Art's Blood (36 page)

“ ‘Yes, Miss Lily,’ I says, and I stand there and look her right in the eye. ‘Hit’s me.’ ”

Evidently, Tildy had seized the opportunity of Lily’s visit to do a little gentle blackmail. “I could see she had a lot of money. So I says, ‘Miss Lily, me and Tildy are in need of a helpin’ hand. Bein’ as you thought so much of me back in the old days, I’m makin’ bold to ask.’ ”

And for the past eleven years, it was Lily Gordon who had maintained Tildy and Fanchon at the exclusive Golden Years Assisted Living Facility.

“She never come back to see us though. Ever once in a while she’d send that man who drove her to bring some kind of presents. But I could tell that hit had plumb turned her stomach to see how her beautiful Fanchon had got old and homely. Miss Lily, she weren’t no chicken herself but she had held her age real good.”

And how do I write up “the Fanchon quilt” now?
Elizabeth sighed as she turned up her driveway.
A little essay on jealousy…on thwarted artistic pride?

She parked the van by the workshop to make the change to her jeep for the trip up the steep road. As she walked over to the vehicle, there in the shade beside the corncrib, the beginnings of a thought began to worry at her. She stood and studied the corncrib while the thought danced and flirted and refused to resolve.

Slowly she circled the little building, remembering the day Kyra had been found locked in its dusty cage. The door hung open, the rusty hasp askew. Elizabeth looked more closely at the hardware cloth lining the little storage room. Reaching inside, she ran her fingers over the wire closest to the area where the hasp would have closed.

It was there. Though the edge of the wire mesh lay flat against the wooden frame, it was loose and a few inches could be lifted. A few inches— not enough for a hand but—

Elizabeth hurried to the nearby shed where the garden tools were stored. She grabbed a rake and jogged back to the corncrib, almost certain that she would find the answer to Kyra’s imprisonment.
At least the
how
— god knows what the
why
is.

She thrust the iron-toothed rake under the corncrib and dragged it through the dry loose dirt. Nothing. She moved over a bit and dragged again. The tines brought out an ancient black walnut and a worn old horseshoe.

On her fifth attempt, she heard a light
ting
as the tines hit something metallic. She pulled the rake slowly toward her, dragging out from under the corncrib a bedraggled clump of ancient shucks and her missing hemostat.

The sound of an approaching car made her look up. Phillip Hawkins’s gray sedan rounded the barn and pulled to a stop.

“Okay, so you were right about the Tawana Brawley thing.” She had shown him the loosened place along the edge of the woven wire, and they had found the little crack that was just large enough to permit the hemostat to be shoved between the floorboards and dropped into the dirt, followed by enough corn shucks to hide the instrument from a cursory look.

Elizabeth ran her hand over her head.
Shit— now he’s got me doing it.
“I was thinking about my hemostat and that I should have gotten another one when I was in Asheville. And then I saw the corncrib and remembered that Kyra had been working on a wreath when all that stuff happened. And with the hemostat she could have put that nail through the hasp from the inside— but the wire would have had to be loosened in that one place. And it was.”

Phillip was grinning widely. “I should have caught that loosened wire. Good job, Sherlock. Really good job.”

She gave him a troubled smile. “Thanks. But now I want to know
why.
Was this a troubled girl looking for sympathy and attention? I would have thought that we, and especially Ben, were doing all we could along those lines. Or…”

“Or was this a diversion?”

“Right, that’s the question. But I’ve got to get up to the house and get started on dinner if you don’t want peanut butter and jelly.”

As they walked toward the jeep, Phillip’s eyes were sparkling and his lips were moving silently. Suddenly he stopped and held up his hand. “How’s this?

“A

And

It was a cheerful meal, not peanut butter and jelly after all but eggplant Parmesan (eggplant Farmer John, her girls had called it)— a vegetarian dish in deference to Willow, who eschewed all flesh. There was a big salad, crusty ciabatta with olive oil for dipping, and red wine, followed by some cheese and fruit. They ate heartily, avoiding all mention of the circumstances that had brought Willow and Aidan among them.

Laurel and Aidan had spent the morning in farmwork and then had taken sandwiches and hiked up Pinnacle to the ridge. “It was too hazy for a really great view—” Laurel began.

“Maybe so; I was still impressed.” Aidan flashed a quiet smile and he and Laurel exchanged glances.

“Well, hell, you guys took off before I got to the house for lunch. I would have gone with you if I’d known that’s what you were up to.”

Ben’s complaint met with another quick exchange of glances, and Laurel made a stifled sound that might have been a laugh. “Sorry, Ben. We thought you were going to be mowing all afternoon. Next time, okay?”

Willow’s dreamy voice rose above the talk. “At noon I took some fruit and a flask of the crystal water from your spring. I was led to follow the path at the top of the pasture into the woods. There I sat beneath a great-great-grandfather tree. Grandfather Tree and I shared secrets.” She embraced them all with a knowing smile. “He spoke from his wisdom, telling me that this turmoil we are passing through is but a healing crisis— all shall be well and all shall be well and all shall be exceeding well.”

“She’s a nice enough woman, but damned hard to talk to.”

Phillip and Elizabeth had left the others busy with the dishes and were sitting on the blue bench in the garden above the driveway. To the east, above the dark mountains, a pale glow in the sky heralded the rising moon. Molly and Ursa were sprawled in the grass at their feet, and James had claimed the corner of the bench beside Elizabeth. The night air was warm and still; far below them could be heard the whistle of a freight train running beside the river.

“I managed to get Willow and Aidan alone for a little talk while you were putting dinner together. I got to say, the Indian accent kind of bugs me, particularly the way it comes and goes. But I did find out that Kyra has given Aidan the boot— he went to see her at her studio before they came out here, and she wouldn’t even let him in.

“Aidan told me that some fierce-looking, black-haired older woman opened the door and said that Miss Kyra wanted him to go away and stay away. He said that Kyra was in there and when he called to her she just said, ‘That’s right, Aidan. That’s what I want.’ He was evidently pretty torn up about it.” There was a thoughtful pause, then Phillip observed, “Though he seems to be getting over it now.”

Elizabeth groaned inwardly, hoping that the attachment that seemed to be growing between Laurel and Aidan wasn’t due to the rebound effect.
Why can’t Laurel—

Phillip went on. “Then Willow said something really weird: she looked at Aidan and said in that little singsong voice, ‘The fault is mine, child of my heart’ or something like that. When I asked what she meant, she shut up like a clam.”

“She was saying stuff like that before.” Elizabeth recounted Aidan’s story about the mysterious benefactor and Willow’s insistence that she must not explain about him. “Anyway, that’s evidently where the bail money came from.”

“Really? Then maybe it’s this same benefactor who has all the pull with the prosecutor in Asheville and is likely to get the case against Aidan dropped. She didn’t give any hints at all who it could be?”

“None. She said something about she might lose her son if she did.”

Phillip grunted a noncommittal response and shifted restlessly beside her. “Look at that.”

Slowly and majestically the quarter moon emerged from behind the distant mountain range, washing the velvet black slopes with a silver sheen. Phillip yawned widely, then stretched out his arms along the back of the bench. The arm on Elizabeth’s side dropped down to rest on her shoulders.

She started and then, to her surprise, began to giggle. “Phillip, I remember that trick from the first time I went to the movies with a boy— about ninth grade, that would have been.” Greatly daring, and again to her surprise, she moved closer to him and said, “Talking to you on the phone last night…”
Is this going to be an admission of some sort?
she asked the new Elizabeth who seemed to be in charge at the moment.

The bang of the slamming screen door and running footsteps coming their way sent the new Elizabeth into full retreat, and by the time they could see Ben, wrenching open the door of his truck, the old Elizabeth was on her feet and calling out.

“Ben! What’s wrong?”

He paused and looked around in confusion.

“Up here, Ben. At the blue bench. What’s going on?”

He jumped into the truck and gunned the engine, shouting over its roar. “I have to go to Kyra. She’s all alone in the house— and she says her stepmother’s dead.”

And so there will be no brother or sister for Kyra. Poor foolish, common Kimmie. It was far easier to accept her as his mistress— a simple convenience, easily ignored— than as his wife. But as the mother of the child my darling Rose was unable to give him— no, never. The mills of God grind slow, they say, but they grind exceeding small.

Fortunately, I never reproached Marvin with his— let us say, his arrangements— nor said a word against him to anyone at all. Except, of course, to Buckley and Reba, but their feelings mirror mine, as they always have. Reba is indecently pleased with this news. I had to speak to her.

There remains the question of Kyra. What is to be done about Kyra? I find that at my time of life the importance of blood looms large— taking on a far greater significance than I could have guessed. But I must proceed carefully.

As always, Buckley will be my eyes and ears— and my strong right arm if needed. But before taking any action I must speak with Kyra, must judge for myself. And with Marvin as well. It is time to make a decision.

The Goodweather woman called earlier in the evening, only a few hours before the news of Marvin’s wife. She had, as I had known she would, gone to the nursing home to speak with Fanchon, and she told me the strangest story. Impossible that I could have been deceived in such a thing. Or such was my first thought. But, on reflection, I am inclined to believe her— and after all, what does it matter? Fanchon, Tildy— they were two pathetic old women and it made my flesh crawl to look at them. I have paid lavishly for their care all these years, and they will continue to be cared for even after my death. There is really nothing more I could have done. Surely I will be adjudged free of debt.

I should never have gone to that wretched house in Barnardsville. Rather I should have clung to the memory of the beautiful, innocent child she had been. But when I read the article in the newspaper heralding the rediscovery of one of Marshall County’s legendary ballad singers, lamenting her modest circumstances and praising the tender care she gave her incapacitated companion, I confess my curiosity overwhelmed me. And my guilt. I felt an obligation to be of service to these two women, for my selfish desire and its attendant meddling had changed all three of our lives, sending each of us on an unlooked for trajectory.

And so I went. I cannot say what I expected— what I found was shattering. Time and marriage had coarsened her beyond belief. She was no longer the ethereal child of nature I had loved, but a grasping old woman, ready to stoop to blackmail, she hinted, if I did not help her.

But now, if what the Goodweather woman tells me is true— it was not Fanchon who threatened me, but Tildy. My beautiful Fanchon was the ugly old wreck snoring in the reclining chair before the flickering television. I remember now, how as I was preparing to leave, she woke and caught sight of me. Gurgling and flailing one arm, she tried to gain my attention.

And my only thought was, How like Tildy, so pushing! and calling to her from the doorway, I said that I was late for an appointment but that I would come back soon to see her and Fanchon. The pathetic creature beat one hand feebly on the arm of the stained old chair and tried to speak, but her attempts came to nothing. The tears were running unchecked down her ruined cheeks as I turned to go.

And so, if Mrs. Goodweather’s story is true, I betrayed my darling’s trust a second time.

I have thought and thought about the situation. At this moment I feel the weight of every one of my years. There are signs that I may soon be relieved of this burden of life. But there may yet be time to arrange matters as they should be. I am most displeased.

If I were not Lily Cabot Gordon, I would ask for help in making this decision…the Goodweather woman impressed me as a person of intelligence and integrity…and her nephew is involved…perhaps.

These scribblings grow disjointed— my mind wanders. Perhaps it is time to ask Reba to light the fire. But first I will deal with Kyra…and with her father. Something must be done.

Why do I suddenly remember an April day? The sherry calmed me and I was half asleep when the memory thrust its way forward. Once again Fanchon and I are rambling through spring-green meadows in search of wildflowers. She is wearing a faded blue housedress and the sun strikes golden off her hair. A blue satin ribbon that I have given her restrains the waving, glowing tresses. She is so lovely I cannot take my eyes from her.