The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold (32 page)

Bear was quiet, and Blanche could see his body turn rigid.

“Because he wanted to save your lives. He wouldn’t tell me where he had hidden the priceless set I wanted. I offered him the choice of living or dying, but he chose to die. For you.”

“I guessed that.” Bear’s voice shook slightly.

“And now you’ve made his death pointless. Because I am going to kill you. I just wanted you to know that—that you’ve wasted his death.”

“It wasn’t wasted,” Bear said recklessly. “Go ahead, then.” He knelt down, shaking but erect, pushing his twisted bleeding arm against the altar rail.

Suddenly a door banged in the back of the church and a voice shouted, “Police!”

Blanche saw Bear jump, flying atop the altar rail as Mr. Freet fired again. Then suddenly several men ran down the aisles, pushing her aside. She stumbled and tried to run forward, but someone held her back. There were policemen pointing their guns at Bear, and at the hole in the floor. But her eyes were fixed on Bear’s body, slumped on the altar rail.

She heard, as though far off, a policeman order Mr. Freet to drop the gun. Radios crackled behind her. She saw Bear’s head moving as he slid back onto the ground.

He raised his head, and their eyes met. Slowly, painfully, he smiled at her.

After what seemed like an hour of sitting in the cellar, waiting in anxious trepidation, Rose heard a car pull up in front of Mr. Freet’s house. Doors slammed, and two policemen ran down the alleyway. She tried to peer past Fish’s shoulders to see the men, but all she could see were their boots.

“We’ve been trapped in this cellar,” Fish explained. “Kidnapped.”

“Is there anyone else in the house?” she heard one officer ask.

“No. The kidnapper’s gone to St. Lawrence.”

“We’re coming in the back,” the policeman said.

“The door code’s six-six-six!” Rose shouted as the police ran down the alley.

“I never thought I’d be glad to see a policeman,” Fish muttered. He offered her his arm to lean on as they walked up the cellar stairs.

“By the way, Fish—thanks,” Rose said when they reached the top and waited by the door.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” Fish said offhandedly. “Thanks for coming after me in the first place. You’re a good kid.”

“I’m seventeen,” she said, slightly offended. She wasn’t a
kid.

“So old,” he said, and she thought she could make out his crooked smile.

At long last, there were footsteps in the kitchen and the bolts on the cellar door were slid back.

Fish and Rose stood blinking in the twilight at the two cops standing there with guns drawn.

“It’s just us,” Fish said, raising his hands. “We’re the ones you came to rescue.”

“And thank God you came,” Rose added, stepping forward shakily, suddenly realizing that the adventure was over. She felt inclined to kiss the linoleum floor.

One of the cops raised his thick black eyebrows in astonishment, recognizing her. “If it isn’t Miss Brier,” he said, putting away his gun. “I suppose you forgot your keys again?”

Officer Cirotti’s voice was intimidating as before, but his eyes were amused.

Rose managed a smile. “Can I call my mother?” she asked.

Chapter 20

THE TWO GIRLS stood in the shadows of the hallway, gazing at each other. Blanche was wearing a white linen dress with a lace collar. Rose wore a linen flowered print frock, scattered with red roses and leaves. She held a straw hat with trailing ribbons in her hands.

“It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?” Blanche murmured, running her hands over the material of the dress. It felt even richer than it had looked that one night in the store window.

“I can’t imagine how he found the very dress we were admiring that night after the opera. It must be the first time in the history of shopping that a man ever remembered the name of a woman’s clothing store,” Rose laughed. She turned her sister around and began to adjust the white roses that she had woven into Blanche’s braids.

“Not just that. I mean, everything that’s happened,” Blanche said, wincing as her sister pulled a stray hair. “Mr. Freet being captured, you and Fish turning up alive—and yes, these dresses. Are you sure you don’t want to wear the white one?” Blanche asked, turning back to her sister.

“Oh, no. The delicate shade suits you better. You’d be overwhelmed in a big print like mine. Besides, I think Bear bought the rose dress for me. After all, that’s my name.” Rose set the hat on her red hair and adjusted it. “I
am
glad that he remembered to buy me a hat, though.”

“I don’t even like to think about what these presents cost him,” Blanche confessed.

“Well, I suppose he would say it was worth it. Besides, now that he’s been exonerated from the drug charges and gotten his inheritance back, he could buy us dresses like these every day if he wanted to.” Rose put a hand on her hat and spun around so that her skirt flared satisfactorily.

“Ugh! That would ruin it!” Blanche shivered and smoothed down the sleeves of her dress. “It would be sort of like having chocolate mousse for breakfast every day—too much!”

Rose was inclined to agree. “Still, I’ll never forget how I felt when that man from the store knocked at the door and brought in these two huge boxes. I had no idea what they were! Oh, and the wrapping paper—floral outside and silver inside! It was a treat just to open the box, let alone to see what was inside.” She arched her back and gave a luxurious sigh. “I must say, Bear has good taste. It would have taken me years to pick out a dress that I liked on my own—and I like this one very much.”

“I think his mother was a designer,” Blanche murmured. “He says I look a lot like she did when she was young.”  Bear had promised to someday take Blanche back, by daylight, to his mother’s old apartment, which she had designed herself.

Mother, talking on the phone in the kitchen, smiled at both of them. She was dressed in her Sunday best and was talking to their aunt in California. Ever since the girls’ escapade a few weeks ago, Mother had been calling one relative after another to tell them the story. Blanche returned her smile, and reflected that it was more fun telling the story than it had been living it.

“Oh, I wish the boys would get here soon!” Rose fretted, going to the living room window to peer out again. She turned away with a sigh, took off her hat, and fluffed up her bangs with her hand.

“You look really nice, Rose,” Blanche said to her sister. Rose was wearing her hair braided in front and long in the back. The bruises on her face were barely visible now, and she had regained her rose-petal complexion. Her small chin was raised in a look of confident assurance, spunk, and good humor, and her eyes were radiant. Blanche looked down. Was it really fair that her sister was so gorgeous? She fought with the usual jealousy. C. S. Lewis had said something about true humility being the ability to rejoice in somebody else’s good fortune as if it were your own. So she took in the picture of her sister, with her smooth, shining hair, sparkling eyes, and slim figure, and sighing, counted it all joy. She even managed to begin to feel less nervous.

“Stand up straight,” Rose prompted her sister, and straightened her own shoulders. “You look absolutely beautiful, sister.”

Rose thought her older sister had never looked so lovely. Let people say what they would—Blanche was the prettier one in the family. That smooth, pure white skin without a single zit! Maids of other eras would have killed for it, Rose was sure. The problem was, she decided, that Blanche lived in the wrong century. And her hair! Rose had dreamed so often of what it would be like to have soft inky black hair like Blanche’s. But no, her hair was flaming red. And when Blanche wore pale colors, she looked like a flower, delicate and airy.

“You should always dress like that,” she told her sister.

“I thought you said before that I should wear stronger colors,” Blanche accused.

“Well, I’ve changed my mind. Strong colors are
my
favorite, but it’s okay if you want to wear pastels. I used to think it made you look weak, but maybe it’s okay.  It sort of fits you, in a good way. You’re sort of strong when you’re weak, if you know what I mean.”

“Have it your way,” Blanche laughed and put a timid hand to her head to feel the petals of the creamy roses in her hair. “I feel silly,” she confessed.

Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say, Rose felt. One should keep a quiet composure, or say “thank you” graciously—not say you felt silly.

“You look like a princess,” Rose said firmly. “I don’t care what you say.”

“Rose, are you ever jealous of other people?” Blanche said at last.

Rose thought for a moment, head on one side. “Yeah. But when I am, I try to think about something else. Then I forget.”

“Oh,” Blanche paused. “I guess I’m not distracted so easily. Oh, I wish they would come so I could stop thinking stupid things!”

“Yes, exactly—where are they?” Rose wrinkled her nose in consternation.

“Mother said they had something to do. I think maybe another meeting with the district attorney about Mr. Freet.”

“I wish he would confess to Fr. Raymond’s murder as well as to attempting to kill me. It would make it so much easier for them,” Rose said. “Did Bear tell you that their father—their real father—completely washed his hands of them when they were arrested for drugs? Since they were minors, he took away the money they had inherited from their mother. When they got out of detention, they had no place to go. Until they moved in with the Fosters.” Rose reluctantly turned from the window again, resigning herself to wait. “But their father seems to have changed his mind now that they’ve proved their innocence. At least he’s given them back their mother’s money.”

“That must mean a lot to them. I think Bear has had a hard time forgiving their dad for abandoning them,” Blanche reflected. She had suddenly realized how blessed they were to have had such a good father. Dad was dead, but at least he had always loved and stood by them.

“Poor Dr. Freet,” Rose said softly. “It must have been very hard for him to find all this out about his brother. Especially his connection with the school drug ring, when Dr. Freet had spent so much time on anti-drug campaigns.”

They sat down on the couch, and Blanche stared at her white-linen covered lap and her folded hands. “You know, when you’ve had someone point a gun at you, it’s almost like having died, somehow. You’re never the same.”