Art's Blood Page 7
“So, Willow, let me get the rest of these tomatoes into the jeep and then I’ll give you a ride up to the house. I’m sure Kyra will be glad to see you.”
The tomatoes were stowed in the back of the jeep for the short trip up the hill. Willow climbed in beside Elizabeth, confiding that though, on principle, she didn’t believe in SUVs, she could see that one might be necessary on a mountainside farm.
“I visualize myself on a farm someday,” she said in a dreamy voice. “A place of rebirth— of healing and enlightenment— my own milk goats, sheep— I’ll learn to spin and weave. My dream is to make all my own clothing from cloth I myself have woven— just like Gandhiji. I see, too, a beautiful organic garden with healing herbs— and perhaps a hospice for AIDS patients. But I have to be able to travel as well.”
Elizabeth said nothing, having heard such fantasies before. Travel and farms were, in her experience, incompatible. Milk goats required milking— twice daily. She smiled quietly, remembering her own years of keeping a cow— milking in all weathers, early and late. A neighbor had once asked her, “Know the difference ’tween bein’ in jail and keepin’ a milk cow? Iffen you’re in jail, you don’t have to milk the durned cow.”
Willow helped carry the tomatoes onto the porch. The cheerful twangle of a bluegrass banjo blared from the CD player in the living room, and through the kitchen window Elizabeth could see Ben and Kyra sitting together on the built-in corner bench, coffee mugs in hand. Kyra, who seemed much recovered from her shock of the night before, was actually giggling at something Ben was showing her in a magazine. Her hair had been washed and had dried naturally, leaving a fluffy mass of black ringlets curling around her face. Without the heavy eyeliner and dark lipstick that she usually affected, Kyra looked very young.
Elizabeth led her visitor into the kitchen. The two young people were still engrossed in the magazine— a Roz Chast cartoon spread in The New Yorker, Elizabeth noted. Kyra looked up with a start as the CD ended.
“Willow!” She jumped up and ran to hug her friend’s mother. “What’s happening with Aidan? Did you see our house? I tried to get our stuff out but they wouldn’t let me….” The girl’s pale face was taut with suppressed emotion. “At least most of our paintings and other pieces were in the studio.” Continuing to cling to the little woman, she whispered, “Tell me Aidan’s all right.”
“Now, now, little one, calm yourself.” With gentle firmness Willow held Kyra to her. “All shall be well. Aidan is in Spirit’s hands. I have surrounded him with a pure white light and given him into Spirit’s care. I have also,” she said, stroking Kyra’s hair back from her face, “retained an excellent lawyer who assures me we will have Aidan out on bond quite soon.” Once again, the Indian accent had disappeared.
Elizabeth sent Kyra and Willow to the front porch to talk while she and Ben sorted and washed the tomatoes. Through the open window they could hear Kyra telling her visitor about the fire. “Terrible, terrible!” Willow exclaimed in response. “But only material objects were lost— all maya, all illusion. And Spirit is obviously looking after you and has sent you to the right place. I sense that Elizabeth will be good for you— did you know she’s a nurturer?— her aura is a beautiful green.”
Ben smirked at Elizabeth and whispered, “That reminds me, Kyra asked me to call Phillip and tell him about the fire. She asked him if he could come back out. He said he was free late this afternoon— he wanted to speak to you but I told him you were in the garden. I also told him I knew you’d want him to stay for dinner this time— being as you’re such a nurturer.”
Elizabeth began a retort but stopped, intrigued by the turn the conversation on the porch seemed to have taken. “…blackmail!” Willow was saying. “Aidan told me that he thought that Boz knew something damaging about someone and that this someone would pay anything, do anything to keep it quiet. Had you heard this?”
Kyra’s answer was barely audible but it seemed to be negative and Willow continued. “Anyway, my lawyer’s looking into it. And it would be good for you to share this knowledge with the investigator you were telling me about— the more people working on this, the better.”
Curiouser and curiouser, thought Elizabeth, intrigued by the idea of another suspect in Boz’s murder, and noting, yet again, how Willow’s slight accent seemed to come and go. The last of the tomatoes were washed and laid on dishtowels to dry when Kyra and Willow returned to the kitchen. Willow reached up to envelop Elizabeth in a patchouli-scented hug. “Thank you, Elizabeth, for taking care of our Kyra. This is exactly the place she needs to be at this time. She’s a very special girl— to me, as well as to my Aidan.”
She released Elizabeth, stepped back, and once again brought her palms together. “Namaste to you all and Spirit’s blessing and protection on this sacred ground.” A beatific smile spread across her face. “Now I must return to Asheville. I have a class in etheric healing this afternoon, so I will say farewell. I shall walk slowly back down to my car, feeling Mother Earth all around me and making affirmations for Aidan’s speedy release. Namaste.”
And she was gone.
* * *
By noon the heat was fierce. Elizabeth put away her weed-eater and wearily sought the porch’s inviting shade. She paused on the top step to enjoy the sight of the neatly trimmed herb garden and flower beds and the intoxicating smell of fresh-cut grass drying in the August sun. Beautiful, even if it would have to be done again in two weeks. She hung her straw hat on the back of a porch rocker, then took off her sweat-soaked purple bandana and draped it over the railing to dry. Sinking gratefully into one of the rockers, she loosened her boot laces and pulled off the filthy, grass-covered lumps that had lost all resemblance to the sporty hiking boots they once had been. She leaned back in her chair, savoring the absence of noise and vibration. The weed-eating had taken several hours and she was ready for a rest.
Ben and Kyra had left shortly after Willow’s departure. Kyra had to go to the sheriff’s office to make a statement, and she desperately needed to do some shopping, having brought only a single change of clothes to Elizabeth’s house. “I’ll take her into Ransom and on into Asheville, Aunt E,” Ben had said. “There’s some stuff I need to get and I don’t think she should be on her own, not till we find out more about the fire.” They had headed down the hill, Ben looming protectively over Kyra.
Elizabeth had watched them go, bemused. “Smitten,” she murmured, smiling at her nephew’s back as he shepherded his charge down the road. But I don’t know…Kyra seems nice enough but she’s got a lot of baggage…and I always pictured Ben pairing up with some granola-Birkenstock type— someone who’d be into farming like he is. Certainly not an artist of the Goth or whatever-it-is persuasion.
She had mulled over this conundrum as she worked and had come to the conclusion that it was none of her business. Now as she sat rocking gently, feeling a little breeze dry her sweaty face, she told herself that she was grateful Ben was there to help Kyra through this difficult time. He’ll be fine, she assured herself. He’s just responding to the old damsel-in-distress situation. If what Willow said is true, Aidan’ll be free soon and things will sort themselves out. “Or not,” she told a sleeping Ursa, standing to brush the bits of grass off herself.
She fixed a quick lunch— thick slices of dead-ripe, garden-warm tomato, liberally salted and peppered and piled on homemade bread. The quintessential summer sandwich, she decided as she swirled the pale yellow mayonnaise on the bread. The mayonnaise, a treasured recipe from her grandmother, was slightly sweet and slightly lemony— and a slightly guilty pleasure.
When the last delectable crumb had been consumed, she settled in front of the computer with a glass of iced coffee and checked her e-mail. A long message from Rosemary, whose busy schedule made such communications all too infrequent, was a welcome sight.
Hi Mum—
Hope all is well at the farm. I had hoped to get up there for a few days but the combined trials of home ownership and two new classes to pr
epare for are keeping me here. I love my new house and as soon as the plumbing situation is dealt with and I can get the drywall repaired and painted, I hope you and Laur can come for a few days. I think you’ll like it— lots of big trees and a backyard that badly needs flowers. Maybe you could bring some daylilies or something. I can’t afford landscaping right now as I owe my soul to Mr. Dooley, the plumber. Mr. D’s quite a character— and has been really nice about dealing with the emergencies generated by my antique pipes.
Two new classes: one in women’s studies, concentrating on some of the classics— Austen, the Brontës, George Eliot, and Mary Shelley— the usual suspects. I could do most of it in my sleep but want to work up some new angles. The other is contemporary regional fiction of the South— pretty much what my book covers. I really look forward to it, but there’s a fair amount of prep if I want to do things right.
At least the book is mostly done. My editor is reading it now, but I’m reasonably confident that he won’t want too many changes. Which brings me to another thing. I have an idea for a short story— maybe even a novel. Remember the Mullins family and that terrible Halloween? I think I want to base my story on that. You know that I’ve never quite come to terms with what happened back then, and a friend has suggested that I write about it— fictionalize it, of course. At first the idea seemed pretty ghoulish, but the more I thought of it and imagined the different answers there could be, the more it nagged at me. So I’m going to give it a go.
It would be awfully helpful, Mum, if you would check at the Ransom library for articles in the local paper about the tragedy. It was Halloween of 1986. Maybe you could make copies of the articles and send them to me. I really think this is something I need to do. No big hurry— just when you have the time.
Haven’t heard from Laur or Ben recently. Or you either. I know this is a busy time on the farm but let me know what’s happening. Has Ben found true love? Or Laurel? Or what about you? Laur mentioned Phillip hadn’t been around in a while.
I hope to get home for fall break, at least.
Love you,
R
P.S. Do you have any idea where the Mullins family went when they moved away?
CHAPTER 7
STREET ANGEL, HOME DEVIL
(WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AUGUST 31)
THE MULLINS FAMILY. ELIZABETH SAT AT THE computer, staring at her daughter’s words. Rosemary had been a school friend of the oldest Mullins child— we’re best friends, Mum. And we cut our fingers and swapped blood so now we’re blood sisters! When the tragedy occurred, so horribly, so unforgettably on that Halloween nineteen years ago, the ten-year-old Rosemary had gone silent for almost a week, refusing to go to school or even to leave the house. Sam and Elizabeth, after trying unsuccessfully to comfort her, had made an appointment with a child psychologist, but before the first meeting, Rosemary was back to normal— a little quieter and more thoughtful than before, but willing once again to participate in life. The meeting with the psychologist had been unrevealing and Rosemary had balked at further visits. I’m fine, Mum, she had insisted. I just don’t want to have to talk about it anymore. And she never spoke of her friend again.
A terrible time. A terrible tragedy. And never solved. The Mullins family had moved away eventually and the story had been all but forgotten. All but.
Elizabeth began to tap the computer keys, composing a return message to her daughter. She was writing, not to the self-assured, brilliant young rising star of the UNC–Chapel Hill English department, but to a skinny pale-faced ten-year-old who wouldn’t cry, who had grown up overnight.
She keyed Send, then remembered that she had told her daughter nothing of the recent events— the death of Boz and the fire at Dessie’s house. It’ll keep, she thought. Rosie hasn’t been home since they moved in. She wouldn’t know who I was talking about.
It was only one o’clock and far too hot to go back out to the garden. Elizabeth decided to make a trip to the grocery and to the recycling center. And the post office and I might as well swing by the library.
* * *
The articles were easy to find. Seated at the microfiche machine, Elizabeth followed the screaming headlines of those first few weeks of November to the more subdued stories of the following months. Eventually, when no solution to the case was found, the story had disappeared. Elizabeth chased the sad tale from issue to issue of the county’s weekly paper, making a copy of each article. She was gathering the pages together, a sorry few to recount such a tragedy, when Barb, one of the longtime librarians, came into the research room.
“Find everything you needed, Elizabeth?” Barb looked doubtfully at the slim sheaf of paper.
“Thanks, Barb. I think I found everything there was. What do I owe for the copies?”
“Today they’re on the house. The library has a big favor to ask. We want to do a quilt exhibit of Marshall County quilts— old and new— and someone said you’d be a good one to ask.” Barb looked embarrassed but continued. “And we’d really like to do it by the end of September— there’s this big meeting….”
* * *
“ ‘I’m jist a girl who cain’t say no….’ ” Elizabeth belted out the only line she knew of the tune from Oklahoma! then pounded on the steering wheel. “When will I learn?” She groaned and thumped the steering wheel again. “Bloody hell! Pull together a quilt exhibit at such short notice! Even if Barb will print up the labels and signage, I’ve still got to write up the stuff. And collect the quilts. And make hanging sleeves for them. And bloody return them.”
She made a quick trip to the post office to mail the copies of the newspaper stories to Rosemary. Still fuming about this new commitment of time and energy, she came to Gudger’s Stand and turned onto the bridge that would take her to Ridley Branch. The little park below the bridge was crowded with buses and vans from the various rafting companies that used this spot as a put-in point for their white-water trips down the French Broad. Several cars were parked on the bridge itself, their passengers standing beside them watching a flotilla of rubber rafts filled with shrieking preteen girls set off on their trip to Hot Springs.
As always, turning onto Ridley Branch’s quiet country road filled Elizabeth with a sense of peace. Though she was, in the local vernacular, a “transplant,” twenty-some years had allowed her roots to grow deep, and she loved this place with all her heart. The natural beauty of the land coupled with the deep integrity of its people spoke to her in a way that she couldn’t begin to explain. Suddenly her irritation over the added responsibility of the quilt exhibit vanished. It’ll be a chance to visit some of the realold-timers, she reminded herself. It’ll probably tickle them to see their quilts hung up and treated like the artworks that they are.
And she liked Barb and the library. And she always liked seeing quilts, making them, talking about them. It was just the timing— this was a busy season at the farm, harvesting and drying the herbs and flowers, constructing the wreaths, packing and shipping them to the stores or for the catalogues that carried them. “So, when isn’t busy, Elizabeth?” she said aloud. “Just get on with the job. And if Aunt Omie will lend the animal quilt, we’ll have a perfect centerpiece for the show.”
As she neared her neighbor Birdie’s house, a thought occurred to her. Birdie’s got some quilts and besides, she probably wants to hear about the fire. Impulsively, Elizabeth braked and turned across Miss Birdie’s plank bridge, causing an unfamiliar car that had been behind her since Gudger’s Stand to slam on its brakes, then swerve around her. Miss Birdie was sitting on the porch, leaning over the ladder-back chair in front of her. Her face broke into a smile of greeting at the sight of Elizabeth’s car.
Miss Birdie, a widow in spite of the name she was known by, was in her eighties and lived alone after the recent death of her son— her only child. She was one of the last of the older generation on the branch and very dear to Elizabeth.
“Well, Lizzie Beth, that fool feller like to run into you.” Birdie peered after the shiny black
sedan that was disappearing around a curve. “Don’t know who that feller is but I see him comin’ and goin’ right often. Wearin’ them fancy dark glasses like he thinks he’s some movie star.” She shook her head in disapproval and went on without waiting for a response. “What about that fire? I heared the sireens last night and seen the light in the sky. I called down to Robertses and they told me what was happenin’ and said not to worry fer the fire engines was there. I walked down there this mornin’ to see fer myself. They ain’t a thing left of Dessie’s house but the cement steps.”
Elizabeth touched her neighbor’s arm and said softly, “I know, Miss Birdie, it’s sad. I hate it that even Dessie’s house is gone now.”
Miss Birdie fixed Elizabeth with a bright-eyed gaze, then resumed her work on the mule-eared straight chair she was rebottoming. “That old hickory-bark seat lasted its time but it’s give out now. Talk is, the high sheriff says somebody meant to start that fire.” Her knobby-jointed hands tugged at the baling twine that she was double-warping around the front and back rails of the chair seat. “Got to git this part tight and straight or I won’t do no good when I come to weave.” She jerked her head in the direction of another straight chair, this one with a bright, new woven seat. “Git you a chair, Lizzie Beth. See how that one sets.”
Elizabeth obeyed silently, fighting back tears brought on by the memory of Dessie— another good friend, now gone.
Tying off the warp ends with a snug knot, Miss Birdie mused, “Reckon who could of done such a thing? I heared that the big feller was dead and they had the other one in jail. Reckon they fell out over that little black-haired gal. She’s up at yore place, what I hear.”
Elizabeth smiled. As usual the local grapevine was swift and accurate. With only a weekly newspaper serving the county, most of her neighbors relied on one another for the news. “That’s right, Miss Birdie; Kyra’s staying with me— she was at my house the night of the fire.”