by Kathy
Meg let Darren tell the story, since he had every intention of doing so anyway. He was clear and concise, including every relevant detail. "Apparently no telephone call was received tonight," he finished. "Which leaves some doubt as to whether this incident was related to the earlier call, or was only the accident it appeared to be. However, I thought you should be informed of it."
Cliff slid slowly down in the easy chair until he was resting on his spine, the balloon glass balanced lightly between his fingers. "Mmm-hmmm," he murmured lazily. "I appreciate that, Darren. And to show how much I appreciate it, I'm going to inform you of a few things I suspect Meg hasn't mentioned. The day after the funeral. ..."
The "morbid memento mori ring," as Cliff called it, failed to impress Darren. "That sounds like pulp fiction," he said skeptically. "It's probable that the ring was returned by someone who had taken it on approval—Dan did that for good customers—or was sent for appraisal."
Cliff peered owlishly at Darren over the rim of the glass. "I'll show you the damned thing. If it doesn't raise your hackles, you have no more imagination than a slug."
He was up and on his way out before Darren could reply. The errand took him longer than Meg had expected, assuming, as his confidence had implied, that he knew where his father had put the ring; and when he came back his steps were slow and deliberate. They stopped outside the door, and there was a pause of several seconds before he came in. The expression on his face made Meg sit up. "Couldn't you find it?" she asked.
"I found it." Cliff leaned over the table and opened his clenched hand, spilling not one but two rings onto the shining mahogany. "Apparently it spawned."
"You mean this was with it?" Meg picked up the second ring.
Seed pearls formed a circle around a glass dome. Under the glass lay an intricate coil of intertwined black and shining silver-gilt. "It's hair work," Meg said.
Darren, who had been examining the other ring with an expression of mild distaste, leaned closer to see the one she held. "I believe I've heard of such things. Weren't they—er— tokens of affection? People still clip babies' curls to put in lockets or in baby books."
"They could be love tokens," Meg said. "But just as often— perhaps more often—they were memorial rings. Mourning rings. Not only rings, bracelets, pendants, you name it. The hair was cut from the head of the dead."
"Ah. I believe I understand what you are suggesting." Darren looked again at the delicate little skeleton, turned the ring to read the motto. " 'Hier lieg ich, Und wart' auf dich.' I grant you that the message has a certain—er—morbid tone. And it is certainly possible to see a pattern in these apparently disparate events. First the delivery of the message ring. Then the telephone call. To term it threatening would be an exaggeration, but certainly it was worrisome, designed to cause alarm and/or embarrassment. Tonight's occurrence on the road may or may not be part of the pattern. This second ring seems to me ambiguous, but I am willing to defer to your considered judgment that it may be another reminder of death. You didn't mention this one, Cliff, so I presume I am safe in assuming you didn't know about it. It's strange that your father didn't mention it."
"No," Cliff said.
"He didn't mention the first one, either," Meg said. "It was pure accident that I happened to see it, and I was the one who suggested it might be interpreted as a threat. I had a hard time convincing him."
"I'm not entirely convinced myself," Darren said. "However, I am willing to admit that the delivery of a second ring, under what we may tentatively assume to be similar circumstances, does tend to strengthen your theory, although the specific meaning—"
"Oh, for God's sake," Cliff exclaimed. "Are you blind? Look at this filthy thing." He snatched the ring from Meg's hand and shoved it under Darren's nose. "Look at the color of the hair. It's an unusual shade—pure jet-black. The same shade as Meg's. It's her hair, dammit! How specific can a threat be?"
Darren was the first to break the silence. "That's rather farfetched, Cliff, don't you think? Millions of people have black hair, and there are two different shades in this ring. Hair from two different people. Unless you think Meg is a natural blonde who dyes her hair."
"Check my roots," Meg said. "That's a good point, Darren."
"It would be if we didn't know someone whose hair is—or was—silver-blond," Cliff said.
"Are you enjoying this?" Meg demanded angrily and unjustly. Cliff obviously wasn't enjoying any of it. He was actually pale under his tan. If Darren had too little imagination, Cliff had too much. And he adored Gran.
Darren also knew to whom Cliff referred. Mary Morgan had been famous for her beautiful silver-gilt hair. There were photographs of her all over the house, and a portrait in the drawing room.
For a time no one spoke. Then Darren said, "Any debater knows that it is possible to arrange a set of random facts to prove almost anything. The connection between the events we've mentioned is purely theoretical; so far there is absolutely no proof that they are connected at all."
"Right," Cliff said surprisingly. "If you were lowbrow enough to read mystery novels, Darren, you would know that the same principle applies there. The writer takes a set of unrelated facts and supplies a connection. However. ..."
"I knew there would be a 'however,' " Meg muttered.
"However, don't you think it's interesting that so far—"
"And a 'so far.' "
"Quiet, please. If these events are related, the perp, as I believe he is called in the trade, is being damned careful to avoid any act that would justify official intervention. In other words, so far we've no excuse for calling the cops."
"Precisely." Darren appeared depressed. "I can see myself trying to explain this—what did you call it?—memento mori ring to Sheriff Buchhandler."
"Sounds like fun, all right. Let me know if you decide to try." Cliff went to the liquor cabinet and poured more brandy. "How about you, coz? A little cognac is great for relieving fluttery nerves."
"My nerves aren't fluttering," Meg snapped.
"No? Mine are." Cliff wandered back to his chair. "But I am beginning to think we don't have to worry about actual physical danger to ... anyone. This looks to me more like a campaign of intimidation."
"Mmmm." Darren accepted the glass Cliff handed him. "Yes, I think you're right, Cliff. It would be extremely foolish for a would-be attacker to warn his victim, not once but several times."
"Gee, thanks, guys," Meg said. "That really cheers me up. As a friend of mine used to say, I'd just as soon they'd shoot me as scare me to death."
Both men made deprecatory noises. "Anyway," Meg went on, "you still haven't convinced me this is aimed at me. Are you forgetting the dead rat?"
"I haven't forgotten it," Darren said coolly. "But I doubt it is part of the pattern."
"You think it was aimed at Riley." Meg remembered what Riley had said, or rather, not said. The rat had not been the first demonstration of hostility against him. "Well, maybe you're right. But I. ... Wait a minute. Let me see that ring again."
She snatched up the hair ring. "Darren, will you hand me my purse? I need my loupe."
But a glance at the inside of the bezel of the ring told her the loupe would probably be of no use. The surface had been crudely scraped away, leaving a rough hollow.
"What?" Cliff asked.
"Mourning rings often had the initials or name of the deceased, and the date of death," Meg explained. "This one did. At least it had something inscribed inside. It's been filed off. And recently." She squinted through the loupe, then shook her head. "Not a trace."
Darren frowned. "Let me get this straight. Aren't these rings fairly old, Meg?"
"Most of them are nineteenth century."
"Then it can't be your hair," Darren said triumphantly.
"That's right, Darren," Meg said.
Cliff was less tactful. "You're missing the point, Darren. If this ring is an antique, it was selected because the hair is the same color as Meg's. You yourself pointed out that
millions of people have black hair, and there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of these cheerful little mementos in existence. The initials were filed off because they weren't hers."
"Because they weren't. . . . Oh. Then why didn't the—er— perp add her initials after he had scratched off the others?"
"How the hell should I know? Maybe he didn't have the tools or the. . . ."
Cliff broke off, looking chagrined, and Meg laughed humorlessly. "You just backed yourself into a corner, Cliff. You've been trying to prove that Riley sent these rings. Believe me, he has the tools and the know-how. If he had wanted to add my initials, or a copy of the Gettysburg Address, he could have done it."
She rose to her feet, yawning. Cliff said, "Wait a minute. You haven't heard my alternative theory."
"I don't want to hear it. This is a waste of time, we're playing guessing games. When Uncle George comes home we'll ask him when and how he got this. Not that I think that will add anything to our store of information. Good night, Darren. Thank you for a delightful evening."
As she dragged her aching body up the stairs she heard the discussion resume. What Darren hoped to accomplish she could not imagine; he had been the first to admit their theories were no more than idle speculation. She knew what Cliff hoped to accomplish. If he could convince her that Riley was capable of an underhanded, cruel campaign of mental terror, she would move heaven and earth to rid herself of Riley. Meg didn't doubt she could do it. She had all the advantages Riley lacked—money, power, position, reputation.
And though the evidence was not enough to convince a judge and jury, it was piling up—the pickup that had run them off the road, the jewelry. The hair might be her own. The rings need not be antique. Riley was skilled enough to have made them himself.
Sunlight sifting through the stained glass gave the minister's head an inappropriate crimson aureole. The church was less than half full. Meg shifted position, regretting the impulse that had led her to remove her aching body from bed in order to accompany her grandmother to church. Despite the hot soak Darren had recommended she was stiff as a poker this morning, and bands of handsome bruises ornamented her midriff and chest. Her martyrdom hadn't even been necessary. Gran had been pleased, of course, but obviously hadn't expected Meg to make the effort. Dan only went to church when he felt like it, which wasn't often, and in this as in so many other areas Meg was his designated successor. That was one advantage of an otherwise uncomfortable position, Meg thought, as she rose, wincing, for the final prayer.
The sight of the congregation did nothing to cheer her; the only faces she recognized were those she didn't want to see: Candy, looking so sickeningly pious it was enough to turn one to atheism; Debbie, decked out in Sears' Sunday best. She was alone; presumably the children were at Sunday school or at home with Daddy, and Meg imagined that Debbie's main reason for attending church was to get an hour of peace and quiet.
After the service Gran lingered to greet friends and accept delayed condolences. It would have been unfair to say she enjoyed the routine, but she certainly didn't seem to be in any hurry to leave. The pastor hovered over her like a guardian angel, and in her immaculate white gloves and flower-bedecked bonnet she was as pretty and as antique as a daguerreotype.
Meg smiled and shook hands and accepted kisses from a number of elderly persons of both sexes who claimed to have known her since she was "this high." To her relief Candy didn't stop to speak to her, and Debbie lingered only long enough to repeat her suggestion that they get together with the old gang. Her grandmother accepted several invitations to tea and luncheon, all of them prefaced by phrases like "Just a small quiet affair, dear, you mustn't brood, you know, Dan would have wanted you to carry on. ..."
No doubt Dan would have, Meg thought. He had expected the same of her, and had done everything he could to force her to do it.
Sunday dinner was always a prolonged, formal meal, and this Sunday, Gran—carrying on—did not omit a single course, though only three of them were present. Cliff was on his best behavior, flattering and flirting with Gran and treating Meg with affectionate courtesy.
After dinner Gran went up for her meditation time—a long nap with an open Bible resting on her stomach—and Meg followed her upstairs. She waited in her room until she thought Cliff had taken himself out of the way. George would be back that evening, and she would undoubtedly be dragged into another long debate. She had no intention of spending the entire afternoon arguing with Cliff about the same subject.
The soft green lawns were cool and peaceful in the lengthening shadows. Bathed in sunlight, the roses glowed like gems: ruby and garnet, coral and ivory, amethyst and rose-quartz, with leaves of jade. Meg passed through a gate behind a weeping willow and entered a wilderness.
She had changed into jeans and shirt and sneakers, and as she forced her way through the weeds she was grateful for the fabric covering her legs and arms. Brambles tore at her sleeves. She was hot and perspiring before she came to a break in the green wall and saw the cottage before her.
Forlorn and abandoned though it was, it was still a charming house. Little dormer windows broke the peaked roofline. There was a round tower on one corner, with a roof like a witch's cap, and a wide porch swung in a graceful curve across the front and one side. One of the green shutters had lost a hinge and hung at a drunken angle. The doors and windows had been boarded up, and overgrown shrubbery enclosed it in a brambly wall.
What broke Meg down into a sudden, startling flood of tears was none of these things. It was the rambler rose embracing one of the porch pillars, defiantly asserting rebirth in a curtain of crimson blooms.
As she stood swabbing her wet face with her shirt sleeve and cursing herself for sentimentality, someone put a handkerchief into her hand. "Blow your nose," Cliff said. "I promise I won't tell Mary you came out without a hankie."
The words were joking but the tone was not. Meg buried her face in the handkerchief, and when Cliff offered a supporting arm and a shoulder to cry on, she took full advantage of both. When her sobs had subsided into hiccups Cliff held her out at arm's length and studied her thoughtfully. "You are not beautiful when you cry," he said. "Your nose looks like a cherry lollipop. Come on over here and sit down."
He led her to the porch and they sat down on the steps side by side. "By rights I should be crying on your shoulder," Cliff said. "You never lived here. She was my mother."
"He was my father. And she wasn't your mother, she was your stepmother."
"If love and caring make a mother, she was mine," Cliff said quietly. "If she felt the difference she never let me feel it."
Meg leaned her head against his shoulder. "Forgive me, Cliff. I never knew how you felt about her. I never cared to know. Why haven't we talked about this before?"
"I've been wanting to talk about it ever since you came home. That particular talk is way overdue. It would have been impossible when we were kids, we were both too raw with hurt, and too bewildered by loss. And too young to understand."
"I'm still too young to understand," Meg said. "I know, it was the era of sexual freedom and to hell with tired old moral standards. But this wasn't just a case of double adultery. Your . . . mother was my aunt, my mother's sister. My father was Dan's protege as well as his son-in-law. Call me priggish and old-fashioned if you like—I think what they did was vile. There was no excuse for it. It was treacherous and contemptible!"
The echoes flung her passionate voice back at her, and she clapped her hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize I was so angry. It wasn't grief and loss that tormented me all these years, it was anger. At him. At my father."
Cliff put his arm around her shoulders. "Of course. Did you just now realize that?"
"I'm a little slow," Meg said wryly.
"You never got help?"
"Psychiatric help, you mean? I tried—once. I had to do it behind Dan's back, he'd have hit the ceiling if I had proposed spending hard-earned money on a shrink. He despised psychiatrists—and the self
-indulgent weaklings who went to them. . . ."
Her voice trailed off; the memories hurt more than she had expected. After a moment Cliff said gently, "What happened?"
Meg shrugged. "It didn't work. I guess I went to the wrong person, that's not uncommon. He made me feel even more inadequate and guilty, I started having panic attacks again, I'd cry for hours after every session. . . . Finally I just got mad—told him off and stormed out of his office. I suppose I should have tried someone else, but. ... It wasn't easy to save the money out of my allowance, Dan kept pretty close tabs on my expenditures, and I was feeling a lot better by then. Or so I thought. I can admit now that I didn't really want to face the facts. They never told me, you know—Dan or Gran or Uncle George. I found out for myself, when I was old enough to look through the back newspaper files—and do a lot of reading between the lines. Dan had enough influence to arrange a pretty neat cover-up."
"What did you know?" Cliff asked.
"Right after it happened?" Meg thought. "It's so long ago, and so overshadowed by later discoveries. ... I guess all I knew was that Daddy and Aunt Joyce were dead. That was bad enough; but I sensed, as children do, that something else was wrong, something even worse. And my mother. . . . She went downhill so fast, Cliff. It was only a few months before she went away—for a rest, they told me—and never came back. I knew that story about her needing a rest was a lie, she was getting plenty of rest. She spent most of her time in bed and everyone waited on her hand and foot." Meg picked absently at a stain on her jeans. "So that was another thing I could add to my father's account. He killed her."
Cliff said nothing. His silence and his closeness were the greatest comfort he could have offered.
"What about you?" Meg asked after a while.
"I was a couple of years older," Cliff said. "But I was no more up on adultery than you were. It was the same sense of wrongness, I guess—and the way my father would turn away and leave the room when I tried to ask questions."
