The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  Timothy ate a few bites and put down his fork. “Mollie, about Tara, I’m so glad you’re staying connected with her. Don’t give up. And I want to tell you about Remi.” He coughed, the dry cough that seemed to be bothering him today. “Maybe I’ll get some tea first.”

  “I’ll get it,” Nathan said.

  “What’s Remi been up to?” she asked. The soup was thick, with plenty of broccoli.

  “He came to me last week.” Timothy closed his eyes and coughed again. “He said all this preaching was starting to make him nervous.”

  Nathan set a cup of tea at his elbow, and he nodded his thanks. “We’ve talked, off and on. I’ve been sharing some Scriptures. I gave him a New Testament, and he looked as if he’d never seen one before. Just keep praying for him.”

  “Does he say much about his past?”

  “Not yet, but he will.”

  She smiled. “As we all do, Timothy. You’re so easy to talk to, and you manage to give advice without intruding.”

  Nathan smiled at her. “You’re right.”

  Timothy said, “It was good to see Jude’s grandmother again. She’s looking quite perky.”

  “Gemma gave me a bit of historical detail,” Madeleine said. “About her son, Rhys.”

  “A teacher, wasn’t he?” Timothy said.

  “He taught the Marrick boys. And Kent.”

  Nathan looked intrigued. “I’m going to ask Detective Birklund to do some checking out on the West Coast. But where?”

  Madeleine spooned up the last of her soup. “He went to school at UCLA. And he mentioned something about living near San Francisco.”

  Kent’s table was empty now, but it took an effort to talk about him. “He’s leaving for Canada, Paula says. Taking some decoys with him.”

  “When?” Nathan’s eyes had an icy glitter.

  “The day after tomorrow.”

  Nathan looked at Timothy’s plate and frowned. “You’re not eating very much.”

  “Not hungry.” Timothy coughed. “But this tea feels good on my throat.”

  Nathan pushed back his chair. “We’re going to get you home.”

  “Oh, we are, are we?” Timothy said. “Put away the handcuffs—I’ll come quietly.”

  Nathan smiled in answer, but he stood up and so did Madeleine. He helped her into her jacket, his hand lingering on her shoulder. “Wait just a minute before you leave,” he said to her. “I want to tell you something.”

  After he unlocked his Jeep for Timothy, he crossed the parking lot to her car.

  He picked up her hand and held it. “Here’s what I want to say, among other things. I was hoping to see more of you today, but I’d better take Timothy home. And I need to stay around the clinic because we had a break-in last night. Someone set a little fire in my office. I’ve changed the locks, but you never know.”

  He turned her hand over and stroked the inside of her wrist. “Mondays are wild. Can we make a date for Tuesday lunch?”

  Tuesday seemed a long way off. “Yes,” she said.

  He knew what she was thinking. “I miss you already. Let’s both stay busy and maybe the time will fly. In the meantime, I wanted to give you this.”

  From inside his jacket he took out a white envelope. “For later.”

  Mac was waiting for her at the back door, as usual, and he prowled around the kitchen until she fed him. The house lay silent, as if it were hoarding its energy for another week of deconstruction.

  Tomorrow they would work on the Blue Room, but the rest of the afternoon was hers. She changed into fleece pants and a warm sweat shirt, sat down on her bed, and browsed through The Art of Eating.

  Talking to Aunt Lin about her course had left her feeling unsettled. Not that the pastry chef/bake shop idea was a foolish one. Timothy had agreed that it had potential, and when she told him that she wanted to get more training in New York, he hadn’t tried to change her mind.

  After the Manor work was finished, she would do that.

  . . . After Nathan went back to Alaska.

  So that was it. Like taking off your boot and discovering the stone that had tormented you during the whole long hike.

  Not much employment for a pastry chef in Alaska, was there? Ideally, she should raise huskies. Or giant cabbages.

  She put on a Bach CD, and “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” brought the tears that had been threatening all day.

  Coming back to life, Nathan had said.

  This was life, this weary, broken feeling?

  But God had given her so much—so many gifts of His grace: Aunt Lin, Timothy, Bria and Jude, Remi, Tara. She should be thankful.

  And Nathan. What was she going to do about him? Never mind. What was in his envelope?

  She curled up on the bed to open it and found a postcard showing the view from Apple Pie Hill. On the back, in small neat letters, he’d printed:

  Denali . . .

  Fearsome, formidable, wondrous.

  We climb together.

  I. LOVE. YOU.

  N-----

  He’d signed it with an illegible scrawl that made her smile. In the address portion he’d printed their verse. Fear not, for I am with you . . .

  She leaned into the pillows, holding his card. How could he write this, after what he’d found out yesterday?

  We will fight this together, he’d said. Still? And the verse? To remind her that they weren’t fighting alone.

  She closed her eyes and whispered, “Lord, thank You for Your promises. I love You, Lord my Rock, my Strength. Above all flesh and blood, I love You.”

  The phone was ringing. She reached for it, but slowly. Remi’s voice. “Mollie, I can’t come until around eleven. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He said something about see you later, and she flopped back against the pillow. What time was it? Seven o’clock? In the morning?

  She dragged into the shower, saying wake-up words to herself, and after a while, she could think. Must have slept that whole time. How are we today? Better, thank you. As if a virus had burned itself out.

  Remi apologized again when he arrived. “Kent had a hurry-up research project, and I thought I should do that one last thing for him. He can’t seem to find his way around a library.”

  “Did you . . .?”

  “I gave him that box and the message. He took a look inside and pitched it into the trash. Not a word.”

  “He’s going out of town?”

  “Yeah. I quit working for him, so I’m staying put.”

  She followed him into the Blue Room. “Why did you quit?”

  “Too much strange stuff going on with that guy. Besides, he had me typing a manuscript that’s weird.”

  What did that mean?

  Remi picked up his hammer and screwdriver and started banging at the fireplace shelves, so she went back to her lists.

  Before long he had pulled off the rest of the shelves and taken down the heavy wooden mantel, leaving only the border of tiles.

  “Look here.” He slid the tip of his screwdriver behind one of the tiles. “They’re mounted onto a piece of wood.”

  “What’s underneath?”

  “Hard to tell. I’ll be careful.”

  He pried off more tiles, unscrewed the panel, and lifted it away.

  “Marble!” He stared at the white-veined stone. “This is so cool.”

  He scratched at the blue paint on the hearth. “Marble here too, I bet.” He stood up. “We need some paint stripper for stone. Okay if I go buy some?”

  “By all means,” Madeleine said. “Aunt Lin’s going to love this.”

  While he was gone, Tara phoned. “I’ve got to tell you—that guy with the blond hair came over last night.”

  Her voice was high and shaky. “He smiled at first, but then Uncle Sid started yelling, and the guy drove off, and Uncle Sid told Dixie maybe we’d better move to Kentucky, and Dixie said she’s not going to let any smooth-talking bimbo put us out of our home and she’d take care of him. I’m
scared can you come see me?”

  “Where’s your aunt?”

  “She’s gone shopping, she’s so mad. Don’t worry about her. She was just jealous about the cookies. Uncle Sid will be sober. He promised. Besides, she smashed all his bottles. Please, can you come?”

  “I’ll come.”

  “Around three, okay?”

  “Yes.”

  Madeleine poured herself a glass of juice and drank it in gulps. What had she agreed to? She didn’t want to go out there alone. But how could she say to Tara: “I’m afraid. My God won’t take care of me.”

  She refilled the glass with water and drank that too. Did He take care of His children when they did crazy things?

  But loving someone like Tara meant taking risks, didn’t it?

  Her cell phone rang. Bria. She and Jude had been talking about that yearbook, she said, and she’d found something Madeleine might want to see. She could come around two o’clock.

  Madeleine agreed. They’d have time to talk before she left to see Tara. Her mind spun with pictures: Uncle Sid swaying into the kitchen. Tara’s anxious face. Dixie’s cold eyes.

  If only Nathan could go with her! But Mondays were impossible for him.

  Jude? He had a meeting after school.

  Remi? Too complicated. Besides, he had a job to do here.

  She turned down the hall. Get back to work. Eat some lunch. She stopped in the doorway. What about Bria? Maybe she would come.

  Bria looked worn out. They sat at the kitchen table with cans of root beer, and at first it seemed that she’d changed her mind about telling Madeleine anything. She studied the wall as if she were considering what color to paint it.

  Madeleine popped her can open. “So,” she said quietly, “you and Jude were talking about the yearbook.”

  “Gemma found her copy. We looked at it.” She trailed a finger down the side of her soda can. “It’s a good photo of Dad. So long since . . . since I’ve seen him. Mom won’t have any pictures of him around.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes, and Madeleine waited, understanding.

  “I know he didn’t run off with some woman, like they keep saying.” Her voice shook. “He loved her. He loved us.”

  She pulled at the tab of her can. “Jude asked if I remembered when they did the yearbook, and I did, because I was sixteen and so proud of him. I always wondered whether he was proud of me.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Dad named me after some red-haired Celtic princess he admired. Brianna. It means strong one.”

  Bria bent the tab back until it broke off. “I don’t have red hair, and I’m not very brave. I knew I could never be the Brianna he wanted, but I kept trying.”

  She sent Madeleine a dark glance. “You lost your dad too. Was it hard to measure up to what he wanted?”

  “Sometimes,” Madeleine said. He’d taken her to a shooting range, and she could still hear the noise. “He tried teaching me to shoot a pistol. I hated the sound of it, hated to practice. I never could shoot straight.”

  The tense lines around Bria’s mouth softened. “Like that,” she said. “Anyway, last night I went into his study. I checked his favorite pair of bookends—they had a secret compartment—and I found some papers, mostly poetry and Celtic writings. And a couple of his old grade books. Skinny red ones, you know?”

  “Yes,” Madeleine said. She’d used them herself.

  “I discovered that he wrote things about his students in the back of them. I looked for the year he had Kent in his class.”

  She handed a red booklet to Madeleine.

  Rhys Castell wrote in spiky black letters that suggested confidence. Beside Kent’s name, his cryptic note read:

  Intelligent, but a smart aleck. Likes to write about fire. Set fire to V’s braid. Hates me for taking away his matches. K’s mother upset about SM’s influence.

  Madeleine flipped through the pages. He’d made notes on most of his students, insightful remarks. He’d pegged Sam Marrick as a delinquent in the making. She re-read the entry for Kent.

  It was true, he liked to talk about fire. And his first book had been about fire. SM was probably Sam Marrick.

  “I found something else.” Bria handed her a small greeting card with Thank you! slanted across the front of it. Inside was a message written in green ink:

  Dear Mr. Castell,

  I appreciate your listening so patiently to a sick old woman. Last night I was sure it would help Kent if we tried to prove his innocence, but I have come across some information that suggests it might be wiser to leave things alone. I’ll tell you about it if you wish.

  Nancy Sanders

  Bria was watching her with troubled eyes.

  Madeleine fingered the small card. “From his mother. I don’t know what to make of this—or the grade book. But you’re right. They could be important.”

  She glanced at her watch. “Oh! I wanted to ask you a favor. I promised to go see Tara this afternoon, and I don’t want to go alone. Do you have time?”

  The girl shrugged. “I probably won’t be much help.”

  Madeleine got to her feet. “I’d rather have you along than some princess,” she said. “Let’s pack a bag of cookies, and I’ll tell you about it on the way.”

  As they drove, she described her visits to Tara’s house and the encounters with Uncle Sid.

  “I can see why you’d want company,” Bria said. “Are you going to ask about the pendant?”

  Jude’s secret. How had she found out?

  “It’s okay,” Bria said. “Any time Jude goes around with that mysterious look on his face, I suspect he’s up to something. I made him tell me last night.”

  No wonder she hadn’t slept.

  Madeleine turned down the driveway. “Here we are,” she said. The brown truck was gone. Good.

  “Watch out for that iron thing by the porch,” she said.

  This time she didn’t trip over it.

  At the corner of the porch steps lay a pile of broken glass and the jagged neck of a bottle. To remind Sid of his promise?

  CHAPTER 27

  I don’t want to talk to Sid Marrick,

  drunk OR sober.

  But I’ve got a feeling he knows

  something about that pendant.

  ~Journal

  Tara met them at the door and hugged them both. “Two of you! Uncle Sid’s got this cool project going in the garage. He’s building himself a ’57 Chevy Bel Air. Did you see the frame out front?”

  Her glance swung to Madeleine. “He’s fine today, don’t worry. C’mon into the kitchen.”

  She made tea, and Madeleine listened to the girls talk, waiting for footsteps.

  The back door closed and Uncle Sid strolled into the kitchen.

  He did look sober today. The red whiskers were gone. A smile stretched across his gaunt features. Never mind that it made him look wolfish. At least the man was trying.

  “May I, uh, join you ladies?”

  “Sure,” Tara said. “Have a cookie.”

  He helped himself to a can of beer from the fridge and sat down.

  An awkward silence fell. Tara was eyeing the beer can, scrawled with black letters: MINE—KEEP YOUR PAWS OFF. Bria was watching him as if he were a coiled rattlesnake.

  Madeleine waited for him to ask the inevitable question.

  He gurgled down his beer, ate two cookies, and reached for a third. “So you gave it to him.”

  “As you told me to.”

  The man flushed. “No more hard stuff for me.” He stared at the half-eaten cookie in his hand. “Questions, you said.”

  So he remembered. “Yes.” She put down her cup. “I have questions about that pendant.”

  He looked puzzled, and she said, “That silver medallion on a cord.”

  He lurched to his feet, knocking his chair over backwards. “That bit of dirty metal? That ain’t no silver medal. Just a piece of junk.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  He sucked in his chee
ks. “My brother found it.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah. He’s dead. Got what he deserved.”

  Tara quivered, and Madeleine put a hand on her arm. “Where’d he find it?”

  “Just fell out.”

  “Out of what?”

  “Glove box. Car.”

  “What car?”

  “Confound it, woman, you sound like a plinkin’ cop.” He picked up the chair, reversed it, and sat down facing her. “We didn’t do nothing wrong. I’ll tell you the whole thing, just don’t rush me.”

  She kept her eyes on his face. Please, Lord, let him tell the truth.

  He spoke in spurts, as if the beer were firing his brain. “Me and Sam was out walking—nice day for a walk. We find this car in the bushes, kind of pushed away from the road. Windshield broke. Fender bashed in. Nobody around. So we take a couple things off.”

  He shrugged. “No point in letting good tail lights go to waste.”

  A pause.

  “What about the silver medallion?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Sam looks inside. There’s something in the glove box. Binocular case. He gets all excited, but it’s empty, except for that metal thing. So he puts it in his pocket, and then he takes out the radio. We’ve got as much as we can carry and we get out of there.”

  Regret passed over his face. “I went back the next day with my truck. Good tires on that car, but it was gone.”

  She frowned. “How could you go back and find a place like that? Do you expect me to believe this?”

  He straightened, looking offended. “Listen here, I’ve walked these woods all my life. I swear, I know exactly how I done it. Let’s see . . .”

  He gave her a measuring glance. “Started at Quaker Bridge.” His voice grew more certain. “Yeah, that’s it. Walked up that road. Big white tree. There’s some ruins. Past that, a little road goes off to the left.”

  “What’s it called?”

  He shrugged. “Went down it a good ways, along the river, sort of. Trees get thick and—don’t rush me—somewhere along there . . .” He picked up the beer can and slowly crushed it into a handful of red and white. “Found that car. In the bushes, like I told you. Past a big old pine blocking the road.”