The Ladies of Garrison Gardens (25 page)

Chapter Fifty-three

T
HERE WERE DIFFERENCES
between them. But you had to look closely to see them. Myrtis's hair was a lighter brown than hers, and it had been cut fashionably short; Iva Claire and Tassie kept their hair long to look young for the act. Myrtis's eyes were a lighter blue than Iva Claire's and perhaps more deep-set. Myrtis's mouth was smaller than hers, the lips were thinner, and Myrtis was shorter by about an inch and fuller in the hips and bust. But the shape of their faces and their eyes was the same; they had the same nose and the same distinctive chin.

The resemblance was as stunning to the other girl as it was to her. They stood on either side of the doorway staring at each other until Iva Claire finally pulled herself out of her trance.

“I'm Randall Benedict's daughter—” she started.

The sound of her voice roused the girl. “Get inside!” she commanded in a whisper.

“If you could tell him—”

“Get in here. Now!”

Iva Claire went in. A wide hallway ran from the front door through the center of the house to a back door at the other end, with rooms opening onto it on either side. In the front, a heavily carved staircase led to the second floor.

“This way!” Myrtis was still whispering as she opened a door on one side of the hall and pushed Iva Claire into what looked like a small parlor. “Don't move,” she hissed. Then she left, closing the door quietly behind her. Iva Claire could hear the heels of her shoes clicking down the hall to the back of the house.

There were sounds of female voices talking, followed by noise of a door opening and closing—the back door, Iva Claire guessed—and a few minutes later she heard a car driving off. She listened for other signs of life, but there were none. Was she alone? Where was her father? Her mind was whirling, from lack of sleep and from the shock of finding her mirror image standing across from her. She could call out and see if her father was in the house, but the place seemed to be deserted and she didn't want to hear the sound of her voice echoing through that long hallway. Besides, if he wasn't there, she was damned if she was going to stay all alone in this strange house in the middle of nowhere. She'd come back in the morning, she told herself, when the sun was shining.

She started out, but her eye caught a small writing desk next to the parlor door. On the desk was a picture of her father. A black ribbon with a small black rosette was attached to the frame. Iva Claire remembered something she'd registered in the back of her mind when she first saw Myrtis Benedict standing in the doorway of the house. In the height of a Georgia summer, the girl was dressed in black. With the world spinning, Iva Claire hadn't had time to wonder why she was wearing what were probably mourning clothes—or whom she might be mourning—until now.

There was a large brick fireplace on one wall of the parlor. Next to it was a chair and a small table with the only lighted lamp in the room. Iva Claire moved to the stiff little chair, sat down, and waited.

She was still sitting there when she heard the car come up the drive and stop. A couple of minutes later, the back door of the house opened and there was more shoe clicking in the hallway. Then Myrtis was back, standing in front of her, and Iva Claire once again had the unreal sensation of staring at herself without a mirror.

“I had to get the maid out of the house,” Myrtis said. “She always takes the late bus, and I don't even remember how I explained driving her home to Colored Town. Thank God I've already let the other servants go.”

She had an unusual speech pattern. In spite of its weariness, Iva Claire's brain started analyzing it.
Her pitch is like mine, but the accent is fussy—almost theatrical. And there's a southern lilt
.

Myrtis was still talking. “How did you get here?” she demanded.

“Walked from the railroad station.”
I wonder if this feels as nutty to her as it does to me.

“You came by train? Well, you won't be leaving that way. There isn't another one out of here until tomorrow morning.”

“I know that.”

“Yes, I'm sure you checked. But you miscalculated. I'm not going to let you stay overnight.” She had a way of biting off her words like she was cutting a thread with her teeth. And she arched her eyebrows at the end of her sentences. Watching her was like being in a strange dream where someone else was using your face.

“I didn't expect—” Iva Claire started to say, but the thread-biting teeth cut her off.

“I can't tell you how unimportant your expectations are to me. I'll drive you to the next town. You'll stay there tonight, and tomorrow you can go back to wherever you came from.”

She was used to pushing people around and getting her way.

“I came here to see my father,” Iva Claire said.

“Daddy died six months ago.”

Of course. She'd known he was dead as soon as she'd seen the picture frame, but hearing it made it official. She'd traveled hundreds of miles to make him say he was sorry, and he was gone. The son of a bitch had gotten away from her. She wished Tassie was here. Tassie would understand what a big stupid joke it was. But instead of Tassie, her father's idiot daughter was standing in front of her, talking and talking. Iva Claire tried to make her tired reeling brain comprehend the words.

“But you knew Daddy was gone,” Myrtis said.

“No, I—”

“Of course you did. I'm not stupid. I know why you're here.”

You couldn't.
But she didn't say it.

“You're wasting your time,” the daughter went on. “He didn't mention you in the will, and you have no claim on the estate.”

“The estate? I never thought of that.”

“And I'm selling the house, or it can rot for all I care. Either way, there won't be a dime for you.”

“That's not why I came.”

“Don't lie! You're after the money. You and your gold-digging mother have been milking him for years.”

The scorn in her voice cut through the weariness and the shock. Iva Claire had had enough. She got up so they were facing each other. “If I were lying, believe me, I'd be doing a much better job than this,” she said. “Now tell me how my father died.”

Myrtis didn't want to. But she didn't know what to do when someone stood up to her. “It was an accident,” she said sullenly. “It was late; Daddy had been to a party. They said he was drunk and lost control of the automobile. There was a woman with him.” She covered quickly. “A family friend.”

I bet.

“His car went into a ditch on the side of the road,” Myrtis went on. “They didn't find him until the next day. I was in England, and he died before I got here. I didn't know until it was too late.”

That makes two of us.

“After the funeral, I went back to London to be with friends. I never got to say good-bye.”

I never got to hear him say he was sorry.

Then it hit her—there was nothing for him to be sorry for. He hadn't cut Mama off. He hadn't deserted them. He'd died.

Myrtis was tearing up at the thought of their father.

He was a cold man, but she loved him.

“This is hard for both of us,” Iva Claire said. “A couple of hours ago, I didn't even know about you.”

“I, on the other hand, have known about you for six months. When I was here for the funeral and went through Daddy's papers. All those canceled checks. What a lovely surprise that was.”

“I guess we've both been surprised.”

“Don't even suggest that there are any similarities between us.” Myrtis brushed away her tears angrily. “All those years when he sent me to England to school, I thought he was getting rid of me. I thought he didn't want me around.”

That's a similarity right there.

“But it was because of you and your mother. He didn't want me to find out.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Now I don't belong anywhere. I can't live in this country; I've been here by myself for two weeks and I'm going mad. But I'll never belong in England—not quite the right class. When I'm in London, I'm just an American mill owner's daughter.” She spat. “I'll always be an outsider.”

So will I.

“They tolerate me. I'm the rich Miss Benedict, after all. But it'll never be home. I don't have one, thanks to you.”

“No. Thanks to
him
.” Suddenly it was important to make this girl understand. “Your daddy—and mine—is the one who did it to you. He did it to both of us.”

“I told you not to compare—”

“I don't give a damn what you told me. He was selfish and—”

“You shut up!”

“He didn't care about either of us.”

“He did! He would have cared if he could have, if he hadn't been seduced—”

“You don't really believe that.”

“My mother knew about it. She knew he had a child. That's the way I remember her, crying over another woman.”

“I'm sorry about that, but—”

“She was dying, for God's sake! And your mother—that whore—”

Anger quick and hot started inside her. “Don't say that again.” Oddly, her voice was calm.

“What do you call a woman who takes up with a man whose wife is dying?”

“What do you call a man who takes up with another woman when his wife is dying?”

“You can defend her all you want. The happiest day I had in months was when I—” she broke off. And Iva Claire knew.

“
You
read my letters.” The anger was bubbling up now. She pushed it back. “You knew my mother was dying. I was begging for money for her, and you sent my letters back without even answering them.”

“I wanted her to know the free lunch was over.”

“Mama never got a free lunch. Your dear daddy was just taking the easy way out.”

“And your mother took the money. I believe that's called a whore.”

“Sounds as if he had his share of them.”

Iva Claire never saw the hand that came at her, but she heard it hit her cheek and felt the sharp pain. She felt the anger rushing to the surface and, under it, the anguish. It was all going to come out, and her tired mind couldn't stop it.

Leave!
said the voice in her head.

She pushed her way past the table and chair and started for the door. But Myrtis grabbed her arm and whirled her around. She was yelling something, but Iva Claire couldn't hear it. She felt herself yank her arm away, and then she felt herself pull back her arm to hit.

Mama's temper!
the voice warned. But it was too late. Everything inside exploded. She wanted to smash bones and make blood spurt. She felt her hand connect with flesh with a force driven by pure rage.

Myrtis stumbled backward. Then she fell. She went down hard, too fast to break her fall with her arm, although she tried. It was too fast for Iva Claire to reach out—too fast to understand what had happened. At first.

She must have been off balance. I couldn't have hit her that hard.

But I wanted to hurt her.

Just for a second. One little second. When she sits up, I'll tell her I'm sorry. I'll get out of her house and never bother her again.

But Myrtis didn't move. When she'd fallen, the side of her head struck the raised corner of the brick hearth that jutted out from the fireplace.

I wanted to hurt her.

Don't think about that!

There was blood on the hearth where Myrtis's head had hit it. Most of it had seeped into the porous brick, but a little pool was collecting on the hardwood floor. Myrtis's face was white—the same white Mama's had been after she died.

I wanted to hurt her.

Don't think.

Iva Claire moved closer. Yesterday she hadn't known Myrtis Benedict existed, and now . . .

I wanted her to die.

Don't think.

She knew there was no need to call for help. She knew by the white face and the stillness she'd seen just a few days before. But even though she knew it was hopeless, she had to try. She picked up Myrtis's hand and held the wrist, feeling for the little beat in the vein that would say everything was all right, that the unthinkable hadn't happened. There was no pulse. She tried the other hand. She held on for a long time, to make sure.

She walked out of the room. She crossed the hall, went through the front door, and carefully closed it behind her. Then she started to run. She ran under the canopy of trees to Mill Street. She ran past the houses and the dark little town square and the railroad station. She didn't stop until she found Tassie sitting on the porch of the hotel, waiting for her.

Chapter Fifty-four

T
ASSIE WAS THE ONE
who said they shouldn't walk through town together, because they'd be too conspicuous. So they took separate routes from the hotel back to the big house on the hill. Tassie was the one who said they should hurry because maybe Iva Claire had made a mistake, maybe Myrtis was still alive. Only Tassie called her
your sister
, which was the first time Iva Claire had thought about her like that.

Iva Claire got to the house before Tassie, and as she stood on the porch waiting, she let herself hope she'd been mistaken. But when Tassie showed up and they went inside to the parlor, they both knew that Iva Claire had been right.

“You've got to get away from here,” Tassie said. “I know it was an accident, but you're a stranger, and that girl lying on the floor was important in this place. Nobody will want to hear your side. Nobody will care. All they're gonna know is what you did to one of their own.”

Hearing it called an accident made it easier. It stopped being something dark and evil. It was almost possible to forget the rage that had caused it. Now there were problems to be solved, decisions to be made. She had to think about saving herself. But she knew running wasn't the answer.

“There's a maid who works here,” she told Tassie. “If she comes back in the morning and sees the—what happened, she'll call the police. We can't even get a train out of here until ten o'clock tomorrow.”

“We'll leave right now. We'll walk.”

“Without knowing where we're going? They'll catch us before we get to the next town. Besides, all anyone around here has to do is take one look at my face, and—” She stopped. The words she'd just said seemed to bounce around the walls of the little parlor. She turned to Tassie to see if she had heard them, but Tassie looked blank.

“If they look at my face, they'll think they see
her
,” Iva Claire said softly. And this time Tassie understood.

If they had been civilians, maybe it would never have occurred to either of them. But they'd lived in a world of flimflam and illusion. The world's tallest man was really a guy on stilts. They had listened to dear kind Benny laugh about scamming marks as the Great Otto. They had pretended to be sisters. They both knew what you could get away with.

Tassie shivered. “Oh, my God, you want to pull a switch,” she whispered.