Authors: Robin Hathaway

Sleight of Hand (16 page)

BOOK: Sleight of Hand

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By the time I arrived back at the motel, I'd cooled down and my skeptical side had kicked in. Lolly had a fanciful nature. She had probably dreamed this up. Even abused kids love their moms. It probably helped her to accept her loss to pretend her mother was buried nearby. Relieved to have come up with such a reasonable explanation, I stopped by the lobby to pick up my mail. I looked absently through the pile of junkâbills, ads, and solicitationsâwhile making small talk with Paul.

“How're you doin'?”

“Pretty good.”

There was only one personal note mixed in with the junk mail. The envelope bore a poorly typed address. I tore it open and drew out a piece of paperâblank except for a small imprint in the center. I looked closer. A rubber stamp of a black hand!

My first impulse was to laugh. Then cold tentacles of fear crept up my spine and I shivered.

“Bad news?” Paul asked.

I tore my gaze from the imprint and focused on him. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, sure.” I forced a laugh. “Just some old friend's idea of a practical joke.”

“I hate practical jokes,” Paul said.

“Me, too.” I shoved the paper back in the envelope and took off.

In the sanctuary of my room, I glanced in the mirror. I looked haggard, closer to forty than thirty. Two shocks within an hour had taken their toll. This would never do. I went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I shoved an exercise disc in the computer and did some push-ups. After working up a good sweat, I perched on the edge of my futon to think.

But what should I think about first? The unmarked grave or the black hand? Could the two be connected? If Lolly's mother was really in that grave, how had she died? Of natural causesâor had Max killed her? I thought of his gun nestled among my undies. I opened the drawer and gently rummaged through the bras and panties until I felt the hard muzzle. I went back to ruminating. If he had killed Regina, he could have killed the counterfeiter, too. Maybe they'd been partners and had a falling-out. But Max wasn't the partner type. He was a loner if there ever was one. Except for Regina. They'd been partnersâuntil Lolly came along.

My head hurt. I went in the bathroom and took two aspirin. Maybe I was in over my head this time. Maybe I did need help. But from whom? I ran through my meager collection of friends and relations. Dad? He would just get upset and want me to drop the whole thing. Tom? He wouldn't get upset, but he would also want me to drop the whole thing. Paul and Maggie? I loved them dearly, but they couldn't be trusted to keep their mouths shut. They were an integral part of the Bayfield grapevine. Peck? Not a friend, an acquaintance, and he might turn Max inâand then Lolly's fate would be left to every do-gooder in town.

I was getting nowhere. Maybe I needed foodâand drink. I couldn't remember when I'd last eaten. But I was tired of being alone. I was sick of myself and my negative thoughts. On an impulse, I called Tom and asked if he'd like to meet me at Harry's, the local bar and grill, for dinner. He eagerly agreed. I showered and changed. As I rode to the bar, I reminded myself that I was just taking a break. I needed company. I wouldn't tell him anything.

I got there first. It was still early and there were just a few peopleâtwo regulars at the bar and a young couple billing and cooing in one of the booths at the back. I headed for a booth at the front and slid into the seat with a sigh. It was quiet except for the soft clink of ice and glasses from the bar and the murmur of Frank Sinatra from the jukebox. The smell of beer, hamburgers cooking, and the faint odor of cigarettes and cigars, were comforting. Smoking had not yet been banned in bars in south Jersey. Or, if a law had been passed, no one paid any attention to it. I ordered a Miller Lite and waited.

Tom came before the beer. When he slid in opposite me and grinned, it was all I could do to keep from jumping across the table and embracing him. Tall, lean, brownâhe looked so fit, so normal. So unlike all the people I had been associating with lately. I limited myself to returning his grin and reaching for his hand. He squeezed my hand hard and ordered his brew.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. I watched his hands as he picked up his mug with one and rested the other on the wooden table. “Carpenter's hands,” he'd once called them. Square and blunt, they were strong, useful, workaday hands. He never fidgeted with them; he was always at ease with himself, a trait I envied. He reached for a menu and held it out to me.

“Just a burger and fries,” I said, forgetting about dieting.

“Same here.” He gave the waitress our order. “Both medium rare,” he added, and stuffed the menu back behind the salt and pepper shakers. With a quizzical look, he asked, “So, what have you been up to?”

I ached to tell him. He looked so sane, so practical, so down-to-earth. He might be able to solve my problems. The world of guns and graves and black hands seemed galaxies away. I wanted to stay here with him in this cozy booth forever.

After the second beer, I thought, Why not just tell him? What harm would it do? At least the part about looking for Regina, and Lolly showing me her mother's grave. Maybe he would have an idea. I began, “I have this patient whoâ”

The waitress brought our burgers.

“He injured his hand, andâ”

“Boy, this smells good. I didn't realize how hungry I was.” He took a big bite. When he had finished chewing and swallowing, he said, “Sorryâyou were saying?”

“Nothing.” I nibbled at my fries as he told me about a new job he had landedârestoring one of the oldest houses in Bayfield.

“This couple lives in New York and plans to use the house only on weekends, but they want to restore it to its original state. He's a banker and she's a lawyer, so I guess they can afford it. It'll be a two-to three-year contract at least.”

“That's fabulous! How did they hear about you?”

“The postmistress. They came in one day and asked Lucy if she knew anyone in the area who did restoration work, and she gave them my name.”

“Wow. It pays to know people in high places. You better give Lucy a nice Christmas present.”

“Yeah. I've got something all picked out.”

“What?”

“A new stove.”

Lucy Peterson, the postmistress at Bayfield, worked out of a small log cabin that was still heated in winter by an old woodstove.

“Great. That place is freezing in winter. The stove is on its last legs.”

“The legs aren't the problem; the stovepipe has a hole in it. I'm going to fix that for her, too.”

“She'll be eternally grateful and send you an endless stream of clients,” I said.

“I hope so.” He held my gaze longer than usual.

I blinked and felt my stomach begin to churn.

“Jo, I want toâ”

Oh god, I panicked. “Just a minute. I'll be right back.” In my hurry to get out of the booth, I stumbled. Safely in the rest room, I took a series of long, deep breaths to keep from hyperventilating. Why did he have to spoil it by getting serious? On top of everything else, I couldn't deal with another major decision. Not now.

I sat in the stall, my head in my hands, until I felt calmer. I must have been there longer than I realized, because when I went back to the booth, Tom was standing, as if about to come looking for me. “Are you okay?” he asked anxiously.

“Yeah. There was someone in there, taking her time.” We sat down and I looked around. In my absence, the place had filled up. It was getting noisy and smoky. “You ready to go?” I asked.

“Sure.” He caught the waitress's eye. Again, I was attracted by his hands as he examined the check, took the bills from his wallet, and sorted out the tip. I wanted those hands to touch me, to caress me, to soothe away my fears.

Before getting into his pickup, he gave me a long, slow kiss. I leaned into him, craving his warmth and strength.

“Come home with me?” His arms tightened around me.

Oh god, I wanted to. But I knew if I did, I'd tell him everything.
And he, on his part, might ask me something I couldn't answer. I backed off, murmuring one of my innumerable excuses, and headed for my bike.

He didn't call good night, and he slammed the door of his pickup with more force than usual.

Damn, damn, damn.

CHAPTER 45

Throughout the next day, while occupied with my routine, I forgot about Regina's grave and the sinister little black hand. By the end of the day I had convinced myself that the Mafia note was nothing to worry about. Just a reminder from the boss of
omertÃ
âto keep the silenceâwhich I had every intention of doing. The grave was a different story. I had to find out if Lolly was telling the truth. And the only way to do that required action. I would have to dig up the grave Lolly had shown me and see if anyone was buried there. And I would have to do it secretly, at night. I couldn't ask for help. And I would need equipmentâa flashlight, a shovel, and warm clothing. The October nights were getting chilly.

I had the flashlight and the clothing, but I would have to make up some cock-and-bull story to convince Paul to lend me his spade. I racked my brain. Who would need a shovel on an October nightâexcept a gravedigger? While pondering this, I passed Smyth's Hardware. The lights were on. Maybe they were still open, I thought. I parked my bike, went in, and bought a shovelâno questions asked. Sometimes things are so simple you overlook them.

Carting the shovel home on my Honda was another matter, however. First, I put it across the handlebars, but whenever I hit a
bump, it fell off. I tried tying it to my back bumper with some wire I'd found in my saddlebag, but the wire wasn't strong enough. Finally, I cradled it on my lap and rode home at fifteen miles an hour. It took me an hour, instead of the usual twenty minutes.

As I climbed the metal staircase, lugging the shovel, I dropped it. It clanged all the way, making a terrible racket. Jack, the night clerk, popped his head out of the lobby. “What the hell?”

“Sorry.” I was glad it was too dark for him to see my blush.

“Hey, Jo. Whatcha doin'? Plantin' a garden in October?”

I laughed, and thought fast. “This is part of my Halloween costume.” Halloween was just a few days away.

Jack laughed. “You comin' as Chad Pinkerton?” he asked, referring to the local funeral director.

“You'll find out on Halloween.” I retrieved the shovel and beat it back to my room.

An hour later, I stood looking around my room, making sure I hadn't forgotten anything. Flashlight, shovel, sweater, windbreaker. What else did I need? My gaze fell on the third drawer of my bureau. Should I take it? The thought repelled me. On the other hand, I didn't want to be like those naÃ¯ve wimps who were always putting themselves in jeopardy in mystery novels. My meeting with the Mafia was still fresh in my mind. If I'd had a gun that night, things might have turned out differently. I yanked open the drawer and took out the gun. Cautiously, I checked the safety catch. I wrapped it in a towel and placed it carefully in my backpack.

I crept down the stairs, bearing the shovel in front of me as if it were made of glass, and fearing that my backpack with the gun in it might explode. The parking lot was empty. I could see Jack through the lobby window. As usual, he was bent over his laptop. I tied the shovel securely to the back of my Honda with some clothesline I'd
found in my closet, a remnant from when I'd moved in, and gently stowed my backpack in my saddlebag. Now if only the moon would cooperate and disappear behind a cloud, I'd be all set.

I rolled my bike out of the lot and pushed it another hundred feet along the road before starting up. Stealth was the name of the game. Bayfield was a quiet place at any time, but at night it was deathly quiet. When nature was resting, with no rain falling, no wind blowing, you could hear your own breath. The sound of my motor shattered the silence, shaking it to death. When I reached the wood behind Max's farm, I shut off my motor. The silence that enveloped me after the noise was a physical thingâlike being wrapped in a down comforter or velvet drapes. I would have welcomed those raucous crows to disturb this smothering hush.

I parked my bike in the deep shadows of a hemlock bush. The moon, according to my wish, had vanished, showing up between clouds only now and then, to spy on me. I untied the shovel and wondered if I should take out the gun. It wouldn't do me any good in my backpack, I reasoned. I took it out and slipped it in the pocket of my windbreaker. It was heavy and weighed down the pocket. Entering the opening in the trees where Lolly and I had passed the day before, I turned on my flashlight. I kept it trained on the ground to reveal roots and rocks that might trip me up. Every now and then I stopped, dowsed the light, and stood still, listening. The rustle of an animalârabbit, woodchuck, or muskratâwas the only sound that disturbed the silence. Those cheerful summer noisemakersâfrogs, katydids, and cricketsâhad long gone. I moved on slowly, dreading the moment I'd reach my destination.

At last, I stepped into the clearing. The rock was still there, and so was the whiskey bottle full of flowers. But the flowers were drooping. When actually faced with the magnitude of my task, I shrank. What was I thinking? How hard was the ground? How long would it take me? How deep was a grave anyway? Three feet? Four? The phrase “six feet under” came to me. I could never do that in one night. I was out
of shape. I hadn't been inside a gym in over a year, not since I'd left Manhattan. “Oh well, nothing ventured, nothing gained”âone of my grandmother's expressions came back to me. (My real grandmother!) I shoved the spade into the ground and was pleased that it went in easily.

I don't know how long I dug, but I had grown warm and paused to take off my windbreaker. It landed with a thud and I remembered the gun. I decided to leave it there. I couldn't hold it while I was digging anyway. I had propped the flashlight against the rock so it would illuminate the hole, but darkness shrouded the woods behind me. I went back to work. It wasn't until I stopped to rest a second time that I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I spun around, shining the flashlight on the surrounding bushes. There was no one thereâat least that I could see.

I flicked off the light, suddenly feeling safer in the dark. The moon chose that moment to show itself. Its bright rays penetrated the largely leafless trees, illuminating the clearing like a stage. I was a sitting duck.

Usually a rational person, I berated myself for giving in to such nonsense. My eyes had become used to the dark, and with the help of the moon I no longer needed the flashlight. I went back to my digging. I dug until my shoulders ached and my hands began to blister. The hole must be nearly six feet by now, but it was hard to tell. I wished I had brought a yardstick or a tape measure.

Sweat dripped from my forehead and my T-shirt stuck to my back. I had taken off my sweater ages ago. I wished I'd brought my water bottle. I bent to pick up the shovel, when that feeling struck again. This time it was strongerâcausing goose bumps. I
was
being watchedâwhether by animal, human, or ghost, I wasn't sure. I had never believed in the supernatural, but I stood transfixed, straining my eyes and ears, afraid to move or even blink, for fear, in that brief moment, my invisible watcher would strike. Nothing happened. Don't be a jerk, Jo, I told myself. Next, you'll be seeing the Jersey Devil! Gradually, my panic ebbed and I returned to my digging.

I was lifting a particularly heavy shovelful of dirt when hands grabbed me from behind and tightened around my neck.

Wrongâ
one
hand.

I dropped the shovel, twisted out of the grasp, and fell to my knees. I was still fighting for my breath when Max came around and faced me, his face distorted by fury.

I coughed and rubbed my throat while he stood over me, shouting, “You destructive, meddlesome bitch! What do you think you're doing? This is my property. You have no rightâ”

I put up my hand to stop the spate, but he kept right on. “If it weren't for you, I'd never have hurt my hand. We were living peacefully, Lolly and me, until you came along, bringing social workers, the policeâ
police dogs
!” He was choking on his own rage.

“What about you?” I screamed back. “You let me believe Regina was alive! You lied to me about her. I want to know the truth.
Is she buried here?
”

I don't know how long we glared at each other, but I began to feel cold. I had been warm while digging, but now I wanted my sweater and jacket. Max watched me put them on. Only when I felt its weight did I remember the gun. I decided not to mention it. He wouldn't notice it in the dark.

“Let's go back to the house,” he said gruffly. With his good hand, he picked up the shovel and started off.

I grabbed the flashlight and followed.

BOOK: Sleight of Hand

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