Kill Me If You Can apam-2

by Nicole Young

  The driveway had drifted over during the night, but the Explorer cut through scattered three-foot-high snow mounds without any trouble. I would never have made it in my inherited classic Buick, the one I’d finally unloaded for this dream machine.

  The end of my driveway sloped upward where it joined the two-lane highway to Port Silvan. I slowed to look for traffic. All clear. I pressed the gas. My wheels started to slip. The car skidded sideways on the incline. I punched the vehicle into four-wheel drive and burst onto the lonely highway like a colt trying out its new legs.

  “Woo-hooo!” I grinned at the swell of exhilaration rushing through my veins.

  The county plow had already been through. Salt left clear patches on the otherwise slippery blacktop. I put the Explorer back in two-wheel drive and took it easy for the eight-mile trip to Port Silvan. Just down the road, a red wooden sign with white letters identified Cupid’s Creek. This time of year the creek was nothing more than a trickle of water at the bottom of an icy trough. The sign had been there when I was a kid. I wondered what else had stayed the same even after all these years.

  Farther ahead, the roofs of farmhouses and barns were white with caked-on snow. Horses huddled over bins of hay. The fields around them looked like wrinkled sheets of bleached cotton.

  A little ways up, the road straightened. In the distance rose the blue water tower of the Village of Port Silvan. The houses grew closer together as I neared town. Some I remembered from my time here as a kid, some looked new.

  I reached the village limits. I nearly choked on the dry air in the SUV. Or was it nerves? I turned the fan to low and cleared my throat. There was no reason to be nervous. No one would recognize me. I wasn’t seven anymore. I was all grown up.

  I pulled into Sinclair’s Grocery and shifted into park. I left the car running while I scoped out the neighborhood. The ancient building in front of me had been recently updated with a bright white coat of stain on its clapboard siding. The store’s name was traced in blue on a sign swinging over the entry. Painted-on letters in the big picture window said OPEN. Across the full length of the front ran a snow-covered boardwalk. I could picture its row of benches filled with kids eating ice-cream cones in the summer. I’d been one of them, of course. Blue Moon had been my favorite. Next door, a house had gotten new vinyl siding. So had the old gas station. Behind me across the street, a couple buildings, at least a hundred years old, had gotten fresh paint jobs as well. Port Silvan Museum, one of the signs said. Blinds covered the windows and the place had a vacant look.

  I was beginning to think the whole town was vacant. Then I heard a rumble off to my right. A red four-wheeler pulled up next to me. Its driver wore a ski mask, though whether to protect from the bitter cold or to burglarize the place, I couldn’t be sure. I activated my power locks, thinking as I did that I couldn’t have done that in Grandma’s old Buick. The man glanced over at the sound and shook his head. He went in the store. I waited. He came out a few minutes later carrying a case of soda. His mask was folded back to his forehead. I scrunched in concentration as I studied his face. He was a notch older than me and good-looking in a rugged sort of way. But there was nothing familiar about him. He bore no resemblance to any nine- or ten-year-olds from the past. With a narrow-eyed look in my direction, he got on his four-wheeler and rode away.

  I stepped out of my vehicle and walked into the store. A bell jangled overhead as I entered. The scent of fresh, sweet donuts met me at the door. To one side, candy bars and treats were laid out at kid-level beneath the front window. Directly in front of me, racks of DVDs promised night after night of entertainment. The covers were sprinkled with yellow Post-it notes that said “Sorry, Out.” The blizzard must have boosted rentals.

  To the other side, a fifty-something woman with a poof of blonde hair stood behind the checkout. I gave a nod and smiled as I pulled a cart from the stack and headed in search of the bottled water aisle. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was watching me, even after I turned the corner out of sight. I glanced up at one of the large, round security mirrors and met her eyes. I looked away, focusing on the choice of bottles and jugs in front of me. I ignored the suspicion that nagged at me. I was new in town. She was curious. That was all.

  I loaded the water and went down the remaining aisles of the miniature supermarket. I grabbed the basics on my way through, then ordered up six assorted donuts at checkout.

  “Expecting company already?” the woman asked.

  “Me? No, just figured I’d have some treats handy the next few days.” I stared at her, wondering if I should know her, and why she seemed to know something about me.

  Her cheeks were rosy with makeup and her maroon lipstick looked freshly applied. She kept a pleasant smile as she checked price tags and punched buttons on the cash register. Stick-on fingernails flashed a metallic pink in the fluorescent lighting.

  “That’ll be twenty-nine dollars and sixteen cents,” she said in a raspy smoker’s voice.

  I grimaced at the high cost of groceries in this out-of-the-way burg as I groped through the pocket of my ski coat for the money. I laid two twenties on the counter.

  The cash drawer popped open with a bing and she passed me my change.

  “Oh,” she said, “this is for you.” She fished around next to an old-fashioned rotary phone and found a slip of paper. “Candice wanted you to have her number. Said to call her as soon as you got in.”

  I reached for the note in slow motion. “Who’s Candice?”

  The woman smiled. “Candice LeJeune. She figured you wouldn’t remember her. You used to visit her all the time when you were a kid.”

  I stared at the folded paper with “Tish” written across the top. Whoever this Candice was, she had a lot of nerve calling me by the pet name my mother had given me. I only liked people to call me Tish after I’d given my permission.

  “Was Candice a friend of my mother’s?” I asked.

  “And your grandmother’s, God rest her soul,” the woman said.

  My glance shot up at the reference to my grandmother. I couldn’t be sure, but there might have been a hint of accusation in her eyes.

  “My grandmother was a wonderful lady. Did you know her?” I asked.

  “Everybody knew Eva Nagy. There’s a ton of Nagys around here. Eva was related to half the peninsula.”

  My forehead rose in surprise. I guess I never knew my grandmother’s maiden name. She’d been Eva Amble for as long as I could remember. I had a feeling there would be a lot more surprises coming my way. Questions I’d asked Gram about my mother, my father, my early years had all carried the same response: “Let it lie, Tish. No sense living in the past. Just let it lie.”

  A tiny nuclear bomb had exploded in my chest every time I’d heard the words, until fallout had built up to the point I could no longer ignore it.

  I looked at the note in my hand. It pulsed in my fingers like some mystical Pandora’s box. Dare I open it and step into the past? Or should I heed my grandmother’s words of warning and leave well enough alone?

  3

  I slid the note open.

  Call me! Aunt Candice.

  A local telephone number accompanied the scribbled letters.

  No friendly face popped to mind at the inscription. I had no memory of an “Aunt Candice,” nor any other relations. Maybe I’d recognize her once I saw her face.

  I gathered up my purchases, gave the cashier a parting smile, and headed out.

  “Welcome home, Tish,” she called behind me. I let the words get lost in the wind as I pushed open the door.

  A patch of blue sky broke through the cloud cover, sending sunlight glinting off the fresh snow. The sudden glare made my eyes water. I loaded the groceries in the Explorer. Before I left town, I stopped at the bank to open a new account. The teller seemed to recognize my name, but allowed me the dignity of my privacy. At least one institution in town practiced confidentiality.

  I ducked my face against the wind, jumped in my car, and he
aded north. I’d already come to the realization that there was no such thing as anonymity in this day and age. One word from the real estate agent, one look at the national headlines ten years back, and anyone would know who I was. Patricia Louise Amble, Grandma Slayer. I thought I’d shaken the feeling that people were judging me. But I guess it would take more time. And if Gram had been related to half the peninsula as the clerk said, then I could expect a few evil eyes for my past deed. I’d just have to hold my head up and not let it get to me. They weren’t going to run me out of Port Silvan like some Frankenstein’s monster. I planned on sticking around awhile.

  I slowed and took the turn down my driveway. Snow flew from the tires in my rearview as I gunned the engine through the drifts. I pulled up to the cottage feeling like a cowboy who’d just rounded up a herd of cattle. Yee-haw. I loved the power beneath the hood.

  I brought in the groceries and water jugs. While I put things away, I thought about where I might find the water shutoff valve so I could get the faucets working again. I couldn’t remember seeing any doors on the first floor that might conceal waterworks. That meant there had to be a crawl space or a freestanding pump house somewhere nearby.

  I tried picturing the yard without snow, as I’d seen it every summer back when. The only structure that came to mind was a garden shed that stood about a hundred feet from one end of the house, at the edge of the woods. That left the probability of a crawl space. Hopefully the access door was inside the house.

  The sound of an approaching vehicle seeped through the thin glass of the kitchen windows. I headed toward the back door, wondering who would brave the driveway in this weather.

  I stepped onto the porch. Snow dust blew down the neck of my jacket. I zipped against the ice-cold pinpricks. The roar of a diesel engine reverberated through the trees. A truck pulled into sight. Snow flew to one side in front of it like a white geyser. The driver slowed, angled into a snow bank, then backed up, revealing a rusty red plow attachment. The truck took another swipe at the opposite bank. After a few more maneuvers, the vehicle parked on the cleared driveway. The engine cut out. The rust-eaten driver’s side door opened. A pair of brown Sorels, laces dangling, appeared.

  “Morning, young lady.” A burly man wearing tan canvas-type outerwear stepped into view. Curly white hair and a matching beard circled his face. He carried a to-go cup in one hand.

  “Hi.” I held on to the rail as I went down the porch steps.

  “Thought you might need some help cleaning up this mess.” He spit a stream of tobacco into the snow.

  “Thank you.” I put my hand out. “I’m Patricia Amble.”

  He took my fingers in a loose grip. “I know who you are. You’re Beth’s little one.”

  Beth. That was a name I hadn’t heard in years.

  “Did you know my mother?” I couldn’t contain my excitement.

  His eyes roved my face. “’Course I did. You look a lot like her.” The old guy shook his head. “Too bad how things ended up for your mom.”

  “Yeah.” Tears stung my eyes. Dead at the bottom of a quarry was a pathetic end for anybody. I sniffled. “So how did you know her?”

  “I’m hoping for a fill-up on my coffee. Got any?” He lifted his travel mug.

  “Oh, gee.” I ran a hand through my hair. “I was working on that when you pulled up. Come on in.”

  He followed me inside. He leaned against the wall and started to pull off a boot.

  “Please,” I waved a hand. “Leave those on. It’s too cold in here for stocking feet.” I poured water from a jug into the coffeemaker. “Besides, nothing can hurt this old linoleum.” I wrinkled my nose at the tan-and-black-flecked tiles.

  I scooped some coffee into the filter and turned on the pot. The machine belched, then dripped fragrant, steaming liquid. “It just takes a few minutes.”

  “I hear you’re going to fix this place up.” The old gentleman surveyed the kitchen.

  I shook off my annoyance. I’d moved from one small town to another. Of course everyone knew who I was and what my plans were.

  “It’ll probably take awhile, but with all that lakefront, it should do well on resale,” I said.

  “Resale? Papa B is going to let you sell the place?”

  Somewhere along the way, the guy had lost me. “Pardon? I’m the new owner. That’s why I bought this place. Fix it up and sell it for a profit.”

  He put his hands up and shook his head. “None of my business. Just surprises me is all.”

  I crossed my arms and leaned against the cupboards. On the opposite counter, a sprinkling of coffee grounds betrayed my hasty prep job. I ripped a piece of paper toweling off the roll and held it under the faucet. I turned the handle. Nothing. Frustrated, I wiped the grounds up with the dry toweling and flung it in the trash.

  I turned to my visitor. “You were going to tell me how you knew my mother. Maybe you can start with your name.”

  “Jim Hawley. I live down in the village. I’m related to the Russo family on Olivia’s side. Second or third cousins. I can’t remember.”

  “Sorry, Jim. Name-dropping is wasted on me. I haven’t been around here since I was a kid.”

  “Oh.” He stroked his beard. Droplets of melted snow came off in his fingers. “I just figured since you’re a Russo yourself, you’d know who Olivia was.”

  I stepped back. “The last name is Amble. My grandmother used to be a Nagy.” I reached for the steaming coffee decanter. “How about that cup to go? Do you take it black?”

  He nodded. “Sure your grandmother was a Nagy. I remember Eva. But your dad is a Russo. Olivia is his grandmother.” He smirked through his whiskers. “She’s the local matriarch around here. If something’s going on in this town, you better believe Olivia knows about it.”

  I held the coffeepot suspended. My dad. I’d almost forgotten I had one of those. And now I had a busybody great-grandmother named Olivia.

  “Olivia must be pretty old by now,” I said. I hadn’t been up here in close to thirty years. My father would have had to be young, and his parents young, in order for Olivia to still be kicking.

  “The town just celebrated her ninety-third birthday last month,” my visitor told me. “That gal’s too ornery to die.”

  There must have been something in the water up here. The people drank from a regular fountain of youth. Even with cancer, my grandmother had lived years past what the doctors had predicted. Too bad the water hadn’t extended my mother’s life any.

  I poured coffee into his mug. “So you knew my mother through my dad?”

  The old guy took a sip and nodded. “Sweet girl. She was always bailing Jacob out of some sort of trouble or another. She wanted to marry him real bad. Next thing you know, Beth was pregnant and Jacob took off.”

  I swallowed hard at the story. To hear Mom’s version, theirs had been a fairy-tale romance. Two people so in love. Two families determined to keep them apart. Then I came along, the apple of their eyes. Dad worked out of town, Mom said, and that’s why we didn’t see him. But she’d always loved him. I could tell.

  Once Mom was gone, however, I’d been fed Grandma’s version of things. My perfect mother fell in love with a perfect loser, who’d left town the moment he heard I existed. I remembered how Gram squirmed whenever I asked about my parents’ wedding. I’d eventually figured out there probably had never been one, though Gram always insisted I was “legitimate,” as if the term somehow made me a real person as opposed to a phony. But the fact that my name, Mom’s name, and Gram’s name were all Amble pretty much said it all.

  I fixed myself a cup of sweetened coffee. I held the hot mug in my palms, soaking in the warmth as I sipped.

  “Want some help getting that water back on? If I’d have known you were going to be staying here, I would have had everything hooked up for you. But Ethyl just told me to keep the road open.”

  I smiled. Ethyl Merton was the real estate agent. “I don’t think she believed me when I told her I planned on moving rig
ht in. A little too rustic for her taste, she said.”

  “She was shocked, let me tell you, when you called her. Papa B had this place waiting for you all these years. Then out of the blue, here you are.”

  My neck crawled with heebie-jeebies. “You’ve mentioned Papa B before. Who is he?”

  “B for Bernard.” He looked at me like I knew what he was talking about. “Bernard Russo. Your grandfather.”

  4

  At the mention of another long-lost relative, pressure built in my sinuses.

  I remembered the phone call to Northern Realty a few months back. The agent had seemed utterly thrilled to hear from me, total stranger though I was.

  “Did you say your name is Patricia Amble? How wonderful. I have just the thing.”

  I’d been equally thrilled to hear she had the old lodge up for sale. “That’s where I spent summers as a kid,” I’d told her.

  “Isn’t that a nice coincidence? Are you sure you don’t want to see it before I get the papers ready?”

  But I’d been too excited. “Fax everything to me. I’ll sign this week.” I hadn’t paid any attention to the seller’s name.

  Not that the name Russo would have meant anything to me.

  I glared at Jim Hawley as if he were somehow to blame for the faults of my paternal relatives. At any rate, I wasn’t prepared to discuss family I barely remembered as if they had always been a part of my life. What was their excuse for disregarding me, anyway? And what kind of grandfather kept a log home around for a granddaughter he’d never even given the time of day? Did he think I was just going to move in and pretend there were no hard feelings?

  Jim shifted his weight and cleared his throat. “I’ll get that water hooked up. The shutoff’s in the crawl.”

  I watched through the narrow window by the door as he pulled a shovel from the bed of his truck and walked to the side of the house. He pushed back the bare branches of a towering shrub. A moment later, chunks of snow landed in the yard as he cleared the hidden access.