She stopped talking and plucked a white, lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve. She twisted it into a rope of linen and lace. “But then I’m an old spinster lady; what do I know about marriage?” She hesitated a moment. “I’m sorry, my thoughts are wandering. I’ll try to stick to the point from—”
“There’s no need to worry about wandering,” I interrupted. “These thoughts are all a part of the big picture. Just say what’s on your mind.”
Emma nodded. “My earliest memories are ones of horrific fear.” She shook her head and closed her eyes. She appeared to be fighting back tears.
I leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Emma.”
She looked up and sneered, her voice suddenly gruff, nasty. “No need for you to apologize, preacher man. Why would you care anyway?”
Why would I? She had a point. Nobody else seems to have given a hoot over the years. Why would a near stranger? “I see your reasoning. I do. But you have to realize that I’m a man of God, a child of Christ. So is Mel. We love you, Emma, with a love that has nothing to do with whether or not you’re a lovable person. We love you, just as your Heavenly Father loves you.”
“So despite the fact that I killed Rachel, you don’t care? Can you honestly tell me that?” Her voice rose and she put her hands on the arms of the chair. I thought she was going to fly right out of it and smack me silly.
“No, Emma, no, I’m not saying that killing another human being is right. But did you really kill her? Really and truly? Or do you just feel guilty because she died and you didn’t? Is that it?”
I gave her a few seconds to digest that; she wasn’t really thinking straight. Then I said, “Why don’t you relax for a minute, and I’ll get you something hot to drink? And food! Have you eaten yet today?” I knew Mel had brought her some breakfast, but that was hours ago. “We have lots of sandwiches downstairs. Let me bring you something to eat. What would you like to drink? Tea, coffee, a soft drink?”
But she said nothing, simply stared out the window as if looking for answers in the wild wind that danced as haphazardly as the hurtful thoughts I knew were crowding her mind. I stood up, leaned over to pat her hand and walked out, closing the door behind me.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hey, where have you been?” Mel asked me when I entered the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and pushed her hair behind her ears like she does whenever she’s frustrated. I’d never seen the place so full. Women were tripping over one another to get to counters, the sink, the oven. I motioned to her to meet me in the dining room. She practically bolted out of there.
“I’ve been with Emma,” I said, taking her arm and leading her to the corner by the front window. “My gosh, that woman has troubles. I need to get to the church with the other men, but I can’t leave her like this.”
“I’d take over, hon, but I’m not leaving my kitchen in the hands of these ladies. I’ll be happy to go up later, but …”
“No, that’s fine. I just came down to get a sandwich and maybe some hot tea for her.”
Mel walked over to the buffet and put a sandwich, a few chips, a pickle, and two cookies on a plate. She started to pour a cup of tea, then stopped. “Wait, let me get a tray and you can take this whole pot up with you. Nobody here is drinking any at the moment—too busy dismantling my kitchen.”
Three minutes later I was back upstairs. Emma thanked me for the food then ignored it. I pressed a cookie on her, which she reluctantly accepted, and poured her a cup of tea. “Just sit back and relax for a while, before you continue. If you want to, that is. If not, we’ll do it some other time.” I slid back down on the floor against the bed.
She examined her cookie suspiciously—for shards of glass, perhaps? “No.”
No, what? No, I don’t want to go on? Or no, I don’t want to quit? She bit into the cookie, chewed it slowly, then sipped at her tea. “I didn’t mean for her to die, you know. But people always think the worst—especially of those they know the least about.”
I agreed with her but said nothing.
“When my mother died, it was January 4 of 1925. My sister and I were left permanently in the care of my aunt and uncle.” Emma stopped talking and dabbed her eyes with the edge of the handkerchief then proceeded to twist it into a rope again. She was silent for a couple of minutes. She looked scared, as if the past could reach out and grab her even now, bringing nasty Uncle George right along with it
She tucked the crumpled handkerchief into the sleeve of her dress, put both hands on the arms of her chair for balance, and slowly stood upright. I started to scramble up from the floor to help her, but Emma waved me away. “I’m fine, young man. Just need to stretch my legs. Where was I? Oh yes. Mother’s death. As a result of her dying and our aunt’s and uncle’s attitudes toward us, my sister and I became almost reclusive. We played in our rooms, attended school, and stayed away from my uncle as best we knew how.”
She paced between the rocker and the window, stopping occasionally to stare out at the white canvas that lay just beyond the window. “It’s really quite beautiful, isn’t it? I don’t know how long it’s been since I looked at snow in this way. Not since I was a child, I’m sure. It always seems to represent hurt for me—every time I have to contact one of the residents to help me out, I give them another opportunity to be rude, or besmirch my name, or spread gossip.” She turned around and looked at me, although I’m not sure she realized it was me. “I suppose that’s only natural, though. I haven’t been exactly open and honest with any of them.” She clasped her hands and stretched her arms out in front of her. “Getting old is tough, Hugh. Lots of kinks in this old body.”
I smiled and pointed at myself. “Lots of kinks in this body, too. To be honest, I think you’re in remarkable condition. Must be all the hard work you do around Rivermanse. It’s kept you in shape. But I suppose all of us, sooner or later, begin to feel the wear and tear.”
Emma laughed out loud for the first time, as if a wondrous and happy thought had just entered her mind. “When I was young, Hugh, my sister and I were unstoppable.” Her hands flitted here and there. “Climbing trees and running everywhere and scrambling down that embankment behind Rivermanse to the river below. My mother was fit to be tied most of the time.”
She turned to stare out the window as if she were watching the memories unfold before her. I followed her glance, hoping I too could catch sight of two young girls dashing about with abandon. I couldn’t, but I wished it were so.
“I think being outdoors was just about the best thing about our lives back then. Out there, no one told us what to do because they couldn’t find us most of the time, and no one cared to chase us around the grounds to make sure we didn’t get into trouble. Lydia had enough to do and my aunt and uncle were just happy to have us out of their sight. If it weren’t for Lydia insisting we eat regularly, I don’t know if we’d have come in at all.”
“It sounds as though you and Rachel had some good times back then despite the awful things that were happening around you. Are there any more nice things you can recall?”
Emma stayed silent for a minute. She walked over to the fireplace mantel, reached up to take down a small volume, and turned it over in her hands. It was a well-worn copy of Thomas Jefferson’s Garden Book—1766-1824. “Thomas Jefferson. Good choice.” She replaced the volume and turned to me. “As a matter of fact, I can. Because we were virtually indistinguishable, my aunt insisted that we wear clothes in particular hues—mine were mostly in pinks and other pastels and my sister’s were in more primary colors—bright reds, blues, greens, yellows. The brighter the better, or in my case, the more insipid I looked, the better my aunt liked it. Aunt Louanna didn’t give a hoot about our looks; she simply needed a way to tell us apart. Just one more harsh rule.” She grimaced, perhaps seeing herself in a dull dress, her sister in a garish one, then steeled her voice. “I hated those clothes.”
She brightened and turned back to the window. “And as you can imagine of eleven-year-old girls, w
e rebelled as often and in as many ways as we could. Of course, Aunt Louanna never knew we were rebelling—it was just our little secret—but somehow just knowing we were pulling one over on her and my uncle made our world a little better place in which to live.”
Emma chuckled. “I enjoyed that.” She shrugged her shoulders and continued, “We lived that way for a couple of years, rebelling whenever we had the chance.
“It was a Saturday, the day my sister”—she cleared her throat—“the day Rachel died, so of course there was no school and as usual, we were left to our own devices for entertainment. We started running on the landing atop the grand staircase, which was a definite no-no.” I nodded, remembering that grand structure from the night before. It was made of polished cherry and widened out at both the top and bottom, giving it a majestic Gone with the Wind appearance. It was the focal point of the foyer with dozens of delicately-carved spindles spaced evenly along the entire length.
Emma struggled with her words as she walked slowly to the rocker and sat down. She was almost whispering when she spoke again. “She came running toward me. We’d done this a thousand times. I’d run at her or she’d charge at me and at the last second, we’d dodge to one side or the other. The idea was to determine which way the dodger was going and grab them while you lunged. She was good, very nimble, and it was a rare occasion when I outwitted her.”
Emma stopped and lowered her head. She put her hands over her face, and I could hear her ragged breathing as she battled for control. After a few seconds, she looked up. “I … I dodged … at the last second, just like I always did. She reached out to grab me, but I was gone. And just like that, she was too. I didn’t see it happen. I was still laughing over my victory … and all I heard was her giggle.” She sighed and smiled faintly. “She had the most delightful giggle.”
“Afterwards, I overheard my aunt telling Lydia that she must have tripped on the edge of the carpet and fallen down the staircase. There was no scream, nothing. And of course it all happened in a split second, but there was no sound—not even one of surprise or shock.” Emma looked up at me. “Don’t you find that odd? No sound at all. Just her giggle.”
She sat silently for a moment and then said, “They say she died instantly. Of course, I have nothing but their word for that, and not one soul addressed me about it, anyway. No one asked me what happened. No one thought to comfort me or take me away from the sight of her broken body lying there at the bottom of the staircase. I suppose they thought they knew how it happened, and that I was just a child, so what could I possibly feel?” She looked up at me. “All I remember is Aunt Louanna saying to Lydia, ‘Call my husband. She’s dead.’”
I stood up and leaned down to wrap my arm around her frail shoulders, now trembling with her sobs. “Sh-h-h-h, Emma. It’s all right now. It’s all going to be okay. It was an accident, a horrible, horrible accident, but there’s no way you can say you killed her.”
Emma’s words were muffled. “But she was gone, Hugh. Just like that, Rachel was gone.”
Chapter Fourteen
I have to admit that leaving Emma at the inn and walking over to the church, even in a mind-numbing, hair-raising blizzard, was a relief. Her pain cast an onerous pall over the day; even a frigid white-out seemed lighthearted in comparison. But that respite lasted only as long as it took to step inside the church foyer. I didn’t know which was worse—hearing an old woman confess to killing her twin sister seventy years ago or wanting to kill someone myself.
Bristol looked beside himself. He appeared to be refereeing a spat between Dewey Wyandotte, ex-Marine, and George Washington, local politician, married to a woman named Martha, but still no relation to the father of our country. I couldn’t tell from that distance what the argument was about or who was winning, but it had something to do with firearms because both men were waving one around. I could see Bristol flailing his arms this way and that, trying to catch one weapon or the other before someone got knocked out.
The fight stopped abruptly when Dewey spotted me. “Hey, Hugh! Get over here.” Then he turned to George and said, “We’re gonna settle this right now.” George just glared at him, and Bristol looked like he might cry with relief when he saw he had reinforcements.
I walked up to the trio and put one hand on the Dewey’s shoulder and the other on George’s. “What’s up, gentlemen? Why the guns? Somebody going to get pistol-whipped?”
Dewey looked disgusted. “Pastor, you said we needed guns. Back at your place. You said it plain as day.”
“Yes, he said guns, Dewey, not relics,” George answered back. “You’ll shoot someone’s foot off with that thing. I’ve seen newer ones in museums.”
That steamed Dewey’s locomotive.
Bristol stepped between them. “Gentlemen, let’s stay calm.”
I looked Dewey in the eye and said as clearly, as patiently, as pastor-like as I could, “Dewey, what I said is that I’d get back to you on that.”
He started to sputter.
“And that’s what we’re going to do right now.” I gave both of them a hearty slap on the back and winked at Bristol. “Men! Men, can I have your attention, please?”
The menfolk in this town weren’t much better at coming to attention than their wives were at sharing kitchen space. It took a good five minutes before Bristol and I had them corralled and quieted down enough to speak above a yell. “Okay, men, let’s all sit down and talk. We have to get organized if this group is going to act as anything more than a lynch mob.”
“But, Pastor, look at that wall. At that vandalism.”
“It’s desecration, that’s what it is. Plain and simple desecration.”
I raised my hands into the air then lowered them slowly, hoping the men would follow the motion by sitting in the pews. For the most part, they did. Frank was already sitting—had been since he’d been there, I imagine, but at least he was awake. First time I’d seen his eyeballs in a week. The rest of the men settled, albeit restlessly, into the pews and quieted down.
“Okay, fellas, here’s the thing. As you can plainly see we’ve got some vandalism here.” I pointed to the back wall and everyone dutifully turned his head in that direction. “That in itself is bad enough, but considering the message he—or they, as the case may be—left on the wall, we might have a problem.” Head-nodding, general raucous agreement. I waited for them to settle down. “Does anyone have any idea who, or what, this vandal was referring to?” I looked at each one of them in turn, hoping for some suggestions, for a little help with this problem.
Funny how noisy this group could be when they felt like it and how quiet they could be when I wanted them to say something—anything. No one said a word; they all looked at one another as if the person beside them might hold the answer, because land’s sakes alive, they sure didn’t have any idea what was going on. “Nothing? Nobody has any ideas?” I looked around at a sea, well, more like a puddle, of vacant faces.
A quiet voice from the back of the sanctuary spoke up. “How ’bout Winnie?”
“What about Winnie?” Dewey yelled. “What’s that supposed to mean, anyway? Who was that? George, was that you … was that …?”
“No, you dimwit, I’m sitting right next to you.”
Dewey looked to his left. “Oh, right. Well, who was it? And whadya mean by that, anyway?”
Joe Rich stood up. He was one of the town’s volunteer firemen and one of two paramedics in Road’s End. “It was me, Dewey, and don’t get your tongue in a tangle. I just mean could someone with a grudge against Winnie—’cause of Bill’s death, you know—could someone have painted that just for spite?”
I intervened before Dewey had a chance to scramble over the back of the pew he was sitting in, dance across the backs of the rows behind him, and plow into Joe, fists flying. Dewey was chubby, but he was an ex-Marine, after all. Some skills just never leave a person. “Hold on, Dewey. Got anybody in particular in mind, Joe? Heard something around town?”
“Well, no,
but that’s the only killin’ I’ve heard about in the past few days.”
Dewey screeched, “Killing? Nobody killed Bill. He had a heart attack, and you darned well know it, Joe Rich.”
Past few days? How often do killings occur around here, anyway? This one I could remember, though, since it had happened just two days prior to the blizzard. I remember like it was, well … like it was two days ago. I can usually handle most anything that comes my way, but I admit I was in over my head that day. Way over. And I had no idea what I was going to do about it. When I hung up that day after an hour-long conversation with Pastor Parry’s most out-spoken critic, Bill Manning, I was sure he wasn’t going anywhere soon and neither was the problem he just dumped in my lap.
Three hours later, Bill Manning was dead on his kitchen floor. I didn’t know whether to grieve or thank the Good Lord for getting rid of my problem. Too bad poor Bill had to go away along with it. That was two days ago. Bill is now patiently awaiting burial over at George and Martha Washington’s Thirteen Colonies Antique Store and Mortuary.
Upon hearing the sad news that afternoon, Pastor Parry called to ask if I’d accompany him to Bill’s house. Winnie Wyandotte, Bill’s sister and arch enemy of all that was holy in Bill’s eyes, was beside herself with grief. Looking back on it, I should have known something was up when Pastor asked me to accompany him to Bill’s house, but since I had no idea he was thinking of retiring, I also had no inkling that he was dragging me into a situation over which I had absolutely no knowledge or expertise. That’ll teach me to answer the phone.
We arrived at Bill’s house just as the paramedics were pulling up. The village of Road’s End has two part-time paramedics. The first is Rudy Wallenberg, a rangy, pony-tailed, pale-skinned white man; his partner is Joe Rich, an even taller, muscular black man.
They arrived with siren blaring and lights flashing. They could have walked to the house faster than they drove, since the combination fire barn/police department/ambulance garage is housed in Wiley’s Gas Station and Auto Repair Shop just a block up the street. By the time Rudy got in his car, drove past Bill’s house to get to the station and waited for Joe, Bill would have bled to death from a paper cut.
Misstep (The Road's End Series Book 1) Page 8
