Writ on Water

by Melanie Jackson

  “I like it. This works.” It wasn’t a perfect fit, but Chloe strung the incidents together and went determinedly on.

  Next, Claude buried Isaac. But being lazy—and maybe pressed for time—Claude hadn’t dug as deeply as he should have, nor packed the soil tightly when he was done. And when they’d had the hard rains on the next day, enough earth washed away that Roger was able to—

  Chloe shut down that thought immediately. Her stomach was too uneasy to face what had happened after Isaac had been unearthed.

  She looked over at the screen of her laptop and thought again about what wasn’t there. She had explained the moss, but what was she to make of the handgun that was missing in her photos yet conveniently there when the police arrived?

  She exhaled. There was really only one conclusion, and this part was a little easier to excuse since she liked Rory. The gun had obviously been planted at the scene after MacGregor had taken her away. Probably Rory had put it there to suggest self-defense to the police so that Claude wouldn’t seem a total villain when the manhunt began. Police would take a dim view of a felon who tried to shoot his host, and wouldn’t really blame Claude for shooting back.

  She hadn’t thought Rory fond enough of his cousin to take such a risk on Claude’s behalf, but maybe this was about Patrick blood being thicker than water when the chips were really down. Or maybe Rory felt that he owed Claude for stopping Isaac from robbing the cemetery. That actually made sense.

  And her dream? There was no way to know if Isaac really had been dead when Claude buried him. If he hadn’t been . . . then it was a terrible mistake. Awful. But it could have happened, given that people were drunk and it was dark.

  Chloe let out another slow breath. Maybe she was missing some details, but this string of theories more or less held together, and it was a tremendous relief to have something plausible to offer her panicking imagination. Maybe the nightmares would now stop.

  What Rory had done for his cousin was unusual and possibly wrong—but so was she wrong for not turning over her photographs to the police. They were, all three of them, doing their best to protect MacGregor and the cemetery.

  Chloe grimaced. She didn’t like to think that she or Rory shared anything in common with Claude Patrick, but it seemed that they did; MacGregor and the Patrick legacy.

  “Of course,” she said softly. She had it now. Rory wasn’t protecting Claude because he liked him or because they were kin. He was doing this for his father. The two of them fought all the time, but deep inside they had to love one another. If MacGregor wanted Claude protected, then Rory would do it.

  “Well, hallelujah,” she said, with immoderate relief that her instinctive liking for Rory was not a betrayal of good sense. She wasn’t being blinded by emotion and stupid supernatural hysteria. And Rory wasn’t just high-handed and arrogant—well, actually he was. However, this time it was for a good reason, a reason her mind and morality could accommodate.

  And now that she understood why Rory and MacGregor were so uptight with her, and why Rory had lied to her about the moss, she could set about putting everyone at ease. There had to be some way to let Rory understand that she knew what he was doing, that he had her unspoken blessing for obscuring the trail between Isaac and Riverview’s cemetery, and for giving Claude a running start from the law.

  A tap on the window startled Chloe. A crow perched on her sill, staring through the window-pane. As soon as she met its gaze, it flapped away with a noisy caw. Behind it, the dogwood tree shivered. Chloe got up and went to the window, forcing the casement open. Sly air spilled into the room. A breeze had kicked up while she was working. The leaves outside her window pulled against their green tethers and whispered pleas for their freedom. Chloe pushed the breathless voice away and began gathering her negatives off the light box.

  Somehow, without being blunt about knowing their secret, she would have to let Rory and MacGregor know that this discomfort with her presence wasn’t necessary—that she understood what had happened and was willing to help with Claude’s escape by remaining quiet about her suspicions. She would put her betraying digital images away somewhere safe where no one would ever find them. And the others—hard as it would be—she would destroy.

  It wasn’t, she assured herself, that she was actually condoning murder. It was just that she understood completely about family loyalty. If this were her father being threatened, she’d do the same thing. And there was the fact that every fiber of her being wanted to believe that Rory wouldn’t do anything that was really bad. This situation was causing a freak aberration of behavior. All of them were behaving in a slightly lawless manner. It couldn’t be helped. And it would never happen again.

  Knowing that she was crossing some moral line with this decision, Chloe nevertheless got up and took the strips of film that showed the weberi moss growing in the graveyard and on the pots at Botanics, and went into the bathroom. She emptied out the brass wastepaper basket and, opening a second window for ventilation, she took out the book of matches stored with the utility candles in the vanity drawer and burned the incriminating negatives.

  The act made her feel a little ill because she had never deliberately destroyed her own work, but she was also strangely relieved to see the film bubble and melt. They were gone and could no longer serve as temptation or chastisement.

  Returning to the bedroom, she closed the lid of the laptop with a shaking hand and ejected the memory stick.

  There she hesitated, uncertain of what to do.

  The stick should be erased, maybe even destroyed since it was possible that an image could be recovered from it, and it could get all of them in a great deal of trouble, if those images ever were discovered by the police. But it had a lot of her work on it, and with Rory appointing himself as her constant companion, he would notice if she started reshooting tombs and would probably ask the sorts of questions she was not yet prepared to answer directly. Not yet.

  It bothered her that she had this lingering disinclination to trust Rory with her full knowledge, but complicity through silence was one thing; actually admitting what she suspected was another thing altogether. She wasn’t ready to go that far with her commitment. The inner choreographer who was directing her dreams and intuition simply wouldn’t let her do more than turn a blind eye.

  Chloe looked down. It would be easier to keep the memory stick for now. She would just make sure that it was well hidden until she decided how to completely erase the damning images. She simply needed to read up on how to do it.

  A warning gong sounded below stairs, reminding her that it was time to dress for dinner. Chloe didn’t have much of an appetite, but dressing for the evening meal was a ritual that the family continued to observe. If Rory and MacGregor could go through the motions and put on a good front for the cook and Morag, then she could too.

  She walked over to the armoire and opened the door. A pair of size-six bowling shoes had showed up in it the day before. She was careful not look down as she selected a dress, not because she didn’t like the shoes, but because she might see the evil imps leering at her from the shadowed canvas that remained tucked away in the back on the cupboard. If there was one thing that her nerves didn’t need, it was leering, malicious imps reminding her of a mad man’s vision of hell and the Patrick ancestor who had admired it.

  As a well-spent day brings happy sleep,

  so a life well-used brings happy death.

  —Leonardo da Vinci

  Chapter Ten

  Chloe’s appetite returned with a vengeance and she greedily ate dinner, munching her way through nicoise vegetable salad, roasted loin of pork with rhubarb sauce, crab soufflé, and stuffed cantaloupe, then capped the meal off with an enormous helping of pecan pie.

  Perhaps it was sacrilegious of her to eat so heartily when death had come so recently to the house, but relief was proving an appetite stimulant, and she couldn’t see that her limited acquaintance with Isaac Runyon merited any degree of mourning.

  In
any event, her mouth wasn’t needed for conversation. Nobody was wasting breath on unimportant topics, and no one was anxious to inaugurate a discussion on the one subject that was preying on everyone’s mind.

  Eventually her culinary gusto attracted even MacGregor’s attention, and the two Patricks watched with first amazement and then horrified amusement as Chloe systematically packed away enough food to compensate for all her recent missed meals.

  “My God, girl!” MacGregor whistled softly. “I’ll have to start feeding you more often.”

  Finally, unable to eat another bite, Chloe pushed back from the table and took a deep breath—-or as deep a breath as her constrictive clothing would allow. Her glazed eyes noticed MacGregor’s pale hands toying with his cigar box, which sat next to the half-empty brandy decanter, and she said pleadingly: “Please don’t. I know it’s my own fault for being a pig, but I will likely lose everything if you light that awful cigar.”

  Rory laughed aloud, startling all three of them. The sound was disorienting. There had been no laughter in the house for days.

  It was also the first time that Chloe had heard Rory do more than chuckle. The sound of his amusement was deep and a little slow, and semi-sweet, like good dark chocolate. The thought was almost enough to make her regret her gluttony.

  “Come on.” Rory stood up, and walking around the table, offered her his hand. His drawl grew syrupy as he teased. “You need to go for a walk, Miss Chloe, ma’am. Let us take a constitutional stroll around the veranda and watch the magnolias sway by moonlight.”

  Suddenly Chloe was laughing too—though with less volume than Rory as her gluttony had made her too heavy for large chuckles.

  She turned to face MacGregor, who was still looking rather the worse for his alcoholic adventure, prepared to ask him if he would care to join them for a breath of air. But before she could speak, Rory’s fingers tightened on her hand in silent warning.

  Their eyes met briefly. Don’t ask him. Come with me. Now.

  “Why, thank you kindly, sir,” she said lightly. “I should love taking a constitutional through the magnolias. If your father will excuse us.”

  MacGregor also smiled for the first time in days and waved them away. He was reaching for the brandy decanter and had the cigar box open before they left the room.

  “Stubborn son of a bitch. He’s going to kill himself,” Rory muttered. But he didn’t sound truly angry.

  He led her down the hall, surprising her yet again by retaining her hand as they walked through the dim house toward the back porch.

  “I think you have lured me out here under false pretenses,” she commented when they reached the back parlor and Rory did not offer any other conversation or turn on the lights. “I don’t recall any magnolias at the back of the house. What’s on your mind?”

  “I was saving you from yourself. One more bite of pie and your buttons would have popped. Personally, I would have enjoyed the sight, but my father has a heart condition and we mustn’t let him get too excited.” His tone remained light.

  “Fortunately this dress has no buttons. Just a tie, and that can be loosened,” she said, freeing her hand so that she could do just that while they had the privacy of semi-darkness. It was a relief to slacken the cloth tourniquet.

  Rory waited patiently for her to finish retying her sash and then opened the parlor door. The scent of sweet lilac was heavy on the evening air.

  Chloe breathed deeply.

  “This air is damn near as rich as that pecan pie, and better than any perfume ever invented. You could get fat just breathing it.”

  Rory shook his head.

  “Take shallow breaths or you’ll get indigestion. Come on. We’d better find you some after-dinner mint.”

  “I couldn’t eat another thing!” she protested.

  “It isn’t to eat, it’s to breathe.” Rory again offered his hand to assist her down the stairs. It was an unnecessary courtesy, but perhaps he was worried about her high heels on the cobbled stone path, or her bulging stomach protruding so far that she wouldn’t be able to see her feet.

  “To breathe?”

  “Yes, it’s called aromatherapy. We’ll go the herb garden and I’ll pick you some mint to tuck in your—uh, dress.”

  Chloe looked up into his face, but it was painted with the last intense colors of sunset and she could read nothing there.

  “Okay. I’m game. I’ve never had a mint bouquet.”

  “I’ll pick you a bouquet if you like, but as with pecan pie, a small serving is usually sufficient.”

  “You only say that because you get pecan pie all the time.” Chloe was arguing out of habit, but she actually felt wonderfully peaceful, strolling through Riverview’s garden, holding Rory’s hand and watching night overtake the sky.

  “We are going to get eaten by mosquitoes, you know,” Rory warned her. “Or you are. Mosquitoes don’t seem to like me.”

  “Too tough and sour, huh?” Chloe shook her head sadly, but watched from the corner of her eye to see if Rory smiled. He didn’t, but she saw a definite lip twitch.

  “In the old days,” he said reminiscently, “we knew how to deal with uppity women. There are only so many things a man could do to ensure good behavior from his woman, or children, or horses.”

  “Ah! The good old days. And what do you do now that beatings have fallen out of favor?”

  Rory stopped walking and turned to face her. “Why, I suppose that I will simply have to rely on the most tried and true method of all.”

  “And that is?” Chloe grinned up at him, daring him to say something outrageous. But rather than answer in words, Rory cupped a palm beneath her chin and lowered his head.

  For one moment, Chloe stared in confusion and then incredulity, but the moment his lips brushed over hers she relaxed and allowed the unexpected kiss to happen. With a soft sigh, she closed her eyes and permitted her lips to experience the moment. Around her, the lilacs applauded softly as though pleased with her decision.

  Rory didn’t invade her mouth, not even after she parted her lips. The kiss remained almost chaste. But for all its lightness and brevity, Chloe felt a strong magic all the way to her curling toes, and it was a moment after the kiss ended before she was able to refocus on the twilit garden.

  “You Patrick men are dangerous,” she said softly, shaking her head.

  Rory’s white teeth gleamed briefly.

  “Not me, sugar. I’m absolutely harmless.”

  Harmless? How he lied!

  “I must be rock stupid, agreeing to step out with a liar like you,” she went on, tucking her hand back into his fist as they resumed their stroll toward the herb garden.

  He answered in an amused force: “I really couldn’t say, though I have suspected as much for some time.” The smart remark earned him an elbow in the ribs, which he managed to evade, such retaliation being expected.

  “What saved me from a full seduction?” she asked curiously, feeling safe to ask such a direct question in the growing cover of darkness.

  “Your overindulgence at dinner,” he said wryly.

  “And maybe the lack of a full moon. One must do these things right. Southern gentlemen have a tradition to uphold, you know.”

  “Ah. Well, I suppose I shall have to remember to give thanks to the cook.”

  “Are you really giving thanks for deliverance?” His question was lazy, as though her answer didn’t matter. And maybe it didn’t. With Rory, it was always hard to tell.

  “For the moment,” she replied with equal conversational weightlessness. “I have been doing a bit of leisure reading about this, and I think that the outdoor seduction has been greatly overrated, along with barns, stables, and haystacks. I see nothing wrong with a bed and keeping my more vulnerable parts away from bloodsucking parasites.”

  “Hm . . . I’ll remember that.” Rory stopped at the small gate and lifted the latch. “Here we are. Let’s find you some mint.”

  Chloe sniffed gently at the medley of smells tha
t bombarded the air. “Over here,” she said.

  “I believe you are right.”

  They walked past the knotted border of thyme and flat-leafed parsley, with Chloe taking only shallow breaths of the heavily herbed atmosphere. They walked quickly past the horehound, marjoram, and into the less scented yarrows and salvias where the selections of mint were grown in their own row.

  “Mint is a fine aphid deterrent,” Rory remarked, breaking off various stems and gathering them into the requested bundle. “It also repels cabbage moths and flea beetles.”

  “How useful. Does it work against mosquitoes or ants?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  “Men?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Ah well! So much for a universal panacea.”

  “You can, however, tuck a sprig of mint beneath your pillow and you will dream of your next lover.”

  Dreams. She almost shivered.

  “You’re making that up just to see if I am dumb enough to fall for it.”

  Rory laughed softly.

  “Put that mint beneath your pillow and we’ll see what happens.”

  “I’ll consider it. I could certainly use a change of dreams.”

  “Here. Try this.”

  Chloe accepted her small bouquet, breathing deeply of the pungent mints. She doubted the herbs’ efficacy as a love forecaster, but Rory was right about it helping to settle her large dinner. Her stomach immediately eased.

  “What is this one?” she asked, sniffing at a particularly strong-scented twig. “I think I’ve smelled it before.”

  Rory leaned close, to breathe in the leaves’ odor. It was nearly full dark and they could no longer rely on sight to guide them.

  “That is a native species of mentha. You’ll find it growing down by the river. It’s a bit rangy when it isn’t pruned back.”

  “Ow!” Chloe slapped at her bare arm. “Damn. I think those mosquitoes have found me. Maybe they like your mint.”

  Rory calmly unbuttoned his shirt and dropped it over her shoulders. The fine cotton lawn was short-sleeved, but the shoulders were big enough that it covered her to the elbows. Once he had her cloaked, he put a casual arm about her waist and urged her toward the house. In spite of the blood-suckers, they didn’t hurry.