The Forever Stone

by Gloria Repp

  “Whatever.”

  “I don’t want that arm to get wet.” He sat her back down and covered the arm with plastic wrap secured by tape.

  “How is Timothy?” she asked.

  “He’s responding well, and I’m keeping him quiet. I haven’t told him about any of this, but he seems to have a sixth sense about you. He’s been asking where you are. Bria is nursing him and running the store at the same time.”

  He took her hand, traced the bruises on her wrist. “You’re dizzy?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When you think about the fire?”

  “Worse then.”

  “That’s it. You’re processing.” He smiled. “Be patient with yourself.”

  He began to pack up his bag. “Tara, stay close while she takes her shower, okay? And next time she gets up, make her a snack, something simple.”

  “Sure.” Tara’s face was as tired as her voice.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I think you’re going to be a good nurse. Please excuse us for a minute? I need to tell Mollie something.”

  He drew her into his arms and whispered, “Sorry, not much of a date. I’ll do better next time.”

  “Do you give such personal attention to all your patients?”

  “Only the one I love.”

  She smiled into his neck. “Excellent varlet. Come back soon.”

  The next time she woke up, it was almost dark. She sat up slowly, and all she could think was: Nathan. Where was he? How was his work going? He’d taken so much time to care for her. Would he come back tonight? Tomorrow?

  She eased out of bed, picked up her hair brush and sat down again.

  He’d already spent hours with her. Couldn’t she manage without him? She should get busy, get on with her life.

  She began to brush her hair, taking long, weary strokes.

  Remember the plan: he’d go back to Alaska, she’d go to New York and open her shop and . . . and . . . be miserable.

  The brush wavered.

  She didn’t want to go to New York. She didn’t want to go anywhere, except with him.

  What about Strong-and-Independent?

  The brush hit a snarl, and she yanked it through, hard enough to hurt.

  Dependent? Perhaps.

  Vulnerable? Yes.

  Loving him? Yes.

  She stopped brushing, frowned into the twilight.

  She’d always thought of independence as a shining, glorious thing.

  For someone else, it might be fine, even admirable. But in her case, it seemed to be tangled up with something more tawdry. Pride.

  Kent’s pride had kept him talking, and it cost him dearly. He would probably spend the rest of his life in prison.

  Was she, in her self-absorption, any different?

  She dropped the brush onto the bureau, folded her arms on the gleaming old wood, and put her head down.

  Forgive me, Lord, for my pride. Thank you for the gifts of Your grace. For Nathan. Teach me how to love him well.

  Tara was sitting in the kitchen with a book, but she jumped up right away. “I’ll make our snack. The doctor phoned again. Asked how your shower went. Did we take off the plastic. Were you still sleeping. Where’s the bread?”

  Madeleine sat down and put a hand to her eyes. After a minute her brain caught up. “In the pantry.”

  “Found it,” Tara said. “Looks good for toast. Never saw a doctor as nice as him. He likes you a lot, doesn’t he? Do you want cocoa?”

  Madeleine smiled. “Yes.”

  While they ate their scrambled eggs and toast, she learned what had happened before she arrived that morning.

  Tara had been in the kitchen getting a drink when Kent drove up. A few minutes later, Dixie was screaming at him in the front room, and a gun went off.

  Tara had run out the back door to warn Uncle Sid, but he’d already heard the shot. He was “bellerin’ mad,” as she put it. He stormed into the front room, yelling at Kent, and they started fighting, and she’d tried to phone the police, but the phone was dead.

  He and Kent were still fighting when she grabbed a butcher knife and ran into the woods.

  The next thing she knew, smoke was coming from a window and Madeleine had driven up.

  While Madeleine was struggling with Kent, she’d taken the valve cores out of his tires and waited for a chance to throw something at him.

  Tara stopped talking and stared out of the window.

  Madeleine tried to arrange the sequence of events. None of it seemed real except the flames and the blood.

  After a minute, Tara said, “You’re a good shot.”

  “Not really.”

  “I saw it. You shot out the front tire so he’d crash into that tree.”

  “But that’s just it.” Madeleine hunched over her plate. “I was aiming for the back tires—to slow him down. I didn’t know he’d crash.”

  “I hope he’s dead,” Tara said. “He killed Aunt Dixie. He almost killed Uncle Sid. I thought he was going to kill you.”

  “So did I,” Madeleine said. Dizzy again. Too much thinking. “I hope your uncle’s going to be okay.”

  “The doctor said he had some bad cuts and a bullet in his leg, but he’s too ornery to die just yet. Do you have any rubber bands?”

  “In that drawer.”

  Tara pulled her hair back into a ponytail and stared into space for another minute.

  Finally she said, “Uncle Sid’s going to be mad about the fire, especially his garage. And it spread into the woods.”

  Something in her voice warned of bad news. What now?

  Tara shifted her gaze to the tabletop and began pushing breadcrumbs together with a finger.

  “My hideout,” she said slowly. “All my stuff is gone. I’ve seen those fires—like a furnace. Your stone. It’s got to be melted.”

  Melted?

  Tara swept the crumbs to the floor. “Guess it’s a lucky thing you kept the pendant. Give it to Bria and Jude.” Her shoulders drooped. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  Madeleine sat still. She should answer, should say something kind.

  Tara was on her feet now, stacking up the plates. “Yeah, you’re going to tell me that stuff about how God knows, and He’s got a plan. I wish He’d let me in on the details for once. I’m going to take a shower.”

  She carried the dishes to the sink. “Can I borrow your shampoo? I’ll sleep upstairs on that yellow sofa.”

  “Fine,” Madeleine said. “I’ll get you some pajamas. In a minute.”

  Her head was heavy, too heavy to hold up. She propped it in both hands and saw her paperweight, a shapeless lump in the midst of blackened rubble.

  A hand flitted onto her shoulder and off again. “Mollie, you’re my very best friend. I’m awful sorry about this. Specially your stone. I loved it too.”

  She pulled herself upright, but the girl had whisked away, and she didn’t see her again until morning.

  Aunt Lin phoned to say that the doctor had called and she’d drive back right away, but Madeleine told her that tomorrow would be fine.

  Nathan phoned too, but he sounded worn out, so she made her voice cheerful, told him to get some sleep, and he said he’d see her tomorrow, around noon.

  In the morning, every muscle still ached, but she managed to make breakfast. Her dazed feeling persisted, even after two cups of coffee, and she had to ask Tara what day of the week it was.

  “Wednesday,” Tara said. “I don’t care if I miss the English test. I’m staying here.”

  That sunlit Tuesday morning seemed a long time ago.

  Remi dropped by, saying he’d hang around and help if he could. He made arrangements to get her car towed, and he answered the phone and the door.

  Official-looking men arrived, and the inquisition began.

  When did you first notice the fire? Did you hear any explosions? How fast did it burn? Do you have a permit for that gun? Whose gun is it? How well did you know the deceased?

  The decea
sed?

  She’d killed him.

  The questions still came, one after another, the same ones over and over. More questions, ranging further and further afield. She had to answer so many of them with “I don’t know” or “I don’t remember” that she began to wonder whether something was seriously wrong with her mind.

  Nathan arrived at noon, spoke to the investigators in his doctor’s-voice and convinced them that they’d asked enough questions for now. He sat her down at the kitchen table and checked her bandages.

  “You’re doing fine,” he said.

  “So why do I feel like my brain has turned to mush?”

  “You’re still processing.” But he gazed at her with the same watchful look he’d had for Greta’s baby. “In a few days you’ll be your old sprightly self.”

  All she could do was mumble. “Sprightly?”

  His face creased into one of those melting smiles. “You’ll see,” he said.

  “C’mon, eat some lunch, you guys,” Tara said. “I’ve made a bunch of sandwiches.”

  Remi grinned from where he stood in the doorway. “Us hungry guys thank you, heartily.”

  Madeleine nibbled on a sandwich and drank three cups of tea while the men ate and Tara chattered. When Tara paused for breath, Nathan said, “These are good tuna sandwiches, Tara. It’s a shame Hey-You isn’t here.”

  She looked uncertainly from him to Remi, who laughed.

  “Take it as a compliment,” Remi told her. “Hey-You is Timothy’s dog, and he’s a real connoisseur of tuna sandwiches.”

  His face grew serious. “Doc, did you find out anything about Kent’s past? California, wasn’t it?”

  “A couple of things. He’s been involved with forest fires for years. A volunteer at Yellowstone. He enrolled in the Firefighter Academy near King City but dropped out after almost killing a man with his knife. Oddly enough, he kept volunteering.”

  “Wasn’t he a teacher?” Remi asked.

  “Winters, he taught at one small school after another. About ten years ago he moved up the coast to Oregon. He taught school there and wrote a book.”

  He looked at Tara. “Your uncle, after claiming to know nothing at all, changed his mind. This morning he enlightened us about his relationship with Kent and an unsolved case from years ago.”

  “Hazel Marshon?” Madeleine said.

  “Yes. He admitted that he and his brother and Kent robbed the old lady’s house while she was off on a trip. A graduation prank, was the way he put it. But he claims that they left right afterwards.”

  Remi looked skeptical. “All of them?”

  “Said he and his brother drove down to the casinos in Atlantic City for the night. They were plenty scared the next day to hear that her house had burned down, with her inside.”

  “Did they think it was Kent?” Remi asked.

  “Apparently he liked to set fires,” Nathan said.

  “So did they get caught?”

  “No one could ever prove anything, and Kent had already left town.”

  Madeleine felt her way through the haze in her brain. “Gemma told me that Rhys Castell was asking questions about the Marshon case.”

  “How come?” Remi asked.

  “They did a yearbook page about him and Miss Marshon.” She frowned. “And something else—a note Bria found. To Rhys, from Kent’s mother. It sounded as if she’d asked him to prove Kent’s innocence and then discovered something that changed her mind.”

  “She died about three years ago, didn’t she?” Nathan said. “Did Kent come back for her funeral?”

  “Yes,” Madeleine said, “according to Paula.”

  He nodded, as if the pieces were coming together for him. “So Castell started his investigation. Maybe he talked to Kent after the funeral, and Kent thought he was trying to make trouble for him.”

  “Maybe,” Remi said slowly, “Kent didn’t know that old lady was in the house. He didn’t mean to kill her. But he ran away, and the fear went with him.”

  He pushed back his chair. “Is there any relish?”

  “I put some in already.” Tara sounded miffed. “But there’s more in the fridge.”

  Remi came back with a jar of Super-Hot relish. “This will make them even better.” He spooned a mound onto his plate. “Doc?”

  “No thanks,” Nathan said. “Sid told me something else. One of his cousins worked in the police department, and he showed Sid the piece of evidence that made them think the Marshon fire was deliberately set—a tin can with half-burned matches inside.”

  Remi put down his sandwich, reached for his water glass, and drank it dry. “I can’t believe this.” He combed his fingers through his hair until it stood up in black spikes.

  Tara folded her arms, smiling. “Too hot for you?”

  He shook his head. “Not that. I’ve been typing a manuscript for Kent—his secret novel—and all this stuff is in it. Along with a lot of porn.”

  Tara eyed him. “What’s it about?”

  “An arsonist. And get this: the tin can thing. The guy used something like that to start his fires. He called it his signature. Sometimes it was destroyed in the fires he set, but most of the time he arranged things so it wasn’t.”

  “How did it work?” Nathan asked.

  “He’d fix up this empty can with matches wired together inside it. Attached them to about a yard of waxed cord. The guy laid the cord out so the end of it was stuck into dry leaves or whatever.”

  “How’d he start the fire?” Tara asked.

  “One of those barbecue grill lighters—for the matches in the can. Then he dumped kerosene over the end of the cord in the leaves and got out of there.”

  Tara frowned. “So it took a couple of minutes for the fire to burn down the cord and get to the kerosene. But what was the can for?”

  “To protect the matches until the fire got going,” Remi said. “Maybe to keep his signature from being destroyed. From what I’ve heard, arsonists like people to know how clever they are.”

  “A fictional confession,” Nathan said. “Did you read the whole thing?”

  “As far as it went. He hadn’t figured out the ending.”

  Madeleine looked at Remi. “So when Sid found that soup can in the fire, he recognized it. That’s why he sent it to Kent.”

  Remi nodded. “I thought it might have something to do with Kent’s story. Now it sounds like blackmail.”

  Tara got to her feet, took a bag of cookies out of the freezer and dropped it onto the table.

  “Yes, help yourselves,” Madeleine said. She gazed at Remi. Forest fire. Something that was burned.

  “What about—” The room began to swirl. “Nathan?”

  Remi’s face had turned into flames that licked across the room, ash was falling, and she was falling with it.

  Nathan’s arm went around her, and she slumped against him.

  His quiet voice said, “Here’s some water.”

  She drank, and after a minute, the flames faded away.

  “Want to lie down?” Nathan asked.

  She shook her head, rested it against him. “Let me think a minute.”

  The burned car . . . Rhys Castell . . . that was it.

  “Remi,” she said. “Does the hero of that novel burn up cars?”

  He stared at her. “Sure does,” he said. “He has to stop this other guy from finding out that he killed the girl.” He paused. “Bria and Jude’s dad. It fits, doesn’t it?”

  She nodded. Kent must have set that Escort on fire to cover himself. She thought about Bria, and her grief at the sight of her father’s car. Could this be the answer to who and why?

  Nathan’s voice was heavy with sadness. “The police need to see that manuscript.”

  “Why did he ever come back?” Remi muttered.

  “Maybe he’d set one fire too many, out West,” Nathan said. “He might have planned to disappear. In a place like this, it’s quite possible.”

  Madeleine sat up, gazing at the bruises on her wris
t. “He wanted me to go away with him. Said he’d be rich. Maybe he came back to get something he’d hidden.”

  “That’s true,” Remi said. “Sam and Rhys were gone.” He glanced at Tara. “And he was going to get rid of your uncle.”

  “He sure tried,” Tara said. “And now Uncle Sid’s going to stay in the hospital forever, and I’ll be an orphan.”

  “Not quite,” Nathan said. “I made some phone calls last night.”

  Her eyes blazed. “Not a foster home. I’ll kill myself first! I really will!”

  “That might not be necessary.” He opened the bag of cookies and took out a handful. “How would you like to meet that aunt you’ve been looking for?”

  “Aunt Minna?” Tara’s voice rose an octave. “She’s not dead? Where’d she go?”

  “She’s living near Hampton Lakes, and she’d like very much for you to visit.”

  “Only visit?”

  “I guess that depends. Would you like me to take you over there?”

  “Now?”

  “After I’ve had a few more of these excellent cookies.”

  “Oh wow! I’ve got to brush my hair.” She jumped up and ran out of the kitchen.

  Nathan put an arm across Madeleine’s shoulders. “Nap time for you.” He grinned at Remi. “I guess that leaves you with the dishes.”

  She slept for a while and was dozing with Mac beside her when Aunt Lin arrived with apologies, sympathy, and hugs.

  Madeleine answered her questions as well as she could, and when she finished, her aunt said, “I was so blind about Kent. I should have seen this coming. Thank God, Mollie.”

  She got up from where she’d been sitting on Madeleine’s bed. “Sleep all you can. I’m going to go see what Remi’s up to. ”

  She and Remi seemed to get along well, because they talked for an hour. By the end of the afternoon, she had offered him steady employment at the Manor, with time off to help Timothy as needed.

  After he’d gone for the day, her aunt said, “I get the impression that Remi is at loose ends right now.”

  “I guess so.” If Remi was unsettled, what must Bria and Jude be feeling?

  She had tried to phone them and couldn’t get through. Bria would be at the store, and Jude must have gone back to school. Even at night, the line was busy. Maybe they’d taken the phone off the hook.