by Nancy Martin
The whirl of people around us turned into a miasma of color and noise, but I said quietly, “We want what’s best for the baby. And for you, Em.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
I summoned the hardest words I’d ever spoken. “It means we believe it would be hard for you to come to the farm and see us with your child and wonder what might have been.”
Emma turned away toward the horses and fell silent.
She didn’t want me to see her expression, because she couldn’t make her face obey any longer. I fought down the same kind of agony that undoubtedly welled up in her, too. We’d had hard conversations before, Emma and I. Back when her husband, Jake, was killed. When Todd was shot. But neither of those events compared to the terrible tearing sensation in my chest as I reached to touch her shoulder.
If Libby had wanted me to make the hard decision, now was the time to do it.
I gathered my breath and my courage. “I know what you’ve already lost, Em. And this baby must remind you of the life you could have had if Jake hadn’t died. I don’t want you to go through the pain again. And I don’t want to lose you, either. Because that’s what would happen, I think. If Michael and I adopted your baby, you’d start to avoid us. You’d stay away and pretty soon you’d be gone from our lives altogether. I couldn’t bear to trade you—not even for a child to raise.”
In a ghastly voice, she said, “I have to go help Shirley harness her team for the parade.”
“Okay,” I said, my heart cracking for her. For all of us.
Emma turned away. But she stopped and without looking at me blurted out, “Hart wants the kid.”
“He does? For real? That’s—that’s good, isn’t it?” My heart lifted. But Emma was silent. I said, “It’s best for the baby, right? Hart may have his faults, but he’ll be a good parent. And what about you?”
She shook her head. “He doesn’t want me. He says he and his wife will take the kid, raise it. He says she’ll be a good mother. That she comes from a big, stupid family—lots of birthday parties, you know? She’s actually happy about the situation because it means she doesn’t have to get fat.” She shot me a cold smile, her eyes glassy with tears. “But I wanted you and Mick to have first dibs.”
I reached for her hand. She let me take it, let me squeeze it.
I said, “Oh, Em. Surely if Hart wants your child, it’s like having a part of you, too.”
She laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “Thanks for that,” she said. “I’ll take what I can get.”
She looked away again and blew a long, unsteady sigh. “I can’t wait for this to be over. As soon as I push Zygote out, I’m gonna pour myself a long drink. Maybe stay drunk until he hits kindergarten.”
We’d cross that bridge when it came, I knew. For now, I said, “Will Hart and Penny let you see him? Or—?”
“Oh, I imagine I’ll see plenty of him when I’m sneaking up the stairs to Hart’s bed when his wife’s out of town. That’s what Hart has in mind, anyway.”
“Em, I’m so sorry.”
She pulled her hand away. “Don’t be. I get what I want, too, right? A good home for the kid, and my freedom. Let the good times keep rolling. That’s all I want out of this deal.”
I didn’t argue with her just then, but I knew she was wrong.
She said, “I think I’ll go find one of Shirley’s grooms and see if he wants a little nooky with a pregnant lady. But first there’s just one favor I’d like from you.”
I could barely speak above a whisper. “Anything.”
“Ask Mick if he’d beat the shit out of Hart? Maybe the night before his stupid wedding. No permanent damage. Just mess up his face for me, you know?”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to take care of that.”
“Thanks.”
Emma steeled herself and walked away toward the stable area. From the back, she didn’t look pregnant at all.
Libby returned in a while, with two cups of something steamy. She said, “My God, what’s wrong?”
I wanted to cry. Maybe I already was. I wanted to run after Emma and take it all back. I wanted to tell her we could fix everything. I wanted so much for my little sister just then.
“I’m okay,” I said. “It’s Em. Hart and his fiancée want to raise Emma’s baby.”
Libby said a disgusting word.
“No, it’s probably for the best.” I made a monumental effort to pull myself together. “Hart may not be perfect, but he knows about family. I just—I hate seeing Em so broken.”
“She’ll pull out of this,” Libby said swiftly. “Nora, some people aren’t cut out to be parents, and Emma’s one. We both know that, and there’s nothing wrong with it. She has her own strengths. Superhuman, in fact. But—but Hart is being a perfect bastard. Can’t he see what she keeps hidden? Why couldn’t she show him a little of what’s inside, just once? We’re such fools about men sometimes. We all are. Here. Drink this. It’s a toddy. There’s brandy in it.”
With unsteady hands, I accepted the cup—with a slice of lemon on the rim and a cinnamon stick, too. I took a sip and then another. I felt the heat of the liquor burn through the lump in my throat. I wanted to think the best of Hart, but hearing Libby dump on him felt liberating. Why couldn’t he see Emma’s love for him? Was he such an idiot? Or was the pull of marrying into Penny’s powerful family more important to him than the truth that surely lurked in his heart?
“Come on,” I said, as a new emotion grew inside me like a match struck to tinder. “While I’m angry, I need to talk to Shirley van Vincent.”
“Why?”
“She has some explaining to do.”
Libby and I walked the length of the exhibits. With every step I felt stronger. I had made the hard choice. And survived. We walked past antique carriages and pony carts, a painted gypsy cart and even an oxcart with two long-horned oxen placidly swishing their tails. Libby put her arm through mine to steady me. Beside an enormous replica of a Wells Fargo stagecoach, a man in jeans and a cowboy hat passed out plastic ten-gallon hats to the children. Beside him, a gentleman in a top hat and tails distributed flyers for his hearse—a six-wheeled vehicle with black feather plumes and a satin-lined interior visible through glass windows. A white carriage at the end of the line contained a young couple in wedding clothes, toasting passersby with champagne glasses.
Farther along, we came upon the various vendors—a farrier with his smoking forge, an Amish harness-maker and his counterpart from Belgium, suppliers of horse feed and diet supplements. Plastic buckets and travel trailers and representatives from companies that shipped horses by air to Europe and back. Everything that experienced horsemen needed and more.
Eventually, I found I could make the effort to be pleasant to the people we encountered along the way. With Libby sticking supportively beside me, I saw many acquaintances from various circles of the horse society and snapped a few pictures with my phone camera. The slim young members of a nearby dressage school were roaming around together—still dressed in their riding clothes and cheerfully slugging drinks. Other guests had come ready to see and be seen. The women wore their autumn fashions with large hats and a few cleverly horsey handbags. I saw many men wearing hunting jackets with patches on the arms and shoulders.
“Nora,” a man called to me. I recognized Jamison Beech, his camera around his neck. He wore a suit today with a narrow tie—like me, making the opposite fashion statement than what was expected. With him was a younger man I knew as a neighbor who raised gundogs on a small farm near my property. Smiling, Jamison pulled him over to me. “Meet my nephew.”
I gave Jamison a kiss and shook his nephew’s hand. I introduced Libby, and they all traded pleasantries. Libby gushed about Jamison’s newspaper fashion collage, and he did the gallant thing by taking her picture. Libby beamed with pleasure.
“Say,” the nephew said to me, “do you ever let hunters on your farm? My friends and I have been hunting pheasants on Quintain for years, but the birds have
flown. We’re looking for new hunting grounds.”
“Just keep your guns pointed away from the house,” I told him. “I don’t mind a bit. I’m surprised, though. I’d have thought there would be lots of pheasants on Quintain.”
“Yes, but our spaniel club has been hunting there for—oh, twenty years or more. It’s time we gave the birds a chance to flourish again.”
“Twenty years,” I said.
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I was sorry to hear about Madeleine’s death.”
Jamison said, “She was a grand old girl.” He waxed poetic about Aunt Madeleine for a while, but my mind had wandered.
Finally, I said to the nephew, “Madeleine gave you permission to hunt on Quintain?”
“No, actually, older members say the club used to hunt right here, on the van Vincent farm.” He gestured to indicate the busy estate around us. “But Shirley and Vincente were worried about stray shots hitting their Dalmatians or their horses. It was Shirley who told the club president we should hunt on Quintain. She said Madeleine wouldn’t mind, so the club went ahead. All the neglected underbrush made good cover for birds. Ideal for bird-dog training.”
“I see. Well, you’re welcome on Blackbird Farm this year.”
“Thanks. We’ll stay on the other side of the hill from the house.”
Jamison and his nephew waved jauntily and strolled off to enjoy the festivities.
But I found myself brought up short by a thought. Had Shirley really been concerned that hunters might shoot her dogs? Or had she been preventing hunters from discovering the body on her property? Which meant she’d known about it from the beginning.
“Do you have pheasants?” Libby asked, breaking through my racing thoughts. “Maybe we should shoot a couple for Thanksgiving. I could send the twins. They’re always looking for something they’re allowed to kill. And for Christmas, too. Somehow I get the feeling we’re not going to be eating ham for the holidays.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, hardly paying attention.
We walked on through the displays, but I didn’t really see any of the details. I was thinking about Shirley and what she knew. At last came the horses, and that’s where the crowd got thick. The pageantry included fearsomely large Clydesdales flashing their white tasseled hooves and elegant Friesians peeking out from behind their thick black forelocks at lanky Standardbreds.
Beside me, Libby suddenly went on alert, exactly like a spaniel on the scent of a fat pheasant. “Nora! Isn’t that Sheriff Foley?”
“Deputy,” I said, following the direction of her quivering point. “Deputy Foley.”
“He deserves a promotion in my book,” Libby said. “I think I’ll go talk to him. Do you mind? I’ll find out if there’s any news on Aunt Madeleine’s murder.”
“Ask him if he knows who stole the ledger. That ought to be a good conversation starter. I think he stole it for Simon Groatley.”
“Count on me to twist the truth out of him.” Libby hitched up her bosom and set off toward her unsuspecting prey.
As Libby left me to my thoughts, a lot of facts began to fall into place like cards dealt from a stacked deck. Abruptly, I cut up the hillside toward the van Vincent barn, where Emma had gone to help harness Shirley’s team. If Shirley was there, too—Shirley who must have guessed by now what I was thinking—Emma could be in danger. I tried to hurry, but my high-heeled shoes hobbled me.
That was when I saw the golf cart parked beside one of the portable toilets. The driver had left the vehicle, so I jumped behind the wheel. I jammed my foot down on the “Go” pedal, and the little cart leaped forward. It roared up the hillside, bumping over holes, wheels spinning.
I steered it around a tree, but ran right over a bush. I forgot about the “Stop” pedal and ended up ramming the cart into a fence. The impact tossed me onto the ground, and I landed on my knees. Scrambling up, I headed for the stable where Emma had gone.
The barn was a long, low building designed by an architect who wanted to make an artistic statement while providing shelter for valuable horses. The building was a cross between an American prairie-style cabin and a Tudor folly. Double doors opened at either end of it.
As I reached the top of the slope, one of the groomsmen bolted out of the side doors and rushed past me, knocking over a rake that had been propping the door open.
I heard Emma’s voice rise sharply. “Don’t be crazy, Shirley. We were just talking! We weren’t doing any harm to your horses.”
Automatically, I bent to pick up the rake. I heard an awful whip crack and Emma let out a curse.
“I won’t have that kind of behavior in my barn,” Shirley snapped.
As I came through the door, I saw Emma standing on the straw-strewn floor beside a huge black horse that was tied by his halter to a ring in the stable wall. She had one hand on the animal’s neck to calm him, but as Shirley raised her whip again, the horse snorted and threw his weight against the ring. His eyes rolled white with fear. Then Shirley brought the stout driving whip down hard across Emma’s shoulders and Emma went down.
“You Blackbird girls are all alike,” Shirley said. “Always stealing men you have no business with.”
“Take it easy, you nutty old bitch. What are you talking about?”
Shirley raised the whip again, and Emma quickly rolled under the horse—to escape the whip or to avoid the animal’s hooves, I couldn’t see. The horse plunged sideways, though, and Emma tried to scramble crablike out from under him, but her belly made her clumsy.
The horse’s hooves looked both gigantic and lethal. And he was frightened—half a ton of deadly animal that could break bones or crush a baby with one kick. Emma gave a yell.
Beside the horse, Shirley van Vincent struck at Emma over and over with the whip’s heavy handle. My sister threw up her hands to protect herself. The horse snorted and danced around Emma. Any second he was going to hurt her, maybe kill her.
“Shirley,” I said.
She turned, and I clobbered her with the rake.
It was probably an unkind thing to do to an elderly woman. But just then all I could see was my little sister in peril. As I hit Shirley, she fell back and glanced off the side wall. The black horse swerved away from her, making a deep, terrified squeal in his throat.
With Aunt Madeleine in my heart, I whomped Shirley again and knocked her flat onto the straw.
“You killed her,” I said, hardly able to believe my own words as I stood over Shirley with the rake in my hands. “It was you! You thought Madeleine was having an affair with your husband, so you trapped her in the elevator and killed her.”
“She deserved it.” Shirley glared up at me.
“And Pippi,” I cried. “You killed Pippi, too?”
“She was going to tell,” Shirley said stubbornly. “She saw me turn off the electricity, and she was running for the police.”
“So you chased her,” I said. “You chased her and killed her! And left her body in the woods?”
“I gave her a decent burial.”
“Hardly.”
I thought I’d hit her hard enough, but Shirley was tough. She launched herself at me with the whip raised, but I met her halfway. I had to drop the rake to seize her wrist. We grappled. I had a sense of Emma crawling free, but I wasn’t sure. The horse swung his hindquarters at us, and I barely avoided a kick. Shirley thrust at the horse, trying to push him toward me, but I had the snapping end of the whip in my hand, and I used my leverage to yank her forward. She collided with the animal, and he knocked her down. This time she stayed there.
I’m not sure how long it took for me to regain my wits, but eventually Emma pried the whip out of my hands and pushed me to sit on a bale of hay. Libby showed up, dragging Deputy Foley. Emma sat with me, our arms tight around each other. There was a lot of shouting, including some from Shirley, who was more angry than hurt.
In a while, only slightly hampered by Libby’s interference, Foley put handcuffs on Shirley.
Emma had one hand o
n her belly, as if holding her baby steady after a trauma, comforting and suddenly motherly.
“You okay?” I asked, fearing something was wrong. “Are you hurt?”
“We’re okay. Wow,” she said with wonder in her voice. “You were like an avenging angel, Sis. Aunt Madeleine would be proud of you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
At Thanksgiving, Emma burned the cranberry sauce, and she ended up popping a can-shaped slab of cranberry-flavored goo onto one of Aunt Madeleine’s Meissen serving dishes and plunking it onto the table. “There.” She stood back to admire her handiwork. “I like the canned stuff better anyway.”
Above us on the fireplace mantel hung the portrait of Aunt Madeleine. It hadn’t been restored yet, but I had wanted the painting to be with us for the holiday. I thought Madeleine’s smile looked a little less secretive these days. Or maybe I simply understood her better now. I gave her a wink.
Libby fluttered into the dining room wearing a ruffled apron with the words EAT DESSERT FIRST embroidered on the front. “Didn’t we have Thanksgiving dinner at Quintain one year? With a Lady Baltimore cake at the end?”
I got busy putting candles into Grandmama’s last remaining set of silver candelabra. “I can’t imagine Aunt Madeleine actually cooking anything. Did Pippi bake the cake?”
“Probably.” Libby began laying silverware at each place setting. “Pippi did all the hard work while Madeleine went to parties and had affairs and got all the glory.”
Emma sat heavily on one of the chairs at the big table and rubbed her back as if it ached. She was due to deliver her baby in just a few more weeks and had finally started to slow down. “I don’t know. In the end, Pippi died fast, while Madeleine lingered a long time in that elevator. I might have picked Pippi’s final moment.”
“Maybe we could save this discussion until after dinner,” I suggested. I pointed at Libby’s daughter, Lucy, who was carefully folding napkins into fans. “When there aren’t so many big ears around.”
“My children have heard everything,” Libby said. “Let me warn you now, Nora. There are going to be lots of uncomfortable questions during dinner. Like why you clobbered Shirley van Vincent. And how come their cousin Sutherland has his picture on CNN. And they’re dying to know if we’re all going to be millionaires.”
