She glanced at her watch. Ten after five. Eric wouldn't have given up on her this soon, she thought. Either he's late or he's waiting for me to make the first move. Well, two can play the waiting game, Ivy reasoned, and crouched down quietly.
A few minutes later her legs began to ache with the tension of holding still. She rubbed them and looked at her watch again: quarter after. She waited five more minutes. Maybe Eric has lost his nerve, she thought.
Ivy stood up slowly, but something kept her from moving any further. She heard Beth's warning as if her friend were standing next to her, whispering in her ear.
"Angels, help me," Ivy prayed. Part of her wanted to find out what was in the car. But part of her wanted to run away. "Angels, are you there?
Tristan, I need you. I need you now!"
She walked tentatively toward the car. When she reached the clearing she paused for just a moment, waiting to see if anyone had followed. Then she bent down and looked in the back seat.
Ivy blinked, unsure for a moment that what she saw was real-not another nightmare, not one more of Eric's jokes. Then she screamed, screamed until her throat was raw. She knew without touching him-he was too pale, too still, his blue eyes open and staring at nothing-that Eric was dead.
Ivy jumped when someone touched her from behind. She started screaming again. Arms wrapped around her, pulling her back, holding her tight. She thought she'd shriek her brains out. He didn't try to stop her, just held her till she went limp, her whole body sagging against him. His face brushed hers.
"Will," she said. She could feel his body shaking.
He turned her toward him and held her face against his chest, his hand shielding her eyes. But in her mind Ivy could still see Eric staring upward, his eyes wide, as if he were quietly amazed by what had happened.
Will shifted his weight, and Ivy knew he was looking over her shoulder at Eric. "I–I don't see any signs of trouble," he said. "No bruising. No blood."
Ivy's stomach suddenly rose up against her ribs. She gritted her teeth and forced it back down. "Maybe drugs," she said. "An overdose," Will nodded. His breath was short and quick against her cheek. "We have to call the police."
Then Ivy pulled away from him. She bent down and forced herself to look long and hard at Eric. She should memorize the scene, she thought. She should collect clues. What had happened to him could be a warning to her.
But as she looked at Eric all she felt was the loss; all she could see was a wasted life.
Ivy reached into the car. Will caught her hand. "Don't. Don't touch him," he said. "Leave his body just as it is so that the police can examine it."
Ivy nodded, then picked up an old blanket from the car floor and gently laid it on top of Eric. "Angels-" she began, but she did not know what to ask for. "Help him," she said, and left the prayer at that. As she walked away she knew that a merciful angel of the dead was looking down on Eric, weeping-just as Beth had said.
"Despite what you say, Lacey, I'm glad I missed my own funeral," Tristan observed as the mourners gathered at Eric's graveside. Some of them stood solitary and stiff as soldiers; others leaned against each other for support and comfort.
Friday had dawned pale and drizzly. Several people raised umbrellas now, like bright nylon flowers blooming against the gray stones and misty trees. Ivy and Beth stood on either side of Will, bareheaded, letting the rain and tears run together. Suzanne stood with one arm around Gregory, staring down at the bristling grass.
Three times in five months the four of them had stood together at River stone Rise, and still the police asked only routine questions about the deaths.
"No luck?" Lacey called down from her perch in a tree.
Tristan grunted. "Gregory's built a wall around himself," he replied, and walked in frustrated circles around the elm. He had tried several times during the church service to get inside Gregory's head.
"Sometimes I think that the moment I approach him, he senses me. I think he knows something's up as soon as I get near him."
"Could be," Lacey said. Materializing her fingers, she swung from a branch, dropping down neatly beside him. "In angel matters, you're not exactly a smooth operator."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, let's put it this way. If you were stealing TVs instead of thoughts," she told him, "you'd have been caught by a half-deaf, mostly blind, fifteen-year-old dog three robberies ago."
Tristan was stung. "Well, give me two years to procrastinate," he retorted, "excuse me, I meant two years to practice, and I'll be as good as you."
"Maybe," Lacey said, then added with a smile, "I tried getting inside him, too. Impossible."
Tristan studied Gregory's face. He gave away nothing, his mouth an even line, his eyes focused straight ahead.
"You know," Lacey said, materializing the palm of her hand and holding it up to catch raindrops, "Gregory doesn't have to be responsible for everything bad that happens. You saw the report. The police found no signs of a struggle."
The coroner had listed Eric's death as a drug overdose. Eric's parents insisted it was an accident. At school it was rumored to be suicide.
Tristan believed it was murder.
"The report doesn't prove anything," he argued, pacing back and forth.
"Gregory didn't have to force-feed Eric. He could have bought him a heavy dose without telling him how powerful it was. He could have waited till Eric was too high to know better, then given him more. The reason the police aren't thinking murder, Lacey, is because they have no motive for it."
"And you do."
"Eric was ready to talk. He was ready to tell Ivy something."
"Aha! Then the chick was right," Lacey needled him.
"She was right," he admitted, though he was still angry with Ivy for trying to meet with Eric on Monday afternoon. She had called out to him at the very last minute, when it would have been too late for him to save her. Rushing to her side, Tristan had found her walking with Will away from the dangerous site. Will said he had followed Ivy that afternoon on a sudden hunch.
"Are you still feeling left out?" Lacey asked.
He didn't reply.
"Tristan, when is it going to sink in? We're dead," Lacey said. "And that's what happens when you're dead.
People forget to invite you along."
˜Tristan kept his eyes on Ivy. He wanted to be next to her, holding her hand.
"We're here to give a hand when we can and then let go," Lacey told him.
"We help, and then it's bye-bye." She waved both hands at him.
"Like I said before, Lacey, I hope you fall in love one day. I hope that before your mission's done, some guy teaches you how miserable it feels to love somebody and watch him reach out for someone else." Lacey stepped back.
"I hope you learn what it's like to say good-bye to someone you love more than that person will ever guess."
She turned her face away from him. "You just might get your wish," she said.
He glanced at her, surprised by her tone of voice. He didn't usually have to worry about hurting Lacey's feelings. "Did I miss something?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"What?" he asked. "What is it?" He reached for her face.
Lacey pulled away from him.
"You're missing the final prayer," she said. "We should pray with everyone else for Eric." Lacey folded her hands and looked extremely angelic.
Tristan sighed. "You pray in my place," he said.
"I don't have many good feelings toward Eric."
"All the more reason to pray," she replied. "If he doesn't rest in peace, he may be hanging out with us."
"Angels, take care of him. Let him rest in peace," Ivy prayed. "Help Eric's family," she said silently, and gazed back at Christine, Eric's older sister. She stood with her parents and brothers on the other side of the casket.
Several times during the service, Ivy had caught Christine looking at her. When their eyes met, the girl's mouth trembled a little, then became a long, soft li
ne. Christine had Eric's pale blond hair and porcelain skin, but her eyes were a vibrant blue. She was beautiful-an uncomfortable reminder of what Eric might have been like if drugs and alcohol had not wasted his body and mind.
"Angels, take care of him," Ivy prayed again.
The minister concluded the service, and everyone turned away at the same time. Gregory's fingers brushed Ivy's. His hand was as cold as ice. She remembered how cold it had felt the evening the police told them of Caroline's death.
"How are you doing?" she asked.
He slipped his hand through hers and held her fingers tightly. The night Caroline had died, when he had done the very same thing, she had believed that he was finally reaching out to her.
"I'm okay," he said. "How about you?"
"Glad it's over," she answered honestly.
He studied her face, every centimeter of it. She felt trapped, anchored by his hand, his eyes invading her, reading her thoughts.
"I'm sorry, Gregory. You and Eric were friends for so long," she said. "I know this is much harder for you than for any of the rest of us."
Gregory continued to gaze at her.
"You tried to help him, Gregory. You did all you could for him," Ivy said. "We both know that."
Gregory bowed his head, moving his face close to hers. Ivy's skin tingled. To someone who didn't know better, to Andrew and Maggie watching them from a distance, it would look like a moment of shared sorrow. But to Ivy it felt like the movement of an animal she didn't trust, a dog that didn't bite but intimidated by moving its teeth very close to her bare skin.
"Gregory!"
He was so focused on Ivy that he jumped when Suzanne rested her hand on the back of his neck. Ivy stepped back quickly, and Gregory let go of her.
He's as edgy as I am, Ivy thought as she watched Suzanne and Gregory make their way to the cars parked along the cemetery road. Beth and Will started off, and Ivy followed slowly behind them. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Eric's sister walking toward her with long strides.
Ivy had told the police that she and Will were on an after-school hike when they came upon Eric in the car. After Dr. and Mrs. Ghent learned of Eric's death, they had telephoned her to discuss the story she'd given to the police and probe for more details. Now she steeled herself for another round of questioning.
"You're Ivy Lyons, aren't you?" the girl asked. Her cheeks were smooth and pink, her thick hair shining in the rain. It was startling to be confronted by such a healthy version of Eric.
"Yes," Ivy replied. "I'm sorry, Christine. I'm really sorry for you and your family."
The girl acknowledged Ivy's sympathy with a nod. "You-you must have been close to Eric," she said.
"Excuse me?"
"I figured you were special to him."
Ivy looked at her, mystified.
"Because of what he left. When-when Eric and I were younger," Christine began, her voice shaking a little, "we used to leave messages for each other in a secret place in the attic. We put them in an old cardboard box. On the box we wrote 'Beware! Frogs! Do Not Open!'" Christine laughed, then tears sprang into the corners of her eyes. Ivy waited patiently, wondering where this conversation was leading.
"When I came home for this-for his funeral, I looked in our box, just on a whim," Christine continued, "not expecting to find anything-we hadn't used it for years. But I found a note to me. And this."
She pulled a gray envelope from her purse. "The note said, 'If anything happens to me, give this to Ivy Lyons.'" Ivy's eyes widened.
"You weren't expecting it," Christine observed. "You don't know what's in it."
"No," Ivy said, then took the sealed envelope in her hand. She could feel a small, stiff wad inside, as if a hard object had been wrapped in padding. The outside of the envelope intrigued Ivy even more. Eric's name and address had been typed neatly onto it and her own name scribbled in big letters across it. The return-address sticker bore the name and address of Caroline Baines.
"Oh, that," Christine said when Ivy fingered it. "It's probably just an old envelope Eric had lying around."
But it wasn't just an old envelope. Ivy checked the postmark: May 28, Philip's birthday. The day Caroline died.
"Maybe you didn't know," Christine continued. "Eric was very close to Caroline. She was a second mother to him."
Ivy looked up, surprised. "She was?"
"From the time he was a kid, Eric and my mother never got along," Christine explained. "I'm six years older, and I took care of him sometimes when my mother worked long days in New York. But usually he was at the Baines house, and Caroline became closer to him than any of us.
Even after she divorced and Gregory didn't live with her, Eric would often go see her."
"I didn't know that," Ivy said.
"Are you going to open it?" Christine asked, looking at the envelope curiously.
Ivy tore off one corner and slit the envelope with her finger. "If it's a personal note," she warned Christine, "I might not show it to you."
Christine nodded.
But there was no note, just dry tissue wrapped around the hard object.
Ivy tore at it and pulled out a key. It was about two inches long. One end was oval, with a lacy design cut into the metal. The other end, which would fit into a lock, was a simple hollow cylinder with two small teeth at the tip.
"Do you know what it's for?" Christine asked.
"No," Ivy replied. "And there isn't a note."
Christine bit her lip, then said, "Well, maybe it was an accident after all." Ivy could hear the hope in her voice. "I mean, if Eric planned to kill himself, he would have left a note explaining this-wouldn't he?"
Unless he was murdered before he got a chance, Ivy thought, but she nodded in agreement with Christine.
"Eric didn't commit suicide," Ivy said in a firm voice. Then she saw the gratitude in Christine's eyes and blushed. If Christine only knew, Ivy thought, that I might have been the cause of her brother's death.
Ivy dropped the key into the envelope, tucked the flap in, and folded the envelope in half. Slipping it in her raincoat pocket, she told Christine she'd let her know if she figured out what the key was for.
Christine thanked Ivy for being a good friend to Eric, which sent more color rushing into Ivy's cheeks.
Her face was still warm when she joined Will and Beth, who had been watching her from twenty feet away, huddled together under an umbrella.
"What did she say to you?" Will asked, pulling Ivy under the umbrella with them.
"She-uh-thanked me for being Eric's good friend."
"Oh, boy," Beth said softly.
"Is that all?" Will asked.
It was a question Ivy had come to expect from Gregory when he was pumping her for information.
"You talked pretty long," Will observed. "Is that all she said?"
"Yes," Ivy lied.
Will's eyes dropped down to the pocket where she had shoved the envelope.
He must have seen the exchange, and certainly he could see the edge of the envelope now, but he didn't question her further.
They had been excused from school that day, and the three of them drove quietly to Celentano's for a late lunch. As they pored over their menus Ivy wondered what Will was thinking and if he was suspicious of Gregory.
At the police station on Monday, Will had let her do the talking, then echoed her story, neither of them mentioning Eric's request for a secret meeting. Now Ivy wanted to tell Will everything. If she looked too long into his eyes, she would.
"So how are you all doing?" Pat Celentano said, coming to take their order. Most of the lunchtime customers had left the the pizza shop, and the owner was speaking in a quieter voice than usual. "Rough morning for you."
She took their order, then set an extra basket of pencils and crayons on the paper tablecloth.
Will, who already had several tablecloth drawings hanging on Celentano's walls, began sketching immediately. Ivy doodled. Beth made long chains of rhyming words, murmurin
g to herself as the lists grew. "Sorry," she said when one of her chains ran into Will's drawing.
He was writing and illustrating knock-knock jokes. Beth and Ivy leaned over to read them, and started laughing together softly. Will sketched them in their Old West photo costumes. "Virginia City Sweethearts," he titled it.
Beth pointed to the drawing. "I think you missed a few curves," she said.
"Ivy's dress was a lot tighter than that. Of course, not as tight as your cowboy pants."
Ivy smiled, remembering the voice that had confused them all that day, a voice coming out of nowhere-Lacey having a little fun.
"Love those buns!" Ivy and Beth said at the same time, and this time they laughed out loud.
With the sudden laughter came tears. Ivy covered her face with one hand.
Will and Beth sat silently and let her cry it out, then Will gently placed her hand on the table and began to trace it. Over and over the pencil ran along the sides of her fingers, the smooth touch of it soothing her.
Then Will positioned his hand on the paper at an angle against hers and traced it too.
When he lifted their hands, Ivy gazed down at the design. "Wings," she said, smiling a little. "A butterfly, or an angel."
He let go of her hand. Ivy longed to move close to Will and rest against him. She wanted to tell him everything she knew and ask his help. But she knew she couldn't put him in danger. Because of her, one guy she had loved with all her heart had already been murdered. She wasn't going to let it happen to the-Ivy caught herself. To the other guy she… loved?
Chapter 9
When Ivy was dropped off later that afternoon, she never went into the house. With Eric's envelope still in her pocket, she climbed into her own car and started driving. After an hour of going nowhere, taking back roads that followed the river north, then crossing over, winding her way south, and crossing again into town, she stopped at the park at the end of Main Street.
The rain had finally ended, and the empty park was drenched with late-afternoon color, the sun slanting through blue-black clouds and turning the grass a brilliant green. Ivy sat alone in the wooden pavilion, remembering the day of the arts festival. Gregory had watched her from one side of the lawn, Will from the other. But it was Tristan's presence she had felt when she played. Was he there? When she played the Moonlight Sonata," did he know it was for him?
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