by K. J. Emrick
Linda chuckled. “Oh, don’t I know it. My labor for Sylvia lasted twelve hours. I survived, but I promised myself I’d never go through that again. I wonder sometimes how different my life would have been if I’d gone ahead and broken that promise.”
She was silent then, and Darcy figured she was wrapped up in her memories from younger days. “How is Sylvia?” she asked. “I haven’t seen your daughter in a few years.”
With a little shake of her head Linda came back to herself. “She’s good. More than good, actually. She finally got the promotion she’s been after. Oh, and that man of hers asked her to marry him.”
“That’s wonderful. We’ll have to make plans for lunch. You and Sylvia and me and Jon. Colby too, of course.”
“That would be nice. Where is Colby?”
“Upstairs,” Darcy said. “Playing with the cats and drawing. It’s her new passion. She’s growing up so fast. To think, she’s going to be a big sister before too much longer!”
“I’m so happy for you. Have you thought of names for the baby yet?”
“Jon and I have a few that we’re considering. We didn’t want to lock ourselves in too soon, you know?”
Linda nodded, but it was obvious now that there was something distracting her. She began drumming her fingers on the top of the table. Her eyes slid over to look out the window, although she wasn’t seeing the green grass or the vibrant green leaves on the trees.
“Is Sylvia planning on having children?” Darcy asked when the silence started to drag between them. “She’s getting married so I’m just guessing, but I’m sure she’ll want a family?”
“I’m not certain.” Linda pursed her lips. “That’s actually what I came over to talk to you about, Darcy.”
“Sylvia?” Darcy tried to remember Linda’s daughter. She had a vague recollection of thick glasses and a penchant for dangly hoop earrings but that was all that came to mind. “Is she okay?”
“What? Oh my, no. I mean, yes. Sylvia’s fine. What I meant to say was, I’m here because of my family. Which of course Sylvia is. My family, I mean. She’s just not the family I came here to… oh my.”
Linda stopped talking, placing her fingertips over her trembling lips. Darcy didn’t think she had ever seen her friend this upset. “Tell you what. You stay there, and I’ll make us that tea after all.” She got up from the table—a bigger challenge than it might have been now that she was this far along in her pregnancy—and went to fill the tea kettle. “My Great Aunt Millie always used to say tea cured more ills than people gave it credit for. I don’t know if that’s true but it always makes me feel better.”
She went on like that, talking about nothing important, as she got out the boxes of tea bags from the cupboard and then set the kettle to boil. There was a selection of flavors and good old regular black tea as well. By the time the kettle was whistling through its spout they’d decided on cinnamon chai, one of Darcy’s favorites.
“Thank you,” Linda said as she accepted the ceramic mug of hot tea. She bounced the teabag in the water, over and over, until the tea was dark as pitch and smelled strongly of vanilla and spices. “I wouldn’t usually do this, you understand. I prefer to take care of my problems on my own.”
“Of course.” Darcy didn’t say anything else. No sense pointing out that Linda had come asking for Darcy’s special kind of help any number of times in the past. “This is what friends are for, after all.”
That brought a relieved smile back to Linda’s face. “I knew I could count on you, Darcy. I, um, have a favor to ask.”
“Of course,” Darcy answered her without hesitation. “Anything for a friend. You know that. As long as it doesn’t involve running. I’m not very fast on my feet these days.”
Linda nodded, apparently missing the joke, and reached down to pick up her purse from where she’d left it on the floor. Placing it on the table she rummaged through the open top, taking out a hair brush, and then a wallet, and then a paperback book that she blinked at as if wondering how it could have possibly gotten in there. “I have to return that,” she mumbled, placing it on the table as well.
Then she brought out a packet of yellowed envelopes held together with a looped elastic hair tie. On the front of the topmost letter, Darcy could see the strong looping strokes of a man’s handwriting.
Linda held the letters tightly for a moment, staring down at them, and then handed them over to Darcy. “These are addressed to Erika Becht. That was my mother. I recognize the man’s name on the return address. He and my mom dated, when I was much younger and before she died, obviously. But… well, that’s not the point.”
Darcy took the letters, feeling the rough texture of the paper. They felt old. They even smelled old. Like dried flowers. Very carefully, she unwrapped the hair tie and set it aside. There were three letters. Each of them was addressed to Linda’s mother, Erika Becht, just like Linda had said. Each of them had the same name in the return address corner. Leighton Reeves.
That wasn’t a name that Darcy was familiar with, although she knew that there were several Reeves who lived in Misty Hollow. Then she noticed the date on the stamp.
1977.
She looked up at Linda for some kind of hint as to what could be so important from so long ago. “I don’t understand. Your mom is deceased, right?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Well, is Leighton deceased as well?”
“No, that’s not it at all. He’s actually still alive. Or at least, as far as I know he is.”
Darcy set the letters on the table in between them. “Linda, I can see that you’re upset. I’m sure you wouldn’t be here, with that delicious smelling casserole dish, unless you were really in need of someone’s help. Take your time. What’s going on?”
Linda took a deep breath, and her eyes came back into focus. She saw the cup of tea that Darcy had made for her and picked it up in both hands, bringing it up to her lips, but not drinking from it. After a moment, she set it back down untouched.
“Darcy, my mother died in 1977. I was only eighteen at the time, but I remember it like it was yesterday. After all these years, I can’t forget a single moment of that day.”
“I know what that’s like.” The ache of Great Aunt Millie dying had dulled for Darcy over the years, but it was still a part of her. Losing someone you loved that much always left a sort of mental scar on your soul.
In Darcy’s case, she’d been lucky enough to have Millie’s spirit hanging around for years to guide her and offer advice whenever she could. Sometimes her gift really was exactly that. A gift.
Linda was nodding, either to her own thoughts or to Darcy’s words of comfort. “Yes. Well. I went over to her house in the late afternoon of the day she died and found her lying in her bed. She was already gone, of course, but I tried my best to wake her up. These things happen, I told myself. She was only fifty years old but sometimes hearts stop and people get taken away to Heaven far too young, you know? It happens.”
Yes. Darcy knew all about that.
“For years,” Linda continued, “I’ve lived with the fact that my mom died of natural causes. It took a long time for me to get over it. The doctors said she had been dead for hours and probably had died in her sleep. That she just… never woke up. It was peaceful, they said. I never questioned it. She certainly looked peaceful lying there in her pajamas, lying in her bed…”
She took a moment, breathing slowly as memories from the past swirled in her eyes. “Only… oh my, Darcy. I can hardly say it.”
“Linda, it’s okay.” Darcy slid her hand across and laid it over Linda’s wrist. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Okay. Um. I was cleaning out the upstairs today. The attic. I’ve lived in my mother’s house ever since she passed, and I’ve just let things accumulate. You know how that happens. Well, it’s Spring of course and I wanted to do some cleaning up and I was getting together all these things that should be tossed out when I came across these letters.”
She picked up the letter on top, and carefully slid the single folded page out of its envelope. Then she handed it across to Darcy.
“See the date?” she asked.
It was an old fashioned habit, writing letters and putting the date on the top. Nowadays it was all e-mails and text messages. Darcy sort of missed writing letters to her friends. This one had been written long before the age of technology had ruined all of that.
The date was July 7th, 1977.
Linda waited for Darcy to see it. “That’s just two days after my mother died. That’s what caught my attention first. It was still sealed. I had to open it up and… well, you read the letter.”
Darcy felt a little odd, reading someone else’s letter even if the recipient was dead. The lines were all double-spaced, and the penmanship was blocky but crisp and precise. She skimmed through it until she realized what Linda was trying to show her. When she saw it, she went back and read it more slowly.
* * *
My dearest Erika,
* * *
Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to fight with you. It’s been two days since our argument. I know I said some things I shouldn’t have said but so did you. All of this talk about leaving town together. You know why I can’t. You know what we would both be giving up if we tried that. I really enjoyed the picnic lunch we had together and I hope it won’t be our last. Is there any way I could convince you to wait for me?
I will always love you. No matter what you decide please understand that.
You hurt me deeply when you ran away crying. I know I should have gone after you, but I had a train to catch. I’m already in Arizona now. I’m truly sorry I couldn’t bring you with me and I hope someday you’ll forgive me.
For now, I’ll be waiting to hear from you.
* * *
Yours forever,
Leighton
* * *
Two days after Erika had died, Leighton wrote this letter and mailed it off. He was in a different state, all the way across the country according to the letter. He probably hadn’t even heard that Erika had died yet. It was the 1970s after all, and instant communication via the internet was still a dream that was likely being worked out in someone’s garage somewhere.
That wasn’t the really interesting part, however.
“Linda,” Darcy began, still reading the letter as she spoke. “You said the doctors thought your mother died in bed, right? That she never woke up that morning?”
“Yes, that’s what they said.” She had to wipe a tear out of the corner of her eye with her knuckle. “She was in her nightgown, Darcy. It all made sense and nobody ever questioned it. Now I find this letter. Reading what Leighton Reeves said made me think. If he was with my mother the day she died, at a picnic lunch of all things, having an argument, then how could she possibly have died in bed that same morning?”
It was making Darcy think, too.
Erika couldn’t have died in bed that morning if she was off on a date with this man. Darcy tried to picture the two of them, arguing over him leaving town without her, and Erika running home upset and crying. Would she have changed into a nightgown to crawl into bed when she got home? Darcy had been in plenty of arguments with boyfriends that had sent her crying to her bed, but she had never once stopped to change into nice comfy pajamas first.
And she had never once died from having an argument with a boy.
So that raised a question, didn’t it? Darcy nodded to herself. Linda was right. This letter made her mother’s death seem very suspicious.
Did someone murder Linda’s mother?
Someone, perhaps, like Leighton Reeves…
“Linda,” she said, “tell me more about your mother.”
By the time Linda left, it was after eleven o’clock. Time to make lunch for her and Colby. Sandwiches today, maybe, or macaroni and cheese… oh, she could warm up Linda’s casserole. Mmm. That sounded good to her.
As she cleared away their plates and teacups and set the oven to preheat, Darcy thought about everything they had talked about this morning. If Linda was right then there was a decades old murder in Misty Hollow that had gone undetected all this time.
The letters were still on the table. Darcy hadn’t read through the other two yet but she was fairly eager to get to them. It had been months now since she had a mystery to sink her brain into. She kind of missed it.
Over the years it had become evident to Darcy that she actually delighted in getting involved in the unknown. Solving puzzles, finding clues, making sure guilty people paid for their crimes. It was a thrill. It was something she was very good at.
It was an addiction, is what it was. Hey, she thought to herself. As addictions go this is a pretty good one.
She smiled at no one in particular. There had been a lot of growing up in her life. She’d been a very different person, once upon a time. That troubled, angry teenager who had been shipped off by her mother to come and live here with her aunt was gone for good. Not that she was all grown up yet. Not by a long shot. There would still be a lot of growing up to do.
She settled a hand on her belly. Being a mother to Colby had opened her eyes to a whole new side of herself. Imagine, she wondered. What would she learn when she was the mother of two?
Her own mother had raised two kids. Of course, she’d done an iffy job of it and every day Darcy prayed that she would do better. It had taken years for her and her sister Grace to move past despising their mother, and grow to love her again. There must be some takeaways from that. Some life lessons learned.
At least, some things not to do.
In her belly, the baby kicked.
“That’s enough of that,” Darcy whispered. “Settle down, now.”
“He’s excited to come meet you,” Colby said from the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “He hears you talking all the time and wants to meet his mommy.”
“Hey, little one,” Darcy smiled at Colby. “Come on over here. You know the baby might be a girl, right? It’s pretty much a fifty-fifty chance.”
Colby scrunched up her eyes real tight. “No, some fifties are more even than others.”
Darcy chuckled at that. Ah, the logic of a child. “I was just about to make us some lunch. You want to help?”
“Uh-huh.”
Darcy liked that her daughter had started doing little chores around the house. She might only be seven and smaller than most kids her age but she was a big, big help to her mom. She did things like setting plates for meals or sweeping the kitchen floor. She was going to make a great big sister, whether her new sibling turned out to be a boy or a girl.
The sonogram appointment next week couldn’t come quickly enough. That was a mystery she was definitely looking forward to solving.
Under Darcy’s watchful eye, Colby got out the folding wooden stool from the corner and set it up so she could reach the cabinet with the plates. She brought two of them to the table and laid them out. Darcy loved these moments they shared just for themselves. Turning to the stove she checked that the temperature was right, and then got the casserole from where she’d put it away in the fridge.
“Oh,” she heard Colby say. “Here’s our visitor, Mister Book.”
“What’s that, sweetie?” Darcy put the casserole dish on the stovetop and took off the foil cover. Ah! Ziti. That was perfect.
“Mister Book came to visit us,” Colby was explaining, “just like I said he would.”
Closing the oven, Darcy looked over to the kitchen table to see what on Earth her daughter was talking about. She was sitting at the kitchen table now. At seven years old, her feet still dangled above the floor, kicking back and forth.
In her hands she held a paperback book, bouncing it from edge to edge, making it dance across the table on its edge as if it was alive. It was moving to music that only Colby could hear.
It was the book that Linda had pulled out of her purse, Darcy realized. She must have forgotten it on the table when she left. As her daughter held it st
ill for a moment, balanced on its edge. Darcy read the title. A Tangled Tale, by Lewis Carroll.
“I like him,” Colby said, pointing to Carroll’s name on the front of the book. “He wrote Alice in Wonderland. We’ve never read this one, have we Mommy?”
“Um, no. It’s not one of his more famous books.” Of course Colby would know who Lewis Carroll is. That was one of the benefits of being the daughter of a bookstore owner and a major bibliophile like Darcy was. She had done her best to expose Colby to the best children’s literature in the world at an early age. Everything from Carroll to Seuss, from Skippyjon Jones to Encyclopedia Brown. Sarra Finklestien had made a place for herself in their story time, as had as Charlotte’s Web.
Never this book by Carroll, though.
“Look, Mom. Mister Book wants to go to a dinner party.”
Darcy blinked at her holding the book and dancing it around the table, bowing to the salt and pepper shakers. If she remembered correctly, one of the chapters in the book was about a problem at a dinner party. A party where the reader had to figure out how many people were actually at the party because the identity of each one was hidden in a riddle. There was no way for Colby to know that…
It occurred to Darcy very suddenly that this must be what it was like for other people when they tried relating to her. When her gift let her know something that she couldn’t possibly know otherwise, and people were left to wonder what sort of other things she could do. It was a little humbling, to see so much of herself in this beautiful little girl.
She looked at the book again. There was nothing for it but to bring it back to Linda as soon as she could. Later today, maybe, after she’d had a chance to read those letters.
For now, it was time to have lunch. The letters had waited for decades. They could wait a little longer.
Her hand felt over the curve of her belly again. She was pregnant, after all. How much sleuthing could she really be expected to do?
