Site Unseen

by Dana Cameron

  A few people that I knew from Fordham and Penitence Point stopped by to exchange condolences with me. Nick the bartender from the Goat and Grapes pressed my hand briefly, looking supremely uncomfortable in an ill-fitting sports jacket and tie. “Stop by later, and we’ll wake the old girl in style.” I nodded thanks.

  A slight commotion erupted at the back of the church, and the heads in every pew swiveled around as one. Claudette Peirce had entered and paused, looking around.

  I was momentarily stunned by her similarity to her sister. It was almost enough to crack my heart. She was fleshier than Pauline had ever been, and her hair was more gray than white, but she carried herself with the same relentlessly straight back, and I recognized that determined line to her jaw.

  She leaned over to someone in the back row, who whispered in her ear. Claudette’s eyes caught mine and she strode over to me, her lips compressed with restrained emotion. I extended my hand in that ambiguous way that suggests I was open to either a handshake, a clasping of arms, or a full hug, but didn’t even get a chance to stammer out my name before I got the next rude shock of the morning.

  “I’m surprised you have the nerve to show yourself here.” Her voice was low but powerful and her words carried easily throughout the church. None of the congregation even tried to conceal their amazement or their relish for the scene. “Pauline lived a foolish life, but I never thought her eccentricities would get her killed in her own home! It makes no difference, though. Once that fraudulent will is exposed, the police will find out how you did it, and you’ll get what you deserve.”

  The force of her words was a blow. Amazed, I could just barely grasp the fact that she was calling me a murderer.

  Reverend Dyson quickly ushered Claudette down to the front of the church, throwing me a pitying glance over his shoulder. All around us, heads whipped back and forth, like they were watching a fast hockey game and anticipating blood.

  As the service began, I felt Dian squeeze my cold hand, but I just shook my head absently and sat down, still digesting what had just happened. “No, no, it’s okay. Really. It was bound to happen. I’m fine.”

  Well, that’s what everybody’s been thinking, isn’t it? I thought. Now I knew why Pauline didn’t much like her sister. And what the hell did she mean about a fraudulent will? She of all people should have known about Pauline’s money going to her charities. It had absolutely nothing to do with me.

  I sat numbly through the opening of the service, the frail comfort of ritual shredded and no longer effective; I hardly registered the glowing eulogy that Dyson had memorized. Then something in the glow of the stained-glass windows reminded me of that damned mask. I suppose it was just the events of the previous week, followed by Claudette’s verbal assault, but the mind is a funny thing in any case. I hadn’t thought of the bloody thing for years.

  It was my first introduction to Pauline. After Oscar made the introductions, I sat quietly, and for a while it was interesting listening to them talk. But I guess I seemed like I was on the verge of a fidget because he told me to look around the curiosities in the house while he and Pauline visited. He knew better than to tell me not to touch anything.

  I was relieved to escape Pauline’s sharp eyes, which so casually evaluated me, and I was dying to get a closer look at the things that filled the house, so I didn’t need to be told twice. I wandered from room to room in awe. I won’t say that the place was like a museum, though most of the objects in Pauline’s house were certainly of that quality. There was just too much soul and emotional effect in the way in which everything was arranged.

  Perhaps there was a little too much effect for an eight-year-old with an overactive imagination. Snow had fallen all that morning, deadening sound around the house, and by afternoon the shadows were long and sharp. I remember wandering into one room to sneak a touch of the green robe, embroidered with white cranes, that was hanging on the wall. On another wall was a case filled with frail pieces of porcelain that glowed with a pale blue sheen in the dying winter light.

  I immediately loved the coolness of the room, the quietness of the objects, and the sense of remoteness and the unknown that they inspired in me. Here were things that had nothing to do with my life, objects that did not look like those that were in every house on my block. They beguiled me into wondering about their makers and their purposes. Alien yet recognizable, I could see what some of them were made for, yet I knew that there was a step that I was missing, a layer of meaning that remained hidden from me. This enthralled and frustrated me, and I stood relishing the mystery—a word I would capitalize later in embarrassing, impassioned teenaged diaries—that surrounded me. Why was it that that sensation seemed dangerous? I spent quite some time lost in the vastness of all these worlds beyond my narrow experience.

  Then I saw the face on the wall.

  Of course it was only a mask, just as the robe was only a festival kimono and the eerie porcelain only an eclectic collection of second-tier teawares, representing Pauline’s earliest, tentative attempt at connoisseurship. I know now that the mask was a decent example of No art, and I’ve even read the play for which it was made. And although memory of the mask magically shrank and dulled over the past twenty-two years, I firmly believe that intellectual understanding can’t totally erase emotional impact. I remember precisely how that thing terrified me.

  Much of its horror stemmed from the fact that, at first, it seemed welcoming, warm and red. When I got up closer, I could see the fading darker details, the scowl lines painted around sightless eyes and open mouth. The light raked across the mask, emphasizing the empty socket on one side, the other half left in darkness. It was like being tricked into running into the devil’s embrace.

  I stood frozen, fascinated, knowing at one remote level that it was just wood and paint, while the rest of me knew, absolutely, that if I moved another inch, the thing would consume me. You might, if you are lucky, be able to remember that childish sort of silent impasse, where you believe you are facing the means of your own destruction. Movement will only hasten the end, stillness only invites the demon to enjoy itself and linger over the process.

  I don’t remember how long I stood there, rooted by fear. I can remember the confusion of the moment when I decided I must run or perish. Adrenaline practically lifted me off my feet and the nearly impossible act of stepping backward—who would turn her back on such a thing?—seemed to trigger a wail from somewhere. I didn’t care if it came out of me, I only knew I had to get out of there. I turned finally, only to slam into something rough and prickly. I sat down hard and opened my mouth for a true scream, and closed it just as suddenly, surprised to see that it was Pauline’s wool skirt with which I had collided.

  “Emma, what’s wrong?” She leaned over and flicked on the light to get a better look at me. The dull yellow light from the lamp overhead banished the dramatic shadows and reduced the magical objects to mere curiosities. I felt a profound sense of relief and a little cheated. I was just trying to figure out how honest I could be with this grown-up, how she might react to my fears, and simultaneously concoct a convincing story to use if necessary, when my calculations were abruptly interrupted by more caterwauling. At least I knew it probably hadn’t been me howling, and I again felt relief, this time that I hadn’t embarrassed Grandpa.

  “Hector! Get out of there, you wretched creature! Stop that racket before I roast you!” Pauline let go of me, went over to the cold fireplace, and reached behind the firescreen. When she straightened, a lithe form dangled, struggling, from her hand, hind legs inelegantly splayed out straight. Hector was a very irritated Siamese squirming to escape her grip, sapphire eyes ablaze as he continued to cry. This time, however, he sounded more like an animal than the vocalization of my fears, the echoes of his yowls no longer reverberating up the chimney. His owner dumped him unceremoniously on the carpet, where he promptly lifted his hind leg for a quick cleaning and, dignity being at least nominally restored, sauntered casually out of the room. Only
his flicking tail betrayed his annoyance.

  Pauline turned back to me. “I’m afraid he’s put out with us for interrupting his music. Hector was announcing to the world that he is the pinnacle of evolution and a force to be reckoned with.” She smiled at that thought. “A typical male. Are you all right?”

  I smiled back. She said some other things that I didn’t understand, but I was pleased that she wasn’t making a fuss over my panic, or laughing that I had been scared by a stupid cat.

  “I was looking at the dress on the wall. It’s very pretty,” I said.

  While she listened to me, I could feel her scanning the room, observing my trajectory and deciding for herself what had happened. The dress was on the wall closest to the door, in the path of my flight, directly opposite the mask. She kindly ignored my edited version of the matter.

  “It is pretty, but it’s called ‘kirumono.’ It’s from Japan, I brought it back with most of these other things on one of my first trips away from home. How about this, what do you think it is?” Pauline held up a neat stack of interlocking black boxes with painted decorations. I shook my head. “It’s used to carry food, like a lunch box.”

  I shook my head again. “It doesn’t look like my red plaid lunch box. Where’s the handle? How does it stay shut?”

  “Good questions. It’s tied up with a piece of cloth. That keeps it shut and the knot is big enough so that you carry it. Sometimes you might have rice and pickled vegetables, or—”

  Suddenly I was swept up with Pauline’s descriptions of the objects that filled the room and the people who made and used them. The sound of her voice was comforting but not lulling, bringing a sense of what the collection meant to her and of the culture from which it had come. When we finally made the circuit of the room and ended back at the mask, I wasn’t even disturbed when she put it up to her face, showing me how the actor would have fastened it behind his head, and telling me that the mask represented a benign peasant spirit. It didn’t seem any more appealing to me than before, but the immediate terror was stripped away. That had been the start of everything, really. Despite all of Oscar’s efforts, that was the first time I had been seduced by culture.

  But of course, now the mask had been incinerated with everything else. That started the tears flowing, and I quietly began to mourn my friend in earnest.

  The service done, Claudette strode down the aisle and into her waiting car without a glance at another soul. The rest of the congregation followed, front to back, and I found I was subjected to a lot more averted eyes than before as I waited for our turn to file out.

  Neal wanted to know if I wanted to go for a drive with them, but it was clear what was on all of their minds.

  “No, I’m fine,” I said. “You guys were great in there, thanks for coming. I’ll see you back at the dorm, in a bit, okay? Got a date with the law.”

  “Emma, don’t,” Dian protested. “It’s not funny.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I’m okay, really.” I tried on a smile, but it disappeared when Sheriff Stannard caught my eye. I turned back to them all. “Really. Scat.”

  I watched as they filed out and then steeled myself to face the sheriff, who had been waiting patiently at the back of the now empty church.

  He came straight to the point.

  “That meeting I had yesterday. It was with Claudette Peirce. She told me that the contents of her sister’s will indicate that you had a clear motive for Ms. Westlake’s murder,” the sheriff said in his unadorned fashion.

  “Bullshit!” The word escaped me, ringing out through the church before I thought about editing my response for emotion or location. “Pauline’s sister doesn’t even know me! How can she possibly imagine that I’d done this? There is no reason in the world that could make me want to hurt Pauline!” I finally moderated my voice out of habit, not lack of indignation.

  “According to Mrs. Peirce, you stood to inherit quite a bit,” Stannard said. “Money is a tremendous motive.”

  “No way,” I denied absolutely. “I know for a fact that Pauline was leaving her whole estate to her causes and museums and things! And anyway, if I were going to inherit something, if I even knew I was in her will, why would I burn her house? Wouldn’t that be a stupid thing to do?”

  The sheriff looked uncomfortable, as though he might be parroting someone else’s words. “Not if you were interested in the cash value of everything—”

  “Cash value! The things in that house were priceless, and I don’t mean what they cost!”

  “—and not the objects themselves,” he continued doggedly. “There was a lot of insurance on that place, and remember, the murderer would have needed to cover up his tracks in the first place. Did you know most murders are committed by relatives or close friends?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Stannard cut me off. “Listen to me. I was informed by Mrs. Peirce that Ms. Westlake was leaving all of her estate to different organizations, but one of them does have something to do with you. She left $500,000 to the Anthropology Department at Caldwell College to endow a chair in archaeology.”

  He rifled through his little notebook, looking for the precise wording. I slumped against the doorway, stunned.

  “More specifically, for a chair in New World archaeology, to bear her name, and to be offered to you as the first recipient. If it wasn’t offered to you first, the cash would revert to the rest of the estate with only $10,000 going to the college general fund in her name. So you see, a lot of people might think that that was more than enough motive, for a lot less of a crime. I’ve been getting phone calls from high up, no doubt courtesy of Mrs. Peirce’s concern about her sister’s death. I’m finding out she’s an influential person.”

  I stared outside for what seemed to be a long time; the threatened rain had arrived, in torrents, but didn’t make things any cooler. No wonder Claudette made such a scene, if she knew that was in the will, I thought. Funny, I never even suspected Pauline would do such a thing. She must really think I—

  My thoughts were interrupted by Stannard speaking again. “You okay, Dr. Fielding? I hate to dump this on you all of a sudden, but I thought that, well, it would be better to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Once this sort of news goes beyond two people, everyone in town knows. And I’ve got to run; this isn’t the only thing keeping me busy these days.”

  I looked at him warily. “You said a lot of people. What about you?”

  The way Stannard sighed told me I’d gotten to the heart of the situation. “Even with this I still don’t buy you as a suspect. But I can’t believe that Mrs. Peirce is going to leave this alone, and she’s bringing a lot of pressure for me…to explore every avenue thoroughly. Even with this will, a lot of things aren’t adding up for me right now, and I need to find out what I’m missing. You’re going to help me sort this out. You are the key to this, one way or another.”

  I recalled the little voice that chided me with these same words a billion years ago. Tuesday.

  “I’ll see you straight off, nine tomorrow, then.” He put his hat on outside the church, touched the brim, and I watched as he walked over to the rectory.

  Chapter 12

  I REMAINED IN THE DOORWAY OF ST. JUDE’S, DIGESTING this news, until the noise of the ladies’ guild cleaning the flowers off the altar spurred me out to the parking lot. I sat there in the truck for a minute, fighting down my delayed reaction to Stannard’s new information. Oh Pauline, what have you done? This was meant as a fantastic gift, but…I gripped the steering wheel tightly and rested my head against it, barely noticing the new ache that was creeping through my scalp. I struggled with thoughts that threatened to choke me and blind me.

  I waited until the wave of nausea had receded and my vision cleared somewhat, and then I began to back the truck out of the parking space behind the church. The rain that had finally burst out of the sky was gone as suddenly as it had arrived, but made visibility a thing of the past. That’s what I get for breathing, I thought wryly.
On top of everything else, the antiquated defogging system in the truck hadn’t made much of a difference with the fogged windows. A blur caught my eye, and I slammed on the brakes just in time to avoid being sideswiped by a black car that had come tearing around the corner.

  Pauline’s death and the surrealness of the service, along with a row of sleepless nights, caused me to react more out of anger than the fear that would ordinarily accompany such a close call. I flung open the door and boiled out of the truck, not even caring if the other driver had been hurt in the nearmiss: I hoped the idiot got a good scare for his stupidity. I stormed over to the other car, one of those muscle jobs, completely unmindful of the fact that I was ruining my only good pair of summer shoes. I slammed my fist on the trunk of the other car, enjoying the fact that it stung like the devil, and made my way to the driver’s side. The windows were steamed up from the humidity and I could barely make out a form inside.

  “Hey, what are you, crazy? You could’ve killed me, you maniac! You couldn’t wait ten seconds for the light to change, you had to go bombing through here? Jesus Christ—”

  That was when I saw who the driver was, as he opened the door of the car with a loud screeching protest of rusty hinges.

  It was the guy I’d seen driving past the site.

  As I’d described to Nick, Billy Griggs was about my age, about my height, and skinny, but with a beer gut just managing to creep out over the top of his faded jeans and from beneath his T-shirt. His blond hair was dirty, and it curled around his ears, which seemed stuck to his big, square head almost as an afterthought. I could tell even with the torn Budweiser gimme cap that his hair was sparser than the last time we had met; that chance meeting had been unpleasant too. He had grown a mustache since then, but it was thin and sickly-looking, hovering uncertainly over his thick lips. Billy’d never been an attractive specimen, and age hadn’t improved a damned thing.