Read Somebody Else's Music Online
Authors: Jane Haddam
Somebody Else's Music (12 page)
Chris Inglerod had no intention of doing anything at all about the fact that Betsy Toliver was coming back to town today. In spite of at least three long phone calls with Emma, and one even longer one with Maris, she had her mind made up. As soon as she could, she filled her schedule book with the kind of Things To Do she had always loved best. It was Monday, so she had Literacy Volunteers of America first thing. She had to drive out to a tiny roadside restaurant on Route 47 and tutor a girl named Natalya in the rudiments of English, spoken as well as written. The restaurant smelled of all the food she had learned to despise in the years since high school. It served deep-fried pasties full of meat and beets and heavy soups made with sour cream. Natalya was not only slow and fat, but she wasn't an American. Chris had imagined herself playing Enlightening Angel to one of Hollman's own downtrodden poorâa member of one of the black families who lived in shacks near the edge of the river on the south side of town, or one
of the waitresses at JayMar's diner. Volunteering, Chris had learned, was much like anything else. You needed to do it if you wanted to be put on the kind of committees that really mattered to youâthe invitation committee at the Club, for instance, or the ball committee at the American Heart Association chapterâbut it wasn't what everybody said it was, and it wasn't fun. Still, Chris was nothing if she wasn't somebody who played by the rules. If there was scut work to be done, she did it. She tutored Natalya in the same spirit she had once pushed the magazine tray around the hospital as a candy striper or picked up garbage from the side of the road as a pledge for Alpha Chi Omega. If she hated the work, she could always get it done by being
determined
to get it done. If she was
determined
to get it done, she could excel at it, and in her way, she excelled at tutoring Natalya. They'd been at it for six weeks, and Natalya could already read the front page of the Philadelphia
Inquirer
without a hitch and explain what she'd read in English that was still halting, but no longer incomprehensible. If she was also much shyer, more frightened, and more depressed than when the lessons started, Chris didn't notice it.
of the waitresses at JayMar's diner. Volunteering, Chris had learned, was much like anything else. You needed to do it if you wanted to be put on the kind of committees that really mattered to youâthe invitation committee at the Club, for instance, or the ball committee at the American Heart Association chapterâbut it wasn't what everybody said it was, and it wasn't fun. Still, Chris was nothing if she wasn't somebody who played by the rules. If there was scut work to be done, she did it. She tutored Natalya in the same spirit she had once pushed the magazine tray around the hospital as a candy striper or picked up garbage from the side of the road as a pledge for Alpha Chi Omega. If she hated the work, she could always get it done by being
determined
to get it done. If she was
determined
to get it done, she could excel at it, and in her way, she excelled at tutoring Natalya. They'd been at it for six weeks, and Natalya could already read the front page of the Philadelphia
Inquirer
without a hitch and explain what she'd read in English that was still halting, but no longer incomprehensible. If she was also much shyer, more frightened, and more depressed than when the lessons started, Chris didn't notice it.
The tutoring lesson only lasted an hour. When it was over, Chris drove back to her own house by a side road, avoiding the center of town, and parked in her driveway, nonplussed. She had a date for tennis and lunch at the Club, but that wasn't for hours yet. If she showed up this early, people would talk about it, and if they talked about it, they would probably make all the wrong inferences. At least one of the things Maris and Belinda had been saying was true: there had been a lot of ink spilled on the subject of poor Betsy Toliver's terrible days in high school, persecuted by the evil witches of the Popular Crowd. It had become The Story whenever Betsy was mentioned in the popular press, and that was often, these days, now that she was connected to Jimmy Card. It didn't help that the women Chris knew at the Club weren't Hollman women, but transplants from other places whose husbands worked in research at one of
the new tech companies with buildings on the interstate, or the kind of local girl Chris would never have known while she was growing up, because their parents had the moneyâand the senseâto send them away to boarding school. It sometimes seemed as if she had spent the whole of the last two weeks explaining herself, over and over and over again. She had the car's radio turned to the classical music station. The only other automatic find on her scan function was for NPR, which she almost never listened to anymore, because Betsy was on it so much. She thought about getting out of the car and going into her house. She thought about picking up the phone to call Dan in the middle of the morning and being told by the receptionist that Dan was busy, or by Dan himself that it wasn't Dan's problem, not any of it, and she would have to fend for herself. If she hadn't already had breakfast, she could go out somewhere and eat that. If it wasn't so early, she could go out to the mall and shopâalthough she never shopped much at their local mall. It didn't have the right kinds of stores. You had to go into Pittsburgh or Philadelphia for those, or buy from a catalogue.
the new tech companies with buildings on the interstate, or the kind of local girl Chris would never have known while she was growing up, because their parents had the moneyâand the senseâto send them away to boarding school. It sometimes seemed as if she had spent the whole of the last two weeks explaining herself, over and over and over again. She had the car's radio turned to the classical music station. The only other automatic find on her scan function was for NPR, which she almost never listened to anymore, because Betsy was on it so much. She thought about getting out of the car and going into her house. She thought about picking up the phone to call Dan in the middle of the morning and being told by the receptionist that Dan was busy, or by Dan himself that it wasn't Dan's problem, not any of it, and she would have to fend for herself. If she hadn't already had breakfast, she could go out somewhere and eat that. If it wasn't so early, she could go out to the mall and shopâalthough she never shopped much at their local mall. It didn't have the right kinds of stores. You had to go into Pittsburgh or Philadelphia for those, or buy from a catalogue.
She looked at the rings on her hands. She looked at the green grass on her broad front lawn. She looked at the peaks and gables on her house that let even strangers going past on the road know that several of the rooms inside had cathedral ceilings. She put the car into reverse and backed out onto the road again. Was it really possible she had lived in this place for fifteen years and not managed to make a single real friend? If she thought about it honestly, she would have to say she had never in her life made a single real friend. People were volatile commodities. One day they were good for you. The next day, they dragged you down.
She went straight through townâif she ran into Betsy, she didn't have to stop, and she didn't think she'd run into Betsy. It was still very earlyâand only when she got out the other side of it did she start to slow down. Her parents' house had been out this way when she was growing up, but she rarely came here anymore. Her parents hadn't been
poor, but they hadn't been prominent, either, and this was what she had looked forward to leaving behind. Some of the houses were of a kind that would fetch serious money in a college town or major city: tall Victorians with round towers and gingerbread framing their broad front porches; Craftsman “cottages” with more square footage in their foyers than most of the newer houses had in their living rooms. Her parents, of course, had had one of the newer houses. Like a lot of people in their era, they had equated new with luxury and old with deprivation. They'd had a rec room in the basement, too, not a big family room built above grade on a lower level, like Chris had now, but a low-ceilinged space carved out underground for the kids to put their toys in. Chris had always hated her parents' house. When she was in college, she'd been very careful never to ask her friends home to see it.
poor, but they hadn't been prominent, either, and this was what she had looked forward to leaving behind. Some of the houses were of a kind that would fetch serious money in a college town or major city: tall Victorians with round towers and gingerbread framing their broad front porches; Craftsman “cottages” with more square footage in their foyers than most of the newer houses had in their living rooms. Her parents, of course, had had one of the newer houses. Like a lot of people in their era, they had equated new with luxury and old with deprivation. They'd had a rec room in the basement, too, not a big family room built above grade on a lower level, like Chris had now, but a low-ceilinged space carved out underground for the kids to put their toys in. Chris had always hated her parents' house. When she was in college, she'd been very careful never to ask her friends home to see it.
Past the houses, there were long patches of green, some of it belonging to houses built far enough off the road to be invisible, some of it belonging to the few small farms that still ran in this part of the state. Chris went past them all without paying attention to any of them, and then up a small hill whose road was entirely lined with tall pine trees. What she wanted was at the end of thatâthe wrought-iron gate to Meldone Park. Just outside the gate, there were places to park, slots left open in a big unpaved field where the grass had already shriveled into shards of paper brown.
Chris pulled to a stop as close to the entrance to the park as she could and got out of her car. She locked all her doors. The wrought-iron gates looked as if they had been well cared for. The grass at the edges of the park looked as if it had been mowed. As soon as she came through the little stand of trees, she could see the sandy beach and the small lake it circled, man-made by the town in 1967 so that the children of Hollman would have someplace to go that wasn't a concrete public swimming pool. Chris took off her shoes and tucked them into the top of her tote bag. Thank God she wasn't wearing panty hose. She looked across at the few people sitting on blankets near the edge of the water
and counted three she knew. All three had been in high school with her, two in her class and one in the class behind. None of them had been important at the time, and all of them were now thick with middle age and ugly with bad hair coloring. It just went to show, Chris thought, that you couldn't be too careful about keeping yourself up.
and counted three she knew. All three had been in high school with her, two in her class and one in the class behind. None of them had been important at the time, and all of them were now thick with middle age and ugly with bad hair coloring. It just went to show, Chris thought, that you couldn't be too careful about keeping yourself up.
She skirted the lake and the back of the lifeguard's seatâthere was nobody in it at the moment, which for some reason figuredâand went into the woods on the hill above it. The path she remembered was still there. A few feet down the path, there
was
something new: a pair of signs, wooden blocks with one end carved into a point to turn them into arrows, announcing that men should go in one direction and women should go in another. Chris turned toward the “women's” outhousesâthe old outhousesâand climbed through the pines to the clearing where the outhouses were. They had not changed, except that they'd been painted. They looked exactly as rickety as she remembered them, so that she wondered, yet again, what Betsy had been so frightened of the night when she had been locked in. It wasn't as if she would have been entirely in the dark. There were enough cracks in the walls and doors to let in all the light in the Western Hemisphere.
was
something new: a pair of signs, wooden blocks with one end carved into a point to turn them into arrows, announcing that men should go in one direction and women should go in another. Chris turned toward the “women's” outhousesâthe old outhousesâand climbed through the pines to the clearing where the outhouses were. They had not changed, except that they'd been painted. They looked exactly as rickety as she remembered them, so that she wondered, yet again, what Betsy had been so frightened of the night when she had been locked in. It wasn't as if she would have been entirely in the dark. There were enough cracks in the walls and doors to let in all the light in the Western Hemisphere.
She turned away from the outhouses and started climbing again, off the path now, through the pines. As she went, she began to feel that she'd made a mistake. She hadn't been out hereâall the way out hereâsince the night of the catastrophe. There couldn't be anything left to see. She wasn't going to stand still in the clearing near the river and hear that voice floating up over her head again, keening and wild. She wasn't going to hear the rushing of the water, either. That night there had been too much water in the river because there had been too much rain over too many weeks. Now the river would be nearly dry. They hadn't had a drop of rain in weeks. Ghosts did not haunt the places where they had become separated from their bodies. Auras did not cling forever to those places where murder had been done.
The real problem with the clearing was that it was so dark. The pine trees around it were too high. They blotted out the sun. If it wasn't for the glint of sunlight that shimmered on the face of the water, she would have thought it was the middle of the night. Her throat was very dry, and tight. She felt dizzy. No, there wasn't anything out here, nothing but pine needles on the ground and the whisper of the wind, like a voice, that was always just a little too far away for her to be able to catch individual words. The river was not dry, but close to it. A trickle of water slithered along the bottom of the bed, leaving the rocks above it dirty and untouched. If blood had soaked into this ground thirty-two years ago, it had soaked away by now, stolen by rain storms and snowstorms and small animals. Small animals would eat dead bodies if they were left to rot in wooded areas. She had read that in the newspaper, once, she didn't know when. She really
was
dizzy. She was going to throw up.
was
dizzy. She was going to throw up.
She had no idea when she left the clearing, or when she started running. It wasn't really running. In her bare feet, the best she could do was stumble and make a mess of things. She reached the outhouses and went right past them. They had never meant anything to her. She went down the narrow path and came out at the sanded clearing around the lake. Nobody new had come while she was gone. The lifeguard's chair was still empty. She went quickly along the very highest edge of the sand to the small path that led to the wrought-iron gate. She went through the trees and through the gate and got to her car just as she heard the sound of crows in the air above her head. Weren't crows supposed to be bad luck? She was tugging at her car door. It was locked. She'd forgotten about locking it. She hadn't even taken out her keys. She got them out and let herself in behind the wheel and just
stopped
.
stopped
.
Somebody new drove into the parking lot. Chris sat right up. She wasn't going to let anybody see her like this. The last thing she wanted was for some stranger to tap at her car window to ask if she was all right. The car was hot. It
got hot early in Hollman in May. It wasn't safe to put on the air conditioner if the car wasn't running. People overheated their engines that way.
got hot early in Hollman in May. It wasn't safe to put on the air conditioner if the car wasn't running. People overheated their engines that way.
She watched a woman and two small children make their way from the newly parked car toward the pines and the wrought-iron gate. The children were too small to be in school and carried bright plastic buckets, one blue and one red. Chris started her engine and eased out into the openness of the field. What was this place like when it got really busy, when it mattered that it had no clearly marked parking spaces and no corridors partitioned off for people to drive through? Out on the road, the green of the grass looked fake, as if somebody had come along and dyed it with that stuff you colored Easter eggs with.
She decided not to go through the middle of town this time at all. She didn't want to look at it. She went around by the side roads instead, in a big circle that would bring her through Plumtrees and Stony Hill, and that was why she ended up seeing Betsy Toliver after all. She'd forgotten that Betsy's mother lived in Aunt Hack's Ridge, or that Betsy had grown up there, in one of those enormous ranch houses with the three-car garages and the fieldstone walks that led to the fieldstone steps that led to the fieldstone-framed double front doors.
Fifties nouveau riche chic
, Chris thought, and then Betsy was right there, in the big open drive, getting out of a green Mercedes and talking to a woman in a nurse's uniform at the same time. Chris had no idea why she was so certain that this was Betsy Toliver. The woman was a good ways away from her, and the car was moving, and this was neither the Betsy she remembered from high school nor the Betsy she remembered from television. Still, she knew. Other people were getting out of Betsy's car, two boys, probably her sons. Betsy was wearing one of those loose-fitting tunic-y things that women in their fifties wore when they were being “casual” or “artistic” in the city. She had a thick clutch of gold bracelets on her left arm, supple and bright.
Fifties nouveau riche chic
, Chris thought, and then Betsy was right there, in the big open drive, getting out of a green Mercedes and talking to a woman in a nurse's uniform at the same time. Chris had no idea why she was so certain that this was Betsy Toliver. The woman was a good ways away from her, and the car was moving, and this was neither the Betsy she remembered from high school nor the Betsy she remembered from television. Still, she knew. Other people were getting out of Betsy's car, two boys, probably her sons. Betsy was wearing one of those loose-fitting tunic-y things that women in their fifties wore when they were being “casual” or “artistic” in the city. She had a thick clutch of gold bracelets on her left arm, supple and bright.
Damn
, Chris thought. She had slowed to a crawl, and
she was gaping. None of the people around the Mercedes seemed to have noticed it. Betsy had her back to the road. The two boys were unpacking the trunk, piling one black leather suitcase onto another. Chris stepped on the gas. A few seconds later she couldn't see them anymore. They couldn't see her.
, Chris thought. She had slowed to a crawl, and
she was gaping. None of the people around the Mercedes seemed to have noticed it. Betsy had her back to the road. The two boys were unpacking the trunk, piling one black leather suitcase onto another. Chris stepped on the gas. A few seconds later she couldn't see them anymore. They couldn't see her.
It was only then that she realized she was still shaking. Her muscles were still twitching. She pulled over onto the side of the road, at the edge of a property that belonged to no one she knew. She put her head down on the steering wheel and told herself to breathe. It didn't work. She pushed the seat back as far as it would go and tried to put her head between her knees. That didn't work, either. She kept thinking of the dark of that night and the whole bunch of them standing in a circle and the blood on the ground and, in the background, like a sound track, Betsy Toliver screaming.
Other books
For Cheddar or Worse by Avery Aames
The Beloved Scoundrel by Iris Johansen
Bringing It to the Table by Berry, Wendell
Spooky Buddies Junior Novel by Disney Book Group
His Primary Desire (New Adult Billionaire BBW Romance) by Jack, Kylie
Ocean: The Sea Warriors by Brian Herbert, Jan Herbert
Surprise Seduction by Jana Mercy
The Puttermesser Papers by Cynthia Ozick
Fearsome by S. A. Wolfe
Flirting with Disaster by Catori, Ava, Rigal, Olivia