The Spirit of Grace

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  “Of course not,” I snapped at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Everyone knows that your grandmother walks around these hills, knows the trails like the back of her hands. So do you.”

  “So do a lot of other people,” Zeke said. “I don’t like where you’re going with this, Sheriff.”

  “He’s just doing his job, son,” Colonel Matthews said.

  “I’m not your son,” Zeke said.

  The door opened and the young deputy came in. He shot me a look as he leaned over and whispered into the sheriff’s ear. The sheriff stood.

  “Stay where you are. I’ll be back shortly.” He followed the young deputy out of the room, leaving Zeke, Colonel Matthews, and me alone in the room.

  “What’s going on? Do they really think I killed her?”

  “Probably not,” Zeke said. “I think they just want to test you, you know, to see what your reaction is. He’s got to be a little hardnosed. It’s his job.”

  The sheriff and his deputy came back into the room. Sheriff Carpenter’s face was mottled red. The vein that jagged across his forehead throbbed. He held my coat over one arm. In his other hand he held the wet shoes that I wore outside the night before. “Is this your coat, Miss Bennett?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He used his white handkerchief to extricate a bloody knife from the pocket of my coat. The knife was identical to the one I had discovered in the bottom drawer of my father’s desk, only now the lethal blade was encrusted with a brown gooey material that I knew without asking was Gran’s blood.

  “Have you seen this knife before? Think carefully because we found it in your coat pocket.” The sheriff dangled the knife in front of me.

  “Yes,” I said. “I found it in the bottom drawer of the desk. I took it out this morning. My father even commented on how strange it was because he had never seen it before.” I looked imploringly at Zeke and Sheriff Carpenter. “I put it back.”

  “Which drawer,” Sheriff Carpenter asked.

  He let me come around beside him. I opened the center drawer, took out the old brass key and unlocked the drawer that held the ledgers and deeds. I took them all out, every one of them. There at the bottom of the drawer lay the knife.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Maybe there are two knives,” the sheriff said. “This is the one with your fingerprints on it?” He pointed to the knife in the drawer.

  I nodded, stepped out of the way, and sat back down in the chair opposite the desk.

  He nodded at the young deputy who took the knife out of the drawer with a handkerchief and placed it on the desk next to the bloody one.

  My heart pounded. The room spun. I concentrated on breathing and prayed that I wouldn’t pass out.

  “I didn’t kill her,” I said, my voice sounding weak. I stood up, God only knows why. My knees certainly weren’t capable of supporting my body weight. I plopped back down before they buckled beneath me.

  “Tell me about your time at The Laurels.” Sheriff Carpenter sat back down in my father’s chair. The bloody knife lay on the desk between us.

  Zeke jumped up from his desk and stood behind the chair where I sat. “Can’t you see she’s about to faint?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Sarah, bend over, put your head down.”

  I did as he said, taking deep breaths in an effort to calm myself. When I sat back up, the dizziness had stopped. Sheriff Carpenter watched me, a suspicious gleam in his eye.

  “Do you think Sarah would leave the murder weapon in her coat if she killed her grandmother? She’s not stupid,” Zeke said. “She doesn’t have to tell you about her time away, either. Does she need a lawyer?”

  “He has a point,” Colonel Matthews said, “about the knife, anyway.”

  “This isn’t the first unseemly death she’s been involved with,” Sheriff Carpenter said.

  “That is out of line, sir, and you know it,” Zeke said. “Don’t you think she’s suffered enough?”

  Sheriff Carpenter looked at Zeke and at Colonel Matthews. Their silent communication conveyed some secret to which I was not privy. I might have spent time in an asylum, but I did not kill Gran, and I was not going to be charged for her murder. I had nothing to hide.

  “Am I going to find your fingerprints on this?” Sheriff Carpenter pointed to the unsullied knife that lay on the desk.

  “Yes. As I told you, I touched it when I took it out of the drawer and again when I put it back.”

  The sheriff nodded to his deputy, who took both knives away.

  “Who else has access to this drawer?” The sheriff asked.

  “I imagine anyone,” I said. “We leave the house unlocked. My father leaves his French doors open when the weather is fine. Anyone could come in here.”

  “I don’t need to tell you not to leave town. Tell your father we’ll be back this afternoon to continue our investigation. I’m sure we’ll have more questions. Meanwhile, I’d appreciate it if you stayed away from your grandmother’s home. We’ll be conducting a search of the premises as soon as we are able.”

  He nodded at Zeke and Colonel Matthews who, in turn, stood up and followed the sheriff to the door.

  “This is going to sort itself out,” Zeke said.

  “They think I killed her,” I said.

  “I’m going to prove you didn’t. I promise you that. I need to go with them. Will you be okay here?

  I nodded.

  After Zeke left, I stayed in the chair for a long time, numb, frightened, and overcome with a profound sense of foreboding.

  Chapter 9

  I don’t know how long I sat like that, alone in the office, lost in my own thoughts. Eventually my father came into the room, ignoring me as he sat in the chair behind his desk, fiddling with the papers that rested on top of it.

  “They found a bloody knife in my coat pocket,” I said.

  My father stopped toying with the stack of unopened mail on his desk and stared at me.

  “But surely they don’t think you killed her. You have no motive. Someone must have planted the knife in your coat pocket.”

  “Who? Zeke, Anca, you, Grace? Why would anyone do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

  I walked over to the window and stared out at the redwood trees beyond the grass.

  “There is no way they are going to pin Gran’s murder on you. You didn’t do it. Anyone could have gotten in this house at any time. We’ve become a little more diligent, but we don’t exactly lock down the house every night. I leave my French doors open all the time during the day. Everyone knows there are saboteurs in Bennett Cove. How do we know they didn’t come in here, get the knife, and go after your grandmother? You know as well as I do, she walks all over the mountain. Who knows what she saw? If she saw someone acting suspiciously, I’m sure she wouldn’t have slunk away. This person--whoever did this--is obviously a cunning, professional killer.”

  He sat down on the sofa, leaned back, and crossed his legs. He set his drink down on the coffee table before he stood up once again.

  “This will be sorted out, Sarah. Meanwhile, I’m going to get a lawyer for you. You need to be protected. I’ll see that things are handled.”

  “Do you think it will come to that? Surely they won’t charge me with a crime if they’ve no proof.”

  “We can’t let it go that far. Let me take care of this for you. Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” He jiggled the change in his pocket, nodded at me, and left the room.

  I was a suspect in Gran’s murder. My father’s promise to get me a lawyer did little to assuage my angst.

  ***

  The kitchen smelled of the chicken stock that boiled away on the stove. Anca and Mrs. Tolliver sat at the refectory table, the brown utilitarian tea pot between them, along with a plate of ginger cakes and a crock of jam that I recognized as Mrs. Tolliver’s. A strange-looking flower arrangement in a blue Mason jar rested on the table in front of Mrs. Tolliver.

  “Sarah needs to remember what
happened that night.” Anca didn’t realize that I stood in the doorway, listening. “I know in my heart that she saw something.”

  “She does. That’s the only way to set things right.” Mrs. Tolliver reached over and squeezed Anca’s hand. “Don’t worry. She’s going to be fine. Things will get worse before they get better, but in the end, the girl will be better off.”

  Anca made the sign of the cross over her bosom. “I’m so afraid.”

  “There she is.” Mrs. Tolliver smiled at me as she slid the Mason jar full of flowers across the table toward me. “I brought you something. That’s rosemary, chrysanthemum, blackberry vine, roses, and fennel, tied with a band of garlic that I braided myself.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The rosemary is for remembrance, everything else is for protection. You’re going to need it. Keep that vase near your bed. It will help you.”

  “I’m just down for a hot water bottle.” I did not want to hear Mrs. Tolliver’s discourse about what my future held and how her magic could protect me. I had hoped that getting in bed under the covers with a hot water bottle would dispel the cold chill that enveloped my heart.

  “I’ll bring it up to you.” Anca started to stand up.

  “That’s okay. I’ll get it.” I took the old tea kettle to the sink where I filled it up with water. I set it on the stove and settled in to wait for it to boil.

  “I must be getting on.” Mrs. Tolliver stood up and put her coat on. “I’ve got days’ worth of canning to do. Goodbye, Anca. Stay strong, Sarah. My door is open if you need me. And I’m sorry about your Gran.” She headed out into the fall afternoon.

  I filled the hot water bottle from the kettle on the stove and carried it, along with Mrs. Tolliver’s flower arrangement, back up to my bedroom. I set the flowers next to my bed and laid down with a wool blanket over me and the hot water bottle against my stomach. I dozed. When I woke up, my hot water bottle had gone cold and bright beams of afternoon sun bathed my room in muted, yellow light.

  I needed to get up, get moving, and do something physical. The shutter on the front of the house needed mending. The roses needed a major pruning. With a sense of purpose, I redressed the wound on my hand with a bandage that wasn’t quite so bulky and headed downstairs. The house stood still and quiet. My father had locked himself in his study. Grace was nowhere to be seen. Anca had gone to town to place our weekly grocery order. I made myself a lunch of bread, cheese, and apples. I had just finished eating and was about to put on my rubber boots and go outside when Zeke burst in the front door.

  I stood up and walked over to him. “What’s the matter?”

  He opened the leather satchel that he carried under his arm and pulled out a photograph and the portrait that I had drawn. He threw both of them on the empty table in the foyer.

  “You took my picture,” I said.

  “You dropped it, so I kept it.”

  I tried to snatch the picture, but Zeke grabbed it first. He arranged both pictures on the table so they lay side by side, facing me. I stared at the sketch, drawn in my hand, the sketch that I didn’t remember drawing. I had never undertaken a portrait and was once again surprised at my own prowess. I had captured Mrs. Kensington’s essence, as though I could blink my eyes and her image would come to life.

  My eyes traveled to the eight-by-ten photograph that Zeke had placed on the table next to my sketch. Mrs. Kensington stared up at me from the photo and the sketch I had drawn. The images were identical. Zeke watched me warily as I scrutinized both images. How could I explain to him that I didn’t remember drawing the picture and couldn’t replicate the effort if my life depended on it?

  From the style of Mrs. Kensington’s hair and the age of the picture, I would guess that it was taken about twenty years ago. She had on a fitted black dress with sheer fabric covering her shoulders and her décolleté. The familiar locket hung from a fine chain around her neck, resting in the hollow below her throat. She had smiled for her portrait, the smile of a woman who experienced the world in a loving way.

  “I drew a picture, okay?” I said. I snatched the picture that I had drawn and tore it up.

  “Sarah,” he said, his voice softening, “this is very important. I need you to think. I need you to remember and tell me exactly when you saw this woman. Are you sure she was here in Bennett Cove?”

  “I told you I met her while I was away. Her daughter was staying at the same place. Mrs. Kensington and I met in the library and struck up a friendship. I don’t usually draw portraits. I usually draw flowers--I--”

  Zeke gripped my arm and led me out the front door. He didn’t speak, just herded me away from the house and toward the ocean. When we reached the beach, he let go of my arm.

  “I need you to assure me that you really did see this woman,” he said.

  “I told you the truth,” I said, pulling away from him. I rubbed my elbow where he had clenched it. “I met her at The Laurels. She came to see her daughter and we struck up an acquaintance.” I recalled the day we met on the beach, my surprise that Grace Kensington had followed me to Bennett Cove.

  “What? What are you remembering?” Zeke asked.

  I told him of our meeting on the beach.

  “She was certain that I didn’t kill my mother,” I said. “At first I thought she was a reporter, lying to get a story. Why are you asking anyway? Who is she to you?”

  Zeke gazed out at the ocean. He weighed his words before he spoke. “I was hired to find her, but I was sent here without a picture. Imagine my surprise when I opened the envelope I received today and saw this.” He took the picture out of his pocket and waved it at me.

  “Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. She’s here in Bennett Cove,” I said.

  “Sarah, she perished in a fire over a year ago,” Zeke said. “It took a while for the coroner to identify her because we had to wait for her dental records from Maine. Her dentist enlisted, so it took longer than usual. This woman is dead.”

  Stars burst behind my eyes. My knees gave out, and I would have fallen had Zeke not steadied me. I thought back to an evening at the Laurels, when Mrs. Kensington and I had sat together in the library and had a long conversation about Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. On that day, she had declined the tea I offered, but we had sat together in the window seat overlooking the San Francisco Bay. Mrs. Kensington had told me about Cornwall, where Daphne du Maurier wrote many of her books. We had a lovely visit. After Mrs. Kensington had left, the nurse had come in to give me medicine and tend to me in my room. I had asked her about the elegant and kind-hearted woman, who took time away from her daughter to visit me, a lonely stranger, a long way from home, but the nurse had changed the subject so quickly, I had laughed out loud at her utter lack of subtlety. The nurse had looked at me as though I were seeing things. Now I knew why.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened to your hand?” Zeke asked. He took my hand and kissed it, his lips hot on my skin. He turned my palm up and gently removed the simple bandage that covered the burn, revealing the scar from my dream.

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  I told Zeke everything. I told him of the vivid dream I had, of the fire, and the searing pain in my hand that I had brought with me from slumber.

  I reckoned he deserved the truth, and I hoped at some point he would reciprocate in kind and be truthful with me about his life, about the horrors that caused his nightmares. When I finished speaking, Zeke wrapped his arms around me, encircling me with warmth. I savored the heat of him, the musky smell that made my senses reel.

  “Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” His voice was soft in my ear, his breath hot against my neck.

  I shrugged. “When I was a child, I had a few imaginary friends, but all children have those.”

  “I was sent here to find the real Grace Kensington,” Zeke said. “Unfortunately, I didn’t get her picture until today. When I opened that envelope and found an exact replica of the portrait you drew, I didn’t
know what to think.”

  I leaned into him, not the least bit ashamed of my desire to be close to him. I let the strength of his body hold me up. His chin rested on the top of my head. I leaned away from him and met his eyes. When our lips met, I didn’t resist. Our kiss was long and deep, and when it ended, we clung to each other, our bodies pressed together in the October sun.

  “My great grandmother could see the souls of those who had crossed,” he whispered in my ear. “People in my small town were afraid of her. It wasn’t something she talked about much. Better to keep something like that quiet. Most people don’t understand.”

  “Tell me why you switched the film in my stepmother’s camera bag.”

  “You saw that?” Zeke smiled and shook his head. “I sensed someone watching me. No wonder you’ve been suspicious of me.”

  “You’re German is so fluent. Are you a--”

  “Spy?” He finished my question. “I suppose so. But I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I speak French and Italian too. My language skills are an asset. We are pursuing a group of Nazi sympathizers who have stolen plans for ships and planes. We have tried to intercept communiques with little success. They have gotten stronger and more sophisticated lately.”

  “So you know who the spy is?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “But we don’t have much proof. Our aim is to discover for whom she works. As far as we know, she could just be a courier or a high-level operative disguised as such. We have intelligence that she could be working for an entire network operating along the California coast.”

  “She?” I asked.

  Zeke paused for a moment before he spoke. What a deliberate man he was, I thought. He never spoke without thinking. What I wouldn’t give to be blessed with that kind of a mind. Finally, he looked down at me. I shivered as he ran his index finger across my upper lip, surprised that a gesture so simple could elicit such waves of pleasure. “It’s your stepmother,” Zeke said. “Personally, I am convinced she is a spy, a saboteur, and a murderer. As soon as I can find out who she is working with, she’ll be arrested. By the grace of God, she’ll swing for treason.”