by Alex Gordon
“All right.” Amanda backed away, hands drawn up, as though trying to protect herself from a crazy person.
“You tell him that. Those words. Just like I said them.”
“You’ll never seek back again. Right.” Amanda stopped, and gave forth a grumbling sigh. “Well, you may as well come in. You can sit in the east parlor.” She tugged her jacket over her ample backside and turned on her heel. “I’ll have one of the girls bring you coffee. It’s payroll day, so all I can tell you is that you’re going to have a wait.”
“I will wait for fifteen minutes.” Connie looked back at the truck and Jim’s face visible between the headrests. Then she stepped inside the house and wandered the maze of walnut paneling and flocked wallpapers that had been old when she was a girl until she reached the dark, velvet-curtained cave that was the east parlor. A few moments later, one of Amanda’s many helpers came in bearing a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies. She served Connie, took her coat, then asked after her health in that low-voiced way that folks had taken to talking to her since the incident.
Connie drank her coffee, and listened to the mantel clock tick. Watched the minute hand move. Counted the seconds. At the fourteen-minute, forty-five-second mark, she set down her cup, rose, and headed for the front door. Just as the last second ticked by and she put her hand on the ornate brass handle, she heard a creak on the stair, and turned to find Amanda regarding her with head-cocked puzzlement.
“He’ll see you.” Disappointment made her sound kind.
THREE FLIGHTS OF stairs. They beat the hell out of Connie’s back, but Leaf liked to brag that at the age of seventy-three he still took them two at a time, that it would be a bright day in the wilderness before he would have an elevator installed in his old pile. So she winced through each twinge and catch and concentrated on the paintings that lined the curved walls, the images of the wives and children and grandchildren. Of Leaf’s father, Amos, and his grandfather, Hiram, who built the place after the Great Fire.
No more family for me. The thought caught Connie by surprise. I’m the last Petersbury. The realization made tears spring, and when one of Leaf’s men met her at the set of double-wide oak panels that marked the entry to the office and asked if she wanted time to catch her breath, she told him to just open the damn doors and get out of her way.
Leaf Cateman, the Master of Gideon, sat in the middle of the room at an ornate cherrywood desk the size of a small banquet table. “Good morning, Constance.” He rose, a craggy-faced, bearded patriarch, and extended his hand across the polished surface to take hers. As usual, he wore black jeans and a crisp white shirt held at the neck with a string tie. “I say so as a formality only. It isn’t a good morning, is it? How are you keeping?”
“As well as can be expected, Master.” Connie extracted her hand as quickly as good manners allowed, and fought the urge to wipe it on her pant leg. Leaf’s skin felt rough as sandpaper, and was reddened in spots and dry enough to flake when touched. Psoriasis, Jorie called it. Soul rot breaking through, according to Virginia.
Leaf walked to a nearby conference table, and hefted one of the chairs. “The loss of the children is the most painful aspect of all this.” He set it down in front of his desk, then motioned for Connie to sit.
Connie tried to settle in, but the chair was straight-backed and armless and as comfortable as a board. “I miss them all the same.” In truth, she had never cared for Ashley, but now was not the time to talk about poor choices by dumb nephews.
“Of course you do.” Leaf returned to his chair, sat back, smiled without showing his teeth. “Now, what did you wish to see me about?”
“I want to bring Jim home.” Connie wiped away a brimming tear, catching it just before it fell. “I called the coroner’s office, and they put me off. Said they had tests to run.”
“Stands to reason. They’re looking for drugs. Alcohol. Those tests take time.”
“Jim didn’t drink. And Norma had to force him to take so much as an aspirin for a headache.”
“Well, we know that, but the officials do not.”
“Why do they need to know? It’s none of their business.”
“He murdered his family and then killed himself. We want to know why.”
“We know why.” Connie scooted to the edge of her chair and tucked her legs beneath, lessening the pain in her back just enough so that she could concentrate. “I want him home. The end of today would be nice, but tomorrow is okay, too. That’ll give Saul and Epiphany time to prepare him so he can be buried with Norma and the others. I’ve held off their final rest long enough. Saul says his back room is starting to get a little crowded.”
Leaf’s expression didn’t change. Still the half smile, the kindly light in his eyes. “What do you expect me to do?”
“Call someone.”
“Call someone?”
“Yes, call someone. Like you do when Jorie gets a speeding ticket or one of your men gets pulled over for driving drunk.” Connie took a deep breath. “Or when you have an old shed out back that needs clearing out. A shed that’s been closed up a long time.” She sucked her lips between her teeth and bit down to keep from saying more. Unclenched her hands, and found that she had driven her nails into her palms deep enough to draw blood.
Leaf spent a few long minutes studying his desk blotter. Drummed his fingers on the wood. Rat-ta-thump. “I might give Thad Trace a call. He is only a coroner’s assistant, but he has some experience in matters concerning Gideon. I am sure he can . . . do whatever needs to be done.” He stood, his wooden office chair creaking like an old building in the wind. “His mother was a Cateman by marriage. That would make us kin.” The smile returned, although the voice had grown cooler. “If you will excuse me.” He walked to a side door that led to an adjoining room, the click of his boot heels muffled by the thick rug.
Connie tried to settle her nerves by looking around the office. Like the rest of the house, it hadn’t changed in years. Still the same strange room she remembered from girlhood visits with her mother. The walls had been paneled with ancient boards salvaged from the basement. Matt had planed and prepped them, and Emma had painted them with scenes from Gideon’s history. The Sudden Freeze of 1836. The Great Fire of 1871. Always researching, Emma was. You’re too pretty to sit all day with your nose stuck in books, Connie’s mother, Deborah, would say, and Emma would just shake her head and smile.
Emma. Leaf’s first wife. “Didn’t spend all her time reading, that’s for sure.” Connie spoke without thinking, then glanced around to make sure Leaf hadn’t overheard. He never talked about Emma, and that meant that no one else in Gideon was to talk about her either.
Not so he can hear you, anyway. Connie looked up at the domed ceiling, decorated at the top with a round window through which the dull winter light streamed. An oculus. That’s what the window was called—Emma had taught her the word. Matt had built it a few months before he ran off, had made it by inserting quarter-round panes into a wooden X, so it looked like the circles he used to weave from grass and strands of hay. Eyes of the Lady, he had called them. For protection. Connie had grown to hate him for that, for thinking that the Catemans deserved protection but none of the rest of them did.
“What are you doing here?”
Connie turned as far around as her back would allow, and saw Jorie Cateman standing in the doorway. She looked even more the child bride than usual in jeans and one of Leaf’s old shirts, her feet bare and blond hair bound up in a ponytail. Little if any makeup, which made for a change. “I came to see the Master.”
Jorie stepped inside the office, and the light caught the gold chain around her neck and the diamonds on her ears and fingers, the cherry-red polish on her nails. “About what?”
“I came to . . . make a request.” Connie worked to her feet, more to ease the pain than out of respect for Leaf’s wife.
“What for?” Jorie’s was a mean girl’s voice, high-pitched and sharp.
“Constance asked me to say
a few words at the memorial service.” Leaf had opened the side door without a sound, and slipped back into the office. “A passage from the Lady’s book should suit as always.” He held up the old Cateman family book, the black leather binding gone gray with age. Made a slight bow in his wife’s direction, then returned to his desk.
“Thank you, Master.” Connie willed daggers at Jorie, but the dense little bitch made no move to leave.
“I phoned Saul to ask a question about the time of the service, and he asked me to tell you that he will need a new shirt for James.” Leaf showed teeth this time when he smiled, choppers as big and yellow as Kermit’s.
Connie picked out the message between the lines, that the call to Thad Trace had borne fruit, and that Jim would soon be on his way back to Gideon. “Thank you, Master. I will see to that today.” Then she looked from Leaf to Jorie, and stood frozen in place, like a rabbit caught between two foxes. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” She bowed toward Leaf and gave Jorie a quick nod, then left as quickly as her back would allow.
I shouldn’t have threatened him. Connie angled down the stairs sideways, gasping with every step. One phone call was all it had taken. A few minutes of Leaf’s time. If she had just been patient, asked nicely, it could have been settled. And now he knows. That Jim had told her about the shed, and what he had found.
Another of Amanda’s girls met Connie at the bottom of the stairs with her coat, and she grabbed it before the poor thing could help her put it on. She struggled into it as she limped out to the truck, only to find that Jim had gone. As usual, he had run off and left her to deal with his mess.
Calm. Down. Connie looked back at the house, checked each window in turn to see if anyone watched her. Saw no one, and felt the panic lift a little. She had gotten what she had come for, and unsettled Leaf Cateman in the process. Someone like Virginia Waycross would call that a good day.
Connie got in her truck, got on her way. Gideon nerves. Someday they would be the death of her.
Jorie Cateman stepped into the hallway as soon as Constance Petersbury departed, leaned against the wall, and bent over double, hands pressed against the sides of her head. She hated everything about the office, the paneling and the oculus and the dread she claimed radiated from the very walls. Thus, she avoided entering whenever possible.
For that reason alone, it had become Leaf’s favorite room in the house.
“I told you she’d be trouble.” Jorie straightened slowly, and crossed her arms over her stomach.
“Nothing that can’t be dealt with by trusting in simple human nature.” Leaf settled back behind his desk and returned to the ledger he had been examining prior to Constance’s arrival. “No one believed James when he ranted about shadowy figures and impending doom, and he was considered the rational one. Constance has cried wolf so many times that no one in Gideon will ever believe a damned thing she says.”
“I can think of someone.” Jorie stepped just inside the entry, and gripped the jamb with one taloned hand. “Virginia Waycross.”
“Everyone knows Virginia and I do not get on.” Leaf sniffed. “No one will listen to her either.”
“You’re taking an awful lot on faith. Let me take care of it.”
“Like you took care of James and his family?”
“I had nothing to do with that. The man just snapped. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Your problem, my dear, is that, as with Constance, your past dictates your present. You have lied so many times that your claims of truth now fall on deaf ears.” Leaf took a pot of Amanda’s special ointment from the top drawer of the desk and dabbed some on the red patches that dotted the backs of his hands. The condition would worsen during times of stress, his doctor had warned, but he had suffered through worse times than this with nary a blemish. Age was to blame, no doubt. The damned passage of time.
Jorie winced as she watched him minister to himself. She never bothered to hide how much his condition sickened her. “Is there something important that you’re not telling me?”
“The things of importance that I have not told you could fill a book, my dear.” Leaf looked across the desk, imagined Constance still seated there, and wondered what exactly she knew. So many secrets, accrued over so many years—the possibilities were endless. “I held Constance the day after she was born, you know. Deborah bled so that we almost lost her. In the hospital for five weeks, she was. So I cared for Constance and James. Took them into this house and cherished them as my own. That allowed David the chance to stay at the hospital.” He glanced at Jorie in time to catch the tail end of a yawn. “Am I boring you?”
“Need you ask?” Jorie drew the band from her hair. “Connie Petersbury is not a baby anymore. She’s a grown woman who thinks she has you by the balls.” She shook out the golden mass, then gathered it and twisted it into a knot atop her head. “And maybe she’s right.”
Leaf sighed. “As I have heard you insist on more than one occasion, you’ve balls enough for both of us. Feel free to take up the slack. Just don’t come running back to me when it blows up in your face.”
“We made a deal, old man. I marry you, and—”
“And I teach you. And you did your part, and I have done mine.” Leaf sat back, chair screeching like an animal in distress. “You possess talent, Jorie. Power. That, I could never deny. But you’re petty and selfish and impatient, and because of that, the ways of the Lady will never truly be yours.”
“What are you saying?” Jorie walked farther into the office, anger overwhelming dread as it always did. “Don’t you even think of cutting me loose. I know enough about you to—”
“To drag me down in the mud with you. Yes, I know.” Leaf rubbed his forehead, watched the flakes of skin drift down and settle on his jeans, and brushed them away. “I won’t cut you loose, as you so aptly put it. You will always have a roof over your head and the wherewithal to display yourself as is befitting the wife of the Master of Gideon—”
“Mistress of Gideon. I am your wife and that makes me Mistress of Gideon.”
“Virginia Waycross is Mistress of Gideon.”
“The title is mine.”
“Title? You make it sound like Fried Chicken Queen of the county fair. It is an honor and a duty, earned by displaying leadership and extraordinary skill in times of crisis. For all her irritating ways, Virginia Waycross is an exceptionally talented and levelheaded practitioner. If I thought I still had any chance to win her over, I would not hesitate.”
“Gideon had no right to select her. The Council is supposed to choose masters and mistresses, and they have always chosen married couples. I’ll take my case to them—don’t think I won’t.”
“The Council is a rule-bound collection of academics and theorists. However, if they suspect impropriety, they can be as mindlessly driven as a pack of hounds on the scent. If they investigate your charges, they are certain to uncover all manner of irregularity, most of it involving you. You’d be cutting off your nose to spite your face.” Leaf pursed his lips. “All that plastic surgery wasted.”
Jorie’s cheeks reddened. “You’re nothing but a filthy, power-grubbing old man trying to hang on to life any way you can.”
Leaf slammed shut the ledger, pushed it aside, took another from the stack. “And that makes us well suited to one another, doesn’t it?” He scratched a patch on his wrist that had blossomed just that morning, dug too deep, and rolled up his shirt cuff to keep it clear of the blood. “You have work to do, don’t you? Helping Amanda inventory the herbs.”
“Maid’s work.”
“Counting your bullets.” Leaf shook his head. “You see? You whine and wail that no one respects you, and yet you make the same mistakes over and over again.” He studied the columns of numbers until he heard the angry mutter and the pad of bare feet. The slam of his door.
He waited, until he felt sure that Jorie had either shut herself in her bedroom to pout or gone downstairs to assist Amanda. Then he pressed a small
carving of acanthus leaves just under the lip of the desk, and muttered a few words in the old language. The carving popped open like a tiny door, revealing a small compartment. He reached inside and removed a key. A new purchase, it was, bright silver and shiny and as magical as a brick. Sometimes the new ways could prove just as useful as the old.
Leaf tucked the key in his pocket, then rose and walked across the office to the section of wall on which Emma had painted the tale of the Freeze. She had used Grandfather Hiram’s journals as her source material, and had covered the panels with scenes of the fallen men of Gideon, the lamentations of their women, the burials.
Winter in Gideon. Even now, almost two hundred years later, the season tried the soul. It always snowed more in Gideon than anywhere else in Illinois, and in between the storms came the thaws and the mist and the mud. Never a time to rest. Always the pendulum swing from one extreme to the other.
“And so it goes.” Leaf cracked the oaken door and checked the hallway for errant servants and angry wives before departing. Loped down the stairs, past the second floor to the ground floor, past the kitchen, and down a short, dark corridor that ended in the doorway to the rear yard.
Leaf opened the door, then hesitated as the damp cold wrapped around him. He thought of going back in the house for a jacket, but the sound of approaching footsteps and the pipings of a gaggle of Amanda’s helpers drove him outside. Key in hand, he trotted across the browned yard to what Constance had called “the shed,” the old carriage house.
He unlocked the padlock, and opened the steel door that Jim Petersbury had installed a few weeks before. Reached into the dark and fumbled for the light switch, flipping it on as the smells of damp and dirt, mold and warding herbs, enveloped him. He stood in the doorway, and envisioned the place as it had been when Emma had used it as her studio, the walls covered with sketches and paintings, the plank floor thick with rugs in brilliant Indian patterns of ultramarine and gold and scarlet. The tiny kitchen, nothing more than a sink and a two-burner hot plate. The narrow bed in the far corner hidden behind a painted screen.
