Grave Deeds (12 page)

“Don't worry, I don't plan to waste any time.”

I remembered seeing a wheelbarrow in the shed and went back for it. It wobbled on its shaft but I managed to drag it under the window. I turned it upside down and stood on it to get some leverage. Will tried to help but when he released his grip on the window it began to slide back down. There was only room to go in head first. I got both hands on the sill and pushed with both feet. The wheelbarrow toppled but I was halfway in, in a cloud of dust and the sound of ripping fabric as the curtain came with me. I reached down to touch the floor and wriggled my hips, crab-walking across a rag rug until my legs slipped in. Both knees thudded down hard. I rolled over, sat up, rubbed at the pain. They would be bruised tomorrow.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. You can let the window go.” It crashed down behind me.

The bedroom door opened into a narrow hall. Directly across was a second bedroom containing a set of bunk beds built into the wall, another small dresser, and a bookshelf crammed with tattered paperbacks and thin boxes that must be games and jigsaw puzzles. Mattresses were rolled at the foot of both beds; an empty light socket hung from the ceiling.

Will banged on the back door. It was bolted at floor and ceiling with long iron rods that inched stiffly out of their sockets.

“Damn bugs.” He showed me a smear of blood across his cheek.

“Did you put the screen back on?”

“As well as I could. I'll have to fix it from inside. Your cousin will understand. She wouldn't expect us to wait outside in the dark.”

It was getting dark, too quickly for evening. Clouds rolled in from the bay and a jagged fork of lightning split the sky. Great flocks of birds were flying into the marshes, and even inside we could hear the tremendous clatter of their nesting rites.

I looked around the cottage anxiously. “I guess this is the right place? We haven't broken into a stranger's?”

Will picked up a book lying open and face down on the coffee table in front of the fireplace. “It's got her name in it,” he said. He showed me the bookplate carefully glued inside the front cover. “This is the cottage, all right.”

“Where do you think she is?”

On the harvest table were the remains of breakfast: a coffee mug and a plate of crumbs. A fly was trapped on the sticky lid of an open jar of strawberry jam which swarmed with ants. A small carton of cream breathed sourness into the close air of the room. Two baguettes wrapped in plastic film stuck out of a paper bag on the counter by the sink. I dumped the bread and, picking up the jam jar with two fingers, dropped it in. The lid went in too, and the crumbs. I hate bugs.

“Looks like she left in a hurry.” Will circled the room switching on lamps. A motor whirred and a fan began to revolve high up among the exposed rafters that criss-crossed the ceiling. We both looked up into the shadows. After a moment, he flicked it off.

“She didn't forget to lock up.” I crossed over to the small fridge that rumbled away to itself in a corner of the kitchen. Inside were two bottles of Perrier, two bottles of French wine, a six pack of Heineken beer, half a pound of unsalted butter in foil wrapping, a variety of cheeses, and a five-pound box of chocolates.

“Maybe she went shopping.”

“Leaving her breakfast on the table? And how did she go? Whose car is out there?”

“Maybe Markham came to get her.”

“Why?”

“To talk about how they were going to get you to sell your land.”

“It's beautiful here.” I stared out the glass door at the lake. The birds had fallen silent except for the last late seagulls who came in squawking low over the reeds. The lake was a pewter reflection of the sky.

Thunder shook the cottage.

“We'd better bring the rest of the stuff in. Good thing you brought some food after all.”

Lights flickered and the fridge stuttered to a momentary stop before its grumbling began again. Rain spattered the picture window.

“A fine welcome for the prodigal.” I emptied the cold coffee down the drain and followed Will out the door.

A well-worn path led through a screen of bushes to an outhouse. Someone had had a lot of fun building it. A mock Athenian arch topped the door which was flanked by scrolled pillars. Inside three steps led up to the throne: with the door open, you could look through a gap in the trees to the lake. Colour photographs of birds and small mammals, cut from nature magazines, papered the walls. Toilet paper was kept safe from mice in a metal breadbox. A screened crescent moon in the back wall let in fresh air.

The shower was over; the dark rustled with animals under the trees and the croaking of frogs, millions of them it seemed, ranging from the hollow bass of bullfrogs to the shrill cheeping of tree frogs. I almost preferred the steady hum of traffic to their noise.

Will was putting the last dish back on the shelf above the sink when I came in. “Great chili,” he said. “But you've got enough left over to last a week.”

“I asked Bonnie's advice. She said you should always take chili to the cottage, it's the perfect food.”

“Goes with the beer, I guess. Want another one?”

“Sure. I'll see if I can get a fire started.”

Sticks and twigs had been arranged tent fashion in the fireplace. I crumpled up some paper from the pile of old newspapers in a magazine rack on one side of the hearth and added
some long pine cones from the wicker basket beside it. The fireplace was deep and black with years of smoke. Built of rough cut fieldstone, it occupied most of the north wall of the cottage. On its mantel, a thick ledge of smoothed rock, was a collection of found objects: driftwood in the shape of a loon, a flaking decoy duck, a collection of keys in a ceramic ashtray, an old Mason jar filled with odd shaped pebbles and shells. Inside the chimney was a long iron hook; the cauldron it was used to support sat on the stone hearth, a fat squat pot, perfect for witches.

The paper caught quickly and soon the kindling crackled and the tent collapsed. I added some larger logs from the stack between the chimney and the outer wall, put the three-sided screen in front of the blaze and joined Will on the couch. It was a typical pull-out sofa bed in a scratchy brown tweed. A thick afghan blanket and soft down pillows made it more comfortable.

“This is more like it,” he said. He handed me a cold bottle of beer, and stretched out, his feet on the coffee table, one arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer. “I'm glad your cousin isn't here.”

“She's likely to return any minute now. It's pretty late.”

He kissed me. We kissed for a long time. The fire collapsed on itself with a puff of smoke and sparks. I pulled only slightly away.

“Maybe we should get the beds arranged.”

“Beds? Plural?”

“We can't sleep in Marilyn's bed. What if she gets back in the night? We'll have to use the bunks.”

“I doubt she'll be coming back now. Anyway, we could leave her a note. Pin it to the bedroom door.”

“I'm worried.” I stood up and faced the windows. Rain streaked my reflection. “She knew we were coming, she wouldn't have left unless there was some kind of emergency.”

“Since we were so late, she may have thought you'd chickened out of meeting with her, so decided to go into town with a friend. It's early, only ten o'clock. She may be on her way back now.”

“If she went out, she would have phoned me. I left a message for her on my machine to say we were on our way. I have a
feeling that something has happened to her. Remember Gianelli said they hadn't been able to get hold of her?”

“What do you want to do about it?”

“There was a pay phone outside the store. We could call the police and see if she was in an accident.”

“She's probably having dinner in town with Markham. Besides, I don't relish driving up that road in this weather.”

“I'll go.”

“No. You should stay here in case she gets back before I do.”

Lightning lit the marsh. In the peculiar white flash, the bullrushes looked like tiny little heads bobbing in unison.

“She could be with the police now, you know,” Will continued. “She and Markham both.”

“You'd think she'd have left a note.”

“She probably expected to be back before we got here.”

Thunder crashed and rumbled. My mother used to soothe my fears of storms by telling me the sound was God moving His furniture around heaven. We made a game of guessing where He put His throne. Rain pummelled the roof.

“Let's see how bad it is, before we decide to drive anywhere,” Will suggested.

There was a switch by the back door which turned on an outdoor flood. The light from its dim yellow bulb was swallowed by the shadows under the great pines and illuminated only a semi-circle of sodden grass, puddles on the path, the unremitting sheets of rain. Other than its hissing passage through the leaves and the ceaseless shrill of frogs, the night was silent.

“I'm so glad we're not camping,” Will murmured. He stood behind me, his arms circling my waist, his voice muffled by my hair. I shook him loose.

“Do you hear anyone coming? See anything?”

“No to both. I can barely see the driveway.” He leaned over my shoulder, squinting through the rain. “Just our car and Marilyn's. That tarp is a good idea. I'll have to suggest it to my father tomorrow. He's always complaining about how dirty his car gets sitting outside under the trees.”

“Listen.”

Thunder grumbled over the lake and a stray breeze
splashed a handful of rain against the screen. We ducked back indoors.

“Nothing out there but the birds and beasts,” Will said.

“I was hoping we'd hear Marilyn coming back.” I shivered. “You're going to have to go up to the highway and phone the police and the local hospital. There's one in Minden, I think.”

“If I must, I must.” Will rolled his eyes. “But I left my raincoat in the car. Do you suppose there might be an umbrella or something in here?”

“I'll check the wardrobe in Marilyn's bedroom. You could see if there's anything in the pantry or the porch.”

There was no ceiling fixture in Marilyn's room. The wardrobe so filled the wall beside the door that it bumped before it was open halfway. I remembered the trout lamp on the bedside table and with the little light that leaked in from the hall, edged my way across the floor towards it. The rag rug tripped me. I fell, pulling the bedspread down as well. The suitcase came with it, hitting me sharply on the shoulder before spilling its contents all over the floor. I cursed. Will came running.

“What happened?”

“Banged my stupid knee again.” I crawled over to turn on the lamp. “Oh, what a mess.”

Clothes had spewed across the room, a colourful jumble of silk and cotton. Tubes of make-up, toothpaste, deodorant and other personal items dotted the floor. On hands and knees, I began to pick them up. Will gathered the bedspread off the floor, carefully dumping the rest of the clothes beside the open case.

“Oh oh,” he said. I looked up. He was about to make up the bed and had lifted the sheets and blanket to straighten them. He was staring down at the mattress under the tent of lifted linen. I craned to see what he was looking at. Spots on the bottom sheet. Rust red ovals smeared in streaks. Blood.

Will dropped the sheets. I sank back down on my haunches, staring up at him. The light flickered and a crack of thunder made us both jump. I put my hand on the edge of the mattress and stood. We still hadn't spoken. I hesitated a moment before pulling the sheets back again. I touched one of the stains. It was dry.

“Maybe her period started in the night? She had to go into town to get some Tampax, or something?” My voice even to me sounded unnaturally high.

Will shook himself free of the wall on which he was leaning. “That's probably it. There's not all that much of it.”

“And it's in the middle of the bed. If she'd been, well, shot, you'd think there'd be more blood.”

“That's what you'd think. I wish to hell she'd get back here.”

“Maybe she and Markham had a fight about selling the land. She changed her mind. And it got out of hand. And he's had to take her into town to the hospital. Maybe she's filed a complaint against him and she's at the police station right now.”

“Maybe you read too many detective stories. There's probably a simple explanation. Her period started or she had a nosebleed.”

“In the middle of the bed? You think she was hiding under the covers?”

“Why ask me? She's your cousin.”

After a moment, I let the sheet drop. “I think I'll come with you when you go to phone. The McDonnels might still be up and can tell us if she had another visitor or if they saw her leave.”

“Good idea. Let's go.”

“I'll just pick up the rest of this stuff.” I knelt down to cram the underwear and shirts back into the case, managing in my hurry to knock a shampoo bottle under the bed. I was about to reach under after it when my muscles froze.

“Did you look under the bed?” I asked Will. He was hanging clothes on the hooks.

“When?”

“When you were looking for an umbrella.”

“You were the one who came in here.”

“True.” I sat back on my heels and looked at the darkness under the bed. “You don't suppose…”

“That there's a body under there? No.”

“You look then.”

“All right.” He knelt down beside me and, pushing aside the overhanging blankets, peered in. “There is something under there.”

“What?” I grabbed his arm.

“Let go, that hurts.” He reached in. “It's just a box.”

“Pull it out.”

“What if it's a coffin?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“It's heavy. You'll have to give me a hand.”

We both lay flat on the floor and pushed ourselves halfway under the bed.