In a Dark Season

by Vicki Lane

She thrust the printout at him and waited for his response. Outside, a light snow was drifting down, fat feathery flakes giving silent promise of a white Christmas.

  They were alone in the greenery-bedecked house, but for the dogs. Laurel and Rosemary had gone down to help Ben and Amanda with the ongoing care of the greenhouses, full of tender seedlings and cuttings that required watering.

  “And then we’re going in to Ransom,” her daughter had told them. “A friend of Ben’s is having a kind of open house we’re all invited to. I know, Mum”—Rosemary had held up a forestalling hand—“yes, it’s snowing. But I looked at the weather on the Internet and it’s just light flurries till after midnight. We’ll be fine. And Amanda doesn’t drink at all, so she’ll be the designated driver. If you want, we’ll take the jeep so we’ll have four-wheel drive.”

  He had watched the play of conflicting emotions on Elizabeth’s face. It was clear that she didn’t want the kids driving in snow—even a light sprinkling was enough for her to postpone all but the most urgently necessary travel. What was it she called herself—a Weather Wimp?

  It had also been clear that she wasn’t going to protest. She’ll just stay on edge till they’re all back safely. Add that to Nola’s pills and what her friends told her about the missing Bam-Bam—sweet Jesus, what a name—and she’s going to be bouncing off the walls the rest of the day.

  Phillip took the page that was waving under his nose and glanced at it. “You’re right, Lizabeth, some of it could apply to Nola. But isn’t it also possible that Nola’s behavior is the result of her fall? Or whatever it was that caused her to jump in the first place?”

  The set of her jaw told him that she wasn’t convinced. For the sake of peace, he hastened to say, “But I’ll get hold of Mackenzie about this on the twenty-sixth—we’ll have a better shot at getting his attention then; same with the other stuff.”

  Her tightened lips relaxed and he was relieved to see a lopsided smile appear. “Sorry, Phillip, I’ll let go till Christmas is over. You’re right; it can’t hurt to wait a day or two. Besides, I need to go do some cooking for tomorrow. And polish Gramma’s silver.”

  She pulled the printout from his fingers, folding it as she made her way back to the little office. “I’ll just make a quick call to Debbie at River Runners first and ask about Bam-Bam.”

  Phillip shook his head and returned to his book. She’s hopeless. I guess I just have to wait till she runs down.

  In a few moments, Elizabeth was back. “I called their house. All I got was the answering machine playing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ at me.”

  Phillip closed his book. “Miz Goodweather, I take that as God’s way of telling you to relax.” He stood, causing an instant eager response from the dogs, who crowded around the door to the mudroom, anticipating his next words.

  “Come on, let’s go for a walk. I’ll polish Gramma’s silver for you when we get back.”

  Chapter 27

  God Rest Ye Merry

  Monday, December 25

  I don’t get it—it says, ‘to Phillip from Fifi and a guy who digs chicks who dig chicks.’ What the…Who’s Fifi, anyway?”

  He looked around at the others gathered there on the sofas before the blazing fire. Laurel was standing by the huge Christmas tree, fulfilling her traditional role of distributor of presents; Elizabeth was on the love seat beside him, reading glasses pushed up on her head and pen and paper at hand to record gifts from out of town so that thank-you notes could be written. Rosemary, Ben, and Amanda occupied the larger sofa, but none of them had been given a present yet—only him.

  They were all watching him expectantly as he examined the brightly wrapped rectangular package that was obviously a book. No answers were forthcoming, however, so Phillip shrugged and began to remove the red yarn bow.

  “Not yet!” Laurel’s urgent cry stopped him and he looked at Elizabeth for guidance. What now?

  The Goodweather Christmas was in full ritual progress. The household had awakened with the sunrise and hurried into jeans and sweaters or flannel shirts. Laurel had been dispatched to feed the chickens with the eager accompaniment of Molly and Ursa, while Rosemary saw to the filling of the various bird feeders near the house. Phillip had raked the still-warm ashes from the fireplace, brought in wood, and built a new fire while Elizabeth set the table.

  “Merry Christmas!” Ben’s voice had rung out as he and Amanda came through the door. Ben carried a basket, heaped high with some last-minute additions to the pile of presents under the big tree.

  “Merry Christmas!” Amanda had echoed, setting the large glass bowl of ambrosia she had brought on the dining table, and “Merry Christmas!” Elizabeth had called from the kitchen, the sound of her voice wafting, it seemed, on the mouth-watering aroma of the cheese strata she had just taken from the oven.

  At least breakfast was straightforward enough, Phillip mused. No weirdness there.

  “We’ve always tended to chores and eaten breakfast before opening presents,” Elizabeth had explained. “When the girls were little, we’d get up around five-thirty or six, and first thing of all, they’d have their stockings and the unwrapped presents that Santa left. But we like to take our time with opening the presents from each other.”

  Evidently, he thought, looking at them all as they watched him studying the still-unopened package Laurel had handed him. All the other gifts remained beneath the tree and no one moved to claim them.

  “Phillip, I’m sorry—I forgot you wouldn’t know about our little game.” Elizabeth motioned to her daughter. “Laur, give me one of mine. Then Phillip can see what we’re up to.”

  As Laurel rooted around in search of the appropriate gift, Elizabeth asked, “Did Ben tell you about this thing we do, Amanda?”

  “Oh, yes, he even got me to help with some of the tags for his gifts to you all.” Amanda curled her long legs gracefully under her. “I think it’s a wonderful idea—at home my—” She brought her hand to her mouth and coughed. “Excuse me, I guess it’s the dry air. Anyway, my parents always let me just rip into presents so fast I didn’t have time to really appreciate what I was getting. This sounds like a fun way to slow things down.”

  “Laur, get Mum the squishy one in the paper with the holly on it. It’s an easy clue.” Rosemary pointed at a lumpy package.

  Laurel picked it up and put it in her mother’s lap. Elizabeth squinted at the homemade gift tag, then adjusted her reading glasses and read aloud: “‘To Mum from the man nicknamed for the old cut on his cheek, the man who lost the high card.’” Phillip looked around. Every last one of them was grinning, except Elizabeth, whose face was serious. She appeared to be working out a problem of some kind. Weird.

  “‘Old cut on his cheek’”…Elizabeth spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. “‘Cheek’ as in ‘face,’ Rosie? Or…”

  “Face, definitely face.” Rosemary’s own face was full of delighted anticipation. “And an old cut would become a…?”

  “Scab?” Elizabeth hazarded.

  “Close…later it would be a…”

  “A scar? Oh, I’ve got it!” Elizabeth’s face lit up with sudden glee. “Scarface! Right?”

  Rosemary nodded. “Now, if Scarface loses the high card…”

  “And aces are high! So Scarface minus the ace is scarf!” She untied the ribbon and carefully set it aside, then tore open the flimsy paper.

  “Oh, Rosie, one of your gorgeous hand-knit scarves! And the beautiful yarns, so many shades of red! Thank you, sweetie. And what a terrific puzzle!”

  Elizabeth draped the long scarf around her neck and turned to him. “Do you see how it works? The tag is a clue to help you guess what’s inside.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure this is a book. But I don’t see where Fifi or this other stuff—”

  “But the game is to guess the title or the subject or the author of the book. Or all three.”

  He looked at her and saw a plea in her bright blue eyes. Please, be part of this. Part of us.


  Running a hand over his head, he grinned. “Jeez, a fella has to be a detective to open presents with you guys. But I think I get it. You all do a few more before I try mine, okay?”

  Amanda’s package appeared to be another book. These are some reading folks—I’d say at least half the packages under the tree are probably books.

  “‘Almost a fact and more than a smile.’” The smooth beautiful brow creased minutely in the least hint of a frown. “‘Weed out the capsicums and find a female’s spheroid toy.’ Wow, this is tough.”

  She looked toward the love seat. “It’s your writing, Elizabeth, isn’t it? Any hints?”

  “You’re looking for three words—start at the end: ‘a female’s spheroid toy.’”

  “A ball?” Amanda’s voice was tentative.

  “Whose ball?” Elizabeth insisted.

  “Hers…the female’s…her ball. Her ball…is that it? An herbal? I’ve been wanting one so I can look stuff up.”

  “But whose herbal?” The glee in Elizabeth’s face was infectious.

  Amanda grinned back at her. “One of the most famous, of course. Culpeper’s. Brilliant! ‘Weed out the capsicums’—cull the peppers.” Her elegant fingers began to remove the wrapping and then stopped. “But what’s the other part: ‘Almost a fact and more than a smile?’”

  “I’m pretty proud of that.” Elizabeth lowered her eyes in assumed modesty. “It tells what kind of copy of Culpeper’s Herbal it is.”

  There were blank looks all round and then Rosemary’s quiet voice said, “It’s a facsimile copy—‘almost a fact’— F-A-C—and ‘more than a smile’—S-M-I-L-E with an extra i.”

  She nodded at her mother. “Good one, Mum.”

  And so it had gone till the last clue had been unraveled, explained, applauded. It’s really the game that’s the big deal, more than the presents. The game and the time they take to appreciate each other’s puzzles. I like that.

  And he had acquitted himself well, with the cheerful help of broad hints. Damn, they’ve got me doing it. The gift from Fifi had resolved itself into a copy of The French Broad, by Wilma Dykeman. It was from Ben and Amanda, and Ben had talked him through the clue, beaming with pride at his own cleverness. After that, Phillip had managed to puzzle out the other tags attached to the modest pile of gifts that had come to him.

  It had been a pleasant day. A terrific day. He had dreaded being asked to carve the turkey, not wanting to seem to take what had been Sam’s place. But there hadn’t been a turkey. Instead there was a trio of roasted ducks, burnished golden brown, which Elizabeth had skillfully and quickly sliced and disjointed. A pan of dressing: an exotic mixture of bread cubes, herbs, onions, and celery, dotted with andouille sausage, pistachio nuts, and kumquat slices; thin bright green beans; and a lettuce-and-citrus salad garnished with jewel-like pomegranate seeds accompanied the ducks. Champagne with the meal, then coffee and a creamy white dessert that Elizabeth had said was “Gramma’s Charlotte Russe.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need to eat for a week,” he groaned, dropping onto the sofa and falling back against the cushions.

  Elizabeth looked up from the three open books which she seemed to be trying to read all at once. “You survived it—the full family folderol.”

  “It was great, Lizabeth, the way Christmas should be.” His eyes were closing of their own accord. “Family…”

  Elizabeth jerked awake and the book that had been on her lap fell to the floor as the telephone’s shrill ring ripped through her contented, semicomatose, post-Christmas-dinner doze. Turkeys have tryptophan that makes you sleepy; I wonder about ducks. Quite a few glasses of champagne and some port probably contributed.

  She pulled herself up and hurried to the phone. Phillip, stretched full length on the sofa, slept on. The house was very quiet, Ben and the three girls having set off to enjoy the sunset from the top of Pinnacle. Ursa and Molly had followed them out the door, but James had only shivered and settled deeper into the cushions on the love seat.

  Snatching up the phone, she greeted the unknown caller with all the cheerfulness she could muster in her befuddled state. “Merry Christmas!”

  “And tra la la to you, Lizzy.” Gloria’s voice was cold and there was a suspicious slurring to her words. “I’d been hoping my only child might call on Christmas Day but as he couldn’t find the time—”

  “No fair, Glory. Ben tried twice this morning to get you and there was no answer.”

  “Oh. Well, Jerry and I were at the club for brunch—they do a magnificent buffet—and we just got back. Jerry and I have reconciled, thank you for asking. Oh, and thank you for the wreath—very charming. So clever of you. I hope the blouse I sent is something you’ll wear. Your wardrobe is so drab—a little glitter now and then will perk you up.”

  “Thank you so much, Glory! I love the color. Coral is one of my favorites.” And if I can pick off the bloody sequined flamingo, I might actually wear the thing.

  “Wonderful. Now let me speak to Ben; Jerry and I are on our way to a party and he fusses if I leave my cell on.”

  “Good for Jerry. But Ben and Amanda and the girls have gone up the mountain. There was a lovely fluffy snow yesterday and they were hoping to get some pictures of the sunset from the top—”

  “God! Hiking! How dreary of them. Well, give them all my love….”

  A thought struck Elizabeth. “Glory, wait a second! I was wondering, do you happen to know anyone named Greer who lives in Tampa? I know it’s a big place and all, but—”

  “In a minute, Jerry!” Gloria was evidently speaking to her husband in the next room. “For heavens sake, this is my only sister and it’s Christmas! In just a goddamn minute!”

  Wonder how long this reconciliation will last? Elizabeth waited.

  “Greer? Hmmm. It sounds familiar but I can’t quite place it. Charlie Greer? No, that was Charlie Weir. Oh, of course! Greer was the name—Hang on, Lizzy. I have a call on the other line.”

  You have a call on this bloody line, fumed Elizabeth, but rather than hanging up, as she usually did when Gloria put her on hold, she gritted her teeth and practiced patience. At last Gloria returned.

  “I swear, that woman can’t dress for a party without having to find out what all her friends are wearing. If—”

  “Greer, Glory. Do you know someone named Greer?”

  “Well, Lizzy, I was trying to tell you. Spencer Greer was the name of the man Amanda’s mother, Ronnie Lucas, used to be married to. It was such a tragic—All right, Jerry! Here I come! Sorry, Lizzy, Jerry’s about to stroke out. We’ll talk later.”

  The Drover’s Road IX

  The Dark Enchantress

  So you returned at last to Gudger’s Stand. The Professor laid aside the month-old newssheet that had wrapped a handful of sugar cakes in Nettie Mae’s basket. And there you found…?

  Lydy looked up from a dispirited examination of his filthy, broken fingernails. Looks like that jury’d git done before now. What was that you said?

  My young friend, be heartened by the delay, not downcast. It is, I believe, a propitious sign. Tell me of your return to Gudger’s Stand.

  Well, hit was a quare thing. When we was nearin the stand, I was of two minds. I weren’t yet ready to leave off travelin round and seein new places but I was as eager as a billy goat in rut to lay down with Luellen again. But somehow, when I finally did see her, she weren’t to my taste no more.

  Oh, she was still soft and pink and that yaller hair was shining but I seen right off that she was breedin. And when she run to me and grabbed at my arm, why, I begun to think of one of them basket fish-traps the Indians used to make. We had one, back to the home place. Them traps is wide at one end and the fish, he swims in, thinkin all along that he kin turn and swim back out everwhen he wants to. So he keeps on a-swimmin, farther and farther in, and the trap keeps gittin narrower and narrower till that fish is stuck, not able to turn, not hardly able to move.

  It’s been said by some, the Professor hesi
tated as if reluctant to commit an indelicacy, that is, the hoi polloi are of the opinion that you fell in love with Belle at first sight and that was your reason for spurning the fair Luellen, the young woman who was carrying your babe beneath her heart.

  The Professor laid his hand on his chest, frowned, and moved it lower. A vile phrase: mawkishly sentimental and anatomically inaccurate, he muttered to himself.

  Lydy spat in the direction of the noxious waste bucket. Now here’s a thing to consider, Professor. How’s a man to know whose babe a woman’s carrying, unless he’s kept her locked away and solitary for nine months and more afore the child is born? Luellen vowed hit was mine but I knowed she hadn’t been a maid when first we lay down together. And then I come to find out that her and that Ramsey feller, the one who’d went away right afore I come to Gudger’s Stand, the same one what those fellers had said was found drownded in the river, they’d been layin up together for some little while. And from things Belle told, that baby could have been got by several fellers.

  No, Lydy hardened his face and leaned back against the bricks of the wall behind his bunk, Luellen wanted to give her baby a name and she flat tolled me in with the promise of a share in Gudger’s Stand iffen we wed—tolled me in like tolling a hog with a handful of corn, tolling him right to the butcher.

  Of course, one is sensible of a man’s distaste at finding himself on such a lee shore. Indeed, I am keenly in sympathy with your aversation to such perceived trammels, but after all, my young friend, did not the inducement of the eventual proprietorship of Gudger’s Stand outweigh so small an impediment as a child not of your getting? Many a man would gladly raise a whole brood of cuckoos for such a prize.

  Reckon that man hadn’t held Belle Caulwell in his arms nor had her lay her white hand upon him, claimin him fer her own.

  Lydy spoke without heat or rancor, merely a bald statement of fact, fact as immutable as the sunrise in the east.

  Ah, the pulchritudinous Belle, the dark enchantress. The Professor straightened, his eyes alight. At last we come to Belle. Of course, I saw her during the early stages of your trial. Until my father-in-law-to-be had me incarcerated, I, like many others of this benighted county, followed the proceedings assiduously. Belle Caulwell was, of course, the cynosure of our interest: the beautiful, bereft widow, sitting there in the courtroom, her dark head bent to her needlework during the doleful proceedings, her classic features like marble as she gave her evidence. And of course I heard the whispers…pray, Lydy, tell me more of this enchantress.