Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1)

by Debbie Herbert

  Despite the sunshine, a sudden outburst of rain erupted, pelting the roof and front windows of the house. From a distance, thunder rumbled. But we were in no danger from the storm. I’d placed an acorn on every windowsill of the house to keep out lightning.

  “Devil’s beating his wife and making her cry,” Ruby observed.

  “Oh dear,” Shelby Jean said with alarm. “I didn’t even think to bring an umbrella.”

  “It will probably blow over shortly.” Delaney offered a soothing smile. “You know how these sudden summer showers are. If it doesn’t stop, you can borrow one of our umbrellas.”

  Shelby Jean patted her fluffed curls. “You’re always so thoughtful.” Her gaze slid past me in what I fancied to be a silent rebuke.

  “I’ll take that platter and put it up,” I said, taking it from Dixie. In the kitchen, I picked out a wing from the mound of fresh chicken and bit in. Mmm . . . as good as I remembered. I finished it off and helped myself to another. The less time with the Burkhardt sisters, the better. The low drone of conversation continued in the den, and I sighed. If I didn’t return shortly, it would be rude, and Delaney would scold. Reluctantly, I shoved off from where I leaned against the counter and washed my chicken-greasy fingers. In the hallway, I paused in front of the mirror to run a hand through my tangled hair.

  “Hope you don’t mind our asking,” Dixie said, her voice now intelligible. “Has Violet been . . . you know, well? Is she still . . .”

  I held my breath, wondering how my sister would respond.

  “Hard to say,” Delaney began. “I’m truly worried about her. She has nightmares most nights. I’ve been awoken many a time to bloodcurdling screams.”

  “Poor thing,” Shelby Jean commented. “Has she said what the nightmares are about?”

  “No, but last night when I entered her room, she was tossing and turning, and I heard her saying Ainsley over and over.”

  A chill ran down my spine. Liar. I hadn’t had that many nightmares, and I’d slept like a log last night, thanks to my sedatives. Why would Delaney say this?

  “Perhaps it’s a guilty conscience,” Ruby breathed.

  I couldn’t see the sisters, but I could picture their bright, snoopy eyes taking this all in and preparing to spread rumors across town.

  “Perhaps,” Delaney agreed. “But no matter what, Violet’s my sister. I’ll look out for her, just like I do for my father.”

  “Poor girl,” Ruby clucked sympathetically. “It’s not fair that someone as young and pretty as you should be so burdened by family.”

  “I only do what anyone would do in my circumstances. Besides, my fiancé, Sawyer, insists that when we get married, I won’t have to take care of anybody but him. He hates to see me working so hard all the time.”

  The self-righteous tone in her voice was maddening. She didn’t have to “take care of me,” and if Dad was so much trouble, she could put him in an assisted living facility. I tamped down my anger and strode into the room, determined to do damage repair.

  “Didn’t realize I was such a burden,” I said dryly, resuming my seat. “Matter of fact, I thought I’d been a help to you watching Dad and doing housework.”

  The three old ladies swung their gazes back and forth between us, eyes as bright and curious as those of a stray dog circling a fresh treat.

  Delaney didn’t blink. “Of course, you’ve been trying your best to help me.” Her voice dripped with sweetness, and I wanted to smack her. “It’s not your fault you almost set the house on fire when I visited my fiancé. Poor Dad was so upset. But I should have realized not to expect too much too soon.”

  I swallowed back a retort. Nothing I said would help the situation or make the old biddies believe I was as sane as them. I stood and addressed the sisters. “We don’t want to keep you. I’m sure you’re all busy visiting folks. Thanks for the chicken.”

  All three immediately fluttered to their feet, and in a swirl of powdery perfume and swishes of floral-printed dresses, they beat a hasty exit. Delaney escorted them to the door, again thanking them for being so thoughtful. But once the door closed, she turned on me.

  “You were rude,” she accused. Her eyes raked over me. “And why didn’t you wash up? I told you they were coming this afternoon.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I mentioned it twice at breakfast,” she insisted.

  She hadn’t, but I let that go. “Why did you tell them those lies about me having nightmares?”

  “They weren’t lies. Every night, you scream in your sleep.”

  My anger went down a notch. Was she telling the truth? I shook my head. “If I had nightmares, I’d remember.”

  Delaney arched a brow. “Do you always remember your dreams or wake up from a bad one?”

  “No, guess not,” I had to admit. “Do I really call out Ainsley’s name?”

  “You do. Repeatedly. Last night and most every night.”

  This looked bad. As if I were sleeping fitfully because of guilty memories. Maybe I really was responsible for Ainsley’s death. Normal people didn’t have nightmares every time they slept. There was something about that night I couldn’t quite remember, a black abyss in my mind that allowed no entrance of light. Despite years of therapy and hypnosis, I couldn’t account for what had happened to Ainsley, or the hours afterward when I’d roamed the woods until Mom and that detective had found me.

  The two had coached me to say nothing to anyone about that night, and then they’d put me to bed. Might have worked, too, if the search and rescue team hadn’t found one of my sandals and my friendship bracelet by the river, along with Ainsley’s clothes.

  And then there was that large rock stained with blood . . .

  I mentally shook myself and thought longingly of the pill bottle on the bedside table upstairs. I was going to need one or two to calm down. My eyes stung with tears. “But you didn’t have to tell the Burkhardts about the nightmares and the burnt food.”

  “I’m not going to lie for you,” Delaney said quietly. “It all happened just like I said it did. Are you calling me a liar now?”

  “No.” I stiffened and drew my shoulders back. Since she was already upset, I had nothing to lose bringing up the issue of my inheritance. I’d skirted around it ever since I’d arrived, afraid of coming across as cold and callous. Time to finally broach the matter. “Didn’t know I was a burden to you. Maybe it’s time you gave me my portion of Mom’s estate, and I’ll be on my way.”

  Dead silence greeted my words. The grandfather clock ticktocked the seconds. From the corner of my eye, I spotted Dad walking out of the barn, a shovel in hand.

  “Your plan is to take the money and run?” Delaney said at last, her eyes and voice flat. “You’re always running away. And now you want to grab what’s left of our money and leave me here alone to deal with Dad and this house that’s falling apart? That’s hardly fair.”

  I drew a shaky breath. When she put it like that, it did make me sound shallow and cruel.

  “Coward,” Delaney whispered.

  My heart pounded, and the air pressed in on me. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of the room. Had to take a pill and try to think rationally. I skirted around Delaney and raced up the stairs. Making a beeline to the bedside table, I grabbed the pills from the top drawer and shook two out. I dry swallowed them and then stepped out onto the balcony, intent on enjoying a little fresh air before the peaceful drowsiness set in.

  Bright sunlight stung my eyes. This was my least favorite time of the day. I much preferred the gentle, fading light of evening with its promise of sleep and oblivion around the corner. Directly beneath me, the patio cement was blinding in the sunlight. Like everything else about the house, it was in a state of mild disrepair. Patio was too fancy a word for the slab of concrete now cracked and crumbling in places where weeds shot through the holes. The only furniture out there was an old Plexiglas-and-tile table sporting a weather-beaten, ratty umbrella that rose in the center from a rusted metal
pole. Before she’d died, Mom had fussed at Dad about renovating that sorry excuse for an outdoor living area. She’d wanted to enclose it and make it a sunroom, and he’d insisted that would be a waste of time and money. Like everything else between them, it had turned into a huge bone of contention, and nothing had been done.

  At least my balcony deck remained, although it was in need of repair as well. I walked to the far end by the iron bird feeder and toed a couple of loose planks. A few of the boards were half-rotten. Wouldn’t take that much money to hire Willie to come out one afternoon and replace the rotten pieces, maybe even give the deck a good sanding and stain the old wood.

  But I had no intention of sticking around for long, not to mention I didn’t have a dime to my name.

  Delaney was already outside, pulling weeds. Bet she wasn’t in nearly the agitated state that I was.

  The bird feeder was empty. I went in my room, grabbed a handful of peanuts, and returned outside. Would Tux and the others come closer today? I dropped the nuts in the feeder, sat in the rocker, and waited.

  Within minutes, a flock of crows flew over the garden. Delaney shook her fists at them and screamed, “Get out of here!”

  They cawed, and a couple of them swooped close to her before flying skyward again, as if taunting her. There was no love lost between my sister and the crows who disturbed her garden. They flew to a nearby oak and perched, observing me.

  Delaney also watched me, hands balled on her hips. Her irritation was evident from the downward pull of her mouth. Well, let her be pissed, then. I wasn’t going to give up feeding the crows. They were the only friends I had in the world.

  Ever since Ainsley had disappeared.

  Chapter 9

  VIOLET

  Present day

  “Where have you been?” Delaney bounced out of the den before I even had time to shut the front door behind me.

  “Out.” No sense riling her up about my lunch meetings with Libby.

  Her face flushed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving the house? I have things to do.”

  I took in the flowered sundress and gold hoop earrings. Her long hair was curled in loose waves, and her face was made up. Meeting Dr. Eddie, perhaps?

  “And what do you mean by out?” she continued. “You don’t have any friends here. And you hate going into town. So where were you?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to argue, but she might hear from someone else that I had been with Libby. “I had lunch with a friend. I do have one.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “Who? You’ve been away for years, and you hardly ever go out. Oh, wait.” She scrunched her face like she’d bitten into a sour persimmon. “Let me guess. Libby Andrews.”

  “Speaking of going out . . . before I came home to visit, who watched Dad whenever you left the house?”

  “I’d hire a neighbor. Are you really complaining about watching the old man? It’s the least you can do after all the years I’ve done everything by myself.”

  I nodded toward the den, where the low drone of the TV sounded. “Can’t he hear us?”

  “He’s half-asleep. I gave him his meds, and now he’s taking his usual afternoon nap.” Delaney pushed past me. “Gotta run. Try not to burn down the house.”

  She never let me forget my one slipup. “When will you be back?” I called after her.

  At the bottom of the porch steps, she paused a moment. “I don’t know. Probably late.”

  Delaney was up to no good. I just knew it. “What about Sawyer?” I asked.

  Her brow furrowed an instant. “Who? Oh, Sawyer. What about him?”

  “What should I tell him if he calls?” I asked sweetly.

  “I have my phone. There’s no reason for him to call the landline.” The sun shone on her golden curls as she walked to her car.

  So much for my plans to find my legal paperwork and head to the bank that afternoon. But maybe this was for the best, after all. Talking with Libby had helped me to see things more clearly. There was so much I questioned about this household, and it was time I found answers. Resolutely, I went to the den, where Dad was sprawled on the couch, his mouth slightly open as he lightly snored. His hands were folded on his stomach, and dirt was caked on his knuckles and under his fingernails. If it weren’t for his constant digging, he’d have no hobby, no life at all.

  Satisfied he was in a sound sleep, I returned to the kitchen and opened the cabinet where Delaney stored all his pill bottles. There were over a dozen of them, and the labels indicated that he had more than one doctor, most of whom were from Huntsville and not local. I took photos of each bottle label.

  The prescription drug names meant nothing to me, but Libby would know. And if she didn’t, she could refer me to a doctor or pharmacist to see if Dad was being overmedicated. I didn’t have much fondness for him, but it seemed wrong that he slept so much. And the larger red flag was how Delaney always reached for the pills when he was being difficult, or when she couldn’t go off gallivanting and leave him home because he was awake.

  Pictures taken, I climbed the stairs to my room. While Dad slept, I could read over the letter and will I had received from an attorney years ago, informing me that I’d inherited a modest sum from my mother.

  I entered my room and stopped three steps in. Something felt wrong. A faint scent of lily of the valley lingered. Why had Delaney been in my room? On the surface, nothing appeared out of order. I went to the dresser and opened the first drawer, where I kept my underwear.

  Neatly folded tank tops and shorts greeted my eyes. What the hell? I opened the second drawer and found pajamas—but again, not where I had originally placed them.

  “Control freak,” I muttered, marching to my closet. What had been hanging on the left was now on the right, and vice versa.

  Why? What possible difference could it make to Delaney how I stored my clothes?

  I stood in the middle of my bedroom and looked around, spotting my desk in the corner. Had she messed with it as well? Quickly, I crossed the room and began opening drawers. My personal effects appeared in order. I opened the box that held all my neatly sorted gifts from the crows and immediately saw that they were precisely arranged in reverse chronological order. The plastic compartment that should hold one of my first gifts—a bit of red string—now housed a dull green marble, the very last gift they’d brought me.

  Anger stiffened my spine. I didn’t let anybody mess with this box of gifts. Ever. All through the communal living at the state facility and then the halfway house, everyone knew to leave my box alone. I didn’t have much, but what was mine was mine, and I guarded that box like the Hope Diamond.

  I rummaged through my papers for the copy of the will, determined to take it to the bank first thing in the morning.

  It wasn’t there.

  Incredulous, and with mounting unease, I searched again. Nothing. Delaney had taken it. That was the only explanation. Again, the question was why. Had she tossed it because the money was gone and she wanted to prevent me from discovering the truth?

  Dread weighed down on me like a wet blanket, and I sat in the desk chair, absorbing what it all meant. If the money was gone, there went my hopes for a shiny new start in life.

  No. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, stay in this house and this town. Even if it meant living at a rundown shelter and working a minimum wage job until I could get on my feet. Slowly, I rose from the chair. Here, in my own bedroom, I felt violated. Delaney had seen and touched everything I owned. It wasn’t that I had any secrets, but still . . . I valued my privacy. It had been a rare commodity where I’d spent the last few years.

  Libby’s suspicions about Delaney played in my mind like a tune that stayed with you once you heard it. Without debate or a conscious plan, I marched to Delaney’s room and entered.

  It was opulent and huge. She’d taken over the master bedroom and shunted Dad to a small bedroom downstairs. A four-poster bed, dresser, and armoire, all carved mahogany, had originally been used by our
parents. Another reminder that at one time, our parents had been quite wealthy. What had happened to all the money?

  Libby’s knowing grin at the mention of Delaney’s job gave me pause. If not a job, then she at least had money coming in. It made me uncomfortable to think of my sister accepting money from men, but who was I to judge? What was the harm in it as long as she was happy? Being confined so much to this house taking care of Dad must have been lonely and unrewarding. Surely she deserved her secret pleasures—as long as they didn’t come at my own expense.

  I went to the walk-in closet and flung open the door. It was packed with clothes and shoes. Dozens of shoes, many of them still in their designer boxes. Shirts, pants, and dresses hung color coded, and I couldn’t help comparing the sheer amount and quality of these clothes with my own shorts and mostly worn-out jeans and T-shirts. As for myself, I’d always thought four pairs of shoes more than enough—one pair of sneakers, one pair of dress shoes, a pair of sandals, and a pair of earth-brown casual shoes.

  As I walked deeper into the closet, my fingers trailed along the quality fabric of her clothes. I shook my head at the many items that still had price tags dangling from the sleeves. How many of them had been earned from sugar daddy money, and how many of them might have been purchased from my trust fund?

  I paused near the back, catching sight of the familiar peach-sequined ball gown, which still sported the white silk banner embroidered with coral text, proclaiming Delaney the “2004 Miss Normal Peach Queen.” That title meant the world to her. A twelve-by-fourteen-inch photograph from the winning moment was framed and mounted near her dressing table.

  Leaving the closet, I proceeded to the dresser and opened the large leather jewelry box. A rainbow of colors gleamed against the black velvet lining . . . clear gems, reds, greens, blues, pinks, and all hues in between. Whether they were expensive gems or fakes, my inexperienced eye couldn’t tell. I closed the lid and glanced at her dresser drawers. Turnabout is fair play. She’d had no qualms going through my possessions and even rearranging them to suit her own fancy. No harm in me doing the same.