The Lost Girls of Devon

by Barbara O'Neal

  “I was plotting. The mistress of a wealthy man is murdered.”

  It was the plot of my grandmother’s most famous book, the first of the Lady Dawood books.

  “Mmm,” I said, noncommittal. “Lady Dawood?”

  “Oh, no,” she said with some of the same irritability that had marked her early tone. “I wrote that book already. This one will have Diana at the center.”

  “A mistress?”

  “I have never believed that man was not married. Why would he only come on weekends?”

  She was utterly rational now, completely in the here and now. In dismay, I said, “You really think so?”

  “It doesn’t matter now, does it,” she said, and she sank into her chair with a huff. “I’m shattered today.”

  “Eat,” I said, pushing the plate and cup closer. “I’ll make you an egg.”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  As I took out eggs and butter and the heavy pan, my phone stuttered the sound for a text. Sage:

  You haven’t sent your email.

  Sorry. Zoefairchild@emailtime.com.

  I wrote:

  I can’t leave Gran. Can you possibly just drop in to Diana’s house, grab the ledger, and bring it here?

  No response right away. I added butter to the pan and watched it begin to melt.

  The phone stuttered.

  The sun is coming out. That will make it easier to go to the house.

  I sent a smiley face back.

  See you when you get here, then.

  Anything you need?

  No. But thanks for asking.

  No worries.

  I set the phone down on the counter and looked out the window for one long moment, feeling the shocks and switches and turnarounds of the morning swirling through me. Then I picked up an egg and cracked it into the pan.

  As Diana would have said, people always have to eat.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Isabel

  It made me really sad that Gigi was so out of her head when I got up. She made no sense, talking about people I’d never heard of, and it was impossible to get her to sit down and have her tea.

  Gigi is really smart, and it’s sad to think she’ll lose all those pieces of herself.

  So I took my camera out and walked along the cliff and shot photos of the milling cops and onlookers gathered on the beach. I never had a clear view to tell if there was even a body down there, but it was the first time I’d ever seen an actual crime scene. How do you make something like that interesting?

  I shot a few focusing on color—red coat, red boat, blue uniforms, blue car. Another of arrangements of people, some kneeling, some hovering. It’s a good telephoto lens, so I could catch a few expressions, though not many good ones, honestly.

  After I was finished, I headed for the old church where Molly said she’d be. It seemed like a weird place to meet until I saw it, just a sort of ordinary ruin surrounded by trees and tall stands of grass. A graveyard stretched out from the church, the headstones mostly just gray shapes, erased of any identifying information. The place felt empty as I walked through it, as if nothing was really here at all, but I couldn’t help imagining all the bones below my feet, the skeletons in their rotted clothes, the human beings who had once walked around the world just like I was right now.

  I spied a blue sleeve in the opening of what was once a door, and then I heard a couple of people talking. As I came around the wall, I felt suddenly shy without my big hoodie. I pulled my sleeves down over my hands.

  A few kids were there, but I only recognized two of them—Molly and the guy from the Tesco crowd. Isaac. He saw me first and jumped to his feet. “Hiya! Isabel, right?”

  “Yeah.” I measured the others, suddenly feeling a sense of panic in my throat. Three guys, two girls, plus Molly and Isaac. Most of them white, one brown girl with a nose ring, and a black guy with hair cut short. “Hi.”

  Molly, smoking a rolled something, patted the space beside her. I sat, but I passed on the weed when I realized that’s what it was. “I’ll get paranoid,” I said, handing it to the guy next to her.

  “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” he said with an accent I didn’t recognize. “I’m Marcu. You are American.”

  She nodded.

  “I want to go to America,” he said.

  “Not me,” one of the girls said. She was blonde and raw looking, like she never ate anything healthy. Her eyes were rimmed in pink. “I’d be afraid to get shot, like at the movies or a mall or something.” Her accent was thick and hard to understand, half of it swallowed, the th pronounced as an f, and the g like a k. Somefink.

  I lifted a shoulder. What could I say to that? It’s not like it isn’t true.

  “D’you know anybody who got shot?”

  “No. It hasn’t happened around me.”

  “Don’t mean it won’t, though, does it?”

  I shrugged. And had to crush a rise of memory, that morning walking home. Finding my phone on the front porch—

  This was a bad idea. I wanted to escape.

  Isaac rescued me. “Did you see the body on the beach?”

  “No. There’s a bunch of cops. You can’t see anything.”

  The girl with the nose ring said, “Yeah, they wouldn’t tell us nothing, just shooed us off to school.” She snickered. “We been thinking it’s this girl who lived near us. Jennie. She was living with Diana, and nobody’s seen her in weeks.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged. “I dunno. It was weird, right? Like, I talked to her every day, and she just disappears?” She held up her phone. “Nothing.”

  “Have you told the cops?” I asked. It seemed like something they should know.

  For a second they all stared at me like I’d sprouted horns. Then, all at once, they started to laugh. “Like they’d listen to the lot of us.”

  I snapped to reality. They were smoking weed in the ruins of a church on a school day. I gave them a rueful smile, embarrassed. “Right. Sorry.”

  Molly bumped me with an elbow. “S’all right.”

  For a minute, I was tempted to take a hit. I could feel the zigzaggy sensation of anxiety running along my veins. Weed would calm that down.

  But my dad told me a long time ago that the reason a lot of people fall on their faces is because they can’t handle big things without booze or drugs. You have to figure out how you can face things that hurt or burn or even make you really happy.

  So I sat there, mentally going through a five, four, three, two, one, naming what I saw, what I smelled, what I felt physically. After a couple of minutes my breath didn’t feel like it was stuck at the back of my throat anymore, and I didn’t feel like I had to run away.

  After another ten minutes, I felt myself just starting to relax, being myself, listening to the back and forth. It felt good to be laughing at stupid jokes and feeling a guy’s eyes on me, trying to impress me.

  Maybe life will be okay again.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Zoe

  I settled Gran in her bedroom and covered her with a soft, thick blanket. As she looked out the window to the sea, now glittering and calm, I read to her from a Jacqueline Winspear novel she’d left in progress on her bedside table. Eventually, she fell asleep.

  Leaving her tucked in, I looked in her medicine cabinet for the meds she’d been taking and then compared them with the chart Poppy had made. There was a considerable number of them, and I gathered the lot into a box to carry back into her bedroom so I could go through them, one by one.

  I sat in a chair by the window and looked each one up on the internet. Blood thinner, blood pressure medicine, serious antacid, cholesterol control, all of which were fairly normal for a woman of eighty-seven, I supposed. I also found an antianxiety medicine, the bottle hardly touched, and one for Aricept, which I found to my dismay was used to treat dementia.

  I sat with the bottles in my lap and watched Lillian sleep. How long had she known? Ho
w long had she been taking it?

  And why hadn’t Diana said anything to me? We hadn’t been completely out of touch, after all. A nudge would have been the right thing to do.

  Unless my grandmother had sworn her to silence, which was entirely likely.

  For now, Lillian was sleeping, but I wasn’t sure how much antianxiety medicine she could safely take, or what to do if she still seemed so lost when she woke up. I knew I should probably call my mother, but—

  I remembered that pharmacists would give advice here, especially in a village where the prescribing pharmacy would know my grandmother. I punched in the number on the label with a vast sense of relief. When the man picked up the phone, I explained who I was and what the situation was and asked if I could give her antianxiety meds. “She’s been very agitated today, and I’m worried about her.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “Yes. I’m sorry. You need to meet with her GP as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, we have an appointment at the end of the week, according to the medical info I have here. But I’m most concerned about today, and if it’s safe to give her the antianxiety meds.”

  “I’m reluctant to say yes or no, Ms. Fairchild. Your mother is listed here as the main contact. Perhaps it would be best to speak with her first?”

  I sighed. “Of course.”

  It wasn’t like he didn’t know we’d had a longtime war. In a village as small and insular as this one, such a story would have been discussed a million times, in a million variations. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Across the room, my grandmother snored. I needed to talk with my mother about long-term plans, about whether she’d seen doctors and been treated, about all of it.

  When I absolutely had to, I would. At the moment, Lillian was okay. With any luck, she’d sleep awhile and get herself right, and I wouldn’t have to make a phone call I did not want to make.

  In the meantime, I left a message with her GP, then looked up carer services. She needed more than occasional help and family looking in on her. She would need a full-time carer, and the great news about her fortune was that she could afford to pay for the best. I made three calls and lined up as many interviews for tomorrow.

  When I hung up the phone, I simply sat in her chair and watched her sleep.

  Cooper showed up midafternoon. The clouds were moving back in, shouldering into the sky like a noisy crowd, the tops rising high into thunderheads. It reminded me that I hadn’t heard from Isabel for a bit. I texted her.

  Looks like a storm.

  I’m with Molly at a house by the Tesco. It’s fine.

  I found her on Find My Friends, a dot not far from the high street, less than a mile away.

  Ok

  He arrived at the kitchen door as I was preparing a stew for dinner, and the scent of browning onions gave the air a homey smell. It had been a while since I’d had a chance to cook. It calmed me to skin carrots and chop celery and crush whole spices, and with the radio turned to a classical station, I felt a soft sense of normality ease the taut skin of my face. So many things were wrong, but this was something I could control.

  “Hey,” I said as he came in. “Looks like you found a few things.”

  He carried a canvas bag that looked pretty heavy, and he settled it on the table. Mósí ran into the room, meowing in greeting, and swirled around his legs.

  “Hello, you,” Cooper said, bending to scoop the big cat up in his arms as easily as if he were a kitten. “You’re a little dog of a cat, aren’t you?”

  Joyfully, Mósí headbutted his chin, and Cooper greeted him in return by rubbing along the cat’s forehead, back and forth, while holding his big body without any apparent effort. I ached a little, watching them.

  “He loves men,” I said. “My ex raised him when his mother was killed, and he thinks men will nurse him.”

  “Is that right?” Cooper said to the cat, who meowed in response.

  While he was busy, I said, “I need your help with something.”

  “Sure.”

  “You won’t feel that way when I ask.”

  “Must be to do with your mother, then.”

  I nodded, stirring mirepoix over low heat. “She was here this morning, but I’m worried that I don’t have enough information. I’m afraid of giving her too much Valium, and the pharmacist said my mother is the person listed.”

  “Ah.” He set the cat free and straightened before going to the sink to wash his hands. “Diana was holding up the tent, wasn’t she?”

  “It looks that way.” I stirred, watching the cubed carrots and celery and onion in the pan. “Gran was very agitated and confused this afternoon. She mistook me for my mother, and her plots are mixed up with the current village trouble. She was quite combative, honestly.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s been happening for a while.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me she had dementia?”

  “It was never mine to do.” He leaned on the counter, crossed his arms. “And you don’t speak to your mother.”

  I absorbed that. Nodded. “Damn it, I’m just so sad.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Will you call my mother and ask her about the drugs?”

  He smiled. “I will. What do you need to know?”

  “I just want to ask about the Valium and the general protocols for how to soothe her when she’s agitated.” Saying this aloud made my throat ache.

  Cooper held his phone up, waiting for me to finish. “Anything else?”

  “No.” I knew it was ridiculous, but I also knew I would not be able to dial the phone, or even speak if she answered. We’d spoken in person, but the phone was different. The thought of it made it hard to breathe, the memories of my lost self having a panic attack.

  PTSD was a bear.

  “I need to get you a pencil.”

  “Might be helpful.” He touched the screen and lifted the phone immediately to his ear, so I knew she must be in his favorites, though why not? He’d known her as long as I had. I remembered the pair of us sitting in her lap as she read the story of the Velveteen Rabbit, her beautiful voice acting out all the parts, and the way she cut off the edges of a too-brown potato casserole for him.

  I added cubed sweet potatoes to the pot and stirred slowly as he listened to the phone ring. I could hear it ring on the other end, ring-ring, ring-ring. And then her voice, which I could hear quite clearly. “Hello, Sage.”

  Something about the way it sounded made my heart squeeze so hard I felt I lost a few beats. Her fluting vowels, her breathy softness. All the nerves on my arms rustled, and I had to rub them.

  “Hiya, Poppy,” he said. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Your daughter has asked me to find out how much Valium she can give Lillian. She’s worried about giving her too much.”

  “Oh, dear. Shall I come over?”

  “No!” I said.

  Cooper switched to speaker and laid the phone down on the table. “I guess she can hear me, then,” Poppy said. She might have sighed. “You don’t have to speak, Zoe, but I hope you will listen.”

  “I am.” I tried to make the words hard, but they sounded slightly pathetic.

  “Gran has been in decline for nearly a year. She can be very mean when she doesn’t know where she is, so you might want to warn Isabel.”

  After a pause, she continued. “In addition to the chart I left, which does have the dosage on Valium, there’s a more complete medical history and helpful tips in the top-left drawer of the desk in the small parlor. She never goes in that room, so I hoped she wouldn’t tear them up. She’s done that several times.”

  I waved for Cooper to follow me. He picked up the phone, and we traipsed through the house, through the great hall, then into the hearth room, a large sitting room, and then the small one. It was cold and smelled dusty.

  The desk creaked as I opened the narrow upper drawer and took out a file fold
er, neatly labeled in a hand I recognized as Poppy’s—a spidery, slanted cursive. Again, the look of it stabbed me oddly, as if she’d already died and I was looking through old letters.

  Would I mourn her when she died? It was an entirely new thought. I had no idea of the answer.

  I held up the file, and Sage said, “We’ve got it.”

  “Good. Everything you need is there. She’s often fine for many weeks on end, and then she’ll have a bad day or two. I worried yesterday that she might be slipping.”

  There were questions I wanted to ask, and it would be stupid to tell Sage to ask them when I was standing right there, but the first thing out of my mouth was, “Yesterday?”

  A short pause. “I stopped by to see her when you and Isa went to the moor.”

  “Really.” I looked at Sage. “And how did you know I was going?”

  “Your gran told me, Zoe. I am trying to be respectful of your wish to avoid me.”

  A thousand retorts crowded into my mouth, but all of them had the ring of adolescence, and I refused to indulge. One of us had grown up. “I appreciate that.”

  Silence buzzed in the room. The floor creaked below Sage’s left foot as he shifted his weight.

  “Is there anything else?” Poppy asked.

  How about Why did you leave me? Instead some meanness in me lashed out. Isabel had told me that Poppy was worried about the girl who’d been staying with Diana. “Did you hear about the girl who washed up on the beach?”

  “What? No. What body?”

  “How did you miss it?” I asked. “There’s been a crowd on the beach all day, looking for clues. Beach was closed.”

  “The shop is closed on Mondays. Mia and I have been in the workshop all day making charms for the festival.” Her voice cracked as she asked, “Do they know who it is?”

  Sage said, “She’s young, Poppy. Dark hair. That’s all we know.”

  “Oh, no.” Her voice was hushed, and I almost felt sorry for her. “Oh, I hope it isn’t Jennie. Thank you for telling me.”

  “I’m sorry, Poppy,” Sage said. “Don’t lose hope. It might not be her.”