Shadow Notes

by Laurel S. Peterson

  My anger found its way through a crevice in my control. “I lost my father because I didn’t trust my gift. If you had only been willing to help me—”

  “Clara!” The full-on command voice. “You must never tell anyone about what you’ve found. You will need a safe space. Do you understand?”

  “No. I don’t understand anything, because you make things more confusing.”

  “That’s how learning works,” she said piously. “You get a whole lot of ­information and you don’t know how any of the pieces fit together. Then, something clicks and you see the whole thing. I’m giving you as much as I can, but you need to see the whole picture yourself. I can’t provide that for you.”

  “Did you kill Hugh?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  The guard poked his head in. “Two minutes,” he said.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked her. “Cigarettes to trade, chocolate cake, your favorite sweater?” Her look of disdain was so pure, so very her, that I was startled it didn’t provoke the usual sense of guilt.

  Maybe being angry gave me some kind of shield.

  Instead, a laugh bubbled up from the place that recognized the absurdity of the situation—from her incarceration, to her calm acceptance of my snooping, to her cloak-and-dagger hints. Her irritation dissolved, and she started to laugh, too.

  That’s how the guard found us—dissolved in helpless giggles over the ugly table, our hands clasped in recognition that we were, at least, family.

  The next morning, I walked into the Winters campaign office an hour-and-a-half late to find the place deserted. There was a note for me on the desk on top of a stack of folders, signed by Andrew himself:

  Clara — I’m so glad you’ve chosen flexible hours. Your presence, in formal dress, is required at our fundraiser this evening. 8:00 p.m. at Mary Ellen’s. Bailey has directions, should you need them. — A.W.

  A.W., my ass. I resigned myself to a long afternoon and evening of tedium, but when I crumpled the note to throw it away, it burned my fingers.

  At seven forty-five, Bailey tooted her horn. Andrew’s snide note and the burning tingle it had left along my fingertips bothered me all afternoon, along with Hugh’s murder and my own helpless banging about in search of answers. The last place I wanted to be was anywhere near Andrew Winters. But I’d dragged myself through a shower and into a Dolce and Gabbana evening gown I’d discovered buried at the back of Mother’s closet.

  “Ooooh, vintage!” Bailey cooed when I got into the car.

  “Ha—which only means dresses several years out of fashion are still okay to wear because they cost megabucks.”

  She grinned. “You haven’t forgotten the valuable lessons I taught you.”

  She put the Porsche in gear and whirled out of the driveway. The sun roof was open and I could see the sky, seasoned with clouds and brightly lit by the moon. Patches of stars, like little spills of salt crystals, showed between them. Cold air blew in over my shoulders, warring with the heat pouring across my feet: luxury.

  “I don’t even know why I’m going to this thing. All I want is to be home in bed with a book and a glass of wine. Why does Winters want me there? I sort of figured that by now you would have convinced him I was bad PR.”

  “I tried. He thinks it’s funny that Constance’s daughter is working for him.”

  “Like funny-ha-ha?”

  “More like funny-ironic. Like he’s secretly pleased you’re there, especially because it will drive your mother nuts. There’s some weird dynamic there…whatever history is between all of them must run pretty deep. He actually laughed when I suggested he should let you go.”

  “Do you think he’s a good guy?” I asked it without thinking, as if I could still ask her anything.

  She glanced away from the road for a moment, as the car swerved around a corner. “Why do you ask?” She seemed wary, but it was hard to tell at this speed.

  I had to decide in a split second if I believed she was on my side or not—if she was still the Bailey I knew from high school, before things got tricky. She was working for a family that was not only politically opposite to what used to be her own views, but was also one of the more powerful and wealthy in our town and state. Would she be able to put aside her own ambitions to support me?

  The only thing I could do was to take the risk. “I’m not sure. I keep getting strange feelings around him—like white noise with a black line through it—like he’s exuding a whole lot of energy to control or hide something.” I paused. “Sounds insane, but I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  The car filled up with quiet. I bit my lip, hoping, resolutely watching the road.

  Bailey said, “Yeah, but you’ve always had really strong, accurate feelings about people.”

  I stopped chewing my lip. She inhaled sharply, as if for courage. “Clara, I remembered about Ethan Olsen. You made fun of Hetty’s flower.” Her hands glowed green from the dash lights.

  “You reminded me last night.”

  She stared at the road. “When just you and I and Ethan were hanging out, you were fine, laughing and teasing Ethan about being the only musician in the band who hadn’t gotten laid—like you wanted to be the one. But when Hetty came up, you completely changed. Those comments about the flower were intended to drive her away, and that flip-out you did on Ethan, telling him he was a sex-crazed fiend…”

  The green dashboard light wriggled along a strand of her hair. “You didn’t want Ethan for yourself; you wanted to protect Hetty. When we fought about it later, you told me you’d seen something in his eyes, like Hetty was an easy target; he could do whatever he wanted with her and get away with it. I didn’t believe you. I thought you were trying to keep him away from me.”

  Dimly, through all the barriers I’d erected to separate myself from my ­adolescence, the scene Bailey painted emerged. I remembered I touched Ethan’s arm when Hetty joined us and got shocked with a vision of her dress floating in the water, the full skirt ballooned up with trapped air, and Hetty herself half-naked, blood streaming down the inside of her thighs. I’d done the only thing a teenage girl knew to do. I’d humiliated her to drive her away, keep her safe.

  The sensation I’d had earlier with Bailey, blood at the back of the throat, returned as Bailey’s confession continued to spill into the dark spaces in the Porsche.

  “Later that night, I saw Ethan with Dara Oakford going at it like bunny rabbits. We all knew she was a slut, so I didn’t think much of it, until I got a little closer and heard Dara hitting him and telling him to stop. He didn’t, and she stayed home from school for a week after that. I couldn’t tell you after our huge fight.”

  She paused for a moment. “Nothing ever happened to Ethan. Dara didn’t press charges. I think she’s part of the reason I became a lawyer.” She downshifted and slid into a parking spot in front of Mary Ellen’s house. When the car stilled, she twisted toward me in the dimness. “I’m so sorry, Clara. Can you forgive me?”

  It was as though an overstuffed bag split open. Memory upon memory tumbled out: decisions I’d had to make like the one about Hetty and Ethan. Most people weren’t ready to hear what I told them. They got angry or frightened, told me to mind my own business, told me I was weird.

  I had learned early how to drive someone away to protect her. But if these were gifts my mother and I shared, why hadn’t she guided me instead of denying what I saw?

  “Clara?” Bailey was fumbling in her evening clutch. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry. What did I say?” She held out a monogrammed lace handkerchief. I grabbed her hand and squeezed hard.

  “Thank you,” I managed to get out between hiccups, decorating the lovely lace with mascara. “You always believed in me. After my father died, I felt so overwhelmed by my failure to save him. I couldn’t tell anyone. I felt so lonely without you.”

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p; “I’m sorry. I wanted Ethan with the full blast of my sixteen-year-old ­hormones. I couldn’t see past that to my friend. If it counts, I’ve been lonely for you, too.” We hugged awkwardly across the gear shift. I rested my head on her shoulder, savoring the closeness I wished I’d had all along, the same closeness and nurturing I longed for with my mother.

  As we pulled apart she said, “You asked if Winters was a good man, then said you were getting weird energy. If you think he’s hiding something, I need to know.”

  I shook my head, blew my nose. “I haven’t seen him enough.”

  “Maybe you could test it tonight. Get close and see what comes up.”

  “That’s dangerous, Bailey. I’m not…I’m not really sure enough of myself.” Something had always held me back from asking for a vision.

  “More dangerous than letting him get elected? What if what he’s hiding could damage a whole lot of people? I don’t want you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, but your visions were usually on target…” She shook her head. “It’s important, Clara.”

  I hedged. “I need more training. Mother’s insisting I talk to Paul, but Paul’s mad at me…”

  I couldn’t tell her I’d stolen a file from Hugh’s house. “Anyway, the impressions just come when they come.”

  “At least try. For me? Please?”

  The last thing I wanted was to test myself out on Andrew Winters. I’d met his type all over the world. But Mother was right; I should have had Paul working with me. I should have asked about fire, for lessons in meditation, for something to prepare me. I sighed, shook off my reservations, and climbed from the car. At least it gave me a purpose for being here.

  As I slammed the Porsche’s door shut, Bailey hissed, “Clara, look! Speak of the devil!”

  Hetty stood by the front door, talking to Detective Samuels. She leaned in close, her hand on his arm. I couldn’t imagine what Hetty and Samuels would have in common, but Hetty had often pretended intimacy where there was none.

  She turned abruptly when she heard the car door, then disappeared inside. Samuels nodded and smiled as we walked past, but didn’t speak. Despite the smile, he seemed to look through rather than at me, something chilled and dim in his eyes. Maybe all detectives looked like that; maybe coldness and reserve were hazards of the job. He appeared to be working security, since he was armed and had a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.

  Mary Ellen’s foyer boasted a curved staircase to the second floor. Off the foyer, a library opened to the left and a drawing room to the right. French doors led to patios, their chaises and tables demurely blanketed with snow. Despite these romantic notes, Mary Ellen had furnished the interior in starkly minimalist pieces, as if one of those steel and granite kitchens had invaded and conquered all the other rooms.

  When I handed my wrap to the coat-check girl just inside the front door, she grazed her own deeply kohl-rimmed eyes ever-so-briefly, and pointed to a door past the library. Grateful, I touched up my make-up in a bathroom large enough to house a family of five. In the mirror, my ravaged face reflected my mother’s fears about my gift. Her message, hidden under the dismissals, had always been that the dreams would endanger me because others would want my power for themselves. Never once had she suggested it was okay to use it. But who or what was she afraid of? No one had ever threatened me, not until I’d arrived home. I wasn’t even sure those voodoo dolls were meant for me.

  Face repaired, I joined Bailey at the bar. She handed me a martini and pulled me into the crowd. I followed, nearly ramming a waiter passing a tray of steaming shrimp skewers. Why were the only black faces in the room on the guys carrying the hors d’oeuvres? When the throng parted, I found myself face-to-face with a beautiful white-haired woman.

  Bailey said, “Maria, this is Clara Montague. Clara, Hugh’s wife, Maria Leiber.” She winked and headed off on her own, the rat.

  Maria took my hand and looked at me for so long it felt offensive. “I have heard so much about you over the years. And I’m so sorry Constance is jailed for Hugh’s murder.” She pressed my hand. “I don’t believe she did it.”

  “Thank you.”

  Her grip was almost painful. “I have reasons.” She drew me off to face a small glass table with a smooth white rock on it. Above it hung an all-black painting. “You always were a very insightful girl. I hear you’ve been asking questions about Hetty.”

  “Actually, Hetty—”

  “That’s smart.” She barreled on as if she hadn’t heard me. “My husband had a lot of questions about Hetty. Did you know she gives readings?”

  “What kind of readings? Poetry readings? Psychic readings? Aura readings?”

  Maria’s face flushed and the palm that rested on my arm seemed sweaty. “Psychic readings. She apparently has a blue and white room in her house where she conducts her interviews.” She said the word as if it tasted like a mouthful of bug spray. “At least that’s what I hear.”

  I stared at her. Had Mother told Hugh about the cottage after all? Had Hetty snuck into the cottage? How would she know what it was used for, unless…she’d spied on Mother? She’d been a kid, and there was a cool little cottage on her parents’ property, and she’d be bored and curious and do what any kid would do.

  But why would she think she was psychic?

  Maria wasn’t finished. She lowered her voice to a rumble, like a subway train running underneath the sidewalk. “Some of Hugh’s patients consulted Hetty as well. He was convinced Hetty was…a fraud. He confronted her about it.”

  “You think Hetty killed Hugh?”

  “I don’t know who killed my husband, but I intend to find out. I imagine you’re as motivated as I am.” She turned abruptly away and left me staring at the painting. Its blackness wasn’t uniform; the artist had woven in shimmers of color—a wash of red-black or blue-black or green-black; it looked like a bruise a long time after the wounding.

  “Clara! So glad you could make it.” Andrew’s voice startled me and I nearly crashed my drink into his sister’s precious side table. He slithered his arm across my shoulder. “What do you think of my sister’s taste in art? Hideous, isn’t it?” He went on without waiting for my answer. “Listen, I need you to go make nice to that elderly gentleman over there in the corner.”

  He gestured with his head. I craned to see. “Melton Honey?”

  “Ah, good. You know him. See if you can talk him into a sizeable donation.”

  I frowned at him, but he just smiled. He was dressed tonight as the hard-working candidate: light wool dress slacks, white cotton shirt with its sleeves rolled up, red silk tie with little blue boats on it. Serious colors, but a touch of whimsy to show he was a regular guy. But no polyester had ever sneezed within thirty miles of Andrew Winters.

  Now would be the moment to do as Bailey wished. I reached for his arm as he turned away, but then he turned back. I dropped my hand, relieved.

  “Mary Ellen says you know things.”

  White noise exploded in my ears. I dug a fingernail into my thigh to ground myself. “I know a fair amount about landscape architecture, and flight times in and out of Paris.”

  He granted me a small, nasty smile, acknowledging my dodge. “I’ve known your mother a long time, Clara.” He moved closer and I could barely hear him over the ringing in my ears. “You will answer my question. Maybe not now, but you will.”

  I didn’t need to touch him to be flooded with his malice. “Hetty does readings.”

  His eyes, already dark, darkened further. “What do you know about that?”

  “Why do you believe in psychic phenomena, Mr. Winters? A rational man like you.”

  “Your mother used to talk to me, years ago. Once, she told me that the darkness would burn me unless I conquered it. I have spent my life, Ms. Montague, striving to bring light to people, to create laws that would create justice and fair play. So yes, I listen.�
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  “My mother doesn’t think you or Mary Ellen have much to recommend you.”

  “And yet, you’re here,” he sneered. “Now,” he shoved his chin in Melton Honey’s direction, “go do your job.”

  Maybe Mother was right that I didn’t know what I was getting into, but I bit my tongue. As I turned, he patted me a little too close to my ass. I cursed him out with a string of expletives, carefully chosen and absolutely silent.

  Melton was a dear, told me about how the government almost put him out of business except, wink-wink, for a friend who helped him out, drank down a couple of Manhattans, and wrote out a check as if he were giving away promotional cologne samples in Neiman Marcus. He twinkled as he handed it to me. “You tell that rascal Winters I’ve got his number. You couldn’t have been a more charming companion, my dear, and I have thoroughly enjoyed the evening. Now, I’m an old man, and I’m going home.” I helped him find his coat and the parking valet.

  All the while, I heard the buzz of white noise in my ears, but I couldn’t tell if that was because I’d raised money to help a Republican get elected, if I was still getting a vibe off Winters, or if it was the room full of Stepford-perfect people. I gave the check to Mary Ellen and tried to escape, but Andrew found me and sent me off to charm a few more donors. Melton remained my high water mark, but by the end of the evening, I had significantly enriched the campaign coffers.

  Even Mary Ellen found it in her cold little heart to compliment me. “You’re a natural, dear. Who knew?”

  Tomorrow, I would have to write a very large check to the Democratic contender. I might even have to talk some of my friends into contributing.

  By one in the morning, all the “marks” had left, and Bailey and I retreated to the Porsche.

  “So, anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing except white noise,” I said.

  She shrugged, as if it hadn’t mattered after all. Exhausted, I shut and bolted the front door, stripped off the gown in Mother’s bedroom and headed immediately for the shower, as if scrubbing could wash off my disgust and confusion.