World Tree Girl

by Kerry Schafer

  No mercy from Jake, not that I want any. “Maybe you are letting your grief interfere with your thinking.”

  “That’s a cheap shot. I have perfectly good reasons for everything. You’re just reacting because I didn’t tell you—”

  “Him, you trusted. The rest of us, not at all. So you want him back. Normal grief process, Maureen, except there’s too much riding on this. Danger to everybody in this Manor and in this town. You can’t be the lone ranger on this one.”

  “I’m not—”

  To my horror my voice breaks, and tears well up and spill over before I can blink them back.

  Jake’s too smart to say anything, or to try to capitalize on the moment by offering pats and consolation. He doesn’t flaunt a smug look either, or say, “I told you so.” Which makes me hate him a little.

  “I think you should go now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Jake—”

  He waits, his eyes boring holes through all of my layers of protection and finding the center where everything hurts. The tears continue to flow, and it’s all I can do to stand up straight, hands clenched so tight the fingernails are digging into my palms.

  And then, before I know what I’m doing, I cross the space between us. Not to seek shelter and comfort, but to kiss him. Hamlet was wrong about the heyday in the blood—turns out it’s far from tame. I feel a quick sympathy with Hamlet’s queen mother as Jake pulls me against the hardness of his body and smothers my mouth with his own. I wouldn’t care if he was a murderer so long as he goes on kissing me this way.

  When we surface for air, we’re both breathing hard. We break apart, not touching, our eyes locked with the same intensity our lips were a minute ago. Every nerve ending in my body seems to be lit up. My brain is definitely not working. There’s a reason why I wasn’t going to do this, many reasons, none of which seem valid anymore.

  When I hear the knocking, I figure it’s somebody at the door. They can wait, whoever they are. Only the knocking doesn’t stop and when I manage to orient my swimming head, I realize it’s coming from the closet.

  Rap tap. Rappety tap tap.

  “Ignore that.” I rest my hands on Jake’s chest, feeling his heart beat against my palms, inhaling the clean smell of him, memorizing it for later. His hands, in turn, light on the small of my back and run up toward my shoulders.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” His lips are against my ear and then my neck.

  I gasp a little, weak in the knees. “No.”

  Jake’s lips continue their downward course. His fingers fumble with buttons and he kisses my collarbone, moving down, and then he stops, staring at my chest.

  “Jesus, Maureen. What happened here?”

  It’s not my breasts he’s looking at.

  The thuds from the closet door are getting more insistent. A cold wind swirls around us and lifts the packing foam out of an open box, carrying it back around and pelting Jake in the face. He shields his eyes with his arm and the wind dies, the bits of foam drifting harmlessly to the ground.

  I take a breath, and then another, using the moment to re-button my shirt and take a step back.

  “That scar is damnably close to your heart.”

  “Knife. It missed.”

  “And the knife wielder? Dead? Behind bars? Knock knock knocking on your closet door?”

  I don’t want to answer him. For a million reasons. But I’m not going down that road again, so I tell him the truth.

  “In the hospital and unconscious, last I heard.”

  Breath hisses out between his teeth. “Jill.” He paces away from me, breathing hard with an emotion that isn’t passion. When he turns around, his face glows with anger. “You left that part out when you said she had a reason to hate you.”

  “Yes, well. Missing her target gave her another one.”

  “And you think maybe she came here to kill you?”

  “When she first got here, that’s what I thought. Now I’m not so sure. She seems a little lost. Grieving.”

  “You realize that this now also makes you a suspect in assault. Murder, if she dies.” Jake begins to swear, effectively and fluently.

  The rapping on the closet door starts up again, louder now.

  Jake takes a deep breath. “Let me make sure I understand this. A woman shows up in your apartment who once stabbed you within an inch of your heart and you let her take up residence in the Manor right across the hall from you.”

  “I wanted to keep an eye on her. And let’s not forget that you felt sorry for her and took her side.”

  “I didn’t know she tried to kill you!”

  “Thirty years ago! She was only sixteen, for God’s sake. We haven’t seen each other since.”

  “And that makes everything okay, I suppose.”

  My heart has settled down. My knees are steady. No danger of tears and no misbehaving heyday either. This is good, but I’ll admit to a slight feeling of having been robbed. I sit back down at the table and open the laptop.

  “You are an infuriating woman,” Jake says. “I’m not objective when it comes to you. I’ll be sending one of the deputies around to take a statement.”

  “That will have to wait. I’ve just located a Marietta Livingston. I think we need to pay her a visit.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As the name suggests, Riverview RV Park overlooks the river. In fact, it boasts a splendid view, and the Park portion of the name isn’t as ironic as it usually is in these places. Huge maple trees spread their branches protectively over many of the trailers. Flower beds promise a riot of color, come spring. The lots are far enough apart to give at least an illusion of space and privacy.

  Most of them are empty this time of year, the snowbirds having wisely packed up and headed south to places like California and Arizona, but Ravenna still inhabits a fifth wheel parked in lot number 25. Unlike the other mobile units, there is no welcome mat, no wooden sign, no spinning lawn ornaments. She’s made the concession of unhitching the Ford 4x4 that pulls the trailer, but it’s parked in the driveway lined up perfectly, so all she needs to do is roll a foot in reverse and hitch back up. Perfect setup for a woman who might want to leave in a hurry.

  Jake and Matt both insisted on accompanying me and I didn’t argue. Much. They are as worried about Sophie as I am. Besides, as Jake pointed out, he’s the sheriff. Ravenna’s got no obligation to open the door for anybody else, and not really even for him. Opting for obscurity, we ditched both the Jag and the squad car and drove over in Matt’s rattletrap pickup.

  A plump, white-haired, rosy-cheeked woman answers the door in response to Jake’s knock. She looks like a Disney grandmother. Her right hand grasps a cane, the knobby, arthritic knuckles whitening with the pressure as she shuffles forward, peering up at Jake.

  “I’m Sheriff Jake Callahan,” he says. “I’d like to speak with you about a missing child.”

  She peers up at him, squinting, cupping one hand behind her ear. “I’m sorry, my eyes aren’t what they used to be, and I’m a little hard of hearing.”

  “Sheriff Jake Callahan,” he says again, louder. “It’s about a missing girl. Would you like to see my badge?”

  “If it isn’t too much bother. One never knows these days. I heard a story about some thieves buying UPS uniforms off some Internet place called eBay the other day. Can you imagine? I’m sure you are who you say you are, but one can’t be too careful.”

  Jake hands her his identification. She pulls out a pair of bifocals and sets them on her nose, holding the card right up close. She takes so long about it that if we were a gang of ruffians intent on mischief, we could have killed her three times over before she gets through.

  “That’s what it says, all right. That you are Sheriff Callahan. Let me have a look at you.”

  He starts to bend over but straightens, coughing, when my elbow catches him in the ribs. Just because she’s old and bent doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous, and Jake seems to need a little re
minder.

  Ravenna doesn’t seem to notice. “Blind as a bat, I am, these days. Well, come in, come in. I don’t know who these people are, Sheriff, but if they are in your company, I’m sure I couldn’t be safer.”

  Jake ducks his head to get through the low doorway and brushes past her.

  “Oh dear,” she says, peering across her yard, eyes shaded with one hand. “Janice and Elsie are out in the yard staring at us. There will be gossip all over the park by dinner time.”

  “Sorry about that.” Matt gifts her with his most charming smile as he steps up into the trailer. “We left the cruiser behind so as not to raise too much interest with the neighbors, but you can’t quite disguise a man in uniform.”

  “So sweet and considerate. And such a beautiful young man, too.” She reaches up to pat his cheek, but before she can touch him, I catch my foot on the threshold and stumble forward. Matt grabs me before I hit the floor and I lean on him, heavily, breathing hard.

  “Are you all right?” Jake asks.

  “Fine. Fine.” I paste on a smile of patient suffering, release Matt’s arm, take a step, and let my leg collapse. Matt catches me again, this time not letting go.

  “You’d better sit. Did you twist your ankle?”

  “I must have done. My bones are getting fragile I guess. This getting older is such a difficult thing.”

  The interlude has given me time to look around the tiny sitting room. There’s a low bench, big enough for two, and a comfortable chair. A basket of knitting sits beside the chair, with a pair of knitting needles poking out of what might be either a baby blanket or an old-fashioned shawl. There are nails in the walls for two pictures, but nothing is hanging there. No knickknacks. The kitchen is pristine, but the oven is on, and the coffee pot is gurgling. No extra cups or dishes.

  No indication of visitors.

  Matt helps me to the bench and I draw him down beside me, keeping one hand on his arm, looking as small and frail as I can manage. Marietta closes the door and turns to survey the three of us.

  “Coffee? Milk? Cookies? I’ve just finished a batch of chocolate chip.”

  A mouthwatering aroma of butter, sugar, and chocolate attests to the truth of this statement, but I shake my head. “Ah, for the days when I could eat without getting fat. One cookie, and I’ll be dieting for a month.”

  Matt’s mouth opens and I dig my fingernails into his arm. He whimpers instead of speaking.

  “We don’t want to trouble you,” Jake says, “and we haven’t really got time for refreshments. Or the appetite for them, either. Understandably we are all quite worried.”

  “Oh, yes. The missing girl. Dear me, how sad.” She shuffles across the room, leaning heavily on the cane, gets herself turned around with painful deliberation, and lowers herself into the remaining empty chair with a sigh that wafts up from her toenails. “I don’t see how I can help, but I will be happy to do anything I can.”

  I open my handbag and pull out a tissue, dabbing at tears with one hand, holding the still open bag with the other. My .38 is in the holster at the small of my back, where it belongs, but I’ve got a tiny .22 nestled right beside the package of tissues. Not my favorite weapon, but it will get the job done at close range. “She’s been having such a difficult time,” I say, between sniffles. “The other girls at school have been unkind. And her father is emotionally unavailable. She just melted down and ran off.”

  “Poor thing,” Ravenna clucks. “How old? A teen? Such a difficult age. But are you quite sure she’s run away? And how can I help you?”

  “We thought she might have come to you,” Jake says.

  She gapes at him. “Why, in heaven’s name, would you think that?”

  “There are special circumstances.” He shows her the text message on Sophie’s phone.

  Ravenna’s expression doesn’t change at all, but it takes her just a little bit too long to say, “I’m sorry, I can’t read that. Let me get my glasses.”

  “I don’t believe you need your glasses for this, Ravenna.”

  My fingers dip into my purse and close around the handle of the little gun. Matt’s arm, where it presses against mine, is taut as a steel wire.

  “Who?” Her voice is tremulous. There’s a slight palsy of her hands that makes the phone tremble as she peers at it with a lost expression on her face. “I’m terribly sorry. I would love to help you. Who is this Ravenna person? Are you thinking I know her, then?”

  “It’s very important that we find Sophronia. Another girl was murdered, not long ago.”

  “But, Sheriff, I don’t know this girl. I couldn’t have sent her this message. I don’t know how to use this technology. Texting, they call it, yes?”

  “Could I maybe have a look around?” Jake asks.

  “Pardon? You’ll have to speak up.”

  “Can I have your permission to look around?” he shouts.

  Marietta’s hand goes to her heart. “Oh, my goodness. You suspect me of harboring a runaway. Or a fugitive. This is not the sort of house that is good for hiding.”

  “Still,” Jake says, with a pleasant smile.

  “Very well then,” she says. “I can’t imagine how you think I am involved in this. I am so confused.”

  Jake gets up and takes a look around, which truly only takes a minute. There is a bathroom and one small bedroom and that is all.

  “Dearie,” Marietta says to Matt in a breathless voice, her hand still pressed to her chest, “would you fetch me the pill bottle on the kitchen windowsill? And a glass of water, please. I—” She lapses into harsh breathing.

  Matt complies, at least taking the precaution of glancing at the label before handing the bottle to her.

  Hands shaking, she taps out a pill and swallows it with a gulp of water.

  “If there was anything I could do to help, anything at all, you know I would do so.”

  “You can stop lying, and tell us the truth.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “Mac, the coroner, recognized Ravenna as your nom de plume for your tattoo business, and gave us Marietta. So we know that part.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” Her forehead creases in bewilderment. “Mac? I don’t think I know any Mac. And I hope I’m not offending anybody if I say I’ve always thought tattoos were ugly, unconsidered things. How they do look when people grow old and their skin begins to sag, you know?”

  An involuntary image of the naked girl on Chuck’s bloated belly speaks truth to her words. The old woman looks so fragile, so sincere, so grandmotherly that I’m tempted to believe we’ve somehow found the wrong Marietta Livingston.

  Jake holds strong. “Mac is seldom mistaken about anything.”

  She shakes her head. “I used to draw and paint a little. Learned from the television. You know that artist who taught you how—what was his name? The man with the happy trees? He’s dead now, I understand. All of the good people are, present company excluded of course. Oh dear. What was I talking about? My mind does wander so.” Her right hand, also wandering, strays up from her lap to pat her cottony white hair.

  “Tattoos,” I tell her. “Your work. In Mac’s case, a raven tattooed on the jaw of a sixteen-year-old boy.”

  “Young woman”—she fixes me with a severe and reprimanding gaze—“if I were capable of tattooing people, which my affliction of Parkinson’s disease renders out of the question, I would certainly not be sticking needles into a child too young to understand the consequences.”

  “This was a number of years ago. Perhaps Parkinson’s was not a problem then.” I hand her a photograph of the World Tree Girl. “This one is much more recent.”

  She gasps, the rosy color fading from her cheeks. “How terrible,” she says. “Who would do such a thing? And to a child?”

  It’s not clear whether she’s talking about the tattoos or the fact that the girl is dead. Either way, she turns the picture upside down on the coffee table, her face firming into strong resolve. “I shall have nightm
ares about this picture and I can’t imagine why you are going around showing it to people. Sheriff, I’m going to have to ask you to take these people away. I can ask that, can’t I? You have no search warrant and nothing against me.”

  “I have this.” Jake turns the picture back over and lays another down beside it. “Your work, Ravenna. And not so long ago. I can get a warrant. Do I need to do that? Your space is not good for hiding runaways, but a tattoo kit would be easier to tuck away under a bed, in a closet.”

  The old woman closes her eyes, her face crumpling in what looks like genuine grief. “She’s truly dead, then?”

  Nobody answers.

  For a long moment she sits there, her face hidden by her hands. Then she takes a deep breath. “Are you here to arrest me?”

  “For what?” Jake asks.

  “Tattooing a minor. That’s it, isn’t it? She wanted them so badly.”

  On a whim, I lay a picture of Sophronia down beside the World Tree Girl. “And this one? She also wanted them so badly?”

  Ravenna touches the picture with an index finger and sighs. “Well then. I guess the gig is up.”

  Her hands steady. Her spine straightens. When she looks at me, her eyes are clear and direct, and her voice no longer quavers when she asks, “Who are you people and what is your interest in all this? And don’t give me some twaddle about being grieving relatives. Give me the truth.”

  What is it with everybody and this truth thing of late? I keep my mouth shut, for once, and let Jake do the introductions. “Maureen owns Shadow Valley Manor. Matt runs the food services there. Sophronia doesn’t exactly fit in well with the kids her age and we’ve all struck up an odd friendship.”

  “Which has nothing to do with the pictures of a dead girl who is not this missing Sophronia who I may or may not know.”

  No problem with her hearing now.

  “You might as well tell her the truth, Jake.” I pull out my FBI consultant ID. She doesn’t need to know that it’s no longer valid. “Matt and I are with a special victims unit. We are looking into this child’s murder. So far, we haven’t even been able to make an identification of the body.”