Cold Waters (Normal, Alabama Book 1)

by Debbie Herbert

  “Sounds like it’s in both our interests for me to retire. After all, you wouldn’t want a public stink about your lead investigator’s integrity. Not after all these years of your direct supervision.”

  I made a slow exit and slammed the door behind me, half expecting Dan to make another threat. He didn’t. I strolled to my desk and packed what few items remained there into an empty cardboard box I’d been keeping for this very moment.

  Josh smirked, watching my every move.

  “Problems?” he asked.

  “Fuck you.” I tucked the box up under my arm and walked out.

  In the parking lot, I tossed my jacket and the box in the back seat and pulled out of there for the last time. I’d expected to be sad and nostalgic, but instead, a feeling of relief washed over me.

  In many ways, I was finally free. Violet was cleared of any scandal, a sex offender was back in prison where he should be, and I finally had enough money to survive without working in the rat race. But more than any of that, my deadly secrets would now go to my grave. The only other person who knew my sin was just as guilty as me and never wanted our secrets revealed. It bound Hyacinth and me yet deeper in a complex web of passion and love and lies.

  The weight of my crimes was still there, and at the oddest moments of the day—grilling in my backyard, picking up milk at the grocery store, watching football—I was decimated, remembering the sound of water splashing as Ainsley’s body dropped into a watery grave, meeting the same fate as Irma had decades earlier.

  At least I no longer had to worry about those secrets coming to light.

  Violet and Hyacinth consumed my thoughts during the drive home.

  My daughter had humbled me when we’d spoken late last night after everyone had left and Parker had gone to bed. She hadn’t been planning to kill Delaney at all. How foolish of me to assume the worse just because she’d been working on the deck. Violet had explained that her only intent was to replace the rotten boards before she moved out. She wanted Parker to move into her old room and feed the crows in her absence.

  Only my own sin blinded me to innocence. Violet was a better person than Hyacinth and me combined. Even if she doubted her own essential goodness, my daughter was kind and compassionate. One day, she’d realize that her doubt and her struggle were what made her a decent human being. Sociopaths like Delaney were the ones who went to their grave with no regrets.

  I crossed the bridge over Hatchet Lake. Sunlight sparkled on the vast expanse of water already starting to fill the drained lake, and I took it as a reassuring sign that my life in Normal would soon return to normal.

  Only one question remained now.

  Stay with Ellie in Normal, or move to Portugal with Hyacinth? I imagined the warm, sandy beaches of Portugal. Hell, I’d even looked up her foreign town online and viewed the picturesque village where Hy had started life over. Hyacinth still dreamed about the three of us finally living together. A real family. But recent events had proved to me that we only brought out the worst in one another. I’d always wonder if Hy had gone to that balcony in hopes of Delaney accidentally falling. Initially, we’d agreed she’d sneak into the house minutes after I arrived and we’d confront Delaney together. Instead, she’d arrived ahead of me and hidden on the balcony.

  I dug out the slip of paper from my shirt pocket that Hy had slipped to me last night. It had her Algarve address scribbled on the printed receipt of a one-way plane ticket.

  I only hesitated a moment, then rolled down the car window. I tossed it out, watching as it fluttered in the wind a moment and then disappeared.

  Time to take Ellie on the vacation of her dreams. Anywhere but Portugal.

  Chapter 44

  VIOLET

  Three weeks later

  I hold the peanut in my palm and will Tux with all my soul to take this final treat. Each day, he’s drawn inches closer, but he’s never been bold enough to feed directly from my hand. He cocks his head and regards me. The blue gray of his baby-crow eyes from our first meeting has darkened to a midnight hue that matches his plumage. His mouth has also deepened from red to black, transforming Tux into a perfect creature of the shadows. His talons grip the railing, and he sidles forward, one foot and then the other, making cautious progress.

  “You know you want it,” I say in my best crow-whisperer voice. “I won’t hurt you, little buddy. Promise. We’re friends.”

  In a burst of flapping wings, he descends on my palm and scoops the peanut into his beak, one eye on me all the while. Too soon, he flies off to his usual perch, crunching his treat.

  My throat constricts painfully. “Thank you, Tux.”

  I can’t believe I’m leaving him again. I thought about Tux often while away, imagined that he was a friend waiting for me to return home. It brought me comfort during dark times.

  Willie Crenshaw pulls into the drive, and I reluctantly cross to my bedroom door.

  “Dad’s going to take good care of you,” I tell Tux. “Same treat, same time, same place.”

  I walk through the old bedroom of my youth. Already, the construction crew has painted the old lavender walls a sage green, and tomorrow Dad’s new furniture will arrive. At the closet door, I pause, eyeing the crow-gift boxes on the top shelf. Should I take them with me? I’ve had them since elementary school, and the sight and feel of them always comfort me when I’m lonely.

  “They’re fine where they are,” I mumble aloud. They’ll be here waiting for me if I need them again. But halfway down the steps I stop, turn around, and return to the closet. I gather up most of the bits and baubles—marbles, buttons, string—anything that happened to catch their fancy. My cupped hands throb with their warmth as I carry them to the balcony. Tux has already flown the coop, but I feel him watching me from afar. I lay out the gifts on the small wicker table. “For you,” I explain.

  Somehow, I know he’ll remember these. The pretty colored objects will catch his eye and make him curious and happy all at once. A crow smorgasbord of treasure.

  Downstairs, Cora, Dad, and Willie sit at the table drinking coffee. She and Willie seem happy with our arrangement. They’ll stay here in the house with Dad, looking after him and overseeing the home renovation crew as they spruce up the place. I’m paying Cora double her Whispering Oaks salary, plus throwing in free room and board for the two of them.

  “You sure you can afford this?” they asked when I first made the proposition.

  If they knew the huge sum of money Mom had deposited in my banking account, they wouldn’t have worried.

  “Yes,” I assured them. “Keep me updated if he needs anything, or if his health suddenly worsens.”

  Not even one week after seeing the new doctor, Dad’s mental improvement has been significant. One of the first things I did after Delaney’s death was have a locksmith open the safe behind her beauty queen photo. As I’d suspected, that was where Dad’s prescriptions were hidden. Doctors analyzed the medication and concluded he’d been taking way too many sedatives.

  Without the herbal teas and excessive medication dosages from Delaney, he seems happier and more coherent most of the time, although dementia and cirrhosis are surely taking their slow, inevitable toll. He continues to randomly dig in the yard, and Willie promised to record a video when Dad uses the new metal detector and discovers the hidden treasure I strategically buried—enough Confederate coins and memorabilia to provide entertainment for whatever time he has left. It was a blast setting that up and marking the treasure locations on a map for Willie. He’ll subtly guide Dad in the right directions.

  Dad rises from the kitchen table and walks toward me. For a second, I stiffen, worrying he will hug me goodbye. We’ve never done so before, and I don’t want to start now. It is not our way.

  Thankfully, he does not. Instead, Dad stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You’re coming again to visit one day,” he says gruffly. “Right?”

  “Of course. And I’m leaving you in good hands.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. S
ure thing,” he mumbles, staring down at the floor.

  “Okay, then,” I say in my no-nonsense tone, eyeing my other suitcase by the front door. Awkwardly, I pat his shoulder. “Don’t forget to feed the crows.”

  “Don’t you worry about them birds,” Cora assures me.

  Dad leans in and whispers in my ear. “Always considered you my own daughter, you know. Sorry I was such a mean son of a—”

  I pull away. “It’s okay. It’s over.” I draw a long breath and add, “Dad.” My vision blurs, taking me by surprise. Never thought leaving this old house would make me sad. It’s not like Dad and I have ever been close, but we formed our own unlikely friendship of sorts in the wake of Delaney’s cruelty. Quickly, I nod at Willie, and he helps me with the luggage. We carry our burdens out to the car, and I avert my gaze from the patio where Delaney died.

  The crew has been instructed to jackhammer up all the cement and haul it away. Within days, new sod will be laid over the disrupted soil, erasing all physical reminders of Delaney’s fall.

  Willie and I set off, only making one pit stop at the florist’s before reaching the graveyard. I said my goodbyes to Libby and Calvin last night, and Libby promised to visit once I’ve settled down in my own place.

  Willie stays behind as I get out of the car and cross the cemetery, carrying a posy of flowers. Only a handful of folks is scattered about the grounds—all absorbed in their own loss and grief. Even though my name’s been cleared, I still hear the townspeople’s whispers everywhere I go. I’m relieved no one’s close by as I visit this grave. No probing eyes and gossiping lips to chronicle my actions.

  Under a copse of sweet gums near the river, I find the square plot of freshly turned earth. Aggressive shoots of bermuda grass snake across churned red clay. Soon, nature will take its course and blanket this patch of land covering her bones. The etched marble tombstone is modest and to the point: AINSLEY DALFRED, OUR BELOVED ANGEL, MARCH 15, 1992–JULY 2, 2007.

  Kneeling, I lay the brightly colored flowers below the marker. A quick glance over my shoulder—yes, no one can see or hear me—and I trace the cold, imprinted letters.

  “I’m sorry, Ainsley,” I whisper. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt you. If I could take it back . . .”

  But of course, there’s no going back to that night. Everyone in Normal might believe me innocent now, and legally, I’m off the hook, but in my own heart, I know better. Mom and Detective Kimbrel explained that Delaney had bashed Ainsley’s head, stolen her jewelry, and left her for dead, and Dinky Stedmyer had done the rest.

  Ainsley and I really did hear something that night. Dinky was watching us in the woods. Once Delaney had left, he took advantage of Ainsley’s weakened state, assaulted her, loaded her in his boat, and then disposed of her body.

  That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. But I would never 100 percent trust Mom or Kimbrel. I sense they each have their own agendas and secrets to preserve. As for me, technically, I might not have committed murder—but the real fault is mine and mine alone.

  That moment of rage, that one angry push, set in motion the chain of events that led to Ainsley’s death. I have to live with that. And live I will. I’m leaving the ghosts of my past behind here in a place that is Normal in name only.

  I brush the tips of my fingers against my lips and then touch the cold marble slab. “Goodbye, my friend.”

  You’ll always be my best friend.

  I close my eyes a moment, picturing Ainsley as she fell—her long dark hair a black cloud; pale, moonlit arms and legs flailing uselessly; wide, beseeching eyes—and the shrill scream that will echo in my mind until I, too, am laid to rest one day. I accept responsibility for that.

  Another memory—another fall. Delaney tumbling from my bedroom balcony, blonde hair whipping in the wind. But that accident isn’t on me.

  One death that I regret and mourn; one death that is a relief. Neither woman can now bear witness against me, whether their words be true or false. For the first time in my life, I feel free.

  A single flower remains in my hand. I stroll to Delaney’s grave and toss a lily of the valley at the foot of her tombstone, careful to hold my breath lest her recently departed spirit enter my body. She wasn’t my real sister, not biologically, and not of the heart either. I try to conjure some emotion, some grief at her passing, but I’m numb. Too bad we couldn’t be closer, I finally manage. It’s the best I can do.

  There’s only one thing left.

  I wander down by the river and reach into the pocket of my jeans, pulling out the chip of blue glass that the crows gifted me so long ago. I toss it into the water. It was a part of the past. My mind and my memories are whole now; I don’t need magical talismans.

  I stroll back across the cemetery, wondering how Mom is getting along back in Portugal. And Kimbrel isn’t all bad, as I’ve come to discover. A decent man who made mistakes. He offered to drive me to the bus station, but I declined. Maybe one day we’ll talk more. Not now, though.

  Willie stands by the Plymouth Duster. He jingles the keys. “Ready to go?” he asks.

  I nod, slipping into the passenger seat. He starts the car and slants me a curious look. “You sure you want to go? It’s never too late to change your mind. Cora’s heartsick you’re leaving Whispering Oaks, and I’m sure yer daddy wants you to stay on.”

  “Positive. I’m leaving.”

  The question is, Where to? My hand involuntarily slips into the front flap of my purse, and I run a finger along the edges of the passport and bank account card Mom has given me, but I still have no desire to live with her. Portugal sounds like another planet, an exotic hodgepodge of culture and beauty. It’s all . . . too much for me. And living with Mom, at least for now, doesn’t sound like a good idea. In my heart, she’s been dead to me for years. No, it’s time for me to strike out on my own.

  “You have my number,” I remind Willie. “We’ll stay in touch.”

  “I’ll let you know the minute he can’t live at home no more.”

  We say nothing as he crosses the bridge, but Willie lifts his right hand, curling all his fingers and thumb into his palm, except for his pinkie. I laugh and hook the pinkie of my right hand in his. Everyone knows that crossing a bridge like this means you are friends forever. There are bits and pieces of Normal that will stay with me after all, but I’ll choose only happier memories like this one.

  River water gleams under the glaring sun—cold and deep and mysterious. We cross the railroad tracks, and Willie grins, lifting his feet and arms. I play along for old times’ sake.

  As we near the white oak’s canopy, he shoots me a grin. “I knew writing you that letter to come home was a good thing. I told my Cora you’d set everything right. And you did. For yer dad and for yerself.” His grin fades. “As far as yer sister, well, it’s not up to me to judge.”

  I’m never sure how much Willie knows about what went on with my family. I suspect he knows a great deal. My own feelings about Delaney aren’t quite so charitable as his. But she’s dead now, and I refuse to let her memory rob me of another single day of peace.

  We pass under the tree’s shade. “Now make a wish,” Willie reminds me.

  I close my eyes. I wish . . . the answer materializes in a blink as I recall the flash of my blue glass chip as it disappeared into the muddy water . . . I wish for a beach cottage on the Gulf. I’ve still never seen the ocean, but I envision its blue waves and sandy shores. That’s where I’m heading. I’ll buy a little place and a car, maybe go back to school and figure out the future. Seth lives in Mobile and still works the oil rigs. Maybe I’ll look him up one day, see how he’s really coping in the outside world.

  At the loud honk, I open my eyes, smiling as we leave the tree’s shadow and emerge into sunlight.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my editors, Megha Parekh and Charlotte Herscher, and to my agent, Ann Leslie Tuttle, with the Dystel, Goderich & Bourret LLC literary agency.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORr />
  Photo © 2013 One Six Photography

  Debbie Herbert is a USA Today and Publishers Weekly bestselling author who’s always been fascinated by magic, romance, and gothic stories. Married and living in Alabama, she roots for the Crimson Tide football team. Debbie enjoys recumbent bicycling and Jet Skiing with her husband. She has two grown sons, and the oldest has autism. Characters with autism frequently appear in her works—even when she doesn’t plan on it.

  For more information, visit www.DebbieHerbert.com and sign up for her newsletter to receive a free short story. Connect with her on Facebook at Debbie Herbert Author or Debbie Herbert’s Readers and on Twitter @debherbertwrit.