by Patti Larsen
SISTERHOOD.
That word changed my direction and my focus and reminded me there was one person left in town who would be willing—if not able, depending on her illness—to tell me just what Grandmother Iris had been up to. Because it was clear this was never about the hoard. That was simply a disguise, a means to catch and hold my interest, to keep me searching and hunting for clues and truth. This was a message from my grandmother about the Pattersons.
Sisterhood. I knew exactly who she was referring to. And, as I pulled into the circular driveway of the French mansion after a brief but necessary detour home, I ran their names through my mind. Iris Fleming. Marie Patterson. Doreen Douglas. Peggy Munroe, if not by consensus. And Martha French.
The old lady had tried to tell me before, but her dementia and interruptions prevented it. This time? I wasn’t taking Vivian’s no for an answer.
***
Chapter Thirty Five
It wasn’t Vivian I had to contend with when the maid opened the front door to greet me. Instead, it was the hurried and tactical clickity-clack approach of Rachelle. The mayor’s previously estranged mother had made an appearance in Reading long after she’d decided living in Montpellier or wherever it was she’d taken her share of Ranier’s fortune, wasn’t suiting her needs any longer. Perhaps because she missed her daughter, though I doubted very much it was her loving relationship with Vivian that had brought her home. If anything, the tall woman, aging not nearly as well as her child though with the same face, weathered by deep-seated narcissism and with that fraudulent smile she clearly assumed was working on everyone around her tugging at her overly augmented lips, was here to make Vivian’s life miserable.
“Why, Fiona, dear,” Rachelle gushed at me, a bit out of breath from hurrying to find out who was at the door. And they called me a busybody. “How lovely to see you.” Her smile instantly flashed to a pout of concern so dissembling I almost laughed in her face at the absurdity of it. “What a dreadful time you’ve had of things in the last little while.” She grasped my hand and practically jerked me into the white marble foyer, the maid just having enough time to dodge before my entry ran the girl over. “However are you holding up, you poor thing. Just horrific.” And in those wide eyes, those manicured fingertips pressed to her chest, in that expectant look as she waited with—I kid you not—bated breath for my answer, I knew it wasn’t concern driving Rachelle’s questions, but morbid curiosity.
I considered my response options, torn between gory details in an attempt to yuck her into retreat (which, I discarded, knowing she would just ask for more), or a blasé brushoff that might backfire into her asking me to leave.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to make the choice between the two. Clara French’s appearance at the double doors to the sitting room caught Rachelle’s attention, the sudden and sullen drop of her expression more than enough of a distraction to give me the opening I needed.
“Clara,” I said, a bit too enthusiastic, but the intensity of the energy in the room, the heightened fakery making me as jittery as three cups of espresso. “How nice to see you.”
The old auntie must have realized I was looking for rescue, because she swiftly joined us, one hand on Rachelle’s arm. “Fiona, dear,” her blue eyes crinkled around the corners. “You’re looking for Vivian? She’s upstairs, but she can join you presently.”
Rachelle’s lips were already parting, clear offer to join our conversation pending. But, Clara was faster, tugging on the other woman with firm conviction and a long-suffering smile.
“We should leave the girls to their catch up, Rachelle,” she said. “Come along. You can help me make Martha her tea.”
Rachelle’s enthusiasm died instantly, at the same moment she pulled her elbow free of Clara’s grasp. Her blonde hair tossed as she spun, high heels tapping on the stone floor. “I’d rather die,” she shot over her shoulder before disappearing deeper into the house.
Clara let her go, smile never wavering, though the iron glint in her eyes spoke a million curses. “It is lovely to see you, Fee,” she said, linking arms with me. I joined her on the walk to the sitting room. “Apologies for Rachelle. Her visit has been… trying. But we’re establishing our pecking order.” Clara nodded once, soft giggle escaping, and I couldn’t help but laugh with her.
She might have looked the part of the sweet old auntie, but I would never again doubt the rod of pure steel that clearly ran through her middle.
Martha didn’t move when I joined her, Vivian’s grandmother huddled low in her armchair, heavy drapes drawn, the beautifully crocheted blanket over her knees draped to the floor around her. She’d lost volume since I’d seen her last, as though her entire body had begun to retreat into itself. Her once thick, white curls seemed thin, pale pink scalp showing where the roller lines hadn’t quite been brushed out. Paper-like skin sagged from her cheeks and jowls, tugging at the corners of her closed eyes, thin blue veins a visible network under the powdery white flesh.
I almost left right then and there. She’d lost that bit of robustness I remembered from our first meeting. I hadn’t noticed she’d been failing so very badly when I saw her in December. Maybe she’d taken a turn in the past six months or so. I knew she’d been suffering from dementia for many years, but it seemed like her body was finally going the way of her failing mind.
Soft footfalls interrupted, Vivian’s high heeled strides muffled in the thick carpet of the big room, towering ceiling devouring the majority of the sound. She joined me without a word, looking down at her sleeping grandmother with pinched concerned I once would have mistaken for disdain.
I’d learned a lot about my old friend turned enemy turned friend again in the last six months. All of which I liked and, to my guilt and regret, wished I’d known a long time ago.
“You wanted to see me.” Not a question.
But I shook my head at the beautiful blonde next to me, pointed at Martha as I sank into the seat next to her, while holding out the stolen map piece. Vivian accepted it, eyes widening, gaze snapping to me a moment after she read the single word on the back of the page.
“I have to talk to her, Viv,” I said.
She looked like she wanted to reject the idea, but it was Clara who touched her cheek and nodded.
“She’s been talking about Iris ever since she saw Fee again.” Vivian’s aunt smiled at me. “Says she has secrets she can share only with her sister.”
I waited for the mayor to acquiesce and, when she did, even held off as Clara sat next to her mother-in-law and gently touched her shoulder.
“Mum,” she said, that faint British accent of hers adding a lilt to her voice. “Fiona is here to see you.”
Martha stirred instantly, pale eyes opening, watery around the edges, lips smacking a moment as she struggled to pull herself more upright. Clara instantly helped, Vivian adjusting the blanket as it slipped from the movement, hands swift and gentle. Martha ignored them both, her eyes locking on me and, as they did, she beamed the kind of smile that reached inside me and warmed my weary heart.
“Iris,” she said, clapping her hands with great enthusiasm before lunging forward to grasp mine. She might have looked frail, but there was nothing wrong with her grip. “You’re here. Finally. Is it done?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, sitting back, hands clasping in her lap, eyes twinkling. “It took so much to keep Peggy’s snooping out of things,” she said, one index finger tapping the end of her own nose as she laughed. “But you were right to trust me. I took care of her. She knows nothing of what’s really going on.”
Which meant Martha did. I almost stopped breathing. “That’s perfect,” I said. “Thank you, Martha.”
She patted my hand, sighed, sorrow replacing her joy. “I just wish there had been another way. Surely we could have gone to John. That boy of yours, he’s far more clever than you think. But, I know,” she waved off my protest despite the fact I didn’t try, talking to Grandmother Iris, an old conversation, clearly, one I was now privy to. How
remarkable. “You’re worried about him. And from what we’ve learned, you have reason to be. I know why you didn’t want to share what I showed you, so dreadful.” Martha shivered. “Are the butterflies still there, where the dear ones lie?”
Dear heavens. So it was Martha who found the bodies? And told Grandmother Iris?
“Yes,” I said, choking on the truth.
“You said not to tell,” she whispered. “Said it was too dangerous to follow Marie. But I couldn’t help it, you see. I needed to know if you were right, if she was up to no good. I didn’t mean to find them. But I did. And now we know.” She snuffled. “We never really knew her, did we, Iris?”
What a weight to carry with her all these years. “I suppose not.”
“Still, I don’t know what good this subterfuge will do.” Martha seemed vexed suddenly, impatient, batting at me with both hands. “Aren’t they enough evidence?” Her eyes suddenly flooded with tears and she looked down, the moisture trickling slowly through the folds in her flesh like running a maze to escape. “Can’t we just lay them to rest?”
Crap. How did I answer that and get more information from her? “We will,” I said at last. “You’re sure Peggy’s out of it?” Maybe if I rebooted the conversation I could get more out of her.
Martha snorted. “She’s always been the outsider. I still blame Doreen for that mistake, bringing her anywhere near the Sisterhood.” She said it like it needed a capital letter to give it weight. “Imagine her challenging Marie for leadership.” Her eyes glistened all over again. “Though you two had your own battles for that role, didn’t you, dear Iris? I think we all knew who our real leader was, Marie’s money or not.” She was crying again. “Why did this have to happen? If only we could prove it.” Martha wiped at her cheeks, brushing off Clara’s attempt to hand her a tissue. “But you’re right, Iris, of course. We have laid the groundwork to the truth and, one day, when that clever son of yours finds what you’ve left, he’ll bring her down.”
“Who?” Oh, why did I open my mouth? I already knew who.
Martha started at the sound of my voice, blinking, as though torn out of the past and thrown unhappily and unsteadily into the present. She stared at me a long moment before a petulant child appeared in her eyes, pulling at the corners of her mouth. Martha’s withered hands picked at the weave of the crocheted blanket suddenly, heels thudding in protest against the base of the chair.
“Nononononononono!” She twisted away from me, angry, furious even, for no apparent reason. Clara instantly tried to soothe her, touching her shoulder, but Martha batted her away. “I SAID NO!”
I sat back in my seat, hand sliding into my pocket for the other items I’d brought with me, knowing it was likely a lost cause but hoping I might get through to her. “Martha,” I said, voice firm, trying to channel Grandmother Iris. “Do you remember these?” I held out my hand, the four butterflies in my palm.
She turned to look and froze. So sad and yet incredible to watch her morph once more, from the terrified and lost old woman dying of a dreadful disease to the woman she used to be, years ago. She beamed at me again, hand reaching out in tentative question, and I nodded. Martha took one of the butterflies and clipped it in her hair.
“Thank you for giving it back to me,” she said. “I hated to lose it, Iris.”
“You’re welcome,” I said and took a chance. “We don’t need it anymore, so you can keep it. Just the doubloon.” And held my breath, hoping.
Martha’s nose wrinkled, shoulders hitching upward in her sudden glee while she patted at the pin in her hair over and over again. “Let them chase a treasure that never existed,” she giggled. Instantly her entire being shifted once more and she grabbed for me, nails digging into my wrist as her intense and focused attention actually freaked me out a bit. “As long as it makes them dig, it served its purpose.”
Bingo. “Exactly,” I said, brain whirling as I struggled for another way to ask her who she was talking about. Dad? Me? Her son, now long dead? But as I did, as I hesitated, I knew I was too late. She was fading again, drifting back to the disease. I could see it devouring her, taking her over, and, less than thirty seconds later, Martha sank deep into her chair and began to snore.
Vivian drew me up and away from her grandmother, Clara joining us, the mayor’s crossed arms and tight expression worrying. Did she blame me for pushing Martha too hard? But no, she seemed less upset and more intent when she spoke at last.
“Has she said anything to you about any of this, Auntie?” Vivian’s voice shook just a little, clear indication she was as emotionally tied into this as I was, at least on the inside if able to hide it on the outside.
Clara shook her head, glancing over her shoulder at the snoring old woman. “She would never speak of it, only mentioned Iris and the Sisterhood.” She sighed. “I’m sorry, Viv, dear. Fee. I wish I could help. Maybe if she rests a bit she might be able to tell you more.”
Fair enough. I let Vivian escort me out, not much spoken between us. Because there wasn’t much to say, outside of what we already knew and speculation. And I wasn’t in the mood to make educated guesses right now.
Instead, I drove home, the three remaining butterflies in my pocket. I might regret leaving one behind with Martha, but, on the other hand, at least I knew where to get my hands on it if I needed it and, besides, if it brought her some joy, I felt I owed it to her.
Grandmother Iris. What the hell did you drag me into?
I was almost home when my phone rang. I answered it despite not recognizing the number, though I did vaguely the male voice on the other end when I said hello.
“Miss Fleming. Have you seen Mr. Murray or Ms. Doyle?” One of Malcolm’s boys. Another twinge of guilt over losing Darius and now this.
“Aren’t you supposed to keep track of them?” I didn’t mean to be facetious, but seriously. Wasn’t that their job?
“Yes, ma’am.” He sounded angry. “But they’ve both gone missing.”
Wait, what? “Since when?”
“Since half an hour ago.” Okay, that was panic in his tone now even though I almost eye rolled. He was freaking out over a half hour? For all I knew, they’d snuck off for some private time. After all, they’d just found out their daughter was dead for real.
“I just saw them at the lake house,” I said. “But that was about an hour ago.” Wasn’t it? How long had I been at Vivian’s? “I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.” Hesitated, worry waking as I thought of Darius, Crew’s silence, and had a sick, sinking feeling take me over. “Call me when you find them.”
I hung up, pulled in my driveway. Called Crew. Voicemail. And received a text that got my attention.
Had an epiphany, Vivian sent. Need to see you. Patterson dock, twenty minutes. Be careful.
Pretty telling I didn’t even hesitate. B&E, anyone?
***
Chapter Thirty Six
I drove this time, instead of taking a boat, parking out of view of the main gate, pulling off near the edge of the Patterson side of the mountain. I was going to be longer than twenty minutes, the hike in to the dock at least that from where I did little to hide my car’s presence. Maybe I’d reached the point I didn’t care anymore what Marie and her family thought. Getting caught might have been refreshing. But I do know that walk to the fence, the tree-climb to get me over (had experience with this kind of thing, didn’t I?) and subsequent walk around the edge of the manicured forest leading to the lakeshore wasn’t done in stealth. If anything I was being deliberately noisy.
Come at me, bro. I was so done.
The fact I made it to the dock without incident actually made me rather sullen and sent my mood plummeting. Had I been looking forward to a confrontation with a group of black-clad men carrying giant guns and wearing mirrored sunglasses to hide the snake-like look of their eyes? You betcha. Instead, as I tromped my way onto the wooden planks, the sky overhead heavy with clouds as another storm brewed, waves rising to choppy threat past the shallower
shorefront, I realized why I was so worked up.
Far too familiar, this weather even, standing here on this dock, looking out over the water. I stayed on the top level, avoiding the steps that led down to the water’s edge, not sure I was ready for that trip down memory lane. I hugged myself, chilled suddenly by the rising wind, the spate of rain that fell on me in a hurried warning more was to come and I’d been a fool to make this journey.
I hadn’t even wondered why Vivian wanted me to meet her here, hadn’t asked. There was no sight of her and the longer I stood there, the more uncomfortable I became, fighting off the phantom image of a young man’s hand disappearing slowly under the water in front of me.
Not real. Hadn’t been for a very long time. Didn’t change the fact the longer I waited, the more I wished I hadn’t come at all. In fact, I almost left five minutes in, anger tight in my chest, anger at Vivian for stirring all of this up for me again and not even having the courtesy of showing up. I did a great job of reliving it myself, thanks, without being dragged out to the real deal all over again.
As I spun on my heel to leave, ready to give Vivian a piece of my mind when I saw her again, a low moan reached me, caught my attention, my breath. I stopped, all fury forgotten, Victor’s loss, everything, at that sound. There it was again, as if someone was injured. Maybe if I’d been somewhere else, wasn’t so deep in the memory of what happened all those years ago, maybe if it hadn’t been a rainy, gray day like the last one Victor saw, I might have acted more rationally. Instead, not thinking, only reacting, I hurried to the steps and down to the main dock and froze.
At the sight of Vivian French, handcuffed and semi-conscious, lying tucked against the stair risers, hidden from sight until I joined her below.
It took me a second to realize it hadn’t been she who’d summoned me here, had it? Far too long, held in shock and stupor that gripped me like the hand of death itself, pinned to the wooden boards by time and memory and understanding I could do nothing about.
