Chill Waters (14 page)

“You
are
looking a little green around the gills, lad,” Sorrel said, sounding like he almost gave a damn. “You just take it easy. We’ll have a doctor look at you. In fact, I’m going to personally see to it that you have plenty of time to heal, with no one to disturb you. Not for a long, long time.”

Eighteen

Rachael’s phone was installed on Wednesday morning. No sooner did the blue van from the phone company drive out of the yard when it rang. A soft trill, but it startled her just the same. She picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Mom?”

“Susan, darling…”

“Are you okay, Mom?” Her voice sounded small over the line, a child’s voice, uncertain. “I got the number from information. You’re using your maiden name.”

Rachael only replied that she was fine. A small lie, necessary. Susan was in her second year of college, studying marketing and communication, at the top of her class. Though she’d inherited Rachael’s grey eyes, and high cheekbones, she had Greg’s gregarious nature, his gift of persuasion. She would do well in her chosen field. She doesn’t need to be worrying about me.

“Dad loves you, Mom,” she was saying. “He’s just going through some kind of mid-life crisis. Maybe if you got your hair done differently. Bought some sharp new clothes…”

She’s telling me this is somehow my fault. It hurt, but came as no surprise. She loves me, but she’s first and foremost, her daddy’s girl. And why not? Greg was handsome and fun to be around. Rachael had always encouraged their special relationship, had nurtured it.

Listening to Susan’s so-simple solutions, from the corner of her eye Rachael caught a movement down on the beach. Inching aside the new lace curtain, she recognized the man from the restaurant. He was leaning on his cane, snapping pictures of a piece of driftwood. His longish hair blowing in the breeze, he turned, aimed his camera at a lone seagull standing skittishly on Rachael’s flat-topped rock. She watched a moment, then let the curtain drop from her fingers.

Allowing herself a moment to regroup after hanging up the phone, she dialed Jeff’s number. Getting the machine, she left a message, relieved at the reprieve. When she looked out the window again, the man was gone. The beach was deserted. She was about to turn away when she saw Iris Brandt’s car pull into the yard.

She instinctively looked around her. The carpet didn’t look half- bad after a good shampooing. The musty house-fire smell was gone replaced by a clean piney fragrance. She’d replaced the torn lampshade with a new one, hung a couple of inexpensive Victorian prints.

After she got home from the scene of Iris’ break-in, Rachael had launched into a marathon of housecleaning that lasted up until twenty minutes ago. She’d heard somewhere that the best weapon against feeling powerless was action. And it worked, at least temporarily.

“I’m beginning to feel like the proverbial bad penny,” Iris said, when they were sitting in the living room sipping wine from long-stemmed glasses. Rachael had angled the chairs toward one another, facing the windows, and the bay. Iris’ eye strayed there now. “But I thought I should tell you a little about the last family who lived here.”

“George and Ethel Bates?” Rachael had never met the previous owners, only read their names on the transfer of deed. As far as she knew they were an older couple who decided to move to Florida for the climate. Iris had alluded to some kind of family tragedy.

“Yes. Oh, I know all the focus right now is on Tommy Prichard, but I’ve never known Tommy to be violent, and in fact I don’t recall he’s ever been in any kind of trouble. I can’t say the same for the Bates’ nephew.”

“Nephew?” Rachael repeated, having no idea who Iris was talking about.

“Yes. His name is Jimmy Ray Dawson. A no-account boy, unfortunately, and also unfortunately, Ethel’s blood nephew. Jimmy Ray got it in his head that his Uncle George had money stashed somewhere in the house, and was determined to find out where. I doubt George had any money, though that is hardly the point. Anyway, Ethel told him if he ever darkened her doorway again, she’d have him thrown in jail.”

Rachael nodded for Iris to go on, curious as to what all this had to do with her.

“Ethel loved that boy with all her heart, but she’d reached her limit when he hurt George.”

The Chantilly lace curtains fluttered gently in the screened-in windows, letting in the scent of the sea, and a momentary chill. Rachael closed the window, let her eye linger a moment on the calm blue bay.

She sat down again, picked up her wineglass. “He assaulted his uncle?”

Iris’ blue eyes were at once sad and angry. “By the time I got here, it was all over,” she said. “Ethel was cleaning the blood from her husband’s face. She’d been crying. George was moaning, half-unconscious.”

“My God.”

“My reaction exactly. She begged me to keep her secret. It was only because she was a registered nurse herself that I agreed, although against my better judgement. She was ashamed, took it as her own personal failure. A black mark on the family name.”

“But it wasn’t her fault.”

“No. It wasn’t. They were good people. Jimmy Ray was just twelve when they took him in. They treated him like the son they never had, doted on him. Especially Ethel. Maybe that had something to do with it. Maybe not. Anyway, he repaid them with not a moment’s peace. Ethel always blamed it on the fact that he came from a broken home.”

“Iris, I think I’m getting a sense of where you’re going with this. But this place was vacant for a year before I bought it. Surely, he knows…”

“That’s just it, Rachael. I’m not sure he does know they sold the house and moved away. Peter thinks he’s probably spent time in jail without Ethel’s help. The good Lord knows he was headed in that direction.”

“And you think he’ll be furious when he finds out they took off without leaving a forwarding address. Sounds like an old joke.”

“But not very funny, I’m afraid. Like most cowards, he’s a bully. It wouldn’t be beneath him to take out his anger on whomever opens that door to him. Especially someone vulnerable like a woman alone.”

Fear touched Rachael’s heart. “You really think he’ll turn up here.”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. It’s also possible I’m making far too much of the whole matter. But I did think you should be aware. It seemed more important than keeping Ethel’s secret. This is excellent sherry, by the way.”

“I’m glad you like it. Her mind envisioned the silhouette out by the elm tree she’d seen on the night of the storm.
Could it have been the Bates’ nephew?

Shaking her head as if to erase the incident from her mind, Iris looked around the room approvingly. “You’re spinning a cozy cocoon for yourself, Rachael. A safe haven, I’m sure,” she added, too heartily. “Truly, it is not my intention to frighten you. Only to alert you to possible danger.”

The words had a familiar ring. “I know that, Iris. Thank you for telling me.” Like Iris, she too, wanted to dismiss the subject of the Bates’ from further thought or conversation.

Her gaze wandered to the mantle and the matching off-white candle holders Iris had brought her as a ‘proper housewarming gift.’ Rachael had arranged them at either end of the mantle, flanking the vase of silk daisiesa fitting replacement for the pickle bottle with its plastic rose. Beautifully crafted, the exact thread of moss green ran through the candleholders as was in her new chintz chair covers.

Maybe Iris really was psychic, she smiled to herself.

After Iris left, Rachael looked up Hartley McLeod’s number, dialed it. The phone rang a few times before he answered. She could hear a dog barking in the background. She should get a dog. It would be good company, and could also let her know if anyone was lurking around outside. When the kids were little, they’d wanted a pet, but Greg was allergic.

“This is Rachael Warren, Mr. McLeod,” she said. “I wanted to thank you so much for replacing the windows. If you’ll just let me know how much…”

“Glad to be of service,” he interrupted. “Couldn’t very well live in a house without windows, now, could you?” He gave his raspy chuckle. “But don’t you worry none about money, you hear, we got a victim’s fund set up for just that sort of thing. Thought we should what with all the vandalism.”

“I see. Well, I’m deeply grateful. Mr. McLeod, Iuh, wondered if you wouldn’t mind bringing my spare key by when you'rewell, in the neighborhood.”

“Key?” he said, sounding surprised. “I put that key on the ledge above the door, same as always, ma’am.”

“Same as always?”

He paused. “I used to do a little work for George after he couldn’t do it for himself no more.”

Had she hurt his feelings? She hadn’t meant to. “I’ll have another look,” she said, and thanked him again for his good work. “I must have just missed seeing it.”

But the key was not where he said. Nor was it under the mat, or anywhere else she could think of as a possible hiding place. Had someone been watching him when he put the key on the ledge? Waited until he left, and took it?

But the Bates’ nephew wouldn’t need to do that, would he? He would already know where the key was kept.

And why didn’t that make her feel any better?

Why was all this happening? She came back here to heal, to try to find her way back to herself, and somehow she’d been drawn in to murder and mayhem, even becoming a victim of vandalism herself.

Not much she could do about it. Keeping busy was the only answer that came to her. Although the house looked considerably better than it had, it still needed papering and painting throughout. Not easy to summon the motivation or energy when all you really wanted to do was go to bed and pull a cover over your head, but she would put herself to the task. Yes, a project is just what I need.

When she was working, she didn’t let herself feel or think. She operated on automatic. She functioned better in pleasant, orderly surroundings. She always had. Tomorrow she’d go into town and check out prices on paint and paper at the hardware store.

Right now though what was in order was a long, hot shower.

Upstairs, she slipped out of her jeans, shirt, bra and panties, letting them drop into a heap on the bathroom floor. Turning the taps on full, she adjusted the showerhead and stepped into the old-fashioned clawfoot tub. Standing beneath the needle hot spray, she closed her eyes, surrendering to the cascade of water. Gradually, the hot shower began to wash the tiredness from her body.

“
Maybe if you got your hair done differently, Mom … bought some sharp new clothes…”

Susan wasn’t the first one to have had that thought. For a moment, Rachael had managed to convince
herself
that it would work. A few nights after Greg admitted to his affair with Lisa, she’d showered and slipped into the new negligee she had purchased that very afternoon. A lovely thing it was, of ivory satin, the bodice edged in fine lace, cut to flatter her small breasts, camouflage her less than washboard stomach. She’d applied make-up, layers of erase to hide the puffiness from so much crying, brushed her dark hair until it gleamed. Greg used to say she had nice hair.

Dimming the lights, she waited for his footsteps on the stairs. When she heard them, she panicked, tried to bolster her courage with thoughts of the two wonderful children they’d brought into the world. With the sheer force of her own love, she would bring him back to her. Make him understand that they belonged together. Lisa was a mistake; he would see that.

But it was she who had made the mistake. One that it was too late to correct. Despite the nightgown, she had never felt quite so naked as she did in the moment, with Greg standing in the doorway, looking at her. She saw embarrassment in his eyes, guilt. And most unforgivable of allpity. She tried to look away, but some perversity within her made her unable to, as if at some level she needed to extract the full measure of this humiliation. Not spare herself one shred of it. When he was gone, she filled the tub with water and held a razor blade between thumb and forefinger for a good half hour, but could not summon the courage to slide it across her wrists. It was her lowest point. She’d heard it said you had to go there before you could start climbing back up.

She would not have wanted anyone to know about that night. Not even Betty. Maybe especially not Betty.

Rachael stepped out of the tub onto the cool tile floor. As she towel-dried her hair, she caught a glimpse of her blurred reflection in the steamy mirror and it struck her as somehow symbolic.

She was reaching for her robe on the door hook when a shadow fell across the threshold. Her heart contracted in fright, sending a shot of adrenaline surging through her body. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.

Was someone standing on the other side of the door? Someone who had crept up the stairs while she in the shower? Rachael tried to remember if she’d locked the back door after Iris left. Yes, she could visualize herself locking it. Heard in her head the lock click into place. And then she remembered again the missing spare key.

She imagined she could hear
him
breathing. Soft, measured breaths, mouth close to the door. Waiting for her to open it.