Rattlesnake Hill

by Leslie Wheeler

  Aside from a couple of field guides to birds and wildflowers, the bookshelves were empty. The desk drawers yielded stray sheets of stationery, paper clips, a few pencils and pens, a back issue of an Audubon Society magazine, and an old annual report of the town. Buried under these was a cassette.

  Eureka! She fished it out with greedy fingers and examined the label. Elvis love songs? Strange. She wouldn’t have pegged Diana as an Elvis fan.

  Abandoning the study, she climbed into the attic. Rain hammered on the roof, and a musty smell filled her nostrils. Pieces of plywood flooring floated like rafts on a sea of pink fiberglass insulation, laden with castaway baggage—old suitcases, boxes, file cabinet drawers, and Diana’s wedding picture. Who had defaced it? Garth, another hunter, or one of the power boat people? There were more candidates now.

  The grotesque image on the portrait remained with her, as she searched for the tapes among the various containers. Gobs of ugly, gray dust coating a suitcase flew in her face when she opened it. “Ah-choo!” Covering her nose with her hand, she attacked the remaining suitcases and boxes. Nothing. She might as well go back down where she could breathe, and where the noise of rain wasn’t so deafening.

  She gave the attic a parting glance. There was a box at the far end, lying next to several gallon-sized plastic containers that looked like they’d been used as solar heating collectors. The box might contain what she was looking for, but the area lacked plywood flooring. A single wooden beam bridged the fiberglass ocean.

  She stepped gingerly onto the two by four, holding her arms out to steady herself like a gymnast on a balance beam. A heavy gust of wind rattled the attic windows. She teetered precariously. She was just righting herself when a loud clap of thunder made her lose her balance completely. She fell into pink fluff. Fibers pricked her nostrils and stuck to her skin. A cracking noise sounded beneath her. She hauled herself back onto the beam. She didn’t dare stand, but crawled along until she reached the relative security of a plywood strip.

  Her legs shook as she climbed down the folding ladder. At the bottom, she took a moment to collect herself then walked down the hall to the master bedroom. There was a gash in the ceiling just short of the bed. Damn! It could have been worse, though. She could have crashed through the sheet rock, landed on the floor, and broken a few bones. She might even have been knocked unconscious, only to wake up later, bleeding and disoriented, as had happened to her father in the advanced stages of his illness.

  Pushing these disturbing memories aside, she called Brandy to report the damage. Brandy wasn’t at the office, so she left a message.

  From the bedroom window, she noticed that the surface of the pond was still. The rain had stopped. Eager to flee the scene of the crime, or rather accident, she hopped in her car and set out without any particular destination. After ten minutes of driving around, she came to the town cemetery, situated on a grassy knoll just before the fork that led into the valley below. A familiar Honda was parked near the entrance. She’d barely left her car when a figure rose from the middle of a row of headstones and started toward her.

  “Hi, I thought I recognized your car,” Kathryn called. With a stricken look, Brandy ran to the Honda and drove off, spraying her with brown water.

  Chapter 24

  Dark splatters covered Kathryn’s jeans and jacket like leopard spots. What had caused Brandy’s sudden flight? Mist rose from the headstones like ascending spirits, and the wet ground gave off an earthy smell like a freshly dug grave. The base of her spine tingled. She shook herself. Silly to imagine there were ghosts here. Yet something had spooked Brandy.

  Kathryn slipped inside the gate and went to the row of stones where she’d first glimpsed the realtor. She walked along, scanning the names on the stones until one stopped her short: Brian Russo. His dates showed that he had died six years ago, at the age of sixteen. Not only that: he’d died in November. The anniversary of his death was only a few weeks away. Poor Brandy! No wonder she was distraught.

  To lose a child . . . She hadn’t thought about what that would be like until Alan had almost lost Sophie. “She asked me if she was going to die. My own daughter! I didn’t know what to say.” She could still hear the anguish in his voice. And knew it was his worst nightmare.

  A nightmare that had come true for Brandy. She walked slowly back to her car, saddened by the thought of Brandy’s loss.

  The phone was ringing when she stepped inside the house.

  “Sorry about running out on you just now,” Brandy said. “I was having a tough time back there, and I didn’t deal with it very well.”

  “It’s all right, I understand. I’m sorry about your son.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  In the silence that followed, Kathryn wondered if she ought to mention the damage to the ceiling, or save it for another time.

  “Feel like joining me for a drink in Barrington?” Brandy surprised her by asking.

  “Well, okay, I just need to change.”

  “Jeez, did I spray you when I left? Sorry ’bout that. I’ll pay for the cleaning, of course.”

  “It’s not necessary.”

  “No, I want to. And ’bout that drink, how ’bout coming to my place? Save us a trip into town, ’cuz I’m home now.”

  *****

  Brandy lived in a cottage behind a big white colonial on the New Nottingham/Great Barrington Road. The side entrance she told Kathryn to use opened into the kitchen. Brandy sat at a small, round table, cigarette in one hand, glass of bourbon in the other. The room reeked of smoke and something else: a demoralization bordering on despair. It was in the air with its hint of moldering garbage, in the overflowing ashtray, the dirty dishes in the sink, the pile of unopened mail on the counter, and the dead plant on the table.

  Her mother’s room had looked and smelled this way after several days of neglect, when her grandmother was too tired to go in and open the windows, change the sheets, empty the ashtrays, and remove the collection of dirty glasses and food wrappers. Unlike Kathryn’s mother, Brandy appeared to be trying to lift her sagging spirits, judging from the upbeat tenor of the magnetized sayings on the refrigerator door. Also, unlike her mother, who usually hadn’t bothered to get up from bed when she came into the room, Brandy rose and greeted her.

  “Have a seat while I fix you a drink.” Brandy pulled out the other chair from the table, saw it was filled with newspapers and dumped the pile on the floor. “Sorry ’bout that. I’ve been so busy at the office lately I haven’t had time to do much picking up here. What can I get you, a white wine spritzer like the other night?”

  In short order, Brandy discovered she was out of “spritz,” then white wine, and the only bottle of red in the house contained vinegary dregs. Kathryn settled for beer from a can Brandy scrounged from the back of a cupboard.

  “It must be nice and quiet up there on the hill now,” Brandy said, plunking ice cubes into Kathryn’s glass. “With Garth in the hospital and—” She clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “He was the shooter, wasn’t he? The one you told me was doing target practice, but who was actually hunting deer.”

  Brandy pulled a face. “I tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. At least now you can enjoy some peace.”

  “Yes, though I had a bit of an accident today.”

  Brandy ground her cigarette into the ashtray with such force that used butts spilled onto the table. “What happened?”

  “I was in the attic looking for something in the part where there’s no flooring and—”

  “Don’t tell me you fell through?”

  “I stopped myself in time. But there’s a crack in the ceiling of the master bedroom now.”

  “That’s all?” Brandy lit another cigarette and took a drag. Her look of relief told Kathryn she’d been expecting something much worse. “Don’t worry. I’ll send a repair person over tomorrow.”
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  “I’ll pay, of course.”

  “Gordon can afford it. He doesn’t need to know you were responsible. I can say there was a leak or squirrels got into the attic and messed things up. What were you looking for?”

  “Tapes Diana Farley made of Emily Goodale’s recollections. I’m hoping they’ll contain information about my ancestors.”

  “That’s right, you’ve got local roots. It must give you a wonderful sense of belonging. Did I mention that if you’re interested in buying the Farley house, your rent can be applied toward the purchase price?”

  “No, but it’s too soon to think about buying. I’ve only been here a little more than a week.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just something to think about for the future. And you’ve got plenty of time. I won’t start actively showing the house again until the spring. But having roots here—just imagine. I’m a newbie myself.”

  “You’re from New York?”

  “How’d you know? My accent gave me away?”

  Kathryn shrugged.

  “Anyway, you’re right. Moved here with my kid after his dad died. Brian had fallen in with the wrong crowd in the city, and I thought that here in the country, it would be different but—” The ringing phone interrupted her. “Excuse me a sec.” Brandy disappeared into the next room.

  “Hi there,” she said in a sultry voice then silence punctuated by a series of uh-huhs, each more annoyed than the last. “Well, screw it, if you can’t get your shit together enough to . . . aw right, aw right, see ya tomorrow night.”

  Who was Brandy talking to? Garth had mentioned she was involved with Earl, though he’d put it more crudely. Maybe it was him.

  Brandy returned to the kitchen. “Where were we?”

  “You were talking about your son and why you moved here.”

  Brandy gnawed on a bitten-down nail. “Yeah, well, what I didn’t realize until it was too late is that if you’re looking for bad like Brian was, you’re gonna find it wherever you go.”

  “He got in with the wrong crowd here, too?”

  “One bad kid. That’s all it takes sometimes. And once they started hanging out together, wasn’t much I could do. If Brian’s dad had lived, he might’ve set him straight.” Brandy shook her head and threw back more bourbon. “Hid the booze, smashed the bong I found in his drawer, and warned ’im I was gonna call the cops if I ever caught ’im doing that again. Joey’s dad told ’im the same thing. Didn’t do a bit of good, though. Joey was local, so he knew of this place in the woods, where they could go and do their thing without being bothered. And that’s where—” She broke off, squeezed her eyes shut, and gritted her teeth, as if a spasm of pain had just shot through her.

  She asked me if she was going to die. My own daughter!

  Kathryn patted Brandy’s arm. “I’m sorry, really sorry.” Again, she was aware of how inadequate those words sounded.

  “Thanks,” Brandy murmured. Opening her eyes, she gulped down more bourbon and lit another cigarette. She pointed it at the dead plant on the table. “I really oughta throw this out, but the bowl’s nice. Maybe I could get something else to grow in it. You like to garden?”

  “Not really.” The abrupt change of subject surprised her. Obviously, Brandy didn’t want to talk about her son anymore.

  “You might get into it if you stay here. Lots of people have gardens, grow flowers, their own vegetables. It’s something to think about. If you’re hungry, I could fix us a bite. Got some pasta in there somewhere.” She gazed blearily at the kitchen cabinets.

  Kathryn stood. “Thanks, but I should be going.”

  Brandy rose unsteadily. “We should do this again. Have dinner, go to a movie, make it a real girls’ night out.”

  “Yes, another time. Good night now,” Kathryn murmured, giving Brandy’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

  Chapter 25

  “How’s the research going?” Millie asked when she went to the post office the next day. “Has Emily been helpful?”

  “Somewhat, but her mind wanders a lot, so it’s hard to keep her on track.”

  “Welcome to the world of the elderly. You gonna visit her today?”

  “Thought I would.”

  “Good. With Garth in the hospital, we’re stretched pretty thin at the moment.”

  Kathryn nodded. She was about to leave when she remembered there was something she wanted to ask Millie. They were alone in the post office. Still, she leaned in and lowered her voice. “I was over at Brandy’s last night, and she was in a bad way.”

  Millie grimaced. “Too much to drink?”

  “Yes. She started talking about why she moved here and the troubles she had with her son. Said he and another kid she didn’t like hung out at a place in the woods. She got too upset to say anymore. I sensed it had to do with her son’s death. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Millie’s face turned pale. She was silent a long moment. Finally, she said, “I guess you might as well know.” She motioned for Kathryn to come behind the counter and follow her to the rear of the office.

  “Brian did hang out with this kid, Joey Fletcher,” Millie said. “They were a lot alike—both messed up. They got into fights at school and were suspended a couple of times. Outside of school, they’d get drunk and stoned and may have been into harder drugs, too. Brandy couldn’t control Brian and the Fletchers had a hard time with Joey. The parents tried to keep the boys apart, but whenever their backs were turned, Brian and Joey would sneak off to their hideout in the woods to drink, smoke dope and play their music.”

  “This hideout in the woods—where was it?”

  Millie looked away, her face paling even more. “I hoped you wouldn’t ask . . . it was the ruins of your ancestors’ mill.”

  The very place where she and Alan had been shot at a few days ago. Kathryn’s chest tightened. “That’s not where Brian died, is it?”

  “Yes.” Millie’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Was he . . . killed by a hunter like Diana Farley?”

  Millie’s face registered surprise. “Who told you Diana was killed by a hunter?”

  “Brandy.”

  Millie heaved a sigh. “I guess that was easier for her than telling the truth.”

  Kathryn stared at her, perplexed. “What is the truth?”

  Millie frowned. “Actually, it’s kind of complicated. There are different theories about what happened that night, but—” She broke off, her eyes flitting around the room like a bird seeking a perch.

  “What are these theories?”

  Millie’s gaze returned to Kathryn. Reaching for her ponytail, she tugged on it—so hard it came undone. Strawberry blonde hair flopped around her face, giving her a disheveled, almost wild look. “Shit,” she muttered, as she bent over to retrieve the scrunchie that had fallen to the floor. The profanity surprised Kathryn; it didn’t fit Millie’s wholesome image. But then she figured Millie was entitled to an occasional lapse, especially when speaking about what must be a difficult subject.

  And the lapse was short-lived: Her ponytail restored, Millie became herself again: perky and put-together. “Before I answer that question, I better backtrack a bit. As you know, the mill ruins are in the Farley woods. One time when Joey and Brian got really drunk and stoned, they played their music so loud it could be heard all over the hill. Diana went in there and ordered them out. She said if she ever caught them in her woods again she’d call the cops. I think they stayed away for awhile. Or if they came back, they must have kept their music down or not on at all. But that night Joey left before Brian, and once he was by himself, Brian either forgot or was too drunk and stoned to care and blasted the woods with music. When Diana heard it, she must have gone ballistic. Instead of calling the police she stormed in there, confronted Brian, and ended up getting shot to death.”


  “Brian had a gun?” Kathryn asked, incredulous.

  Millie nodded. “Garth’s gun.”

  Of course. Lucas Rogers had told her that Diana had been shot by Garth’s gun, but not by Garth himself. “How did Brian get his hands on that gun?”

  “Stole it from his cabin. Everyone knew Garth didn’t lock it up, so it was there for the taking.”

  Kathryn shuddered imagining the scene: the blare of rock music drowned out by the deadly boom of a shotgun. Or rather two booms, because Brian had also died that night. “So Brian shot Diana and

  then . . . ?”

  “That’s where things get fuzzy,” Millie said. “The police think that either Brian turned the gun on himself in a fit of remorse, or was killed in a struggle over it.”

  The horror of this so overwhelmed Kathryn that it was a few moments before she found her voice. “That’s awful, just awful. No wonder it’s been hard for Brandy.”

  “Yes. I found a grief group for her and when she started hitting the bottle, I got her going to AA for a while. November’s always a tough month for her, though. It doesn’t surprise me she’s fallen off the wagon . . . You look like you could use a stiff one yourself.”

  “I’ll be okay,” Kathryn said, though she felt far from it.

  “I hope so. And I hope what I’ve told you won’t spoil that place for you. It’s a nice spot and—”

  “You’ve been to the mill ruins?”

  “Yes, but not for a long time. Earl and I used to go there when we were courting.”

  That’s right, the ruins had been a place where lovers went. Now they were associated with death. A murder and a possible suicide. Could anyone who knew this ever visit there without thinking of that?

  A package thumped on the counter in front. With a resigned sigh, Millie left to deal with the customer. Kathryn stumbled from the post office and drove home.

  Maybe she should follow Millie’s suggestion about a stiff drink, she thought. Instead, she went out onto the patio. Earl hadn’t resumed work on the driveway yet, so it was quiet. He was probably waiting for the ground to dry after yesterday’s rain. She wiped a lounge chair with a towel and sat. The water level of the pond had risen, and the color had changed from azure to a dark green, speckled with fallen leaves.