Rock Spider (A New Hampshire Mystery Book 2)

by Mira Gibson

  “Excuse me, hi,” said Gertrude from the foot of the steps, getting her attention.

  “Can I help you?”

  Gertrude rode through the awkward sting of being sized up, as the woman looked her up and down, her narrowing emerald-green eyes full of judgment that contradicted her plastic smile.

  Gertrude could tell Zhana found her hard to look at, but plowed ahead regardless, clearing her throat to say, “I hope so. I’m with Social Services. Gertrude Inman. You’re Roberta’s mother?”

  “Oh,” she interrupted, waving her hand and smiling as if dismissing the matter. “We’re doing just fine. My husband should’ve made sure your department closed the file. I’ll remind him.”

  Gertrude couldn’t have felt smaller looking up at the tall woman, who from the porch, was towering.

  Confused, she asked, “Close the file?”

  “I don’t understand that stuff either.” She let out a breathy laugh as though they were in this together, but it seemed contrived. “We’d like our privacy during this difficult time. I’m sure you can understand.”

  “I do. Certainly. And you can trust me to keep this private, but I do need to talk to you and your husband and Roberta.”

  “Well,” said Zhana, taking it in and keeping it light, though her breezy attitude caused Gertrude’s stomach to clench. “I hope you don’t mind if I do a little gardening while we speak. These bushes have been nagging me all summer.”

  She wasn’t exactly asking for permission to carry on as she held Gertrude’s gaze. It felt more like she was daring Gertrude to stop her, knowing full well she wouldn’t. And after a beat she trained her attention on the Miracle Grow bag, forcing it open by tearing its top edge, while Gertrude stood there wrestling with her crippling doubts. Zhana's air was rendering her inept.

  “See this?” she asked, leaning over the railing and brushing her gloved hand over the yellowing fronds of one of the bushes. “It’s purple Lythrum. It should have axils of small purple flowers sprouting out of it this time of year. Such a shame.”

  As concerned for the plant as she seemed, when Zhana started chucking fistfuls of Miracle Grow at it like an exterminator bombing pests, it dawned on Gertrude she wasn’t the only one out of her element.

  Continuing the assault by working her way across the porch and throwing an ungodly amount of lawn fertilizer down, Zhana said, “These are Japanese rose bushes, but do you think I’ve seen a rose? Not in years. And the Hungarian bromes have all but shriveled up.”

  “Let’s talk about Maude.”

  Pausing, Zhana pressed her mouth into a hard line. “Such a disturbed little girl.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Ms. Inman,” she said, smirking at Gertrude as though she was at a loss for communicating with an idiot, “she killed herself. If that’s not disturbed, I don’t know what is.”

  “Sorry, I thought you were implying there were signs.”

  “There weren’t any. Not even one.” Zhana sighed, sinking into her hip, on which she planted her fist and gazed out at the yard with unfocused eyes.

  During the interlude, Gertrude stole a quick glance at the keg of beer tucked into the far corner of the porch.

  “Teenagers,” Zhana said with a quirked smile, having caught Gertrude. “Impossible to control. Truth be told, I’ve loosened my parenting since Maude’s death. Roberta doesn’t need me policing her. She’s grieving, I’m sure, and I don’t think it’s fair to put additional pressure on her.”

  Not wanting to criticize her outright, which wouldn’t serve gaining her trust or help Gertrude ferret out the actual details she was after, Gertrude held her tongue and didn’t mention that Roberta needed structure, rules, and firm parenting. Instead, she waded into the issue at hand of whether or not Charlie had removed the guns from the house as he’d been ordered.

  “Could you tell me, by your account, what exactly happened?”

  “Please,” she said impatiently, “come in. Let’s have a seat.”

  After a moment of appearing pained to leave the plants in dire straits, she pulled the screen door open for Gertrude, who smiled with relief that she would finally get to the bottom of this.

  Following her, Gertrude stepped inside the New England cottage and noted the interior was as aged and manicured as Zhana—scuffed wooden floors, chipped and peeling navy-blue walls, a blue checkered couch with matching chair, both in need of being reupholstered. Gertrude imagined, in its heyday, the home might have been the envy of the neighbors, but it was clearly nearing disrepair.

  “Have a seat,” said Zhana, indicating the coastal dining table beyond the couch. “Care for a drink?”

  Gertrude didn’t get the feeling she was offering anything but a cocktail so she told her a water would be fine, as she settled into one of the wooden chairs.

  “I recommend a hard drink. I’ll certainly need one.”

  Without waiting for her response, Zhana rounded the half-wall separating the living room from the kitchen, and with her back to Gertrude started making what appeared to be martinis.

  In Gertrude’s observation, her movements were pronounced, but also faintly glamorous as though she exuded old Hollywood grace.

  When she finished, she carried over the martini glasses, filled to their brims, and set them gingerly on the table then sat in the chair adjacent to Gertrude, who by this point found Zhana’s need to drink glaringly inappropriate.

  “The fact of the matter,” she began after pursing her lips to her glass and drawing in a slow but long sip, “is that I don’t know what happened to Maude. No one does. It was very late at night and I’d gone to bed.” Pausing as if to collect her scattered recollections, she trained her gaze on her drink.

  “Take your time.” Gertrude pulled the pen she’d clipped to the top of her notepad and found her list of questions, flipping the sheets back, careful not to spill the family photo.

  “The shot woke me,” she went on. “And at first I was too scared to get out of bed. I don’t know if I was in my bedroom for a minute or an hour, I really don’t. It felt like an eternity.”

  “What did your husband do?” When Zhana furrowed her brow seeming unsure, Gertrude clarified, “Wasn’t he in bed with you if it was so late?”

  “No,” she said in a far away tone, “he wasn’t.”

  Gertrude made a note.

  “Why are you writing that down?”

  Registering Zhana’s distrustful scowl, she mentioned, “It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “You’re not a detective,” she said in a stern tone. “We’ve already spoken to the police.”

  “No, I know. I’m just being thorough for my report. It’s all internal.”

  Zhana studied her for a brief moment, perhaps scrutinizing the validity of her statement as if she could read on her face whether or not she was lying.

  “I guess Charlie was down in his office and I imagine Roberta was in her room. I was terrified it might have been an intruder and so I listened for Charlie, thinking he'd take charge of the situation, but when I didn’t hear anything, I ventured out and immediately saw her.”

  Explaining as much as she had seemed to age her and this time when Zhana paused to drink, lifting her martini with a trembling hand, she drained the glass.

  “You don’t understand,” she went on in a quavering voice, low and weak. She swallowed hard. “The shot. Her head. She'd blown her face off.”

  Giving weight to how difficult this was for Zhana, Gertrude sat with her in a long moment of supportive silence then asked, “She took her life in the hallway?”

  Shaking her head, she corrected her. “No, Maude’s bedroom is directly across the hall from ours. Her door was open. That’s how I saw her.”

  Gertrude considered the few pieces she had. The timeline, according to Zhana, was disturbing. Though Charlie and Roberta were at home, as much as an hour could’ve passed and the first person to reach Maude was the only one who’d been asleep? It didn’t sound right. But Zhana h
ad prefaced her statement by mentioning it might have only been a minute, she’d been too frightened to process how much time had elapsed.

  “What happened next?”

  “I screamed,” she said. “Charlie came racing up the stairs and Roberta a few minutes after that.”

  “So he heard you scream but didn’t hear a gun going off?”

  “I really don’t know,” she sighed. “I had assumed that he had heard the shot and came running.”

  “The house isn’t that big,” she countered, looking around.

  Eyeing the martini she’d made for Gertrude, Zhana perked up, reaching out and asking, “Forgive me, are you going to drink that?”

  “Please.” Gertrude scooped the glass up and there was a careful pass-off between them then Zhana brought the drink to her lips. When it seemed Zhana had relaxed, having overcome the massive hurdle of recounting the sequence of events that night, Gertrude set her pen down and laced her fingers with an air of authority. “Mrs. King,” she began, formulating choice words in her head before speaking them, “in your opinion, how was it possible for Maude to get her hands on one of your husband’s guns?”

  Straightening her back, her tone became direct. “Do not misunderstand this household,” she warned. “Charlie is very careful with his firearms. We’re not reckless.”

  Not only did it not address her question, it also contradicted Roberta’s statement that there were so many guns strewn throughout the house that she'd become desensitized.

  “That may be,” she said as though it were a verbal olive branch. “However, Maude is no longer alive-”

  “Do you have any idea how determined these types are?” she challenged, eyes firing angrily. “How could we have stopped her from killing herself when she seemed fine? She was determined,” she said, reiterating how tenacious those fated for suicide could be. “She hid her anguish and torment from us. She stole that weapon. She made no mistake. She had a dark mind and succeeded.”

  Gertrude couldn’t press the issue without causing her to shut down, but backing off entirely wasn’t an option.

  Before she could angle in further, however, Zhana groaned as if recalling something then spoke up in a milder tone. “The funeral was an utter disaster, all those unruly children crawling over every inch of this house, too ignorant to understand. But,” she shifted her tone again, this time sounding strangely optimistic, “we really are fine and there’s no need for you to be here.”

  “I know Charlie was ordered to remove all the firearms from the home,” she stated dryly in response. “We’re under the impression he hasn’t.”

  “No, he hasn’t.”

  That she'd admitted it was almost jarring. Suddenly, Gertrude was aware of her pounding heart. This was a victory. Charlie had violated an order and once she filed the paperwork, she could get Roberta placed in a safe environment.

  “You don’t know what it’s like here with Roberta.” It sounded like her mouth had gone dry, and Zhana seemed to wilt, explaining, “If Maude had a reason for killing herself...” but she trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

  “So, there may have been a reason?” she asked, surmising as much.

  “I didn’t want to have to get into it, because I don’t want to blame Roberta, but Roberta’s been in some trouble. None of it her fault,” she quickly clarified. “But over the years she's gotten involved with a few characters, a handful really. Men. We tried to shield Maude from it, but, you know, children can be observant.”

  “What kind of trouble? Inappropriate behavior?” she asked with her pen poised to document the details.

  “Oh please.” Zhana placed her hand over Gertrude’s, stopping her. “Please don’t tie it up with Maude’s death. Please.”

  Her rounding eyes and sickened grimace gave Gertrude the impression she’d shatter if what she were about to say was recorded so she set the pen down, listening.

  “There were some charges, not against Roberta mind you; but, well, the young men she had become involved with were arrested.”

  Horrified in her assumption Roberta had been gang raped, she nearly gasped.

  Catching Gertrude’s near slip, Zhana immediately said, “Separate incidences. Over the past few years, that is. Charlie was convinced she was being victimized, but I never thought that. Anyway, that’s how we got roped into all this social services business.” She fanned her brows up as though the connection was beyond her. “The point being, Maude was probably traumatized by these ordeals. Maybe she feared another was on the horizon.”

  “Can I speak with Roberta?”

  “She isn’t here. Probably off with that neighbor boy from up the street. Running wild and deflowering the neighborhood virgins,” she explained, waving her hand in an exasperated yet graceful arch, embarrassed but smiling.

  “What about Charlie?”

  “He’s not here either. I can have him give you a call if you like?”

  Flipping the pages of her notebook to return to the top sheet, she realized she hadn’t any business cards so she began writing her office and cell phone numbers down. Her hand felt vaguely limp and her fingers wouldn’t fully grip the pen. She fought to keep the numbers legible, all the while a burning self-consciousness that she was taking too long roiled through her. When she finally tore off the information, she tried not to cringe. It looked as if written by a small child.

  Zhana looked it over once Gertrude set it down in front of the empty martini glasses then met her gaze, saying, “That’s an interesting hairdo.”

  Feigning a smile, she said, “It wasn’t my doing,” and got up from the table.

  After Zhana rose as well, shedding her grief as though she only felt it at the table, she touched her blonde coif, disclosing, “Mine’s been falling out.” She forced a sheepish smile. “So it would seem we have that in common. Oh, not that yours is falling out,” she quickly added as if the possibility of offending Gertrude pained her. “But I’ll be bald soon I’m sure.” Then she clapped her hands in conclusion. “I’ll walk you out.”

  Hoping to get her ID back from Roberta, but knowing it would have to wait until the girl returned, she followed Zhana through the house, and onto the porch where they stepped carefully over the array of gardening materials and down the steps.

  “When should I expect you back?”

  As Zhana sank into her hip and smiled expectantly, Gertrude became distracted when she thought she smelled something odd like sour refuse, which seemed to be coming from the plants. Shaking off the notion, she met Zhana’s gaze.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The woman’s smile hardened, though it retained a pleasant sheen. “I look forward to it.”

  Giving the bushes one last discrete glance—the rank smell could be in her head, brainwaves misfiring—she thought she spotted a few spiders then pivoted, tearing her gaze away and starting down the driveway.

  Walking across the gravel towards her car, which she’d parked on the grassy shoulder of Moulton beyond the tree line, Gertrude found herself latching onto what it must have been like for Roberta to hear a gun go off in her own home. For as troubling as it was to try to make sense of the long delay between Roberta, Zhana, and even Charlie hearing the shot and finding Maude, if she was in the exact same situation, she couldn’t be sure she’d be quick up those stairs either.

  But why was that? Why did she feel so certain that she would’ve hidden out, too terrified to investigate, if a shot had rung out in her house?

  Just as she reached the driver’s side door of her Audi, a rush of memories washed over her, transporting her to a time she and Doris were living in their parents' house.

  Doris had been perched at the end of her bed, flipping through the glossy pages of Better Homes & Gardens even though she was only five,and dreaming of a different life, Gertrude guessed from where she'd been reclining against the headboard.

  She could remember watching her sister, but she’d felt rattled, as though someone down below was percolating, readying to boil over
in a rage. Her breaths had been shallow, her ears alert as if being poised, hyper-aware of the activity in the house could save them both from some terrible, impending fate.

  As soon as the gun went off in her memory—Doris: startling to her feet in a jolt, gaze widening with hers, Gertrude: jumping off the bed to make sure the door was locked then holding her sister in their hiding spot behind the far side of the bed—Gertrude yanked the car door open and collapsed inside. In order to ground herself like Dr. Hagstaff had advised, she squeezed the steering wheel, focusing on what her eyes were seeing beyond the windshield—late afternoon sunlight striking through the trees and illuminating the Balsam firs' bushy needles, the white Birch tree trunks, the faded asphalt that wrapped around the bend and disappeared.

  But though she hadn’t entirely slipped back into the disturbing memory, she couldn’t get her mother’s face out of her head—Marsha’s serpentine grin, her poised, dark eyes, the way she’d looked down her nose at Doris and her with disdain, loosely slurring her words, You’ll live, before shutting the door.

  Marsha had used the same nonchalance as Zhana.

  Rejecting even that much so that she wouldn’t spring a panic-attack, Gertrude angled the key into the ignition, which called to mind how badly she was shuddering. But after five calming breaths, she managed to turn the engine and put the car in gear.

  As she drove home, having determined she was in no condition to return to the office, she kept breathing deeply and every time her thoughts wandered into a territory that felt dangerous, she concentrated on using the tools Dr. Hagstaff had taught her.

  It wasn’t ten minutes before her Audi was crawling into its spot in front of her cabin, a modest one-story log kit she’d mortgaged directly after college.

  She knew she’d built it herself with the help of a few contractors and of course, Doris, who had a lot to say despite never lifting a finger, but she couldn’t remember the details of the excursion, only that she’d loved stacking the stone foundation, watching the logs erect into walls, chinking the seams when necessary, and marveling at the pattern of interlacing notches, the support beams of the deck where they met the pitched roof, the simple glass windows that somehow let in so much natural light.