A Stillness of Chimes (11 page)

Sean returned the mandolin to its case, latched it, and tucked it safely away behind him. “If Elliott is around, you’d better not try to beat me like you used to. He could kill you with his bare hands.”

“Like he nearly killed Gary Bright?”

“Don’t exaggerate. It was a little scuffle between friends.”

“You always stick up for your hero, don’t you? We’ll see what kind of hero he is now, after living like an animal for years.” Dale reached under his
shirt and scratched his belly. “What kind of man runs out on his wife and lets her think he’s dead? At least I didn’t do that.”

No, but his cruelty would have run her off if she hadn’t died first. Sean held his tongue.

“You believe he’s back, boy?”

“No.”

“You should. Somebody saw him on Sunday at the old church camp out by the lake. Somebody else saw him on Redberry Road last night about dusk.”

“Somebody
thought
they saw him,” Sean said.

“They saw him, all right. And I can find him.”

“Oh, you’ll just lie in wait somewhere and outsmart him? Not likely.”

“It’s plenty likely. When I find him, I’ll truss him up like a deer and drop him off at the nearest funny farm. You got any clues about where he might be?”

“Sorry. I’m not going to waste my time on wild gossip.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Luthier. I’d better let you get back to your hard, hard work.” Dale pulled his keys out of his pocket and jingled them. “I’ll be on my way.”

Sean checked the time and stood up. He could play chauffeur and still make it back in time to meet his customer. “I’ll drive you home.”

“No, you won’t.”

“One of these days, you’ll kill somebody. It might be you, but we can’t count on it.” He reached out to seize Dale’s keys.

“Back off, sonny, or you’ll be sorry.” Dale’s voice was like a rasp on wood.

Bone-deep memories of pain seized Sean as if they’d been imprinted on his body as well as on his brain. A boot in his knee, a fist on his jaw. Even with youth and sobriety on his side, he wouldn’t win. He could match Dale’s strength but not his mean streak.

“Fine. Drive yourself home.”

“Hey, gimme a little cash first. Just to tide me over. I’ll pay you back.”

“You never pay me back. Tell you what. Sell me the pansy gun. I’ll give you a fair price.”

“Nope. I’m not selling.”

“And I’m not lending unless you want to leave the gun as collateral. If you don’t pay me back, I keep the gun.”

“No deal.” With the too-careful movements of mild inebriation, Dale headed for the door. He slapped the half-painted wall. “Good luck with this ol’ shack. You know, I never would’ve lost it if Gantt hadn’t called the cops on me.”

“He didn’t call the cops.”

“Sure he did, and then he lied about it.”

“Elliott wasn’t the one who was lying about things.”

“You calling me a liar, boy? It figures. Gantt had you fooled. You needed every whack I ever gave you, but those idiots wouldn’t even let me raise my own boy the way I saw fit. That’s how I lost everything. They stacked the deck against me.”

Sean shook his head. Always the innocent victim. That was Dale.

Leaving the door open, Dale walked across the lawn toward his truck. He was listing slightly to the left, but he made it into the truck without mishap. Backing out of the driveway, he rolled to the other side of the street
and nearly hit Mrs. Gibson’s mailbox and the container of garish silk flowers at its base.

Sean dialed the sheriff’s department. The dispatcher assured him she’d take care of it. Within minutes, a cruiser would be on Stringer Road, hunting a DUI in a beat-up, black GMC pickup. He nearly suggested that they search Dale’s tacky little studio apartment so they could bust him for being a felon in possession of a firearm, but the pansy gun really was all he had left.

Long after Dale’s truck had rattled away, Sean stood looking out the window. He had a lot to think about, and he wished he could talk things over with Jess.

Sometimes it hit him all over again as if he’d just heard the news. Jess was gone. His mentor’s widow, his girlfriend’s mom.

Ex-girlfriend. Even after Laura dumped him and moved away, though, Jess had always been happy to start a pot of coffee and talk about books or music or politics. Except, somehow, every conversation was ultimately about her. She was kind and easygoing but also quite self-absorbed.

He pulled out the mandolin again, started playing and humming “Shady Grove.”

Peaches in the summertime, apples in the fall
.

If I can’t get the girl I love, won’t have none at all
.

He abandoned the instrument and looked out the window. A movement in the trees caught his attention. He braced himself to see a man in camo, but it was only a wind-tossed branch against the sunset.

He had to watch himself. Laura nearly had him believing those
incredible rumors. Like he’d nearly talked himself into believing some other loony notions, years ago. The long-ago memories plagued him still, so weird that they might have been hallucinations.

He tried to summon the details of a day late in the summer he’d turned twelve. He’d been sweating in the brush above old man Bennett’s private lake, hiding there because he’d heard a car coming, down below, and he’d been run off twice before for trespassing. He didn’t want to make it three times and wind up in the backseat of a cop car. Dale would have whipped him half to death.

But as it turned out, it wasn’t Bennett driving up to the lake.

Sean gave his head a hard shake. He’d never told a soul what he’d seen, least of all the authorities. A trespassing Halloran—even if he was only a kid—wouldn’t have found a friendly audience in the sheriff’s department back then. Now the memory seemed so odd that he hardly trusted his own recollection.

His cell phone rang. He pounced on it. Laura’s number. Maybe she wanted to tell him about the birthday party.

He put the phone to his ear, enjoying the notion that her voice didn’t have to travel from a faraway state. She was back where she belonged.

“Hey there,” he said.

“Hey, Sean. Do me a favor?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Come pick a lock for me.”

Sean sat on the floor of Jess’s den with his back against the wall and studied the cedar chest. Small, flat-topped, rectangular, the wheeled chest was set on
short but graceful legs and stood low enough to serve as a coffee table. He’d installed its brass keyhole straight and true, with his mentor watching over his shoulder to make sure. For a beginner’s work, it was a nice piece, but only because Elliott wouldn’t settle for less. Now Laura couldn’t find a key.

A few water rings marred the top—he’d have to rub them out—but the dark red wood was still beautiful, its warm color accented with lighter streaks. Like Laura’s sun-streaked hair in the summertime.

He smiled, remembering the green-plum wars they’d fought in the alley behind his house. She’d played like a boy, loud and fierce but fair. Well, mostly fair. Once, she and Cassie climbed to the roof of a shed and ambushed him with a bucketful of rock-hard green plums. The girls had hugged each other and screamed for joy. Laura’s scream could scare a banshee.

Looking at the chest again, he wondered if a few wiggles with the skinniest screwdriver on his Leatherman might do the trick. But maybe he wouldn’t need it. Sometimes Jess had hidden spare keys in brilliantly obvious places.

On a hunch, he slid his hand across the smooth underside of the chest. There it was. A small, hard bump. Tipping the chest up, he spotted a square of gray duct tape. Typical. Jess had used duct tape for everything.

He turned the key in the lock, raised the lid, and jumped. Dark brown eyes stared up at him.

His heart thudding, he let out a shaky laugh. It was only a red-haired, life-sized baby doll. Laura’s favorite. It had only one leg due to an accident. Laura had hauled it all over town on the handlebars of her bike during those years when she couldn’t decide if she was a girly girl or a tomboy. Maybe she still hadn’t decided.

The grimy doll and her grimier white dress lay in a clutter of sentimental stuff that included Laura’s baby book, a tiny pink dress that must have
been hers as a newborn, and some crayon drawings she might have made in kindergarten or so. That was only the top layer.

He flicked the doll’s stiff-lashed eyes closed. They popped open again, keeping their plastic gaze on him. The right arm hung crookedly from its socket.

“I got it, Laura,” he called.

She ran in from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel. Her eyes were as wide as the doll’s. “Thanks, Sean. You’re the fastest lock picker in town.”

“No, just the smartest. I found a key taped on the underside.”

She slung the towel onto a chair and smiled at the doll. “Well, would you look at that. I remember her. Katie.”

“Katie needs a little medical attention.” Sean manipulated the dislocated arm until it snapped back into the socket. “There. That’s fixed, anyway, and a little WD-40 might fix the eyelids.”

“Thanks, but don’t bother. I wouldn’t get fifty cents for her if I had a yard sale.”

“You don’t want to keep her?”

“Well … maybe.” Laura knelt beside the chest and sorted through the clutter, making a pile on the floor. The baby book, the pink dress, some snapshots. An old-fashioned red-and-white gingham apron.

“Gram Flynn made that for Mom, but she never wore it,” she said with a half smile. “She didn’t want to spill on it.”

“Isn’t that what aprons are for? Catching spills?”

Laura nodded. She put the apron on the floor and gave it a pat before she resumed pulling items out of the chest.

Sean set down the doll, picked up the photos and thumbed through
them. One was a nice shot of Elliott, Jess, and Gibby Sprague, standing in front of a blooming dogwood tree with their arms around each other. Whenever Gibby came through town, he’d visited the Gantts. They’d had fantastic jam sessions with Doc Marsh and Noodle Hammond. Sometimes Jess had sung along in a smooth alto that contrasted beautifully with Gibby’s low, gravelly voice.

“I always wonder if Gibby’s trying to be another Johnny Cash,” Sean said. “He always wears black. Always lets his hair grow too long—”

“Like somebody else I know.” Laura gave Sean’s hair a stern look.

“And like somebody else you know, Gibby always wows the ladies.”

Ignoring the bait, she leaned closer to study the photo. “I took that picture. I think it was the year he was between his second and third wives. He’s probably on his sixth by now.”

“Probably. I can’t help but like the guy, though. And admit it, Laura. You and Cassie had major crushes on him—a middle-aged man—when you were thirteen or fourteen.”

He wasn’t trying to make her mad, but an angry blush hit her cheeks. Her pale skin made a beautiful canvas for it.

“I’m too nice to tease you about your crush on Shania Twain,” she said.

“I did not have a—”

“Oh yes, you did.”

“Okay, I did. I’m over Shania, but there’s someone else I’ll never get over.”

Once again acting as if she hadn’t heard, she pointed out a photo of orange lilies. “Mom’s hems.”

“Say what?”

“Daylilies.
Hemerocallis
is the botanical name. Some daylily lovers call
them hems.” She reached into the chest again and brought out a slender book. “Oh, I hope—no, it’s just a book of poems.”

Her obvious disappointment piqued his curiosity. “What kind of book were you hoping for?”

“I’d like to find her journals. I haven’t really started looking yet, though.”

“Don’t you feel at all funny about wanting to read your mom’s private journals?”

“Yes, but I’m so curious, especially considering the rumors.” She opened the book and bent over it, her hair hiding her face. “Anyway, remember how she’d fill the last page of a journal and just toss it on a shelf somewhere? She was always so casual about it that I figure she never wrote anything too personal.” She paused, turning a page. “But once Dad disappeared and I moved to Denver, she was living alone. She might have felt more freedom to write anything.”

“About your dad, you mean?”

Laura nodded. “I’d love to read what she wrote just after he disappeared.” She raised her head but wouldn’t quite look him in the eye. “I don’t want to say this,” she said softly. “I don’t even like to think it.”

He leaned closer so he could catch every hushed word. “Whatever it is, it will stay between us.”

Finally, she met his gaze, her eyes shining with tears. “I think she might have suspected that he didn’t really drown.”

“No way. Wouldn’t she have said something to you?”

“Probably not. She wouldn’t even listen to me when I came up with my theory about an accident and amnesia or something. Then everything got kind of strained between us, and I left for college.” Laura shut the book and stared down at it.

“I don’t know,” he said cautiously. “The whole premise that he staged it doesn’t feel solid. If he took such great pains to disappear, why would he come back at all? And why now, after twelve years?”

Laura nibbled on a fingernail and shook her head. “Maybe … maybe he heard about her death somehow, and it was a jolt to his mind. Or maybe he guessed I’d be back for the funeral and he wanted to see me, at least from a distance.”