The Last of the Moon Girls

by Barbara Davis

  “Morning,” she mumbled through a mouthful of straight pins. “Where’ve you been?”

  “The attic.” Lizzy turned on the tap and scrubbed the grit from her hands, then measured out coffee and filled the carafe with water. “You want tea?”

  “Rather have my paper from off the stoop if it hasn’t disintegrated in all this rain.”

  “I might actually be able to manage both. It looks like the rain’s let up.”

  Lizzy put the kettle on and padded to the foyer. It had stopped raining, but the distant growl of thunder hinted at a fresh round of storms. She scooped up the Chronicle in its sopping plastic bag and gave it a shake, then straightened when she saw a silver Camry crawling up the drive. It stopped near the top and the engine went quiet. A moment later, the driver’s door opened and a rangy figure in khakis and a navy blazer emerged. Roger.

  He raised a hand as she approached. “Morning.”

  Lizzy managed a smile, but her mind was whirring. Where was Rhanna, and how would she explain Roger’s presence if she happened to turn up? But more intriguing was the possibility that he came because he’d found something.

  “I hope this means you have some news for me.”

  “Afraid not. I had breakfast with an old friend, and he told me about the fire. What happened?”

  Lizzy tucked the wet newspaper bag under her arm and leaned a hip against the Camry’s fender. “I woke up and smelled smoke. When I looked out the window, I saw flames.”

  “And?”

  “And they don’t think it was an accident,” she added grudgingly.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. There was evidence?”

  “A couple of milk bottles that were apparently filled with kerosene.”

  Roger pulled a pen and notepad from his blazer pocket and scribbled something down. When he looked up again, his face was set. “You understand what’s happening, right? The note. Now the fire?”

  “Yeah. I get it.”

  “Any thoughts on who might be behind it?”

  “No, but I’ve obviously gotten under someone’s skin. A few days before the fire, I went to see a woman who works at the high school—Mrs. Ryerson. I thought she might remember some of the kids Heather Gilman hung around with. It’s possible that whoever set the fire knows I spoke to her—and wants me to know they know.”

  “Right. I’ll touch base with Guy McCardle, see what he knows.”

  Lizzy squinted at him. “So you’re officially working the case now?”

  “Officially? No. But yes. I’m not calling it a case—yet—but it is something.”

  “What about your notes? Any luck there?”

  “I’m going through them when I can, but I’ve been in and out of town with work.” He paused to scribble in his notebook again. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to back off for a while, and leave the sleuthing to me?”

  “I’ve talked to one of Heather’s friends, Mrs. Ryerson from the cafeteria, Susan Gilman, and Fred Gilman, and all I can say for sure is that the Gilmans were in no danger of winning family of the year. Short of going door to door, I honestly don’t know where to go next, so by all means sleuth away.”

  “Good then. I’ll be in touch.” He walked back around to the driver’s side but paused before getting in. “Do me a favor and keep your eyes open. So far, no one’s been hurt. You might not be so lucky next time.”

  Lizzy suppressed a shudder as she turned back toward the house. She didn’t want to think about a next time.

  Inside, the kettle had begun to hiss. She stripped the Chronicle out of its bag and dropped it on the table, then filled a mug with hot water and added a spoon and a bag of Earl Grey for Evvie.

  “Your tea, milady,” she announced poshly as she set the mug in front of Evvie. “Oops, forgot the honey.”

  When she returned with the jar, Evvie was scanning the front page of the paper. She looked up, her expression somber.

  Lizzy eyed her warily. “What?”

  Evvie laid the paper flat, pointing to the front page headline.

  ARSON SUSPECTED IN LOCAL FIRE

  Salem Creek authorities have launched an investigation into a fire that occurred at Moon Girl Farm just before midnight on Saturday, August 7. The blaze is thought to have started in a small shed, then spread to the nearby apple orchard. There were no reported injuries, but significant damage occurred before crews were able to bring the fire under control. The cause of the blaze is not yet known, but the remnants of two incendiary devices have been forwarded to the state lab for analysis. It’s not the first time Moon Girl Farm has been in the news. In November 2012, the bodies of two teenage girls, Darcy and Heather Gilman, were discovered in a pond on the property. The murders remain unsolved, but suspicions swirled around Althea Moon, owner of the farm at the time. The recent return of granddaughter Elzibeth (Lizzy) Moon has sparked speculation that the fire is a result of renewed tensions. Sources report police are also investigating an earlier incident involving a straw doll and an unsigned note. Authorities are now considering the note a potential threat. One local woman, who asked that her name not be used, voiced her opinion on the possibility that the fire and the Gilman case might be connected. “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. You can’t come back after all that time and stir up trouble, and not expect it to come back on you.” Attempts to contact the Gilmans for comment have been unsuccessful.

  Lizzy pushed the paper back across the table with a sigh. “I suppose hoping Rhanna wouldn’t find out about all this was too much to ask. Have you seen her?”

  Evvie shook her head. “She’s been in her room all morning, listening to that awful racket of hers. But you’re right. She’ll hear the talk soon enough. You can’t blow your nose in this town without somebody running their mouth about it.”

  She was right. When it came to news, the Chronicle had nothing on the Salem Creek grapevine. Rhanna would hear it all—the doll, the note, the rumors that were apparently already beginning to bubble—and it wouldn’t be pretty when she did. The best she could hope for was to control how and when Rhanna heard the news.

  “Right then,” Lizzy said, picking up the paper. “I’d better go fill her in on what’s been happening.”

  Rhanna’s bedroom door was closed, a mix of Joplin and patchouli incense bleeding out into the hall from beneath the door. Lizzy tucked the folded Chronicle under her arm and knocked.

  “Come,” Rhanna called over the gritty strains of “Piece of My Heart.”

  Lizzy experienced a wave of déjà vu as she stepped into the room. Artist grotto meets head shop was how Rhanna had once described it. The walls were still apple green, still decorated with black-light posters and bits of beaded macramé. On the dresser, amid a puddle of tie-dyed scarves, a lava lamp undulated with bright orange goo.

  “Hey,” Rhanna said sheepishly. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a spill of paint tubes and colored pencils.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Laying low, mostly. I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to get all wiggy and then walk out. I just . . . It’s still hard sometimes. But I went out this morning and checked on the soap. It looks good. I think we can pull them later on.”

  Lizzy nodded, distracted.

  “I’m trying, Lizzy. I really am.”

  “I know you are.”

  “So . . . am I out?”

  “No,” Lizzy said evenly. “You’re not out. But we need to talk.”

  Rhanna’s smile evaporated. She reached over and lifted the arm on the record player. Janis went silent. “Okay.”

  Lizzy sat on the edge of the unmade bed. “I need to fill you in on some things that have been going on, and I need you to listen to me and not say anything until I’m finished. Can you do that?”

  Rhanna clamped her lips tight and nodded.

  “There’s something I should have told you before now. Since I’ve been back, I’ve been looking into what actually happened the night Heather and Darcy Gilman disappe
ared. It isn’t why I came back, but when I saw the pond again, I knew it was something I needed to do.”

  At the mention of the pond Rhanna had grown visibly pale. Lizzy paused, waiting for some kind of response. When none came, she continued. “I went to see Randall Summers. He told me I was wasting my time, that in essence there was no investigation, and I should leave it alone. But I couldn’t. Andrew hooked me up with a detective, an ex–Salem Creek cop who actually worked the case. You might remember him. His name is Roger Coleman.”

  Rhanna sat eerily still, but managed a nod.

  “Things he said make me question how seriously the police took the investigation, things about Randall Summers. He still has all his notes from the case. He’s been combing through them, looking for anything they might have missed. In the meantime, I’ve been doing a little sleuthing of my own.”

  Rhanna’s mouth dropped open. “You what?”

  “I’ve been asking questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “I met with Susan Gilman. I wanted to know about her husband, what kind of father he was, and if she thought he could have hurt their daughters. She doesn’t, but I’m not so sure. I paid him a visit, and to say he’s not a nice man is putting it mildly.”

  “Lizzy, why haven’t you told me any of this until now?”

  Lizzy looked down at her hands. It was time to be honest, brutally so if necessary. “I didn’t want you to get . . . how you get. I can’t afford one of your meltdowns while I’m trying to do this. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re not exactly popular around here.”

  “I suppose that’s valid,” Rhanna said after a brief but stony silence. “So why tell me now? What’s changed?”

  Lizzy pulled the newspaper from beneath her arm, unfolded it, and handed it to Rhanna. “There’s an article in this morning’s paper about the fire.”

  Rhanna scanned the article, her hand slowly creeping to her throat. “Oh god . . .”

  “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “They’re saying . . .”

  “They think the fire might have been set by someone who wanted me to stop asking questions.”

  Rhanna stared at her, her expression a blend of confusion and panic. “You never said anything about a doll or a note.”

  “It happened right after I went to see Summers, so the timing’s suspicious.”

  Rhanna’s eyes went wide and glassy, her arms folded tight to her chest. “Peter, Paul, and Mary . . .”

  “They’re just trying to scare me into letting it go.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  “I need to know what happened.”

  “Althea’s gone, Lizzy. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  “I know. But I can change what people think. I can change how they remember her. How they remember all of us.”

  Rhanna shook her head, eyes squeezed tight, like a petulant child shutting out a parent. “I don’t care what people think. I can’t go through that again.” She was rocking now, beginning to unravel.

  Lizzy reached for her hand but caught herself in time. Touching her would only make things worse. “Rhanna,” she said slowly and clearly. “I need you to keep it together. Can you do that?” She paused, but received no response. “If you can’t, maybe you should leave, because I need to do this. I am doing this.”

  “Not again,” Rhanna whimpered, as if she hadn’t heard. “Please. Please. Not again.”

  Lizzy smothered a groan, caught between sympathy and impatience. “I don’t understand. You can’t go through what again?”

  A pair of tears escaped as Rhanna reopened her eyes. She wiped them away with a shuddering breath. “Will you go with me somewhere?”

  Lizzy blinked at her. “Go with you where?”

  “Please.” A fresh swell of tears pooled in her eyes. “Have I ever asked you to do anything for me? Ever?”

  “No,” Lizzy said, realizing it was true. “You haven’t.”

  “Get your keys then. We’ll take your car.”

  Lizzy turned to look at the window. The rain had started again, fat drops pelting the panes with heavy splats. “We’re going now? In this?”

  “Yes. Right now.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  The rain was coming down in buckets by the time Rhanna slid into the passenger seat of Lizzy’s car, her purse clutched against an oversize denim jacket.

  “Seat belt,” Lizzy reminded her as she backed down the drive. “And tell me where I’m going.”

  “Go to the bottom of the hill. I’ll tell you where to turn when it’s time.”

  Lizzy’s patience was already beginning to fray. “What’s going on, Rhanna? Where are we going? And why in the world do we have to go now?”

  Rhanna stared at the windshield, unblinking. “There’s something I should have told you too. Something terrible.”

  Lizzy slid her a look, feeling the old familiar dread. She’d seen her mother in every state imaginable over the years—drunk, high, and just plain crazy—but never like this. Never terrified. “Talk to me, Rhanna. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “You need to turn here.”

  Lizzy glanced at the street sign: OLD STAGE ROAD. “There’s nothing up here but the cemetery.”

  “I know.”

  “Rhanna—”

  “Go to the end and stop the car.”

  Lizzy did as she was told, parking just outside the cemetery gates. Granite monuments dark with rain stretched in all directions. They were spaced at irregular intervals, and varied in shape and size, giving them an oddly haphazard feel, like an ill-planned garden.

  “All right,” Lizzy said, over the slap of the wipers. “We’re here. Now tell me why.”

  Before Lizzy knew what was happening, Rhanna was out of the car, lurching out into the cold, gray rain. Lizzy fumbled with her seat belt and set out after her. “What are you . . . Rhanna! Where are you going?”

  She was soaked in seconds, struggling to see through the near-blinding rain. Rhanna was already through the gates, wending her way between the gravestones like a woman on a mission. Lizzy scrambled to catch up, slipping twice on the rain-slick grass. Finally, Rhanna stopped, coming to such an abrupt halt that Lizzy nearly piled into the back of her.

  “Are you crazy? What are you . . .” Lizzy’s voice trailed off as she followed Rhanna’s gaze.

  HEATHER & DARCY GILMAN.

  BELOVED DAUGHTERS OF FRED AND CHRISTINA GILMAN

  SISTERS IN LIFE AND IN DEATH.

  Rhanna stood motionless, rain dripping from her nose and chin. “They were buried together,” she said finally, over the steady drumming of rain. “In one coffin. Did you know that?”

  Lizzy felt a chill crawl down her back. “What are we doing here, Rhanna?”

  “It was white. Covered with baby’s breath and pink roses. It rained that day too.”

  Lizzy blinked at her, stunned. Rose petals and wet earth. “You were here. The afternoon of the funeral, when you disappeared—this is where you were. You came home drenched and wasted, and never said a word.”

  Rhanna was shivering now, her gaze still locked on the headstone. “I had to come. I watched from a distance so no one would see me, but I had to come.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it was my fault.”

  Lizzy went cold all over. “What was your fault?”

  “All of it. Them. The water.” She buried her face in her hands then, shoulders heaving. “I just . . . I had to see it finished.”

  “See what finished? What are you saying?” Lizzy grabbed both sleeves of her jacket, and yanked her hands from her face. “Look at me! See what finished?”

  Rhanna stared back, gray eyes wide and unseeing.

  She was somewhere else, Lizzy realized. Somewhere terrible. And she had no idea how to pull her back. But standing in the rain wasn’t going to help. She grabbed a fistful of drenched denim, saying nothing as they marched through the gate and back to the car.

  Rhanna remained mute a
s Lizzy opened the car door and gave her a shove. She landed in the passenger seat like a sack of seed, and was still staring blindly when Lizzy slid behind the wheel. Her skin was a pasty shade of gray, her teeth clenched tight to keep them from chattering.

  Lizzy reached for the sweater she kept in the back seat and tucked it around Rhanna’s shoulders. “It’s okay,” she said, rubbing Rhanna’s arms briskly. “You’re okay.”

  Rhanna blinked heavily, as if coming out of a deep sleep. “We’re in the car.”

  “Yes. And I need you to pull yourself together. Can you do that?”

  Rhanna shoved a hank of wet hair off her face, then nodded groggily.

  Lizzy exhaled for what felt like the first time since arriving at the cemetery. The smell of roses was so strong in the shut-up car it nearly made her queasy. This was what she had picked up when Rhanna first arrived. The smell of the cemetery and funeral flowers. The smell of death.

  “All right, Rhanna. I need you to explain some things for me. What did you mean when you said you needed to see it finished? What exactly did you need to see finished?”

  Rhanna’s eyes were glazed and slow to respond. It was how she used to come home sometimes, after a night of heavy partying, dulled by whatever combination of goodies she’d managed to score from friends. But there was no slurring now, no sharp reek of alcohol oozing from her pores. There was only fear.

  “What haven’t you told me, Rhanna?”

  Rhanna sucked in a ragged breath and sagged against the seat. After a moment, her head swiveled in Lizzy’s direction. “Do you want to know why I left? Why I really left?”

  Lizzy swallowed uneasily. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she did want to know.

  “I see things, Lizzy,” she said, closing her eyes. “Awful things no one should see.”

  Lizzy waited for the rest, afraid to push. The seconds ticked by as the rain continued to pelt the car roof. The windows began to fog.

  “I see how people die,” Rhanna said finally.

  The hair on Lizzy’s arms prickled to attention. “How people . . . die?”

  “When I was a girl—fourteen, I think—Althea and I were downtown at the green. It was Easter Sunday, and there was an Easter egg hunt. There were kids everywhere, all dressed up in their new clothes. They were having so much fun. There was this little girl, a tiny thing in a stroller. She had these big blue eyes and strawberry-blonde curls. I can still see her face.” Her gaze slid to her lap, her voice little more than a whisper. “I can see all their faces.”