The Other Child

by Joanne Fluke

  “The highlights are really gray, Mike. That resin-coated paper sure is flat, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not the paper. I’ve got a fog problem somewhere. I figure it’s either a light leak or my safety filter’s going. It’s the third time I printed these negatives this morning and they’re still foggy.”

  Leslie was wise enough not to comment. She could tell that Mike was frustrated. The prints were definitely not good enough for a feature.

  “Maybe this house isn’t such a good place for a darkroom, after all,” Mike said with a sigh. “First we had the dust problem and now this. I’m beginning to think the whole setup’s wrong.”

  Leslie tried to be helpful. “Do you want me to get you some coffee, Mike?”

  “No, thanks anyway, honey.” Mike rubbed his chin where the bristle was beginning to itch. He needed a shave and a shower. Then he could think clearly and fix whatever was wrong with the setup in here. Actually, what he wanted right now was a stiff drink, and that was out of the question. He’d been on the wagon for three years now, ever since he married Karen.

  “If you have to reshoot, I’ll help you,” Leslie volunteered. She felt better when Mike smiled at her.

  “I appreciate that, but reshooting won’t solve the basic problem.” He ruffled her hair. “I’ll pick up a new safety filter this afternoon and see if that does it. If it doesn’t, I’ll just have to try something else.”

  Leslie was really sharp to have noticed what was wrong with the prints. Mike thought she was going to make a first-rate photographer someday. He just wished she wasn’t such a loner here in Cold Spring.

  “Honey, I’ve been thinking.” Mike’s expression sobered. “You’ve been spending too much time in the house lately. Why don’t you go out and play? Call Taffy or one of the other kids and invite yourself over. You haven’t seen any of them since your birthday party and I think you should make the first move. They’ll probably be glad to see you.”

  Leslie’s lips tightened into a straight, stubborn line. “I don’t want to see any of them,” she declared. “They don’t like me, and I don’t like them.”

  “Come on, Leslie. Be reasonable.” He put his hand on her shoulder. “These kids just aren’t used to you yet, that’s all. It always takes a while when you move into a new neighborhood. They’ll never get to like you if you don’t make the effort. Your mother would be tickled pink if you made a couple of new friends.”

  “I’ll try, Mike.” Leslie’s voice was very small and she didn’t meet his eyes. Mike was wrong, but it would be impolite to argue with him. She knew the Cold Spring kids would never like her, no matter what she did. Mike just didn’t understand.

  “Run along now, honey.” Mike gave her a smile. “The magazine’s in a hurry for these.”

  Leslie closed the door of the darkroom quietly behind her. She really shouldn’t have bothered Mike when he was so busy.

  “Can I go up to the cupola when I come back, Mom?” Leslie took the shopping list from Karen and folded it carefully. “I want to take some pictures with my new telescope.”

  “I guess so.” Karen smiled. “If you meet any of the kids, you can invite them, too. Taffy might like to see your telescope.”

  First Mike and now her mother. Leslie sighed deeply. Why was it so important for her to have the Cold Spring kids for friends? She was perfectly happy all by herself.

  “I’ll ask Taffy if I see her, Mom,” Leslie agreed readily. It was easy to agree because she had no intention of running into Taffy or any of the other kids. Most of them would be at the vacant lot or the swimming hole and she didn’t have to go near either place. She should be able to get to the store and back without running into anyone.

  The late-morning sun was warm and the air smelled of freshly cut grass and clover. Leslie stretched her legs a little as she walked up the tree-shaded driveway and turned at the sidewalk. She didn’t mind running errands at all as long as she didn’t meet any of the kids.

  She avoided the vacant lot, where she could hear a softball game in progress. She cut through the alley and ran the rest of the way to the store, her key brushing lightly against her chest. She wore it around her neck constantly now; it was like a good-luck charm to her. Of course she didn’t think it was magical anymore. Nothing would happen if she held it and squeezed it. At least she was pretty sure nothing would happen, but she hadn‘t quite dared to try it, not since that awful accident at her birthday party.

  The store was cool and Leslie took her time, going up and down the aisles in order and placing a little checkmark in front of the items on her mother’s list as she put them in her cart. She didn’t want to miss anything and risk being sent back for a forgotten item.

  She was almost through now. The cart was partially filled and she needed only a loaf of rye bread to complete the list. Leslie parked the cart behind a pyramid of cans and ran back to the bakery section. She was about to push the cart back out into the aisle when she heard them talking.

  “Every time I see her, she’s by herself. I don’t understand why the other children don’t play with her.”

  Leslie recognized Mrs. Allen’s voice. Mrs. Comstock was with her. Leslie had seen them by the meat case.

  “It’s just the other way around,” Marilyn Comstock retorted. “She won’t play with them. Taffy’s made the effort. Rob made her invite Leslie over, but she just doesn’t fit in. She thinks she’s too good for Cold Spring. Look at those designer clothes she wears. Can you imagine dressing a child like that? Plain old JCPenney is good enough for Taffy, and we’re not exactly destitute, either.”

  “You can’t blame the child, Marilyn.” Roberta Allen sounded righteous. “You can see where she gets her attitudes. Did you notice the suit Karen wore to your house last week? It was raw silk and must have cost a fortune. She’ll probably have her maternity clothes designed in Paris!”

  Both women laughed loudly and Leslie caught her breath. She stood glued to the spot as Roberta continued.

  “I told Bud he had to be nice to Leslie.” Roberta’s voice was firm. “It’s not fair to judge the child by her mother. That big, splashy birthday party was Karen’s doing, I’m sure. She was just showing off. The poor little girl was probably embarrassed to death.”

  “That could be.” Marilyn sounded doubtful. “But I think Leslie’s just as bad as her mother. Taffy says she’s terribly stuck-up. Her manners are dreadful. Do you know she hasn’t called once since the party to see how Taffy’s hornet stings are healing? All she did was send a little thank-you note for the handkerchiefs.”

  Leslie’s mouth dropped open. She had called twice! And she’d even invited Taffy over on the last call!

  “Wasn’t that party strange?” Mrs. Allen had lowered her voice a bit. “It doesn’t seem right that every child got stung, except Leslie. Something like that almost makes me believe in those old haunted-house stories.”

  “Haunted houses in this day and age?” Marilyn laughed sharply. “I don’t even consider that kind of nonsense! It’s the people inside that makes a house look bad and that place has had its share of strange people . . . crazy, old Mrs. Appleton . . . the man from Omaha who shot his wife . . . the young couple that disappeared in the middle of the night in their nightclothes.... It just attracts them, I guess.”

  “I still feel sorry for that little girl.” Mrs. Allen lowered her voice even further, but it was clearly audible. “Having a mother who puts on airs, and who knows what the child’s real father was like?”

  Leslie’s knees began to shake and she reached up to finger the key around her neck nervously. She didn’t want to hear any more, but she didn’t dare leave. Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Comstock would see her and know she’d been listening if she so much as moved. She was trapped here, forced to listen to their awful gossip. The more she thought about it, the more angry she became. Someone should stop them from saying mean things. Someone should tell them it isn’t right to tell lies about people.

  Without realizing it, Leslie was gripp
ing the key tightly. She gulped when she heard the familiar buzzing voice in her ear. It was the voice from her birthday party. Somehow she had wished hard enough and Christopher was here!

  I’ll stop them, Leslie. People said awful things about my mother, too, and it isn’t nice.

  His voice was strong, and Leslie began to tremble. Suddenly she understood everything. She was holding the key, and her friend had come to help her. Their house really was haunted and Christopher was the ghost!

  She panicked. She wanted to drop the key and run for home, but she was too frightened even to move. She was frozen where she stood, holding the key, listening to a ghost.

  You don’t have to be afraid of me. His voice was very clear now. I’m your best friend. I’ll take care of those old gossips for you. Just watch those cans.

  Leslie squinted as the fluorescent lights in the store flickered brighter and brighter. Her eyes hurt, but she couldn’t shut them. They were dilating, the blue receding until only the pupils remained. There was a throbbing in her head and she felt sick and hot. Her knees shook so hard she thought she’d surely fall down.

  As she watched, the pyramid of cans started to move slightly, jiggling and trembling at the bottom. Instinctively, she reached out to try to steady them, but it did no good. The shaking motion spread until the top cans swayed precariously. Then they started to tumble down.

  “Marilyn! Watch out!” Mrs. Allen’s shrill warning came too late. Both women tried to move out of the way, but the cans were hurtling down, raining on their heads and arms, bruising them as they stared up in horror. The cans weren’t just falling; they were diving and plummeting, twirling and crashing to the floor as if some invisible hand was throwing them in gleeful spite.

  “Ladies? My God! Are you all right?”

  Everyone from the front of the store was there now, helping Mrs. Comstock and Mrs. Allen to their feet. There was an obstacle course of cans, Libby’s corn and peas and mixed vegetables scattered the length of the aisle.

  Leslie moved slowly, pushing her cart carefully to the front of the store. She felt a little dizzy and she leaned against the shopping cart, waiting patiently for the checker to come back to the register. All she wanted to do was go home. There was a commotion in the back of the store and Leslie turned, puzzled. She remotely remembered some cans falling; she remembered the crash. She supposed she could offer to help pick up the cans, but she was just too tired. The minute she got home she’d go up to the tower room and take a nice, long nap.

  EIGHT

  The traffic was unusually heavy for a Wednesday afternoon and it was broiling hot, even with the windows open all the way. This last week in July was humid and the inside of the truck felt like a steam room. Mike gripped the steering wheel tightly and swore. He could feel the tension in his arms and shoulders, and his neck was stiff and aching. The drive in hadn’t been so bad, but the return trip was taking every bit of patience he had left. He barely controlled the urge to smash into the bumper of the rattling white station wagon poking along ahead of him on the two-lane road into town. Twenty miles of following a bad driver had put him in a vile mood.

  The house looked deserted. Mike parked at the end of the driveway and called out, but no one answered. He supposed that Karen was busy with her decorating, and Leslie was holed up in her tower room. It gave him an empty feeling to come home and find no one to meet him. Back in the city they used to greet him with happy smiles and hugs and they’d all tell each other about how they’d spent their day. But that hadn’t happened since they’d moved out here. Mike was beginning to think the move had been a mistake. Each of them had different interests now, and in this big house it was easy to go their separate ways.

  He let himself into the kitchen and gave a holler, but still there was no answer. The antique kitchen chair creaked as he sat down heavily. He lit a cigarette and stared out the window at the tall, straggling bushes in the yard. The rose garden was a mess and the hedge had grown wild. Things had to be pruned and clipped soon or the townspeople would start to talk. Originally he’d planned to hire a gardener, but they couldn’t afford it now, not with the money he’d dropped this week on the sportsbook. He had to make up for it next week for sure.

  The kitchen was silent and even the bright sun streaming in the west windows did nothing to lift Mike’s spirits. They hadn’t been happy with him at the magazine. Of course they’d accepted the condo prints; it was too close to deadline to do anything else. But he’d have to come up with something great for his next feature or he’d be in hot water. Even Rose Avery was upset with him and she had been his staunch supporter in the past. Without her help he never could have gotten the job as feature photographer.

  “Damn!” Mike growled as the cigarette burned down to scorch his fingers. Everything was going wrong lately and it was just too much to handle. He felt himself losing control. Small things were beginning to add up, and he wasn’t able to stop what was happening to all of them. Leslie didn’t have a single friend here in Cold Spring, Karen was so concerned with the restoration that she didn’t have time for anything else, and he was in trouble at the magazine. And on top of all that, he was losing on the sportsbook. If only he could come up with a great feature he’d be back in their good graces at the magazine, and then he’d have a little more money to bet and play the odds. If there were winnings, he could afford to hire someone to help Karen with the house. She’d feel better and take charge of Leslie. With Karen her normal, energetic self, Leslie would straighten right out and make some friends here in town. As usual, everything boiled down to money. And, one way or another, he had to get some.

  Mike stared absently out the window. The sun was high and the white crushed-stone driveway gleamed like bits of glass. This was a beautiful estate. With the grounds done properly and the exterior painted and fixed, it could be a real showplace. Everyone he knew would be envious of a home like this. It could be truly elegant, but it took money and a lot of hard work. What he wanted to do most was show all those idiots out there how beautiful an old house could be if you fixed it up right.

  “That’s it!” The idea began to take form. He was sitting on a gold mine here and he’d been too dumb to see it. Sure, he’d counted on using a shot or two of their house in his feature on Victorian estates, but he’d been thinking too small. The Appleton Mansion would be the perfect subject for a whole series, a do-it-yourself, fixer-upper special! He’d show a step-by-step restoration, starting from scratch with the pictures he’d shot when they first saw the house: the waist-high lawn with the FOR SALE sign out front, the stately brick structure with paint peeling on the trim, the empty rooms with undraped windows. It would kindle the reader’s imagination. Then he’d show them exactly how to restore it.

  The first step would be the grounds. They’d hire a gardener and re-landscape the place. For the next installment they’d concentrate on the trim and the new paint job. Another installment could focus on the greenhouse as it was restored and filled with plants. Then the inside, room by room. Gradually everything would be done and each major improvement would be a separate installment. Not only would he have a dynamite series, but all their expenses would be fully tax deductible. The whole renovation would be a complete tax write-off!

  “How idiotic! Why didn’t I think of it before?” He was amazed. Pushing back his chair, he stood up, beaming. He was going up to the darkroom right now to develop those negatives he’d taken the day Rob showed them the house. And if he didn’t have enough, he’d shoot more. Then they’d all pitch in and fix this big monster up. The magazine would love it. Rose Avery would love it. Everything was coming together again and it felt great!

  “Hey . . .” Mike stopped halfway up the stairs and grinned again. There was another bonus with this idea. He’d mention Cold Spring in the text and get in a free plug for the town. The people here would like that and their kids might be nicer to Leslie.

  Mike paced the floor as he waited for the completion of the developing process. He sipped his
cold coffee and whistled. He’d call Rose tomorrow and see if they could start the series running in the next issue. That meant they’d have to hustle on the house, but it would be worth it. He was positive Rose would authorize an advance on a project this big. And just as soon as he got a little money ahead, he’d hire a housekeeper so Karen could concentrate on the decorating. It would be a family project, something they could work on together. They hadn’t done anything together since they moved here.

  At last the timer rang and Mike breathed a sigh of relief as he lifted the film out of the tank. The negatives seemed clear enough. Now he was glad he’d spent all that time looking for the light leak. He certainly wouldn’t want to botch up these prints. They had to be perfect. He wanted to show every paint chip and loose shingle so the reader would realize what a huge project it was. Then, every month, they’d see the results of good planning and hard work. This series could run on for a year or more if he wanted to milk it dry. And he could demand more money from the magazine and get it. All his problems would be solved.

  Today Karen was determined to catalog the furniture in the ballroom. Mike was at the magazine and Leslie was busy with her telescope. That meant she had the entire morning free.

  Notebook in hand, Karen climbed the stairs. She held the railing tightly. Yesterday she’d fallen and scraped her knee and today she was taking no chances. Her balance was off, but the doctor said that was normal. He blamed it on her sudden weight gain and told her not to be alarmed. This sort of awkwardness was to be expected in the second trimester of pregnancy.

  She stopped for breath on the third-floor landing, unable to understand why this pregnancy was so much harder than the first had been. She was terribly out of condition and each day she felt more bloated and uncoordinated. It was such a contrast to her normal state that Karen sometimes felt her awkward body belonged to someone else. The real Karen Houston was slim and energetic, not at all like the tired, clumsy image she saw in the mirror.