The Serpents Trail

by Sue Henry

  I didn’t move or make a sound. Neither did he, but I was suddenly aware that he was no longer asleep. Without moving any other part of himself he opened his eyes and looked up at me.

  “Hello,” he said, then smiled a friendly smile that caught me off balance because it was not at all what I had anticipated. “I figured you’d have to come home sooner or later.”

  “I surely did,” I replied. “But I was not expecting to find an angel napping on my doorstep.”

  “An angel?” A curl of the lip turned the smile a bit crooked. “More like a devil, maybe.”

  “Oh, I think not. Will you come in? Finding you here was a kind of déjà vu. It made me recall how Gully would lie on the front porch and wait for you to come home after school. Remember?”

  “Old Gully,” he said, getting up and reaching to take the sack of groceries so I could unlock the coach door. “He was a good old boy. Who’s the guardian of the hearth inside this rig? Attila the Hun?”

  “That’s my dachshund. Barked at you, did he?”

  “Ferociously—for ten or fifteen minutes.”

  “He’s a little territorial.”

  I opened the door to find the subject of our exchange waiting just inside, impatient as usual.

  “Meet Stretch.”

  Stretch has one trick that Daniel taught him. He will not perform it on request, but only when he decides it’s appropriate, whatever that means to him. He startled me by performing it then—holding up one front paw for Alan to shake, charming him instantly and completely.

  This is no dumb dog.

  Inside, I put away the groceries while they made each other’s acquaintance.

  “Iced tea?” I asked Alan.

  “Please. Even in the shade it was warming up out there. It’s good for the fruit—we’ve got a good crop this year. We’ll be harvesting the apples and pears soon.”

  I handed him a glass, took my own and sat at the dinette. He dropped onto the sofa across the aisle, loose limbed, one arm stretched casually along the back.

  “Look,” he said, with the most sincere of repentant expressions. “I must apologize for my behavior in Westover’s office the other day. I know it was uncalled for and unfair—that you’re doing what she wanted and that’s okay. It was just so unexpected, because she always said she wanted me to take care of things, you know?”

  His contrition was the last thing I had anticipated. I accepted his apology, but I couldn’t suppress a suspicion that there might be a smidgen of manipulation in it. Having failed at anger and insults, was he now attempting to charm me onto his side? I knew that Alan had discovered at a fairly young age that temper tantrums were not effective in getting his way, especially with Sarah. I could almost hear her saying that You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. There had always been a knowing gleam in his eyes when his charm succeeded, and behind it a more serious satisfaction had lurked in confirming his accomplishment.

  Obligation taken care of, he asked about the arrangements for Sarah’s gathering and approved of what I described.

  “It’s what she wanted and I know that she had it all taken care of,” he said. “I have to admit that I didn’t pay very careful attention. Planning the whole thing for herself seemed pointlessly gruesome to me.”

  He shifted on the sofa, leaning forward with elbows on knees, and shuddered.

  “I hate the idea of dying—even being sick. Can’t stand hospitals and all that. I didn’t want to think about her dying.”

  She! He kept saying she or her. Not once had he said mother.

  But when he glanced up at me there were tears in his eyes.

  Looking back down at my dachshund, who was lying between us on the floor, Alan reached to rub his back. Stretch immediately rolled over and presented his belly.

  Opportunistic, gullible dog.

  Alan stood up abruptly, drained his glass in a long swallow, and took it across to the sink in the galley.

  “Work to do. Gotta run,” he told me and headed for the door, filling the void with words. “Thanks for the tea. See you tomorrow.”

  The screen door closed and I could hear Alan whistling as he crossed the lawn to his pickup. No tears now, I thought, and wondered if and how much they had been calculated for my benefit—wondered, too, if that gleam of satisfaction was back in his eye. I am not prone to take the world and its inhabitants at face value.

  It was too early for dinner and Stretch needed some time out of the Winnebago, so I thought again about a walk, but decided I didn’t want to go blocks in the heat and took him instead to the backyard, where I unexpectedly found Tomas, the once-a-week gardener on his knees, trimming the edge of the grass around a flower bed. He got to his feet, tugged off his cap, and gave me a smile as I walked across to where he stood.

  “Buenas tardes, Tomas.”

  His smile widened at my attempt to speak his language, but he stuck with English in reply. “And to you, Missus McNabb.”

  “Will you come to the gathering tomorrow to say good-bye to Mrs. Nunamaker?” I asked him.

  His eyes widened in surprise. “I should come?”

  Perhaps he would rather not, I realized. Still, I wanted him to know he would be welcome.

  “Yes, but only if you like. Would you like to come?”

  “Oh, yes. I like very much to come—if it is . . .” He searched for an English word, found only Spanish, “propio,” and settled for “okay.”

  “It would be very okay,” I assured him. “All her friends will come. You were her friend and she would be sad if you didn’t come.”

  “Then I must come. Gracias.”

  I started to turn away, but remembered the changes to Sarah’s will that he had witnessed and turned back.

  “Thank you, Tomas, for helping Mrs. Nunamaker—for writing your name on her papers. It was very important.”

  From where he had returned to his knees on the grass, he looked up a little warily, but saw that I meant my thanks sincerely. “You have the papers?”

  “Yes. They are—okay. I have taken care of them. Gracias.”

  The twinkle returned to his eyes and I recognized his reply for the unspoken compliment he intended, “De nada, Senora—Maxie.”

  I called Mr. Blackburn at the Callahan-Edfast Mortuary and found that all was on track for the next day and there was nothing he needed from me.

  In the middle of leafing through the yellow pages to find a florist, I suddenly realized that I didn’t want a commercial offering. In the yard, thanks to Tomas, were all the flowers Sarah had loved best. Early in the morning, while it was still cool, I would take time to make an arrangement of them that would be perfect for her.

  Not contented to stay in the Winnebago for the rest of the afternoon, I took water, a book, a blanket, a pillow, and Stretch, and drove back to the park by the river, where Ed and I had commandeered the swings. For an hour I enjoyed the shade in an almost empty park, all the children confined to their first weeks of school. Though I left the swings alone, I came close to falling asleep where I had spread the blanket, plumped the pillow, and leaned against a tree to read. But a dragonfly buzzed around my head and woke my attention to the blur of its gauzy blue wings before it zoomed off to find a landing place on some reed near the water.

  Stretch came to life from his nap when an elderly man came walking through the park with his minischnauzer. They stopped to say hello, as dog owners often do, then moved on down one of the trails along the riverbank, headed west. As I watched them disappear out of sight, a shadow suddenly swept across the park and I looked up to see a dark bank of clouds billowing out across the sky, obscuring the sun and threatening to shower on us. I collected our gear, we made a dash for the car, and reached it just in time to toss everything at the backseat and climb in as the first fat drops splattered on the roof and hood.

  Back at Chipeta Avenue, I put the pork chops in to bake with a favorite recipe for rice, and opened all the windows to let the cool air blow through the screens. Pouring myse
lf a Jameson and a glass of ice water, I settled on the sofa with the book, to read and listen to the grumble of rain on the roof of the motor home, reminded of the storm that had welcomed us to town a few short days earlier. This was a softer rain. Without the percussion of thunder and lightning, it tapped gentle rhythms on the leaves outside and splashed harmoniously from the gutters and downspouts of the house.

  It was still raining when the predictable call from Ed came about an hour later, and I turned down his invitation to dinner, as planned.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” he said. “Shall I pick you up for Sarah’s gathering tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I have to go a little early, so I’ll just see you there, but thanks,” I told him.

  “You trying to avoid me, or something?” he teased.

  “Not in the least. I just need some time by myself tonight. It’s been rather busy the last three days.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing I really want to get into now. I’ll tell you about it when I see you. When are you leaving for Oregon?”

  “Depends. I haven’t decided yet. Did you get me that letter Sarah left?”

  I had forgotten that I had mentioned it to him.

  “I’ll bring it tomorrow, okay?”

  “Can’t I come by and pick it up?”

  Forced to admit it was still at Westover’s office I told him he could have it the next day. “I’ll bring it, or have him bring it. I promise.”

  As soon as he hung up I called Don Westover and caught him just as he was about to leave the office. When I told him I thought we should give the letters to their intended recipients, he half-reluctantly agreed to bring them along.

  “I guess it can’t do any harm,” he said. “It’s just that I wish we knew what Sarah had told them all, so we could anticipate the reaction. Someone killed her, Maxie. It could be one of them.”

  “Do we have the right to keep them to ourselves? Sarah did suggest that they be given at the gathering. I’d rather find out now what’s in them than wonder, wouldn’t you?”

  “They may not share the contents.”

  “Maybe not. But they also may. If Jamie shows up they’ll all be together tomorrow. Let’s give them the opportunity.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE RAIN CONTINUED THROUGH THE EVENING AND I went to sleep hearing the gentle beat of it on the roof over my bed. When I got up for a drink of water at almost three it must have just stopped, for when I opened the door to look out there was still the sound of water dripping from the shrubbery around Sarah’s house and trickling musically from the nearest downspout onto the pebbles below.

  Everything smelled fresh and clean and a star or two winked from dark gaps between the retreating clouds. A three-quarter moon slid out between them as well, with enough pale light to cast long shadows from the trees at the curb onto the grass of the lawn. Startled, for a moment I thought I saw a light moving in the attic, but it was only the reflection of the moon on the glass of that diamond-shaped window that faced the street. Enough of a breeze had sprung up to set the porch swing moving slightly and, though I couldn’t see it behind a curtain of ivy that grew up a concealing trellis, I could hear the small rhythmic creak of it over the water sounds.

  It had been an evening to remember Sarah, knowing that the next day would bring closure of a sort, with her as its focus. I wondered who would attend of the people she and three generations of her family had known for the better part of a century—four generations if you counted Alan, and Alan must be counted, of course. I wondered again about his appearance earlier and what he had been hoping for in a peacemaking effort with me. Did he think it would be that easy to pacify me, or was he actually sincere? Fear had to be a basis for at least some of his anger. What could have made him so afraid? With no answers handy, or inclination to hunt for them, I returned to considering Sarah.

  Her house stood solidly there beside me, dark and dignified in its Victorian emptiness, still full of her possessions and presence. How long before someone else’s spirit would replace hers and whose would it be—Jamie’s, as Sarah evidently wanted? It was not difficult to imagine her in the house, perhaps because I had seen her first coming from the porch swing, as if it belonged to her, or because she reminded me strongly of Sarah. Would Jamie be willing to move to Grand Junction and live in the house, or would she let it go to someone else, breaking the chain of family ownership and tradition? Would whatever had Sarah written to Jamie in the letter we would give her the next day make a difference?

  Maybe it was the rain, for out of nowhere came memory of walking across the University of Washington campus with Sarah, arm in arm to keep both of us under the same umbrella, on our way to play bridge in the Student Union cafeteria and drink its terrible coffee. How adult we had thought we were. How long ago it had been. How—I would miss her.

  Stretch came padding out from his bed to stand beside me at the door of the Winnebago. I bent to pick him up and he didn’t struggle to be put down again as usual, but leaned against me and laid his chin on my shoulder.

  “What a bonzer boy you are,” I told him.

  I stood there for a few minutes more, looking out into the silent dark that followed the moon’s disappearance behind a cloud. Then I closed the door, took him to spend the rest of the night beside me on the bed, climbed in myself, and we both slept.

  The figure in the swing on the porch of Sarah’s house watched closely until the woman closed the door and when no lights came on in the Winnebago, assumed that she had returned to her bed. Cautious and silent, it rose and crept the length of the porch to the side opposite the motor home and circled the house to the back door, which stood open a crack to allow access. Shadow within shadows, it slipped through the dark house and quickly up the two flights of stairs to the attic.

  A whisper, “She’s gone back to bed. Have you found anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  Ribbons of light from a flashlight held between fingers swept across the floor over which papers had been cast from the boxes piled in one end of the four spaces that formed a cross under the peaks of the roof.

  “There’s nothing here but old bills and financial records.”

  “They have to be somewhere.”

  “I know, but we’ve looked everywhere I can think of.”

  A sigh of discouragement. “What now?”

  “Nothing more tonight.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow we’ll go as planned.”

  “I’m still not sure that’s wise.”

  “What else?”

  Carefully shielding the light, the two figures moved to the stairs and went down them quietly. Walking the length of the hallway, they descended the second stairway and made their way through the silent house to the back door, which the taller of the two locked with a key before they took hands to dart together across the backyard and disappear through the gate into the alley.

  It was bright as a new penny the next morning, all the colors washed clean by the rain—green grass and trees, blue sky with a few fluffy white clouds, an assortment of pinks, yellows, reds, and whites in the flowers of the yard. Residual damp was quickly evaporating, but everything looked fresh and more vivid from the gift of water in a dry country.

  I threw open the door and all the windows to let in the sweetness of the air and, while it was still cooler than it would be in an hour, stepped out with Stretch to gather a huge armful of Sarah’s own flowers, which I took to plunge into water and leave in the coolness of her kitchen until time to take them to the mortuary.

  Stretch and I were just finishing breakfast when there was a rap at my door and I answered it to find Detective Soames peering in through the screen.

  “Good morning,” he said with such a winning smile it made me wonder if I was addressing the same person—or if, like Alan, he had decided I needed skillful handling—as I invited him in and offered him coffee, which he accepted w
ith thanks. I removed my breakfast plate from the table and we sat across from each other at the dinette.

  He took a sip or two without comment and looked around the interior of the motor home with interest.

  “I’ve never been inside one of these things,” he said. “It looks comfortable but I bet it drives like an Zamboni.”

  The comparison was original, but I couldn’t let him get away with it.

  “That might be helpful in Alaska,” I told him. “Actually, it’s very easy driving, or I wouldn’t go all the places in it that I do—as well as back and forth to the far north every so often. It handles well and it’s helpful to sit high enough to see over cars on the highway. Like any heavy vehicle it takes a bit farther to stop than a car and because of its length you need to calculate turnoffs ahead of time if you need to change lanes. But the benefit of having your house with you outweighs a lot of other considerations. I love traveling in it.”

  “You mind if I look around?”

  “Be my guest.”

  I watched from where I sat while he, like others in the past, wandered through the Winnebago, examining its compact storage, neat galley, lavatory and shower facilities, pausing to scrutinize the control board next to the kitchen with its indicators for the levels of black, gray, fresh water and propane tanks, battery charge, and switches for the water heater, pump, and generator.

  “What’s this for?” he asked, pointing to the Slideout Control.

  I joined him to demonstrate the retraction and extension of the stove and sofa section.

  “The bed in the rear slides out the same way.”

  “Wow. How do you keep your refrigerator cold when you’re not connected to electricity?” was his next question.

  “When I’m driving, I switch it to DC power and the cab engine takes over. Parked without a hookup, it can run on gas.”