The reunion was officially over. As the trailers and fifth wheels rocked their way out of the field, they left behind a couple of dumpster loads of trash, including McDonald’s wrappers, Horton’s coffee cups and doughnut boxes and other less identifiable garbage. The grounds of Hammersleigh were less impacted, but not litter-free.
I convinced my security and medical teams to stay and clear up the mess by withholding their pay until I was satisfied the grounds and field were as clean as they were Friday afternoon when the first family members arrived. After collecting the two-way radios—all except mine as I couldn’t remember where it was right then—I paid them off with an adequate tip and my thanks for a job well done. I believed in positive reinforcement for the young.
Catching sight of Mitch and Tiffany waving off an RV with Manitoba license plates, I realized they were not part of the reception committee when Marc delivered me home the night before. And I had forgotten that the two of them were sleeping upstairs, ostensibly in separate bedrooms on either side of mine. Well, that horse had almost certainly kicked the barn door open and escaped.
Rounding the front of the house, I caught sight of the Wooter brothers’ flatbed truck and signature butt-crack down by the porta-potties.
“Hey, Benny,” I called, “what are you doing here today? I thought you weren’t coming to pick these up until tomorrow.
“Can’t wait till then,” he grunted, helping his brother shove Tintagel toward the hydraulic scoop. “Got another family barbecue over in Northton Tuesday and we got to clean these up and take them over by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Well, I appreciate you leaving me six units for the reunion.”
“Don’t pay me no compliments, just pay your bill.” Donnie snickered at his brother’s witticism and watched appreciatively as Benny pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket and held it out.
Considering where that hand had just been, I took the invoice between two fingers and held it away from my body as I checked the total to make sure Benny had deducted the deposit I had given him earlier in the week. “I’ll send you a cheque if that’s okay.”
“Hear you had a fire last night,” observed Benny, scratching his grimy bare chest. “Lucky it didn’t get the house.”
“Yes, lucky,” I repeated and turned away.
“Too bad about your aunt. But probably the best thing, considering everything.”
I turned back and walked to within six inches of Benny’s personal space. “What aunt? What are you talking about?”
It was Donnie who answered me. “You know, that aunt that’s been in Lychwood most of her life.”
“What about her?” I think I already knew.
Donnie looked uncomfortable. “I thought you woulda heard. She died last night in her sleep. I heard talk at Timmie’s not an hour ago.”
Aunt Wisty. Dead only a few hours after our shared experience in the cemetery. Now it was too late for her to tell me anymore about her husband or what had happened during that other reunion. The only one left was Aunt Clem, and I didn’t know if she could or would tell the truth. It didn’t seem fair, not after all I had gone through, to know so much, but not all. For Aunt Wisty, I felt relief. I could mourn her life, but not her death.
I wanted to go back to bed. Not the one upstairs in Hammersleigh. To my bed in my own bungalow in town. I was beginning to hate Hammersleigh. It was too big and there were too many secrets enclosed within its handsome limestone walls.
Instead, I walked around to the back of the house, where a few firefighters still probed and poked within the ruins of the tool shed. A tall middle-aged man in shorts and high rubber boots waded with the firemen, stooping once in a while to pick something up, then dropping it into the smoky rubble again. He carried a handheld device, and spoke into it every once in a while. I took him to be the fire marshal, but it was the taller man in summer uniform that made me stop, then back step into the rhododendrons separating the rear lawns from the rose garden.
Initially, I didn’t know why I reacted that way at the sight of Marc. Something about the night before. It was a few seconds before it came back to me. Well, not all of it, I couldn’t remember his exact words. But I distinctly recalled the bottom line.
I had been dumped.
CHAPTER 28
Okay, maybe Marc hadn’t dumped me in so many words. That’s what he meant, though. And I didn’t blame him.
I realized that I had expected that very thing to happen, and now that it had, I felt almost relieved.
I knew I had lost a good man, a man who would have shared the good times and stuck by me through the bad times. But this was better for Marc. He deserved someone more stable. And stable I was not. My talk with Mom the other day made that clear. I had to admit that my father, then Dennis, had left me with insecurities I wasn’t even aware of until now. And if that emotional baggage wasn’t enough, I also had a spirit guide.
Thinking of Leander made me remember Aunt Wisty. I felt a dull ache in my chest, and since I had a certified healthy heart, the pain had to be emotional.
What a wasted life. I hoped Aunt Wisty had found at least a few minutes of happiness with Uncle Patrick, since the rest of her years had been filled with such pain. She had an abusive husband, her only child died by violence, and she spent the next sixty-eight years in a cage—a physical cage and a mental one.
I wandered to the shade garden and sat on the bench beneath the ancient maple, a few feet from the hosta bed. My soft tissue injury throbbed at the sight. The hostas were pretty enough, their leaves variegated with shades of green and white. Just my luck I landed on a rock hidden beneath those perfect leaves. Like the serpent in Paradise.
I felt angry at Dennis, even though I knew he hadn’t really meant to hurt me, not physically anyway. He never had, but now I realized he had spent twenty years undermining my feelings of worth. And I had let him.
Dennis betrayed me with other women, and then convinced me his infidelities were due to deficiencies in my own character. And because my father unintentionally raised me to think I could never succeed in his eyes, I enabled Dennis to perpetuate this belief. There, I had figured that all out without the help of a shrink or a support group.
But knowing was no help to me. And knowing I pushed Marc away because I was afraid of failing him, too, didn’t give me satisfaction. All in all, I was a hunk of self-pity sitting on that hard bench.
Quit feeling sorry for yourself, Lyris. You got to move on. You must fight on the beaches, on the landing grounds, in the fields and streets. You must never give up.
I jumped to my feet and looked around. The still air shimmered in the heat, and my head swam. I sat back down and closed my eyes. I had to quit expecting to see Leander.
Leander? You sound like Winston Churchill.
Winston? That’s classified information. I’m here to tell you that your Aunt Wisty is now safe and happy. Soon, she’ll be reviewing her earthly life to determine if her goals were met.
My guess would be no.
Lyris, a soul can choose a life of unhappiness to further a higher purpose. We can’t know. Or, at least you can’t. Hah.
I was in no mood to discuss the higher purpose of life. I had a bone to pick with Leander.
I saw a ghost. The ghost of Wisty’s husband. I’d rather not see such things, if you don’t mind. I’m far too sensitive…
You only saw an imprint. An imprint from time past. Wisty’s tortured memory reflected the last sight of her husband in this lifetime. And I can’t stop you seeing such things. Sometimes they are necessary and you better get used to it.
Well, how about this then. I think Wisty killed Thomas after Thomas murdered his own child. That can’t be part of a plan. Murder is a crime, a sin.
True enough, Lyris. Taking another human life is serious shit and can jeopardize the soul’s evolvement. But when a soul takes on mortal form, the human baggage isn’t always pretty. No point trying to understand another soul’s motives.
I remember
ed Aunt Wisty’s words about hanging. And then last night in the cemetery, she had said something about not being able to let them do that to him.
Leander, I think Aunt Wisty shot Thomas with his own service gun after he killed Tommy, but not for revenge. I think she did it to save him from hanging. Are you saying his murder was justified because her motives were unselfish?
Of course not, Lyris. It’s obvious that her life’s plan went astray that night. The emotional trauma she suffered over her child’s death overcame her higher self. She succumbed to a very human compulsion, as did Thomas when he took the life of his own son. Now they will be judged by a merciful and understanding Source.
Better luck next time, you mean?
Exactly. And if you don’t mind me saying so, Lyris, sarcasm is not always helpful.
Look who’s talking. Anyway, I’m just exhibiting a mortal weakness.
Touché. Remember, you can call me when you need me. If I don’t answer on the first ring, don’t give up. I have a lot on the go right now.
Well, answer this. How come I’m such an emotional mess, unable to sustain a healthy relationship with a wonderful member of the opposite sex?
You got me there. Maybe you should ask your mother.
Are you sure you don’t know Winston Churchill?
Can’t tell you that.
Another thing I want to ask. Why didn’t you warn me—
But he was gone and someone was shaking my arm. I opened my eyes. Marc was bending over me. His shirt was clinging damply to his arm and chest muscles, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.
“Are you okay, Lyris? You’ve been sitting there with your eyes closed, and your back as straight as a poker. I didn’t think you were asleep.”
“I’m dandy, thanks. What were you doing still poking through the fire? I figured you’d be out looking for Scott Fournier. You know, the diabolical wife beater who threw me down the stairs and almost killed me.”
He laughed, for God’s sake. “Take it easy. I have an alert out for him, and I’m quite certain we’ll catch up with him sometime today. Are you positive it was Scott? You said yourself it was dark in the attic.”
“I am sure.”
“You’ll have to swear to it in court. If you didn’t see his face, how can you be sure it was him? Not that I doubt you, but you must see from a legal standpoint we need more than just an assumption from a witness who went into shock after the attack.”
“I never. I was totally lucid the whole time.”
Marc looked dubious. “I think we’ll have to prove that in court. Is there anything else you can think of? Did you see his face at all with your flashlight? I found it in the attic, and it didn’t work.”
“It died on me. But I know my attacker was Scott.”
“It’s certainly possible. Well, we’ll just have to find him first and see if he’ll admit it. Not very likely, but it happens.”
“Maybe you should talk to Caroline.”
“I already did. She admits to letting Scott into the house nights, just so he wouldn’t cause a fuss—she was afraid you would fire her—but she says she didn’t see him last night. If that’s true, how did he gain access to the attic? None of the doors or windows were forced.”
“I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure I saw him yesterday morning on the widow’s walk.” I looked at Marc. “Maybe he didn’t leave Friday night. Caroline may have thought he did, and he could have pretended to leave the house, but hid upstairs in the attic until I found him.”
“Maybe. We didn’t see signs of anyone bedding down in the attic, but he could have slipped down to use one of the bathrooms on the second floor. And this house has two staircases, so it would be easy to take food from the kitchen.”
He peered into my eyes. “You’re sure it couldn’t have been Peter Tackaberry? He was in the house the entire day and evening.”
I shook my head. I thought we had settled all this. “Not a chance. I would have sensed Peter. I know him. It was Scott.”
“Then, what about Angelo Bertollini? I wouldn’t put anything past that young man. Actually, I never considered him a physical threat to anyone, but I’ve been wrong before. He’s an electronic genius and could have found a way to bypass the security system.”
“It wasn’t Angelo either. He’s not tall enough, for one thing.”
Marc sighed and stood up. To my surprise, he leaned over and kissed me on the mouth, moving back afterward like he thought I might bite him. He sat down again.
He took my hand rather gingerly. “Have you thought about what we discussed last night, Lyris?”
“Last night? You mean when you dumped me? That discussion?”
“Dump you?” He dropped my hand and leaned back against the tree. “I knew I was wrong to say anything. You were drugged, and I should have waited. But I thought I could take some of the stress out of your life by backing off for now.”
“Oh? It sounded to my Valium-fogged brain like you were telling me something quite different. That stuff was great, by the way. I wouldn’t mind keeping some on hand for emotional emergencies.”
“Last night was exceptionally distressing for you, and since you seem to promptly bounce back from the many odd situations you find yourself in, I doubt you’ll need Valium on a regular basis.”
I decided not to take offence, even if he didn’t know half of the justifiable reasons I often found myself in so many odd situations.
“I’ve got to go, Lyris. I need to check that my staff is doing everything possible to find Scott Fournier. Make sure you get some rest and stay out of trouble.” With another hasty kiss, on my eyebrow this time, he was gone.
So Marc hadn’t broken up with me. I should have been relieved, yet I just felt empty inside. Lonely and anxious. I didn’t know why exactly, but I put it down to too many days and nights of stress and worry—the reunion, Tommy’s mystery, Caroline, Scott, Patsy, Dennis, not to mention Leander. Even Conklin was causing me to worry if I would be left to manage Hammersleigh House alone, on into my solitary senior years.
I felt a momentary chill and shivered despite the cloying air. I had to give myself a break. It was natural to feel such a sense of foreboding, of impending danger, under the circumstances. With all the separate little dramas swirling around me, it was a wonder I could function at all.
Peter, Caroline and Conklin were gathered around the kitchen table eating tomato soup and salmon on whole wheat bread. I joined them for a bite, then announced I was going to bed for the rest of the day. They didn’t argue when I said I was going back to the couch I slept on last night.
I was afraid I would be too strung out to fall asleep. However, the Valium must still have been in my bloodstream. I slipped effortlessly into sweet, forgetful unconsciousness. Just before going under, I was aware that two warm, furry bodies had joined me, walking back and forth over me to find just the perfect spot. Since the room was cool enough for a blanket and since the three of us had been through the same war, I let them stay. I forgave them for the toenail scratches on my face.
A whole regiment of intruders could have rampaged through the house that afternoon and night for all I knew or cared. For eighteen hours, I slept that deep, healing sleep that happens only when the body and mind have reached their limits and the one solution is oblivion.
I wouldn’t say I felt as good as new when I awoke in the morning. My backside still hurt, and there were aches in almost every muscle and bone I possessed. Well, when you’re creeping up on your fortieth birthday, you can’t expect to hit every step down a flight of stairs and not feel it.
There was no clock in the room and I didn’t know where my watch was, so I had no idea of the time. I limped quickly into the kitchen and was horrified to note I was due at my desk in thirty-five minutes. I made it in thirty-three.
By the time my tires hit the road, I had spent twenty-five of those minutes showering, dressing and grooming. No eating, no time, and my stomach rumbled as I careened into the parking lot, ma
king Angelo skip aside as he, too, rushed toward the staff entrance.
There was always coffee and doughnuts available for a nominal fee in the break room. I consumed a cup of sugared, milky coffee and a donut that oozed synthetic cream from its middle. I had to eat it or pass out from low blood sugar. My last meal was that light lunch yesterday afternoon.
I was wiping the pseudo cream off my face at exactly 8 a.m. when Sheila rushed up and grabbed my arm. “Come on, Lyris. We have to go to the cafeteria and hear Amory tell us about the severance package.”
We were among the last to enter the cafeteria so had to sit in the front row. I set myself carefully into the rigid plastic chair beside Daphne. To her left was Faye, and I could hear Angelo in the row behind making a nuisance of himself with the finance clerks. Sheila dragged a chair over and squeezed it in beside mine. The legs of the chair screeched as it scraped along the vinyl floor. My nerves twanged in unison.
At the front of the room, Amory Langelle cast us an exasperated look. “Up yours,” I said under my breath and shifted my own chair closer to Daphne. The noise was gratifyingly high pitched.
Amory was our CEO, and it was his bright idea to pull the Commission out of the red by reducing the staff by one fifth.
The cafeteria wasn’t air conditioned, and fifteen minutes into Amory’s stumbling, tongue-tied address, I was forced to tune out. My clothes were sticking to me, and I was astonished to see I had dressed myself in a long-sleeved red blouse and a pair of jeans. At least I had had the presence of mind to wear sandals on my feet, even if they were Birkenstocks.
“…our mission is to take this company into the next decade with the ability to serve our customers with integrity and economy…”
I tuned out again. Sheila poked my arm. “What does he mean?”
I shrugged, trying to envision another twenty years of this. Once a company started to downsize and reorganize, it didn’t stop until a new owner came in and bought up the remaining pieces for a song. Looking around, I could see everyone else was doing the same thing—looking around and wondering what the hell Amory was saying.
Cheat the Hangman Page 28
