by Cindy Davis
Paige laughed. “Mud is flowing?"
"Apparently you've never been to New England during mud season.” Seeing Paige's confused expression, she continued, “When the snow melts, the ground thaws and we have mud. Mud that gets into your carpets, mud that—oh never mind. I'm sure you get the picture. Just wear boots."
"Okay. For a moment there I thought you were telling me you might have to send a crane to pull me out."
"It's not quite that bad."
"Oh good."
"Usually."
Paige turned right at the end of the inn's brick walkway. The air was fresh and clear. Traffic—the word had an entirely different definition here in Vermont—was sparse. People had already gone to their jobs in Middlebury and Rutland.
The hairdresser gave a lighthearted wave from her chair where she sat reading a magazine, and waiting for her next customer. Paige passed the real estate company located in the front room of a white colonial house. From the sidewalk she could see the wall of photographs, computers, and desks. A bald man sat at one of them, head down, concentrating on whatever he was doing.
Across the street, several cars were parked in front of the pharmacy and the bank. Paige thought of the cash under the bed in her room. She needed to get a safe deposit box, but worried about the small-town gossip-vine. Did bankers have confidentiality agreements, like priests? She thought not.
As she left the main part of town, buildings were spaced further apart. She slogged through inch-deep mud and tripped over ridges of crusty snowbanks, lost in thought. Cars passed frequently since this was one of only two main routes through town, but they slowed and moved into the other lane so they wouldn't splatter her with slush.
She knew it was well past time to think about a future, but had no idea what to do. Her reasons for choosing this wonderful little town had seemed logical as she'd perused the map back at that bus depot in Vermont.
There was an aura here, a camaraderie amongst the townsfolk that she found appealing. Her hosts, Eva and Alf Nordstrom, who'd befriended her not knowing anything about her, assuming only that she had suffered some huge trauma, had been patient and supportive. The quilt store owner, Colette, was brusque and outspoken, but willing to accept her and teach her the nuances of quilting. Debbie, the hairdresser was more than willing to talk about herself before hearing Paige's tale. For all any of them knew, she was a serial killer hiding in their midst. Paige grinned. A serial killer who makes quilts and collects old books. She wondered if these small town people could deal with all her truths.
She turned, crossed Route 73, and returned to town. She entered the pharmacy and ambled up and down the well-stocked aisles. She purchased some shampoo and conditioner, a new collar for Spirit and a trio of rose scented air fresheners; for some reason lately she couldn't stop thinking about the Laura Conyers Smith Municipal Rose Garden. With a lighter step, Paige returned to the inn.
She kicked off her boots in the inn's foyer. Eva hollered from the dining room. “Cassidy? Is that you?"
Paige padded into the dining room where Eva was setting up for the wine and cheese fest in a couple of hours.
"A package came for you a few minutes ago.” She picked up the cardboard box on the side table and placed it on the sideboard.
"A box for me? Oh, Harry!"
"I don't know who it's from. There's no return address. The postmark is from California."
Paige's heart stopped. She felt faint.
Eva rushed to her side and helped her into a chair. “Alf!"
Through her fog, Paige heard Alf's lumbering footsteps hurrying from the back of the house. The heaviness of them reminded her of Stefano's man, Vito, who'd run from the back of their Santa Barbara mansion to help his boss dispose of Luther's body. Luther, shot in the heart because he'd made a mistake. Mistakes weren't something Stefano tolerated well. And now, he'd found her again, and sent her something in this package, a little bigger than a breadbox. Breadboxes, always the brunt of jokes and now, a machination for murder.
She squeezed the tears back as another vision assaulted her—Luther's body slumping silently to the thick carpet of Stefano's den. The body beating on the sharp rocks that lined the shore below.
Alf's hand on her shoulder jerked her back to reality. Eva pressed a glass of water into her hands.
"Thank you. I'm all right now."
"I hardly think so,” Eva said. “Your face is whiter than Casper the Ghost's."
"Friendly ghost,” Paige corrected. Her attempt at humor brought smiles to the faces of her hosts. The dizziness gradually faded away.
Alf said, “Looks like you have things under control. I'm going back to my workshop. Call if you need something else."
"Thanks,” Paige and Eva said in unison.
Eva pulled up a chair beside her. “Honey, I've been patient and silent through all this. I know you've had an awful time of it, and I've tried not to ask too many questions. I want you to know we're here for you and—"
"You've both been wonderful."
Eva rapped her knuckles on the box. “Is there something dangerous in here?"
"I don't know. More likely something threatening rather than deadly.” Stefano wouldn't want her to die unless he or one of his thugs was on the scene to witness it.
"Should I call the bomb squad?"
Paige went to the box and put an ear to side. “It's not ticking."
Eva chuckled nervously. “Should we submerse it in water? That's what they always do on television."
"And when they do that, it always turns out to be a cake or papers of some kind.” Paige lifted the box gingerly. “I'll take it outside and open it, just to be sure."
Eva's face turned pale. Paige added, “It's okay. They can't have found me...” Her voice trailed off as she carried the box out the back door, down the three wooden porch steps, and midway into the soggy field.
"Are you sure you want to do it this way?” Eva hollered from the porch.
Paige didn't reply. Goosebumps prickled against her shirtsleeves. Sweat seeped into her bra. She could feel Eva's eyes on her. Paige bent and placed the box on a clump of grass. It careened precariously to one side. She heard Eva's sharp intake of breath over her own raspy breathing.
She settled the box gently on a level spot of yellowed grass, turned and walked back to the inn, occasionally glancing back over her shoulder at the mysterious parcel.
Eva's expression was one of total fear.
"I need a knife or scissors—something to open it with. If I tear the tape off, it might jolt things too much."
"I'll be right back,” Eva said, obviously anxious to be out of the possible line of fire, even for a moment.
Paige stood on the lowest step, rubbing her hands up and down her biceps, trying to ease the gooseflesh, wishing she'd put on a coat, but realizing in a few minutes, it might not make any difference.
Eva returned with a box cutter and Alf in tow. He took the cutter from Eva's hands and started down the stairs. Paige stepped in front of him. “No. I'll do it alone. This is my trouble. I won't have anyone else getting hurt because of me."
The comment prompted two sets of raised eyebrows, one bout of beard tweaking, and one pair of wringing hands. “If something happens, will you take care of Spirit?"
Paige didn't think it possible, but Eva paled even more and grabbed for something solid to hold onto. Paige waited for an affirmative response before taking the knife from Alf's pudgy fingers and slowly walking toward the box, straining her ears for ticking or any other strange sounds.
She kneeled in the saturated grass, the cold wetness instantly soaking through her jeans. Paige held the box with her left hand and slipped the blade into the narrow space between the nylon-fibered tape and the box flaps. White knuckles held it still while more white knuckles gripped the handle as the sharp cutting edge sliced through the tape at one end, then the other. Now, all that held the box shut was the strip down the center. The flaps were loose now and she braced her free hand in the co
ld grass and peered into the dark recesses of the carton.
"Can you see anything?” Alf hollered.
Paige shook her head, allowed herself one deep breath, and ran the tip of the blade between the flaps. The tape parted and the flaps loosened. Paige dropped the cutter on the ground and grasped one flap with pale fingertips. It might have been a slow motion replay of an automobile crash for the amount of time it took her to pull back that single corrugated flap.
She bent forward, both hands in the frosty grass. Some of the afternoon light was able to seep inside and Paige finally was able to discern the contents of the box sent from the post office in San Jose, California.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Forty-two
Suddenly too heavy to hold up, her head dropped till it rested on her chest. Tears peppered the stiff box top. She sucked in as much air as her lungs could hold, then let it all out at once.
Relief flowed through her at the sight of Carrie on the top of a pile of books. Books from her Minneapolis apartment.
"Cassidy?” Eva called.
Paige dried her hands on her thighs, then stood, knees and back protesting from the long time spent folded in fear. She picked up the box and walked toward the inn, this time with a lighter step, though the tears still flowed freely. This time they were tears of joy.
On the porch, both Alf and Eva peeked inside.
"Books?” Alf asked. “All this for books?” He puffed out some air, squeezed Paige's arm, and took the box from her. She went up the steps giving Eva an embarrassed grin. Alf followed and set the carton on the table.
One by one Paige lifted out her treasured books she'd collected so carefully. Packed in bubble wrap, at the bottom of the box was her laptop.
Alf patted her arm once again. “As long as everything's all right and my inn isn't going to blow into the sky, I'm going to pick up our patrons at Killington. I'll be back in an hour."
Eva nodded, gazing stupidly at the array of books on her kitchen table.
"In my other life, a really short one, I worked in a book shop. I was learning about valuable books. I bought these, but had to leave them behind when...” Paige neatly packed her things back in the box. “I'll take these upstairs, then come back to help you when Alf gets back."
"You don't seem completely at ease with this."
Paige flopped into the nearest chair. “I'm confused, that's all. This box was sent from California. I lived in Minneapolis. What could Harry have been doing in California?"
"Why don't you call him?"
Paige barely heard the words over the roaring of terror in her head. Stefano! He went to see Stefano. They sent the box just to make sure she was there to accept it.
She fumbled at her waistband and finally got the phone loose. She flipped it open and dialed Harry's home number. Getting the machine, she hung up and punched the buttons to his office. No answer there either.
The days dragged past. Paige's time was divided in three equal parts: helping Eva around the inn, working on her quilt, and peering out the windows. She didn't sleep and barely ate, certain that any moment Stefano would burst through the front door, guns blazing. Stress and emotion took its toll; she began to lose the bloom she'd regained. Eva and Alf continually stressed their concern, though Paige refused to discuss it.
In spite of things, she completed her quilt. Colette praised its workmanship, bringing a blush to Paige's cheeks. It hadn't been hard for her to convince Paige to let her take it to the quilt show in Montpelier, Vermont, where it won Honorable Mention.
Even though it was too large for her twin size bed, she put it on and tucked the excess under the mattress on the side away from the door. Spirit took up residence at the foot, in a patch of sunshine, bathing and leaving multi-colored hairs behind. The first few days, Paige meticulously picked each hair off, but eventually allowed the cat to “own” a corner of the bed.
With Colette's help, Paige also began work on the templates for a new design. Together with Eva, she selected forest green and rose for the new color scheme.
Paige walked daily, at first to keep an eye on traffic. She told herself that if she spotted Stefano first, she could intercept him before he got to the inn and perhaps harmed her benefactors.
At first she walked two miles, then increased to three and then four. Two weeks passed and she didn't spot Stefano. Harry's phone conversations came again, as they'd always been, calming and generic. Stefano didn't know where she was. Harry wasn't in cahoots with him; he'd simply been on vacation and forgotten to mail the box before driving to California. Paige finally began to relax.
One afternoon, the first week of April, about two miles from the Inn, she hiked onto Wheeler Road. Just over the small chattering brook, was a sign for another bed and breakfast. The Birdcage sat high on the hill to the left. It was a towering yellow affair that certainly did resemble a birdcage, with its tall columns on either side of the front porch.
Just beyond the Birdcage's sharply sloping drive was a lopsided For Sale sign hammered into the ground before a cute red-shingled house. The clumps of yellowed grass grown around the base suggested that this property had been for sale for quite some time. She gazed from the sign to the wonderful stone foundation porch fronting the forlorn two-story Contemporary home. Its red paint was peeling, its windows black and lonely. Paige suddenly realized she was standing in front of the house, at a lopsided gate attached to a peeling white picket fence by only one hinge.
Paige stepped through the gate, careful not to catch her clothes on the broken and rusted latch. She stepped along the packed dirt walk and up four stairs to the porch. On either side of the peeling front door sat cane-back rocking chairs. Her sneakers echoed hollowly on the porch floor as she went to them and ran a palm over the weathered arms. Memories came, of times cuddled in Gram's lap, rocking and telling her troubles. Paige blinked back the nostalgia and tried the front door. Locked. She stood on tiptoe, cupped her hands around her face and peered through the windows into the dismal depths of the dining room. It had been a handsome room with lots of morning daylight and a broad mantled fireplace.
She went down the steps and followed the walk to the side of the house where she again looked through a window into a kitchen. A long countertop extended most of the length of the room. Above it, wood cabinets looked to be in decent condition. Barely visible under the window was a broken table tilted against a single captain's chair. Three doorways led out: to the back door, the dining room, and what Paige could only assume was the living room.
She followed the walk past a sturdy looking single car garage and around the back of the house, where a second porch screened and locked. A miniscule gambrel barn sat in the dead center of a large post and rail-fenced pasture.
Down near the road was a shed that was also faded and peeling, in the same colors as the house, so it was probably part of the property. Its original purpose was vague, but the door was ajar and she stepped inside. The building was empty except for some waist-high tables with boarded sides as though they'd been used to hold vegetables or something that might roll off.
Paige roamed the property for another hour, inspecting both the barn and garage, which weren't locked. She walked down the driveway, drew the cell phone from her purse and dialed the phone number at the bottom of the real estate's sign.
The agent, Lou Walton, a squat bald man of indiscriminate age, appeared twenty minutes later. He pulled his newish Chevy into the driveway, throwing up clods of mud as he slid to a stop. He exited carrying a sheaf of papers Paige knew contained the particulars about what she was determined to become her new home.
He stomped out his cigarette before introducing himself, removing both gloves and glasses as he did. He told her the property consisted of sixteen acres of woods and pasture. “The pasture, as you can see, is entirely fenced. The previous owner had a pony for their seven-year-old daughter. The little girl, er ... died."
"Oh, what happened?"
"She and the pony were struck b
y a truck out on the road."
He pointed to the small Y-intersection between Wheeler and Marble Roads. “Killed ‘em both."
"You shouldn't go around telling potential buyers stories like that. I'd feel so depressed living here thinking about that every single day."
Lou threw her a look that could melt pennies. “Do you still want to see the inside?"
Paige sighed. “As long as I'm here."
He took a key on a blue plastic chain from his shirt pocket and slid it into the front door. The house was cold and reeked of that closed-in smell, so devoid of life that she was instantly depressed.
Straight ahead, a narrow stairway led steeply to the second floor. A large sheet of wallpaper dangled from the ceiling to the fifth step. To the left was the dining room she'd seen through the window. To the right, the lackluster hardwood floor of the living room extended the length of the house.
She went there first. Built to fit under the stairway was a gorgeous flagstone fireplace. A foot of charred ashes spilled onto the hearth. The vision of the seven-year-old girl, sitting on a quilt, holding a calico kitten was jarring enough, but when the girl looked up and smiled, Paige had to turn away. At the far end of the room, a picture window opened onto what was probably a lush, green pasture after it shed its dank winter brown.
A doorway off the living room led to a large master bedroom and bath, obviously newer than the rest of the house. Lou followed her, spouting the qualities of ‘this lovely house and grounds'.
She turned left into the kitchen. Dull oak cabinets with wrought iron handles lined the wall opposite the windows. Another picture window opened first onto the porch and then onto the same panorama as the living room. The flooring was large squares of granite tiles, which Lou was now pointing at. “Straight from a quarry in Unity, New Hampshire.” Paige decided not to ask what was so special about the quarry in New Hampshire.
They ducked under the decaying sheet of wallpaper and climbed the narrow stairs. The slanted ceilings in the upstairs made it impossible to stand completely upright in anything other than the center. It was far colder than downstairs, but the space was roomy enough for two children's bedrooms. The thought made almost her groan. Again she was thinking of children.
