This room, which was obviously Darlene’s, was neatly arranged. The brass double bed was made, the bed linens and covers folded in place. The top of the bureau held several framed photos, a comb and a brush. No drawers were opened, nothing pulled apart. But on the bed, laid out as if waiting for the room’s owner to return and slip into it, was a knitted cardigan sweater with a sprig of fabric violets pinned near the neckline. A blue and violet wool knit hat and matching gloves were laid out there as well, ready to be donned. There were dark smears on the sleeve of the sweater and a note lying on top of it. Blair walked over to the sweater on the bed and looked down at the note. She could read it without picking it up. She recognized her uncle’s handwriting.
‘I saw this downtown and I bought it for you. I hoped you would wear it during the holidays. I guess that won’t happen now. You may as well have it. I have no use for it. Sincerely, Ellis.’
Tears welled up unexpectedly in Blair’s eyes as she read the plaintive note, and looked at the winter ensemble laid out on the bed. Oh Ellis, she thought. What in the world made you decide this would be a good idea? You break into the house and leave this in her room? It’s not exactly the way to a woman’s heart. It’s more like the behavior of a stalker. Still, it was a side of her uncle that she had rarely seen. A side that was hopeful and sentimental, a side that still dreamed of happy holidays with the right person. What happened to you along the way, she wondered? How did a hopeful, romantic heart beat in a Nazi sympathizer? How did those two, polar opposites, co-exist in one person? She looked at the blood on the sleeve of the sweater. That stain would never come out. This sweater would never be worn, she thought.
Blair hesitated, wondering what to do. She finally decided that it was not her business to do anything about this misguided, romantic gesture. It wasn’t menacing in any way. Foolish, but not menacing, and certainly not her problem.
She left the door open and stepped carefully to avoid the trail of blood. You should get out of here, she thought. Before anyone comes home and finds you here. She knew that was the smart thing to do. But the thought of Darlene coming home to find this gory trail leading to her room was sickening to Blair. Darlene didn’t deserve that. She had been nothing but nice and kind. To Ellis. To Malcolm. Even to Blair.
Blair hesitated and then made up her mind. She went into the bathroom to see if there might be something she could use to clean the mess up. In the bathroom linen closet, a sponge mop with a replaceable top that had clearly seen a lot of use, was leaning against the wall. Blair pulled it out of the closet and looked it over. She couldn’t make this sponge top any worse with all the blood. It had already mopped more than its fair share of floors. Blair soaked the sponge under the faucet, and then, squeezing it out lightly, she carried it back to the bedroom and began to mop the trail of blood off the floor. Glancing sadly at the sweater with its bloodstained sleeve, and the hat and gloves on the bed, Blair sighed and then turned away. She would leave that on the bed, along with Ellis’s note. It was Darlene’s present, whether she wanted it or not.
Blair worked her way out into the hall, then down the stairs and through the house. There was nothing she could do about the blood on the Oriental rug. With any luck, they would never know that it was there. She mopped the dining room, then the kitchen and tried to rinse the sponge out in the kitchen sink. The old sponge head would not come clean. Time for this to be replaced, Blair thought. She looked under the sink, and in the corner cupboard, but did not see any new replacement for the sponge. That was unfortunate, but she wasn’t going to worry about it. They could always buy another mop head. At least the whole scene looked a lot less ugly now, she thought. She decided to detach the mop head anyway, toss it out. She would explain it all when she talked to Darlene. Her goal now was just to spare Darlene the sight of the mess.
Blair took the sponge mop head and tossed it into a plastic grocery bag that she found in the cupboard. Now for the glass, she thought. She used the mop handle to knock the rest of the glass out of the broken pane. At least that way no one else would cut themselves on it. Then she got a whisk broom and began to gather up the shards into a dustpan. She managed to clean up the glass pretty well, both inside and out. She emptied the dustpan into the bag on top of the sponge head, and tied the handles in a knot. She looked around, satisfied with what she had done. She thought of putting the bag into the kitchen garbage, but then she remembered the garbage cans in the barn. Take it out there, she thought. Don’t leave this mess in the house. The sharp glass might pierce the bag, and someone who picked it up could cut themselves.
She gathered up the bag and closed the door to the kitchen. The empty pane gave the place a forlorn look. She thought about looking for some cardboard to put temporarily in the frame, but then decided she had done enough to clean up after her uncle. She took the bag and, after depositing Darlene’s pill bottle in the wooden box, she picked her way down the stairs, across the driveway and down a little slope to the barn.
She walked up to the barn door and pulled on it. The door swung open easily, thanks to the groove it had worn in the dirt from many previous openings. She fumbled against the wall for a light switch and flipped it up. An unshaded bulb hung down on a long cord. The light came on but it was of such a dim wattage that it barely illuminated the space. There was a wall of shadowy, empty stalls across one end of the barn. Two large, black plastic cans were pushed up against the far wall. Blair crossed the barn floor and, as she did so, something shot quickly across the cement floor. She saw it out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look, but whatever it was had disappeared. Blair felt her stomach churn. She had not actually seen it, but she had a good idea of what it was. A rat. What was a barn without a few rats? Barns and rats went together. Although normally, a rat preferred to live in a barn when there were other animals in residence. That way, they had feed bags to raid and grain to burrow in and chew.
He won’t come out now, Blair reminded herself. They don’t want to encounter people any more than people enjoy encountering them. Still, she hurried across the barn floor to the garbage cans and lifted the first lid.
The can was almost full, the trash thrown in haphazardly, some in plastic bags, some in paper and some loose. The sickening smell of garbage wafted up to her nose. I guess I could use this one, she thought. She decided to look in the other can as well. If they were both in use, she would put her bag in the fuller bin. She replaced the first lid and opened the second. This can was almost entirely empty. All right, consolidate, she told herself. She replaced the second lid, and lifted the first one up again. She took her bag and set it carefully atop the pile of garbage that was in there already. She hesitated for a moment and then replaced the lid. As she crossed the cement floor back to the barn door, something bothered her, though she could not pinpoint what it was. She opened the barn door and stepped out into the fresh air and weak sunlight outside the barn. All right. Enough, she thought. But as she returned to her car and popped the locks with her keys, she was uneasy.
Blair hesitated and turned around, looking back at the barn. For a moment she stood there, undecided.
‘None of your business,’ she said aloud.
But she could not pretend she hadn’t seen it. She walked back to the barn, pushed open the door and flipped the light switch again. She half expected to see the rat, staring defiantly up at her, but the barn was perfectly quiet, as she had left it. She crossed the barn floor to the garbage can and lifted the lid once again. She was glad she had put the glass from the back porch window into a bag and tied it or what she was about to do would have been difficult, if not impossible.
She reached into the garbage can and pulled out, with her fingertips, a small cardboard box, which her gaze had fallen on when she opened that lid the first time. The sight of that box was troubling, but the reason it was troubling had not registered until she was unlocking her car, preparing to leave. Now, she held the box in her hand. The box was not empty. She opened the lid and looked inside, then
dropped the box back into the trash, recoiling from what she saw in there. She quickly replaced the lid and then she stared down at it. What is going on here, she thought?
TWENTY-FIVE
Blair’s heart began to race. For a moment she thought of picking up that lid again, and reaching back into the can. Pulling out the box and … doing what with it, she asked herself? Taking it with her? And for what? It was hardly suspicious, or even surprising that a garbage can would contain an empty box of Tampax, with some of the tampons used and stuffed inside in the wrappers provided. No one would think a thing of it.
But Blair knew that it was wrong. Wrong, as in, out of place. In this house there was no one who would have any need of tampons. They didn’t belong to Joe, she thought. They certainly hadn’t been used by Darlene. They had no guests. No one who would be young enough to have her period and need tampons. Yet there they were, in the trash. Demanding an explanation.
Get a grip, Blair chided herself. It means nothing. There must be some perfectly logical explanation, and, furthermore, what are you going to do about it? Announce that you were going through their garbage and there’s an item you’d like them to explain? It was difficult to imagine a conversation more inappropriate. And why? For what? Since when did people have to account for personal items in their trash? Blair put the Tampax box back into the can and firmly replaced the lid.
Go home, she thought. This is none of your business. You shouldn’t even be here. But as she made sure the lid was secure and started to walk across the floor to the barn door, she stopped. There, in the empty barn, a strange scent assailed her. She inhaled deeply and shook her head. She felt as though she was hallucinating. But she was not imagining it.
She smelled something cooking.
Food.
Soup.
There was something so homely, so … normal about that smell. It conjured up images of someone putting a pot on the stove, offering a bowl for lunch. It might have been almost comforting.
Except that there was no one here. No one nearby even.
Blair opened the door of the barn and looked out. Everything was exactly as it had been. No car had arrived. No lights were on in the house. I’m losing my mind, she thought. And then, she remembered something. The other day, when she was here with Tom, they thought there was no one at home, but Joe Reese had come walking around the side of the barn. Maybe that was what had happened today. Joe or Darlene had come home and parked around back. Maybe they’d picked up a carton of fresh, hot soup in town and that was what she smelled. Takeout. Obviously there was a car parked somewhere around the other side. There had to be. There was no other explanation.
Blair flipped off the light switch and stepped outside.
‘Hello,’ she called out. ‘Anyone here?’
Her car sat alone in the driveway.
There was no answer.
She walked over to the house and climbed the porch steps. She looked through the window panes in the back door, but there were no lights on inside. She could see the range on the gas stove across the room. None of the burners were lit.
Maybe there was something in the oven, she thought, something that had been scheduled on a timer to begin cooking. She had heard of crockpots, though never actually used one. Suddenly she felt relieved, that she had hit on an explanation that made sense. There was probably a crockpot in the kitchen which was finally beginning to stew its contents, giving off that scent. Blair reached through the empty pane to open the door and walk in again. But even as she went into the house, she was beginning to realize that she was not going to find anything. For the smell had begun to diminish as she left the barn and, by the time she approached the back door, there was virtually no smell at all. She went into the house anyway and looked around thoroughly. Nothing. No one.
Blair did not linger in the house. She had spent too much time there already today and she was beginning to feel distinctly like an intruder. She closed the door behind her and returned to her car. Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me, she thought. She opened the car door and got in. But even as she slipped her key into the ignition, her mind was racing. Had it been some kind of olfactory illusion that disappeared as quickly as it occurred? For a few moments she sat there, debating with herself. If it had just been some trick of the imagination, the scent would be gone now. What do you care, she asked herself? But she was trained in the sciences. She was used to experiments that she could control. It went against her grain to think that it had just been imaginary, with no explanation.
Once again, Blair got out of the car. She left it running and walked back to the barn. As soon as she opened the barn door, she realized that this was no olfactory illusion. No trick of the imagination. She smelled it again. Food cooking.
‘Who’s there?’ she called out. ‘Is someone here?’ There was no answer. This time, she left the barn and decided to walk around the perimeter of it, hoping to find the car which had come onto the property and parked there. Or maybe there was someone camping out in the field behind the house. Someone who probably shouldn’t be there. She had no interest in startling some squatter. She called out, as she walked along.
‘Hello. Anyone back here?’
There was nothing. She stood on the gravelly path behind the high, windowless back wall of the barn and stared across the field beyond it, searching for some sign of a person camped there. But the field, brown and patchy with snow, was motionless except for a rippling breeze that disturbed the dry grasses ever so slightly. As Blair stood there, looking out, the smell of food cooking grew more distinct.
Blair wheeled around and stared at the building behind her. The back wall of the barn was tall and windowless. At ground level there were three matching stall doors that appeared to be tightly shut. They were Dutch doors, divided into top and bottom. The tops of the doors were closed and each door was crisscrossed by boards in the shape of an X. The bottoms were solid. Blair went and tried to open each one, but they were locked, presumably from the inside. Of course they’re locked, she thought. There were no animals in the barn. There was no need to keep the stall door open.
Blair stared at them curiously running her hand over the edge of each one. They were perfectly flush with the back wall of the barn. She glanced back out into the field but, apart from some sort of hawk which was circling and making the occasional swoop down, the scene was undisturbed. Blair retraced her steps back around the barn and went inside once more. She crossed the cement floor and walked back to the empty stalls.
There were still some dingy brass and leather pieces of tackle hanging from hooks beside the stalls: a bridle, a girth, a couple of stirrups. Blair opened a stall door and went inside. There was hay scattered on the floors and Blair was sure that a couple of rats made themselves at homes there. The thought of it made her skin crawl, but curiosity outweighed her revulsion. A pitchfork and a shovel, both rusty with disuse, leaned against the back wall of the stall. An Indian blanket, faded and moldy, was tacked up across the side wall of the stall on the end, which gave the place a vaguely Western look.
There was a faint scent of manure reasserting itself in the barn, especially now that the smell of food was fading. For it definitely was fading. Soon it would be gone and she would not be able to say for certain that she smelled anything at all. I will ask Darlene, she thought. Maybe it’s something in the air currents around here that carry scents from the nearest neighbor’s house. Whatever it is, she thought, it is none of my concern. As she gazed out across the barn floor, she heard scrabbling and saw another furry creature scuttling across the floor.
I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. She wished she could leave the back way, through the stalls, and not have to cross the barn floor and encounter a rat. But those stall doors looked as if they had not been opened for a long time. She reached out and jiggled the latch on the bottom door of the stall she was in. There was no use jiggling the top lock; the latch was rusted in place. She wasn’t going to climb up and hoist herself over the
half door, even if it did open. That was a virtual guarantee of painful splinters poking through her jeans. Maybe there was a side door, she thought, over there, beneath the hanging blanket. She went down to the farthest stall, reached for the blanket and pushed it aside. Immediately, she saw that she was right.
There was a door there, although it was locked with a padlock. She reached out and grabbed the padlock, giving it a shake, on the off chance that it might not be fastened. But it was, indeed, soundly locked. She noticed that there was a peephole in the door, as one would normally have on a front door. She leaned in and put her eye to the peephole. At first it seemed as if she were looking at a blank wall. Then, as her eye adjusted, she saw that the door led to an empty room the size of a small foyer. There was a shadowy step up on the far wall, and, almost indiscernibly, another door, again locked with a padlock. What was Joe Reese so busy locking away, Blair wondered? Judging from the look of the house, she doubted he owned anything of much value. She’d seen houses in the priciest neighborhoods of the city with fewer locks than these.
Well, she thought, she would not be getting out through those doors. She gave the padlock another shake, and then let the blanket drop and turned away. She would just have to cross the barn floor again, and hope no rats ran out across the tops of her sneakers.
Blair turned back toward the front of the stall and, as she did so, she suddenly noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It was movement at the foot of the door. Not another rat, she thought. She jumped away, her nerves on edge by now, and glanced down at the cement floor.
She frowned and looked again.
The Girl in the Woods Page 20
