Kill Me If You Can apam-2

by Nicole Young

  Five minutes passed. The faucet gurgled, then spit water into the sink. I rushed over to turn it off. I headed toward the first floor bathroom to check that sink as well. I flipped the handles to the “off” position, then went upstairs to make the rounds.

  My feet made hollow thunks as they landed on the slabs of cedar logs that made up the steps. The worn remains of bark still clung to the outer edge of each riser. The rails were constructed of peeled cedar trees, about six inches in diameter apiece, and supported by chunky cedar spindles. The banisters were cedar stumps, complete with roots.

  At the top, I slowed and looked out at the lake. A mass of white blanketed the once-blue waters. Wind kicked up walls of snow in the center of the bay. I’d have to wait until another day to see all the way across.

  I walked down the hall of the north wing. Two bedroom doors hung open on opposite sides of the hall. I peeked in each one. Both rooms were long and narrow. Neither had furniture. Daylight came in through double dormers, leaving rectangular patches of gray on wide plank flooring. I was relieved to see the original wood had escaped the vinyl updates the first story had endured. I shut both doors and continued down the hallway to the bathroom at the end, toward the sound of running water. Thankfully, the plumbing still worked in the claw-foot tub and matching pedestal sink, regardless of the deplorable condition of the room.

  The south wing was a mirror image of the north. I turned off the faucets in the bathroom and shut the doors to the bedrooms. I poked my head in my own bedroom at the top of the stairs, just to see that nothing had moved from where I’d left it this morning.

  Jim was just coming in the back door when I reached the kitchen. He grabbed his insulated mug from the counter. “Thank you for the refill. Call me if you need anything.” He headed toward the door.

  “Thanks, Jim. I really appreciate all you’ve done.”

  He lifted a hand in the air without turning around. The diesel fired up, backed out, and fled down the driveway.

  Opening my box of fresh donuts, I chose a chocolate-filled powdered one. Jim’s new slant on my dysfunctional upbringing gave me plenty to think about while I cleaned the white sugar from my fingers.

  I spent the rest of the morning scrubbing down the kitchen. The sponge in my hands made a good replacement for the necks of the Russo clan. I couldn’t imagine any excuse great enough to pardon their neglect of both me and this house over the years.

  I dried off and took a look around. If I stuck to my unwritten Rules of Renovation, the kitchen required a complete face-lift. But I’d learned at the last house that some things are better left alone. This time I’d settle for removing the asbestos tiles in order to expose the original nine-foot-high walls and ceiling. That, along with a shiny new oak floor, would make the room feel dramatically bigger. Then I’d simply hop on the latest home-decorating bandwagon and play up the ’50s flavor.

  I grabbed some turkey and cheese from the fridge and made a wrap. I wandered into the great room and plopped with a rusty boing onto the sofa.

  I’d taken my jacket off at the start of the kitchen project. Now as I relaxed with my feet up, work boots and all, I thought how nice a fuzzy throw would be. I’d have to find one to complement the lime upholstery. After all, this was an heirloom sofa that had a permanent home at the lodge, regardless of its color and condition.

  A blast of wind whistled in the chimney. I shivered from cold. I’d only been here one day and already I felt like I’d relocated to an Arctic wasteland. Thank goodness winter wouldn’t last forever.

  I jumped up and huddled at the kitchen wall heater. With all the surfaces in my kitchen sparkling, I had no fear of drop-ins. Maybe now was a good time to invite dear Aunt Candice over for a visit. She was probably as curious about me as I was about her.

  I dug in my jeans pocket and pulled out the scribbled note. I rubbed at the wrinkles with my thumb. Why would Candice have left a note for me at the local grocer’s? Granted, I had to buy food sometime. But why not tape her phone number to the back door, or better yet, greet me in person? Leaving a message in the hands of that clerk was like putting a billboard in downtown Port Silvan, flashing Tish Amble Is Back.

  I found my phone in my ski coat. The signal was weak, but I dialed the number anyway.

  “Hello, Patricia. I’d hoped to hear from you.”

  I was silent while I processed the sultry, mature voice. Something in the tones made me feel seven years old again.

  I cleared my throat. “I got your note from the clerk down at Sinclair’s. You asked me to call.”

  “I wanted to welcome you home. It’s been a long time.”

  Yeah. My whole life, I could have reminded her. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. Maybe we could meet in person. I’m living in the lodge on Valentine’s Lane. Would you like to come by for coffee?”

  “That’s not a good idea. Why don’t you stop by my place instead?”

  I hated the thought of going back out in the cold after my feet had finally thawed, but curiosity got the best of me.

  “Okay. Where are you?”

  She gave me directions to her home, and within a few minutes of disconnecting, I was ready to tackle the winter roads again.

  I headed south toward Port Silvan and turned left at the cider mill sign before town. About a mile later I came to a fence of fieldstone and wrought iron, nearly buried beneath the drifts. Behind it sat the Victorian farmhouse Candice had described. White gingerbread trim accented the wraparound front porch. A second-story dormer was decked with bric-a-brac siding in cream to match the rest of the house. Soft blue shutters trimmed the windows.

  I didn’t know anything about the woman, but I liked her taste in homes.

  I swung into the drive and parked up by the house.

  The slam of my car door echoed across the snowy fields. I stared at the residence, remembering the wise words of my grandmother. Let it lie.

  It wasn’t too late to get in my vehicle and gun it back to my own stretch of woods. I’d learned from my last renovation project that curiosity could definitely kill the cat. For the duration of my stay in Port Silvan, minding my own business should be my personal credo.

  The front door opened. A woman dressed in equestrian-type clothing stepped into the cold.

  “Tish. Welcome,” she called from the porch in her Bette Davis voice.

  A breeze brushed my cheeks. I could always get back in the car, I reminded myself.

  “Come in. We’ve got so much to talk about,” said the spider to the fly.

  I wanted to buzz off in the worst way. But minding my own business could begin tomorrow, right after I figured out who this Candice was and where she fit into my mother’s life.

  I took a step forward. The hole in my jeans suddenly felt the size of a baseball instead of a marble. Why couldn’t I have put on something a little more stylish? Candice looked like she’d stepped straight off the pages of Vogue. Next time I visited, I’d dress up and give her a better impression. I did have a few nice pieces in my wardrobe.

  I put on a smile and walked up the front steps. She probably didn’t realize how intimidating she came off. Her short hair was dyed pure silver. Her sixty-something face looked wrinkle-free under a meticulous makeup job. Her trim physique would put most twenty-year-olds to shame.

  She reached out and pulled me toward her.

  “Look at you. You’re beautiful. And so much like your mother.” Her eyes seemed misty. She blinked a few times and shook her head. “Well, let’s not stand out here. Let’s go in where it’s warm.”

  The light changed from snowy white to warm yellow as I entered the cozy parlor. The room was done in cream with satin white trim lining both the top and bottom of the walls. Framed black-and-white photographs hung from various length ribbons attached to thin molding that circled the perimeter. Flames flickered in a corner fireplace. Atop the dark oak mantel sat a miniature grandfather clock, its tick tick tick muffled by silky curtains striped in deep mauve and butter yellow. Th
e tapestry furniture had a Victorian flair, but looked more comfortable than formal. Keepsakes and antique books were displayed in orderly chaos around the room. It was exactly the way I would have decorated my last house if I had lived in it for twenty years instead of a few months.

  “Your home is gorgeous.” I couldn’t hide the awe in my voice.

  “Thank you. Have a seat by the fire. I’ll get us some tea.”

  She took my coat and left the room. I sank into an overstuffed armchair. The back reclined and a footrest popped out in front of me. I imagined having a set of these, perhaps in leather, flanking the hearth at my log cabin. I sighed. No use getting my heart set on furniture. The same rules that had applied to the last four renovations also applied to Port Silvan. Rent, don’t buy. The fewer possessions I owned, the easier it would be to pull up and move to the next project. Things just weighed you down. They made you get emotionally involved with four walls that should remain strictly a business transaction.

  I put my hands behind my head and listened to the clinking of dishes coming from a kitchen somewhere. Things and people. Both were best avoided if a girl like me wanted to keep her head together. It was already hard enough that I’d bent my people rule back in Rawlings.

  I stared at the ceiling and did a quick calculation. I’d gone almost forty-eight hours now without hearing his voice. I could get through the next forty-eight. And the next forty-eight after that. By then he should feel more like a distant memory, like my old friend Anne or my old cat Peanut Butter, and less like I’d had open heart surgery and the doctor forgot to put my heart back in and the only thing left was a huge, empty cavity where a lot of joy used to be.

  I swallowed the lump in my throat.

  Time. It was all a matter of time.

  “Here we go.” Candice entered the room and set a tray of delicate china tea service on the low table between us. Orange-and-cinnamon-scented steam rose as she poured.

  I reached for my cup. My fingers grabbed clumsily at the handle. The first swig singed my lips and burned a trail down my throat.

  Across from me, Aunt Candice relaxed in her chair, cup and saucer in hand as she waited for the boiling liquid to cool.

  “So how old is this place?” My s’s lisped out. I set my cup back on the table and nursed my lips with a suffering tongue.

  “It turns twenty-five this spring.”

  I scrunched my forehead. “Well, that explains why there’re no cracks in the plaster. It looks so authentic. I thought for sure you had renovated an original.”

  She pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, the original burnt down. It was an exquisite craftsman-style home built in the 1940s, complete with secret doors and hidden passages. Entirely irreplaceable.” She took a sip of tea. “I’ve always loved Victorian architecture, so at the opportunity, I designed this farmhouse.”

  “It’s really nice.” I wanted to get straight to the point and ask her to recite everything she knew about my mother. But the way she looked at me with that intent stare, seeming to check out every line on my face, made me nervous. It was better to keep the conversation impersonal until I knew what was running through her mind.

  She set her tea on the table and leaned forward. “You’re probably wondering about me. Who I am, how we’re related, why I wanted to meet you.”

  I grinned. “All of the above.”

  “I’ll give you the short, sweet version.” She stared into the fire. “I got to know you and your mother quite well when you were young. You visited with me almost every weekend.” Her eyes met mine. “Perhaps as you spend more time on the peninsula, you’ll begin to remember.”

  I concentrated on her features, hoping to stir some vague memories. Nothing rose to the surface. “Maybe.” I reached for the note that was still in my pocket and dropped it on the glass tabletop. “How did you know I’d be arriving in town?”

  “Ethyl Merton kept me posted. She and I go way back. She said she’d promised not to tell anyone of your arrival, but she remembered how special you were to me and couldn’t resist passing on the good news. I hope you’re not angry with her.”

  I considered whether or not to forgive Ethyl’s misconduct while Candice sipped her tea.

  She looked over the edge of her cup. “I’m surprised you’d drive through a snowstorm to get here.”

  I shrugged. “My grace period was up at the last house and I had nothing better to do, I guess.” Nothing better to do except meet Brad for lunch at Sam’s Coney and plan our downhill ski trip with the gang after church on Sunday. But why put off the inevitable? I simply said goodbye and meant it instead of dragging out some long, agonizing relationship that was doomed to failure before it even began.

  “You do have Russo blood in you, I see. Anyone else would have waited until spring,” Candice said.

  I’d decided that facing a blizzard was definitely less scary than looking Brad in the eye and telling him why I couldn’t hang around Rawlings anymore.

  I waved a hand. “Oh, I’m not so brave, really.”

  Her brow lifted. “I’m not talking bravery. I’m talking stupidity.”

  My jaw dropped and my eyes fluttered. Had she just insulted my entire family?

  “Don’t look so offended. The Russos are known for having their priorities out of kilter. I only hope you won’t make the same mistakes.”

  Too late, I wanted to tell her. “Thanks for the warning,” I said.

  Aunt Candice leaned back and crossed one tall leather boot over the other. “You’ve been away a long time, Tish. I can only assume you’re back because your grandparents kept you in the dark all these years.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Art and Eva did a commendable job snatching you away from the peninsula. I’m sure I’m not the only one astounded that you’ve returned. That’s why I had to see you before they got to you.”

  “Before who got to me?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “The Russos, of course.”

  5

  The clock on the mantel marked a new hour. Its musical chimes blared like gongs in the silence. I took a sip of tea. It had cooled to lukewarm. The bitter brew clung to my taste buds.

  “Would you care for some honey?” Candice asked.

  “Thank you.” I stirred some into my cup. I had a feeling I’d need more than a spoonful of the sweet stuff to make whatever Candice had to say palatable.

  “How much did your grandmother tell you about the Russo family?” Candice asked.

  She sat forward and sipped her tea, watching me over the rim.

  “Nothing. I never even heard the name until this morning.”

  “She probably thought she was protecting you. I’m sure she couldn’t have guessed you’d eventually move back to the area.”

  “Protecting me from what?” Candice made it sound like my dad’s side of the family was out to get me.

  She sighed and pursed her lips. “This may be a beautiful area, but every garden has its snakes. I can’t tell you what to do, Tish, I can only urge you not to get mixed up with the Russos. And believe me, as soon as they find out you’re back, they’ll try luring you into their viper’s nest. They’re not the only ones to watch out for, of course. They’re just the most obvious.”

  I hadn’t come five hundred miles to stick my head in the sand. If finding out about my mother meant going nose to nose with the Russo clan, then so be it. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not passing up the opportunity to get to know the family that was denied me all these years.”

  Candice’s eyes flared. “Art and Eva Amble did what was necessary to ensure your survival. If Bernard Russo had known your whereabouts, your life would have been a few chapters short of what it is today.”

  I shook my head in confusion. “What are you saying?”

  “Just that I would hate to see history repeat itself. Your mother was a beautiful woman with a bright future until the Russos got a hold of her. Bernard virtually lured her to her death.”

  “I don’t understand. Is he somehow responsible for
my mother killing herself?”

  “Is that what Eva told you—that it was suicide? Bernard couldn’t be more guilty of her death if he drove her car into the quarry himself.”

  “What did he do that was so terrible? Why would she kill herself because of him?”

  “You’ll have to trust me and keep your distance. You have a bright future, Tish. Don’t throw it away on people who aren’t worth the dirt they walk on.”

  Candice’s intentions were probably kindhearted, but being told that half my genes were lower than dirt didn’t endear her to me. I set my teacup down with a clumsy clink. “Thank you for inviting me over today.” I stood. “I appreciate the advice. I really do. I just can’t promise I’ll follow it.”

  Candice sucked in a deep breath. “Just be careful, Tish. That’s all I can say.”

  She rose and brought my coat to me.

  “Thanks for the tea.” I bundled up and stepped into the cold, sorry to leave the cozy haven for the harsh winter winds.

  I drove home. The scenery blurred over with thoughts of feuding relatives and the image of my mom’s Ford merging with bedrock.

  Afternoon was already fading to evening by the time I got back to the cabin. I trekked upstairs and flopped on my bed, breathing in the yummy baby-fresh scent that lingered on my pillowcase. Maybe tomorrow I’d give Ethyl Merton a call and find out who else she’d told of my arrival. Right after I found out their brand of fabric softener, I’d bawl them out for ripping up my mom’s picture and writing those three maddening words across the front.

  Don’t ask why.

  As if that were possible. Whoever had done the deed might as well have written, “Definitely ask why.”

  I rested my eyes for a few minutes, then got back to work downstairs making the bathroom presentable. The fixtures were old, but functional. Nothing a little caulk and white paint couldn’t cure, at least temporarily.

  Afterward, I washed up, then heated a mug of tomato soup in my travel-size microwave. I took the steaming brew into my drafty great room. I sat in the dark and looked through the tall windows at the stars. Tomorrow promised to be clear and bright. If the wind died down, I’d get out and exercise.