Venom and the River

by Marsha Qualey

  “He got the house?”

  “He was attached and I was feeling generous. And I didn’t want the heating bill. No, what I loved about that place is I could look out my front window and see this place.”

  Trees and more trees, Leigh thought. “Only in winter, I’d wager.”

  Marti laughed. “True enough. It’s quite hidden, which is what the man who built it wanted. You know the story?”

  “I know enough.”

  “Not sure you do, dear. Not sure you know nearly enough to deal with Peach and her gang.”

  “Isn’t her gang your gang?”

  Marti shook her head and mouthed, No.

  “Enlighten me, Marti.”

  “A long story, Leigh. All you need to know now is that the Little Girl books turned me into a voracious reader by age eight. They’re why I majored in literature in college and why I went into teaching. Well, okay, maybe not that. I had to support a son of a bitch of a husband through medical school, that’s why I went into teaching. But they’re why I was a good teacher. They’re why I still live in Pepin after my divorce, and the books are why I will not sit back as that gushing idiot controls and perverts Ida May Turnbull’s legacy.” She sat again in the chair opposite Leigh and stretched out her legs. “Ida May wrote her first stories here, right in this cottage. None were published, but she sent them out faithfully. The first one when she was only ten. Imagine.”

  Leigh lifted her glass. “To young writers.”

  “They’re beautiful books.”

  “Marti, I don’t much care if they’re beautiful or not. I do care that they have made me a victim of other people’s obsessions. The least you can do is answer some questions.”

  “I was sixteen; he was a friend’s older brother.”

  “There’s faded purple wallpaper in one of the bedrooms. Peach Wickham was dressed head to foot in the color.”

  Marti looked toward the hallway and the back of the cottage. She murmured, “Maud’s favorite color.”

  “I thought her name was Ida May.”

  “Maud’s the girl in the book. Ida May’s the author. We fans tend to conflate the two in our enthusiasm.”

  “Is that fair, do you think? Do you really suppose one life mirrored the other?”

  “I know they didn’t. Still, even Ida May apparently nurtured the myth that they were one and the same.”

  “So purple is the fictional girl’s favorite color?”

  “Lilac, please. First mentioned as such in the third book. Chapter 7.”

  “Peach was wearing a tiara.”

  “Peach always wears a tiara. Her son gave it to her for Mother’s Day a few years back. She never leaves the house without it.”

  “Then it’s not connected to the books?”

  “Of course it’s connected. Peach Wickham’s life is a continual saccharine homage to the books. A tiara was the coveted prize for a contest to be princess of the river. The three girls—do you know about the three girls?”

  “I’ve seen the banners on Main Street. The book covers.”

  “So much to learn, Leigh. Fourth book, Little Girl, Big World. There’s a contest to be princess of the river that almost breaks up the friends until they realize the real princess should be a Dakota girl they’ve met.”

  “The blue vase? The Matisse? The battered tea kettle on my ancient stove?”

  Marti rose from the chair and walked to the kitchen doorway. She crossed her arms and leaned limply against the wall. “Read the books, Leigh. It’s all there. There’s a convention this summer; it starts in a few weeks. Come to that and you’ll learn more than you ever thought possible to know about an author and her books. We fans have been organized and rabid for years. Peach Wickham took control a long time ago and some of us don’t like what she’s been doing.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “It’s about the books, Leigh. The writing, the beautiful writing and the world created by that writing. It’s not about sentiment. Not the color lilac, not Little Girl fashion shows, not the goddam tiaras. Some of us formed our own organization to focus on the literature, and Peach got pissed. Once upon a time she even told me to get out of town. She actually had the nerve to tell me that she was born here and Pepin belonged to her.”

  “So I’m caught in the cross fire between warring fan clubs. I’ve heard a bit about the convention. Terry Bancroft said he’d hire security to protect the cottage.”

  Marti nodded. “Not a bad idea, especially now that it’s no longer boarded up. This summer is the 120th anniversary of Ida May’s birth, and there will be several hundred women descending on Pepin. Some of the ladies get mighty aggressive upon occasion in their pursuit. Yes, make sure he hires the guard. You know what the Bancroft connection is, I assume.”

  “The outline. But what’s the Wickham connection?”

  Marti made a face, tipped her head, and finished her drink. “Peach grew up here.” She pointed out the window. “Brick bungalow on the corner across the park.”

  “You were neighbors.”

  “For years and years, just one house apart. She’s lived there her entire life. Peach was a daddy’s girl. Devoted to the books and to her father. Daddy died when she was well past thirty, and she had to turn that repressed desire to something. She decided that Pepin needed to pay more attention to its literary heritage. She became the biggest and loudest fan. As such, she oozed her way into certain places, made connections with certain people. Publishers, producers, and a couple of television stars who were too young to resist her energy. Have you seen the travesty by the Dairy Queen at the edge of downtown? That god-awful house they brought in from Hollywood and turned into a museum? People worship the TV show, Leigh, not the real thing.”

  “Terry told me that Peach is related to the author.”

  “She is not,” Marti said firmly. “Ida May had no blood relatives, so she named a goddaughter’s son her heir. Peach insinuated herself into his life, offering advice about dealing with the publishers and who knows what and before anyone could see what was really happening, she married him. I’d bet this month’s commissions that until he met Peach, Donnie Wickham didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to negotiate a woman’s body, and trust me, I’ve become something of an expert in identifying that shortcoming. Donnie must have managed to swim through the folds of organdy at least once, though, because a few months after the wedding they had a son. They named him—get this—Turnbull Wickham.”

  “Poor kid.”

  Marti nodded. “And if she could do that to her own child, imagine how she runs the Little Girl Society.”

  “That’s the name of your club?”

  “Her club.”

  “Do pedophiles ever try to join?”

  “Exactly. Try Googling it sometime; you’ll get a pretty skanky list. I can go on and on about Peach and her kingdom, dear, but not without another glass of this lovely Scotch, and I don’t dare have that on an empty stomach. What say we order in? Woo’s delivers. My treat.”

  Leigh rose. “I have leftovers from the big house. The housekeeper sends me home with them every day. Feel free to wander around while I heat things up, but I warn you: I have a librarian’s memory and I’ll know if you touch or take anything.”

  8.

  “The girl has talent.” Marti said after a few bites of day-old coq au vin. “She and the Veep…?” Her eyebrows arched.

  Leigh attended to the food on her plate. “You know, I think this is even better reheated.”

  “Oh, all right, don’t say anything. That’s fair enough. He signs your paycheck and she cooks your food. Not that I judge her.”

  “Marti, she says the babies aren’t his, and that’s all I know and care to say. You’re fortified now, so are you ready to tell me more about Peach? And what about your little splinter society? If I’m going to be besieged by women in this town, I may as well know it all. What’s your group’s name? Big River Mamas? Little Girls Gone Wild?”

  Marti tore a chunk of bread off
a baguette. “Very nice diversionary tactic, Leigh, if a little obvious. Our group is The Ida May Turnbull Society. It’s dedicated to the preservation and promotion of the Little Girl books and other early feminist literature. You’re laughing again. Need I remind you: I’m a guest, and you should treat me nicely.”

  “You’re a guest, and my car is in the shop because of an accident. You said the books were why you majored in literature. Well, you know what, Marti—you sentimental lit majors are why I went into journalism.” Shit, she thought, her hand on her lap immediately snapping closed into a fist, the nails digging into her palm. Stop it. One word, one hint that the vice-president had hired Nancy Taylor Lee as his ghost, and the job was gone.

  “Did you?” Marti said softly. “How interesting.”

  Leigh’s hand uncurled as they eyed each other. Talons and claws. Why did she feel like Marti was about to use them?

  Marti rose and refilled her glass with water from a jug on the counter. She picked up the spoon rest from the range. “Beginning with the fourth book, Maud and Lucy and Laura always took a Christmas shopping trip and bought their mothers’ presents at the same time. In one book Maud gives her mother a spoon rest exactly like this one. Ida May was such a careful writer. Exquisite description of details. Do you miss being a reporter? Maybe not, what with the way it all ended and everything, Nancy Taylor Lee.”

  Leigh slumped, every bit of pleasure she’d gotten from the Scotch, the food, the conversation gone. Why had she thought she could keep it a secret? She whispered, “What do you want?”

  Marti sat, still holding the spoon rest. Her thumb tapped one of its faded blue flowers. “I need your help, Leigh. I can’t allow Peach to have her way with everything at this convention. It just means too much to some of us to allow that. Lilac-colored decorations and sing-alongs and fashion shows and a Hollywood has-been as the guest of honor. God help us all.”

  “Let me guess: You want me to make this place available to the women at the convention.”

  “Not the whole crowd. I shudder to think of what Peach would do if she gets back inside, and I definitely hate the thought of a stream of sticky-fingered women traipsing through. Some of them will try to get past you; there should be a guard, the old man’s right about that.”

  “So what is it you want?”

  “I want you to welcome one guest. She’s a big fan of the books, and we’ve been trying to get her to pay some public attention to them but she’s never cooperated with us. If she could stay here, she’ll come to the convention.”

  “Who’s the famous fan?”

  “Roberta Garibaldi.”

  The knot in her stomach tightened. “Absolutely not.”

  Marti narrowed her eyes, drew her arms to her side, and held very still. Talons, Leigh thought. Like a hawk suspended in air just before the plunge to snare its prey.

  Marti said “Aren’t you interested in meeting someone who’s won a Pulitzer and written five bestsellers? Intimidating company, I suppose, and not just for a…defrocked journalist. I’ve talked to her, though, and she seems pleasant. She’s very keen on staying here.”

  “No. We met long ago and I don’t want to meet again.”

  “Worried she might not remember you? Or maybe you’re worried that she will.”

  Leigh rose and leaned against the counter, staring out the kitchen window. That bitch Lanier.

  “I know what you’re thinking now, Leigh, and I’d bet a bottle of Glenlivet that—”

  “You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

  “Tell me.”

  When she turned, Marti immediately looked away. Good, Leigh thought. Guilt. She said, “I need this job, Marti. You can’t possibly know how much I need this job.”

  “And I need Roberta. She’s already promised to come and I’m not about to disappoint her. She jumped at the chance when she heard where she’d be staying. You won’t lose your job, Leigh. Just help me out here. It will all be very quiet and nice and then she’ll be gone.”

  “She’ll recognize me. We met once, back when she was still writing a column for the Hartford Courant and I was still a reporter. Years ago.”

  “And if she does recognize you, we’ll just tell her the story that you’re telling everyone else: You’re getting his papers ready for the historical society.”

  “That’s not good enough. She’ll talk. There’s no way that she won’t spread the word about who she discovered hiding out under an assumed name in Pepin, Minnesota.”

  “We’ll ask her not to. I bet she’d understand.”

  “Are you kidding? To someone like her, someone like me is lower than pond scum. Trust me, Marti. I know what she’ll think, I know what she’ll say, I know what she’ll do because it’s exactly what I’d have done before…” Leigh sat back down. “Screw you, Marti. Screw you big time.” She rubbed her brow. “And if I say no to your little scheme?”

  “I call who I need to call and say a few words about the vice president’s ghostwriter and her professional past. He’ll have to sack you. No one will ever publish a piece of nonfiction that you’ve written.”

  “Blackmail.”

  “Yes.”

  “I suppose your friends down at the bar know. Dee, and the lovely librarian? The gorgeous boy you took home?”

  “No one but me, Leigh. It wouldn’t be much of a secret if I’d spread it around.”

  “How did you put it all together? From seeing me at that funeral?”

  Marti went to the other room, got her bag, and brought it back to the kitchen. She flipped the flap and pulled out a newspaper folded in half. “When I first saw you two years ago I had no idea who you were, other than Timmy’s rumored afternoon delight. My mother died in May, and I had to move Dad into assisted living. When I was clearing out the house I came across newspaper clippings she’d kept. She was good at that. My father once raised the largest pumpkin in Pennsylvania. One October day it was front page news. So was another story. That one didn’t catch my interest right away; busted journalists are really only interesting to other journalists, I suspect. But the picture grabbed me. I recognized you from seeing you at the funeral. By the time I found this, word had gotten around that there was someone coming to help the Veep with his new book. Didn’t take much to put it together.”

  Leigh didn’t bother to take the paper, so Marti read the headline. “‘Pulitzer-winning columnist admits fabricating details.’ Nancy Taylor Lee. Was that a hard name to give up?”

  “The name was the least of it.”

  “I want this, Leigh Burton.”

  Leigh picked up the spoon rest. “The girl gave this to her mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “What book did you say it was in? First? Fifth? The eighty-eighth?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It should matter.” She waved the spoon rest. “You know why?”

  “Tell me,” Marti said.

  “It’s someone’s life you’re digging up, passing around, and looking at. This was an object of affection, it was real, a gift from a girl to her mother. It’s not a goddam fetish.”

  “Three nights, Leigh. That’s all she’ll be staying.” Marti shouldered her bag. “Come on down to Dee’s.”

  “I have work to do. Please leave.”

  “But we have our deal?”

  Leigh nodded, eyes still fixed on the small yellow spoon rest in her hand. “A deal.”

  9.

  How could she have been so stupid? Leigh set the spoon rest down and cleared the table. Coq au vin into the trash, dishes into the sink, Scotch back to the cupboard.

  Hadn’t she learned her lesson ten years ago? Lies were a trap. Ambition, survival, the perfect column, a place she and Emily could call home—let desire for something take hold too tightly, and the trap snaps shut. She should have known better.

  When did you turn stupid? Good question. Chase had thrown it at her during their final conversation, which in truth hadn’t been much of a conversation, more like a high-volume
one-sided tirade on his part just a few hours before it all hit the fan, before the wires got hold of the two-paragraph item he and his father had decided to run in the Columbia Observer and the other papers in the family’s newspaper empire: Observer columnist admits making up details in Pulitzer-winning series on Ft. Jackson prostitute ring.

  She couldn’t have angered and humiliated Chase and his family any more if she’d been part of the ring, which did exist, though that hardly mattered, once it was revealed she’d embellished the stories and filled in some blanks with details that existed only in her own imagination.

  The rumors and whispers had grown too loud, and finally Chase had confronted her, and she’d admitted that she’d made-up parts of the award-winning columns. And there were a few others too, she confessed to him, where sometimes she made up people and events and interviews that never existed in order to buttress scant information.

  “I’ve never done this before, Chase, I swear. All those years reporting in DC and Chicago, never. There’s something about living here, this place… Why did we come here?”

  He’d stood there, horrified, in his perfect gray suit and his crisp white shirt. Oh, god…she could still feel the starch of those shirts under her palm.

  He’d stood there, speechless, while she kept talking, confessing, spilling everything. Finally, exhausted, she’d placed her hand on his shirt and said, “Chase, I know this is a mess for the family. Let’s leave Emily with your mother for a few days and you and I go to the beach house and wait until it blows over.”

  He’d turned on her then. Slammed his palm against the kitchen counter and kicked a cupboard door and shouted, “You lie to the world and you lie to me and you think we’ll make it better by going to the beach for a few days? Jesus, Nancy. When did you turn stupid?”

  When did you turn stupid? It was the last thing he’d ever said to her. The last time they’d been in the same room. After that, the lawyers, his mother, and two successive wives handled all communication as she was severed from the family, the business, Emily.