Rattlesnake Hill

by Leslie Wheeler

  “No. It’s over between us, Alan. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “I know that, but I still care about you. And right now I’m concerned for your safety. Very concerned. I wouldn’t have driven all this way if it weren’t important.”

  “Alan—”

  “Please.”

  She hesitated a long moment before giving in. “All right. I can meet you at the Lion’s Den Pub in Stockbridge in a half hour.”

  “Thank you!”

  *****

  On this Sunday a few weeks before Christmas, Main Street in Stockbridge was filled with people. They poked into shops and galleries, reemerging to join the flow of pedestrians. Every available parking spot in front of the Red Lion Inn was taken, but Kathryn was able to find a place just around the corner on Elm Street. She was glad of the crowd because she could easily lose herself in it, passing unnoticed by anyone she knew. Not that she expected to run into someone from New Nottingham in this chi-chi town.

  She hurried under the red awning and down the stairs into the pub. Alan sat at a round table in a far corner. He rose as she approached, his brown eyes serious behind horned-rimmed glasses. His face wore its customary city pallor, but in weekend clothes—jeans and a down vest over a flannel shirt—he almost blended in with the locals. He looked thinner than when she’d last seen him, and the streak of white running through his dark hair seemed to have grown. Perhaps it was only her imagination.

  “Thanks for coming. I’ve ordered a beer. Would you like anything?” he asked with an air of tentativeness that tugged her back to their first meeting. Then, the bar had been crowded and noisy, while this one was empty except for a much older couple quietly poring over the menu.

  “I’ll have a beer also.”

  Alan motioned for her to sit facing him and even pulled out a chair for her. She hesitated, wondering if it would be better to take his place, where she could see whoever came in, but decided in favor of giving the other customers her back.

  After the bartender had brought their drinks, Alan cleared his throat and said, “I won’t keep you long, and I need to get back to the city myself, so I’ll get to the point. How much do you know about Earl Barker?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know he had a lover, and that she was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were the circumstances of her death?”

  “She went into the woods to confront a local teenager, because she didn’t like him playing loud music there. He had a gun and shot her. Then he turned the gun on himself.”

  “That’s one version, but if you read the newspaper stories about the shootings and the police report, which I was able to obtain, you’ll see there are questions about what really happened. Here, have a look.” He gave her a manila envelope.

  Her hands trembled as she removed a sheaf of papers. They were copies of articles about the murder/suicide from The New York Times, The Boston Globe, and The Berkshire Eagle, as well as the police report. A name had been highlighted in yellow on several pages: Earl Barker.

  She shoved the papers back at him. “I don’t need to look at these. I already know all about it.”

  “Including the fact that the boy’s friend claimed they didn’t steal the gun, that when he left, the alleged shooter was unarmed?”

  “Yes!”

  “What does that suggest to you?”

  “Well, obviously, that someone else could have brought the gun to the scene.”

  “Right. And that someone could have been Earl Barker.”

  “That’s what you’d like me to believe, isn’t it? Well, what if I don’t?”

  “Don’t or won’t? Think about it, Kathryn. He was her lover, and according to what I’ve heard they had a stormy relationship.”

  “So? He had an alibi.”

  “Uh-huh. Drinking with his buddies at that bar.”

  Hillbillies protect their own. They’ve got a code so strict that . . .

  “Stop it! Why are you doing this?”

  “I care about you, Kathryn, and I’d hate to see anything happen to you.”

  “It won’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because I’ve heard things . . . I’m not the only one who’s concerned about you. Your friends here are worried, too.”

  “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Friends of yours.”

  She leaned forward, thrusting her face at him. “Who, dammit!”

  Startled, he leaned away. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “Like what?”

  “Angry and defensive. As if you’re afraid to face the truth.”

  Like Emily, Kathryn realized with a jolt. She was behaving just like Emily when she’d confronted Emily about the letters. She couldn’t help it. Alan’s words struck at the core of her fear and suspicion. And beyond, with his mention that friends of hers here were worried about her. That really frightened her, but she didn’t want him to know. In a calmer voice, she said, “I’d just like to know who these concerned friends are.”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I promised this . . . uh . . . person our conversation would be strictly confidential.”

  “Oh, c’mon. This isn’t about a client of yours, but someone who’s been making accusations against Earl.”

  Alan frowned and bit his lip. “All right, if you must know . . . it was his ex-wife.”

  Kathryn could hardly believe her ears. “Millie called you!”

  “Yes, she thought I should know his jealousy has reached the point where she’s worried about you.”

  “When did she call?”

  “A few days ago. I wrestled with whether to contact you. Decided that before I did anything, I should look into the shootings. What I found, combined with what his ex-wife told me, convinced me I needed to speak with you in person.”

  “Why didn’t Millie tell me this to my face?”

  “You’ll have to ask her. I’ve said what I came to say, and it hasn’t been easy. I knew you’d think I was trying to win you back by raising suspicions about your lover. I do want you back. But your welfare is more important to me than anything else. If you’ve made a mistake by getting involved with Earl Barker, I hope you won’t be too stubborn to admit it and move on. It really is better to be safe than sorry, Kathryn.” He held her gaze for a long moment then said, “And there I rest my case.” He stood, reached for the manila envelope and held it out to her. “You’re sure you don’t want this?”

  “Yes.”

  He put the envelope back in his briefcase and placed some bills on the table. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too.”

  He turned to go, but almost immediately turned back. Removing a small brightly wrapped package from his briefcase, he tossed it on the table and left in a hurry.

  For a brief moment, she was tempted to follow him and admit she was worried about what might happen between her and Earl. She understood now why Marguerite had been reluctant to leave her husband for Clyde. Jared Cutter had represented wealth, social position, and most important of all, security. Clyde, on the other hand, was a wild card with nothing sure about him except his passion for her. She understood also why even a free and apparently fearless spirit like Diana had held onto the familiar cushion of Gordon instead of casting her lot with wild card Earl. Still, she resisted the urge to run after Alan.

  Her attention returned to the package. What did it contain? Might as well open it and see. Inside was a picture frame made by gluing four popsicle sticks together. It was decorated with glitter and sequins, interspersed with globs of dried, white glue, clearly the work of a child’s hands. Inside the frame, Sophie stared back at her: a lost lamb with her thick blonde curls,
wide, staring blue eyes, and wistful smile. Kathryn felt an awful pang. Poor Sophie: abandoned by her mother, and now by another fickle adult.

  Tears came into her eyes. For Sophie, for herself? She wiped them away and glanced quickly around, wondering if anyone had observed the little drama between her and Alan. The elderly couple had left, and the bartender’s attention was focused, not on her, but on something in the farthest of three windows before her. The windows were curtained with a sheer white material that let in light, but also allowed anyone outside to peer in. When she stared at the third window, she caught a blur of motion, as if someone had been doing just that. The face—if that’s what it was—disappeared, and she was alone with the bartender in a room that began to feel oppressive.

  Intent on Alan and what he had to say, she’d paid little heed to her surroundings. Now that she did, she was aware of the stale air, the low ceiling with exposed pipes that seemed to press down on her, and most of all, the redness of everything. Red ceiling. Red walls. Worn red-flowered carpet. Red bar. It wasn’t a bright red, but the faded red of Earl’s truck, Diana’s study, and Millie’s tomato soup. Red: the color of love but also of madness and bloody death. Her throat went dry and she had trouble breathing.

  She fled the pub, and once outside, gulped in the chill, fresh air. A glance at her watch told her it was three p.m. It would take at least a half hour to get back to New Nottingham. She had two hours to make a perfect pie and have it ready by five-thirty when she and Earl were due for dinner at his parents. She wasn’t sure that was enough time. Not if she made a mistake and had to start over again. There was a small market on Elm Street. Maybe she should buy a pie to have on hand for “insurance.” Luck was on her side: she spotted a few, obviously homemade pies for sale by the counter.

  Leaving the market with an apple pie, she noticed a tall, lanky figure hurrying up the street. He wore jeans, a black tee shirt, and a gray wool cap. “Pete?” she called after him. He didn’t stop or turn around, but darted into an alley out of view. It probably wasn’t Pete, but someone who resembled him. After all, what would Pete be doing in Stockbridge on a Sunday afternoon?

  Chapter 62

  “You were awfully quiet tonight at dinner,” Earl said.

  So he’d noticed. She had tried to join in the conversation about the land and the un-built house, but obviously she hadn’t succeeded. Not while her mind was consumed by doubts and fears.

  She’d arrived home to find him already there. He was so worn out he’d decided to quit early. “Thought you’d be in the kitchen, putting finishing touches on the pie,” he said.

  “I got cold feet and bought one.”

  “Doesn’t look store-bought,” he commented when she showed it to him.

  “It’s not. I heard about this woman who bakes pies and sells them from her house.”

  “Oh? Who’s that?”

  “Um . . . Mi—Mandy—Mandy Russell.” In her haste to come up with a name, she gave him a mangled version of Millie and Brandy Russo. She was a terrible liar and held her breath, waiting for him to call her on it.

  He frowned a moment, then said, “Never heard of her. But you’re a funny one, going out and buying a pie instead of making one yourself. It doesn’t have to be perfect. My folks would be happy with anything you baked. They like you, Star.”

  But would they still like her if they knew she’d met with her old boyfriend? Would he? “Just don’t do anything to make him jealous,” Millie had said. And now she had. If Earl had been mad when he suspected her of wearing Alan’s ring, he’d be even madder if he found out she’d actually seen Alan. And if he became seriously angry, what would he do? What did Millie know that she didn’t?

  Those questions had rattled around in her brain during dinner with his parents. Until she had answers, she couldn’t rest easy. Right now, he was looking at her, as if he expected an explanation for her silence. “Guess I’m just tired,” she said. “Working myself up into a state over a silly pie.”

  “Sure, that’s all?”

  “What else could there be?”

  “I don’t know. I thought maybe . . .”

  “What?” she asked, half dreading his answer.

  “You’re not so keen on the house and land deal, on our having a place of our own.” His blue eyes bore into her.

  “I am, but . . .” She looked away.

  “What?” He grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look at him.

  Oh god, how can I ever bring myself to tell him the truth? “I don’t like the idea of you driving yourself so hard,” she said finally, hating herself for the lie.

  “I’ll be okay,” he said in a more relaxed tone. “I may be over forty, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have plenty of steam left.” His hand traveled from her chin, down to her breasts, caressing them.

  She could feel herself yielding, but on the verge of surrender she pulled back. “If you’re getting up early again, maybe we should go to bed.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” He rose and led her upstairs. In the bedroom he started undressing her, but she stopped him. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  He plopped down on the bed and grinned. “I’ll be waiting.”

  She stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary. When she came out, he was fast asleep. She gazed at him with a mixture of regret and relief. Regret because they would not make love tonight, relief for the same reason. If she wasn’t sure about staying with him, maybe she better start weaning herself from him physically and emotionally. It wouldn’t be easy. She’d felt wedded to him from the moment they first made love. Had it been like this for Millie? For Diana? Diana whom he might have . . . No! She wouldn’t think about that now. She glanced at the dresser, where a wistful Marguerite stared back at her, almost as if she understood Kathryn’s turmoil.

  Her gaze returned to the man lying before her, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. His jeans and shirt lay in a crumpled pile near the foot of the bed. She picked up the shirt and draped it over a nearby chair, but as she grabbed the jeans, loose change fell from a pocket and clinked to the floor. He stirred. She stopped dead in her tracks, holding her breath lest he awaken. When he lay still again, she put the jeans on the chair with the shirt, and the loose change on the dresser top, where he would be sure to find it. Glancing back at him, her eyes settled on his legs. Even with his body in repose, she was aware of the knots of muscle in his calves and thighs. There was a bruise on his left thigh just above the knee. Bluish in the center, it was pale yellow around the rim, a wan winter sun forcing its way through the clouds. She wondered briefly when this injury had occurred.

  Her gaze traveled down to his feet. He had removed his boots, but his socks were still on. She noticed that one was black, the other brown. In his hurry to get off to the work this morning, he probably hadn’t noticed. Or he had and didn’t care. She doubted Millie with her passion for order would have let him out the door with mismatched socks. She would have made sure his socks were arranged in neatly folded matching pairs, would have been dismayed to find him thus. Yet to her just then, the discovery of mismatched socks made Earl seem human and ordinary in a way that was comforting and endearing, as if a man who wore mismatched socks couldn’t also be a murderer. As if one thing canceled out the other. Which was ridiculous.

  Still . . .

  She pulled off the socks and studied his bare feet. They were large and callused from years of rubbing against hard leather boots, with splayed toes and ragged-edged toenails that could use a trimming. Work feet joined to work legs.

  She examined his upper body. Alan’s chest was covered with a layer of dark hair, dense as a sweater, but Earl’s had only a sprinkling of reddish brown hair that rippled with the rise and fall of his breath. His arms and shoulders contained more knotted muscles, and coiled on one of the knots was the snake tattoo, now as familiar and benign to her as a blemish on her own body. Once she’d thought
the tattoo hideous. Odd how her perception of this and other things about him had changed.

  Naked except for his boxer shorts, he looked vulnerable. The fact that he was sleeping so soundly gave her a certain power over him. She could do anything she wanted: tickle his toes, cut off his hair like Delilah did to Samson . . . or slip away and go someplace where he’d never find her?

  But she couldn’t leave him like this. She covered him with the extra blanket that was folded at the foot of the bed, pulling the soft end up around his chin. She felt tender toward this man who looked so innocent and peaceful. She slipped under the covers beside him, nestling her cheek in the fine hairs on his chest, rocked by his rhythmic breathing, soothed by his slow, steady heartbeat, as when he’d carried her down the hill from the family graveyard, away from the rattler and harm.

  Then to her surprise, his arm curled protectively around her. He was awake, dammit! She glanced at his face and saw that his mouth was curved in a smile. His eyes were shut tight, though. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe her waking dream had become his unconscious one. To test this theory, she removed his arm and rolled away from him. When nothing happened, she felt a keen, double-edged disappointment—at herself for not moving more than a few inches away while she had the chance, but also at him for not pursuing her even this short distance, even in sleep.

  Chapter 63

  When Kathryn awoke the next morning, sunlight streamed in and Earl was long gone. Gone to do his regular job, then to work clearing the land where they were supposed to live happily ever after. Last night she’d considered leaving, but in the end she couldn’t tear herself away. How could he be a murderer, this man who wore mismatched socks, who knew her innermost secrets, and aroused her deepest passion? Yet she knew he still could have killed Diana. While that possibility existed, she could never feel safe with him. How to replace possibility with near certainty—one way or the other?

  The answer was Millie. She had to find out why Millie now believed she was in danger. She called Millie at the post office only to be told by a woman who was filling in for her that Millie’s father was seriously ill, and she’d gone to New York State to be with her parents. The woman didn’t know when Millie would return. Kathryn decided not to ask for a number where Millie could be reached. This wasn’t the time to approach her with questions about Earl. She’d just have to wait. Still, she would have given anything to know what Millie knew that she didn’t.