Spinning the Moon

by Karen White

  * * *

  The town of Saint Francisville remained relatively unchanged in the years since I had last seen it. Because it had not been in the direct line of marching troops, it was virtually unscathed by the recent war. However, as was evidenced by the boarded shops and flaking paint on some of the buildings, the changing fortunes of many of the townspeople were clear. Because of the new military rule descending on Louisiana, soldiers wearing the dreaded dark blue of the Federal Army marched around the town square, the weathered storefronts frowning darkly down upon them at the town’s new fate.

  The Stars and Stripes flew over the town hall, filling me temporarily with dread. I held tightly to John’s hand as he helped me down from the buggy, feeling strangely relieved that he was here with me. Our gazes met briefly as he placed me on the ground, and I thought I recognized relief in his eyes, too.

  While John was escorted into another office, I was led into the chambers of the town magistrate, an officer named Major Brody who had kind brown eyes and a warm countenance that calmed me despite the navy blue uniform. He waited for me to be seated before seating himself and calling for refreshments. I wondered briefly if John was being afforded the same treatment. I recalled the respectful greetings of the other officers in the building, many who seemed to recognize John and hold him in high regard, and I knew that he was among friends. I wished only that I could feel the same way.

  The interrogation lasted almost an hour, each question asked with a gentle regard for my feelings. I answered each as best I could, explaining that I had not been in contact with my sister in almost seven years. I did not imagine I had been able to help much with the investigation, and wondered at my own hesitation to offer possible motives for Elizabeth’s death.

  As Major Brody stood to dismiss me, he asked one last question. “Mrs. Reed. How is it that you found yourself at your sister’s house? I believe you live on Saint Simons Island.”

  “Yes, that is true. But since I had not seen my sister in so long, I was quite desperate to see her.” I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid. I shut out my sister’s words, seeing instead the dark eyes of John McMahon and listening to his denial that he had anything to do with his wife’s death. I imagined him again with Rebecca, his smile soft and warm, and knew I could not tell this man about Elizabeth’s letter and turn their attention in the direction Elizabeth might have been planning all along.

  Major Brody nodded. “I see. So you would not have known that she harbored thoughts of taking her own life.”

  I held my breath for a moment. “No. Never. My sister would never have contemplated such a thing.” I hoped that my doubts at my own words were not detected. Elizabeth’s heart harbored many shadows, and I would never know how dark some of them lay. I held the man’s gaze. “She . . . She was expecting a child. Dr. Daniel Lewiston told us yesterday. Elizabeth had been to see him the day before she vanished.”

  “A double tragedy for your brother-in-law, to be sure.”

  I could do nothing but nod. Would the mere existence of an unwanted child be enough for Elizabeth to end her own life? Or could having proof of a wife’s infidelity drive a man to murder? I could not point an accusatory finger at John. Nor could I sully the reputation of my dead sister. Perhaps John was right. There were secrets best buried and forgotten.

  The major showed me to the door. “If you think of anything, please do not hesitate to contact me. I am most sorry.” With a gallant bow, he dismissed me.

  John stood waiting for me in the corridor, his tall frame nearly blocking the light from the large smudged window at the end of the hallway. Without a word, he offered me his arm and led me down the steps and outside into the hot afternoon sunshine. He helped me into the buggy and then we set off, the silence between us almost palpable.

  Just as we cleared the outskirts of Saint Francisville, the buggy jolted over a rock. Something, presumably tucked under the seat and out of sight, was loosened and cascaded into the back of my shoes. I looked down and picked up the object, holding it gingerly between my fingers.

  It appeared to be part of a wasp’s nest mixed with long strands of dark horsehair. It lay on a small square of red silk, the fabric marred with smudges of dirt. It seemed to carry with it the scent of sun-scorched earth and grass as I held it, feeling the brittle weight of it in my hands. “What is it?”

  John’s gaze swept from my hands to my eyes before he pulled off the road, parking the buggy behind a live oak, obscuring us from any possible passersby. Before I could question him further, he reached under the seat and pulled out a man’s leather glove.

  His eyes darkened as he regarded me, and I shivered in the heat as if a dark cloud had covered the sun. “I found it clenched in Elizabeth’s hand when I found her. I think that’s what made Rufus so crazy—he called it bad gris-gris.”

  Lowering the bundle into my lap, I began to cover it in the red silk. “Who do you think put it there?”

  He paused for a moment before answering. “Elizabeth.”

  I stared at him. “Elizabeth? Why would she do that?”

  He held up the glove. “For the same reason she placed my glove near where her body was found. The red silk is from a handkerchief of mine, and I have no doubt that the dark horsehair came from my horse. She wanted it to look like I had been at least involved in or even responsible for her death.”

  I blinked in the strong sun, noticing the stillness of the trees around us. No breeze stirred a single leaf nor teased my cheeks. The air sat heavily on my shoulders and I could barely move. “So, you also believe that she took her own life.”

  He sat as still as the air around him, the heat swirling over his broad shoulders like an aura. “I am quite certain of it. A week before she disappeared, we had one of our arguments. We were standing in Rebecca’s room, arguing over something I cannot even remember.” He took a deep breath. “She told me she would rather die than live another day here with me. She said she would leave this place even if she had to take her own life to do it.”

  I thought back on Elizabeth’s note to me. Was this what Elizabeth had been so afraid of—that whatever desperation had grabbed her soul was bringing her to the brink of suicide? I clenched my eyes, unwilling to look at the despair that had hovered so close to my own soul since Jamie’s death. I could not blame Elizabeth for her desperate act; I knew the temptation far too well.

  We sat in silence and breathed in the heated air, watching the gnats flit around us. Finally, John looked down at the red-wrapped bundle and held out his hand to show me the glove. He gave a short bark of laughter. “Her final act of revenge against the man who could never give her what she really wanted—whatever that happened to be.

  “It is presumed she took poison—something that is hard to detect and had some sort of preservation qualities to it. This would explain the good condition of her body. Your sister was known to dabble in . . . such things, and would know which one to use.” He shook his head. “So vain—even in death. But I would not have expected any less from her.” He looked at me closely, and I did not flinch. “I have convinced them to list the cause of death as unknown. That will be easy to accept, since nobody had any real motivation to kill Elizabeth. Except for me, of course.”

  I swallowed but did not look away. “And what of the father of her child? Would he have had a motive?”

  John shrugged, staring off into the distance. “It could have been anyone. Elizabeth traveled to Baton Rouge quite frequently. I was not aware of any one lover in particular. Besides, his secret would have been carefully kept. Elizabeth had too much to lose if the truth were known.”

  A stab of guilt assailed me. “Why did you hide this from the authorities? Do you not think they should know?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow. “Know for certain that she had killed herself and implicated her husband? I could not do that to Rebecca. I believe the authorities know all they need to.”

&nb
sp; Our gazes met, and I am not sure if what he saw in my eyes was a look of accusation or an offer of collaboration. With a sudden movement, he grabbed the evil charm from my lap and threw it far from the buggy. It landed in a patch of dried brown grass, the red silk glaring with reproach.

  I stood, but he pulled me down with his arm. “It is foolish nonsense, Catherine, and I will not allow my family to be tainted with it. It had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s death, and I will not give it any credence by bringing it to the authorities.” He placed his face so close to mine, I could feel his hot breath on my cheeks. “I have Rebecca’s future to consider. I will not let what has happened spoil her chances for a happy life. Her mother is dead. Let us bury her and move on with our lives.”

  Shaking off his hold, I shot back at him, my words harsh. “You forget, sir, that Elizabeth was my sister. I shall not bury her and forget her as you would wish me to.”

  His voice softened. “That was not my intent. I expect you to grieve. I am merely thinking of Rebecca’s happiness. As her father and as her aunt, I believe we both need to do whatever we can to make things go easily for her. Having it be known that her mother committed suicide would be detrimental. She has not had an easy childhood so far.”

  I sat back on the seat, recognizing the truth of his words and wondering, too, how easily he allayed my doubts. He grabbed the reins again, and I found myself mesmerized by his hands and unable to turn away. Beneath the bronzed skin lay a gentleness hidden by incredible strength. I hoped I would never be the recipient of either one.

  I stared straight ahead as the buggy made its way back onto the road. “You seem to know my weaknesses, do you not? You know that I would do whatever possible to protect a child. How very clever of you.”

  The buggy lurched, and I found myself again pinned to his side. He reached his arm around me, his hand pressing into my shoulder. “I am not trying to be clever. I am merely protecting my interests, my daughter being the primary one.”

  I pulled away, strangely reluctant to leave the warmth of his touch. I recalled again the scent on his coat of freshly turned earth, and I wondered at my willingness to so easily place my trust in him.

  We rode in silence for a short while before John spoke. “You did not flinch when I showed you the gris-gris. You are not afraid of much, are you?”

  Splaying my hands wide on my lap, I stared at the fine leather and perfect seams of Elizabeth’s gloves. “Water. I seem to have developed a fear of deep water.”

  He turned to me, his face compassionate, and I looked away. “My son, Jamie—he drowned, you see. I was with him, painting on the beach. He was not supposed to go into the water. He was too young and not yet a strong swimmer.” Closing my eyes, I could almost feel the sand beneath my feet and hear the gentle lap of the ocean. “I had taught him to swim, against Robert’s wishes, and Jamie thought he could go by himself.” I forced a smile, recalling my beautiful boy with dark hair and vivid blue eyes, so much like Rebecca’s. “He was so strong-willed. He thought he would show me himself what a good swimmer he was.” I stopped speaking, trying to find my breath, my lungs constricting tightly.

  John placed a hand gently on top of mine. The reassurance restored my voice, and I continued. “He was so far out when I heard him shout. I dove in as quickly as I could, but my skirts were so heavy and I could not move. He shouted for me one more time, and then I heard nothing else.” I clenched my eyes shut, willing the tears to go away. I wanted to be through with them. They stole my soul and sapped my will for living. John squeezed my hand, and I continued. “We never found his body. The currents can be so strong and . . .” My voice disappeared, caught in the dark undertow of my haunted memory. I focused on the creak and groan of the buggy, waiting to find my voice again.

  Quietly, I said, “All I have to remind me of him is a small marker in Christ Church Cemetery in Saint Simons.”

  I pulled my hand away from John’s and stared out over the unforgiving waters of the Mississippi River. “When Robert returned home from the war and found out what had happened, I think he went slightly mad. I almost felt as if his anger at me for letting it happen was even greater than his grief at losing his son.” I took a deep breath, seeing again the growing red stain on the bedsheets. “He took his own life.”

  John swore under his breath, causing me to lift my eyes to his face. It was covered in a dark scowl, and for a moment I believed it to be directed at me. Flicking the reins harshly, he said only one word: “Coward.”

  The buggy rumbled at the increased pace, and I found myself clutching John’s sleeve until we reached the lane of oaks approaching the house. The suspended bottles in the trees sparkled with new meaning as they tinkled against one another in the humid breeze. We came to a stop under the porte cochere, and Mr. O’Rourke came to fetch the buggy.

  I found myself weary down to my bones and craving nothing more than to lie down in my darkened room. I stared up at the house, wanting to feel reassurance or, at least, a welcoming, but felt nothing except an unspoken foreboding as I looked up at the empty windows. We climbed the steps, each one a real effort. As we approached the front door, my arm was jerked back and I found myself pressed against John.

  I turned to question his behavior and saw him staring at the floorboards in front of the door. There, glistening in sun filtering between the oak leaves and Spanish moss, lay a cross molded out of what appeared to be salt.

  I wanted to take a step back, but John held firmly to my arm. With an oath, he swiped his booted foot over the cross, scattering the white flakes. The sound of scurrying feet came from beyond the door, and he jerked it open, letting it crash against the wall. We stood in the threshold of the empty foyer, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the dimness. It was then that I saw her. I blinked, staring at the mirror in the foyer and into the eyes of my dead sister.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Dear God.” John’s voice held in check a burning animosity, and I reached for his hand.

  He took it, then pulled me close to him, but I pushed away, mesmerized by the frozen image in the mirror. I blinked, marveling at the vivid blue of her eyes—the same shade as the midnight blue of her dress.

  Swiveling on my heels, I turned to face the full-length portrait of my sister, now inexplicably leaning against the wall in the foyer and facing the mirror.

  John swore under his breath, then moved swiftly across the floor. With both arms he gripped the top of the frame and pulled the portrait from the wall, stepping back to let it fall, facedown, onto the bloodred rug. It landed with such force that thick clouds of dust puffed out of the carpet, rising like a specter in the filtered sun from the open door. A large fissure cut through the gilded wood of the frame, neatly splitting it in half. Yet the canvas seemed undamaged.

  “Marguerite!” John’s voice bellowed up the stairs and throughout the house, and I prayed that Rebecca was not near to see her father’s fury. I had never witnessed such anger, nor did I wish to ever be on the receiving end of it. I thought briefly of Elizabeth and wondered whether she had ever borne the brunt of her husband’s wrath. Without being aware of it, I pressed myself against the console, the mirror at my back, as I watched Marguerite approach.

  She lowered her eyes as she came to stand in front of John, but not before I noticed those strange green eyes full of knowing and completely without remorse, flouting his anger. Watching him closely, I saw him struggle to curb his emotions. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides while he took deep breaths, his jawbones working furiously.

  A deep red stain on his face belied the calmness of his words as he spoke to her. “I thought I asked you to get Rufus to remove this portrait from the house. Why is it here, of all places?”

  Her tone didn’t match her apologetic words. “I am sorry, sir. You just told me to get it out of your room, and I did.”

  John closed his eyes as if calling his anger in check. “I want it out of
the house. In a barn or cellar, I do not care—just get it out of this house!”

  “Yes, sir. I am sorry, sir.” Marguerite bowed her head, but I could see her lips upturned in a smile.

  John took a step closer. “And are you the person responsible for the salt cross on the porch?”

  She lifted her head, her proud chin raised, her expression blank. “Yes, sir. To keep the evil out of this house.” With deliberate slowness, she leveled her gaze on me. “Evil is easily disguised sometimes.”

  John closed his mouth, his lips a straight, unforgiving line. “You are employed here solely as a favor to the Lewistons. But your refusal to do as you are asked could very well be cause enough to send you packing. Consider this a warning. I will not hesitate to dismiss you should you disregard my orders again.”

  Marguerite stayed firm, her voice calm. “I do not think so, Mr. McMahon. You and I know it is in both our best interests that I stay here.”

  His long bronzed fingers clenched and unclenched again, his fury so close to the surface as to make the air palpable. “Get out of my sight. Now.”

  With a mocking bow, Marguerite left the room.

  My fingers hurt, and I realized it was from clutching the edge of the console. Ignoring John, I walked over to the broken portrait and knelt on the floor, my finger tracing the jagged tear in the wood.

  “She is not even buried, yet you are erasing her presence already. Have you no compassion?”

  I felt his shadow upon me, but I did not look up when he spoke. “I wish I could tell you. . . .”

  I looked up then but found his face guarded, the anger dissipating as he regarded me, but his black eyes hid his emotions. “Tell me what? That Marguerite knows something that you do not wish for others to know? You are hiding things from me.”

  He lowered himself next to me, and our gazes met. “Whatever you suspect my motives to be, be assured that protecting you and Rebecca is my highest priority. I could not save my wife from the demons that haunted her, but perhaps in you and my daughter I have been given another chance.”