Back to Madeline Island (8 page)

We all step forward into a circle and clink each other's glasses, several times, and then sip. I catch Ryan's eye and he winks back. I think he's fine just the way he is. Those big blue eyes, what would their children look like? Maybe
one
of them will have red curly hair. Maybe they're just good friends and I should quit jumping to conclusions—right.

“Much better,” Ruby declares, refilling everyone's glass a smidge. “I know you two can't stay for supper, so I've prepared some
scrumptious
nibbles. But you'll have to follow me as I've set them out in the”—dramatic pause—“library. Ryan, be a love and tote along the bubbly.”

“Wait a minute,” I blurt out. “We have to go to the dock first.”

“Oh, certainly,” Ruby adds. “How could I have forgotten?”

“What are you talking about?” Helen asks.

Ruby cuts her off. “You are family, darling.” Ruby faces Helen and I notice that her eyes are tearing. “It's tradition—you must greet the lake when you first visit. Now come along, the both of you.”

She links her elbow with Ryan's and we head to the French doors. I fling them open and we set out across the verandah, down the wooden steps leading to the path. The sun is still high in the sky. A lone gull swoops over the lapping lake water; it shimmers around the dock invitingly ahead of us.

“I can't believe you live here,” Helen says with awe in her voice. “A wooden dock—all this water.”

We file to the very end of the dock. Ryan puts his arm around Helen and pulls her close. Ruby and I sigh and gaze out toward the lake, the sky and the possibilities.

Just then Rocky comes racing down the path making a bee-line straight to us! I turn to look, 'cause he's making a nasty growling sound. Oh boy, there's what looks to be a head of something dangling from his mouth; it's bloody and really disgusting. Then I spy the look of sheer terror on Ryan's face—he's nearly
green
and Rocky is headed right his way! Before I can do a thing, Rocky has carefully laid a limp mouse on his polished brown loafer.

Ryan steps backward and before I can yell “Holy shit,” he's flying back, his arms flailing windmill-like with wild motions, until he splashes into the ice-cold water!

I turn to Helen, who's obviously trying not to burst out laughing, and ask, “Can that man swim? Or does Ruby have to get in there and save him?”

“He was a champion swimmer,” Helen calmly replies. “But the poor man
hates
mice.”

We watch as Ryan free-styles to the shore in record time. He stands up and meekly waves at us, then turns and dashes up the path toward the cottage. Ruby trots on up in tow, and they go inside.

“How's he with dead people?” I ask. “I mean, isn't forensic medicine all about the dead?”

“I guess dead people don't bother him, but he's just got this thing about mice,” Helen says and starts to giggle. “But I had no idea how much—did you see the look on his face?” We lose it and cackle and it feels fabulous.

“When I saw Rocky heading this way,” I blurt out, “and then saw what was in his mouth and
then
watching his fancy shoe get covered in goo…” We giggle some more.

After a time, I suggest we go in and see what can be done for the now-soaking-wet Ryan. We find him and Ruby in the kitchen. He's perched on a stool in front of the open stove, wearing my yellow terry-cloth robe and bunny slippers, sipping a mug of something. They're chuckling. Rocky is nowhere to be seen.

Ryan, looking very sweet, coyly says, “I thought a swim was in order. Hope it's all right I'm wearing your robe.” We laugh. “I may keep these slippers, though…Let's continue with the tour.”

“They
do
suit you, darling,” Ruby offers. “I've popped Ryan's clothing into the dryer, won't be long until they're good as new. Follow me then, shall we?” Ruby leads us toward the hallway, then halts in front of the first door on the right and opens it.

“Howard, our neighbor next door,” Ruby begins, “has just finished putting the final touches on this tiny salon for Eve to keep us looking—ourselves.” She pats her hair.

“Very nice.” Helen peeks her head in. “My mom has one of those dressers. It's called a waterfall, isn't it? Works great for your station. I have a sister who does hair in Duluth,
tries
to anyway.”

“I brought it from my salon,” I offer. “That's where Ruby and I first met, ten thousand years ago.” I stroll over, pick up a framed picture and hand it to Helen. “Ruby was my
first
client.”

“Your first client?” Helen asks. “And you didn't even cash this check?”

“You kidding?” Ruby says. “That's a
canceled
check, darling. For years and years, the
prices
she charged me, I kept Eve in food and drink! Now come along.”

We move on farther down the hallway. Passing several doors on our right (potty and a spare room), we end up in front of the huge, floor-to-ceiling toad window, which is just starting to light up with late afternoon sun.

“Good God,” Ryan marvels. “I've never—this place is
filled
with surprises. Now what's the story here?”

“'Tis a long one, dear,” Ruby says, giving the toad's crown a tap. “Basically, you're looking at the original logo from this cottage's rather
exotic
past.” Ruby turns to face us. “This way.” She turns left and dramatically pushes open the door and then steps into the library. “The library,” she announces.

“Oh man.” Ryan lets out a laugh. “I must be dreaming.” He wanders off to look at the hundreds of spines.

Helen heads over to one of the window seats and cautiously sits down next to a ball of gray fur.

“So you're Rocky, the mouse catcher.” Helen lets him smell her hand; he looks over toward me.

“Helen—meet my favorite guy—Rocky.” I come over and sit on his other side. “Have you a cat?”

“I did.” Helen lowers her eyes, petting Rocky. “I had just recently moved into my condo and my cat, Newton, kept running back to my old apartment and then one day…he was gone.”

“That's simply dreadful, darling,” Ruby offers. She scoops up one of the several “tasteful” trays displayed on the round table in the middle of the room and comes over. “Care for a finger sandwich? The open ones are crab with my special dill sauce, this is liver pâté and onion, and these are avocado.” She hands Helen and me paper napkins covered with leprechauns doing the cancan. She then saunters over to Ryan.

“She's really wonderful,” Helen comments. “This
place
is wonderful. I'm
so
glad you invited us over. Sorry about dinner, but I'm meeting with some associates and—”

“Don't be silly.” I wave away her apology. “Rocky
loves
girls—don't you, honey.” I give his head a good rub; he lets out a happy “meow.” “He also loves mice and squirrels and bats—other things, too.”

Ruby and Ryan come over, arm in arm. “Ryan tells me he's about to get his doctorate in forensic psychology and I thought I'd give him some pointers, seeing as I'm an expert and all. Besides—you two need to chat in private and
he
needs to get re-dressed.” They turn to leave and I hear Ruby ask him if he's ever heard of her
dear
friend, Kay Scarpetta. Oh boy.

We settle back into cushions, facing each other, with Rocky all snuggled among our legs. Helen's are so long, she hangs them over the edge, I watch as she straightens her perfectly creased jeans. Can you believe it? She irons her jeans.

“So, you went to college in
Eau Claire
?” I ask, taking a sip. “Watts, she works at my salon, does all the college kids. Maybe you went to her? 'Course I would have remembered—I never forget a face.”

“No, actually,” Helen tucks her hair behind an ear, “I've always had long hair, so I don't have it trimmed very often. My sister cuts it several times a year.”

“It
is
long.” I study her and notice some curly hairs underneath. “Do you
straighten
your hair?”

Damn it, I didn't mean it to come out so accusingly, but it did. I
love
my curls; we made peace years ago, mainly 'cause I'm too lazy to pull them straight with a blow dryer. It's way too much work.

“I do.” She absently runs her fingers through her hair. “Ever since I discovered a paddle brush and now there's all these great products and—I just don't feel polished with it curly. No offense, it looks great on you, but not on me.”

“You certainly needn't apologize,” I say apologetically. “It's a relief, in a way. I mean, all I could really recognize on you was my
nose
, so now you've got my hair, too.” We grin.

“To our shared gene pool,” Helen offers, raising her glass.

“Indeed,” I say. “This is a long shot—but did you ever have a Professor Moss? He mainly taught religious studies—”

Helen chokes on her champagne and turns a horrible red. I leap up and dash over to her side. I take her glass and then smack her on her back a couple of times. She catches her breath.

“Oh my
GOD
! Why didn't I put it together when you told me your last name? Of course—Moss. My God,” she sputters out. A bewildered look crosses her pale face.

“I take it you
have
heard of him, of my dad, that is.”

“Yes, certainly. I had your father for a class on religious history. I really enjoyed it, and as I recall, he was unusually passionate about his subject.”

“That would be my dad. Professor Moss takes his religion
very
seriously.”

I sit down opposite her, hand her her glass back and take a really
big
sip from mine. I've read about stuff like this, the adopted kid living next door to the birth mother, blah-blah,
interview at ten
, but this is fricking spooky. I mean, this is
my
story.

“I have to admit,” I offer. “This certainly has thrown me, but I've heard it's not
that
unusual, you know, that our paths have crossed—sort of anyway—but it sure seems as though we were supposed to meet, you know?”

“I believe that, too,” Helen says really quietly. “Tell me—about your father. Not the professor part, even though it was a huge lecture hall class—I think I can remember what he was like in that regard—but the
parent
part.”

“Well, let's see.” I finish my glass, set it down and fold my arms over my chest. “I was raised Catholic—which I'm
totally
fine with.” I undo my arms and gaze at my nails for strength. “So things were rather strict growing up and then, when I got pregnant, well, he was
horrified
. I mean, he was so concerned about what the neighbors would think, not to mention my parents' church. So I was whisked away to a convent.”

“Whisked away?”

“They never even came to see me, not once. After I had you, they picked me up and we simply went back to our safe little lives. I guess I've never really forgiven him for that. My mom, she was so torn. After she died, my dad quickly remarried a Mormon widow with six kids. Can you imagine?”

“A Mormon?” Helen ponders this for a moment. “With six kids? My God, that's, that's so many kids, and for a strict Catholic to convert to Mormonism is truly amazing. She must be…” Helen hesitates, and then cracks a smile.

“Parents don't have sex—oh God, I can't imagine…maybe she's a really good cook or something…” We giggle.

Helen lets out a whistle. “I've encountered so few Mormons, I can't really imagine…seems to me, from what I've read, they tend to keep to themselves.”

“I really haven't any problem with the Mormon part, I suppose, but he, he leaped into an entirely different life and…never looked back…for me.” I shudder and realize I've held this in for so long and now, well, it just makes me sad.

“Maybe I
don't
want to meet him. Do you know where he lives?”

I shrug. “Last time we spoke, which was quite a few years ago, he and
Kate
were living on Altoona Lake, in Eau Claire. I guess he's ill and—well, I think it's time to—”

“Hit the road!” Ryan states, strolling back into the library all dressed in his now dry clothing. “You two look more like sisters than mother and daughter.”

“You bring him with you any ol' time,” I say and mean it. “Next time you come, you have to see the boathouse and meet the crew and—”

“Thank you—for—finding me,” Helen stammers and we tear up again.

Isn't it funny how sometimes the very thing you've been looking all over for is so close by? I reach over and give her arm a pat. Ruby just smiles and smiles.

S
everal weeks pass by; fall winds have blown away just about every last leaf off our trees. Now the woods are boasting a brilliant carpet of yellow, gold and red. Since many of the trees between the barn and that little cabin out back are naked, you can just barely make out the outline of it. Sam and Lilly aren't interested in taking a look, but the boys are gung ho. Besides, Sam reminds us, she can see things just fine in there and suggests we leave well enough alone. Right.

“Phew—my heavens, what a week,” Ruby says, her back to me. “I've a mind to put in a complaint with the management.”

“Wouldn't do you a lick of good,” I remark. Parting the lace curtain, I peek out toward the barn. “This rain has been pelting the island for hours; thank God this place was built on a hill.”

“Perhaps, darling, we should put off our haunted cabin adventure until
next
weekend. What with this dreadful rain and all.” She tosses a golden crepe into the air and catches it perfectly in her favorite copper pan. “I wonder where the boys are off to?”

Just then Howard and Johnny come bursting into the kitchen, covered with rain and gasping from their run.

“The power of this rain,” Howard says, handing me his dripping wet yellow slicker, “is
fantastic
. I only hope our roof holds.”

“I thought you'd only just replaced it recently,” Ruby comments, “or was it that you were
planning
on replacing it?”

“The latter,” Johnny adds. “We'd like to figure in solar panels, so it's in the research and research
some more
mode.” Johnny nods toward Howard, then takes his slicker from me and hangs them both on the back of the basement door. “
Here's
where our umbrellas are.” He points to the vast collection hanging there. “I can't get over all these doorknobs, it's so clever to use them to hold things.”

“Yet another cottage innovation,” Ruby boasts. “Now how about some tall, handsome fellow fetching me down those plates, hmm?”

Howard lumbers over to the cupboard Ruby's standing in front of and takes down four plates and starts setting the stump table. Not a one is matching, and yet, there's something rather telling about that. I turn one, admiring the oriental pattern.

“While you two get our feast set up,” I say, “Johnny—I've been wanting to show you something up in my bedroom, seeing as you're interested in architecture.” Ruby and Howard both raise their eyebrows.

“Why, Eve Moss,” Johnny chides, coming over to my side and putting his arm around my shoulder. “I appreciate your kind offer, but I just washed my hair and I can't do a thing—”

“For me—no, you can't,” I say, deadpan, and he gives me a brotherly squeeze.

We head out into the living room, toward the wooden stairs. Rocky passes us, heading down toward the kitchen, no doubt.

“Someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” Johnny asks.

“He was up all night; thunder drives the poor guy crazy.”

We're standing in my bedroom now; I cross the hardwood floor and head over to a corner opposite my bathroom. Blended into the faded wallpaper is actually a small door. I pull it open and motion for Johnny to follow. We climb up a narrow flight of stairs and end up inside the perfectly square tower room. All four walls are half windows with a wooden bench running all around underneath. Covering the floor is a magnificently ornate directional thing, a giant compass, really. The arrow pointing north is painted to resemble a torch; flames are bursting from its point.

“So this is the tower room,” Johnny proclaims over the roar of raindrops pelting the windows and roof. “For some reason, I didn't think there was actually a room up here. It's clever, the way this cottage was built to exactly face north. The floor painting is just incredible.”

“The direction must have been on purpose,” I suggest. “But I'm sure it came in handy when prohibition was on.”

“I suppose so.” Johnny peers out the window toward the lake. “But then again, how could you let someone know way down at the boathouse if you
did
spy something suspicious? Like the cops, for instance?”

On cue, a buzzing sound fills the room and we both jump. It's an old metal kind of buzzing, similar to what the deer-head phone sounds like when—bingo! It comes to me.

“I just bet that's Ruby,” I say. “Help me look for anything resembling a phone.”

We're lifting up pillows and checking underneath the benches, pulling out crates of old books and wooden toys, but still—no phone. Then I peek behind the door and notice a mint green medicine cabinet. After checking my hair, I give the glass knob a tug.

Inside the small cupboard, I reach in and unhook a heavy black ear piece. Holding it to my ear, I say “Hello” into the matching round mouthpiece fitted into the back of the cabinet.

“'Tis Madame Prévost,” Ruby's British clip squawks into my ear. “We're requesting your presence down in the servants' quarters and don't be tardy—there are some lovely crepes and they won't keep forever. Cheerio then.” A click and she's gone.

“We've been summoned,” I say, then notice the rain has all but stopped.

 

Back down in the kitchen all four of us are gathered around the stump table. I pass an oval platter laden with sugar-covered crepes, all a lovely golden brown.

“We about had a heart attack,” Johnny says around a mouthful. A bit of raspberry jam sits on his chin. Howard wipes it away. “Just how many hidden phones
are
there here?”

Howard gets up from his stool and moves over to our yellow kitchen phone. “Ruby showed me this.”

On the wall next to the phone is a small, framed mirror. He reaches up and clicks it open. Inside, we can see numerous labeled switches.

“You dial eight-six-two-three, which spells ‘toad,' and then switch one of these and that phone will ring on the other end. Remarkable, for such an old place.” He closes the mirror door and gives Johnny's shoulder a nice squeeze on his way back to his stool.

“When I've a mind,” Ruby offers, drizzling hot maple syrup over her crepe, “perhaps we'll station ourselves about the cottage and see if all those places labeled there in that little cupboard have—well—ringers.”

“These are heavenly,” I say and happily shove in a forkful. “Sundays are—”

Mid-sentence Rocky ambles into the room making that terrible retching noise he does right before—“Oh yuck,” I say and stop chewing. “Don't anyone look, but Rocky's breakfast didn't quite agree.”

Of course, everyone looks and “oh gross” and “disgusting” are thrown around the room. Rocky leaps onto the countertop. Ruby pulls over the stool, reaches up to the pan rack suspended above our heads, selects a round pot and gently places it over the dreaded pile of goo. She pats Rocky's head and then picks up the coffeepot from the stove.

“Would anyone care for a coffee?” She doesn't lose a beat.

“Um—sure.” Johnny holds up his mug. “Thanks—listen, I meant to ask, just exactly what
did
Sam say about the cabin in the back?”

“She, more or less,” I stammer, thinking. “She said there seemed to be two—well, the impression she mentioned was that she felt Adeline, that was Ruby's husband's grandmother, that she was
there
and that she was like—”

“Helping another,” Ruby adds in an ominous voice. “Perhaps we should reconsider this entire adventure and retire to the living—”

“No way!” Johnny blurts out and we all chuckle.

“Johnny
loves
a mystery,” Howard says, grinning.

“There's not really
any
mystery,” I say, sipping my coffee. “I mean, there isn't—is there—Ruby?”

“Not that I know of, darling. Just—well, like I mentioned, Ed and I got spooked giving it a peek
years
ago, and to be honest, since it's not very accessible, we simply let it be.”

“This is sounding better all the time,” Johnny adds. “Maybe we'll discover some family secret or find some antiques in there. Oh heck, c'mon, let's have a look.”

“Let's
do
,” Ruby adds. “But not until every dish and pan is tidied and put away. Howard, darling, wash or dry?”

I wonder, do spirits
choose
to hang around or is that considered hell or…'course I guess I'll never know for positive until I, you know,
kick the bucket
. Who thought that one up anyway—kick the bucket? How about “dropped dead” or “passed on” or “went to meet his maker”? I need a cigarette.

Have you noticed how we don't have a dishwasher? Oh, the boys have one; it's so fancy that you can be in the kitchen while it's cleaning up their designer dishes all spot-free and dry as a bone. But us, we don't have one, and you know, I really like spending the time together—the scrubbing is really no big deal either. Instead of shoving the works into a machine, we fill the sink, push up our sleeves and get cracking. You can't imagine all the problems we solve in the process. You should try it.

While those three tidied up the kitchen (and talked like crazy), I discreetly cleaned up Rocky's, shall we say, unwanted snack. You don't want to know what it was, but let me just say that anyone who kisses their kitty-cat on the lips should really reconsider. A nice peck on the head is all I offer nowadays; Rocky doesn't seem to mind.

“Though it
has
stopped raining,” Ruby says. “I shouldn't want to take any chances and get caught unprotected.”

She doles out umbrellas from the crowded array on the back of the basement door and then takes one down herself. Mine is red plaid with an intricately carved handle. Ruby's is bright pink with white daisies and both Howard and Johnny have big huge black ones. We file out the back door, onto the porch and out the door.

A mist hangs several feet above the mushy ground; our feet make a squishy-sucking sound with each step. Rocky has decided to nap, and we left him all cozied in an afghan on the sofa. What a life he has—tosses his cookies and gets a nap.

“I think it might be an easier trek,” I suggest, “if we follow the driveway down, then cross over the bridge and try to find the original road that leads in. I noticed it in the model and you can sort of make out an outline of a path from there.”

“Nothing like a good fog,” Ruby adds, “to set the stage—don't you think?”

“Howard and I,” Johnny says, “rarely come over here using your driveway; we slip over on our path. It really gets dark in here.”

We clomp down the incline and stop on the wooden bridge to have a look around.

“The fog is getting thicker and thicker,” Howard says. “I've not seen it so dense in a long time.”

“Could be a sign,” I say in a scary voice. “Perhaps the woods are filled with demons.”

“Don't be daft,” Ruby admonishes me, pulling her tailored jacket closer. “There's no such
thing
as the devil, only those who are occasionally
full
of the devil.” She jabs me with her umbrella.

“I'm not so sure,” Johnny offers. “I mean, don't you think some people are
beyond
mean? Like people who hate people like Howard and me…I sometimes wonder if that's devil-like.”

“How
anyone
could”—Ruby links her arm with Johnny's—“hate the likes of you is
beyond
me—such rubbish. Poor taste, bad grooming or simply being ignorant, those are things worth hating, but then again, the word ‘hate' should be thrown out altogether.”

“Hate,” I say, following. “We
should
get rid of that word—that and ‘never.' Those two words should just be tossed out.”

“How to
never hate
again,” Howard says. “
That
is the question.”

“Here's the path—I think.” I point off to the left. “You can just barely make out the outline of it. See how it curves up to that clump of white pine trees? On the other side is the cabin, I think. It's kind of snuggled up to those trees.”

“A haunted cabin—snuggles?” Ruby asks. “Really, darling, you need some new adjectives. How about, the lonely cabin stands in the shadow of [dramatic pause] the mysterious white pines. Oh rot, that sounds absurd. Stick with snuggle, darling.”

“Right,” I add, leading the way into the woods. “Damn, I've lost the trail. Oh wait, look—over that way, seems to be part of a fence.”

“Did you remember,” Ruby asks from behind me, “to bring the key ring, darling?”

“I did.” I take the big brass ring out of my pocket and give it a good jingle. “Must be twenty keys on this thing, but we seem to keep finding doors for them to open.”

“Seems to curve around,” Howard offers. “I can't make out—wait, over there, to our right seems to be a
circle
of white pine trees. How curious is that?”

“Some of these…look how far up they go,” Ruby says, pointing to the stand Howard just mentioned. “They must be so old. You know, the ground here is softer…and the smell.” We stop and take some deep pine-fresh breaths.

“You can tell that these pines were all planted. They
do
make a circle—enclosing this,” I say, pointing to the back side of the log cabin.

A late afternoon sun peeks out from the corner of a puffy rain cloud. Golden rays glint and sparkle off a window. A river-rock chimney, similar to the cottage's, makes up most of the sidewall. The roof looks sturdy, but is covered with a thick layer of pine needles and several branches. We walk around to the front and there sits a cardinal, perched on the slanting rail leading up to a sagging porch.

“Either we're being followed by this bird,” I offer, “or maybe this guy has decided not to head south and is sticking around here for the winter.”