrinkled cheeks. At last she looked at Elizabeth and whispered, “They said hit was the finest piece of needlework ever done in the county— maybe even in the en-tire state….”

Her hands moved softly over the possum, the wildcat, the groundhog, and came to rest on the copperhead. “And little Omie had hit all along?”

“She said she wrote you and told you when she found it.” Elizabeth felt uneasy somehow, as if treading on dangerous ground. “She said that you wrote back that you didn’t want it.”

The old woman in the wheelchair stopped her repetitive sounds and looked across the table at her companion. Elizabeth was reminded of a cowering dog who, guilty or not, expects punishment. The frightened woman made a little whimpering noise and looked away again.

Her adopted sister seemed to be deep in thought. “You say you aim to hang hit up in the library in Ransom? And maybe put hit in a book?”

“I would really like to. It’s such a treasure; it deserves recognition. I wish you’d tell me all about how you planned it, and how long it took, where the fabrics came from— everything you remember. I want your story to go with it.”

There was a long silence and then the old woman spoke. “You say you want my story. Well, I reckon hit’s time. If you don’t care, go git me the fingernail scissors that’s in there in the medicine cabinet. I want to show you somethin’.”

Elizabeth quickly found the little scissors and returned to the table. Neither sister had stirred or spoken.

“I cain’t do hit on account of my fingers is too gnarled up. I want you to take and pick loose ’em stitches round that coppersnake.”

“But—”

“Now just do like I tell you; I got my reasons.”

Elizabeth carefully snipped and picked at the stitches she had so recently repaired till part of the appliqué was loose. As she pulled it back, the better to reach the remaining stitches, she could see embroidered letters: an O and an R, and above them a Y and B. “What—”

“Keep on pickin’ out that thread and you’ll see.” The quiltmaker’s face was stern but serene. “Git that ol’ snake off of there and you’ll see.”

The appliqué was finally removed, revealing the embroidered statement: MADE BY TILDY RECTOR 1934.

“I don’t understand.” Elizabeth looked across the table at the pathetic figure slumped in the wheelchair. “Aunt Omie called this the Fanchon quilt…I thought you made it.”

“That’s the truth: I did make it. I sewed on that thing night and day to have hit ready in time. My fingers bled on hit and I rubbed my spit on hit to take out the blood. I cut a piece of my best Sunday dress to make the redbird and I saved up my money to buy the special silk thread for the embroidery. Nights while that one over there was settin’ on the porch with ol’ Bragg, a-sparkin’ and a-spoonin’, I was settin’ with a kerosene lamp, ruinin’ my eyesight.

“And when the last stitch was in and they all said how fine hit was, what happens but they decide I ain’t pretty enough to be the one to see the President and I cain’t play the banjer and sing like ol’ Fanchon. Miss Lily give me more money than I ever seen to pick my name off and put on t’other. And I did like she said, for I wanted the money. But I picked off the coppersnake too, and put my name under him and sewed him back. Seemed fittin’ what with him havin’ that old redhead just like what Fanchon used to have.”

Elizabeth stared from one old woman to the other. “I don’t understand…the attendant called you Fanchon…I thought it was Tildy that had had a stroke….”

“That’s what I let ’em think all these years. But if my quilt, and hit’s the finest work I ever done, is goin’ to hang up for folks to see and be put in a book, I want my right name on hit. It’s my name folks should know about: Tildy. Tildy Rector.”

CHAPTER 26

AS CRUEL AS THE GRAVE

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23)

LOVE IS AS STRONG AS DEATH AND JEALOUSY AS cruel as the grave. Aunt Omie’s words echoed in Elizabeth’s memory as she drove back to Marshall County after her visit with Fanchon and Tildy. Not much love there, just jealousy— bitter, corrosive, lifelong jealousy.

Once the inscription on the quilt had been revealed, the whole sad story had poured out of Tildy. The pent-up righteous anger of years was unleashed as the words frothed and tumbled out of her mouth. It had been like watching someone peel a scab off an old wound in order to let it bleed afresh. Elizabeth had listened wordlessly as Tildy ranted on while Fanchon— the real Fanchon— slumping in her wheelchair, nodded assent to every twist and every turn of the story. Nodded— as the tears flowed down her pale, wrinkled cheeks.

“That one there, she was a right good musicianer, I’ll not deny hit. But I could tell the old Jack stories ever bit as good as her. And I plum left her in the dust when hit come to sewin’. But seemed all that the ladies at the Center could see was that she was pretty and I weren’t. Even Mommy and Daddy favored Fanchon over me— and her not even blood kin.”

Tildy had glanced scornfully at her once-beautiful rival. A line of saliva spilled from the drooping corner of Fanchon’s mouth and snaked its way toward her chin. “She ain’t so pretty now though, is she? Even afore she had her first stroke, that fine red hair had gone white and she had bulked up right much. And after the stroke, when she couldn’t git around good, why, she put on weight like one thing. Time Bragg died, there weren’t much to choose ’twixt her and me.”

A sly smile had creased Tildy’s face. “Tell the truth, once she had her stroke, Bragg liked me a good bit better ’n her. Said all cats was black in the dark. And leastways I weren’t crippled.”

Tildy had explained that after her parents’ death she had moved to Detroit when Fanchon wrote and offered her a home. “I reckon she felt sorry fer me after what she done. She didn’t know I had that money Miss Lily give me and money from when I sold the farm. Still have hit too; I just let her and Bragg take care of me the best they could. And believe you me, not a day went by that I didn’t tell her how bad hit had hurt that I didn’t get to see the President. Here she had done me out of my trip and then, at the last minute, throwed hit all away— and made off with my quilt too.”

“Why did she do that…run off at the last minute?” Elizabeth had asked.

“Aw shucks, now if that weren’t the most foolish thing of all.” Tildy’s voice had dripped derision. “She said that hit was on account of she was scared of Miss Lily; that Miss Lily had kissed her on the mouth and put her hand to her bare breast and Fanchon feared for what might happen was they to travel together.”

Tildy’s scornful look at Fanchon had been full of sour glee. “Shoot, ever one of us girls at the Center knowed Miss Lily was sweet on Fanchon— and we knowed she was one of ’em kind like Miss Geneva and Miss Caro. Ain’t no harm to hit; all this fool would of had to do was to say ‘git away’ and Miss Lily would of let her be. But no, Ol’ Fanchon, she has to bolt like a flushed rabbit and hide my quilt so can’t no one make her go to Washington with Miss Lily. And then when Bragg finds her, all a-tremble out in the woods, hit don’t take but a few words and off she goes with him. She said she was aimin’ to put the miles between her and that bad Yankee woman.”

And there were many miles. Bragg and Fanchon had gone to Detroit, like so many other young people from Marshall County, in search of employment in the auto factories. When word came of the deaths of Tildy’s parents, Fanchon, haunted by guilt for her treatment of her stepsister, had convinced Bragg that they should offer Tildy a home with them. The three had lived together, more or less harmoniously for years. There had been no children; Fanchon had never been able to carry a child past the fourth month.

The identity switch had occurred after Bragg’s death. Tildy had taken charge of the incapacitated Fanchon and the two had moved back to the mountains.

“Hit was ’93 and after all those years away I was hungry for the green hills and the clean-tastin’ water. I tell you what’s the truth: city water ain’t fit to drink. But I didn’t want to go back to Shut In— they’s too many bad memories back there. I rented us a little house in Barnardsville. We was makin’ it okay but Fanchon was gittin’ harder to take care of— just tryin’ to git her on the commode like to broke my back. Then one day some feller showed up at our place— said as how he’d heared that Fanchon Teague, the famous ballad singer from Shut In, was livin’ here and he wanted to ask her some questions about the ballads and stories what she had sung fer his daddy back in the thirties. Said he’d pay fifty dollars for an hour of Fanchon’s time.

“Well, I stood there in the door a-thinkin’. Fanchon was layin’ in the bedroom, a-dribblin’ in her diaper and couldn’t no more talk to anyone than could our cat. So I said, ‘Young feller, you come to the right place. I’m Fanchon Teague Strother. What is hit you want to know?’ ”

Tildy had cackled with delight. “Afore long, they was folks at the place ever Saturday night, with their tape recorders and their movie cameras and their notebooks. I tell you, I had me one fine time.

“And then Miss Lily showed up. In a big fancy car and a white man in a uniform a-drivin’ her. I didn’t know her till she said who hit was— but then, she didn’t know me neither. She looked at me and she looked at Fanchon, who was layin’ a-snorin’ in the recliner. ‘Fanchon?’ she says, real quare-like, lookin’ from one to the other.

“ ‘Yes, Miss Lily,’ I says, and I stand there and look her right in the eye. ‘Hit’s me.’ ”

Evidently, Tildy had seized the opportunity of Lily’s visit to do a little gentle blackmail. “I could see she had a lot of money. So I says, ‘Miss Lily, me and Tildy are in need of a helpin’ hand. Bein’ as you thought so much of me back in the old days, I’m makin’ bold to ask.’ ”

And for the past eleven years, it was Lily Gordon who had maintained Tildy and Fanchon at the exclusive Golden Years Assisted Living Facility.

“She never come back to see us though. Ever once in a while she’d send that man who drove her to bring some kind of presents. But I could tell that hit had plumb turned her stomach to see how her beautiful Fanchon had got old and homely. Miss Lily, she weren’t no chicken herself but she had held her age real good.”

* * *

And how do I write up “the Fanchon quilt” now? Elizabeth sighed as she turned up her driveway. A little essay on jealousy…on thwarted artistic pride?

She parked the van by the workshop to make the change to her jeep for the trip up the steep road. As she walked over to the vehicle, there in the shade beside the corncrib, the beginnings of a thought began to worry at her. She stood and studied the corncrib while the thought danced and flirted and refused to resolve.

Slowly she circled the little building, remembering the day Kyra had been found locked in its dusty cage. The door hung open, the rusty hasp askew. Elizabeth looked more closely at the hardware cloth lining the little storage room. Reaching inside, she ran her fingers over the wire closest to the area where the hasp would have closed.

It was there. Though the edge of the wire mesh lay flat against the wooden frame, it was loose and a few inches could be lifted. A few inches— not enough for a hand but—

Elizabeth hurried to the nearby shed where the garden tools were stored. She grabbed a rake and jogged back to the corncrib, almost certain that she would find the answer to Kyra’s imprisonment. At least the how— god knows what the why is.

She thrust the iron-toothed rake under the corncrib and dragged it through the dry loose dirt. Nothing. She moved over a bit and dragged again. The tines brought out an ancient black walnut and a worn old horseshoe.

On her fifth attempt, she heard a light ting as the tines hit something metallic. She pulled the rake slowly toward her, dragging out from under the corncrib a bedraggled clump of ancient shucks and her missing hemostat.

The sound of an approaching car made her look up. Phillip Hawkins’s gray sedan rounded the barn and pulled to a stop.

* * *

“Okay, so you were right about the Tawana Brawley thing.” She had shown him the loosened place along the edge of the woven wire, and they had found the little crack that was just large enough to permit the hemostat to be shoved between the floorboards and dropped into the dirt, followed by enough corn shucks to hide the instrument from a cursory look.

Elizabeth ran her hand over her head. Shit— now he’s got me doing it. “I was thinking about my hemostat and that I should have gotten another one when I was in Asheville. And then I saw the corncrib and remembered that Kyra had been working on a wreath when all that stuff happened. And with the hemostat she could have put that nail through the hasp from the inside— but the wire would have had to be loosened in that one place. And it was.”

Phillip was grinning widely. “I should have caught that loosened wire. Good job, Sherlock. Really good job.”

She gave him a troubled smile. “Thanks. But now I want to know why. Was this a troubled girl looking for sympathy and attention? I would have thought that we, and especially Ben, were doing all we could along those lines. Or…”

“Or was this a diversion?”

“Right, that’s the question. But I’ve got to get up to the house and get started on dinner if you don’t want peanut butter and jelly.”

As they walked toward the jeep, Phillip’s eyes were sparkling and his lips were moving silently. Suddenly he stopped and held up his hand. “How’s this?

“A

loaf of bread, some PB and J, and thou— beside me in the wilderness;

And

wilderness were Paradise enow.”

It was a cheerful meal, not peanut butter and jelly after all but eggplant Parmesan (eggplant Farmer John, her girls had called it)— a vegetarian dish in deference to Willow, who eschewed all flesh. There was a big salad, crusty ciabatta with olive oil for dipping, and red wine, followed by some cheese and fruit. They ate heartily, avoiding all mention of the circumstances that had brought Willow and Aidan among them.

Laurel and Aidan had spent the morning in farmwork and then had taken sandwiches and hiked up Pinnacle to the ridge. “It was too hazy for a really great view—” Laurel began.

“Maybe so; I was still impressed.” Aidan flashed a quiet smile and he and Laurel exchanged glances.

“Well, hell, you guys took off before I got to the house for lunch. I would have gone with you if I’d known that’s what you were up to.”

Ben’s complaint met with another quick exchange of glances, and Laurel made a stifled sound that might have been a laugh. “Sorry, Ben. We thought you were going to be mowing all afternoon. Next time, okay?”

Willow’s dreamy voice rose above the talk. “At noon I took some fruit and a flask of the crystal water from your spring. I was led to follow the path at the top of the pasture into the woods. There I sat beneath a great-great-grandfather tree. Grandfather Tree and I shared secrets.” She embraced them all with a knowing smile. “He spoke from his wisdom, telling me that this turmoil we are passing through is but a healing crisis— all shall be well and all shall be well and all shall be exceeding well.”

* * *

“She’s a nice enough woman, but damned hard to talk to.”

Phillip and Elizabeth had left the others busy with the dishes and were sitting on the blue bench in the garden above the driveway. To the east, above the dark mountains, a pale glow in the sky heralded the rising moon. Molly and Ursa were sprawled in the grass at their feet, and James had claimed the corner of the bench beside Elizabeth. The night air was warm and still; far below them could be heard the whistle of a freight train running beside the river.

“I managed to get Willow and Aidan alone for a little talk while you were putting dinner together. I got to say, the Indian accent kind of bugs me, particularly the way it comes and goes. But I did find out that Kyra has given Aidan the boot— he went to see her at her studio before they came out here, and she wouldn’t even let him in.

“Aidan told me that some fierce-looking, black-haired older woman opened the door and said that Miss Kyra wanted him to go away and stay away. He said that Kyra was in there and when he called to her she just said, ‘That’s right, Aidan. That’s what I want.’ He was evidently pretty torn up about it.” There was a thoughtful pause, then Phillip observed, “Though he seems to be getting over it now.”

Elizabeth groaned inwardly, hoping that the attachment that seemed to be growing between Laurel and Aidan wasn’t due to the rebound effect. Why can’t Laurel—

Phillip went on. “Then Willow said something really weird: she looked at Aidan and said in that little singsong voice, ‘The fault is mine, child of my heart’ or something like that. When I asked what she meant, she shut up like a clam.”

“She was saying stuff like that before.” Elizabeth recounted Aidan’s story about the mysterious benefactor and Willow’s insistence that she must not explain about him. “Anyway, that’s evidently where the bail money came from.”

“Really? Then maybe it’s this same benefactor who has all the pull with the prosecutor in Asheville and is likely to get the case against Aidan dropped. She didn’t give any hints at all who it could be?”

“None. She said something about she might lose her son if she did.”

Phillip grunted a noncommittal response and shifted restlessly beside her. “Look at that.”

Slowly and majestically the quarter moon emerged from behind the distant mountain range, washing the velvet black slopes with a silver sheen. Phillip yawned widely, then stretched out his arms along the back of the bench. The arm on Elizabeth’s side dropped down to rest on her shoulders.

She started and then, to her surprise, began to giggle. “Phillip, I remember that trick from the first time I went to the movies with a boy— about ninth grade, that would have been.” Greatly daring, and again to her surprise, she moved closer to him and said, “Talking to you on the phone last night…” Is this going to be an admission of some sort? she asked the new Elizabeth who seemed to be in charge at the moment.

The bang of the slamming screen door and running footsteps coming their way sent the new Elizabeth into full retreat, and by the time they could see Ben, wrenching open the door of his truck, the old Elizabeth was on her feet and calling out.

“Ben! What’s wrong?”

He paused and looked around in confusion.

“Up here, Ben. At the blue bench. What’s going on?”

He jumped into the truck and gunned the engine, shouting over its roar. “I have to go to Kyra. She’s all alone in the house— and she says her stepmother’s dead.”

FROM LILY GORDON’S JOURNAL—

EIGHTH ENTRY

And so there will be no brother or sister for Kyra. Poor foolish, common Kimmie. It was far easier to accept her as his mistress— a simple convenience, easily ignored— than as his wife. But as the mother of the child my darling Rose was unable to give him— no, never. The mills of God grind slow, they say, but they grind exceeding small.

Fortunately, I never reproached Marvin with his— let us say, his arrangements— nor said a word against him to anyone at all. Except, of course, to Buckley and Reba, but their feelings mirror mine, as they always have. Reba is indecently pleased with this news. I had to speak to her.

There remains the question of Kyra. What is to be done about Kyra? I find that at my time of life the importance of blood looms large— taking on a far greater significance than I could have guessed. But I must proceed carefully.

As always, Buckley will be my eyes and ears— and my strong right arm if needed. But before taking any action I must speak with Kyra, must judge for myself. And with Marvin as well. It is time to make a decision.

The Goodweather woman called earlier in the evening, only a few hours before the news of Marvin’s wife. She had, as I had known she would, gone to the nursing home to speak with Fanchon, and she told me the strangest story. Impossible that I could have been deceived in such a thing. Or such was my first thought. But, on reflection, I am inclined to believe her— and after all, what does it matter? Fanchon, Tildy— they were two pathetic old women and it made my flesh crawl to look at them. I have paid lavishly for their care all these years, and they will continue to be cared for even after my death. There is really nothing more I could have done. Surely I will be adjudged free of debt.

I should never have gone to that wretched house in Barnardsville. Rather I should have clung to the memory of the beautiful, innocent child she had been. But when I read the article in the newspaper heralding the rediscovery of one of Marshall County’s legendary ballad singers, lamenting her modest circumstances and praising the tender care she gave her incapacitated companion, I confess my curiosity overwhelmed me. And my guilt. I felt an obligation to be of service to these two women, for my selfish desire and its attendant meddling had changed all three of our lives, sending each of us on an unlooked for trajectory.

And so I went. I cannot say what I expected— what I found was shattering. Time and marriage had coarsened her beyond belief. She was no longer the ethereal child of nature I had loved, but a grasping old woman, ready to stoop to blackmail, she hinted, if I did not help her.

But now, if what the Goodweather woman tells me is true— it was not Fanchon who threatened me, but Tildy. My beautiful Fanchon was the ugly old wreck snoring in the reclining chair before the flickering television. I remember now, how as I was preparing to leave, she woke and caught sight of me. Gurgling and flailing one arm, she tried to gain my attention.

And my only thought was, How like Tildy, so pushing! and calling to her from the doorway, I said that I was late for an appointment but that I would come back soon to see her and Fanchon. The pathetic creature beat one hand feebly on the arm of the stained old chair and tried to speak, but her attempts came to nothing. The tears were running unchecked down her ruined cheeks as I turned to go.

And so, if Mrs. Goodweather’s story is true, I betrayed my darling’s trust a second time.

* * *

I have thought and thought about the situation. At this moment I feel the weight of every one of my years. There are signs that I may soon be relieved of this burden of life. But there may yet be time to arrange matters as they should be. I am most displeased.

* * *

If I were not Lily Cabot Gordon, I would ask for help in making this decision…the Goodweather woman impressed me as a person of intelligence and integrity…and her nephew is involved…perhaps.

* * *

These scribblings grow disjointed— my mind wanders. Perhaps it is time to ask Reba to light the fire. But first I will deal with Kyra…and with her father. Something must be done.

* * *

Why do I suddenly remember an April day? The sherry calmed me and I was half asleep when the memory thrust its way forward. Once again Fanchon and I are rambling through spring-green meadows in search of wildflowers. She is wearing a faded blue housedress and the sun strikes golden off her hair. A blue satin ribbon that I have given her restrains the waving, glowing tresses. She is so lovely I cannot take my eyes from her.

Come over here real quiet-like, she whispers, and points. There is a nest on the ground a little distance away. A large shiny bird— black with a brown head— is being fed by two much smaller gray parents. It flaps its wings and squawks impatiently and the little providers hurry off in search of more food for the huge nestling. That there’s a cowbird, she says. They’s the most hateful birds there is. A mama cowbird’s so no account she won’t even build a nest— just finds someone else’s and drops her egg in it. Then off she goes and leaves the other birds to raise her young un. And the young un, when it hatches, hit’ll push all the other babies outten the nest and they’ll die. She indicates two tiny desiccated fledglings, the little bodies crawling with ants, and I turn away.

In my memory we walk on and on into a green and golden haze. I am intoxicated with the sweet fragrance of spring. At the edge of the woods, the wild purple violets are blooming. We sit in their midst on a moss-covered log and she begins to sing one of the old ballads. The haunting refrain twines all around us.

No I never will marry;

I’ll be no man’s wife.

I expect to live single

All the days of my life.

And as her sweet clear tones fill my ears, my heart, my soul, I untie the blue ribbon and slip it into my pocket. A few bright strands of her hair twine around my fingers, clinging briefly, then the red-gold locks tumble about her shoulders. She sings on, never taking her eyes from me as I pick violets, and weave them into her hair. Her eyes are shining when she looks at me.

CHAPTER 27

THE UPSTART AND THE ROSE

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, AND SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24)

THE SOUND OF BEN’S TRUCK GREW FAINTER AS Elizabeth and Phillip hurried back to the house. Inside, Laurel was on the phone and Aidan was restlessly pacing. There was no sign of his mother, except for her sandals, neatly placed by the door.

“Where’s Willow?” Elizabeth asked.

Aidan nodded in the direction of the guest room. “She said that she needed to be alone to bring herself into harmony with this news. She’s probably meditating and trying to get in touch with the recently departed. Any luck and she’ll have the full story for us in the morning.”

Neither Elizabeth nor Phillip responded and Aidan’s face grew grave. His hazel-green eyes met hers, then looked away. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking like that—”

Laurel hung up the telephone, immediately pressing Redial. “I’m trying to get Kyra but she must have her cell turned off. And the house phone just keeps ringing busy— they probably took it off the hook.”

“Let me call Hank— I think he’s on duty tonight.” As luck would have it, Phillip’s friend, a detective with the Asheville police, was just going off his shift. He quickly confirmed that a 911 call had been made from the Peterson residence and that a unit had been dispatched. He promised to call back as more information became available.

The four of them sat uneasily in the living room, trying unsuccessfully to talk of other matters while eyeing Phillip’s cell phone as if willing it to ring. After some twenty tedious minutes passed without a return call, Phillip stood and announced that he was returning to Asheville.

“If I’m in there, I’ve got a better chance of finding out something. Aidan, whoever sent you out here may have done you a favor. I strongly suggest that you and your mother both stay put till this is cleared up. Elizabeth…”

But she was on her feet and accompanying him to the door. On the porch he paused, but she shook her head and hurried down the steps in front of him. “I’ll drive you down to your car— it’ll save time.”

As they jolted down the road, she asked the question she had not wanted to raise in front of the others. “Phillip, I feel weird even suggesting this, but do you think that Kyra could be responsible—”

“You’re assuming this is murder, then? Elizabeth, we don’t even know for sure that Kimmie Peterson’s dead.”

“But Ben said that Kyra said…oh, I see what you mean…Kyra’s not exactly reliable, is she? If she could pull a stunt like the corncrib thing, then this could be another hoax. But there was a 911 call— your friend said.”

“That’s right. But—”

“I know, that doesn’t necessarily mean Kimmie’s dead. Okay…Maybe…Phillip, I’m confused. And I’m worried about Ben. They said he should stay away from Kyra and I can’t help thinking how unbelievable it was when Kimmie said that Kyra was acting friendly now. What if it was all an act, so she could get in the house? What if she wanted Kimmie dead?”

As she pulled to a stop beside his car, he reached out and laid his fingers against her cheek. “I’ll go to the Peterson house and see if I can find out anything. And I’ll call you when I do.”

* * *

It was somewhere in the sleepless hours between midnight and dawn that he had called. She had been lying in the dark, unsuccessfully willing sleep to come, and she picked up the bedside phone at once.

“Phillip?”

“Ben’s fine, Elizabeth. He’s at the Peterson house with Kyra.”

“And Kimmie…is she…?”

“She’s alive— but she’s lost the baby. She’s at the hospital— there was a lot of blood and she had lost consciousness. Kyra freaked out— not surprising, in light of her experience when her mother died. Evidently she thought it was a replay. She said she and Kimmie had had an early supper— Peterson was at a meeting somewhere— and Kimmie went to bed early, complaining of nausea.”

“Where’s Kyra’s father now?”

“They got in touch with him finally; he’s at the hospital. Anyway, Kyra said that she watched a movie and when it was over she went to Kimmie’s bedroom to see if her stepmother was feeling any better. The door was shut but the TV in the bedroom was on real loud. Kyra knocked on the door and called out to ask if she could get Kimmie anything. No answer. She knocks again, still no answer and she’s getting worried. So she opens the door.”

He paused. “You don’t want to hear all of this now— I’ll call back in the morning.”

“Phillip, I’m wide awake and I want to hear whatever there is.”

A weary exhalation. “Okay, well, Kyra said she pushed the door open and all she could see was Kimmie lying on the bed. She was deathly white and the sheets and her nightgown were blood-soaked.

“Evidently Kyra had a kind of flashback to her mother’s murder. She went to the phone and called 911, then called Ben. After she knew he was on his way, she went to look at Kimmie and realized that she was breathing…that there was not a bullet in her head…and that she was hemorrhaging massively.

“Lucky for Kimmie that Kyra was there and had the sense to pack towels between her legs to slow the bleeding— that little girl saved Kimmie’s life.”

* * *

Elizabeth was watering flats of cuttings in the smaller greenhouse when Ben appeared late the next morning. He looked haggard with lack of sleep, but his voice was jubilant.

“Did Phillip call you and tell you about Kyra? He said he would. Did he tell you she saved Kimmie’s life?”

Ben wiped his arm across his face and went on. “Damn, I’m getting all choked up. Anyway, Kyra seems to have let go of the whole thing about accusing her dad of killing her mom and Boz. She told me while we were waiting for her dad to come home from the hospital that a lot of that stuff she’d been saying wasn’t entirely true. She admitted that she knew Boz had been dealing crystal meth and that he’d gotten on the wrong side of some scary guys. She kind of figures that was who killed him.”

Ben’s voice threatened to crack as he continued. “And when her father came home this morning, he just looked at her and spread his arms and said, ‘Kyra.’ And she went to him and they were both crying till it got to me too.”

* * *

The door to the hospital room was ajar. From the hallway, Elizabeth could see that every available surface in the crowded room was covered with elaborate floral arrangements. She looked a little dubiously at the old pale blue mason jar in her hand. It was filled with bright zinnias— pink, orange, chartreuse, yellow, white, and coral— from her garden. A twist of natural raffia circled the jar’s neck. She glanced again at the flowers in the room— a Chinese porcelain pot of delicate orchids hovering like white moths above green moss, a mass of out-of-season pink and white lilies, stately in a tall, etched-crystal vase, and flown in from god knew where, a shaggy bouquet of pale yellow and creamy white Fuji mums in a deep blue ginger jar— then gently pushed open the door.

Marvin Peterson, casually immaculate in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, sat at the bedside, reading The Wall Street Journal. His eyes widened as he recognized Elizabeth. The woman in the bed turned, following his gaze.

“Elizabeth,” she whispered, and struggled to sit up.

Marvin Peterson was on his feet and bending over the bed. “Kimmie, you know the doctor told you no exertion. Mrs. Goodweather wouldn’t want you to—”

“No, Kimmie, please stay still. I just wanted to bring you these and say how sorry I am.”

Kimmie’s pale lips quivered as she fought for control. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I guess it just wasn’t meant to happen.” She smiled weakly at her visitor, then turned to her husband. “But it’s not as bad as it could have been. At least now I have a daughter. Did you know Kyra saved my life?” Her eyelids fluttered and closed. She mumbled, “Pretty flowers…bright…” and was asleep.

Marvin Peterson put a finger to his lips. He took the jar of flowers from Elizabeth and set it on the windowsill by the orchids. “Come with me down to the cafeteria for some coffee.” The words were spoken softly but the command was unmistakable.

* * *

“They’ve got her all doped up,” he explained as they drank the unpleasant substance offered as coffee in the cafeteria. “They gave her a transfusion but she’s supposed to stay completely still for a while.”

“I wondered if I should come, but when I called the hospital to get her room number they didn’t say anything about no visitors.” Elizabeth put her cup down and pushed it away from her. “I got to know her a little in our painting class and—”

“Now, that’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? First, you take in my daughter and then you and my wife become buddies.”

Marvin Peterson’s eyes scanned her face and she felt a blush rising. “Hardly buddies, Mr. Peterson. But you’re right, it was quite a coincidence. Kimmie and I talked about it the last time she was at the class. She’s such a sweet person and she had told me how excited she was about the baby…so when I heard about the…about what happened, I wanted to come see her.”

Peterson listened without comment. Finally he said, “It’s just as well you did come in. I have some things I need to talk to you about. Things to get straight.” He fixed Elizabeth with a penetrating stare. “Kyra tells me she gave you and your friend the detective— no, sorry, ex-detective— a lot of bullshit about me having that lowlife boyfriend of hers killed. She says she even hinted that I’d done the same with her mother— with Rose, for God’s sake.”

He swallowed a gulp of his coffee and slammed the cup down on the table. The murky brown liquid slopped unnoticed onto the green formica surface. “I believe I mentioned to you that my daughter’s mental state is a matter of concern. Let me tell you a little about our family history.”

The silver-haired man fastidiously wiped the tabletop before resting his forearms on it and beginning.

“My family history is that there is none. My parents were migrant workers— back before the Hispanics took over. I was born in California but we never lived in one place for longer than a planting or harvesting season. My father left when I was nine, and my mother attached herself to a fellow named Pike. One night they left me in the old trailer we were renting and went out drinking. Lucky for me because when the semi plowed into their truck, I wasn’t with them.

“It’s a long story and none of it very nice. Mom was dead and if she had any family, I never knew them. A social worker showed up and I got put into foster care— not a fate I’d wish on a dog. Typical thing— bounced around from one family to another. But I picked up some education— both in and out of school. By the time I was eighteen and on my own, I was a partner in—” He paused. “It doesn’t matter. Call it a dubious, though not technically illegal, business. And I started making money.

“I had my first million before I turned twenty-eight. And by then my various…enterprises could withstand the severest scrutiny. What’s more, I’d buried the migrant kid and the foster kid forever.” He looked complacently at his highly polished shoes. “I learned how to dress well and how to speak correctly. Soon, I was an inevitability among the movers and the shakers in this town— in the long run, money, well-handled, can trump breeding anytime.”

“And then you met Rose.” Elizabeth studied the tanned face, the carefully barbered silver hair, the neatly manicured nails, looking for some sign of the orphan child. There was none. And then, as he spoke, his face softened.

“Rose was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life. The first time I saw her, I thought that she was just like the white and gold angel at the top of a Christmas tree. I’d seen one in a store window when I was a kid and asked my mother what it was and she’d told me it was something for rich people. And Rose was just as unattainable at first, but I persisted. And somehow…she fell in love with me.”

Marvin Peterson smiled grimly. “Her parents— and more important, her grandmother— weren’t especially pleased. Rose was only eighteen and I was almost thirty. But when she told them she was pregnant, they caved. Rose wouldn’t consider an abortion, so they put together a fancy wedding in double-quick time.”

His eyes looked unseeingly at the table. “She was, as they say, a vision. When she came walking down the aisle in all that white satin and lace, she was smiling at me just like the angel on the tree. I think everyone in the church could see how much we loved each other— afterward at the reception even Miss Lily kissed me and welcomed me to the family.” He continued to stare at the table, lost in his memories.

“And then Kyra came along,” prompted Elizabeth.

Peterson looked up in surprise. “No, not then. Our baby, Rose’s and mine, was born early while we were traveling in Europe. He was a boy and he lived only a few hours. Rose had a bad time of it and the doctor said she should never attempt another pregnancy.”

CHAPTER 28

THE RETURNED CHILD

(SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 24)

BUT THE DOCTOR WAS WRONG.” ELIZABETH LEANED forward. “Kyra—”

“Kyra isn’t Rose’s child.” Marvin Peterson lifted his gaze from the tabletop. “The birth— and death— of our son was the end of our…of our marital relations. I blamed myself for what had happened and, though I loved Rose as much as ever, I became unable to…perform…with her, at least.”

Once again his eyes were studying the tabletop. “She was so fragile— and the doctor had told me that the birth of our son had almost killed her— and after that I couldn’t…didn’t want to…She would beg me for another baby but…” His brow creased. “It was as if those few moments she had held our child had awakened some terrible hunger. She wanted a child and she wanted it soon. And she didn’t want anyone to know it wasn’t her natural child.

“It was Rose’s idea that we find a surrogate mother— someone small and blonde like her. Rose was so determined— she said that at least the baby would be part of me if not her. She planned it all— she would pretend to be pregnant while the surrogate was actually carrying the child. We would arrange for a phony home birth— with enough money we could find a doctor to go along with all this— to take place when the surrogate delivered. The surrogate would hand the child over and we’d be parents again.”

Peterson paused. “I’m not sure— Rose didn’t actually ever say this but I believe she was afraid that Lily might not want her considerable fortune to end up with an adopted child. I didn’t give a damn what Lily thought or where she left her money— I had plenty of money myself— but it was important to Rose that our child be accepted as blood kin.

“So Rose insisted on the surrogate and the phony pregnancy and I agreed. It wasn’t that difficult. I knew a lawyer who had a little sideline in discreet arrangements of that sort. It didn’t take long: he found a girl— a college girl who needed money to get her master’s degree in English. From her picture, she could have been Rose’s sister. It’s amazing what a little money can do.”

He laughed sourly. “Well, actually, it was a lot of money, I guess, but it worked. The girl signed away all rights to the baby and from the beginning the child looked like Rose. Aside from the two of us, the lawyer and the doctor were the only ones who knew the truth…and, of course, the natural mother. Several years went by and little Kyra was so beautiful and so perfect that I think Rose had managed to put our whole deception out of her mind. She was completely happy as a mother and I began to think that another child might be in order.

“Rose was agreeable— not enthusiastic, but agreeable. Little Kyra had fulfilled her hunger for motherhood but I wanted a son, like the one we’d lost. This time Rose didn’t insist on the whole phony pregnancy thing— everyone would know that this second child was an adoption. It really didn’t matter; by then I had more money than Lily. And so my lawyer contacted the same woman and offered her a substantial sum to undertake a second pregnancy. And once again she was willing. I made my deposit at the doctor’s office and ten months later the doctor brought us our new child— almost a replica of Kyra— but a boy, the son I’d wanted.”

“I don’t understand…I thought Kyra was your only child.”

Peterson shook his head. “We had the faithful Reba to care for Kyra and of course we hired a nurse for the new baby. Rose wasn’t able to cope with Kyra all day long. Even at five, Kyra had a real mind of her own— just like Kyra at twenty-seven.

“So little Marvin junior was installed and Kyra seemed fascinated by him. She spent long hours just hanging over the crib and staring at him.”

Peterson fell silent, then resumed his story. “Marvin junior wasn’t a month old when I had to go away on business. I was to be gone for several weeks and during this time I called home every night. About a week had passed when I called as usual. Not Rose but Lily was put on the line and she told me very succinctly that there had beena…I think she said ‘a problem’ and that the baby was in the hospital. Nothing serious— a ‘minor injury,’ she assured me.

“Lily went on to say that another child was too much for Rose to take care of, physically or emotionally, and that she was looking into returning this child to its mother. ‘Rose agrees it would be best,’ she said in that tone of voice of hers that turns people to stone.

“I asked to speak to Rose and Lily told me that Rose and Kyra had gone on a little trip and would be back when I returned. ‘Rose and I feel that it will be less traumatic for Kyra if the baby is gone when she returns. At her age she’ll soon forget him.’ I can still hear those words.” Peterson’s face was expressionless. “I could hardly believe—”

“But that’s terrible!” The words burst out before Elizabeth could call them back. “The baby was your own blood— your son— how could you let them—?”

Marvin Peterson’s lips tightened. “I canceled the rest of my meetings and flew home that night. Lily met me at the door of my house and told me that my…that the baby’s mother had been delighted to reclaim her child. Lily was so opposed to Kyra’s having an adopted brother that I think she actually paid the woman to take back her own child! Final adoption papers had not been signed and there was little I could do in the face of such opposition from Lily— and Rose.”

“Rose didn’t mind returning the baby?”

“No, not at all. I think really that she was relieved. As I told you, the second child was my idea; Rose had been more or less indifferent. And I’ll have to admit— Marvin junior was not an easy baby— colicky, the nurse said. When he was picked up, he would go stiff and start to scream. Kyra had been difficult too, at the beginning, but when Reba came to us, Kyra had turned into a little angel. I had hoped that Reba could work her magic with the new baby, but she couldn’t…or wouldn’t. ‘I got no time fer another young un,’ she told me, ‘Miss Kyra’s enough fer me to see to.’ ”

His face hardened. “So there I was. I’d brought this screaming infant into the house and suddenly our pleasant lifestyle was shot to hell. Rose never actually…what’s the term?…bonded with the new baby; as a matter of fact, she avoided him as much as possible. And then there were Miss Lily and Reba— they were actively opposed to the idea of a second child. You can’t imagine how strong-willed those two women are.”

Peterson looked at her, reading the disapproval in her face. “You have to understand; this…situation was upsetting Rose. I did what I had to: made ample provision for the boy and his mother but never tried to see them. Rose asked that I make that promise. My lawyer knows where they are and takes care of the financial side. But I kept my promise to Rose, even after—” He broke off, as though the words she died stuck in his throat.

“But Kimmie. You set up a second household with her— in spite of all this love for Rose.”

“Kimmie was…well, at first she was just an…an outlet, a convenience. I couldn’t make love to Rose anymore but I found I had no trouble at all screwing my sweet little secretary. And I needed that, to feel like I was still a man. The second house and all that…well, things just escalated and I found myself caring about Kimmie too. She was just an ordinary girl from a trailer park outside of Asheville. When I was with her I could sit around in my undershirt and drink beer and watch TV. With Rose, almost every night was a social occasion and I always had to take care so that the son of the migrant worker didn’t show through the fancy façade I’d created.”

“Then it was convenient for you when Rose was killed.”

Peterson stiffened and glared at her. “You need to understand this. I loved Rose more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I still love her. When she died…When she died I blamed myself.”

“Why was that?” A heartless question but she had to know.

“In my early years I sailed pretty close to the wind, and some of my…associates were…I guess you could say, on the wrong side of the law. I knew there were those who probably thought they got a raw deal when I went legitimate, and I knew there was a chance they might try to get back at me through my family…. There was a state-of-the-art alarm system; I thought she’d be safe…that no one could get in, but they did, right into that room of hers that was like a saint’s shrine, all white and gold and silk and lace.”

He buried his face in his hands.

* * *

“It’s the strangest story, Phillip. They paid this woman to have a second child for them and then when they got him—‘took delivery of him’ might be the appropriate term— they kept him a few weeks and then just sent him back— like returning a pair of shoes that didn’t fit. The baby was disrupting their lifestyle, for god’s sake!”

They were having dinner at Phillip’s rented house in Weaverville. He had purchased several ready-to-microwave side dishes from a local eatery and had, with a minimal amount of fanfare, produced barbecued chicken from the grill on his deck.

“So what was the problem?” He filled her glass with wine and offered the dish of Chinese-style green beans. “What was this ‘minor injury’ that put the baby in the hospital?”

“Peterson didn’t say— I don’t know if he ever found out…he says he never saw the child again. He just told me that he had paid the mother a substantial sum for, how did he put it? ‘undertaking the second pregnancy’ and that he had, over the years, made sure that the child was adequately supported. And he said that Lily may have paid the mother something for taking the child back. Something about Lily not wanting Kyra to have competition in the form of an adopted brother. And he couldn’t tell Lily the truth about Kyra because he had promised Rose. To this day, only he and the natural mother know the truth— and the lawyer and the doctor who were involved, I guess.”

Phillip sipped his wine and considered. “The kid they sent back is probably better off not being part of that crazy bunch. They are one hell of a strange family. First Kyra wants to tie Boz’s death to her mother’s murder— and blame both on her father. Now she’s done a three-sixty. When I got home this afternoon there was a message from her on the voice mail. You gotta hear this.” He tapped in the appropriate numbers on his phone and handed the instrument to Elizabeth.

Kyra’s voice sounded in her ear, almost a whisper but unmistakable: Phillip, I think maybe I’ve been wrong about my father…. We’ve gotten closer these past few days, you know, really talked and I think…I don’t know; I’m all confused…. I’ve hated him and been afraid of him for so long but now I don’t know…. What if I’ve been wrong all these years and wasted time hating him…hating the wrong person?

I really need to talk to you about things, Phillip…. GeeGee…she’s been so strange recently…either she’s just staring out the window or she’s writing in this little journal she has. And the way she looks at me sometimes…

Really, please call me; I have to talk to you. Please, Phillip…And there’s another thing: right before Kimmie got so sick, she ate some of this special soup GeeGee sent her. Kimmie’s the only one who had any…. I saved the jar it was in.

The message ended.

“Do you think that Kyra has maybe lost touch with reality here?” Elizabeth asked Phillip. “I mean, really, that frail old lady whose driver carried her up the steps to my house…”

Phillip was looking at her expectantly but he said nothing.

“Okay, so that doesn’t mean she’s helpless; she could have Buckley doing the dirty work. But what would be the point? She’s evidently accepted the situation with Kimmie till now—”

“Till now.” Phillip nodded in agreement. “But then Kimmie got pregnant. And that pregnancy meant that Kyra was no longer the sole heir to Peterson’s fortune— some of which had come to him through Rose.”

“Are you saying that Mrs. Gordon was trying to kill Kimmie to protect Kyra? I don’t know, Phillip….”

“Neither do I. But I’m sure as hell going to suggest to Hank that somebody take a look at that soup Kyra’s saved.”

Elizabeth helped Hawkins clear the table and sat on a kitchen stool, sipping her coffee as he loaded the dishwasher. Her thoughts tumbled in confusion. “There’re just too many loose ends. What about Boz? Who do you think is responsible for his death?”

Phillip gave the countertop a final swipe with a sponge and put out his hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”

* * *

They strolled along the footpaths that wound around Lake Louise, a pretty man-made body of water near Phillip’s rented cottage. The cool of the evening attracted many to the little park: dedicated joggers, stretching elaborately before beginning their humorless rounds; children, running and shrieking with savage delight at their twilight games; elderly couples, sitting on benches, chatting in quiet tones or silently enjoying the various people and pursuits that swirled around them.

Phillip broke their silence. “You asked who I think murdered Boz. Hank tells me that the Asheville PD is just about ready to make an arrest. Like I said, it’s Travis’s old daddy. Evidently he’s not as bad off healthwise, as Travis led us to think. He’s the one behind the meth lab and, if he didn’t put the bullet in Boz’s head, he could have ordered it done. He’s got three tough, bad old boys working for him—”

“Travis? Is he one of them? The drug dealers?”

“Hank said they don’t think so. Evidently Daddy tried to keep Travis clear of the wrong side of the business. And Travis turns out to have a rock-solid alibi for the time of death.”

Elizabeth mulled this over as they approached a bench where a middle-aged couple was locked in a passionate embrace.

“Boz was such a big guy; it seems like he would have put up a fight— there would have been signs of a struggle. Did your friend— did Hank have any information about the autopsy?”

“The autopsy showed a very high blood alcohol count; Boz had probably passed out before he was shot. And this is weird: there were traces of Rope— Rohypnol.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s what they call a date-rape drug; makes a person submissive and easy to manipulate. It’s illegal but pretty available on the street. Hank figures Boz left the museum and went drinking with his meth lab buddies— the three bad old boys I mentioned. They’re the type who’d have access to Rope and they probably thought it’d be funny to use it on Boz.”

“So the three bad old boys could have shot him and put him in the car. But Phillip, that doesn’t make sense! Why wouldn’t they have gotten rid of his body? Leaving it in the crusher just calls attention to the junkyard.”

“Yeah, that didn’t seem right to me either. But Hank says the prevailing theory is that Daddy was trying to kill two birds with one stone— get rid of Boz, who’d been talking too much, and pin the murder on Rafiq, thereby getting him out of the way too. It can’t have been convenient having Rafiq around when they were distributing meth.”

“So, if that takes care of Boz and if Kyra was responsible for the corncrib incident…what about the fire that destroyed the house?”

Phillip didn’t answer at first. They walked on, side by side, shoulders brushing occasionally. Finally he spoke. “Elizabeth, it’s like I said before— the obvious suspect—”

“— is the first one at the scene. And that would fit in with what happened at the corncrib.” Elizabeth stared out at the little lake where a fountain hurled a jet of water high in the air. “She’s really disturbed, Phillip. Will she be charged with arson?”

“Hold on now; nothing’s been proved and no charges have been brought. As a matter of fact, our Mr. Peterson has fully reimbursed the owners of the house— there wasn’t any insurance, evidently— and made a big donation to the volunteer fire departments that were involved. And—now this is hush-hush, Sherlock— Peterson has promised the authorities that right after her show opens, Kyra is voluntarily going back to the funny farm.”

CHAPTER 29

REVELATIONS

(WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28)

LILY GORDON, ASHEVILLE ARTS PATRON, DEAD AT 91. Even on the computer monitor, the headline screamed. Elizabeth scrolled down the article that detailed the particulars of the old woman’s long life: her Boston background, her involvement with the Appalachian Women’s Crafts Center, her marriage, family, and her many charities. The cause of death was listed as heart failure.

* * *

Elizabeth had been on her way to work in the garden when Phillip called with the news, saying that he was on his way to Asheville for a class but thought she’d want to know that Lily Gordon had died in her sleep Tuesday morning. “And don’t bother getting out your magnifying glass for this one, Sherlock— I talked to Hank as soon as I heard— I wondered if there might be some funny business because of the tie-in with Kyra and her father, but it seems Mrs. Gordon had been on heart meds for years and her doctor signed off on the death certificate, no problem. Evidently she’d been failing in the past weeks. So you can relax and get back to your garden.”

Elizabeth finished reading the article on the computer screen, noting the brief mention of Lily’s children and her only grandchild Rose, all of whom had “predeceased” their seemingly indomitable mother and grandmother.

The house was quiet. On the previous day Willow had received a mysterious phone call and had announced that “a friend” had arranged for her and Aidan to stay elsewhere. They had left within the hour, with many thanks and blessings from Willow and a somewhat reluctant goodbye from Aidan. “Tell Laurel I’ll be in touch,” he had said. Ben and Julio had gone into Asheville on farm business and Elizabeth was alone. She had the feeling, indistinct but real, that Lily Gordon’s death was somehow significant and that there was something more to come. Lily Gordon— a bit of an enigma. I wonder…I wonder…

She hunted through the scraps of paper stuffed in the back of her Rolodex— yes, the Peterson number was there, scribbled on the back of a piece of junk mail.

She waited till nine to make the call— her training from childhood had drilled into her that this was the earliest one could make calls except in an emergency. The polite voice that answered hesitated, then asked for her name. Eventually Kimmie came on the line. Her voice was weak and a little subdued but she seemed happy to be speaking with Elizabeth.

“Yes, Kyra’s still here with us. Well, at night anyway. She leaves early every morning and spends the day at her studio getting ready for the show. Yes, GeeGee’s death is hard on Kyra, though I think we all feel it was a blessing that she was taken while she still had her mind— she had a real horror of becoming senile. Marvin and Kyra had been talking just the other day about how GeeGee was going downhill, seemed to be sort of losing touch.” There was a nervous laugh. “Listen to me calling her GeeGee. If she was here instead of at the funeral home, she’d probably rise up and knock me over the head with that gold-headed cane of hers. I only saw her occasionally and I sure never dared to call her anything but Mrs. Gordon.

“Even Reba, that housekeeper of hers, terrifies me. When I went with Marvin to the house before they…before they took Mrs. Gordon away, I thought Reba was going to slam the door in my face. I know Mrs. Gordon’s death was a blow to her— everyone’s always saying how devoted Reba is, but still…”

“What about you, Kimmie? How are you doing?”

“I’m feeling better; you know, Kyra’s brought me some tea she got at a natural pharmacy. I believe it’s really helped— it’s supposed to be good for female complaints. But I still have to rest a lot— I won’t be going to painting class tomorrow. Will you explain to Daphne? I just hate missing her class but I don’t have any choice.”

They talked for several minutes and then Elizabeth heard a man speaking in the background. Kimmie excused herself and evidently put her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece, but her words were still intelligible. “It’s Elizabeth, my friend from painting. You know, the one Kyra was staying with—”

A pause and an urgent mumble of words. Then Kimmie was back. “Marvin wants to talk to you, Elizabeth. I’ll say goodbye now but please call tomorrow and tell me what you all did in class.”

The telephone switched hands and Elizabeth could hear Marvin Peterson telling his wife that he would take the phone to another room and send the maid with her breakfast tray. There was a sound of muffled footsteps, the click of a door, and then the voice of Marvin Peterson was in her ear.

He wasted no time on small talk. “Mrs. Goodweather, I appreciate your concern for Kyra and for my wife but I have to repeat what I told you before— I want your nephew to stay away from Kyra. She doesn’t need any…distractions at the moment. Her great-grandmother’s death has been traumatic for her and I’m afraid that it’s brought back memories of that terrible time with Rose— God knows it has for me.”

There was a pause as he cleared his throat. Then he went on. “Unfortunately, there’s another thing exacerbating the situation. Somehow Kyra has found out about her adoption. I don’t know how long she’s known— it was after Miss Lily’s death. Kyra broke down and asked me to tell her who she was.”

Another pause as he collected himself. “It almost killed me, seeing her standing there looking like a little lost soul. ‘GeeGee’s gone,’ she said ‘and I don’t know who I am.’ She said something about how she hadn’t wanted me for a father for a long time but now she did— and suddenly I realized how stupid this whole thing had been. I told her the truth— that she was mine, flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone. And then I told her about her brother and the mistake I made years ago in letting him go. I swore to undo that mistake, as far as possible. I told her I’d spend whatever it took to get him back— I have a call in to my attorney. All these years I’ve never allowed myself to know where my son is— it’s all handled through the trust fund. But I think that he and his mother must still be in the area, from things my attorney has said.”

Marvin Peterson choked, blew his nose, and continued. “Kyra just stared at me with those big green eyes and said, ‘A brother? I have a brother?’ I hugged her and promised that he’d be waiting when she finished her stay at the clinic in Massachusetts.

“So I hope you see, Mrs. Goodweather,” now he was pleading, urgent and sincere, “my little girl has got a lot to think about and sort out right now. She really doesn’t need a…romantic complication like your nephew.”

Elizabeth struggled to assimilate this new information. There were so many questions but…“Mr. Peterson, Kyra told my…my friend that Kimmie got sick after eating some soup Mrs. Gordon had sent her. Has anything been done…an analysis—”

“I’m having it looked into privately. If Kyra is right— well, the old lady’s dead and I’d just as soon not have a scandal. I suppose it’s possible Miss Lily didn’t want to see Kyra supplanted by another heir. But, as I keep telling you, Kyra is not completely reliable just now. We need to get her back into therapy and back onto her medication. If it weren’t for that damn show of hers— but I promised she could wait till after it opened. The doctor says she needs to go through with it— how’d he put it?—‘to bring closure to The 3 and to give birth to the new Kyra.’ ”

* * *

The call to the Petersons provided Elizabeth ample material to think on as she went about her work in the garden. The weather was still sultry— the air hanging heavy and breathless. Internet weather radar had shown a hurricane churning its way up from the Gulf of Mexico. Rain would be welcome but there was much to be done in the garden— the last tomatoes to be picked, herbs to be harvested, and general cleanup to make it ready for its long winter rest.

She started at the top, in her small herb and salad garden, tidy with its rectangular box beds. The dew had dried on the herbs and she began by trimming the golden oregano, the sage, the marjoram, and thyme. These would be tied into small bundles to hang in a darkened upstairs room to dry. The beds where the fall lettuce was growing showed a light dusting of green— tiny weeds waiting for her to turn her back so that they could overpower the lettuce. Oh, no you don’t, she thought and turned to get her light hoe, which she had left hanging from the latticework of the little arbor a few days back.

The arbor was almost hidden by an exuberant display of hyacinth beans: big green leaves that showed a tint of violet veins in the sunlight, lavender blossoms, and long, heavy-podded, glossy purple beans. She fumbled through the lush growth and discovered that the hoe’s handle was wrapped about with the quick-growing tendrils of the prolific vine.

Here in early fall it seemed that nature’s bounty was rampant. At any time a frost could destroy most of the garden, but till then each plant seemed hell-bent on producing and reproducing. Below the herb garden in the long rock-walled tiers were pumpkins gleaming yellow, orange, and red amid cascading vines, cucumbers sprawling fatly on their trellises, and a block of Indian corn, drying where it stood. Volunteer Thai basil with its compelling, almost fetid, odor ran amok amid the old broccoli plants, which, though their heavy green crowns had long since been cut, were sending out myriad side shoots.

Elizabeth picked and hoed and trimmed till, weary with the heavy heat of the day, she sought the shade. From her perch on a big rock under a willow tree, she surveyed the garden, mentally assessing how much was left to be done. Trim back the asparagus ferns and strawberry runners; pick the rest of the basil and Italian parsley to make pesto; get the last of the sweet corn. Beautiful and productive though it all was, somewhere a part of her longed for frost and the end of garden work for a few months.

Above the late-bearing golden raspberries, two swallow-tailed butterflies, one black, one yellow, were spiraling around each other. Their once beautiful wings were ragged and dull— the price of survival through summer’s perils and pleasures. The pair seemed unaware of their fragile state. Up and up they fluttered— mating? fighting? playing? It was difficult to say.

Elizabeth watched in openmouthed absorption— her busy thoughts almost silenced. Almost, but not quite. I have a real feeling that’s a metaphor for something or other but I’m not going to go there. They’re just two butterflies. I will not bring my English major’s sensibilities into this.

Time for lunch. She stood, stretched, and tried not to think of Phillip Hawkins and herself as she climbed the hill back to the house.

CHAPTER 30

LETTER FROM A DEAD WOMAN

(WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 28)

THE HEAT WAS EVEN MORE OPPRESSIVE AFTER lunch— the sullen, dead air that often precedes a storm. Elizabeth showered and spent a little time catching up with bills and correspondence. Then, remembering that she was almost out of dog food, she made a quick list and set out for the grocery store.

Birdie was sweeping her front porch as Elizabeth went by, and they exchanged friendly waves. I need to go for a visit soon; who knows…if Lily Gordon could die so suddenly…and Birdie’s in her eighties…

She neared the bridge and glanced over at the little green house where Franklin Ferman lived. A pale blue Fairlane was parked in the drive and a small but vigorous-looking woman was pegging out wet garments on the clotheslines that stretched across the porch. She waved cheerfully when she saw Elizabeth’s car and then disappeared back into the little house.

All right! Dorothy’s on the case! She’ll clean up that place, even if she does talk his ears off. Elizabeth grinned to think of the solitary old man in the company of the energetic and loquacious Dorothy. Maybe he’ll hide in Loretty’s roomtill Dorothy finishes. Though I wouldn’t put it past her to strip him down and scrub him along with the kitchen floor.

The thought of Loretty’s quilts reminded her that she needed to stop by the library and decide where the quilts would be hung. She had collected two dozen so far and was not sure if there would be space to hang them all. If I have to show some folded and laid on tables, I’ll do that. It’s going to be so gorgeous to see them all displayed.

* * *

It took about twenty minutes to determine where the quilts would go. She consulted with Barb and together they arranged a time to hang the show. Then she sat down at one of the library’s computers to redo the description of the animal quilt— the one Omie had called the Fanchon quilt. As she labored to come up with a description that would honor the maker without telling the whole ugly story, once again she found herself reflecting on the terrible strength of jealousy…and of artistic pride.

How do ghostwriters do it? she wondered. Do all the work, then let someone else have all the credit. I guess it’s the money. Even in a group like The 3, I wonder if one did more work than the others…was the idea person. I know if I actually created something, I’d have a hard time not resenting someone else taking credit.

* * *

All the way home the questions rode with her. Tildy had sold her artistic ownership of the animal quilt for the money Lily Gordon offered, but had then taken out her bitterness on Fanchon through all the long years of Fanchon’s disability. And why had Lily Gordon wanted Fanchon to have the credit? It’s a mystery, she told herself, turning into the drive. And Lily’s gone and Fanchon can’t speak.

The white SUV was waiting under the pear tree at the top of her drive. Buckley, in the familiar chauffeur’s cap, was leaning against the rock wall in the shade. As she pulled to a stop near her house and got out, he came to her. A large manila envelope was in his hand.

“Mrs. Goodweather, my late employer asked me to deliver this to you. She gave it to me the night before—” His voice was husky. Dark glasses hid his eyes but there could be no mistake: Buckley was crying. He turned away briefly, as if to compose himself, then said, “She didn’t…we didn’t know.”

“Please, Mr…. Mr. Buckley, come up to the porchand sit down. I’d like to talk to you about Mrs. Gordon. I just heard the news this morning.”

* * *

He insisted on helping her carry the groceries from the car to the kitchen, then accepted a glass of cold water. They sat on the porch and he told his story.

“I always report to her in her sitting room around five in the afternoon. She tells me if she has plans for the next day— if I will be driving her somewhere or if she has some other…assignment for me. When I went in to see her on Monday, she seemed about as usual— maybe a little more tired. I know she had several visitors that day— her lawyer, her doctor, Mr. Peterson, and, of course, Kyra. None of that was particularly unusual. Her doctor often dropped by; his grandfather had been her original doctor and the young man more or less inherited Mrs. Gordon as a patient. I think he was afraid to tell her doctors don’t make house calls anymore. The lawyer was the same— you do what it takes to keep your wealthiest client happy.

“Anyway, she seemed tired. There on the table by her was the usual glass of sherry and this envelope. She told me that I was to deliver it to you the next day. That was it; nothing more.”

Buckley fell silent. Elizabeth asked, “How long have you been with Mrs. Gordon? She seemed to rely on you completely.”

“I came to work for her in 1975— and yes, she has relied on me in many ways. It’s been my pride to serve her and to carry out her orders to the letter.” His voice faltered. “I failed to carry out her last request. You should have had her letter yesterday but the household was…disrupted and I couldn’t leave—”

“Tell me what happened.” Something in the grieving man’s demeanor suggested that he had more to say about the death of his employer.

Buckley leaned his head back, pulled off the dark glasses, wiped his eyes, and put the glasses back on. “Reba took up morning tea at eight, as usual. She found Mrs. Gordon dead. She was in her nightclothes, lying in an easy chair by the fireplace in her bedroom. Evidently she had felt chilled, for she had asked Reba to lay a small fire after her supper. The fire had gone out and there were many ashes; Reba said that Mrs. Gordon must have been burning pages from a journal she’s been writing in for the past months. One page had been only partially burned and I pulled it out of the fireplace. When I saw your name on it, I decided to bring it to you.”

Buckley stood and handed the manila envelope to her. “It’s in here, along with her letter. I apologize for bringing it later than Mrs. Gordon had wished.” He turned to go.

Elizabeth stood as well. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Buckley. She was quite an amazing woman. I’m so glad to have had the opportunity to meet her.”

Buckley stared at the distant mountains. Finally he said, in an abstracted voice, “Her eyes were open, but when I closed them she looked peaceful, like she’d fallen asleep in the chair. Reba told me to lift her onto the bed. I did and we laid her out and crossed her hands on her chest.” He gestured toward the envelope Elizabeth was holding. “I put it in there too— a dirty old piece of ribbon Mrs. Gordon had balled up in her hand. Reba was going to throw it away but it didn’t seem right. It’s in there with the letter and the page that didn’t burn.”

* * *

She watched Buckley return to the car and start down the road. Then she reached into the manila envelope and pulled out the long creamy rectangle that was addressed “Mrs. Goodweather.” She ran her finger under the sealed flap, took out the heavy sheet of paper, and sank into a rocking chair, reading the shaky but still elegant handwriting.

My dear Mrs. Goodweather,

I beg your indulgence once again. I have some things that must be said and, sadly enough, I find myself with no one near to me I can trust to understand. So I turn to you.

Why? Because I believe you to be a woman of intelligence and integrity, one who will make proper use of the information I am about to lay before you. And you are a woman who knows something of Kyra— something, but not all. Action may be necessary and there are signs— all but unmistakable— that I may be unable to see this matter through to the end. And so I present you with these— shall we call them background sketches? Use them to enhance the picture my great-granddaughter has painted of herself.

When Kyra was very small, about five years old, Marvin and Rose ill-advisedly chose to adopt an infant— a sickly baby boy. I say ill-advisedly because Rose’s heart was not in the endeavor— her love was all for Kyra. This experiment ended abruptly when the baby’s nurse, who had slipped outside for a surreptitious cigarette, heard the baby shrieking. She lingered to finish her forbidden pleasure— the baby was always crying, she told us later, she didn’t know— but when she did return, the baby’s crib contained not only the terrified and wailing infant but a small conflagration of flaming bits of paper and, unfortunately, a plastic toy. It was the melted plastic that did the damage, of course.

The nurse found Kyra hiding in the closet. Later a box of matches was found on the lawn where it had landed after being thrown from the window.

The baby was taken immediately to the hospital and, so I understand, made a full recovery except for some scarring caused by the melted plastic. We consulted with a child psychologist and he agreed with me that it would be better if this adoption had never taken place. I made it so. I trust that Kyra has no real memory of that brief fiasco. My housekeeper Reba, who was, for many years, Kyra’s nanny, assures me that Kyra is completely unaware of this brief, unpleasant episode.

The second event that troubles me may be mere coincidence. When Kyra was about fourteen (such a difficult time for girls) she was totally immersed in horses. She had several fine (and very costly) animals and was an inevitable winner in her age group. Then came a most important show. If she won, she would be eligible for Olympic training. It was considered a certainty and she was aglow with the possibilities that lay before her.

The show went badly for her. One horse stumbled; the other refused a jump. Kyra took a second and two thirds. At the end of the day, I saw her drop the red and yellow ribbons and trample them into the mud. That night the stables burned; her horses with them.

It may have been a coincidence. I would like to believe that it was. There were those who whispered that it was Marvin’s doing. The investigators poked through the sorry ashes for weeks before pronouncing it to be a fire of unknown origin. Neither Rose nor Marvin would discuss it with me, and Kyra never spoke of it either.

I feel that I have been blind and mute too long; Marvin has invested all his hopes in her and cannot be objective. Nor can I, despite recent revelations. But I cannot allow this situation to continue.

It may be foolish of me to ask this of you; indeed, I am not sure exactly what I ask— a watchful eye, perhaps? I must be certain that someone is watching. I have been mistaken before but not, I think, this time.

And if I am wrong, what then? She seems so sweet, so solicitous of her old GeeGee.

I should prefer to believe she loves me. But I must be sure.

Buckley will deliver this to you. Please feel free to call on me for further discussion of this matter. I fear I have not expressed myself as clearly as I could have wished.

Sincerely yours,

Lily Gordon

Elizabeth laid the dead woman’s puzzling letter on the table by her rocking chair and pulled out the single, partially charred sheet of paper. This too was in Lily Gordon’s hand and a wavering E. Goodweather was written across the top of the page. She peered closer to make out the words— cowbird’s so no account she won’t even build a nest— just finds someone else’s and drops her egg in it. Then off she goes and leaves the other birds to raise her young un. And the young un, when hit hatches, hit’ll push all the other babies outten the nest and they’ll die.

A dark scorch mark obliterated the center of the page but the last paragraph was just legible:

And as her sweet clear tones fill my ears, my heart, my soul, I untie the blue ribbon and slip it into my pocket. A few bright strands of her hair twine around my fingers, clinging briefly, then the red-gold locks tumble about her shoulders. She sings on, never taking her eyes from me as I pick violets, and weave them into her hair. Her eyes are shining when she looks at me.

“What is all this supposed to mean?” Elizabeth asked Molly and Ursa, who had just emerged from their cool lair under the porch. “She believes— believed I’m a woman of intelligence, but this is…this is baffling. I see where she’s going with the fire thing— but cowbirds— red-gold locks— that couldn’t be Rose or Kyra, they’re both blonde. And what does this have to do with anything?”

She reached back into the envelope to pull out the last item Buckley had delivered. A crumpled length of silk ribbon, stained and brittle with age, lay in her hand. Its faded sheen revealed a hint of blue.

CHAPTER 31

INCUBATION

(THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 29)

SHE SAID SHE’D HEARD THAT HE WAS IN BIG TROUBLE with the IRS— some kind of tax scam that he’s been running through the gallery…. I know him socially, of course, but no, not intimately…. Oh, please, you know what I mean…. As if!”

Blondie was back in painting class, her expensive set of oils scattered before her on the table, a blank canvas propped on an easel, and the cell phone to her ear.

Daphne, attempting to define some painting terms to the class, raised her voice slightly. “Pentimento occurs when the artist paints over something in his picture and those top paints, over time, become transparent, allowing the earlier image to show through. The term comes from the Italian word meaning repentance: the artist repents his first choice and paints over it.”

“No, nothing important. Stuff I had in my other class. He’s not going to be arrested, is he? I always thought there might have been something not quite right— I mean he’s always so cagey about how he got his start.”

Elizabeth looked around but the brave woman who had escorted Blondie and her cell phone outside on the previous occasion was absent. Elizabeth contented herself with a viperous “Shhh!” in Blondie’s direction and was rewarded with a scowl— and a slightly lowered voice.

“Fugitive color,” Daphne continued, with a grateful nod toward Elizabeth, “refers to those pigments with a tendency to fade. Look at your tubes of paint; most of them will have a permanence rating from double A to C. Double A is the most permanent; C is fugitive.”

“Oh my god, I can’t believe it!” Blondie’s voice soared above the murmur of the rest of the class, all busily checking the permanence ratings of their paints. “You can’t be serious!”

“And then,” said Daphne, her voice firm and measured as she took the still-chattering woman’s arm and steered her to the door, “there is negative space.” She gently shoved the incredulous Blondie out the door and shut it behind her. “Negative space is the area around the principal object. When the principal object is removed,” her eyes darted back to the door and her lips quirked slightly, “when the object is removed the remaining space assumes its own importance— which is crucial to the overall picture.”

* * *

“Did the Blondie woman ever come back?” Ben helped himself to more salsa. The flour tortilla bulged and dripped as he conveyed it to his mouth, dropping bits of grilled onions and steak back to the plate. He looked down and grimaced. “I always put too much stuff in these things.”

“She did come back eventually and she and Daphne had a little conversation over in the corner of the room. I hope the message got across.”

“So what kind of stuff are you learning in that class?”

Elizabeth took a sip of her beer. “Lots. We’re doing basic drawing and mixing colors and we’ve started a simple still life. But it seems to me that what we’re really learning is how to see things. Like, for example, learning to draw what you see rather than what you think you already know.”

The little bell that sometimes rang in her head was dinging softly, This isn’t just about drawing, but she went on. “Daphne says that it’s hard to get over our preconceptions— as children we learn the trick of drawing a house, a tree, a face, whatever, and we have to discard that and draw the actual thing we’re looking at. She gave us each a picture of a table with a jar on it to copy but we had to turn it upside down— that way we were copying the shapes we saw rather than our preconceived idea of a table and a jar.”

“That’s pretty cool.” Ben’s comment trailed over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen for more fajitas.

“It really is. And she talked about how artists express themselves through their work sometimes consciously, sometimes subconsciously. And critics have a field day deconstructing their work and reading all kinds of stuff into it. But the most interesting concept to me was something she called ‘incubation.’ A psychologist named Getzel came up with this term. It’s kind of like you gather all this information and think it over, then you have to try to let go of it: she said you have to let go of certainties and turn on the intuition, the— how’d she say it?—‘the global thinking at the core of creativity.’ ”

“Sounds kind of like making compost.” Ben’s face was solemn. “You pile together a bunch of shit, stir it around, then go away and wait. Eventually all that shit turns into good useful stuff.”

Elizabeth sighed. “A rather inelegant metaphor for the creative process, Ben. Thank you for sharing.”

“Hey, Aunt E, compost is great stuff— the other ‘black gold.’ I appreciate compost a lot more than some of the crap these so-called artists turn out.”

* * *

She lingered over her coffee long after Ben had said good night. A CD by Yo-Yo Ma was playing and she sat, dreamily listening to the music, feeling the resonant sweeps of the bow on the cello strings wiping her mind clear of all worry, all thought.

When Yo-Yo Ma gave way to Béla Fleck, Elizabeth drained the last of her coffee and leaned down to retrieve the napkin that had slid from her lap. There at her feet, wedged upright behind the baseboard, was a tarot card— the Fool, she saw, as she pulled it from its hiding place.

* * *

It had been on one of the nights that Willow and Aidan had stayed at the farm. After-dinner conversation had lagged and Willow had insisted that she would read the cards for each of them. They had assembled at the table, Elizabeth, Laurel, and Ben, dubious but polite, and Aidan, openly scoffing. Willow had ignored her son’s protests and produced a silk-wrapped rectangle from one of the deep pockets in her flowing skirt.

“The silk protects the cards from discordant vibrations,” she had explained in her characteristic lilt as she reverently laid aside the fabric and fanned the deck on the table. “First I’ll choose a Court card to represent each of you. Elizabeth, for you, I think, the Queen of Swords.”

Willow had explained each choice at some length and had gone on to say that she preferred the ancient Celtic method of laying out the cards. There had been the pattering and shuffling of the cards, the cutting “with the left hand and three times to the left.”

It had been intriguing, Elizabeth thought, looking at the card that had been left behind, her card. Willow had read for Elizabeth first— a formal litany of “this is behind her, this is below her,” covering all aspects of past, present, and future. The pronouncements had all been rather generic, Elizabeth remembered. Except for the was it the Eight of Swords? That was ahead of me and she said it signified imprisonment— actual or mental— the fear to make new choices.

And then, of course, there was this card, her last one. “This will signify the final outcome,” Willow had intoned as she turned over the card at the top right-hand side of the pattern.

Ben and Laurel had burst into raucous hoots of laughter at the sight of the Fool— a cheerful young man followed by a little dog. The young man was looking up at the sky and had one foot poised to step off a precipice.

“That’s you, all right, Aunt E. Except there should be three dogs.” Ben had continued to chortle even as Willow carefully explained that this card represented a choice to be made— a choice that could involve a leap of faith.

“Go on and do mine next. I’m ready to go to bed.” Aidan had shoved his Knight of Cups card to the center, pulled together the other cards and shuffled and cut them with practiced speed. Willow had quirked an eyebrow but said nothing as she began to lay out the pattern again.

It was so strange. She kind of raced through his reading. I remember there was the High Priestess and she said that was a good card for artists…and another card that was upside down and lots of swords cards…and then…

And then Willow had reached out, scattering the brightly colored cards, breaking the pattern. That’s how the Fool ended up under the table, I guess.

“The cards aren’t responding,” Willow had proclaimed. “Perhaps another night will be better.” The lilting accent had disappeared and her tones were harsh.

But the next night, Willow and her son had been gone.

* * *

Strange folks. I wonder… Elizabeth stared at the card in her hand, pondering, half seriously, what its message for her might be. The young man on the card smiled enigmatically, one foot poised over eternity.

At last she yawned. “Time for bed.” She went to cut off the CD player, then came back to the table for her cup. With the loud banjo music stilled, she could hear the metal wind chimes on the porch playing a rowdy jangling tune and, in the distance, a loose piece of tin on the old barn roof clashed a rhythmical accompaniment. The wind had risen and the dark crowns of the trees at the foot of the front yard were whipping wildly back and forth. As Elizabeth stared out the dining room window, the trees seemed to take on the shapes of tall, mournful women: weeping, wailing, and flinging up their long arms in hopeless despair.

A sudden crack of lightning lit the sky and a long, ominous roll of thunder announced the coming storm. A few big drops began to spatter on the deck, followed immediately by a deluge. Elizabeth was already on her feet and headed for the front door when frantic barking and scratching told her that Molly and Ursa were back. She let them in immediately and went for towels. Molly, terrified as usual by the thunder, shivered and whined while Elizabeth dried her, but Ursa simply settled into a wet heap on the floor to wait her turn, her shaggy coat streaming.

The thunder had subsided and Elizabeth was drifting on the edge of sleep, soothed by the lashing of the rain against the window glass and the steady breathing of the three dogs. Pentimento, negative space, entelechy, global thinking—the new terms that Daphne had explained that morning kept running through her head. It’s good, learning new stuff and new ways of looking at things…. I’m glad Phillip signed me up for this class…. Words are so powerful, full of hidden meanings… pentimento, entelechy …no, that wasn’t something from Daphne…where did that come from?

Kyra’s sketchbook. She had left it on the chest in the living room. Had Ben finally remembered to take it to its owner? She could picture it vividly. The odd sketch, presumably a study for a larger piece. And three words, one of which was entelechy.

After a few minutes of fruitlessly attempting to ignore this new question in favor of sleep, she switched on the bedside lamp, rolled out of bed, and went for a dictionary.

She read the definitions a second time: 1. Perfect realization as compared to incomplete. 2. That vital force that propels one to self-fulfillment. Not helpful. She looked at the chest, where an untidy heap of magazines and library books sprawled in happy disorder. The sketchbook was still there, almost obscured by the oversize coffee-table book of van Gogh’s work.

Feeling guilty, first, for not having returned the sketchbook sooner, and second, for once again invading Kyra’s privacy, she turned on the reading light by the sofa and sat down to study the entelechy sketch for some clue to the meaning of the obscure word. She flipped hastily past the nude study of Ben and found the page she had remembered.

There were three words: phoenix, resurgam, and entelechy. Elizabeth looked closer at the drawing, willing herself to understand, even as she wondered why it mattered. Maybe these are possible titles— if this is a sketch for something she’s going to do and…that bird could be a phoenix, I suppose. And resurgam is something they used to put on headstones, something like “I’ll be resurrected.” But it’s entelechy that she’s underlined. She stared at the images: a boot, a white flower, a rose with an exotic bird rising from it. Were those repeated triangular marks waves? Or flames? Or just repeated triangular marks? And was that another bird sketched faintly behind the first?

“Damned if I can understand this thing,” she remarked to the empty living room. “I’m going to bed. Maybe if I let it incubate, global thinking will make all clear.”

As she began to close the sketch pad she caught sight of the unfinished portrait next to the picture of Lily Gordon. Suddenly the flinty eyes and dark fringe of hair were familiar. “That’s the woman who let us in at Mrs. Gordon’s place— her housekeeper. And she was Kyra’s nurse too.” She studied the uncompromising face more closely. The sweet lift of the mouth seemed at odds with the stern eyes. Reba. The faithful family retainer.

She put the sketchbook back on the chest by the door— on top of the heap of magazines— hoping that Ben would notice it and finally take it to Kyra. Rain was still pelting down as she climbed into bed, and a distant grumble of thunder suggested that the storm was not yet over.

Yawning, she turned off the light and burrowed her head into the softest pillow. The images from the sketchbook page were tantalizing, hovering on the verge of meaning. The memory of the large unfinished piece in Kyra’s studio presented itself, and the two joined as Elizabeth sank into sleep.

CHAPTER 32

DEEP WATERS

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 30)

SHE HAD BEEN FATHOMS DEEP IN A DREAM— LULLED by the drumming of rain on the metal roof and the hypnotic roar of water dashing along the rocky creek beds. The startling blue jolts of lightning and the earsplitting thunderclaps that had filled her room and sent all three dogs under the bed had given way to steady rain, and her dreams had turned from chaotic to explicit. Daphne had called her on a cell phone and said, “You have to deconstruct Entelechy and remember: be aware of the negative space,” and she had known what Lily Gordon wanted of her.

But now Molly and Ursa were whining and pacing beside her bed, anxious to be let out. Elizabeth peered through bleary eyes at the carriage clock on the chest of drawers beside her bed. Six-thirty. It seemed much earlier.

The two dogs were impatient to be about their business, so she threw back the sheet and pulled herself out of bed. It looked as if the storm was past, but the roar of water in the creeks was so loud and sounded so like rain that she had to go to the window to be sure. Gray, heavy cloud cover, but no rain. Shoving her feet into slippers, she rousted an indignant James from his pillow on the rocking chair and followed the eager Molly and Ursa to the front door. James, who never actually admitted a need to go outside early in the morning, skulked along behind her, ears and tail down, the picture of sorely used dogdom.

Hope the water breaks held, she thought, holding the door wide for James, who was creeping painfully toward her. “Come on, James, out the door and off the porch.” She escorted him to the steps at the end of the porch and then stopped, her jaw dropping. Somehow, during the night her road had been transformed into a white-water creek. From the top of her driveway, all along the garden, and disappearing down below the barn, what had been a steep gravel road was now a dashing and tumbling mountain stream.

“Bloody hell!” she shouted, and stood staring at the torrent that would have to be turned back into its accustomed bed quickly, before twenty-one years’ worth of gravel and road improvement washed away entirely. Ben, I need to wake up Ben and get him to bring up the tractor!

She hurried back to the house. First she glanced into the kitchen, hoping against hope that Ben might have awakened early and come over for coffee. No. Just a sheet of paper propped against the coffeemaker.

I’m going in to help Kyra. Aidan called and said she’s worried that the river may flood and she needs us to help get her stuff for the show out of there while she can. I didn’t want to wake you— it’s about 2 A . M . right now so I’m going to take off. This is some kind of rain. I’ll be back tomorrow. Ben. PS: Yes, I got the sketchbook.

Minutes later she had pulled on a pair of sweatpants and her boots, grabbed a mattock and a shovel, and was staring at the blocked culvert at the top of her road— the cause of the water’s diversion. Her mattock would be useless here: too many huge rocks and too much water. This would require the tractor. A nearby rain gauge showed that another four inches of rain had been added during the night to the two inches of the previous afternoon. The roar of the water was loud in her ears, making it hard to think. She picked her way down the edge of the road to the first water break. If she could deepen it a bit here, perhaps the rush of water could be turned back into the branch.

Cautiously she waded into the midst of the torrent, and began pulling up rocks to deepen the water break. She ignored the water filling her boots and savagely wielded the mattock, digging out the clogged ditch to direct the flood from the water break into the branch. A little muddy water began to fill the ditch, just a trickle at first, making no difference in the galloping flow down the road. She hacked at the mud, deepening the channel, and was heartened to see a stronger stream beginning to scour toward the branch.

She continued robotically, deepening the channel, adding rocks to the lower side of the water break to make a dam, wishing she had sandbags to make a more solid barrier, trying clumps of hay from the nearby mulch pile only to watch them whirl away down the road. Scrabbling in the rushing water to loosen more rocks to deepen the hole and contain the water, adding the rocks to the front of the dam, at last seeing the white water running off the road and back into its proper course, looking up to see Julio, a dark knight, slowly approaching on the tractor, the bucket bouncing gently in front like a jouster’s lance.

* * *

It was well past noon before the culvert was cleared and the water completely restored to its usual streambed. Elizabeth wiped her muddy hands on her jeans and surveyed the damage. The road had suffered badly; much of its gravel had been deposited in drifts to either side and in the field below the barn. The rushing water had gouged out deep ruts and exposed jutting rocks, but the road was still passable for her jeep, if only marginally. A bulldozer and many loads of gravel would be needed to restore the road to its previous state.

Julio climbed down from the tractor and shook his head in disgust. “Dios mio, the road. It looks like—”

“Come on, Julio,” she said, cutting off the inevitable word, and started for the house. “I’ll fix us something to eat. There’s no more we can do for now.”

* * *

When lunch was over and Julio had returned to his work, Elizabeth sat staring at the note Ben had left. I don’t feel good about this. They told him to stay away. But who…and how could I stop him anyway…he’s a grown man.

Increasingly uneasy, she went into her bedroom to change her clothes and to make up the bed. As she reached for the pillows, instantaneously the dream came back to her. Daphne on a cell phone. And she told me that I had to deconstruct entelechy. Something about negative space. And I knew the answer when I woke up but the dogs’ carrying on made me forget it.

She stood clutching the pillow and staring unseeing at the rumpled sheets. Okay, say the rose and the white flower, assuming it’s a lily, stand for Kyra’s mother and great-grandmother; the boot could be for Boz….

“And now all of them are dead.” Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her. Still deep in thought, she reached for the phone and dialed Phillip’s number, only to be answered by his voice mail.

“Phillip, this is Elizabeth. I…oh, hell, I wish you were there; I’ve got a kind of idea…but it’s pretty vague. Anyway, I’m going to Kyra’s studio…. Ben’s helping her move some stuff and I want to take another look at the painting that was in the back of her studio. It’s probably not important but…Phillip…”

The words were surprisingly easy to say. “Phillip…I need you.”

CHAPTER 33

DECONSTRUCTION

(FRIDAY AFTERNOON, SEPTEMBER 30)

THE STORM HAD LEFT DOWNED TREE LIMBS ALL along the pavement of Ridley Branch, forcing her to drive slowly. At the bridge the French Broad was a muddy maelstrom, spilling over its banks and creeping into the low-lying pastures below the road. Elizabeth sped across the deserted span, her mind working furiously.

* * *

The same swollen river was glazing the road that threaded the River District. A few cars were moving along the narrow street, fans of water spraying out on either side. Across the river where the faded tents of some of Asheville’s homeless clung to the steep, overgrown banks, there was the busy activity of a disrupted anthill as the tent dwellers moved their fragile shelters to higher ground.

The water stood inches deep in the parking area by the Candlestation. Messy, but hardly a threat to Kyra’s studio. Still, she may have thought it would get higher. I know there was a bad flood last year that got into a lot of these places.

There were only a few cars in the parking lot, all at the far end of the building. Neither Ben’s truck nor Kyra’s car was anywhere in sight. Two long-haired young men emerged from the far door carrying computer monitors, which they loaded into a waiting van. They stood conferring for a few minutes, then disappeared back into the Candlestation.

Elizabeth opened her door and gingerly stepped into the water. Feeling slightly ridiculous, she slogged toward the fire escape that led to the blue door and Kyra’s studio. She examined the treacherous structure carefully before ascending, step by cautious step. The handrail, she noted, had been reattached with new bolts. Nonetheless, she tested each step before putting her weight on it.

The blue door was slightly ajar and Elizabeth entered the dim interior of the building, wondering if she would be able to remember which turns to take. Hesitantly, she started down the hall to the left but soon realized that she was going the wrong way. There were no studios in this section, just vast rooms whose brick walls were pierced with large unglazed openings. The temperature had been steadily dropping since the rains of the night before, and a chill wind swept through the empty space, knocking an abandoned beer can off a window ledge and sending it rattling across the floor toward Elizabeth.

The clatter was shockingly loud on the bare concrete, and she turned and quickly retraced her steps. “Exit hurriedly, pursued by a beer can,” she muttered as she saw the blue door ahead.

As she continued on down the hall she began to feel on familiar ground. A door painted in a virulent green and bearing a notice that visitors would be severely taunted caught her attention. I remember that. And now the dog-training area should be right ahead and Kyra’s studio is just a little way beyond that.

The glossy red door was open wide but there was no sign of Kyra. The combination lock hung crookedly from the hasp, and within the room, lights were on and a CD player in the corner was dispensing some variety of loud atonal music.

“Kyra?” Elizabeth peered into the long room, wondering if Kyra could be somewhere out of sight amid the stacks of canvases and supplies in the back half of the studio. “Are you here?”

The front part of the room where the works for sale had hung was stripped bare; the only remaining objects were the table with its green brocade cover and the television and VCR on a stand by the door. Okay, so maybe Kyra and Ben and Aidan are taking a load of stuff somewhere and will be back soon. Elizabeth hesitated a moment, then made for the place where the unfinished mixed-media piece had been. The one she didn’t want us looking at. I’m pretty sure it’s based on that entelechy sketch and I’m almost positive it means something.

It was there, still on the big easel. The support was a large piece of masonite— about five feet tall and more than a yard wide— and it had been covered with thick paint— maybe some plaster?—and embellished with painted images, as well as actual objects embedded in the surface medium. Six arches were shaped in the impasto within the rectangle— the first in the lower left corner, followed by the rest in a curving progression that swept to the top center of the piece. A fantastic bird with golden plumage and outspread wings dominated the remaining space, its flowing tail and extended pinions of gilded emerald and amethyst partially obscuring the arches. The bird’s eye glowed jade green and its long beak was open in a silent triumphant call. Behind and below the bird, long tongues of flame formed a rhythmic pattern.

It’s the phoenix— the bird that’s reborn from the flames. Does Kyra see herself that way? I guess so, after the fire that destroyed their house…. But she set the fire…a self-made phoenix.

Elizabeth moved closer to study the first arch. Painted on the smooth space within the curve was an old-fashioned wooden cradle on rockers. It was turned on its side, revealing an empty interior.

The second arch framed a black vase in heavy relief, its swelling side marred by a crack from which red liquid oozed. The flowers in the broken vase were roses of the deepest black-red, their heads drooping in death. Elizabeth shuddered and continued her examination of the piece.

The swirls and corrugations of paint that formed the black vase seemed to glitter in one spot. Elizabeth pulled the heavy easel around slightly to catch the light from the window. Yes, there was something deeply embedded in the black paint— bits of mirror perhaps, or a piece of costume jewelry.

She touched the sparkling shape. The paint and the thick plaster were dry and she closed her eyes, trying to let her fingers read the shape of the semi-concealed object. It could be a rose— or just something free-form. I guess it would be really wrong of me to scrape at it.

Two red cowboy boots were the focus of the third arch. One stood, while the other lay on its side. Okay, so that’s for Boz. And the vase of roses is for her mother. So does that mean this is about the losses she’s had to overcome?

Elizabeth looked back at the empty cradle in the first arch. Is it possible she remembers that adopted brother who just disappeared out of her life? Her father said she was five…. I can still remember things that happened when I was five…not many, but surely you’d remember a thing like a disappearing brother.

The fourth arch was puzzling. It contained what looked like a skewed oval mask of white and green. The eyeholes, I guess they’re eyeholes, were squeezed together in the middle of the oval. The left side was round, while the other was a triangle pointing to the right. Vertical purple stripes bisected each opening and a broad line slashed through the mask, if it is a mask. Within the line were embedded greenish-brown, fernlike leaves and little yellowish buttonlike objects.

“Dried tansy!” Elizabeth exclaimed, happy to have found something familiar. She leaned in close and could just make out the familiar mintlike aroma. But what’s the point? And is this a mask or what?

In arch five Kyra had repeated the dead-flowers-in-a-vase theme, but this time the vase was silver and the withered blooms were calla lilies. Her great-grandmother, obviously. But why did she paint a branch of apple blossoms in the background? A closer look revealed long sharp thorns on the branch. No, that’s not right, apple trees don’t have thorns— that’s hawthorn. But why?

At first she thought that the sixth and final arch was empty, but as she moved to the side to study the work from a different angle, the light caught the arch’s interior and revealed a smaller phoenix— a ghostly mirror image of the other, incised on the smooth surface.

The unpleasant music was still playing and still too loud. Elizabeth decided that, as she seemed to be alone, she would turn it down or possibly off. She began to edge out from behind the big easel, trying not to touch the areas of the piece that appeared to be still wet. A movement caught her eye, and she had a glimpse of a shadow in the doorway. Then the red door swung firmly shut.

“Kyra! Wait, I’m in here!” She made for the door, banging into the brocade-covered table in her haste. Grabbing the knob, she pulled, but the door moved no more than a quarter of an inch. Evidently, the combination lock was securing the hasp. “Hey!” she shouted, rattling and pounding on the door. “Hey, I’m in here! Kyra!”

She realized that the music was louder than she was. Quickly she yanked the plug out of the wall and continued to shout, expecting at any moment to hear rapid footsteps hurrying to her rescue.

When she stopped to listen, she could sense rather than hear someone standing at the door. “Hey!” she said, more quietly this time. “Could you let me out, please?”

There was no answer as soft footfalls retreated, diminishing into silence.

CHAPTER 34

THE MASK THAT WASN’T

(FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 30)

AFTER A FEW MINUTES OF BANGING FRUITLESSLY on the door and shouting imprecations toward the silent hall, Elizabeth turned to the row of tall windows. They overlooked a desolate area, populated only by a few abandoned vehicles, rusting amid the weeds. Discarded plastic bags hung and shimmied like tattered ghosts in the scrubby sumacs that dotted the field in random clumps. There was no one in sight to call to, nor was there any sign that this wasteland was visited regularly.

She pushed open the metal-framed window and leaned out. This was only a two-story building— jumping would probably not kill her. But it was an old industrial building with soaring ceilings, more like two and a half stories. She reconsidered— How far is it?—even as she realized that only the direst of threats could send her out that window. A jump would inevitably break bones, at the very least.

Abandoning the windows, she willed herself to calmness, opened one of the folding lawn chairs that was leaning against the wall, and sat down to consider her situation. Who? was the first question. Who locked me in?Was that Kyra out there? Did she see me snooping and decide to teach me a lesson? Or was it someone else— maybe the person responsible for Boz’s death?

She remembered Aidan’s bitter remarks about his childhood. Was his anger somehow related to all this and was it now directed at her?

Or is it all Kyra? I know she faked the corncrib incident; Phillip thinks she set the fire; her great-grandmother hinted that she had set other fires. And her father admits— no, insists she’s disturbed. But why would she have killed her mother? Or was her mother’s death what sent her off the deep end?

Okay, so maybe Rose’s death was related to Marvin’s past, as everyone assumes. Set that aside: why would Kyra want to kill Boz?

And how could she have gotten that big hulking guy into the car in the crusher in the first place? The answer presented itself immediately. Of course, that drug Phillip mentioned— Ro-something. Oh god.

She stood and walked over to try the door again, hoping irrationally that it would open. She hammered at the unyielding metal surface and called out but quickly abandoned the frustrating enterprise.

Think, Elizabeth. Surely you can think of something. Scenarios from long-forgotten books and movies assailed her busy mind. Find a pointed tool and scrape at the mortar in the bricks till you can loosen enough to crawl through the hole into the next room. Didn’t Jack and Stephen do that in one of the O’Brian books? Or was that The Count of Monte Cristo? And if that room also has a locked door, what then? You idiot, it would take days! Anyway, someone will come along soon…won’t they?

She inspected the door hinges. Could I maybe lift the door off? She knew it was possible, had watched a friend do it when locked out of her house. But that had been a small, light, wooden door. This one was large and made of metal. Furthermore, the hinges were obscured by many coats of paint. Still, it was worth a try.

She rummaged through the odds and ends piled in the back of the room, hoping for a hammer and a screwdriver, but neither was to be found. A canvas-stretching tool seemed to offer some possibility as a hammer, and she picked up a sturdy-looking artist’s brush to take the place of the screwdriver. Returning to the door, she positioned her implements as she had seen her friend do and tried to tap out the long pin that held the door to the frame.

The brush’s wooden shaft splintered on her second blow. “Shit!” said Elizabeth and returned to sifting through the clutter of Kyra’s studio.

She pounced on a pair of long scissors lying in a box of fabric scraps. At least they were metal and pointed. A weapon of sorts, if it came to that. She dug through the fabric— are there sheets in here? I could tie them together and use that to get down to the ground…. I guess I could…. But the scraps were only small bits of lightweight material, totally unsuited for knotting to one another. Glancing again at the distance to the ground, she felt relieved.

At the end of her diligent search she had assembled a pathetic collection of potential weapons and/or useful objects on the brocade-covered table: the scissors, a palette knife, the stretching tool (Bang, bang, Maxwell’s silver hammer, she thought, imagining herself holding off an assailant with the ridiculous object). The cut-crystal vase was still there, its pathetic bouquet of dead roses dropping petals on the cloth, a nasty concentration of greenish water at the vase’s bottom. The Swiss Army knife from her purse and a can of fluorescent paint completed the array. She had picked up the paint can, vaguely remembering some far-fetched scene employing a spray can of some sort as an explosive device. She looked over this unpromising assembly and sank into the chair, shaking her head at her foolishness.

If you had just done like Ben and Laurel suggested last year and had gotten a cell phone, you’d be out of here already.

As she sat there wondering what to do, she heard indistinct sounds in the hallway. It seemed to be the same soft footsteps that had ignored her pleas before, so she didn’t move. The footsteps stopped before the door and then there was no sound but the rushing of blood in her ears.

Catching sight of the can of paint, she had a sudden inspiration. She took the can and went to the door, calling out in a loud voice, “Open the door, please!” Hammering on the door to make as much noise as possible, she used her other hand to shake the can vigorously, then dropped to her knees and sent a jet of bright acid green fluorescent paint under the door. There was a muffled exclamation and the unknown lurker retreated as before.

When I get out of this place, I’ll know them by their shoes. The thought was not comforting. Whenever that is. If they’re still around. And then what, Elizabeth? What exactly would you do?

Stricken by an overwhelming sensation of helplessness, she tossed the now empty spray can across the room. It hit the wall and let out a brief flatulent hiss and a last green dribble. At a loss for what to do next, she snatched up the power control that sat atop the television set, pointed it at the glossy red rectangle of the door, and intoned, “Open Sesame.”

The door didn’t move, but the TV screen lit up and a homemade video began to play, resuming soundlessly in midtape.

“Oh my god…” Elizabeth stood transfixed as the scenes faded rapidly one into another. The settings changed, as did the actors, with the exception of one. The plot stayed the same: Kyra, naked and entwined with Boz, with Aidan, with several other unidentified men, and then with Ben. “Oh my god. I don’t need to see this.”

Elizabeth raised the control to switch off the power but at that moment the X-rated scenes were replaced by the most innocuous of home movie shots: Kyra and Lily Gordon drinking tea and smiling at each other, Marvin Peterson and Kimmie, his arm around her and both of them beaming proudly at a tiny object that Kimmie held out to the camera. The shot zoomed in to reveal a little green and white plastic oblong, pinched gingerly in her fingers. There were two little openings near the center, each displaying a vertical purple line. “It’s the mask in the picture. But it’s not a mask; it must be the pregnancy test— Kimmie said that her test had two purple stripes— oh shit!”

CHAPTER 35

PERFORMANCE PIECE

(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)

THE SCENES SHIFTED BACK. AT FIRST ELIZABETH thought that the tape was a loop and that she was seeing the same shots of Kyra and her various lovers, but then she realized that the settings were different. Here were Kyra and Boz in the gutted interior of a car. Kyra was naked but Boz was wearing a black shirt and trousers. He had a bottle of what looked like vodka in one hand and was attempting to undo his zipper with the other. He was obviously very drunk, but he drained the bottle he was holding and reached out for the one Kyra offered him.

He raised the bottle to the camera, which had evidently been propped on the dashboard of the car, and his red boot came up and knocked the camera askew. The picture now showed a shot of the passenger-side window. Just beyond the window was a dark wall. Elizabeth wound back the tape, then paused it. Yes, a solid wall could be seen a little way beyond the rear window, as well as beyond the driver’s-side window. She had no doubt that not only was she seeing the interior of the car Boz had died in, she was also seeing the events that immediately preceded his death.

“That’s how she did it,” Elizabeth whispered. “Probably suggested that the car Rafiq had left in the crusher would be an artistic spot to film another little ‘performance piece.’ But I seriously doubt if he was up to performing. Another minute or so and he’d be passed out. And then she could shoot him, get herself out of the car, and turn on the crusher.”

And if she’s capable of that, she could… She realized that she had to get out, to call Phillip. Ben’s truck wasn’t here but where was Ben? The thought of her nephew as the next victim staggered her for a moment, then she felt herself caught up by a wave of adrenaline. She scanned the room once again, seeking inspiration. The light from the windows was growing dim. Once it was dark, escape would be that much more difficult. Her eyes fell on the scissors and on the sturdy brocade covering the table and puddling on the floor.

Ten minutes of dogged sawing and hacking reduced the once beautiful pale green brocade to a pile of wide strips. Elizabeth began knotting the lengths together— right over left and under, left over right and under— using the square knot learned forty-some years ago to tie her yellow Girl Scout scarf.

When all the strips had been joined, she tossed one end of the improvised rope out the window and wrapped the other around the upright between two of the windows. She gave the mooring a dubious look and took another turn, tying it off in a ragged series of square knots till the farther end of the rope dangled above the ground—how far above, she couldn’t judge.

Slowly and deliberately she clambered up onto the windowsill. Her hands were damp with sweat but the brocade rope was reassuringly rough and solid-feeling. A downward look made her dizzy and set her head to swimming. Oh, shit. I don’t know if I can do this. What if the knots don’t hold? What if I lose my hold on the rope? What if—

The agonizing train of suppositions was cut short by the sight of a trickle of clear liquid oozing into the room under the door. The trickle became a stream; the stream became a flood. Her nostrils were assailed by the choking fumes of gasoline and she began to cough. The sudden rasp of a match on a box erased all doubts from her mind.

As the tide of inflammable liquid surged toward the window wall, Elizabeth thought she glimpsed a flicker of blue flame near the door. Cursing…praying…she didn’t know which, Elizabeth grasped the knotted strips of brocade and stood up.

Again…and again…and yet again, the scratching of a match. Her eyes were watering and she realized that she was growing light-headed from the fumes.

“Now!” she whispered and with a gut-wrenching leap of faith she stepped into the void, abandoning herself to fate. Leaning back, all of her weight on the hastily cobbled rope, she began, slowly, tentatively to walk herself down the back wall of the Candlestation, struggling to keep her shoes in contact with the uneven bricks.

The top of her head had just dipped below the windowsill when she heard the angry whoosh of the lighted fuel. A jet of flames shot out of the window, only inches above her head; she started, then ducked to avoid the searing heat and her running shoes slid on the wall. Instantly the flames subsided and she repositioned her feet on the crumbling bricks. Her arms were aching and her breath was coming fast but she continued her measured descent into the gloom below.

When she reached the rope’s end, she dangled there briefly. The three- or four-foot drop was nothing, but she prayed that she wouldn’t land awkwardly and sprain an ankle.

Again throwing herself on the mercy of fate, she let go and landed with a soft splat on the muddy ground. Her feet squelched in the mud and she allowed herself to go limp and roll. She lay there on her side scarcely daring to breathe. Nothing broken, nothing even twisted. Time to move!

Quickly, Elizabeth picked herself up and hurried toward the parking lot. Her arms were trembling and her heart was still pounding as she crept quietly around the corner of the vast, dark building. Just ahead, in the flooded parking lot, was her jeep. A single security light’s cold glow glittered on the water’s surface, revealing an anonymous-looking blue sedan, flanked by an old rusting pickup. The only other vehicles were Kyra’s sports car and two, almost identical white SUVs. The plate of the nearer one read “MP #1.”

I need to go for help— get to a phone. I can’t go back in there. Someone just tried to kill me. She peered through the twilight but saw no one. Pulling her car keys from her pocket, she dashed for the jeep, splashing recklessly through the shallow water and clicking the door opener as she approached. She wrenched open the door and hurled herself into the driver’s seat, pulled the door shut, and clicked the lock. Only then did she exhale fully, sending up a general prayer of thanksgiving to Whoever might be listening.

She turned the key, exulting as the engine roared into life, slammed the gearshift to reverse, and began to back out.

Thirty seconds later the engine died. She turned the ignition switch again and again; the engine’s only response was a futile, dying uggha-uggha-uggh.

“Goddammit all to hell!” Pounding on the steering wheel did no good. She grabbed the flashlight from between the seats. For a mercy, its battery was new and the strong beam of light reassured her. She pulled the handle to pop the hood and got out of the car, first scanning the parking lot to be sure that she was still alone.

The engine looked much as it always did— mysterious. She had been hoping for some obvious sign— loosened wires, whatever. Something that would shout, “Put me back and the car will go again.”

But there was no sign and it would not go. She looked around for inspiration. The Candlestation lay at the far end of the River District, and the nearest occupied buildings were almost a mile down a dark, lonely road. Laurel had told her that the District was considered safe by day, but that few of the area’s tenants biked or walked along the roads at night. There had been incidents…. Her best hope, she decided, was to reenter the building. She needed to find a telephone.

Elizabeth started for the door at the far end of the building, hoping to avoid whoever it was that had locked her in the room and set the gasoline on fire. Kyra’s in there and her father. She studied the other cars parked by her useless jeep. The second white SUV— Buckley? Aidan? Whatever the answer, someone dangerous was in the mazelike building. If she could just go unnoticed long enough to find a telephone.

The farther door stood open and she went quietly up the steps and slipped into the building once again. This part of the Candlestation seemed in slightly better repair than the other end, but the halls were dark and nowhere could she find a switch to turn on the single bulbs placed at wide intervals on the ceiling. There were many studios— but all the doors were closed and locked. Her flashlight illuminated a poster on the wall, announcing a festival at The Wedge, complete with beer and fire dancers. The date was Friday, September 30. The party was evidently going on at that minute— accounting for the lack of people in the studios.

Cautiously, silently, she began to explore the dark, deserted hallways. Somewhere there must be a pay phone. Or had the all-but-ubiquitous cell done away with that quaint amenity?

She crept on, at every step coming closer to the room she had just escaped. Her flashlight’s beam glanced against the walls, revealing tattered notices, garish paintings, and a strange assortment of objects that had evidently been designated as art by hanging them on the wall and giving them enigmatic titles. Elizabeth tried to ignore them as she methodically tested door after door in search of an open studio with a working phone. Several doors yielded to her touch but the rooms beyond were either empty or piled with assorted objects, none of which were working telephones.

At the end of a corridor she saw a flickering orange glow. Turning off her flashlight, she advanced stealthily to find a series of rooms, all dedicated to neon art. The narrow tubes, fashioned into every imaginable shape, pulsed and flickered and hissed in the dim space. Elizabeth sidled past a pair of giant red lips that puckered and released every few seconds. Surely someone must be here, would not have gone off leaving all these electric signs humming.

She passed from one room to another, still without finding either a person or a telephone. She was about to retrace her steps when she noticed a little alcove, almost completely hidden by a folding screen.

Clad only in cut-off jeans he lay sprawled across a lumpy daybed in the center of the little space: a claustrophobic cube devoted to human genitalia expressed in neon. On the wall behind him a giant phallus rose and fell repetitively. A video camera’s glassy eye watched from a tripod— trained on Ben’s unmoving body.

For a moment Elizabeth stood frozen. The sight of her nephew’s limp form was like a blow to the stomach and she struggled to breathe. Dropping down to the bed, she put her hand to his shoulder. Warm, thank god.

A snorted breath lifted his chest. “Ben, are you all right?” She shook his shoulder violently and was infinitely relieved to see his eyes open and blearily focus on her.

“What’re you doing here?” His expression was puzzled and a bit annoyed. “Where’s Kyra?” He looked foggily around the room. “What time’s it anyway?”

He tried to stand, staggered and collapsed back onto the daybed. “Legs don’t wanna work; still sleepy. Inna minute.” And he fell into an openmouthed, snoring sleep from which no amount of desperate shaking could rouse him.

CHAPTER 36

BLOOD ROSES

(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)

DAMMIT, BEN, YOU’VE GOT TO WAKE UP. WE’VE GOT to get to a phone.” And why don’t you carry a cell phone like every other person your age? It was useless. His breathing was deep and regular but he was not responding.

At length she concluded that the only thing to do was to leave her comatose nephew and continue her search for a telephone. The community kitchen! Didn’t Kyra mention a pay phone in there?

With a last, desperate look at Ben, she headed back to the dark hallways and toward Kyra’s studio. She hurried through the winding corridors without hesitation now, guided by an urgent necessity to bring this nightmare to an end. As she passed through the strange bridgelike affair that connected the two parts of the Candlestation, she heard the low creaking and rumble of something in motion. Her flashlight illuminated the cavernous opening of the freight elevator. The platform was in descent and as it drew level with the floor, she could see something stirring in its back corner.

Kyra sat cross-legged there on the elevator’s filthy floor. Just as on the night of the fire at her house, she was rubbing her fingers obsessively, and her eyes were closed. She wore a short dress of some thin material, its moony sheen marred by ugly brownish-red smears.

Her close-cut blonde head was bent over her hands and she was whispering to herself as she rubbed the back of one finger in tiny circular movements. As Elizabeth’s eyes focused, she could see that Kyra held a reddened square of sandpaper and was erasing the tattooed rose from her finger. The backs of the other fingers were raw and oozing red.

“I have to do it or it’ll never stop.” Her green eyes opened wide and blinked in the glare of the light. “Is that you, Elizabeth? I’m sorry I locked you in; I thought you’d be safer in there— away from him. I didn’t realize that he might think it was me in there.”

Her voice was dreamy and she seemed in a trancelike state, oblivious to the scraping of the sandpaper and her gory task. When all of her fingers bore fresh wounds, she transferred her attention to the ring of rosebuds inked around her ankle. Droplets of red began to creep across the white arch of her foot as she scrubbed her skin away.

“He thought he could get rid of me with fire— but I wasn’t in there and you were.” She examined the saturated pad of sandpaper, opened it out, refolded it to an unused side, and began on another rose. “Are you a ghost, come back like she does sometimes?”

“Kyra, I saw the Entelechy piece.” Elizabeth’s voice was trembling but she forced it to harshness. “You can stop this stupid game— I don’t believe you’re crazy. I saw the sketch for the piece— a sketch you made months ago, long before Boz and your great-grandmother were dead. You planned all this; I’m not sure why. Maybe you were tired of being one of three and wanted to be the star. Maybe you—”

The motion of the sandpaper stopped. Kyra lifted her eyes to Elizabeth with a look of chilling intensity. “What would you know about it? Your ‘friend’ Phillip will believe me. You’re wrong; it’s my father who’s done these things. Reba knows. She’s been there from the beginning; she’s seen it all. Reba’s explained it to me. She told me what would happen so I could put it in my painting. And when the painting dries, it’ll all be over and I’ll be free. Reba explained it all.”

Kyra’s green eyes glowed like a cat’s in the glare of the flashlight. “He almost had me convinced that he loved me— I thought that he was only looking out for me when he had Boz killed. But now I know the truth— GeeGee told me. Rose wasn’t my mother. And now I have to take these away.”

The icy expression melted and the ethereal face of an angel gazed up at Elizabeth with pleading eyes. “He said he was my real father; he said I have a brother…but he sent the brother away and now he wants to kill me. Reba told me why. Reba knows all about it. Now he has a young wife who can give him children and he doesn’t want me because I’m soiled. If he tries to hurt me, will you stop him?” She spread her red-stained hands in appeal. “Please, Elizabeth?”

Kyra shifted her position there on the floor, revealing the ugly bulk of a pistol that had been concealed by her skirt. Following Elizabeth’s startled gaze, she glanced at the weapon.

“It was in my car. He put it there so that I’d be blamed. But he has another one; that’s why I have to get all of the roses off. Reba says that I have to stop making him angry.” She returned to her obsessive scraping— her face showing not pain, but a fierce determination— almost a manic joy.

“Kyra, what did you give Ben to make him so sleepy? Why is he back there in that awful room?”

The long lashes fluttered over the green eyes. “Ben? What awful room? Ben’s gone. I sent him to take a load of my paintings off to GeeGee’s house, where they’d be safe. I told him to stay there, away from my father.”

Kyra began to sway dreamily as she methodically moved the sandpaper against her raw and bleeding skin. “Reba says my father wants Ben dead too. And I have to take away the roses.”

The ring of wounds circling her ankle oozed red as the sodden sandpaper inched its way around. Kyra bent her head to observe the effect of her work and smiled calmly as once again she refolded the bloody pad.

This crazy routine could be just an act. I’m almost sure it is. But the gun, how do I get it away from her?

As if Elizabeth had spoken aloud, Kyra picked up the pistol and held it out, butt first. “Is this bothering you? Then you take it. But if he comes after us, you’ll have to use it.”

Elizabeth took a cautious step forward and held out her hand. With a flutter of her eyelashes and an odd little giggle, Kyra pulled back the outstretched weapon and examined it as if seeing it for the first time.

“But maybe it would be better…” The cold green eyes bored into Elizabeth as Kyra lifted her other hand and deliberately reversed the pistol— bringing the muzzle to bear on Elizabeth. “Maybe this is what I’m supposed to do.” The frail-looking young woman held the weapon in both hands, taking dead-steady aim at Elizabeth’s heart.

She’s going to kill me. Elizabeth felt a chilling weakness sweeping over her body. She tried to speak, to think, but all time seemed to have stopped as she stood there, staring at the bloodstained Kyra.

An eternity of seconds passed. Then, with a laugh like the tinkling of shattered crystal, Kyra once again reversed her hold on the pistol and once again offered it to Elizabeth— butt first.

“No, I don’t think I’m supposed to do that.” Her smile was innocent, angelic. “Here, you’d better have it.”

Utterly confused but relieved to have the weapon in her possession, Elizabeth took the heavy gun from Kyra. It felt familiar in her hand: Sam had had one like it— a .45 automatic— and had insisted that she and the girls all learn how to use it. She pulled back the slide; yes, there was a bullet in the chamber. Then she punched the button to release the clip. It contained seven bullets. She shoved the clip back into place and trained the gun on the young woman sitting there at her feet.

“Get up, Kyra. I want you to go with me to the telephone. We have to make a call.”

Kyra smiled. “Elizabeth, you silly old woman, is this a citizen’s arrest?” She rose nonetheless and started in the direction of her studio. Elizabeth followed close behind, flashlight in her left hand and gun in her right.

As they made their slow way through the dark hall, Elizabeth’s flashlight began to pick up bright blotches of the fluorescent green paint on the floor. “Stop, Kyra, I want to look at your shoes.”

At the peremptory words, Kyra stopped, shrugged, and exhibited a pristine pair of sandals. “Really, Elizabeth, I think you may be the one who’s crazy. I’ve heard that menopause can do strange things to a woman’s mind. Have you thought about trying St. John’s wort? Or Kava kava? They could help your mood swings.”

“You’re quite the authority on herbal medicine, Kyra,” Elizabeth said. “What else did you give Kimmie along with the raspberry leaf tea? Were you trying to kill her or just cause a miscarriage?” The gun was still trained on Kyra but Elizabeth was beginning to feel less sure. Who had been outside the door if it wasn’t Kyra?

A muted noise in the hall behind her caught her attention. As she swung the flashlight around to investigate, its strong beam picked up a perfect fluorescent footprint.

CHAPTER 37

ABSALOM, ABSALOM

(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)

ELIZABETH STOPPED DEAD, LISTENING INTENTLY. THE sounds that had caught her attention became footsteps— slow, cautious, pausing and then resuming, but coming nearer with each step. Kyra caught at her arm.

“You’re going to have to shoot him or he’ll kill both of us, Elizabeth.” The whisper was frantic. “Reba told me the truth. He wants to get rid of me. If I’m dead, he can blame it all on me. He’ll make it look like I shot you; he’s smart.”

The flashlight’s beam reached only partway down the long hallway, and whoever was coming toward them was still hidden in the gloom. Kyra’s whisper was urgent. “Elizabeth, you have to do it. Shoot now! Don’t let him get me! Shoot now!”

A host of possibilities and potentialities whirled in her brain while Kyra’s impassioned words filled her ears, goading her to action. Holding the flashlight steady in her left hand, Elizabeth slowly raised her right, fighting to steady the heavy automatic.

The footsteps grew closer and Kyra’s grip tightened. “Now, do it now, before he gets here! Kill him! You have to!” Kyra’s whisper had taken on a frenzied quality and she pulled desperately at Elizabeth’s arm.

The flashlight slipped from Elizabeth’s hand, fell to the floor, and rolled, its beams dancing crazily over the walls.

“Do it! Shoot him!” Kyra shrieked.

Elizabeth stepped back, turned, and trained the pistol on Kyra.

“That’s enough of it, Kyra. It’s over.” She watched the flashlight roll and come to rest against a pair of familiar boots. “Ben, we’re over here.”

“Aunt E?” Her nephew picked up the flashlight and shone it in her direction. “Wha’s going on?” He sounded groggy and uncomprehending. He sounded drunk. “Whatcha doing with a gun anyway? Shouldn’t point guns at people, you know that. Don’t point guns ’less you ’tend to shoot: that’s the law….”

He stumbled toward them. “Kyra, where’ve you been? I was waiting—” He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall and stood there blinking in complete bewilderment. Then slowly he began to slide down the wall, his eyes closing as he came to rest on the floor. “Just ’nother quick nap.” And he was asleep once more.

There was a sudden clatter of feet ringing on metal and the loud protracted squeak of a door being thrown open, then multiple beams of light swept the hallway beyond them. Howling sirens could be heard in the distance.

In the momentary confusion Elizabeth lowered the gun. With a peal of mad laughter Kyra whirled and pelted down the dark hall away from the approaching lights.

Instantly Elizabeth was after her with a burst of speed she hadn’t known she could achieve. But the pale form flitted elusively ahead of her. Taunting snatches of laughter echoed down the corridor. “Catch me if you can, Elizabeth!”

Her heart was pounding and there was a roaring in her ears. The heavy gun seemed a useless impediment but she held it in front of her as she pursued the mocking wraith leading her ever deeper into the darkness. Her breath was coming in sobbing gasps and she knew that she couldn’t go on much longer.

Then a sudden crash, a loud clang of metal, and a shrill cry of pain and distress replaced the taunts and laughter.

Panting with exhaustion, Elizabeth all but tripped over the fallen Kyra and the welded assortment of objects that had stopped her flight by the door of a sculptor’s studio. With almost the last bit of her strength, Elizabeth leaned down, grabbed Kyra’s arm and yanked her to her feet, at the same time shoving the barrel of the pistol against her head.

“Stay with me, Kyra. Let’s get this all sorted out.” And for god’s sake don’t try to call my bluff. I don’t see myself shooting you if you make a break for it.

“Over here!” What was intended for a shout emerged as a croak, but she had been heard. Running footsteps neared and she grasped Kyra’s arm even tighter.

“Elizabeth?” The welcome sound of Phillip Hawkins’s voice flooded her with sweet relief.

“We’re over here!” Her voice was under control now. Kyra was trembling under her grip and beginning to cry.

Phillip, followed by two men, one in police uniform, both with unholstered weapons, came running down the hall. At the sight of Elizabeth, the gun, and Kyra, he stopped short.

“Sweet holy Jesus, Elizabeth, what in God’s name has happened here?” Without waiting for an answer, he nodded toward Kyra. “That’s her, Hank. Peterson’s daughter. That’s the one you want.”

Kyra took a step toward the three men, her pale face tragic. “Phillip, has he gotten to you as well?” Her voice was an imploring whisper. “Please listen to me. I can explain it all.”

Another step. “Phillip, it’s my father. He tried to kill Elizabeth; he’s somewhere in here, waiting. Reba hid me in the elevator to keep me safe from him.” She stood there, shivering and pathetic, holding out her bloody hands to Phillip.

“I thought you would help me, Phillip. I thought—”

Phillip nodded to his companions, who took hold of the pleading young woman. “I don’t think so, Kyra. They’ve got some strong evidence against you, beginning with the tea you were giving your grandmother before her death. The hawthorn was a deadly combination with the digoxin Mrs. Gordon was already taking.”

“That’s not true. The tea was supposed to be good for GeeGee— it was what she needed. I gave GeeGee the tea to help her feel better. Don’t you believe me?”

Her eyes locked with Phillip’s. His gaze was steady on her horrified face. “Kyra, it was probably the tea that killed your great-grandmother.”

Her face froze in a tortured mask and she slumped between the two men who held her arms. Her head fell back and her mouth stretched open in a howl of anguish. “Noooh! Not GeeGee!”

In an instant the seemingly frail young woman had twisted free of the men on either side of her and darted once again down the dark hallway. Again her wailing voice trailed behind her, echoing and reverberating in the black silence. Hawkins’s two companions, after a moment of shocked paralysis, ran after her, bobbing flashlights illuminating the empty corridor.

Elizabeth looked at the gun in her hand, released the clip, pulled the slide back to eject the bullet from the chamber, and ruefully handed weapon, clip, and bullet to Phillip. “Take this away from me— I doubt I’m up to actually shooting anyone with it.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Phillip assured Elizabeth, restoring the lone bullet to the clip, which he then slid back into place before shoving the .45 into his waistband. “They have men at all the exits. And we found Ben; there’s an officer with him.” He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth. “Thank God you’re okay. I was afraid….”

Bliss. Total and perfect bliss. She relaxed into his embrace and closed her eyes. “You came. I left a message….”

The arms tightened. “I didn’t get any message. I met Hank and we went for a beer after my class and that was when he got a call. Peterson had called the station saying that his daughter was here and had flipped out. He said there was a fire in a locked room and he was afraid it would spread. Then he said that there were other people here that she might be trying to harm and he mentioned the name Goodweather.”

His hand caressed her face. “Hank knew that I had a…a friend by that name, so he told me I could come along. Not that he could have stopped me. But, Sherlock, you want to tell me what you’re doing here and what’s been going on?”

Quickly, she sketched out the highlights of the past few hours while he listened without comment, his arms still around her. She had come almost to the end of the narrative when a thought assailed her. “Phillip, there were two white SUVs in the parking lot: one was Marvin Peterson’s, but the other one, it could have been Lily Gordon’s driver but what about Aidan? I like him— and I’m really sorry for him but I see now that he’s a deeply angry young man— I don’t know, it’s possible he…Anyway, it must have been one of them whose feet I sprayed— Kyra’s sandals were clean. I haven’t seen—”

An unearthly piercing howl of pain and lamentation echoed through the hallway. Elizabeth and Phillip broke from their embrace and sprinted down the corridor in the direction of the tormented sound. Somewhere a siren was wailing. As they ran, Phillip’s flashlight picked up a steady progression of the fluorescent green prints, leading them on.

At the end of the hall a yellow rectangle of light slanted across the floor. The door to the kitchen was open. Phillip put out his arm, signaling Elizabeth to stop. He drew the gun from his waistband, pulled back the slide, and motioned her to stay where she was. Wordlessly she followed him into the light.

Hoarse, racking sobs led them to the small bathroom partitioned off in a corner of the kitchen. In a grotesque parody of the Pietà, Marvin Peterson was sitting on the floor of the shower, cradling Aidan’s limp, naked body. The young man’s blond hair was wet with blood, and lank strands fell over Peterson’s supporting arm. The walls and floor of the shower showed trails of blood, imperfectly washed away.

Peterson looked up at them, his face wet with tears. “He’s gone. It was like the others— a bullet to the back of the head.” He leaned down to touch his lips to the pale brow. His words were muffled against the pallid flesh. “Gone. And I never had the chance to tell him. My attorney finally called last night and gave me the information I’d asked for. Lily had warned me, but I didn’t listen. I thought Kyra’d be happy to know she had a brother. I didn’t understand that it was all about the money. My fault, my fault from the beginning.”

He stroked the still, bare arm, where a pale welted area showed the remnants of an old burn scar. His voice was choked and full of pain. “I didn’t realize till too late. Oh, Aidan! My son, Aidan!”

CHAPTER 38

NEGATIVE SPACE

(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)

ELIZABETH AND PHILLIP BACKED OUT OF THE LITTLE room, leaving Marvin Peterson alone with his long-abandoned son. Alone and lavishing on the unseeing, unhearing corpse all the love, all the emotion the boy had yearned for for so long. Elizabeth choked back a sob as she remembered Aidan’s bitter pronouncement: “God has a warped sense of humor.”

“What now, Phillip?” she asked, her voice dull and hopeless. “They’ve got to catch Kyra. She must be completely insane.” She dragged a filthy hand across her eyes. “I need to get Ben and get out of here.”

“Here, hold the light while I let Hank know about this.” Phillip handed his flashlight to Elizabeth and pulled out his cell phone.

Unable to bear an official recital of the tragedy that was still playing out just beyond the open door, she moved away. The flashlight in her hand played over the fluorescent footmarks that could be seen entering the room. Entering from the right, the way she and Phillip had come…and leaving to the left.

She stood, contemplating the paint smears, trying to force her brain to come to bear on this new conundrum. Phillip finished his call and moved to her side. “They haven’t found her yet but it’s just a matter of time. They’re working their way through the place. And Hank says they got Ben on his feet and out to a patrol car— he’ll be okay there.”

“Oh, thank God! If Kyra’s still loose, even without the gun she’s probably dangerous. But Phillip, did you look at Peterson’s shoes? And Aidan’s? I didn’t…I was too…I don’t think I can go back in there—”

“We don’t need to— I took a good look. No green paint on either of them.”

“But Kyra wasn’t marked either.” She waved the flashlight, indicating the dim marks stretching down the hallway. “So, who—?”

Phillip pulled the gun from his waistband and quickly chambered a bullet. “Let me have the light— you stay put.”

The stupor that had enveloped her since the discovery of Aidan’s body was suddenly swept away. “Not bloody likely! I’m coming with you.”

They advanced quickly down the long corridor. As they went, the smudges of fluorescent paint diminished and their pace was reduced to a painstaking crawl while Elizabeth swept the flashlight’s beam in careful arcs across the dark floor. The smudges were far apart, as if the wearer of the marked shoes had been running. And with each step, less paint was deposited to mark the way.

The traces of green had faded entirely by the time they reached the open door at the far end of the corridor. Voices could be heard within the lighted room and, in silent accord, Phillip and Elizabeth stopped. She switched off the light and they stood motionless, listening.

“Now, Miss Kyra, you got to listen to Reba.” The housekeeper’s voice was low and crooning, like a mother speaking to a naughty but beloved child. “You do like I say and hit’ll all come out just fine. You know I won’t let nothin’ happen to my little girl—”

The flat mountain accents were interrupted by Kyra’s breathless sobs. “But he said that it was the tea that killed her. You told me it was what she needed. Reba, I loved GeeGee and now they think I killed her.”

“Hawthorn’s good fer ailments of the heart. Come here, Miss Kyra. Don’t you know your Reba’s lookin’ out fer you?”

Kyra’s sobbing died away and there was a momentary silence. Phillip looked at Elizabeth, raised his eyebrows, and nodded toward the open door. She held up a restraining finger.

“Then it was a mistake? Reba, I know you loved GeeGee too. You wouldn’t—”

“Miss Kyra honey, you got to understand what I’m sayin’. Miss Lily, she’d found out you weren’t no blood of hern. She aimed to do you out of what you had comin’ to you. I heard when she called that lawyer to come to the house and I listened when she was a-talkin’ to him. Oh, she was goin’ to leave you somethin’. She was takin’ care of ever last one of her debts— even those two old fools she keeps in that fancy old folks’ home. But you weren’t goin’ to come in fer but a small part— not like the will she done before— the one where you heired hit all. So I made sure, afore that lawyer could write that new, thievin’ will and bring hit back for her to sign—”

Elizabeth leaned closer to the door to catch the horrified whisper of Kyra’s reply.

“But Reba, I thought you loved GeeGee!”

“Miss Kyra, I ain’t never loved no one but you. You been mine from the first day I looked into your eyes. I breathed in your cryin’ breath and blew it back into you and I been watchin’ out for you all this time. Watchin’ you grow and turn into a beauty like I once was. Watchin’ you play the men fer the fools they are. Makin’ sure you git what’s comin’ to you; makin’ sure no one’s put afore you. And by God, they’ll not take you from me!”

There was a long silence. Elizabeth and Phillip stood motionless.

“I…don’t understand….” The three words fell into the hush, like pebbles tossed into a still, deep pool. Elizabeth edged still closer to the door frame. She could see to one side a stack of canvases leaning against a wall and against them, an ancient mirror, streaked with age and dust, its length traversed by a diagonal crack. Partially reflected in the bleary depths were Kyra and Reba.

Reba’s angular frame held the much smaller Kyra in a close embrace. Both women’s faces were flushed and wet with sweat and tears. Kyra’s eyes were closed but Reba’s gaze was all for her nursling. A rough hand stroked the fine blonde ringlets and a sweet smile softened the housekeeper’s usually grim and uncompromising visage.

“I don’t understand.” Again Kyra protested but she did not move, held there in Reba’s arms.

“Kyra honey, you and me’s different; their rules ain’t fer us. Like I done told you from the beginnin’: I’m the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Learnt powers from my mamaw. But I never did tell you how back home they all called me a witchy-woman and was scared of me. Run me off after my husband died. No-account feller, he thought I didn’t know he was layin’ up with one of my sisters. But I fixed him good, just like I fixed ’em two fellers of yourn.”

In the mirror, Elizabeth could see Kyra struggle and try to pull away from the older woman but Reba held her close, ignoring her protestations.

“Miss Kyra, you know they weren’t no good fer you. Women like us is better without no men bossin’ us. Hit don’t matter to me, you playin’ around with ’em like you done, even you makin’ them dirty movies. Hit just made me laugh. That’s about all they’s good fer. But ’em two was standin’ in yore way. And I got rid of ’em, the way I always got rid of everwhat was like to hinder you.”

With a little cry, Kyra pulled free of Reba’s arms but the mountain woman caught her wrist and held her there.

Kyra fixed Reba with an imploring stare, her pretty face distorted with emotion. “You killed Boz? But you said it was my father; and you said I had to make it look like he’d sent someone to hurt me so Phillip would work harder to arrest him. I did it all like you told me, cut my hair—”

“And then at last you come home, like I had wanted you to. You were the stubborn one all right. I thought when I burned down that house of yourn, that’d fetch you home. But you had to go and stay with that Goodweather woman. And then what do you do but take up with that boy of hern. Kyra honey, you got to learn you don’t need them men. Reba’s all you need.”

“But Reba…was it all lies about my father? You made it all up?”

“Kyra honey, you got to see you’d be better off with him gone. With that young wife, long as he has his functions, he’s like to git him another heir. Another one to take from you. I don’t aim to see that happen.”

The slight blonde figure in the mirror fixed her captor with a horrified stare. “And my mother? Was that…”

The housekeeper’s dark reflection nodded slowly, all the while keeping a firm grip on Kyra’s thin wrist.

“Weren’t nothin’ else I could do. She called me in that afternoon and said she was aimin’ to let me go. Said the work was too much fer me. Her what had never done a lick in her life. Layin’ there in that fancy bed with all the lace and silk, smilin’ up at me. ‘You’ll have a good pension, Reba,’ she told me. ‘Won’t you enjoy a little rest?’

“She thought I didn’t know she was breedin’ again. I believe that’s why she was so set on seein’ the last of me. I knowed that child she was carryin’ was a little bastard fer she’d told me yore daddy wouldn’t lay with her no more— even asked me about potions to help him thataway. But I didn’t want there to be no more babies. I’d thought they was both over the notion with that un they brought in when you was little.”

Reba’s grim smile sent a chill through Elizabeth’s body as she remembered the scar on Aidan’s arm.

“I scared ’em into gittin’ rid of that un. And then, after all these years, fer him to turn up again—”

Kyra tugged at the restraining hand. “You set the fire in the nursery? I thought…I always thought I did it. I remember the smell and the little baby crying and how I hid in the closet till GeeGee came for me.”

“I didn’t know you was in there till the fire was already goin’. I didn’t want you to be scared. But don’t you see, honey, I had to let them think hit was you so they’d know there couldn’t be no other child in the house.”

“But he was my real brother! And we’re going to find him again; my father’s promised.”

Reba shook her head and drew the reluctant Kyra closer. “You done found him already, honey. At first I didn’t know but a few days ago I seen that scarred arm and hit all come clear to me. That feller you’d been layin’ up with was yore own brother, the one I thought we’d seen the last of all those years ago. Hit weren’t fittin’ fer folks to know he was yore kin. I knowed you’d be here, along of the river risin’, and I figgered you’d have ’em fellers a-helpin’ you, so I come along too. I come upon that Ben on the stairs and give him a cold drink and told him you was going to meet him in that room with all them dirty lights. He drank hit down and headed off with a big foolish grin on his face.

“Then I found Aidan and told him you was in the kitchen. He took off but I was behind him. He was lookin’ for you when I come in. Didn’t pay no mind atall as I slipped round behind him.”

The black-haired woman’s face was set in grim satisfaction. “Don’t any of ’em pay no mind to me— just an old woman and a servant. Like the copperhead, just blendin’ in with the ground and you don’t see him till hit’s too late.”

“Aidan? Aidan is my brother?” Kyra’s anguished cry rang out. “Reba! You haven’t—”

“Hit was fer you, Miss Kyra. All fer you.”

The housekeeper’s crooning voice was louder now, trying to drown out Kyra’s wailing. “Hush now, baby. Soon all that money’ll be yourn and you and me’ll live off in some fine house somewhere. And I’ll be there all the time, keeping you safe from everwhat might harm you…. Come here, Miss Kyra…come to yore old Reba…let me take you home.”

There was a moment of silence and in the mirror’s distorted reflection Elizabeth could see Kyra seemingly slumping and relaxing into Reba’s arms. Then, with a maniac shriek of rage and pain, the slender blonde tore herself free, stepped to the mirror, and shattered it with her fist. From the center of the spiderweb of cracks, thin veils of blood began to creep down the crazed surface in which were reflected numberless tiny images of Kyra and Reba.

Phillip rushed through the doorway with Elizabeth just behind him, just in time to see Kyra, her right hand covered in blood, pluck a long triangular shard of glass from the shattered mirror. She held it like a dagger, turning it this way and that, catching the light of the single bare overhead bulb and sending random flashes about the room. Then, with a haunted half-smile that hinted of irredeemable loss, Kyra turned and lunged at her old nurse, knocking the unresisting Reba down and burying the cruel sliver deep in her stringy neck.

“No! Kyra, don’t!” At Elizabeth’s shout Kyra pulled out the deadly sliver of mirror and threw it across the room to break against the wall. A guttural keening sound escaped her lips as she sank to the floor beside the gasping Reba. Phillip was on his knees, trying vainly to stop the red fountain that pulsed from the severed blood vessels.

Kyra crouched there in the housekeeper’s blood, whispering frantically. “She told me she had the Sight— she said that things were going to happen— that people would fall aside and I would emerge. That’s why I did that piece, Entelechy. She told me she could see the future, and she could— she could—because she was making it happen.”

Reba lay still, the color draining from her face, her dimming eyes fixed on Kyra. Slowly she lifted her blood-wet hand to Kyra’s face and, with a look of infinite longing, began to wipe away the flowing tears. For one last moment, she caressed the young woman who had been her life. Then her arm fell and Reba was gone.

CHAPTER 39

LILY GORDON’S LAST WORD

(FRIDAY NIGHT, SEPTEMBER 30)

BEFORE MARVIN PETERSON LEFT TO FOLLOW THE squad car carrying his daughter to the police station, he went to his SUV and brought out an envelope, which he thrust at Elizabeth. “Buckley brought me this today. Miss Lily had left it for me to read. You know everything else about our family; you might as well see this too.”

The fire engines that had arrived just behind Phillip and the others had done their work. The flames had remained confined to Kyra’s studio and, though still smoldering, had not spread beyond. The door had been hacked down and the last vestiges of fire extinguished. Ben had been roused and, supported between Hank and Phillip, moved to the back of Phillip’s car, where once again he was asleep.

Elizabeth and Phillip sat in his car and, by the light of her flashlight, she read him Lily Gordon’s final letter.

My dear Marvin,

You will find this letter painful; believe me, I, too, have suffered in the writing of it. But recent events have forced me to see that past sins, whether of commission or of omission, will out.

Kyra must be stopped. We have excused and explained away too many past events, hoping always for the miracle of therapy or medication that will normalize her behavior. Indeed, for the past several years she has seemed normal, the sweet loving child that we have wished her to be.

It was a mistake, I see now, for me to let slip about her adoption. Oh, you and Rose acted out your little deception well but I was not deceived. I let you believe that I was taken in but I have always known. And, I suppose I thought that, by now, in these days of adoptive children seeking birth parents and so-called open adoptions, it was of no consequence; indeed, that part of Kyra’s imbalance might be due to the lie that her whole life was founded on.

Forgive a meddling old woman, Marvin. I soon saw that Kyra had been made insecure by my information and that she felt threatened by your new wife’s pregnancy. I know that she gave her stepmother a tea made from dried raspberry leaves— a harmless preparation, Prentice assures me. I should be interested to know what else might have been in that tea. The country women in the mountains were said to make use of the common tansy flower when they wished to bring on an overdue period— a nice circumlocution for causing an abortion. Reba would have known this. And Reba, I think, is besotted with Kyra to the point of madness. She may be deeply involved in these events. I no longer know what to believe.

I have not been best pleased to see another woman in my beloved Rose’s place but trust me when I say that I wept to hear that Kimmie had lost the baby.

Now Kyra is bringing me herbal tea. It’s good for heart troubles, GeeGee, she says and looks at me with what one would think was perfect love.

Perhaps I should drink it and accept my fate as payment of my debt. I did drink the first cup some days ago and found myself a little later with palpitations and extreme weakness.

The next day I was somewhat recovered and she was there again, bringing my medicine and the honey-sweetened tea. And so it has been each day.

But I am not so credulous an old fool as she seems to think. I pretend to sip and then, when her back is turned, empty the cup into the fern by my bed. I doubt it will survive— they seldom enjoy overwatering. I saved back a bit from today’s cup and have given it to Buckley to take for analysis.

Marvin, you must act. I fear that she is a cowbird chick and will destroy anything that threatens her dominance. I even believe— I can hardly write the words— I believe that she may have been responsible for the death of my darling Rose. You knew, did you not, that Rose had just discovered that she was pregnant? I believe that she told Kyra this and, so doing, doomed herself.

Please, Marvin, forgive me and think kindly of me. But you must act at once.

Lily Gordon

Elizabeth slowly folded the pages and returned them to the envelope, offering it to Phillip.

“Mrs. Gordon was fooled, just like we all were. No one noticed Reba— the perfect servant, invisible in the background. But always there, always knowing what was going on, and able to manipulate events. She was like the negative space Daphne was telling us about.”

Phillip shot a puzzled look at her, then took the envelope. “Hank said there was a sample of that tea Buckley had brought in. It had a strong concentration of hawthorn, not harmful to most people but, in time, lethal to an old woman on digoxin.”

“But this letter— she said she didn’t drink any more after that first cup.”

“That’s right, that’s what Buckley said. He said that Mrs. Gordon had avoided the tea but that she had died anyway— of a broken heart.”

CHAPTER 40

CLIFF’S EDGE

(SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1)

IT WAS GOING TO BE A NEAR PERFECT DAY. THE HEAT AND thunderstorms of the previous week had given way to bright, unusually cool, autumnal weather. During the night the thermometer on the back porch had dropped into the fifties and, rather than close the windows, Elizabeth had pulled out the fluffy winter comforter for her bed. She had awakened to the pinks and lavenders of a foggy sunrise and realized that the warm body pressed against her back was James, a pudgy canine substitute for a hot water bottle. Or a man.

She rolled over and sat up to enjoy the dawn. The three big windows framed what could have been a delicate Japanese ink drawing— all muted colors and simple lines, with the hazy mountaintops poking through the low-lying fog like islands in a pale gray sea of mist.

And Phillip Hawkins was just across the hall in her guest room. She considered this fact, then turned her thoughts to the previous evening.

* * *

Phillip had tried starting the jeep, looked under the hood, had even gotten down behind the car and shone his flashlight at the underside. Finally he announced that he was baffled, and insisted on driving her home. “You’ll need help getting Ben over to his cabin— it’s going to take a while for that stuff to wear off.”

“What stuff?” she had asked. “He seems drunk to me.”

“I don’t think so. Hank found a plastic bag of Rope in that kitchen where Aidan was—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember? I told you about the date-rape drug the autopsy found in Boz? Rohypnol— same stuff. Just little white tablets.”

He had glanced back at Ben. “As far as he’s concerned, a lot of tonight never happened. It may take a while to explain it all to him.”

“So that’s what Reba was talking about when she said she gave Ben a cold drink. She could knock them out with that stuff and…” The image of Aidan’s helpless body and blood-soaked hair haunted her.

“I’d say you’re probably right, Sherlock.”

“And it was all about Kyra being the star, the only one. That was what Lily meant by the cowbird. But it wasn’t Kyra— it was Reba who wanted Kyra to have it all. So Kyra could do what Carter Dixon called the ‘Yoko Ono/Courtney Love shtick.’ ” Elizabeth considered. “Not that I think Reba would have had the slightest idea who those people were, but you know what I mean—”

Phillip nodded. “Reba might have been content just to have Aidan in jail and out of Kyra’s way on the art scene, but when she found out who he really was—”

“She had to get rid of him permanently. I think, in the end, it was to do with the money— Marvin’s and Lily’s money. Reba wanted Kyra to be the last man standing. I really believe that she felt she could kill Aidan and Ben and blame it, as well as Boz, on Marvin Peterson. He’d be put away and her Miss Kyra would end up with everything. And she’d have Kyra.”

* * *

Elizabeth could smell the fresh coffee as she left her bedroom. Through the kitchen window she could see Phillip, sitting in a rocking chair, Molly and Ursa at his feet. She poured herself a cup and went out to the porch.

“What a way to start the morning!” He lifted his cup to her and nodded at the view. “You’re a lucky woman, Ms. Goodweather.”

“I know it.” She took the chair beside him.

* * *

“Mum, what’s happened? There’s a rumor going around that…that something’s happened to Aidan…that he’s dead…and that Kyra’s flipped out and she’s been arrested! Have you talked to Phillip? Do you know anything about this?”

Elizabeth hesitated, berating herself for not having thought to call her daughter sooner. “Oh, Laurel sweetie, I’m so sorry.” There was a silence at the other end. “There’s no good way to say this…. Yes, Aidan was killed last night. Kyra didn’t do it, but she is responsible for a death. She’s been taken into custody, rather than arrested, I think.”

As succinctly as she could, she laid out the course of events. “And Reba evidently used some drug called Roe-something. What was the name, Phillip? Oh, I remember, Rohypnol.”

There was a silence at the other end. Then Laurel said in a voice that quavered and threatened to break, “Well, at least one good thing came out of this whole stupid mess. He’s a great guy, Mum.”

“Laurel, it’s not like that—” But her daughter had hung up.

* * *

Phillip seemed in no hurry to leave. She left him doing dishes while she went over to the cabin to check on Ben. He was still asleep, but this time could be awakened fairly easily. He sat up gingerly. “Holy shit, what did I drink last night? And how did I get home?”

Leaving the difficult explanations for later, Elizabeth told him to come over for breakfast, “or lunch, if that’s when you get up. We’ve got some stuff to talk about.”

* * *

The dishes were draining in their rack and Phillip was in the living room with the dogs, when she returned.

“If you’re not in too big a hurry, Phillip, would you stay for lunch? I have a feeling I’m going to need help explaining all this to Ben. It’s like you said: he doesn’t remember anything. Then after lunch, maybe you could give us a ride to get our vehicles. At least, Ben can get his, wherever it is. I probably ought to go on and call AAA for a tow truck for my jeep.”

“I’d really like to stay for lunch but…” He ran his hand over his head. “I gotta tell you, your car’s okay. Somebody, probably Reba making sure you couldn’t go for help, shoved a wad of rags in the jeep’s exhaust pipe; pull ’em out and it’ll run fine. I could have fixed it when I saw them last night, but I wanted to drive you home.”

“And you figured I’d be too stubborn to accept your help.” Elizabeth laughed. “You know me too well, Phillip.”

When the morning chores were done, she asked Phillip to go with her to deliver one of the ripe pumpkins to Miss Birdie. “I promised her one to make preserves with. And she would be thrilled beyond belief if you came with me. She’s been eaten up with curiosity and it would make her day to meet you. I know you’ll like her; she’s a lot like your aunt Omie.”

* * *

Miss Birdie was on her porch, Pup at her side. She looked Phillip up and down with an appraising eye. “Well, sir, you’re taller ’an I thought seein’ you pass by all these times. But I believe I need to thank you for helpin’ Lizzie Beth find out what hit was happened to my boy last year. Git you a chair.”

The visit proceeded in a predictable fashion: Phillip explaining his Marshall County connection via Aunt Omie, a discussion of people Birdie had known who knew Aunt Omie, a not-so-subtle inquiry into Phillip’s marital state, a sly marveling that he had gotten out to Full Circle Farm this morning without Birdie’s seeing his car pass.

“We’ve got to get back for lunch, Miss Birdie.” Uncomfortable with the way the conversation was going— hah! Inquisition’s more like it—Elizabeth stood.

“Ay law, Lizzie Beth, I like to forgot. Dor’thy come by yesterday to tell me ol’ Franklin Ferman was gone. She said she went by to take him some soup she had fixed and he didn’t answer when she called in the door. Said she feared he might of fell or summat and she went on into the house.

“He weren’t in the front room nor in the kitchen neither, but when she went on back to that bedroom where Loretty died, there he was, a-layin’ on that bed under all them quilts, the Bible open acrost his chest and dead as a hammer. Dor’thy said he had the happiest, most peaceable look she’d ever seen on a corpse.

“ ‘Well, Dor’thy,’ I says, ‘I reckon he’s gone to be with his Savior.’

“And she come back just as quick, ‘Don’t you fool yoreself none, Birdie, hit’s his Loretty ol’ Franklin’s gone to be with.’ ”

* * *

Ben wandered into the kitchen while they were making sandwiches. He looked hungover and irritable but he accepted a glass of orange juice and sat down to listen to their account of what had happened the night before. His eyes widened as Elizabeth related her escape from the locked room. He frowned as she told of finding him and shook his head. “I don’t remember anything like that.”

When she began to describe the sequence of events, he shook his head vigorously. “That can’t be true; I don’t believe it.”

Phillip took over, first explaining the Rohypnol and its effects and then detailing the discovery of Aidan and ending with Reba’s death and Kyra’s breakdown. Ben continued to shake his head as the story proceeded. As it drew to an end, he stood, his face turned to stone. Elizabeth moved to hug him but he gently pushed her away.

“No, Aunt E. I need time to think this over. I’m going back to the cabin.”

* * *

What can I do to help him through this? Will Kyra ever be normal after spending all of her life under the domination of that twisted woman, or is she irreparably damaged? What about Laurel? I thought there was beginning to be something between her and Aidan— but the news didn’t seem to hit her nearly so hard as I would have expected. I can’t help worrying though. Elizabeth’s heart was aching. So much pain and Ben won’t admit that he’s suffering. It’s not good that he’s so alone.

Phillip was clearing the table and she was filling the dishpan with soapy water when he put down his plate on the counter, ran his hand over his head, and cleared his throat.

“That story you told me on the way back from Miss Birdie’s, about the old man reading the Bible to his dead wife, it got me to wondering.” He picked the plate up again and set it back down. “Thing is, I don’t want to…oh, hell. I need to know. Elizabeth, do you miss Sam like that? I mean, do you think you would ever…that someone else might…”

She stood, hands deep in the soapy dishwater, carefully considering her answer. Finally she turned to him. “Not long ago I’d have said, ‘No, never. I’ll never take that risk again of loving someone only to lose them.’ But recently, I think I’ve come to accept that risk is part of life.” She smiled, suddenly remembering the tarot card, her card. “You know, Phillip, I think I’m willing to be like the Fool on the Tarot card, the one who’s smiling just when he’s about to step off a cliff. I think—”

“You’ve told me what I wanted to hear.” His face was close to hers and his arms were around her again. They stood quietly cheek to cheek and she began to think through the logistics of getting down the mountain to stuff the dishtowel in the exhaust pipe of his car.

And then the telephone rang.

It was Rosemary. Rosemary, whom she and Sam had always considered the practical daughter, the grounded, mature, unemotional Rosemary was on the verge of tears and her voice was trembling.

“Mum.” It was an urgent, strangled murmur. “You know that stuff you sent me…about my friend…about…about what happened back then. I read it and I was working on that story I had in mind. And then I started remembering things— a bunch of things about that summer before…before she disappeared and I remembered some things she told me.”

At the other end of the line Rosemary was breathing hard and struggling to speak. Finally it emerged— a desperate, hollow whisper. “Mum…I don’t need this in my life right now but…I have to find out what happened to her. Mum, please, I’m serious…I’ve got to come home. I know that if I do, if I go to the places where she and I used to play, then the memories will get clearer. And I need to go to Cherokee and the Qualla Boundary, where her grandmother lived. It’s like I’ve never healed from that terrible time…that Halloween. Mum, I have to find out what happened to Maythorn Mullins.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

VICKI LANE has lived with her family on a mountainside farm in western North Carolina for more than thirty years. She is at work on the fourth Elizabeth Goodweather mystery.

ALSO BY VICKI LANE

Signs in the Blood

AND COMING SOON FROM DELL BOOKS

Old Wounds

If you enjoyed Vicki Lane’s ART’S BLOOD, you won’t want to miss any of her tantalizing mysteries featuring Elizabeth Goodweather.

Look for SIGNS IN THE BLOOD, the first Elizabeth Goodweather mystery, at your favorite bookseller.

And read on for an exciting early look at

OLD

WOUNDS

BY

VICKI LANE

COMING SOON FROM DELL BOOKS

OLD WOUNDS

Coming soon from Dell Books

PROLOGUE

ROSEMARY STARED AT THE GLOWING COMPUTER screen, the only light in the gloom of her tiny, windowless office. She slumped back in her chair and let out an exhausted sigh that spoke of surrender…and relief. At last it was done: the story that had, against all her careful defenses, clawed its way into existence. The story that had haunted her for too many long years, tapping with urgent, insistent fingers on the clouded panes of her memory, the story that she had pushed away like an unwanted and unloved child. Now, at last, she had allowed it into the light, had unbound it and let it speak.

The words crawled down the screen and she scanned them critically. Enough details had been changed; it would pass as fiction. But the heart of the unresolved matter was there. She had put down all she knew…or all she remembered, after so long.

She watched as the account of that terrible time passed before her blurring eyes. As the last page came into view she paused, pulled off her reading glasses and wiped them on her sleeve. She drew in a long, shuddering breath, fighting back unwelcome tears. It had been worth it— painful but cathartic. It had been necessary, she told herself. And the story was powerful— her best work ever.

Rereading the last words, that desolate closing paragraph, she frowned. This was it, wasn’t it? What more was there to say? For a moment she was still, paralyzed by the flood of memory and emotion that threatened to overwhelm her. Then, with a sudden decision, she clicked on the PRINT icon. The printer stirred into action and as the white pages began to patter into the tray, Rosemary’s lean body began to tremble. “Maythorn?” It was a tentative whisper.

Thrusting her chair back, she started to rise but was held in place, mesmerized by the growing paper stack before her. The murmur of the pages falling one upon another mocked her. You think this is all but you’re not done.

So many questions remained unanswered. I have to keep going. She won’t be satisfied with this. The final sheet of paper inched its way out of the whirring printer.

“Mary Thorn.” Her voice was stronger now. The name was a declaration of the buried grief and doubt of the past nineteen years.

Rosemary pulled the sheaf from the tray and stood, clutching the pages to her heart. Closing her eyes, she tilted her face to the ceiling and cried out, in a voice to wake the dead: “Mary Thorn Blackfox, I see you!”

Still gripping the pages, Rosemary Goodweather reached for the telephone and punched in her mother’s number.

CHAPTER 1

Dark of the Moon

ELIZABETH GOODWEATHER SAT ON HER FRONT porch, staring unseeing at the distant Blue Ridge Mountains that vanished into ever hazier rows along the eastern horizon. She was blind to the nearer wooded slopes with their first gildings of copper and gold, oblivious to the clear blue sky marked only by a pair of red-tailed hawks riding the cool autumn currents, and deaf to their shrill, descending calls. The breakfast dishes in the kitchen behind her were still unwashed; the mug of coffee she held had grown cold without being tasted. Her mind whirled in tumult— seething thoughts and feelings, all unresolved.

Only yesterday she had been on the verge of …on the verge of what? Phillip asked if I was still grieving for Sam, if I would ever let someone else into my life. And I said something really profound about being willing to take a chance. And I was…I am …but then, just then—

But just then Rosemary had called. Her brilliant, reliable, eminently sensible, older daughter. Assistant professor of English at UNC–Chapel Hill and not yet thirty, Rosemary had been writing a story based on the disappearance of a childhood friend almost twenty years ago. And in the writing, something let loose. All those years that she wouldn’t talk about Maythorn…and then yesterday…oh god, it was awful to hear Rosie so…so unhinged.

“Mum!” Rosemary had whispered, sounding more like the ten-year-old she had been than the self-assured academic she had become. “Mum! I have to find out what really happened to Maythorn.”

Rosemary had been all but incoherent, babbling about her lost friend, about memories that had resurfaced …and Maythorn’s granny and something called the Looker Stone…and what was the really weird-sounding thing?…the Booger Dance? Whatever the hell that is.

Maythorn Mullins, the child of a neighboring family, had been Rosemary’s friend— she’s my best friend, Mum, and she’s my blood twin! We were both born on January 11, 1976, and we both have brown eyes and we are exactly the same height! We cut our fingers and swapped blood and now we’re blood twins! Rosemary and Maythorn had been almost inseparable for two idyllic years. Then had come Halloween 1986 and, with it, the disappearance of Maythorn from her family’s home.

A massive search through the hollows and coves of Ridley Branch and the adjoining areas had revealed nothing. Some believed that the child had run away— there were whispers of an unhappy family situation. Others were sure that a kidnapping had been attempted and had somehow gone wrong. Still others shook their heads. They swore that the child was somewhere on the mountain— dead or alive. But, as a weary Sam had said to Elizabeth, on returning from the steep slopes and thickets of Pinnacle Mountain, “Liz, she could be hiding…or hidden…anywhere out there. There’s just no way of searching every inch of these woods.”

Wide-eyed, but remote, young Rosemary had watched mutely as the futile search continued. Her responses to questions about Maythorn, from Sam and Elizabeth, as well as from the authorities, were little more than dull monosyllables, all negative. Tearless and stoic, Rosemary had shaken off attempts at comfort or reassurance. Elizabeth could still remember the sudden stiffening resistance of her daughter’s thin body when she had tried to gather the child up in her arms for consolation.

“Don’t, Mum,” Rosemary had said briefly, gently removing herself from the embrace and retreating to her own room. And though she had eventually returned to her usual talkative self, any mention of Maythorn was met by a blank stare or a quick change of subject. Soon it seemed that she had simply chosen to forget the existence of the little girl she had called her blood twin. Elizabeth and Sam, caught up in the thousand details of their new life, had gratefully accepted Rosemary’s return to normalcy. By unspoken mutual agreement, they no longer mentioned Maythorn around their older daughter.

A local man was questioned by the police and released for lack of evidence. The Mullins family drew in on itself and, after nearly a year had gone by with no ransom demand and no sign whatsoever of the child, they moved away, eager to leave behind the unhappy memories that haunted their home. Marshall County tucked the mysterious disappearance away in a seldom-visited drawer and life resumed its pleasant and accustomed shape.

* * *

Rosemary’s unexpected and unsettling phone call the day before had alarmed Elizabeth deeply, scattering all thoughts of romance and Phillip Hawkins like dry leaves driven before an icy wind. She had listened in baffled incomprehension to her daughter’s frantic chatter till Rosemary had run down, had calmed and begun to sound more like her usual self.

“I’m sorry, Mum.” Rosemary’s voice became quieter and somewhat abashed. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you quite like this. Really, I’m fine. It’s just that I’ve been immersed in the story and when I printed it out just now— well, anyway, I’ve got a class in a few minutes and a meeting tonight, but I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve figured out exactly what I want to do.”

* * *

Rosie finished talking and hung up and I…I just stood there holding the phone and staring. Elizabeth had stared at Phillip Hawkins, who, at the insistent ring of the telephone, had released her from his embrace and tactfully moved to the cushioned benches at the end of the kitchen, where he busied himself with her three dogs while she answered the call. She had looked at him in bewilderment, as if she had never seen him before, as if he were a stranger who had unexpectedly materialized in her kitchen. Granted, a stranger whose right hand was scratching behind the ears of James, the tubby little dachshund-Chihuahua mix, while his left was busy fondling Molly’s sleek head. The elegant red hound’s black-ringed amber eyes gazed soulfully at Phillip as if she knew him very well indeed. And at his feet, shaggy black Ursa lay on her broad back, offering her furry belly to be scratched by his foot.

“What?” Phillip’s quizzical smile was rapidly replaced by a puzzled frown. As she continued to stare silently at him, Phillip had disentangled himself from her dogs and come toward her, his tanned face full of concern.

“Elizabeth, what’s wrong?” At once the stranger was replaced by the familiar friend, the good man she had come to rely on. She put down the phone and burst into tears.

He had put his arms around her again and she had relaxed against his comforting bulk. When she could control her voice, she asked, “Did you ever see that movie years ago— Alice’s Restaurant? Well, like Alice said, I feel like a poor old mother hound dog with too many puppies snapping at her tits. I mean, I’m already worried about Ben and Laurel, after all that’s been happening, and now Rosie—”

Her voice was stricken as she continued. “We thought it was all over— that she’d forgotten that awful Halloween and the days and weeks that followed. We were so grateful that she seemed…seemed untouched by it all and we just pretended it never happened, let her pretend there had never been a little girl called Maythorn. But now it’s all come back. I should have known….”

She looked at Phillip and her face was full of pain. “Don’t you see?…I owe it to her…to both of them…to see it through to the end this time.”

Somehow it had gotten sorted out. Phillip had listened as she explained the call and, before she could finish, had pulled her to him again. She hid her face on his broad shoulder and wrapped her arms around him, trying unsuccessfully to capture the joyous abandon she had felt before Rosemary’s call.

Phillip’s fingers traced a path along her cheek. “Elizabeth, it’s okay. I understand how this is something you have to do. And if I can help, you know I will— as a friend of the family, let’s say.”

Very gently he cupped her chin in his hand and raised her head. “Elizabeth, what we were…where we were heading just before that call— where I hope we’re still heading— that can wait a little longer.” His deep brown eyes were steady on her and he smiled tenderly as he said, “Ms. Goodweather, I want your full attention for what I have in mind.”

* * *

Elizabeth could still see his crooked smile as he had said goodbye. This burly, balding man had, over the past year, in almost imperceptible increments, somehow become very dear to her. Almost…necessary.

The thought was disturbing and she brushed it aside hastily. But he’s added something to my life…and he’s always been patient and kind, even in the beginning when I kept trying to ignore him. Phillip Hawkins and her late husband, Sam Goodweather, had been buddies during their years in the Navy and when Hawkins, a former police detective, had moved to the Asheville area the previous year, he had tried very hard to befriend Elizabeth. She, her emotions still raw with the pain of her widowhood, had rebuffed him until the suspicious death of a neighbor had forced her to seek his help.

And the more time we spent together, the better I liked him. And now…if Rosie hadn’t called just when she did, I’m pretty sure he’d still be here this morning. I was so ready….

Impulsively, she jumped to her feet, and hurried inside to the phone. She punched in his number, her thumb flying over the tiny keys. He might not have left for school yet— I think he said his first class isn’t till ten.

The line was busy. She hit redial. Still busy. Again. Busy. Maybe he’s trying to call me. Okay, Elizabeth, put the phone down. Go do the dishes and—

The shrill ring of the phone still in her hand startled her and she fumbled eagerly with the ON button.

“Phillip! I’ve been trying to—”

“Mum? It’s me, Rosemary. I’ve come up with a plan.”

Shit! Elizabeth thought. She sat down heavily on the cushioned bench. “Hi, Rosie. Okay, tell me about it.”

“All right, Mum, here it is. I’ve got Fridays free this semester and my only Monday class is in the afternoon. So that will give me long weekends to be there at the farm and I’m going to work through this— I have to do it if it kills me. I’ve been making a list of places to visit and people to talk to— things that will help me remember. I thought I’d drive up Thursday after class and get started early Friday. If I leave the farm Monday morning around eight, I’ll make it to my class with time to spare. One thing I know I want to do is go over to Cherokee. I need to find out more about the Booger Dance.”

Elizabeth Goodweather frowned as she listened to her older daughter on the telephone. The frantic whisper of the previous call was gone— Rosemary’s voice was calm and perfectly controlled— maybe a little too controlled.

“Sweetie, you know I’d love for you to come home. We’ve hardly seen you at all since you bought your house. Laurel was complaining just the other day that it’s been months…and I’d love to go to Cherokee— someone was telling me recently how good the museum is— but, Rosie, did you say Booger Dance? Are you serious? What’s a Booger Dance and what does it have to do with Maythorn?”

“I’m not sure, Mum…but I think it’s important. It’s something that came to me as I was writing the story…. Iremembered her…I remembered Maythorn telling me all these stories her Granny Thorn had told her—remember?— her granny was a full-blood Cherokee— living on the Qualla Boundary. Anyway, one of the last times we were together Maythorn was telling me how she was making a mask for a Booger Dance so she could stop being afraid of someone she called the Bad One. I went online and found out what I could about the dance. It all seemed really familiar— it’s possible that Maythorn’s granny took us to one that weekend Maythorn and I spent with her. And then…it seemed like more and more about those two years started coming back to me…from the first time I saw Maythorn to right before…right before she disappeared and I remembered a bunch of things she told me. I don’t know what’s important and what isn’t but I do know I have to follow this to the end.”

* * *

Phillip Hawkins looked at the clock. This was his first semester of teaching criminal justice at AB Tech, Asheville’s two-year community college, and he had a class at ten. There was still time. He reached for the telephone and began to punch in Elizabeth’s number.

No. He put down the receiver. What was it she said? Like a hound dog with too many puppies? I need to back off— she’s got enough on her mind right now.

He stared at the telephone— still undecided. Last night had been the first time he’d seen her cry— Sam mentioned that about her— how she almost never cried, tried to hide it like it was a weakness.

Back in their Navy days, during that long overseas tour that couldn’t be talked about, he and Sam Goodweather had fought against the boredom, the danger, and the loneliness by talking about their homes and their wives. Phillip had not met Elizabeth at that time— would not meet her till years later, at Sam’s memorial service— but he had known from the picture Sam carried that although she was not really beautiful, her long dark hair and startling blue eyes compelled you to look again.

Sam had told the story over and over— how he’d gone into a used-book store in Tampa on the same day he’d enlisted in the Navy, in search of something to take his mind off the decision he’d just made. He’d been browsing the crowded backroom, along with several other customers, when he spotted a lone copy of Walden, a book he’d been meaning to read for years.

“I reached for it just as this tall girl with hair down to there reached for it too. My hand touched hers and I swear to god, Phil, it was like a goddamn jolt of electricity. Then she looked at me with those blue eyes and that was it. I almost passed out. It was like I couldn’t get my breath.”

The tall girl had insisted that they flip a coin for the book. She had won the toss but when Sam invited her for coffee that turned into lunch and she learned that he was on his way to boot camp soon, she gave the book to him, first writing her name and address in it. A correspondence had ensued and eleven months later they had married. Sam had been assigned to overseas duty, leaving his new wife to complete her last year of college and begin graduate school.

And me, I had Sandy. No electricity there. Just a pregnancy that wasn’t. A pretty, empty-headed, little cheerleader with a cute giggle…at least, it was cute for the first month or so. Hawkins glanced toward the bookshelf where he kept framed photos of his son and daughter. Still, there were some good times— and the kids— Seth and Janie— they were worth it. I don’t know, maybe if I’d had a different job, we’d still be together. Maybe.

He shrugged and ran his hand over his shiny, nut-brown scalp. Nah, Sandy’s happier with her life now than she would ever have been with me. She’s got a nice tame husband who goes antiquing with her and plays bridge and crap like that.

Phillip looked again at the pictures of his children and grinned. Good kids, both of them. But they’ve got their own things going now— Seth keeps talking about bringing Caitlin to Asheville so I can meet her. And Janie—

Abruptly he picked up the telephone again and hit the familiar number. The harsh burr of the busy signal taunted him. He waited briefly and hit REDIAL. Once again the mocking busy signal rasped in his ear. Glancing at the clock, Phillip Hawkins muttered a brief imprecation, threw down the phone, and hurried out the door.

Rosemary and Maythorn

JUNE 1984

Why are you living in a barn? The solemn little girl stared down at Rosemary from the top of the granite outcropping. My mama says you’re hippies.

Eight-year-old Rosemary, climbing laboriously up the slopes of the mountain pasture, a stout hickory tobacco stick clutched in one hand, was deep in her “pretend” of an explorer in unknown lands. At the unexpected sound of a voice, she looked up in surprise. Two dark eyes in a deeply tanned face, half-hidden by a thick shock of black bangs, regarded her steadily from the top of the big rock that she had marked as the terminus of her exploration.

We are not either hippies. My grandmother thinks we are but we’re not! We’re the Goodweathers. And we’re just living in the barn till Pa and Uncle Wade can get our house built.

Rosemary pointed down the mountainside to a flat, bulldozed area where two shirtless, tanned men in work boots, straw hats, and cut-off jeans were busy installing a window in the unfinished shell of a modest house. A tall, slender woman in a blue work shirt and faded jeans toiled up the steep road that led from the barn below to the building site. A thick braid of dark brown hair hung nearly to her waist. In one hand she carried a Thermos while with the other she held tightly to the unwilling fist of an energetic redheaded toddler. The child broke loose and tried to outpace her mother but soon took a tumble and sat down hard on her overalled bottom. Resisting her mother’s attempts to help her up, the little girl staggered to her feet and began to run. Once again her tiny boots slipped on the gravel and the scene was repeated.

That’s my mum and my little sister. Rosemary jerked her head in their direction. Her name’s Laurel. She’s pretty cute but she can be a pest.

I have a little sister named Krystalle and she’s a pest too. The dark child patted the rock beneath her in a proprietary manner. You want to come up on Froghead?

Is that its name? Rosemary scrambled up the steep slope and moved cautiously to lower herself on her belly beside the other child. Who named it?

Me. The dark girl patted the rock again as if it were a living creature beneath her. It’s one of my special places. I know all about this mountain. My mama stays so busy with Krystalle that she doesn’t care what I do. Long as I get home for supper. A lean brown arm indicated a knapsack. A pair of binoculars lay beside it. I pack my lunch and sometimes I stay out all day.

I’m Rosemary. What’s your name? Rosemary cast an admiring glance at the other child’s long straight black hair and bronze skin. You look like an Indian.

I am an Indian. My granny Thorn’s a full-blood Cherokee and my real daddy was mostly Cherokee. My true name is Mary Thorn Blackfox but mostly everyone calls me Maythorn. My mama told them at school that my last name is Mullins now, ’cause my real daddy’s dead and she’s married to Moon.

Moon? Is he an Indian too? Rosemary propped herself up to look at this interesting stranger more closely.

No, he’s just ordinary. Maythorn pulled the binoculars to her and trained them on the big pear tree near the house site. The two men, the woman, and the redheaded child were sitting on a stack of lumber in the shade of the tree while the men drank from tall glasses.

Is one of those men your daddy?

He’s the one wiping his face with a red bandana. Now he’s tickling Laurel. His name’s Sam but I call him Pa. The other one’s Uncle Wade. He’s Pa’s brother and he’s staying here this summer to help build our house.

Hmmph. I figured they were brothers— both with red hair and all. Do you like your uncle?

Rosemary wrinkled her brow at the glittering lenses. What do you mean? He’s my uncle! He’s really funny and nice but he tells dumb jokes all the time. And he’s teaching me how to play the harmonica. Why wouldn’t I like him?

Dunno. The binoculars turned back to survey the scene below. The tall woman was evidently telling the little girl to come with her. The toddler shook her head violently, stamped her foot, and attached herself, limpetlike, to her uncle’s leg. The mother squatted down to look her daughter in the eye, spoke a few words, and slowly Laurel released her hold. The storm passed and the little girl grabbed the empty Thermos, waved a cheerful goodbye to the two men, and set off pell-mell down the road, the jug bumping the gravel with every step. Her mother hurried after her, pausing to look up the mountainside in Rosemary’s direction.

At once Maythorn lowered her binoculars and flattened herself against the rock. Rosemary waved in her mother’s direction. I’m up here! It’s really cool! There’s a—

Below, Elizabeth, with one eye on Laurel, who was nearing the old tobacco barn— their home for the duration— waved abstractedly at her older daughter and called out, Okay, Rosie, just don’t go any farther off. I’ll ring the bell when it’s lunchtime. Be careful up there.

She turned and hurried after the fast-moving little redhead, who was disappearing into the open door of the barn loft.

Mum’s got to watch Laurel all the time. There’re holes in the barn floor she could fall right through. Pa and Uncle Wade fixed a safe corner for her— There’s an old rug that covers the floor and we put her bed and all her playthings in there. There’s a kind of fence around it and she’s not supposed to try to get out.

Where do you sleep? Maythorn’s binoculars moved to the barn.

We all have mattresses on the floor and sleeping bags on top of them. Except for Uncle Wade— he has his own tent in the other barn— that little one behind those trees. My special place is in the corner across from Laurel. I have a rug too and a bookshelf with my favorite books— and I have a trunk for my clothes and a box for my very most important stuff. It’s really fun, like camping out except we don’t have to worry about rain. Sometimes I wish we could live just like that forever.

Maythorn abandoned the binoculars and rolled onto her side, leaning on one elbow to study Rosemary. Do your mama and daddy yell at each other much? Mine do. I’m glad that I have my own room to get away from them. I wouldn’t want to live all together like that. That’s why my mama said you all are hippies.

No, they don’t yell at each other! Rosemary was aghast at the idea. Sometimes Pa yells when something messes up— like when the truck wouldn’t start yesterday. He yelled and said a lot of bad words but he wasn’t mad at any of us.

What were the bad words he said? Maythorn looked with interest toward the house site where Sam Goodweather was hoisting another window into place.

I’m not allowed to say them. Rosemary looked prim. But I guess I could spell them for you. He said D-A-M and S-H—

The clanking of a cowbell interrupted her exposition and she jumped to her feet. I have to go now. She paused, reluctant to leave her newfound friend. You could come down and eat lunch with us. There’s always plenty. I could show you my books and stuff.

Maythorn was unmoved. No, thanks, I’ve got my lunch right here. And I’ve got some other jobs before I go home, some other things I have to see about.

What do you mean— jobs? You’re just a kid— and it’s summer vacation. What do you have to see about?

Things. It’s my job. Maybe I’ll come down another day.

The cowbell sounded again, louder and longer. Sam and Wade Goodweather were under the shed now, and Laurel was standing at the edge of the shed, waving the cowbell wildly from side to side.

Okay, maybe another day. See ya. Rosemary slid off the rock and started down the slope. A thought struck her and she stopped.

Maythorn, what kind of job? What do you do?

The sun glinted on the binoculars’ lenses, throwing bright lances into Rosemary’s blinking eyes.

I’m a spy, said Maythorn. I find out stuff.

ART’S BLOOD

A Dell Book / July 2006

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2006 by Vicki Lane

Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN-13: 978-0-440-33616-7

eISBN-10: 0-440-33616-3

www.bantamdell.com

v1.0

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1 Don’t Know Much about Art, But…

Chapter 2 “I’ll Be Back”

Chapter 3 Black Roses

Chapter 4 Aunt Omie

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Second Entry

Chapter 5 The Nanny

Chapter 6 Willow

Chapter 7 Street Angel, Home Devil

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Third Entry

Chapter 8 The Obvious Suspect

Chapter 9 Query at the QuerY

Chapter 10 In the Corncrib

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Fourth Entry

Chapter 11 Snake in the Grass

Chapter 12 Assumptions Are Dangerous

Chapter 13 What Miss Birdie Saw

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Fifth Entry

Chapter 14 This Is Not a Threat

Chapter 15 Sugar Pie and the Good Ol’ Boy

Chapter 16 Strolling and Trolling

Chapter 17 At the Candlestation

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Sixth entry

Chapter 18 Some Invisible Threshold

Chapter 19 Loretty’s Legacy

Chapter 20 “The Most Wonderful Thing…”

Chapter 21 That Yankee Woman

Chapter 22 The Gorgon of Asheville

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Seventh Entry

Chapter 23 A New Beginning

Chapter 24 Sanctuary

Chapter 25 The Golden Years

Chapter 26 As Cruel as the Grave

From Lily Gordon’s journal— Eighth Entry

Chapter 27 The Upstart and the Rose

Chapter 28 The Returned Child

Chapter 29 Revelations

Chapter 30 Letter from a Dead Woman

Chapter 31 Incubation

Chapter 32 Deep Waters

Chapter 33 Deconstruction

Chapter 34 The Mask That Wasn’t

Chapter 35 Performance Piece

Chapter 36 Blood Roses

Chapter 37 Absalom, Absalom

Chapter 38 Negative Space

Chapter 39 Lily Gordon’s Last Word

Chapter 40 Cliff’s Edge

About the Author

Also by Vicki Lane

Preview for Old Wounds

Copyright Page