And then, in the middle of June, the sheriff showed up again. Cranmer Stark had driven Sidonia to Memphis to consult a nerve-specialist; taking advantage of their absence—and desperate for something to keep herself occupied against the watchfulness filling the house—Lilah was washing the curtains, and she had to rinse soap suds off her hands before she could answer the door.
“Mrs. Collier,” the sheriff said.
Lilah only realized after she’d done it that she’d glanced at the height of the sun in the sky, only realized it as she was thinking, We got another two hours before it really gets bad. “Sheriff Patterson,” she said, controlling the impulse to weep with gratitude at the sight of another human face, the sound of another human voice. “They ai—Mr. and Mrs. Stark aren’t home.”
“I know that. I don’t want to talk to them. May I come in?”
Oh, thank God, Lilah thought. Even being arrested for murder would be better than being alone in the Stark house any longer. “Come on back to the kitchen. You want some coffee?”
“You’re a good woman, Mrs. Collier. I’d love some.”
So Lilah made coffee, and the sheriff sat at the kitchen table, looking at the clean counters and the sultanas on the windowsill.
“What can I do for you, sheriff?” Lilah said when she’d given him the coffee and sat down herself.
“I ain’t suspecting you, Mrs. Collier,” he said, “but I want to ask you again about April eighth.”
“You can ask, sheriff, but I can’t give you no new answers.”
“I just want to hear it again.” He sipped the coffee. His eyebrows went up appreciatively, and he said, “I do wish you’d give lessons to my wife. Now. April eighth.”
“There was a dinner party.”
“Who?”
“High society folks,” Lilah said and shrugged. “Three married couples, and a couple men on their own, and Mrs. Stark’s cousin Renee from Oxford, and the lady who owns the gravel pit.”
“Miss Baldwin, then. So what happened?”
“I did dinner. Or-derves and soup and salad and beef burgundy and a chocolate mousse. The party seemed pretty happy. Nobody fighting or nothing.”
“When’d you leave?”
Lilah thought back. “Everybody was gone by ten, and I was doing the washing up—I can’t abide to leave it overnight—when Mr. Stark comes in and says, ‘You had a long day, Lilah. Why don’t I run you home?’ ”
“Did he? Had he ever done that before?”
“No, sir.”
“Done it since?”
“No, sir.”
“Could you tell me about what time that was?”
“ ’Levenish, I’d guess. I’d got all the big stuff done, and I was just as happy not to have to walk. So I said, ‘Them plates’ll keep,’ and he drove me home. Sheriff, what is it you’re after?”
“Now, just bear with me. Tell me again when the last time you saw Jonathan Stark was?”
“I took up his dinner at five, I guess. His mama was in with him, showing him her pretty dress and letting him smell her perfume. So I put the tray on that big deal table they got in his room and went back down. Then, I guess it was six-thirty or so, I’d got the soup simmering and the beef in the oven, and the mousse to chill in the ice-box, and there wasn’t nothing more I could do for another fifteen minutes at least, so I went back up for the tray.”
“And he was there.”
“Yes, sir. And alive. He was sitting up in bed and hanging on to that ratty toy bunny that drove Mr. Stark so wild.”
“Did he say anything?”
“His mama was on him pretty sharp about not talking to me or Mr. Wilmot who comes about the lawns and such. He did say good night, but I think that was it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why? I mean . . . ”
“Excepting his mama, you seem to be the last person who saw or spoke to Jonathan Stark. And, forgive me for saying it—and please don’t repeat it—we ain’t getting no manner of help out of his mama at all.”
“She’s a pretty nervous lady.”
“She says she can’t remember nothing about that Saturday morning. Not what he was wearing, not what they said to each other—and I can’t believe that a boy and his mama could walk to Humphreys Park without a single word being passed between them.”
“D’you think she’s lying?”
“I don’t know. Like you say, she’s a nervous lady. But she ain’t helping. And, Mrs. Collier, I got to say, I don’t think this is a kidnapping.”
“You think he’s dead.” Lilah’s hands were ice-cold, and she was thinking of that feeling in the house, that feeling of being watched that got worse as the day darkened.
“I’m afraid he’s dead. Did he say anything to you? Anything at all, even if it don’t seem important.” He held a hand up. “I know if it’d seemed important, you would’ve told me at the time. But anything.”
“God, sheriff, let me think.” Lilah forced her mind off the emptiness of the house and back to that Friday night. “I was in a hurry, and I wasn’t paying much heed to Mr. Jonathan. Sometimes kids say things, you know, and you answer ’em, but you ain’t rightly listening?”
“Yeah,” the sheriff said heavily. “I know.”
“I could smack myself for it now. But we both knew he wasn’t supposed to talk to me, and he was a quiet little boy anyways. Never said much at all.”
“Mrs. Collier—”
“I’m trying. Lemme think. I came in and said, ‘You done, Mr. Jonathan?’ And he said, ‘Yes, Mrs. Collier.’ The tray was on the table where I’d left it. He was in bed, with his rabbit.”
“What was he wearing?”
“His pajamas, I think. Blue striped.” She shut her eyes, to remember better. “I went over to pick up the tray . . . and he did say something. Christ Jesus, I can hear his voice in my mind, but I can’t remember the words.”
“Was it about the party? About his parents?”
“It was about his mama looking so pretty,” Lilah said and opened her eyes. “That’s what he said. He said, ‘My mama’s the prettiest lady in town.’ ”
She took a deep breath. “I said, ‘Yes, Mr. Jonathan,’ because, well, I wasn’t giving her no competition. And he said, ‘Do you think Daddy thinks so?’ And I said, ‘I’m sure he does, Mr. Jonathan.’ And then I said good night and he said good night, and I went out the door. I’m sorry, sheriff. That don’t help you much.”
The sheriff said, “And you never saw him again?”
“No, sir, like I said. Saturdays I don’t come in ’til noon, and they were already gone.”
“Would Mrs. Stark have gotten the boy his lunch?”
“Lunch?” Lilah said blankly.
“You do the cooking, don’t you, Mrs. Collier?”
“Well, yes, sir. ’Cept Saturday morning, but I think Mr. Stark mostly takes ’em out to the Magnolia Tree.”
“Magnolia Tree,” the sheriff said, making a note. “And for Saturday lunch?”
“Well, I do that. Baked eggs at one o’clock, regular as clockwork. That’s how Mr. Stark is.”
“Did they go out to the Magnolia Tree on the ninth?”
“I don’t know, sheriff.”
“Where was Mr. Stark that Saturday? Do you know?”
Lilah could feel her eyes widening, and her mouth was dry as cotton. “I don’t know, sheriff. Cross my heart and hope to die, I don’t got no idea.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Collier. I got one other question, and you can say no, and that’s just fine.”
“What is it?”
“I’d like to see Jonathan’s room. I don’t got a warrant, and you’re within your rights to refuse.”
“This ain’t my house. I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do. But ain’t it illegal for you to go wandering around without Mr. Stark says it’s okay?”
“Mr. Stark says he don’t want his wife bothered, and he says since Jonathan was kidnapped out of Humphreys Park, there ain’t no point in me mucking up
his boy’s room. Mr. Stark ain’t gonna say it’s okay until sometime after Hell freezes over. But I’d dearly like to look.”
Although raised to distrust and dislike the police, Lilah Collier had been alone or almost alone in that house for over two months, and she was quick enough to see where the trend of the sheriff’s questions was leading. She said, “Okay, but if he finds out, I was at the grocery store and you just walked in.”
“That’s fine, Mrs. Collier. You don’t have to come with me.”
“I think we might both be happier if I did. This way, sheriff.”
They climbed the stairs together. The sheriff said, “Mrs. Collier, are you the only help the Starks have?”
“Me and Mr. Wilmot, who comes on Tuesdays to do the lawns and the flowerbeds. Why?”
“No reason.” But he was looking around uneasily. “There ain’t nobody else home?”
“No, sir.” And she couldn’t help asking, “Do you feel it, too? Like you’re being watched?”
The look he gave her was answer enough.
“It gets worse toward evening,” she said, almost babbling with relief. “And it’s been terrible today, I think ’cause there’s nobody else home. I ain’t dared ask Mrs. Stark if she feels it, and . . . and I ain’t dared ask Mr. Stark neither.” They were at Jonathan’s door, and she stopped with her hand on the knob.
“Has the house always been like this?” the sheriff asked. “ ’Cause you’re right. I can feel it.”
“Just since . . . since after he disappeared.”
Lilah opened the door.
It was the first time she’d been in the room since the eighth of April. Dust was everywhere, and the room smelled musty and unpleasant. There was a tang to the air, so faint that Lilah almost thought it was her imagination, the smell of something rotting. The sensation of being watched was heavy and cold, like water deep enough to drown in. Lilah and the sheriff both glanced over their shoulders, and neither advanced so much as a step into the room.
“Did the boy always leave his room this neat?” the sheriff asked.
Lilah looked around carefully, looked twice at the bed. “He was tidy-minded, for a child so young. But he couldn’t manage the sheets like that. He’d do his best, but the bed was always rumpled a little, even if it was just that you could see where his knees had been when he was getting the top straight.”
The sheriff grunted. His eyes traveled around the room again. He said, “Mrs. Collier, you mentioned a toy rabbit. I don’t see it.”
“Ain’t it on the bed? That’s where he kept it.” But she looked for herself, and the dingy, ragged bunny was nowhere to be seen.
“He wouldn’t have taken it with him?”
She shook her head. “That bunny drove Mr. Stark wild. He couldn’t stand it that a son of his would be carrying it around. Jonathan wasn’t allowed to take it out of his bedroom, and he did what his daddy said. Always.”
“Could it’ve fallen off the bed?”
They looked at each other. Lilah saw her own feelings mirrored in his face; he didn’t want to go into that room either. She supposed it should have made her feel better—less missish—to know that a middle-aged sheriff had the creeping, crawling horrors the same way she did, but it didn’t. It made her feel ten times worse.
Finally, she said, her tongue dry and dusty in her mouth, “I’ll look.”
She walked into the room slowly, her heart thudding wretchedly in her chest. The sheriff stood in the doorway. Step by step, she walked around the bed, to the side not visible from the door. “Nothing,” she croaked.
“Jesus,” the sheriff said and armed sweat off his forehead. “Mrs. Collier, I hate to say it, but will you check under the bed?”
“I think you oughta swear me in as a deputy first,” she said, and they both yelped with laughter. Then Lilah, knowing she would have had to, even if the sheriff had said nothing, slowly bent and lifted the counterpane. She straightened up again in a hurry, all but gasping for breath. “Nothing,” she said. “Just dust. It ain’t here.”
“Christ on a crutch,” the sheriff said. “You come on out of there, Mrs. Collier. I ain’t doing no more without I got a warrant.”
“Yes, sir,” Lilah said and left the room, gratefully and fast.
They went back down to the kitchen. The sheriff said abruptly, “How old are you?”
“Sixteen,” Lilah said. She was past the point where she could lie to Sheriff Patterson. He’d felt the wrongness in Jonathan’s room.
“Christ. I ain’t leaving you here by yourself. This house ain’t no place to be alone in. You write a note—tell ’em you took sick or something. I’ll drive you home.”
“And it ain’t so far off the truth, neither,” Lilah said, finding the pad of paper she used for shopping lists. “Sheriff, what do you reckon happened? What’s the matter with this house?”
“That’s a question for a preacher,” the sheriff said. “But you want the honest truth, I reckon Jonathan Stark never left this house, and I further reckon he was dead a long time before Saturday noon.”
“Me, too,” she said, shivering.
Lilah left her note (“SORRY MRS. STARK. FEELIN BAD. GONE HOME. COME IN ALL DAY SATERDAY. L COLLIER”), and climbed into the front seat of the sheriff’s car. “Never thought I’d be glad to be riding in one of these,” she said, and he laughed.
“Where’m I taking you?”
Suddenly, Lilah could bear the thought of her own empty house no better than she could bear the Starks’. “Take me up to the pit office, if you’d be so kind. I’ll just meet my husband.”
“You’re sure?” he said, giving her a sideways look.
“I can talk to Emmajean ’til he’s done.”
“Okay,” the sheriff said, and she knew he understood.
He didn’t leave her at the gate, as she’d expected, but drove up to let her out directly opposite the office door. She stopped halfway out of the car and said, “Sheriff, you got somebody you can go talk to or something? Or you can come in and Emmajean’ll give you coffee. Ain’t as good as mine.”
He smiled. “Thanks, Mrs. Collier, but I got to go down to the station and figure out how I’m going to persuade any judge in this county to give me a warrant to take a look at Cranmer Stark’s house. There’s plenty of people around, though, don’t you worry.”
“All right. Thanks, Sheriff.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Collier. You been a world of help.” She got out, closed the door. He drove away. Lilah went in to talk to Emmajean, although later she could not remember one word Emmajean had said. She kept hearing Jonathan Stark, the words she hadn’t heeded at the time, but that now wouldn’t leave her alone. My mama’s the prettiest lady in town. Do you think my daddy thinks so?
Butch’s shift ended at six; Emmajean had passed the word that Butch Collier’s wife was waiting for him, but it was six-thirty when Butch came sauntering into the office like he owned the world. “What’s happening, Lil?”
Lilah hated it when Butch called her “Lil,” just as she hated the way he would make her wait for him, purely because he could. Today, she didn’t care, almost nauseated with gratitude only from knowing that she wouldn’t have to be alone all night.
“Nothing much, Butch,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
“Sure thing. Stay pretty, Emmajean.”
“You, too, Butch,” Emmajean said sweetly. Lilah bit the inside of her lower lip hard, and did not laugh. Butch almost never noticed jokes at his expense unless someone laughed at them.
In the car, heading out the gravel drive, Lilah made her mistake. When Butch asked, “What’s the matter, Lil? Why’d you leave work?” she didn’t answer, I came over funny, or even, There was nobody home and I got spooked. She told him the truth.
She told him because it was killing her to keep it all pent inside, not thinking about its effect on him. She had forgotten Butch’s desire to see himself as a hero, a character out of the pulp magazines he read in the same habitual, thoughtless way
he cracked his knuckles. He said, “Lilah! Are you serious?”
“What d’you mean?” she said, belatedly wary.
“Do you really think Mr. Stark killed his little boy and buried him in the cellar?”
“ ’Course not,” Lilah said. “Don’t be silly.” But, of course, it was what she thought, she and Sheriff Patterson both, and she couldn’t entirely keep that out of her voice.
“They ain’t back yet, are they? You said they was going to Memphis today.”
“Butch, what are you thinking?”
He swung the Model T in a wide, looping turn. “You got a key, don’t you? We can go look!”
“You’re crazy!”
“Sheriff Patterson’ll be grateful. Maybe he’ll make me a deputy or something.”
“Butch, we can’t break into their house!”
“We ain’t. You forgot your purse. And if the basement door ain’t latched right, that ain’t our fault.”
“Butch, please!”
But Butch was more pig-headed than a pig, and Lilah knew from experience that no argument of hers would make him change his mind. She could only hope, noticing uneasily that the last of the sun was disappearing below the horizon, that the atmosphere of the house would do the job. And she hoped it would do it quickly.
Butch, however, noticed nothing spooky about the house at all. Lilah felt it the instant she opened the back door, moving out at them like a wall of ice; Butch walked in like it was his own house. “Nice things,” he said, then looked back. But he was looking for Lilah, not for the watcher in the corners. “You coming?”
She wanted to say no. No, Butch, thanks, think I’ll wait in the car. But she knew if he figured out she was too scared to come in, she would never hear the end of it, and Butch would never again pay the slightest attention to anything she said. And that would last a lot longer than the ten minutes it would take for Butch to look at the cellar and get bored. “Coming,” she said, amazed at how clear and normal her voice sounded. She walked into the house.
Somewhere Beneath Those Waves Page 4
