by Nancy Garden
Shrink, Liz thought; good. It’s about time.
With his free hand, Dr. Cantor patted the hand he held. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Ms. Hardy, about what Ralph, Mr. Tillot, I mean, said.”
Liz smiled thinly. “I’ll try not to. And thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now I must check in at the hospital. There are a few patients I have to see, but I’ll come back as soon as I can. Please remember to beep me if you need me. Thank God they finally got a phone here!”
“Yes, thank God,” she said politely as Dr. Cantor bowed stiffly and left. But she thought: If they hadn’t gotten one, Ralph could never have called the cops and accused me.
She stood at the door for a few minutes watching the doctor walk to his car.
I could leave, too, she told herself. I could get in my car and escape from this madhouse. I could go home to the cabin or even home to New York; I could stay with someone till my apartment’s free again, till the sublet’s up. I could leave this crazy town, this crazy place. I could even go out to Jeff and Susan’s in California for a while.
But you can’t leave Nora, her internal voice said. You know that. You can’t leave her now.
“I do know that,” Liz said aloud almost crossly. God, do I know that!
Would I have stayed with Megan if this had happened to her, she wondered as she turned and walked back toward the kitchen.
Oh, hell, who knows! And does it really matter?
It doesn’t matter, not any more, she thought, opening the door to the kitchen, seeing Nora at the table with Thomas on her lap; she was patting him absently while he purred. But she doesn’t even know Thomas is there, Liz realized; she’s trying to shut herself off from what’s happened, as I, she thought, startled, shut myself off from feeling with Megan, because…
But nothing followed “because,” so she went to Nora and sat next to her, carefully touching her arm. “Nora, forgive me,” she said, “but how about bed? You should probably try to get a little sleep. You must be exhausted, and that pill Dr. Cantor gave you should help you sleep.”
Nora turned to her, pools of unshed tears in her eyes. “I never said goodbye.” Her voice was small, like a child’s, and full of self-reproach. “I never said goodbye to Mama. All I said to her tonight when I put her to bed was ‘Goodnight.’ I don’t think I even said, ‘I love you.’ I often said that, and she’d take my hand and smile and say, ‘I love you, too.’ But we didn’t do that tonight.”
“You didn’t know,” Liz said, “what was going to happen. Neither did she. But she knew you loved her, Nora. Look at how you took care of her, how gentle you always were with her, how…”
“She took care of me, too. Even after the stroke, she took care of me.” The tears spilled over, without sobs, and Nora shook her head as if in wonder. “She protected me from him, in a way. She knew, she knew how, how awful he was sometimes and she’d make me laugh at it. Never directly, she couldn’t go against him, but she’d distract me from him. And now…” Nora buried her face in her hands and her shoulders shook, but still silently.
Liz tried to gather her in her arms, but Nora was tense, unreachable, so she drew back. “How about bed?” she asked again after a few minutes. “You need to sleep, and the pill will help you. There’ll be things to do soon, people to call, probably. Won’t there?”
Nora lifted her head, moving her hands away. “Yes, I suppose so. Although there aren’t many relatives. A few cousins. I’ll have to ask Father about some of them, I guess. Or go into his desk. No one cared, though. I almost don’t need to tell anyone.”
“No one cared?” Liz asked incredulously. “But your mother was so sweet!”
“Yes, but no one liked Father. No one liked Clarkston either. Everyone moved away after a while and drifted away from us, too. When I was little we did have some family parties.” Her eyes brightened. “Even here. People came back to Clarkston a few times for them, and I had cousins to play with then. But after a while Father got angry at everyone, I think because they wanted him to change, you know, electricity and a telephone and plumbing. Finally he got so angry he wouldn’t see anyone in the family any more, so of course they stopped coming and after a while they stopped writing, too. They’ve never come back.”
“What about the cousins you played with, though?” Liz managed to pull Nora to her feet and steer her into her room. “Didn’t they want to go on seeing you?”
“Maybe, but when they were kids I guess they couldn’t have done anything about it if they did. I guess they couldn’t go against their parents, but I bet they didn’t really want to. Father was okay for a while when we were all little, but when he started to change, they seemed afraid of him. One cousin did write to me for a while. Andrew, his name was. We were good friends, I guess, for a while when we were pretty young.”
Liz sat Nora down on the edge of the bed, drew the windowshade, shutting out most of the strengthening sun, and bent to remove Nora’s shoes.
“Andrew wrote to me for a while after the family parties stopped being here, and of course we never went to them anyway when someone else had them. But then he stopped. He went away to boarding school, I think, and I don’t know what after that.”
“Maybe you could get in touch with him.” Liz swung Nora’s legs around onto the bed and eased her shoulders down till her head touched the pillow. “I’m sure he’d like to know about your mother. He’d probably like hearing from you again, too, if you were friends. Maybe if you could find him, he could help you find the others.”
“Yes, maybe.”
Nora’s eyelids, Liz could see, were getting heavy and her voice was getting softer, her speech slower.
“Tell me about Andrew,” Liz said, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Nora’s hand. “Is he older or younger than you?”
“Older,” Nora said sleepily. “Two or three years older. Once when he was here he killed a snake and cut it open and showed me its eggs and we went running into the house to show the grownups. Father got mad that we were dripping on the floor, but Mama said we were real scientists. I remember that: ‘Real scientists,’ she said and looked at the eggs and marveled at them. You could see the baby snakes curled up in the eggs and the eggs were all strung together. Like beads, Andrew said. I remember that, too. ‘They look like beads,’ he said. I thought that was clever.”
“He sounds nice. What else do you remember about him?”
“Oh, he had—had brown hair—curly.” She yawned. “I’m so sleepy.” She squeezed Liz’s hand. “And you’re being so dear. Thank you.”
“Shh.Shh. Sleep now.” Liz stroked Nora’s hair, her forehead.
Nora moved Liz’s hand to her lips, kissing, then holding it. “Thank you,” she said again. Then, looking shy and embarrassed, she said, “Would it be, I don’t know, rude, presumptuous, of me to ask you to sleep here? I mean right here, next to me? It’s not a very big bed so if you’d rather not, it’s okay. It’s childish, I know, but I don’t want to be alone, suddenly. I feel—I feel—I don’t know. Little, I guess, like I want to crawl into a hole. I didn’t feel anything before,” she said, sounding surprised, “but now I feel—that way. It’s a foolish request, though, I know and I…”
“Shh,” Liz said again, pulling her shoes off quickly and sliding onto the bed, taking Nora in her arms and cradling Nora’s head against her breast. “Not foolish at all,” she whispered. “Sleep now, love. Sleep.”
Nora closed her eyes and was soon breathing evenly and deeply.
But Liz stared into the rapidly brightening room. I called her “love,” she thought first. As if I was already used to it. Then she thought: Murder. I’ve been accused of murder.
Even though she knew by then that the police put more stock in Ralph’s mental state than in his accusation—indeed, had even seemed to suspect him when he’d balked at the autopsy the medical examiner told him he would have to perform—and even though the police had been apologetic when confiscating the leftover carrot cake and ice cream
, and even though she knew their search of the house and the barn had turned up nothing—no telltale vial of poison, not even any mouse or rat poison, although they had taken samples of some medication—even though the medical examiner had agreed that Corinne had probably died of a stroke—Liz felt herself shivering violently, and she moved away from Nora and sat in a chair so she wouldn’t disturb her. She tried relaxing her muscles, then tried holding herself rigid, then relaxing again till the shaking finally stopped enough for her to go back to Nora’s bed and fall into a restless sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By nine-thirty that same morning, Louise Brice had the story down pat.
“Good morning, Marie,” she said as soon as Marie Hastings answered the phone with a cheerful, “Good morning, the Parsonage.”
“Marie, I have some sad news and some disturbing news that I think you and Charles need to know before anyone else does and before you hear it from someone else or see it in the papers, which, inevitably, you will.”
“Goodness, Louise,” Marie answered; Louise was annoyed to hear water running and dishes clattering in the background. “Whatever can you mean? Charles is already working on next Sunday’s sermon.”
“No need to disturb him right away. Not till you know, anyway. Last night,” she said, speaking very clearly, “poor dear Corinne Tillot died.”
“Oh, no!” (Louise was glad to hear silence after one last ring of crockery against crockery; the running-water sound stopped abruptly.) “What a shame! Oh, that poor, poor girl! And Ralph! Whatever else one can say about him, he did dote on Corinne. Charles and I…”
“I know, I know. But the terrible thing”—Louise lowered her voice dramatically—“is that the police were involved. Henry picked up several police calls on his shortwave; you know, he spends simply hours out in the shed listening in to other people’s business, and…”
“Police?” Marie sounded bewildered. “Why on earth…”
“Because,” Louise explained with considerable relish, “of that girl, that erstwhile friend of Nora’s.”
“That nice summer person, Miss Hardy? But I don’t see…”
“Apparently, she was involved. Hurrying Corinne’s death along, or so the police seem to think.”
“What? But I don’t…”
“My dear, it’s not hard to understand, is it? First she befriends Nora, takes that poor girl out for drives and to her cabin and for all I know, to restaurants and movies and Lord knows what. Sucks up to her, I believe is the vulgar expression. It’s very likely, after all, that Ralph has money put by. But in any case, that woman has been luring Nora away.”
“But I still don’t see…” Marie Hastings’s voice hardened. “Louise, just exactly what did Henry hear?”
“First,” Louise said, probably unaware that she was settling into a comfortably gossipy tone—but Marie was aware—“first he heard the dispatcher call for the patrol car on duty to go to the Tillot place, and for any other available cars to go, too. Then he heard the dispatcher say there’d been what appeared to be a murder.
“A what?”
“You heard me. That’s exactly what Henry said to me he heard: that there ‘appeared to have been a murder.’ And that whoever went there should ‘use caution,’ that Ralph had called and said the accused perp, that’s perpetrator, of course, was still in the house and so was the daughter. Well, now who else can that have been but Miss Hardy? And anyway, later when I drove over there, I saw her car.”
“Louise, I just can’t…”
“I know, Marie, I can’t either. But one never knows, does one? Anyway, later the state police were called in—at least Henry heard something from one of them over his radio—something saying that they were on their way and that someone should call the medical examiner. Can you imagine?” she said with what sounded, to Marie’s horror, like satisfaction. “I always knew that Hardy woman was up to no good. Stepping in where she wasn’t wanted and filling poor Nora’s head full of goodness knows what. Anyway, I did think you and Charles should be the first to know.”
“Yes, certainly,” Marie said—stiffly, Louise thought. “I’ll tell Charles. We will of course go over there. Thank you for letting us know.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll call again if I hear any more.”
***
By around eleven, Helen Whipple had an eager crowd clustered around her counter in the Clarkston Post Office. There was so much chatter she couldn’t get a word in edgewise, as she put it to her husband later.
“I just can’t imagine her…”
“She used to play with my Betsy every summer!”
“…became a teacher in New York, I think. Some fancy school.”
“I wonder if she was after money, somehow. I hear those private schools don’t pay much.”
“Funny way to get it, I’d say. Besides, the Hardys had money, I always thought. Most summer people do, anyway.”
“You never can tell about people!”
“Poison, they think.”
“Yes, in the dinner. Roast beef, I think it was.”
“No, no, dessert. Some kind of cake.”
“Must’ve been rat poison.”
“No, that makes you dry up. Probably arsenic. Or strychnine.”
“They say she’s in jail now. You know, being held for questioning anyway.”
“Must be.”
“Who,” asked Roy Stark, coming into the post office for his mail, with Zeke trotting amiably behind him, “is in jail?”
The women, for the crowd was all female, fell silent and looked as one toward Helen.
“So far it’s just talk, Mr. Stark,” Helen said, scanning the crowd severely.
“Oh, it’s more than talk,” one of the women burst in. “It’s Liz Hardy. Surely you’ve met her, Mr. Stark, that New York woman who’s been staying in her family’s cabin on Yellowfin Lake.”
Roy, Helen thought, looked both amused and interested.
“Good grief, yes, I’ve met her. Nice woman. What’s she done?” he asked.
Maryann Loren, who lived down the main road from the Tillot farm, stepped closer to Roy, her eyes bright but her voice lowered, as if sharing a confidence. “Of course a person’s innocent till proven guilty.” She glanced at Helen as if for approval. “But they say she poisoned Corinne Tillot last night.”
Roy looked startled and his interest seemed to escalate; it made Helen uncomfortable. “Poisoned who?” he asked, his key poised in front of his post office box.
“Corinne Tillot,” several of the women chorused.
Roy turned. “Not that young woman from the farm?” he asked.
“No, no,” said Maryann. “Not Nora. Corinne. Nora’s mother. We live near Tillot Farm,” she explained to Roy. “You know, the old place tucked away down that really bumpy dirt road off the main road?”
“Yes, yes,” Roy said. “The crazy farm, the kids call it. A big house, no electricity, lots of land.”
“Around fifty acres,” Maryann said, nodding; Roy, Helen noticed, raised his eyebrows.
“Well, we’ve known the Tillots for ages, of course,” Maryann continued, “quiet people who’ve always kept to themselves. The parents are ill, and the daughter, Nora, poor thing, has cared for them for years, devotedly, I might add.” She glanced around again; the others nodded. “And last night my husband and I heard sirens and we saw flashing lights passing by.”
“Maybe she’ll sell the old place,” one of the other women said, “now that Corinne’s gone.”
“She certainly should,” Maryann agreed, nodding emphatically. “It wouldn’t be healthy, staying on with such memories. And Ralph’s bound to get worse. But mark my words, he’ll never hear of it. Nora will have to hold onto the place till he dies. Then I bet she’ll get out in a hurry, poor child.”
Roy’s eyes, Helen noticed, darted from woman to woman as the conversation about the possible fate of the farm continued excitedly near the counter.
But Maryann tugged at Roy’s
sleeve. “Ralph’s Corinne’s husband, Nora’s father,” she explained. “And apparently he told the police that Liz Hardy poisoned Corinne. Liz Hardy’s been seeing a lot of poor Nora all summer.”
Roy unlocked his post office box and pulled out a few envelopes. Helen couldn’t see his face when he spoke. “I’ve gotten to know Liz a little, and I can’t believe she’d do murder,” he told them all slowly. “You say she’s in custody?”
The Greek chorus of women nodded. “That’s what we heard,” one woman said.
“That’s just a rumor,” Helen said sternly. “We don’t know that for sure.”
“Well, maybe I’ll just go over to the police station and see.” Roy stuffed his mail into his jacket pocket, whistled to his dog, and strode out of the post office, leaving Helen and the other women staring after him.
“I heard he went out with that Hardy woman,” someone whispered. “Poor boy.”
“I think it must have been only once, though,” said someone else. “Clara Davis—you know, the Davises took him under their wing—Clara told me he couldn’t get anywhere with her. That she’s getting over a broken heart.”
“A broken heart will do a lot of things,” remarked Maryann, “but I don’t think it usually leads to murder. I daresay there’s more to the story than just that! I must say, I do wonder about the money angle.”
Helen Whipple had had about all the gossip she could take. “Nonsense,” she said crisply. “I’ve known Liz Hardy for years, summers, anyway, and so have some of you. This whole thing is utter nonsense.” Angrily she began stamping postmarks—the Clarkston Post Office wasn’t automated—on the outgoing mail.
