I give Mira Brooke a couple animal crackers and head to the front desk. A smarmy new receptionist greets me, asking twenty questions before finally allowing us down the hall to Miranda’s room.
Technically, Miranda Michaels should not be in this assisted living home, especially in her current condition. But Miranda’s money opens doors that would be shut to ordinary people. And yet one of the reasons everyone loves her is that she never lets on how wealthy she is. Yes, she has expensive jewelry and nice furniture. But she has always made me feel beautiful in my consignment-store jeans and Payless shoes.
I tap at her door and a hushed nurse opens it. “I’m here to see Miranda,” I whisper.
Mira Brooke’s cracker hits the floor, and a wail splits the air. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
Charlotte rushes from the bedroom, nearly knocking the nurse over. “I recognize that cry!” Taking Mira Brooke from my arms, she snuggles into her downy hair. Tears glisten in her eyes.
The nurse sidles into the hallway. “I need to check on a couple patients.”
As she shuts the door, Charlotte sighs. “God knew I needed to see this baby girl. Mom’s pulse has been all over the place and this new nurse makes it sound like she’s going to go at any moment.”
I put my hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I’ll have a talk with the nurse.”
Charlotte shakes her head. “Some people just don’t have a great bedside manner, that’s all.” She sniffs and smiles. “I don’t think Mom’s ready to go yet. Anyway, go on in and see her. She’s…well, you know. I tell you what, I’ll get this little sweet pea a snack.” Without another word, she whisks Mira Brooke into the tiny kitchen.
My breath catches as I step into the familiar bedroom. The pleasant smell of body lotion wafts my way, and I follow it to the tiny, pale woman lying under a maroon velour bedspread.
I take her shriveled hand in mine, finally bringing myself to look in her eyes. It’s amazing how much someone can change in a year. In Miranda, the loss of strength is heartbreaking. Her once-sharp eyes trail over my features, with no spark of recognition.
“Miranda.” I clear my throat and try again. “Miranda, it’s me, Tess. You know, that young’un you used to stomp at chess.”
I squeeze her hand tighter, wishing for her familiar laugh to fill the spaces in my awkwardness. Her snow-white head tips forward and her eyes drop slightly.
“Well…I’ll tell you what. I have a job now, can you believe it? And you know I named my baby girl after you. I’d bring her in, but she’s wiggly as all get-out right now. Charlotte might as well be her aunt, she fawns on her so much. You remember she’s staying in your big green house? It’s so nice to have her close. We sure did make friends, just like you wanted.”
Miranda looks like she’s falling asleep. I’m not telling her anything new, but I had hoped for some sign of recognition. I try to channel some of my hand’s warmth into the coldness of her palm.
“Anyway, there’s been some news…not to shock you, but then again, I know you’re not easily shocked. They found some bones up at the Crystal Mountain Spa where I work—it’s up on Grover’s Mountain. Do you know a man named Zechariah Tucker? He’s the head detective.”
I sigh, knowing there will be no response. Mira Brooke’s laughter drifts in from the living room and I realize why I really came: to admit my shortcomings as a mother. To be absolved.
“My Mira Brooke hit her head last night. Turned into a big bruise for her doctor appointment today.”
Miranda’s head slowly rises, her watery blue eyes focusing on me. I can hear her voice funneling into my head, even though she doesn’t say a word. “Every child gets hurt, and goodness knows mothers can’t protect them from everything. But Tess Spencer, you’d lay down your life for that child. She’ll grow up just fine.”
Charlotte knocks lightly on the door. “The nurse is back to check on her. Sorry.”
I pull my hand slowly from Miranda’s. Somehow we’re still connected. She always knows how to speak to what weighs heaviest on my heart, even if she can’t speak at all.
“Sure, of course.” I smile. “Thanks, Miranda.”
Charlotte gives me a questioning look, but like her momma, she understands when I don’t want to talk about something. She passes a contented Mira Brooke off to me. As we walk to the suite door, she asks, “So, any word on that weird bone?”
I give a short whistle. “I forgot to let you know—they found more bones.”
“What? Maybe it was just some old hick graveyard they turned up, then. No headstones, they just buried them deep—”
“Don’t think so. There’s a police detective on the case now. I can’t even go into work until next week. I’ll keep you posted as I learn things.”
“You’d better! I wish you hadn’t taken that job at the spa in the first place. Dani, with all her New-Age mumbo-jumbo…Teeny, with his nonstop come-ons and oversized body…”
“You worry too much about me.”
Charlotte offers her familiar refrain. “Someone has to!”
In the hallway, I nearly bump into a man who looks like he works there. “So sorry.”
The sandy-haired man mutters something, then shuffles closer, jabbing a finger toward my face. I hold Mira Brooke tighter, pressing her cheek into my chest.
An aide rushes up. “Mr. Seger. It’s nearly gardening time.” She whispers my way, “I’m sorry, ma’am. He’s new here and he’s easily excited.”
I nod, moving away from the fractious man. One good thing about Miranda’s condition is that she won’t be exposed to someone like him. He really seems on the young side for an assisted living home, but you never can tell.
Back in the SUV, my cell phone jams with the Buffy the Vampire Slayer ringtone. I wanted to set Dani’s calls apart and since Buffy is blonde, I somehow connected the two.
She cuts her usual pleasantries. “I have a problem.”
“What’s going on?”
“I know I said you could have the next few days off, but the IT guy is coming to fix our computer system. It crashed last night. I already have an appointment tomorrow, and you’re the only other one who knows the computers. Could you by any chance be there from nine to three-ish? I’ll pay you double.”
Extra pay for minimal work is always nice. “Sure, no problem. I assume the police will be there too?”
“Yes, but they can let themselves in and out. I gave Detective Tucker a key, although I figure that man could get in without one if he needed to.”
“Right. Okay, I’ll be there.”
As I pull from my parking space, the bothersome Mr. Seger bursts from The Haven’s front doors and rushes toward me, his aide lagging a bit behind.
I hit the brakes as he runs in front of my car, then crack my window to shout. “Watch out!”
Mr. Seger saunters over. “Excusez-moi, madam. I was just on my way to a concert, you understand. Running a bit behind schedule.”
The harried aide grabs his elbow. “Can’t keep this one in the building. He escaped yesterday too.” As she nudges him back toward The Haven, she twirls her finger near her forehead.
Thomas is right. I have a habit of attracting crazies. And something tells me there’s no easy way to fix that.
5
SO SORRY TO HEAR YOU‘re in foster care. I hope you find a good home. I’ll be away a while. You understand I have things to take care of.
Of course I expect you took your bow and arrows with you. If they didn’t let you, write me at the post office box number on the envelope and I will be sure to deliver some. It is imperative you continue practicing your marksmanship. I can only hope you don’t end up in some suburban house with a postage-stamp yard. Still, there are shooting ranges, I imagine, or woods nearby where you could practice.
Good bowhunters can be made, but excellent bowhunters like us are born.
I’m trying to avoid contact with your mother. It’s just safer that way. I’m looking at this as a healthy separat
ion for us. You will only grow stronger under the pressures of the system. I’ll come and find you when you turn sixteen, then we can hunt together in earnest. I’ll keep writing so you don’t forget me.
IN THE MORNING, I FIND Mom cleaning house like a fiend. Andrew, her middle son, is coming home from college this week and Nikki Jo never knows when he’ll have a girlfriend in tow. I settle Mira Brooke in with Dad in the TV room, dropping off her snacks in the kitchen where Nikki Jo will see them. Although I’m sure Nikki Jo has something far tastier than Cheerios and applesauce planned for my girl’s lunch.
By the time I get to the spa, several police vehicles sit in the parking lot. There’s also one camouflage Hummer that resembles a tank. I suspect this belongs to the illustrious Detective Tucker.
Sure enough, he’s lounging at the door, this time sporting saddle-colored Carhartt overalls. It strikes me again just how unobtrusive this man is. He could be anybody off the street; you’d never notice him. The only way he stands out is when he gives you that deep measuring look. If I were a criminal on the receiving end of that look, I’d rightly panic and flee.
Instead, his gaze shifts from me to the white minivan pulling into the lot. “Who’s that?”
I squint to read the small print on the side, an ineffective marketing job if ever I’ve seen one. “D&R Computer Tech. That’s the IT guy. He’s supposed to be here.”
“Keep him in the main room, please, Mrs. Spencer. We can’t have him wandering back to the dig.”
He says “dig” like it’s an archeological adventure. If only they were turning up something amazing, like a T-Rex, instead of dead bodies.
“Will do.” I feel entrusted with a sacred mission.
Detective Tucker wanders off toward the building and I greet the repair guy, who’s tugging a heavy-looking leather satchel from his side door.
“Hi, I’m Tess. I’ll show you inside.”
The IT man looks up at me, and our eyes meet. His black horn-rimmed glasses hide bright blue eyes, and his geek-chic plaid shirt fits him perfectly. This guy looks like a thirty-something model masquerading as a computer repairman. A bright and somewhat dazzling smile spreads across his face. “No problem. Lead the way.”
As I walk up the path, he continues talking. “My name is Byron Woods. Byron as in Lord Byron. My mom was into poets.”
I wouldn’t mind getting into a conversation about poets, but I want to streamline this thing so I can get out of here earlier. I show him to the main desk and log into the computer. As I grab myself another chair, he settles down and starts tapping away.
Since I have no clue what happened to the computers last night, I just let him poke around. The spa feels dead with no Enya piping overhead and no candles flickering. Usually Dani comes in early and lights about twenty candles in the reception area. I always worry someday it’ll burn the place down—this is a giant log cabin, after all—but it’s her spa to do with as she likes.
After thirty minutes listening to nothing but the sound of clicking keys, restlessness drives me from my seat to the snack room. I plunder the fridge for anything edible to tide me over. Dani regularly brings homemade food to share, but usually it’s things like wheatgrass pancakes or unsweetened fruit bars. I prefer a little sugar with my life.
I finally turn up a container of frozen spring rolls that somehow made the healthy cut and pop them in the microwave. While they’re heating, I peek into the darkened hallway, then tiptoe toward the indoor pool. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows give an unobstructed view of the digging machinations outside.
They haven’t wasted time. The earth is stripped away from a gaping hole, marked off by the inevitable crime scene tape. I look beyond the police photographer to the bones, shuddering at the skull staring right up at me. Hard to grasp there might be entire skeletons lying down there.
A voice murmurs near my ear, making me jump. “What’s that?”
Byron, the inquisitive IT man, has flown the coop. I have to get him out of the pool room before he sees anything.
He peers out the window, pushing his glasses up his nose as if to process things better. “Wait. Are those…bones?”
I grab his arm, but the minute my fingers inadvertently wrap around a well-honed muscle, I drop my hand. Instead, I gesture wildly to the front desk.
“How are the computers? Were you able to fix the problem? What was wrong? Was it a virus?” If we’re playing Twenty Questions, I can win.
“What? Oh, yes. I found the problem. But it’s not a virus. I’ll show you.”
I turn our conversation to poetry as we walk back to the desk. Turns out Byron isn’t excessively fond of Lord Byron, but prefers Robert Frost. I explain my college fascination with Sylvia Plath and my subsequent disillusionment with everything she wrote once I got married, which is when life started to make sense.
At the front desk, Byron elaborates for twenty minutes on things I could never possibly understand. I stifle a yawn but perk up when a weathered woman in head-to-toe black leather motorcycle garb waltzes through the door.
“Can I help you?” My Southern manners fly out the window. Normally I say May I help you, ma’am? It’s been a funky day at the Crystal Mountain Spa, and this woman doesn’t resemble our normal clientele.
She grips her helmet, extending her hand to me, which is encased in a tough-looking fingerless glove. “I sure hope so. I made a wrong turn earlier but kept going because I enjoyed the view. Then I realized I’m nearly out of gas. What’s the chance there’s a gas station somewhere around?”
Byron interjects an unexpected comment. “There actually is one. If you follow that trail that runs through the woods, it’ll come out near a truck stop.” He peers out the front window. “Your bike should be able to handle it. Someone keeps it cleared off.”
She takes a long, appreciative look at him, then glances back at me for confirmation. How did Byron know this tidbit about a path through the woods?
I shrug. “I had no idea, but there is a cleared area back in there.” Shifting gears, I ask, “So, what brings you to these parts? You don’t sound local.”
She sighs. Static tugs at the outer strands of her long dark hair, sending it flying. “I’m taking some time off from my marriage…seeing the country. Carpe Diem, you know. I’ve never been this far east.” She puts her helmet on. “I’d better run so I can find a place to eat and stay overnight. Much obliged.”
After a slow wink at Byron and a grin at me, she strides out the door, black fringes fluttering on her jacket. The motorcycle revs and bumps around the porch onto the grass.
Byron pauses, then launches back into the description of the computer problem. He finally sums it up by declaring he’ll need to return the next few days as well. For now, he needs to go since he, too, forgot to bring lunch.
A good ten minutes after Byron leaves, Detective Tucker stamps dirt off his feet, then pushes through the front doors. I suspect he was keeping an eye on Byron.
He spits into his bottle. “What’re your thoughts on that one?”
Under his scrutiny, I cave and admit my sad lapse in guard duties. “He kind of snuck up behind me and saw the bones—sorry. He asked a couple questions but I diverted him.” I glance up at him casually. “By the way, how many bodies are out there?”
The detective’s lips quirk upward at my question. “Most women wouldn’t stand around looking at skeletons, but evidently you’re not like most women.”
I smile too, understanding he’s evading my question.
“To be honest, Mrs. Spencer, we’re not quite sure yet. Still piecing things together.”
I’m not sure if he meant to make a pun, because he doesn’t smile. Boldness floods me. “Were they murdered?”
His dark gaze gets nearly black. “Between you, me, and this desk, yes. I’ll report on things to your boss soon enough. But if you’re going to be coming and going, I’d recommend you be careful.”
I thought law enforcement was supposed to encourage people to be calm, no
t worry, and things like that. Instead, Detective Tucker is telling me to watch my back.
“Will do.” I stifle the urge to ask why.
Another black stream shoots from his mouth and into the bottle. Horrible habit, chewing.
He seems to pick up on my attitude and saunters toward the back. But before he’s out of sight, he says, “Mrs. Spencer, do you conceal carry?”
“Why would you ask that? It’s not illegal.”
“No. I was actually going to recommend you should. So far, all those bodies are women.”
6
THIS FIRST YEAR OF your absence has hit me hard, but then I remind myself you are growing into who you need to be, just as I am growing in the space apart from your mother. She’s written me exactly three times and called me once, begging me to come back. The woman doesn’t know what’s good for her. I hate how she spouts poetry like some lovesick fool. Certainly, quote Rumi, quote Confucius, but don’t go quoting rhymey nonsense like Donne and tell me it has any pith to it.
What your mother doesn’t understand is that when mistakes are made, we can let them define us or we can use them to our advantage. Our marriage was a mistake, but of course you were not. Your mother and I just aren’t capable of rearing you as a proper unit.
Some days I will admit I miss you badly, but I remind myself this isn’t the only life we have. What isn’t done right the first time around can be rectified in our following lives.
By the time we are reunited in a few years, we will be stronger than ever. Are you target shooting?
I CALL DANI BEFORE I head out at two, hoping she can fill in for me tomorrow with computer duties. Instead, she begs off.
“So sorry, Tess. I have some family stuff going on. I would’ve had to miss work one way or another. Was it horribly dreadful?”
I decide not to give her any gruesome details. “Detective Tucker will talk to you soon,” I hedge.
Trial by Twelve Page 3
