Rosemary for Remembrance

by Christine Arness

  A gruesome thought occurred to her—a body might never be discovered down in this deserted rabbit warren. She’d toured the museum once and knew that at the end of the hall was a storage area containing a mountain of crated, unused exhibits—perfect for concealing evidence of a crime. A macabre voice from the part of her brain that enjoyed Stephen King novels whispered that the future might find her bones on display as an ancient skeleton.

  His posture as stiff as a soldier on parade, Austin’s expression reflected a man at peace, or one who no longer feared the consequences of his actions.

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a meeting room?”

  She shook her head, wanting to remain between him and the comfort of the stairs. “Do you know why I requested this meeting?”

  “To accuse me of Rosemary’s murder.” A statement, not a question. “Go ahead, make your accusation.”

  All of her carefully formulated sentences had flown, leaving her with nothing but a jumble of words on her tongue. She’d set herself up. With a stab of horror, she remembered that even her message to Ross could be misconstrued—she’d said nothing about the basement.

  Noting her hesitation, the judge’s smile broadened in tolerant amusement. “You may relax—I want to confess.”

  She’d been walking a tightrope of nerves and Austin had cut the rope, leaving her standing on nothing but air. A wave of dizziness washed over her. “You do?”

  He thrust his hands into the pockets of his impeccably tailored jacket. “In return, I ask that you please do everything possible to keep Julia’s name out of this. Family pride is all she has and if that’s taken away from her…”

  His voice trailed away and Abigail sighed. The queasiness in her stomach subsided as she found herself on solid footing. “So you admit to killing Rosemary?”

  Austin nodded. “One minute the road was clear and the next she was lying under my wheels. I swear I never saw her, but between numerous cups of punch at the dance and Nathan’s flask, I wouldn’t have noticed an elephant standing by the roadside.” He loosened the knot of his dark green tie as though the narrow strip of material choked him.

  “What happened that night?”

  He flinched. “Over and over, I picture the scene in my mind. Celeste asleep beside me, Nathan smoking in the backseat, and Julia railing at me for dancing with Rosemary. Kelton Road was, of course, pitch-dark and I remember cursing the headlight that had burned out on the way to the dance. But then the slide projector of memory skips to the next scene where I’m kneeling beside Rosemary’s body and my sister is saying, ‘You killed her, you drunken fool!’”

  “Three witnesses and no one came forward?”

  “Celeste never woke up and Nate wouldn’t risk losing my sister, even if he knew I’d killed twenty people. But it did seem like a blessing in disguise when he died in an accident on the very eve of his wedding to Julia and his lips were sealed by the grave.”

  A muscle along his jaw twitched and Abigail smothered a stirring of pity. “Your father covered up the killing for you.”

  He corrected her with a bitter smile. “Not for me—for the family. Father was…livid—I thought he was going to have a stroke. He called Givens, the coroner, and the editor of the newspaper and arranged to have the whole thing hushed up. Julia swore Nate to secrecy and Father threatened to ruin him if he ever talked. My car with its dented grill was shipped to a Chicago dealership and I was sentenced to a Harvard prison cell.”

  Austin’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears, pale blue lakes behind a curtain of rain. “I loved Rosemary. We’d planned to run away together to Paris that evening. If I hadn’t drunk so much at the dance to get my courage up…” He closed his eyes, his voice an anguished whisper. “I never even knew she was pregnant.”

  By not telling Austin about the baby, Rosemary had completed the betrayal and twisted the knife in the wound; love’s sweet illusion had been shattered by the revelation in the newspaper story. As if overwhelmed by his new awareness of his lover’s deceit, the judge began to cry, and without hesitation, Abigail stepped forward and put her arms around him. He cried like a child, deep heartbroken sobs that shook his slender frame, as Abigail murmured words of comfort to the man who’d ended Rosemary’s short life.

  After a few moments, Austin stepped back and made an effort to compose himself. “I’ll be happier making atonement for my sins than continuing this travesty of a ‘successful’ life. My wretched existence these many years proves that when a man destroys the thing he loves the most, he destroys himself.”

  After José had positioned the bag behind a wooden pillar, Helen sent him away, promising to follow after she’d set the timer. The boy seemed bewildered by her choice of a destination, but she’d refused to share her reason for wanting to destroy this place. She could tell his cooperation was just to humor an old woman. José didn’t think the makeshift explosive would work and seemed unaware she’d managed to correct his efforts to sabotage its preparation.

  She eased her body down to a seated position; the cement floor was cool against the backs of her extended legs. She’d only been in the courthouse once, years earlier when her husband died.

  Helen held up her hands as if seeing them for the first time. Ten fingers gnarled by years of washing dishes and gardening, a narrow wedding circlet worn by time. A band of pain tightened around her temples and Helen blinked; her field of vision was fuzzy around the edges as if her brain had been wrapped in skeins of wool. Where was she? Oh, yes, the courthouse. She had to protect herself from Darlene and the court.

  Thus recalled to her mission, Helen lifted the wool off the top of the bag and moved the hands of the alarm clock. Thirty minutes. She sank back as the pain lanced through her head again, closed her eyes against the glare of the naked light bulb overhead. She would rest. There was plenty of time.

  “What is the next step?” Austin had regained control of his emotions.

  Abigail realized that coming to terms with Michael’s death had also removed the desire to seek retribution for Rosemary’s. The man standing before her had already inflicted upon himself a more terrible punishment than the judicial system ever could.

  “The state’s attorney must make that determination, Judge Kyle. I’m sure he’ll take into consideration that your mistake in judgment stemmed from youth—”

  “A mistake? As if I broke a window instead of killing Rosemary and our child.” He clawed at his tie again as if feeling a hangman’s noose tightening around his throat. “I’d rather have died myself than harm a hair of her precious head. But I agreed to keep quiet to protect the family. Father always stressed that we were ‘Kyles’ as though the blood of the gods ran in our veins. May I call Julia from the courthouse? I don’t want news of my arrest coming from anyone else.”

  The strong tie between brother and sister remained firm, Abigail reflected as the judge soaked his handkerchief at the water fountain set against the wall and washed the tear stains from his face. It was ironic that Rosemary, who had sought to tear them apart, in death had linked them together with an unbreakable chain, a bond that had ruined their lives by entangling them together in a sticky web of lies and deceit, neither one able to break free.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps as someone descended the stairs.

  Chapter 54

  High-heeled pumps, long legs clad in smoky hose, and a pale yellow linen skirt preceded Julia Kyle’s erect shoulders and distinctive profile down the steps. Upon reaching the foot of the staircase, the woman paused and studied the couple standing near the water fountain.

  Austin seemed to shrink under his sister’s scrutiny but Abigail stared back without flinching. In another few minutes, we’d have been on our way to the courthouse, she thought. So close.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Kyle.”

  Julia ignored the greeting, her white-gloved hands gripping the handle of her matching cloth purse as she studied the judge. “Austin, your face is damp and smudged.” Having reduce
d her brother to the level of a grubby grade-school boy, she directed her attention to Abigail. “And I gave you a clear warning, Ms. James, that my brother was not to be the subject of further harassment on your part.”

  Abigail doubled up her fists at the patronizing tone and winced at the resulting pain in her bandaged hand. “We were having a private talk, Ms. Kyle. Judge Kyle was telling me what happened the night Rosemary Dickison was killed.”

  “I see.” Julia moved forward, the tapping of her heels surprisingly loud in the narrow hall. “And what did happen, Austin? You were not quite sober—perhaps your recollection is at fault. You see, Ms. James, I was in the car and I’m prepared to swear that nothing happened.”

  Austin started to speak, but she silenced him with a motion of her left hand and Abigail noticed a dark orange-brown stain on the sleeve of the woman’s suit jacket. “Well, Ms. James?”

  “Your brother has already confessed to striking Rosemary Dickison with his car. We were on our way to the state’s attorney’s office.”

  “It is indeed fortunate that I happened along to save you from the embarrassment of a false confession, Austin. The strain of campaigning for the court nomination has been too much for you—we’ll take steps to withdraw your name immediately.”

  Abigail interceded—the judge seemed to have fallen under the spell of Julia’s silken tones. “His story fits the facts, Ms. Kyle, even if he was under the influence of alcohol. But I’m sure the prosecutor will be open to a negotiated plea—he might not have to spend time in jail.”

  “How magnanimous of you, my dear child. My brother won’t have to spend time in jail for a crime he didn’t commit.”

  Austin spoke for the first time. “Julia, you know I killed her. It’s no use in pretending any longer that it didn’t happen. We’ll survive the scandal. Besides, we’re the last of the line—there’s no future generation to protect.”

  Julia winced at his words. “Austin, you never did understand the concept of family honor. I warn you, if you persist in this madness, I will go to the state’s attorney myself and sign an affidavit stating what actually happened—it will be my word against an emotionally unstable old man who spends his time locked in a workshop carving ducks.” She turned to Abigail and one corner of her mouth lifted in scorn. “Check, I believe. Your move, my dear.”

  The muffled tick of the clock in the bag had become the clip-clop of shod hooves against packed earth. Helen leaned back against the wall as the cool, dry air of the basement turned warm and humid against her face and the night breeze blew through her hair…

  Quill’s neck was damp and matted with sweat as Helen leaned forward and patted the animal just below the bristling mane. With a tug on the rein, she turned the mare onto the path that cut between two fields before intersecting Kelton Road and clapped her heels against the animal’s firm barrel. As she rode, above the whisper of the wind, Helen heard a woman scream.

  Reining Quill down to a canter, Helen cupped her hand to her ear and listened again, this time identifying only the rumble of a car engine. The corn on either side and the trees lining the road prevented her from seeing anything but the grassy lane in front of the horse. She was uneasy—the sound might have been a peacock or a couple “sparking” on Kelton Road, but no one near here kept peacocks and that shriek had not been one of delight.

  The trees parted up ahead and some instinct for caution caused Helen to pull up the mare and dismount, walking forward until she could see the car idling on the graveled surface of Kelton Road, its sleek shape barely visible through the gloom—a Cyclops with a yellow eye piercing the darkness.

  A figure in a flowing dress slipped out from behind the wheel, hurried around to the front of the car, and knelt down as Helen’s unbelieving eyes recognized the pale object lying almost under the tires—a woman, limp and motionless. A cloud of dust was settling across the body; the neck was twisted at a sickening angle. Death had stopped the final cry of terror.

  Helen’s breath rasped in her throat as Quill shifted beside her. Spellbound by the scene and secure in the shadowed protection of the trees, she watched as the beam from the single headlamp illuminated a triumphant smile on the driver’s face as she rose to her feet in one smooth motion. The woman hesitated, staring into the darkness as if alerted to the presence of a witness, and Helen pressed against Quill’s sweating sides and reached up to hold the horse’s jaws closed with trembling fingers.

  A man stepped from the car and came forward to join the driver. Spotlighted like actors on a stage, they stood with heads bent close, the woman gesturing with hands clenched into balled fists. The newcomer shook his head, and with a swirl of her red dress, the driver turned and ran back to claw at the door handle to the rear seat. When the door swung open, she tugged at an inert object inside the vehicle until another man emerged. He staggered as though drunk or ill and leaned on his companion as she guided him forward until he had a view of the dead woman. Even from a distance, Helen could see the ripple of shock that racked his body—he put his hands to his mouth and stumbled forward.

  The first man stepped back, removing himself to the shadows. The second man fell on his knees, dropping his head to embrace the corpse as the woman turned away, one hand lifted to her throat, her head bowed. The poignant tableau was broken as the man lifted his head and screamed.

  The mourner’s wail echoed in Helen’s ears as she gathered up the reins, stabbed her foot into the stirrup, and vaulted into the saddle. She sent the mare racing back along the lane into the concealment of the fields, stones spurting up from flying hooves. The horror of the scene just witnessed pierced her consciousness like a fiery needle and Helen’s own cry drowned out the soft night noises as horse and rider passed…

  Helen opened her eyes. She was seated on the floor of a passageway and her muscles felt strangely weak, but her head was clear. The last thing she remembered was polishing silver at the kitchen table. Was this memory gap the onset of senility—the first wedge separating her from the present? Recognizing the straw bag on the floor beside her as her knitting bag, she picked up the two skeins of wool lying next to it and shoved them in on top of the alarm clock ticking away.

  Her first thought was to get home—Darlene would throw a kitten fit if she heard that her mother had wandered away from home carrying a knitting bag and an old windup clock. Once on her feet, Helen stopped to lift the bag and staggered at its unexpected weight. What else had she brought along? Bricks?

  The blank that existed where memory should be worried Helen as she trudged along the corridor. Judging from the wooden support beams and cement floor, she was in the basement of a monstrous old building. Her handbag was missing, but she kept a few bills in a cookie jar that she could use to pay a taxi driver, unless her car was here somewhere. Could she have driven away from her house and not remember it? The sound of voices drew her on—perhaps she’d fallen and hit her head and one of the people she could hear talking would take her to the hospital for a checkup. The continual tick of the clock was making her head ache.

  Chapter 55

  Abigail turned to Austin. “You’ve told me you want to be in control of your life—are you going to let your sister make this decision?”

  A tic twitched the muscles under his left eye. “I have to clear my conscience, Julia—I can’t live with blood on my hands.”

  “Then let’s go to the state’s attorney’s office.” Abigail took a step forward.

  But Julia, who was still blocking the path to the stairs, didn’t seem to be paying attention. She had opened her handbag and was rooting around inside it. Wondering what the woman could be looking for, Abigail stared at the purse and noticed for the first time that one end of the bag had an orangish-red mark staining its fabric, similar to the irregularly shaped patch on the other woman’s sleeve.

  She raised her voice. “Julia, we’re going to the courthouse. You may go with us, but Austin is going to tell his story.”

  Julia looked up from her study of the cont
ents of her purse. The tension that had marked her earlier had been replaced by a strange serenity. “I can see that you’re both determined to go through with this foolishness and I won’t try to stop you. But, Austin, why don’t you wait upstairs? I have a private matter to discuss with Ms. James.”

  Austin looked to Abigail as if for approval and she nodded. Since Julia seemed resigned to the story coming out, Abigail was prepared to more than meet the older woman halfway if it would secure her cooperation.

  After the creak of his tread on the steps had died away, Julia turned to Abigail. “I don’t believe you understand the situation, Ms. James. I’ve always protected Austin and our family name—and I don’t intend to stop now.”

  “But you’re not protecting him—this is destroying him. Your brother is a sensitive man and Rosemary’s death is eating him up inside.”

  “Help me, please!”

  At the quavering voice, Abigail whirled. An elderly woman was coming along the passageway toward them, one hand clenched on the handle of a large straw bag and the other pressed against the wall for support.

  Abigail hurried over and took the bag, surprised by its weight. “Don’t drop it!” the old woman snapped, but quickly apologized. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that.”

  “Are you hurt?” Abigail wondered what the woman was doing wandering around the deserted rooms and studied her carefully. Although the faded blue eyes were clear, she was pale and breathing hard.

  “I don’t know, I don’t remember how I got here. Wherever here is.” Helen blinked and made a brave attempt at a chuckle.

  “You’re in the basement of the county historical museum.” Abigail took a bony arm and helped her toward the stairs. “Are you feeling all right? Should I call an ambulance?”

  “I think I fell. My head hurts.”

  Abigail paused and used her hand to shade the elderly woman’s eyes. When she moved it away, she was relieved to see that both pupils remained equal to each other in size and shrank in response to the increased light. “The memory loss might indicate a concussion. Let’s get you upstairs and then I’ll call an ambulance. What’s your name?”