EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Better let me, it's quite heavy. Just show me where."

  Over dinner, Anna continued to evade Maureen's questions, prompting her friend to talk instead about her own experiences “in the Wild West,” and then trying to disguise her boredom as Maureen rattled on about the Pueblos and their customs, on one of which she appeared to have become an authority. Lecturing Anna on everything from the symbolic importance of the eagle and antelope in Pueblo culture to the grisly aspects of religious dances she'd witnessed in the kivas, where whipsnakes and diamondback rattlers are smothered in cornmeal by the Pueblo women and then fearlessly snatched up by feather-bedecked male dancers.

  Having got more than she bargained for, Anna finally managed to interject a question relating to a matter more to her interest. “What about Prudence?"

  Maureen frowned, her little fingernail raking the thick dark hairs of her eyebrow, an apparently unconscious mannerism. “What about Prudence?"

  "Did you ever hear from her again?"

  "Thank God, no. I've no idea what became of her."

  "I think it all must have disturbed you even more than you let on. Your letters seemed different somehow after that."

  "Different?"

  "I don't know—less forthcoming in a way. Poor dear, it must have been awkward for you."

  "Awkward is hardly the word, girl. Of course I should never have allowed Prudence to move in on me the way she did."

  In her letters Maureen had pictured Prudence Colefax as a loner like herself, a fugitive from conventional society in need of a temporary sanctuary. By then the pottery was flourishing and Maureen had welcomed a pair of willing and eager hands. But then apparently something had gone wrong, a conflict of personalities. The young woman had revealed a domineering streak, began making demands on Maureen, who in her letters to Anna had even implied a suspicion of mental instability in Prudence. Only when Maureen had caught the imprudent Prudence stealing money from her had she put her foot down and ordered the woman to leave.

  "You sort of left me hanging after that,” recalled Anna. “Then everything seemed fine when you finally wrote again."

  Maureen nodded. “Oh, she took off meekly enough when I finally got up the gumption to boot her out."

  Over coffee, Maureen maneuvered the conversation back to Anna's mysterious trouble. “If I'm to help you, girl, I have to know precisely what the problem is. You said in one of your letters that if it weren't for Carter you'd pack your bags and come West, at least for a vacation. That might be a very sensible idea. We could be partners. Quite frankly, my little business could do with an infusion of fresh capital. It might be a very good investment for you."

  This unexpected proposal was accompanied by a more vigorous raking of the eyebrow. By now this mannerism had begun to provoke a vaguely uncomfortable sensation in Anna's mind; not annoyance, but something as disturbingly elusive as the shadow of a memory that refuses to surface.

  "Can you see me living in an adobe hut in the mountains?” Anna laughed.

  "It's rather more than a hut, girl. I'm not the primitive I used to be. The change would do you good."

  Anna was finding it increasingly hard to concentrate, distracted by that nagging hint of a memory, or was it only her imagination, she wondered.

  "As for my investing in anything, that's hardly feasible at the moment, everything's in such a muddle."

  "You're confusing me, Anna. All those hints of some earth-shaking crisis. If it's so bad you can't even tell me what it is, I can't see the point of my having dropped everything to fly out here."

  "I'm sorry, Maureen. It isn't something I can just blurt out. Oh, if only you knew how distressing it's all been.” Anna realized she was waffling now, deliberately evading the issue, not from any faltering of resolve but because she dared not risk confiding in Maureen before she'd had a chance to pin down whatever was troubling her at the moment even more than the Carter problem.

  "Have you decided you can't trust me, is that what's stopping you?” Maureen asked. Anna dropped her eyes, disconcerted by this seemingly clairvoyant observation.

  "It's not that at all, dear. My brain's all topsy-turvy. I haven't had a decent night's sleep in weeks. My mother used to say, cry before midnight, you'll laugh with the dawn. Believe me, it doesn't work. And I know you must be tired. I promise I'll tell you everything in the morning."

  Maureen had to settle for that, although with a visible air of dissatisfaction. As soon as they'd parted for the night and Anna was alone in her room, she rushed to the closet and pulled down the shoebox holding all the letters she'd received from Maureen over the past score of years. Unfortunately, she had no precise recollection of when she had received that particular letter; for all she knew her imagination might indeed be playing tricks on her. The idea seemed so outlandish, so implausible. At least Maureen had always typed her letters, which made the chore somewhat easier.

  The downstairs clock had chimed midnight before she found the specific letter and passage she was looking for. The muscles of her throat tightened as she devoured the words.

  Now that we live in this atmosphere of smoldering hostility everything about Prudence annoys me, especially that irritating little quirk she has of digging at the corner of her eyebrow with her little fingernail. It quite sets my teeth on edge....

  Making an effort to suppress a swelling tide of panic, Anna carefully refolded the letter, replaced it in the shoebox, and returned the box to the closet shelf. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't uncommon for one person who has lived with another for a long period of time to adopt, perhaps unconsciously, certain physical mannerisms, just as one tends to appropriate individual turns of phrase and pungent expressions. Oh, if only Maureen had sent snapshots of herself or of Prudence Colefax. Prudence must have known Maureen never had or she would not have dared venture upon such a risky impersonation. That Maureen should have mentioned in her letters something as insignificant as one of Prudence's minor peculiarities obviously had not occurred to her or she might have suspected it could be a dead giveaway.

  But what did it mean? If Prudence had not disappeared then what had happened to Maureen? Now a fresh and sinister construction could be placed upon that discernible change in the tone of the letters after Prudence had allegedly “gone away.” Naturally, Prudence would not have dared discontinue the correspondence, not while there was a chance Anna might grow anxious, make inquiries, or even fly out to New Mexico, as she might have done.

  Money. That had to be the only reason to induce Prudence—if the woman in the other bedroom was indeed Prudence—to chance coming out here. She smelled money. And what stronger inducement could there have been than Anna's disclosure about leaving everything she owned to Maureen? What this implied about Prudence's motives sent a convulsive shiver through Anna's body.

  Panic gave way to despair. What was she to do? Instead of only one pressing problem, what to do about the Carter situation, she now had two to worry about. Neither decision could be put off indefinitely. Anna felt more helpless and alone than ever. And frightened.

  By dawn she had thought of a way to verify her suspicions. Casually, at the breakfast table, she said: “I meant to ask you in one of my letters, Maureen—oh, this must have happened the third or fourth year you were out there—you'd taken that trip to Mexico and had your lovely emerald ring stolen in that hotel. Did you ever get it back?"

  The other woman worried her eyebrow, then smiled absently. “Never did. Not that I expected to."

  "Pity,” murmured Anna. “You were so fond of that ring."

  A cold lump formed in her throat. So far as she knew, Maureen had never owned an emerald ring.

  The irony of her position was not lost upon Anna. Under normal circumstances all she need do was phone the police. That was unthinkable, of course. What she must do was to get rid of the woman, as quickly as possible, and the only way to do that was to scare the creature into leaving.

  "Anna, the last thing on my mind right now is a lost ring. No
more beating about the bush. I insist you tell me what's put you in such a dither. Is it about Carter?"

  "Why do you think that?"

  "What else could it be, for Pete's sake?"

  "All right, yes, it's about Carter. It's just—it's not easy to know where to start—to make you understand..."

  "You were unhappy with Carter. You had a fight."

  "A dreadful row.” Anna, formulating a plan, looked toward the window facing the lake. “I always go for a stroll along the shore after breakfast. It'll be easier to talk there, out in the open."

  The other woman rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh of exasperation. “Whatever you say."

  They carried the dishes into the kitchen. Anna said: “It'll be chilly by the water. You'll need a coat."

  "My shawl will suffice."

  "I think not. You can borrow one of my coats."

  Upstairs, her heart pounding, Anna flung open the solid oak closet door. “Help yourself. Pick out something warm."

  As the other woman stepped into the closet Anna shoved her forward, slammed the door shut, and turned the key in the lock, provoking a startled cry of protest.

  Anna leaned heavily against the door, as if its lock might not withstand the expected assault from within; instead, that first cry was followed by a long moment of silence.

  Anna cried: “You're not Maureen. I know who you are."

  "Are you mad, Anna? What's come over you? Let me out."

  "You're Prudence. What did you do to Maureen?"

  "Stop playing games, girl. Open this door at once."

  "Not until you tell me the truth."

  "You're behaving like a child. I won't tell you anything until you open this door."

  "Why did you come? To talk me into going back with you? Then what? Kill me? Bury me out there on some mountain? Is that what happened to Maureen?"

  The knob rattled violently, causing Anna to press her body even more firmly against the door. “You'd better start talking before you run out of air."

  "I came here to help you, Anna."

  "Ha!"

  "It's the truth, I swear it. You're weak, Anna. You were always a crybaby. Boo-hooing in all those letters. Caught in a trap, you said. Can't get out. Can't get free. Anna, I was going to set you free. I thought Carter would be here. I had a plan. I can prove it if you'll only open this door and let me out."

  Anna's brain was working feverishly. “I can hear you perfectly well from in there. You tell me the truth or I'll go away and leave you in there. Nobody will come near this place. You can pound on the door till your knuckles are raw, nobody will hear you."

  A longer silence ensued, and then in a wheedling tone of entreaty: “All right, Anna, you win. I'll tell you everything if you just open the door a crack. I won't hurt you. You need me, Anna. We need each other. We have to plan things before Carter comes back."

  "Carter's not coming back."

  "Then why did you send for me?"

  "I sent for Maureen, not for you."

  "Maureen wouldn't have helped you. Maureen was sick and tired of your endless bellyaching. She said so. She felt sorry for Carter. I'm not like Maureen. I'm not afraid to do what has to be done. Please, Anna, open the door."

  "Maureen's dead, isn't she?"

  "I can explain that. Just let me out."

  "You stay put. I'll be right back."

  Anna moved swiftly from the room and down the stairs to Carter's study. Bellyaching, indeed. As if Maureen would ever say such a thing. But had she been overconfident in taking it for granted that Maureen would help her? Prudence, on the other hand, would have no choice. And Anna knew she couldn't do it alone. It had been struggle enough dragging Carter's corpulent body down into the cellar. She couldn't possibly have hauled it back up here and out into the garden and buried it.

  In the study she unlocked Carter's desk and took out the revolver, somehow surprised that it wasn't still warm to the touch. The sight of it brought back all too vividly the events of that awful night. Carter screaming that he was leaving her, that he'd had enough. The wave of panic and hysteria. The gun suddenly in her hand, exploding. And then the frightening sense of helplessness, the desperate need for someone to take charge, tell her what to do. Someone she loved and trusted more than anyone else in the world: Maureen.

  She was not about to open that closet door without the gun to protect her. Prudence was insane, even Maureen had hinted at that. But Prudence would be obliged to help her. Anna was aware of a bitter acid taste in her mouth, a taste of bile, recalling the wave of nausea as she'd looked down at Carter's oozing body. Her mouth was sour with that same nasty taste. As she turned to leave the room she saw the Pueblo jar on the library table by the window. A piece of candy would take that nasty taste away. One little piece of candy wouldn't kill her.

  Dropping the gun, she quickly snatched out the perforated stopper and plunged her hand deep into the bowl of the jar. She would never know which came first, the biting sting as she jerked her hand free, or that flashing glimpse of something unspeakably hideous, the lightning-swift movement of something cordlike and alive. Anna fainted.

  Once the rattler's venom enters the bloodstream, variable factors govern the progressive symptoms leading to death. By the time Anna had regained consciousness, paralysis had already invaded her limbs. Coma would ensue. From a distance the weakening sound of a fist hammering upon unyielding wood seemed to echo the faltering rhythm of those dying heartbeats.

  Copyright © 2006 Donald Olson

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  CAGEBIRD by Margaret Lawrence

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  Art by Allen Davis

  * * * *

  A historian with a doctorate in medieval drama, Margaret Lawrence has taught at several colleges in the Midwest. Her works of fiction include 1996's Hearts and Bones, the first in a mystery series set in Revolutionary War-era Maine, which won nominations for the Edgar, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity awards for best novel.

  My name is Harriet Burge. On the twenty-sixth of October of the year 1883, I discovered the body of Mrs. Elizabeth Logan hanging by a curtain cord from a ceiling hook in the after-cabin of the American brig China Star, a square-rigger bound for Singapore and Hong Kong.

  Mrs. Logan was but nineteen, and had married our captain, Dayton Logan, three years earlier in Maine. In my experience, unless they are besotted or bewitched, beautiful girls of sixteen do not wed sea captains of near fifty.

  But Eliza was not beautiful, nor was her character striking. In fact, she had seemed to me a young woman of limited possibilities—conventional, soft-spoken, made for narrow horizons. And as Logan was said to have money, I presumed to judge them both.

  I knew I was sadly mistaken from the moment I glimpsed her hanging there, with the heavy dark-green cord from the door curtains looped around her long thin neck. In death's release, she had become breathtakingly lovely, quite transfigured. This, I thought, was the woman Logan had seen and desired, perhaps even loved. Her black hair hung loose around her narrow face, and her pale skin gleamed with the purity of an ice crystal.

  * * * *

  In addition to the ceiling hook through which the green cord was looped, there were several others, and from them hung intricate wickerwork cages of tiny, bright-eyed songbirds, hopping and twittering. When the Star called at Palermo on its way to Suez, and thence to Singapore and Hong Kong, an Italian bird-vendor had come aboard to show his wares, and Dayton Logan had bought several for his wife—finches, can-aries, song sparrows.

  In fact, he seemed to shower Eliza with luxuries. A little spinet stood in one corner of the cabin, and a sewing machine had been screwed to a small table for her use. The dark blue Brussels carpet with its pattern of roses and acanthus was smooth, undisturbed, and scrupulously clean. The gilt-framed mirror, the brass lamp above the long, black walnut chart table, and the polished glasses of barometer and thermometer gleamed richly.

  The China Star was what the booking agent in London had called a “hen
coop.” It was the seamen's term for a ship that carried the wife—and sometimes the children—of its master aboard, and there were many of them, from whalers to packet boats, roaming the seas at that time.

  To shorebound women, the life seemed bizarre. “No respectable woman would live surrounded by all those rough sailors!” my Devonshire aunt had cried. “Wife or no wife, she must be a low, immoral creature!"

  "A married woman may very well civilize the crew,” I told her. “Besides, Cousin Philip sails to Hong Kong on business for his bank, so I shall have an escort. And I must go out to Papa at once, ill as he is."

  "Hmmph! If you had a grain of sense, Philip Rossiter would be your husband now, instead of being wed to that silly chit of his. Cornelia Plambeck, indeed! You mark my words, Harriet. Philip's not over you. And strange things happen at sea."

  * * * *

  The voyage seemed endless. I despised ocean travel, and after eight years on Aunt's farm, life aboard ship made me tentative and unsteady in spirit. In my familiar world of chicken feed and mousetraps and cabbages, I had had no doubt that it was right to refuse Philip's offer of marriage three years before. He had no prospects, and I had feared the strength of my own feelings for him. I called it prudence then, but I was to learn a truer name for it aboard the China Star.

  Philip had secured his post with the London and Colonial Bank a month after my refusal, and had proposed to Miss Plambeck soon after. As for myself, I was still only twenty-six, and I had a small inheritance from my mother and enough work to content me. On the farm, with my unhappy father on the other side of the world, I had at last felt perfectly complete. I did not care to marry, nor, for that matter, to love.

  But once at sea, in ceaseless motion and with all that dark element of ocean breathing beneath me like a secret self, I had lost my smug certainties. Philip's nearness, too, unsettled me. Did I love him, after all? Or did I merely want what I could no longer have?

  So it was that I stood, on that terrible October morning, in the small, overfurnished after-cabin of the Star, with the shadow of Eliza Logan's body upon me, and felt my hold upon my own destiny slipping away.