by Kate Wilhelm
“I’ve heard that she moved away and then came back. Did you get together when you were both grown up? You know, childhood pals talking about old times, things like that.”
“Nah. I was working and she was going to the college. Then the curse killed her.”
Constance could see Charlie move in front of the kitchen door. Not yet, she thought at him. Hold it for a few more minutes. He moved away from the door. “What in the world do you mean, the curse killed her?” she asked Alice as if in disbelief at the idea.
“Yeah, he was sweet on her and that’s when the curse kills them. He paid for her schooling and gave her stuff, all that, and he was sweet on her. If you don’t believe me, ask Miz Dumond. She knows all about it, too.”
She had become sullen and defiant. She obviously did not like being challenged about what she knew.
“I just never heard anything like that,” Constance said. “I thought it was an accident.”
“He’s in the lake now, you know,” Alice said with a nod. “He’s in there with her. He told them that’s what he wanted, to be in there with her and his other girlfriend. That makes the curse stronger, them being in there all together.”
In the kitchen Charlie was standing near the door, without actually getting in front of it, when Pamela came in, looked around, and inched closer to him. She stood close enough for him to see dark roots starting to show in her hair. She glanced over her shoulder, then said in a low urgent voice, “Meiklejohn, you aren’t going to find the checks. They aren’t here any more. And I know how it was done.”
“Well, let me in on it,” he said, blocking her line of sight to the terrace.
“You kidding me? Just tell you? Forget it. Let’s make a deal.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“A cut. A big cut, not the measly fifty grand they offered you. We can’t talk here.”
“You mean we grab the whole bundle and split it? Why don’t you just grab it yourself?”
“Not here,” she said with renewed urgency. “I’m at Motel 6 outside of town, room number four. We can talk there.” She looked over her shoulder again and moved away as voices from the hall became louder.
As Lawrence and Tricia entered the kitchen, Pamela rushed out past them. “What’s with her?” Lawrence asked. “You been rattling her chain?”
“Edgy, I guess,” Charlie said. He saw movement out on the terrace. Alice had left the table and was walking back to the house. Probably she had heard voices in the kitchen, he thought with regret. Alice entered, glanced at them, and went to the sink without speaking.
When Constance came in, Charlie asked, “Ready to take off?”
She nodded.
“You’re already leaving?” Lawrence said. “You just got here.”
From the hall, Pamela’s snort of laughter could be heard.
In the car a few minutes later, Charlie noticed that Pamela’s car and Stuart’s bike were both gone. He doubted that they had a date. He put his hand on Constance’s thigh. “A tall frosted glass of something good to drink, a little talk, and watch beautiful, rich, half-naked people cavort. How’s that sound?”
“Whither thou goest,” she said. “And PDQ.”
He gave her thigh a squeeze and headed for the Lakeview Resort.
#
That morning Eve had awakened on the futon with sunlight full on her face. She sat up with a groan, stiff and sore. Earl’s novel was on the floor along with her pen. She rubbed her side, then raised her shirt to look. During the night she must have rolled over on Andrea’s notebook, leaving an indentation of metal spirals. Her own notebook, highlighters, the three audiotapes and recorder were on the futon.
She had played the tapes twice, made notes, read all of Andrea’s notebook, and, while comparing the published words with the written ones, she had fallen asleep. It had been very late, leaving her sore, headachy, and tired that morning. A long hot shower, she decided, was what her aching body needed. Then coffee, lots of coffee. She put on the coffee before the shower.
She had to finish the comparison, she decided at the kitchen table later, and then think about what next. He would deny it. Maybe everyone would doubt it, deny it. And maybe she was wrong. She shook her head, but had to admit the possibility that she could be wrong. There could be an explanation, even if she couldn’t think of one. A collaboration. Andrea had been adding her thoughts to his work, suggestions that he had accepted. Something like that.
She didn’t believe it. The same sensitivity was all through the novel, the same lucid writing, lyrical at times, ironic at times, it was all of a piece, both in the notebook and in the published work. It was the work of one person. Andrea.
She went to the study, gathered up the notebooks, hers and Andrea’s, the highlighters, and the published book and took everything to her desk to finish the comparison she had started.
Twice while she was working, her phone rang. She checked to see who it was and each time let Earl be diverted to her voice mail.
When she finished with the comparison, additions that had been included, many that had not been added and should have been, identical passages and dialogs first handwritten, then incorporated, there was no longer even the possibility that she was wrong about the identity of the author. Andrea Briacchi had written the novel that Earl claimed was his.
She yearned to go to the lake, swim for a long time, and then relax in the sunshine, but she shook the wish away. He might be watching for her. The last thing she wanted that day was to see him, to face him. They might decide not to let her work at the college, she thought suddenly. He was the golden boy, the town’s own celebrity, the one who had made good. And his sister was a trustee of the college. Her job was at risk, maybe her thesis was, her master’s degree. No maybe, she corrected. Whatever else she did, she could not write what she had outlined, what her advisor had accepted. If she wrote what she knew was true, he might get a lawyer and sue her. Then what? She had answers for none of the questions that arose despite her determination not to consider consequences of what she had to do. And she didn’t even know how to go about that, she thought in frustration.
Even later in the afternoon, she straightened up her desk, tidied the futon, and stood in the middle of the room trying to think of her next step. Nothing came to mind. She had to shop, do the mundane things one did just to keep going, to keep moving. Laundry? That was too much to ask, she told herself and went to check the refrigerator, make a shopping list, do something. Get out of the apartment that was beginning to feel stifling.
She left the apartment, went down the stairs, then hesitated at her car and decided not to drive. He might be cruising around and spot it, but on foot she would be just another woman on her way to market, one among quite a few. There were more people in town every day, commuters coming home early for a long holiday weekend, campers in town to shop, returning students and instructors. She walked the six blocks to the supermarket.
Shopping didn’t take long; she just wanted milk, bread, and lettuce. The warmth outside felt good after the too-cool store and she blinked in the bright light, then drew in her breath sharply as Earl approached.
“Hey,” he said, coming near. “Your cell phone on the fritz or something? I called a couple of times.”
She shook her head. “I’ve been busy.”
He stepped closer and she took a step back, then another as he drew even closer. “What’s wrong with you? Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
She shook her head again. “No. I… I want to walk.”
“I’ll walk with you. Come on.”
“No,” she said. “I want to be alone. I have things to think about.”
He moved closer and she backed up to the storefront.
His face darkened. “What the fuck’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen a terrorist or something.”
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“Just leave me alone,” she said. Not a terrorist, she thought then, just someone she didn’t want to be near. She didn’t want to hear any more of his lies, watch his smile that had appeared charming and now looked more like a leer.
He reached for the bag of groceries she was carrying and when she jerked away, he grabbed her arm. “Why the chill treatment? What’s bugging you?”
“Let go of me!” she said in a low, intense voice. “Just go away and leave me alone!” She glanced about and was grateful that no one seemed to be paying attention to them. The last thing she wanted to do was create a public scene.
“Little Miss Hot and Cold. You got your interviews and now it’s just go away. That’s all you wanted, your goddamn schoolgirl interviews?”
A rush of anger narrowed his eyes and his lips tightened. For the first time she felt afraid of him. She tried to pull loose and his grip tightened. “Let me tell you something, baby. You don’t play around with me like that—”
“The lady said to leave her alone,” Stuart said, coming to them. “Take your hand off her arm now.”
Earl jerked around and snapped, “She’s with me. Fuck off.”
Stuart put down a bag he was carrying and stepped closer. “Let her go and back off.”
For a moment they eyed each other. Then abruptly Earl jerked his hand away, gave Eve a contemptuous look, flipped Stuart off and strode away.
“Are you okay?” Stuart asked Eve.
She was shaking. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”
They watched Earl walk past several parked cars, get in his convertible and start it. He didn’t pull away from the curb.
“I’ll walk to your car with you if you’d like.”
“I didn’t drive over.” She was watching the convertible.
“Then I’ll walk home with you. I have to put this stuff in my saddle bag first. Over there.” He pointed to the bicycle rack. “I’m Stuart.”
“Eve.” She continued to watch the convertible for a moment, then looked at Stuart.
“It’s only a few blocks to my apartment. I’d appreciate company.”
He grinned. They walked to the bicycle rack and he stowed his groceries. That done, he unchained the bike and wheeled it as they turned and walked in the opposite direction from where Earl was parked. A moment later Eve heard the car rev up and take off with a loud squeal.
“You a student here?” Stuart asked.
She shook her head. “I’ll work in the office at the college. You?”
“Camping up at the park.”
She had stopped shaking, but now and again she glanced over her shoulder as they chatted easily about very little, her new job, his camp site, swimming… He asked no more questions until they reached the stairs to her apartment.
“Are you going to the concert tonight? Maybe I’ll see you there.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I hadn’t thought about it. Thanks again for stepping in. It’s okay now.”
He stayed at the bottom of the stairs until she unlocked and opened her door. She turned and waved to him and watched him mount his bike, wave back, and pedal away.
Inside, with the door locked, she put the milk away and rubbed her arm. She knew it would be bruised. She wished she knew Stuart just a little, enough to know if she could talk to him anyway. That was her problem, she realized. There was no one in town she could talk to. She didn’t know anyone here. Mrs. Varga, the woman who had interviewed her, who would be her boss starting the coming week, had said she wouldn’t be in town until Saturday or Sunday. And there was no one else who even knew who Eve was, except Earl and his sister. She shuddered and rubbed her arm again.
She paced the apartment, trying to think how to reveal what she knew was the truth. Whom to tell, how to go about it. She picked up her cell phone, put it down again. She couldn’t call Jenna at work, where there would be too many people around, where Jenna wouldn’t have time to listen, to think for her. That was what she wanted, someone to think for her, to tell her what to do. At her desk she looked at the notebooks, the tapes, and then she was looking at a flyer she had picked up at the library. It had a list of public events, starting with the concert that night, ending Monday with a welcoming speech by President Rasmussen, followed by the presentation of an achievement award to be given to Earl. She closed her eyes hard. Achievement award!
She turned to pace back to the kitchen, stopped at her window to gaze out, and watched a group of young people heading toward the college grounds. She nodded as it occurred to her that she could walk on campus, where no cars were allowed. With winding paths to the various buildings, trees, even a bench here and there, she could walk and clear her head enough maybe to think what next. And there would be people there walking, riding bikes, laughing, talking. If he showed up and touched, her she would scream. She would scream if he put a hand on her. To hell with avoiding a public scene, she added to herself, and nodded again.
It was only a block to the campus and once on the path in the grounds, she felt herself relax a little. But no thoughts came to mind, no plan, nothing. Maybe go back to New York, talk to Marjorie Yost, her advisor? She was considering it when, as she neared the administration building, she saw Dr. Rasmussen walking toward the entrance. The presentation, Eve thought. She had to tell Dr. Rasmussen something, enough, let her decide what to do. As if it had been decided for her, she began to hurry.
Dr. Rasmussen had entered the building and was partway down the hall when Eve got there. A man had joined Dr. Rasmussen. They were talking as they both headed for the conference room. Eve walked faster, then called out.
“Dr. Rasmussen, please, could I have a minute of your time?”
Dr. Rasmussen turned toward Eve, as the man at her side opened the conference room door. She said something to him and he went inside, leaving the door partway open.
“Yes?” Dr. Rasmussen said to Eve. “Excuse me, but do I know you?”
“Eve Parish. I’ll start work here next week. Dr. Rasmussen there’s something you have to know before that presentation Monday.”
The door was opened wider and the man who had been with her a minute before said, “Debra, are you coming? Everyone’s here.”
“Coming,” she said and looked at Eve again. “I have a meeting, I’m afraid. Come by the office in the morning.”
Eve was looking past her. Five or six people were in sight and she could see curiosity and impatience in their expressions as they watched her.
“I’m sorry,” she said in dismay. “I’m sorry.” She turned and walked away as fast as she could without running.
Outside, still walking fast, she cursed herself under her breath. Dumb, dumb, dumb. She couldn’t do it like that, just spring it cold like that without anything to back up what she had to say. Talk to Jenna first, she told herself. Just talk it over first. She went back to her apartment.
At seven thirty she called Jenna and got her voice mail. She’d wait half an hour, she decided. When she called again, she got the voice mail once more, and this time she said, “Jenna, I have to talk to you! Please call me tonight. It’s important. There’s something I need to talk over with someone. Just call me. I’ll be up all night waiting. Make it after ten, after you get home. I’ll be here. Just call me.”
She thought again about the achievement award and groaned. It would happen, there would be applause, he would sign books, smile at the audience, who would think he was terrific. And he would feel nothing but contempt for his adoring fans.
Then she thought about the concert in the park, all the people who would be there, but not him. She felt certain that chamber music would not attract him. But she could go, lose herself among people, lose herself in beautiful music, stop the endless loop in her head that kept telling her she had to do something without telling her what that something was.
She put on jeans, took a sweatshirt and left. Once more she walked through the campus to the other end, across the street from the park. The music had started and the park was already crowded. There were people all the way up to the playground. Keeping her gaze on the park, she continued to walk, watching for a good place to sit where she could hear and there were few people. She spotted just the right kind of place, crossed the street, and walked into the park to sit under a tree. She leaned back against it. After a few minutes she drew her knees up, crossed her arms on them and leaned forward, resting her head on her arms. She closed her eyes as the strains of Beethoven’s Grosse Fuge replaced her troubled thoughts.
#
Charlie came awake that night aware of strange pulsing lights. He rubbed his eyes, but the lights didn’t go away. He and Constance had listened to the concert while nursing drinks on the deck of The Pub. They had walked back to the gingerbread house holding hands, and as soon as they were inside their room with the door closed, they had undressed each other and melted into each other they way they did.
Afterward she had said, “I’m going to put chamber music CDs on my shopping list.” He nipped her ear and she laughed. And now it was two in the morning and he was awake again, watching the room glow with red lights, then white lights.
He slipped out of bed and went to the small balcony where he could see the colored pulsations reflected on the water of the lake. Trees and buildings obscured the source of the lights, but he knew what they meant. He had been at too many crime scenes too many times not to know what those lights meant.
They’d be putting up crime-scene tape, guys with flashlights looking for someone hiding, looking for a weapon, waiting for a police ambulance, no sirens, not at two in the morning when there was a body. No sirens and silent pulsing lights almost always meant a dead body. No need to rush an ambulance. They would wait for a doctor to pronounce death, take the body temperature, make however much of a search they could by flashlight. Someone would sit in a car all night to keep the crime scene intact. They’d be back in force early in the morning.
