After years of good and honest work she’d lied in a few newspaper stories. Her one sin, but it carried the sudden deathly weight of a guillotine.
Part Two
1.
There’s one true thing about a river: You can’t grow up near one, visit one, fish or boat or swim in one and not think of the possibilities that exist somewhere else. Stand on the edge of any river for just a few minutes and you’ll soon be thinking about where the river is headed. What lies downstream. How to escape.
Ida May Turnbull left her hometown when she was eighteen and went east to college. After she’d graduated from Vassar, she lived a year in New York, then four in Paris, where she met and fell in love with a young man from Minneapolis. They hurried into a marriage that lasted three years.
Right after the wedding, before things were going bad, they moved back to Minnesota so he could work in his father’s bank. Ida May spent the first year of the marriage hoping that what she was discovering about her husband wasn’t true. But when he didn’t quit drinking or slapping her or whoring at the roadhouses out by Lake Minnetonka or cruising for boys in the park near his downtown office, she gave up wishing and started plotting her escape.
She spent the remaining years of the marriage writing. In the sunroom at the front of their Minneapolis house that was almost within sight of the Mississippi, she wrote the first of eight novels for children that she ever after claimed were based on her own childhood and adolescence. Little Girl, Big River was an immediate success, universally praised for both the fine writing and the pen and ink illustrations by the well-known fashion illustrator Dara Seville. Ida May took the money from that book and ran from the banker’s son to New York. She wrote seven more novels about the young girl named Maud, her best friends Lucy and Laura, and her charmed, happy life as the only child of a young, widowed doctor in a Minnesota town on the Mississippi River.
Ida May Turnbull published the final book in the Little Girl series when she was forty-five. It was the last thing she ever wrote, except for letters to friends and replies to fan mail she received over the next thirty years. The books continued to sell well all that time, and she died a wealthy woman.
A few years after her death her young heir—a goddaughter’s son; Ida May never remarried or had children—became even wealthier than the author could ever have dreamed of when he sold the TV rights to the books and a sentimental series based loosely on the original stories began an eleven-year run. Suddenly there were millions of fans all over the world. Many of them began making pilgrimages to Pepin, expecting it to be exactly like the town in the books, River Valley. When the show at last was cancelled, a group of devotees bought the house that had been used as the home in the television series and donated it to the town of Pepin. It was moved two thousand miles on a flatbed truck (followed the entire way by a caravan of fans) and dedicated as a museum amid much pomp and ceremony on the 100th anniversary of Ida May’s birth.
What no one mentioned during that event, or during any of the regular Little Girl festivals, was that in real life Ida May Turnbull and her mother were not welcome in Pepin and that the close relationship with the two friends that was the backbone of the series was entirely fictional.
Ida May’s mother had been the mistress of the richest man in Pepin, a married man; therefore, even though Susan Turnbull was a fine doctor, the best families wouldn’t use her or let their children play with Ida May. Nor did she allow her daughter to associate with the children of the families who did.
What also wasn’t mentioned during that ceremony or at any of the festivals thereafter was that two days after sending her only child back to Vassar for a second semester Dr. Susan Turnbull committed suicide by jumping off the bridge that crossed from Pepin to Wisconsin. Her body was recovered days later three miles downstream. She left two notes leaning against a blue vase on the fireplace mantel in the small cottage: one for her daughter and one for her lover, Jasper Bancroft.
Ida May Turnbull made the long train trip back from New York to supervise her mother’s burial in Pepin. She stayed one day and never returned.
2.
Leigh opened the cottage’s kitchen door and stepped out into a warm bath of morning air and leaf-tinged light. The small cloistered clearing outside the cabin narrowed to a faint path. She followed it until she came to the fence she’d been warned about. She found a solid stick, checked the ground for poison ivy, and then lay on the ground on her back. She pushed up against the bottom row of sharp wire and wiggled underneath.
The path ended at the riverbank. A cluster of large flat rocks was surrounded on three sides by overgrown shore shrubs. She sat cross-legged on a rock and leaned back on her palms. Above the trees on the far bank an eagle rode the air currents. Downriver, a fishing boat disappeared behind a small island. Upriver, the blue sky went white as sun reflected off a silver truck making slow eastbound progress over the massive interstate bridge.
Headed to Wisconsin. Leigh rose and stretched. If she had any sense, she’d do the same and quit this job before Marti Lanier or Roberta Garibaldi exposed her and she was humiliated once again. She could leave Terry Bancroft with all the work she’d done so far—seventeen first-draft chapters and organized notes for the remainder. Fair exchange for the partial fee he’d already paid.
It wasn’t that she had thought her identity was so carefully hidden. Any fool could find any other fool’s life on the Internet. Her name change, after all, was public record. But no one who’d hired Leigh Burton had ever been interested. No one had reason to take her at anything but face value, no reason to care about anything but the good stories she turned in on time. Except for the episode with that liar Timmy Thompson’s family, she’d been careful to keep the focus off the writer and on the work.
And now thanks to Marti Lanier and a long-dead author of some children’s books she was centered under a spotlight.
The lone eagle continued to rocket around the sky. Across the river, a yellow kayak with a single paddler emerged from the bayou-like backwater channels and then disappeared as it made a U-turn into a tunnel formed by low-hanging branches.
Leigh stepped from one rock to another before jumping to a narrow strip of wet sand. She kicked off her flip flops, rolled up her jeans, and walked into the river until it lapped her ankles. She reached into the water, feeling for rocks and clawing the bottom until her hand was full. She examined the catch: two broken shells, one piece of pocked granite, a flat slice of basalt, a smooth green oval of sea glass. River glass, she supposed it was called around here.
Years ago, she and Emily had started a collection of sea glass at the Hilton Head beach house. Did her daughter still have it? Did she still spend hours combing the sugar sand for the startling surprise of man-made color?
Leigh slipped the glassy stone into her pocket, dropped the shells and granite, and fingered the basalt. She side-armed it, sending it skipping seven times. A sleek dark bird dove sharply toward the water to inspect the sudden disturbance, then just as quickly shot back up into the sky.
What a wonderful playground for a child. No wonder Turnbull had returned to it in her books.
She waded upstream a few yards until she could see the tip of Terry Bancroft’s lush lawn, flowing like green lava to the water. When the doctor agreed to live in Pepin had she realized how near she’d be to the betrayed wife? What sort of cruel bastard was Jasper Bancroft?
Leigh pivoted slowly, taking in the carefully groomed estate lawn, the shoreline, the dense copse separating the houses.
A playground for the child and a prison for the mother.
*
Tucker rolled out onto the stoop when Leigh opened the screen door to the big house kitchen. He looked up at her from the thick faux-grass door mat and laughed. She set down her computer sleeve and picked him up; he immediately quieted and reached for her right earring with his mouth.
Geneva appeared at the top of the basement stairs carrying a laundry basket. “You’re here early.”
/> Leigh leaned over for her computer. Tucker reached too and nearly fell out of her hold. She set him on the floor and he hurriedly crawled toward his mother. “I took a walk down to the river, and then it was too hard to go back to work in a dark cottage. I need a big dose of your excellent coffee. By the way, the little guy was making a break. He was almost out the door when I opened it.”
Geneva’s jaw dropped. “That woman said she’d keep an eye on him.”
“What woman?”
Geneva set down the basket and swore softly. Tucker halted his advance, pushed up onto his rear, looked at his mother, and laughed again. “The queen bee,” Geneva said. “The one who thinks I’m a slut. Mrs. Wickham. She said she’d stand guard while I ran downstairs.” She looked around for the coffee. “Looks like she’s gone to the study.” She scooped up the baby and kissed his cheek. “Thanks, Leigh. Now you can rescue Terry.”
Peach Wickham was pouring coffee in Terry’s study. “Here she is!” she said when Leigh walked in.
Terry looked over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.
“I only brought out two cups,” Peach said. “And I’ve already got lipstick on mine.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Wickham.” Leigh filled the mug she’d brought from the kitchen and took the empty chair.
“Peach, please. Just Peach. And don’t worry—I won’t take up too much of your work time with the vice president. I’m just making one of my regular neighborly visits to my own father’s dearest, first friend.”
“The hell you are,” Terry growled.
Peach’s smile widened. “All right, I confess: I’m also here to once again ask for permission to use the cottage for our convention. As always, I promise to waive any claim on the trust if we damage the place.”
Terry wagged a finger. “It’s occupied. And you’ve already given the occupant enough trouble. Smashed her car!”
“An accident. And I’m paying for repairs.” Peach raised the china cup to her lilac lips. After a long noisy sip, she set the cup and saucer down and patted her mouth with a handkerchief pulled from a sleeve. “And I certainly know it’s occupied. By a writer. I’m interested in borrowing her too.”
“Goddam right she’s a writer,” Terry said. “My writer. Hands off.”
“I do some freelance writing, that’s true,” Leigh said, shooting a look at Terry, “but I’m here only to assist the vice president with his papers before they’re turned over to the state historical society.”
He grunted softly and massaged his brow.
Peach chewed on her lower lip a moment, then looked from Leigh to Terry. “Well, if that’s true, Mr. Vice President, I suspect it’s a waste of her talents. Didn’t you know she’s an award-winning writer?”
Leigh set her mug on a side table and dropped her hands between her knees. She flexed her fingers, then tightened them into fists until her nails threatened to slice into her palms. She’d been in town less than a week and already Peach Wickham and Marti Lanier had hoisted her onto some medieval device and were tightening it with all they had. One more crank and she’d split apart, her secret in the open.
Peach cleared her throat. “Three years ago she won the Gold Medal in Literature from the National Association of Science Educators.”
Leigh’s rested her hands on her knees. “Oh. That.”
“Science!” Terry said. “Ha! Then maybe you can tell Geneva what to do about the fungus on the lilacs. Science!”
“It’s quite a treat,” Peach said, “to have such an honored writer in our midst.”
Leigh studied the woman’s carefully-made-up face and her carefully composed expression. Was she being disingenuous? Did she know about the Pulitzer, and this was her roundabout way of leading up to it or hinting that she would? She said, “It’s not that big a deal. I wrote two books in a set of six on natural wonders of the United States. I did glaciers of Alaska and volcanoes in Hawaii. There were two other writers, and the publisher used a pen name for the three of us. ‘Ann Owen’ won the gold medal. But maybe you know that.”
The other woman nodded. “One of those two other writers has done some work for us on one of the Little Girl spin-offs. Tracey Fowler?”
“I never met the other writers.”
“So she said, but she knew your name. Anyway, she and I were talking yesterday about another project and I mentioned the new resident of the cottage who is writing—”
“She’s my secretary,” Terry said.
Peach Wickham made a face. “Good god, Terry, why don’t we just drop the games? I’ve been in touch with Dana and I know the two of you are working on a book.” She turned to Leigh. “I understand you’ve not met his children yet. In time, I’m sure. Terry’s oldest daughter and I were childhood playmates. Summers, mostly. When the Bancrofts weren’t in Washington. Until the divorce, of course.”
Terry released a throaty growl.
Peach again noisily sipped coffee and then patted her mouth. “After I learned that you’re also a children’s author I had a marvelous idea.”
“I don’t claim to be a children’s author.”
Peach recoiled. “Of course you should. Good grief, don’t you have any ambition?”
Terry grunted. “Shut the hell up, Peach.”
She ignored him. “In a few weeks over three hundred book-loving women will arrive in town to honor Pepin’s own Ida May Turnbull and her heavenly books. And what serendipity: Another children’s author is living in her cottage. I’d like you to give a talk.”
“No. I have too much to do here.”
“But you’d have so much to share. The crowd would love to hear from a real author.”
Hadn’t Marti told her about Roberta? She glanced at her watch. It had been little more than fifteen hours since Marti had left the cottage, but surely she’d have crowed loudly and proudly about her coup. Unless there was a hitch in the scheme. “If you want an author, you can do better than me.”
“Of course we could. But you’re the only one who’s living in the cottage. I’ll pay you three hundred for a forty-five minute talk. I know that’s not much, but think of the book sales. We’ll stock all your Ann Owen titles in the convention gift shop, schedule a book-signing, and I guarantee that you’ll be there for hours. That will be one nice royalty check in six months.”
“It’s a generous offer, Peach. Thank you. But I don’t want to give a speech to hundreds of women, and as for the book sales, I don’t get royalties. I took a flat fee.”
Peach sat back, shocked again. “You need a business manager.”
“She needs to work,” said Terry. “Now vamoose, Little Peach Pie.” He chuckled as she glared. “That’s what her father called her, Leigh. For years and years—Little Peach Pie. Oh, Charlie Ewald was…something else.”
Peach rose. “See me out, Leigh?”
*
Leigh fingered a dusty leaf on the lilac bush just outside the kitchen door. So this was fungus. She smiled at Peach as the other woman positioned a hat. Should she offer now to shake hands?
“I’m transparent, I know,” Peach said.
Leigh brushed her hand on her jeans. “I’m not so sure.”
“I do want you to plead my case about access to the cottage. It’s clear he likes and admires you. One word from you and we’re in.”
Leigh looked toward the water. Geneva was setting out a blanket under the giant oak as Tucker watched. “No.”
“I’ll sweeten the deal, Leigh.”
“I told you: I don’t want to speak to your group.”
Peach shook her head. “Sweeter than that.” She looked around, then she grabbed Leigh’s arm and lowered her voice. “Do not tell a soul. Promise?”
“I can’t, really, until I know what you’re going to tell me.”
“There’s a good chance we’ll be reviving the television series. Petra Sinclair and I are just about to close a deal with a network.” She touched her lips with a finger. “Don’t tell anyone, but the new Little Girl, Big River will soon
be the first original programming done for the Christian Family Universe. They’re very excited, especially since Petra will be producing, directing, and starring.”
“Isn’t she a little old to play a little girl?”
“The mother, of course. A new show means new books—a whole new series of books, several series probably. We need writers for all those books, Leigh. I’ll give you a decent advance and I’ll pay you royalties.”
“Spin-offs?”
“Don’t be a snob. What the public doesn’t know is that for years the spin-offs and merchandise have been earning way more than the originals bring in. You can be part of it, Leigh. Good god, you don’t even have to come up with the ideas. That’s my husband’s job. He does the outlines and ships them off to the writers. You’ll be our lead writer. They’ll all be published under your name. Oh, how I can market that: The first person to live in the cottage since Ida May is the author of the new Little Girl books! They’ll fly off the shelves.”
“Terry’s grandfather lived in the cottage, Peach. After the doctor killed herself.”
Peach pursed her lips as she stoked her neck with a plump hand. “I know the story, Leigh. I grew up here. I know the whole story.”
“Will the whole story be part of the show? Will the Christian Family Universe want that?”
Peach made a face. “Just talk to Terry, please.”
“Once again: no. He doesn’t want your gang in there, and I will not try to change his mind. Final answer.”
Peach Wickham pulled sunglasses from a pocket hidden in the folds of her dress. She slipped them on and smiled. “If the show runs, I can guarantee you’ll do several books a year, ten thou a book. That’s minimum; the skies the limit if the Christian bookstores and home schoolers latch on to them, and there’s no reason they wouldn’t because we’re very careful about what goes in and what stays out of the books. Now be the smart girl I think you are and talk to the vice-president and don’t talk to me about final answers.”
Venom and the River Page 6
