Past Malice (18 page)

But we didn’t make it out of the courthouse then. I saw Daniel Voeller down one of the other aisles, scrutinizing one of the much more recent deed books. I pulled Bucky down the aisle after it and gestured for her to be quiet. We both pretended to be studying a book, facing away from the main walkway, until we heard Daniel leave.

“What was that about?” she asked.

“I want to see what he was doing here. He’s not the type to be doing deed research on his own; he’s got lawyers for that.”

We went down the aisle where Daniel had been and found the book he’d been reading, still out on the table. It was closed, but I noticed that it hadn’t closed tightly: some of the pages were still not settled back into the bulk of the book. I stuck my finger in and opened the book to the page I thought he’d been looking at.

“That’s it,” Bucky said.

“How do you know?” I shot back.

She licked a fingertip the way she had done to fish up the last of the chips and pressed it against the page before I could stop her. You really shouldn’t treat documents like that, no matter how modern they are. She picked up a fine hair and held it up for me to see.

“A lot of people have brown wavy hair,” I said, and Bucky made a face at me. “But that’s the right page.”

“How do
you
know?”

I had been glancing at the street names. “These are the properties that are immediately adjacent to the factory that Voeller’s father owns, just to the north of the Chandler House, north of the Mather House. He’s trying to see who owns them.” I read the name of a corporation that I didn’t recognize: “Stone Harbor Investment Properties.” “It looks like the Voellers want to expand.”

Bucky wasn’t thrilled about waiting for me while I nosed around Stone Harbor Town Hall, but I found out at last that, much to my surprise, the owner of the Mather House wasn’t Perry Taylor. I had automatically assumed it might be she, mostly because she kept mentioning how much property her family once owned in town and Dr. Spencer’s remarks also suggested that. And the owner wasn’t Bray Chandler, either, whose wife’s income might have been enough to own such pricey waterfront property. Much to my surprise, the owner of the Mather House was the supposedly strapped Fiona Prowse.

Saturday morning was gorgeous and, having slept until nine o’clock, I was in a terrific mood as I went downstairs. Brian sat on the counter, outlining his day’s plans for the dining room floor while I cleaned up the kitchen. I had just started another pot of coffee as Bucky came down and settled in
blearily with the
New York Times
. I put a cup in front of her. A grunt and a couple of slurps later and she felt equipped to start the crossword puzzle.

“Not much of a vacation, Bucks,” Brian said. “I mean, being out in the field, and with all that’s going on….”

She rattled the paper. “Mmm, well. I haven’t been bitten or peed on or puked on. I haven’t had to shove a thermometer anywhere embarrassing and haven’t had to worm anyone for days. As far as I’m concerned, life is good.”

Quasi slunk into the kitchen and regarded her cautiously. She directed her next words to him.

“Doesn’t mean it won’t happen by the end of my stay, though, big fella.”

The cat put his ears back and went right back to wherever it was he’d come from.

“What are you going to do today?” I asked. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’re going to stick around and help out with the housework?”

She filled in another clue. “I’ll do some and then I’m off. I’ve got a date with Phil.”

Phil? “Who’s that? When did you meet him? What do you know about—?”

Bucky stared at me from over the paper. “He’s one of Jerry’s landscapers. I don’t know anything about him except that he’s cute and he was giving me the eye too. We’re just going for a walk downtown and get some lunch, that’s it. Any other questions, Mother?”

“Bite me.” I messed up her hair. “Get out of here. Have fun.”

She smoothed the newspaper and took up her pen again. “Oh, I’ve got hours yet.”

I took the pen out of her hand.

“Hey!” She looked up, annoyed.

“If you’ve got hours yet, you can help with the laundry.
Or, alternatively, you can help Brian with the flooring. Your choice.”

“They wouldn’t make me do laundry at Beach Club Piña Colada on the exotic Caribbean island of St. Debauchery,” Bucky grumbled. She finished her coffee with a resigned look, though.

“Then you shouldn’t have booked in at Camp Fielding. Which one is it?”

“Just let me get some toast and then I’ll do the laundry.” She popped some bread into the toaster. “There are nice long breaks in between loads. I can get some reading done.”

“Longer breaks in between for cleaning the bathroom,” I corrected her.

She made a face like she’d just drunk sour milk. “God. Okay, flooring. But if I get a splinter and it turns septic and no one notices and I get gangrene and die, it will be your fault.”

I considered briefly. “I can live with that.”

The students wandered into the kitchen, all ready to make the most of their free time. They were mostly all washed, except for Rob, who still looked bleary, as though he could use another hour in the sack.

“Have you got anything on for this weekend, Emma?” Joe asked. He took a piece of toast from the toaster and Bucky didn’t even protest.

I wiped up some crumbs. “Nothing beyond the usual household scrabble. You?”

“We were thinking of driving up to Portsmouth. It’s going to be a nice day, you should come.”

Brian abruptly excused himself and put his dishes into the sink, and went into the dining room. We could hear lumber being shifted about and a metal measuring tape being used.

“Thanks, but I don’t think so,” I said carefully.

“Emma hates New Hampshire,” Bucky offered, from around her slice of toast. She didn’t look up from the paper.

The students looked at me quizzically. “A whole state?” Meg asked.

“No, I don’t…Bucky, it’s not that I….” I was momentarily flustered. “I’ve just got a lot of things to get done around the house today. You guys go, have fun. Check out the museum, learn something for a change. The shops are funky, too. It’s a great city.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” The students exchanged quizzical looks and then realized they weren’t getting any more from me.

“Yeah, thanks. See you tonight.”

They dumped their things into the sink, and since it was Rob’s turn for dishes, things went quickly if not antiseptically, and they were gone in a few minutes.

“That was remarkably indiscreet,” I told Bucky, who was still engrossed in her puzzle.

“What? Oh, who cares? Ah!” She scribbled in a long clue. “‘Grandiloquent.’ Nice one. Hey!”

I’d pulled the crossword puzzle out from under her, leaving a long pen mark across the page. “I do. I emphatically do not need you bandying my private life, my past, in front of my students. There are some boundaries that I wish to maintain there.”

“God, you are such a prude. Everyone makes mistakes. Would it hurt them to know you have one or two lurking in your past?”

“They are completely aware of my human fallibility,” I said. “You don’t work on a dig and not get to know a little too much about people. That, however, was an exceptionally painful time in my life and I have no wish to revisit it, especially with my students, most of whom were probably in diapers at the time.”

“They’re only a little younger than I am, Emma. I was thirteen.”

“And not old enough to know anything about it either,” I said. “So just leave it.”

“Okay, whatever. God, you’re uptight.”

“It’s something I cultivate.” I shoved the paper back toward her again, but she folded it up and put her dish into the sink. “Now, is your dirty laundry in some kind of pile that a non-Fielding would recognize, or do you want to pick it out for me?”

“It’s everything on the right hand side of the bed. The left side of the bed is still clean.”

I was right; anyone who wasn’t a member of the family wouldn’t have seen a difference in the piles of clothes strewn about the floor. The clean stuff was what someone with a good sense of humor and a fair amount of imagination might call folded, meaning that they were comparatively flat and layered, though showing no trace of ironing. The dirty clothes were balled up into tight little knots. I had once used a similar plan myself, but out of respect to married life had made an earnest attempt to put the dirty ones into a hamper and the clean ones into a closet or drawer. It often worked, and I was surprised at how much room it left for moving around on the floor. Bucky still hadn’t learned the advantages to using a bureau or a closet. I don’t know why both of us had no use for such furniture; it just never seemed important.

As I gathered things into my clothes basket, I noticed that Bucky’s wastebasket was full, which struck me as unusual, even after a week. Most of her trash never would have made it to the basket and would be lying around in crumpled ring around it. I also recognized the cardboard boxes and the labels that were on them. The name on them, however, was my own. Then I saw the stack of books on the side of the bed
and realized that they were all new and all dealing with beading and Massachusetts history. I stormed downstairs.

“Bucky!” I yelled to make myself heard over the power saw.

There was a crash followed by a clatter and swearing as the whine of the saw died away to a loud, metallic whirring. I entered the end of the dining room that had a floor, albeit covered with sawdust and tools. Bucky was trying to look innocent, even if she didn’t know what about.

Brian was trying to ease the saw blade off the plank and was not having much luck. “Damn it, Emma, why’d you have to shout like that?” He gave me an angry look and finally got the plank off the table. “I could have busted the saw blade!”

I held up the boxes for my sister to see. “Do you mind telling me what the hell this is?”

I held out the cardboard shipping flats and had the satisfaction of seeing Bucky look really guilty before I got a double dose of the Chin. Her eyes went steely, she crossed her arms, and she set her jaw.

“I ordered some books online,” she said defiantly.

“Yeah, I know you did. Using
my
account. On
my
computer. In
my
office.”

“So?”

“So? So how much did you spend? What were you doing in my office in the first place? How did you figure out my passwords? And what gives you the right to—?”

She waved that off. “I was going to tell you. I’ll pay you back, it’s only like forty bucks.”

“Ha!”

Bucky went purple. “Like you never take any of my stuff!”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Who’d want your stuff?”

“Oh, I found that pile of cassettes and CDs up in your office, the ones you borrow from me, when you come down to visit Ma. For someone who gets all snotty about classical music, you seem to have a real taste for alternative rock.”

“You said I could borrow some!”

“Some is the operative word there,” Bucky corrected, flushing now. “And that was the first time, five years ago! You keep borrowing them, and you never give them back!”

“Well, that’s not the same as using someone else’s credit card without asking!”

“Cool your jets; I said I was going—”

“God, I am so glad I am an only child!”

Brian sounded so pissed off that we both stopped and turned to him. “The only thing you two ever do is fight with each other! I thought sisters were supposed to be best friends, or something.”

My sister and I stared at him as if he were slow. “Fat lot you know,” Bucky said to him, holding up a hand for me to talk to. “I’m out of here.”

“Where are you going?” I demanded.

“I’m going on my date, remember? I’ll be a couple hours early, but wandering the streets is preferable to this.”

“Fine,” I yelled after her. “Just tell landscaping boy not to leave his wallet in his coat while he goes to the men’s room, or he might discover he owes a fortune to an online bookstore!”

Bucky ran upstairs, and came back downstairs a moment later, having changed. The door slammed and Brian and I were left alone together.

B
RIAN MADE A CLUCKING NOISE.
“Y
OU KNOW,
”
HE
said, “I’m usually jealous of you two for having each other, but now….”

He was just teasing, but I was still mad. “Did you hear what she did? Ordering all those books and charging them to me?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Look, she was just fooling around on the computer. She thought she could figure out your password at CyberBooks, and then ordered some books while she was there. She said she’d pay you back.”

“Only after I confronted her!”

“Are you sure you’re just not ticked because she brought up whatshisname?”

I was silent for a moment. “You can say his name.”

“You’re not just pissed off because she hinted at the existence of Duncan?”

“No. I’m fine with that.”

“You’re so fine with it that you don’t like to visit his
home state? Is that fair? He dumps you and then cheats you out of a scholarship, and you’re the one who has to pay the price? Anyway, doesn’t he live in Michigan now?”

“I don’t know, I guess so. He didn’t…cheat me. Not really.” But that’s not what I was going to say.

Brian knew it was still a sore subject. “Honey, that was more than ten years ago.”

“Yeah. I thought I loved him.”

“You probably did love him.”

That simple statement smarted. “And now I feel like an idiot because of it. I don’t fall in love with creeps.”

“Then there must have been something worth loving in him,” Brian said. He set the saw aside. “That doesn’t mean that I won’t pummel him if I ever meet him.”

“Brian—”

“I’m serious. He hurt you. I don’t care how long ago it was.”

“He was just immature and…and weak,” I said. “That’s all.”

“So you’ll let him off the hook, but not yourself?”

“I just hate thinking of myself being young and vulnerable.”

“Never regret that, Em. That’s what pasts are. Lots of events that make you who you are. And I love who you are, so don’t ever regret that.”

“You know, you’re right.” I stuck my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. “Come here.”

I had just tilted my head up for a kiss when a movement caught my eye.

Bucky stood in the doorway of the living room. “Jeez, you guys can’t be left alone for a minute, can you?”

“Nope,” Brian said. “Go away.”

Bucky laughed at him.

Brian wasn’t laughing. “I’m serious. I’ll give you twenty
bucks if you’ll leave right now.” He pulled me closer, even as we both realized that the moment was slipping away from us.

“Where am I supposed to go?” she said. “You guys live in the middle of nowhere. I walked for nearly five minutes and didn’t see another living soul, not a house, not a car, nothing. Besides, I need to take a shower.”

“You should have thought of that before you went storming out.” I squirmed out of Brian’s embrace. “Look, you’ve still got hours, yet. Before you bother with a shower, just help Brian with that pile of planks. If you get that done, and then get washed up, I’ll give you a lift into town.”

“You could just give me your car.”

“Not a chance. I’ve got things to do today. And Brian needs the truck.”

He caught my eye, about to protest, but didn’t say anything when I winked at him. “I’ll pick you up after, too, Bucks. Come on. Just help with the housework like you said you would.”

“Oh all right.”

An hour later, I got the second load of laundry started and was waiting for Bucky to get done in the bathroom so I could get started there. Brian had finished cutting the first lot of lumber and was now putting it down, hammering away noisily.

“Cool. You’re making good progress.”

He grimaced. “I’m channeling a lot of pent-up sexual energy at the moment. It’s tough with a house full of people.” He grabbed me by a belt loop in my shorts and pulled me close again. I patted his arm.

“Well, don’t channel too much. I’ll get Bucky out of the house and then we’ll have at least lunchtime until she gets fed up with her date and calls for a ride back.”

“So that was your plan. Not bad, Fielding,” he said, nod
ding approbation. He has this way of raising one eyebrow that is very sexy. It made me glad of my decision.

“Just looking for a little advance warning, is all. Can you make it that long?”

“Yeah, but don’t push it. Or rather, you can push it far enough to pick up some mud-pie ice cream at Krazy Kones on the way back.”

“You got it.” I bent over to kiss him.

“I’m ready,” Bucky called out from upstairs.

Brian sighed and picked up a hammer. “I can’t wait until all the kids are out of the house.”

After admonishing Bucky to call if she didn’t like the guy, to stick to public places, and to not take any crap from anyone—all of which was met with a resounding “Haven’t you got better things to do?”—I stopped by the ice cream place to pick up the requested quart. On the way back, about a mile down the road and up a slight rise, I saw that a closedup restaurant, which for three months had had the parking lot full of contractors’ trucks, was now showing signs of being completed. A new sign was hanging over the door:
LAWTON YACHT CLUB AND TIKI BAR
. Smaller letters beneath that announced
WATER VIEWS FROM OUR DECK
.

Since we were about two miles from Lawton’s minuscule marina and nowhere near the river or other body of water, I felt compelled to pull over and check it out. The sign was made of richly carved wood with gold leaf that suggested yacht clubbiness, but the rest of the name was odd enough to make me think that this could be something quite different.

As I got out of the car, I noticed a young woman squatting in the doorway, sweeping something into a dustpan. A smell of fruit left too long in the sun and the whizzing of a few interested flies informed me before I saw that she was
cleaning up a squashed apple. There were several stains on the ground already, which suggested this was not the first time she’d had to perform this duty.

She looked up at me, squinting against the sun. “Grand opening’s not until tonight.”

“Oh, thanks, I just was curious about what was going in here, that’s all.”

She straightened up. “It’s a bar.”

“Yes, well, I got that much. Good name.”

“You can come in and look around if you want.”

“Sure—oh, wait, I can’t.” I hooked a thumb back toward the car. “I’ve got ice cream melting.”

“We’ve got a freezer.”

Whatever she lacked in loquacity, she made up for in hair; she was about five two but her hair streamed down almost to her knees. She was very finely boned, and I had to wonder whether the hair didn’t actually compose most of her weight. It was something to see, however, a glossy raven sheet that almost looked like a cape on her.

“Okay, thanks.” I got the ice cream from the car and handed it to my hostess, who put it into a small refrigerator behind the bar. “I’m Emma.”

“Raylene.”

I looked around the room. In addition to the bar, which stretched halfway down the room in mirrored Victorian splendor, there were about ten dark wooden tables. The walls were painted a dusky blue that built in a relaxing twilight; there were a few framed pictures and mirrors, but nothing that stood out enough to jar. Big windows and low interior lights. It was all ornate enough to proclaim a status above an ordinary grill or fried fish joint, but casual enough to warn the onlooker that there was no stuffiness to be found here. A beautiful staircase, a wooden relic from some other building, I felt sure, led upstairs.

“Dinner’s down here, every night but Monday. Drinks and snacks upstairs and at the bar all the time.”

“It’s gorgeous.” She saw me hesitate, so I added, “I guess I was expecting something more…I don’t know. Grass huts or anchors or something, to judge from the sign out front.”

“Upstairs. Come on.”

I followed Raylene up the wooden staircase to a doorway at one end of a hallway. A velvet rope and stanchions blocked off the rest of the hall. “Out here.”

“What are the other rooms?” I nodded at the rest of the doors that lined the hallway.

“We live here.”

“We?”

“Me and my old man.” She stopped to announce his name reverently, almost as if I should have heard of it. “Erik the Red.”

She didn’t explain whether the “red” referred to his hair, the state of his bank account, his politics, or a sunburn, so I shrugged and followed her. On the deck patio, there were several things that immediately caught my eye. There was in fact a bar with a grass roof over it, and about fifteen different kinds of rum, two optics, and an array of ceramic coconuts, tikis, and other paraphernalia for exotic drinks. There were two of the most hideous mock-Hawaiian velvet paintings I had ever seen hanging behind the bar. They probably dated to between 1955 and 1965, and depicted women wearing nothing but grass skirts and exotic flowers in their hair. I was pleased to see another, in equally poor taste, over the doorway we’d come in. This was of a strapping youth, wearing a colorful loincloth that was two sizes too small, astride a surfboard that seemed to be, well, either a wish, a promise, or an extension of something else. If you’re going to be tacky, at least be non–gender-specific about it.

On one end of the deck was a telescope and an apple crate turned upside down. Raylene watched silently as I climbed up onto the crate and peered through glass. It was trained on the Lawton marina, which was reduced to HO scale in the eyepiece. Aha, the water view. At the other end of the deck was another crate, this one half-full of bruised apples. It was directly over the spot where I’d first seen Raylene sweeping. I asked her about this crate.

“Erik hates apples,” Raylene offered, but it left me as much in the dark as before. She turned to go back downstairs. “Come back sometime.” She handed me a couple of coupons that said
FIRST TIMER
. “First two drinks are on us.”

“Wow, great, thanks. We will.” I followed her back downstairs and got my ice cream. “I didn’t know there was going to be a bar in here. I suppose I missed the advertising or something.”

“We didn’t advertise.”

“Oh?” I found myself being as economical with my words as she was.

“Won’t need to. People talk.” She shrugged, as if she didn’t much mind one way or the other.

“You know, I’ve got an idea.” I told her about Brian’s upcoming birthday and asked a couple of questions.

Her slow smile lit up her face like Christmas lights. “No problem. I’ll keep a table for you.”

An hour and a half later, Brian and I were eating semimelted mud pie in bed.

“Hot sex and cold ice cream,” he said. “A good combination.”

“I actually prefer them this way, in sequence, but I’ll try anything once,” I offered, licking the back of my spoon. “Stop hogging the carton.”

Brian passed the carton back to me, and just then, the phone rang. “I’ll give you three guesses as to who that is,” I said, around a mouthful of ice cream. I gave Brian the carton back and he handed me the phone. “Better ice cream interruptus than some other alternatives I could imagine, though.”

I hit the
TALK
button. “Hey, Bucky. How’s it going? What do you mean, how did I know it was you? It was sisterly intuition, what else?”

“Her impeccable timing,” Brian muttered. I poked him in the arm and he grinned, pulled on his robe, and went into the bathroom. He took the rest of the ice cream with him, but I guess he’d earned it.

“I’ll be down to pick you up in about forty minutes. Well, go to the bookstore or something. I need to shower, that’s why. I was helping Brian with the housework. Yes, that is what we call it these days. Sit tight, I’ll be there soon.”

After a quick shower, a kiss, and a nibble, I hit the road for town. The bright sun that had scorched the morning was vanishing behind thick clouds, illuminating their edges until it was finally completely hidden. It smelled a bit like rain and the wind picked up as I parked in the last open spot in the lot on Main. I hustled down toward Water Street and the Book Bin, where I’d told Bucky to meet me.

For some reason, it has always struck me that it is easier to envision the past in a place that is cloudy rather than sunny, in winter rather than summer, and by night rather than day. Maybe it’s because the amount of visual stimulation is lessened, the shadows are longer, sound is muffled by snow, and with one good squint, a crowd of modern tourists can be transformed into a generic throng, from any time at all. The fact that so much of the downtown still maintained cobblestone sidewalks and brick paving in places helped. The buildings didn’t hurt either, as there were still a lot of
early-nineteenth-century structures, even some eighteenth-century architecture left; warehouses and shop fronts were now restaurants and shop fronts, ranging in style from the plainer symmetrical patterns of the earliest part of the eighteenth century, to the more ornate columns and wooden trim of the later part of the century, all the way through the eclectic and fantastic revivals of the Victorian era. On the water side of the street, there were vendors of hot dogs, ice cream, and handmade jewelry hoping to attract the tourists who’d come down to look at the sailboats as they skirted Sheep’s Head Island or go on a whale-watching tour or were getting off the tour buses for a fifteen minute pee-and-scenery break. The salty air was intoxicating and it seemed that, for just a minute, everyone else was also caught up in their own reflections about the sea, the past, the lure of Stone Harbor.

A large woman in flamingo pink shorts and a turquoise top and matching baseball cap and fanny pack walked past me with her sunburned brood; no amount of squinting could transform her into period garb. “I suppose we could find a museum. If we had to. There’s one over in Boxham. It’s going to rain and we’ve been to all the souvenir stores here. At least we’d be dry,” she concluded reluctantly.

“There would be a gift shop, too,” reminded her friend, in canary yellow.

“I suppose. C’ mon, kids, we’re going to a museum,” she called. Moans and whining followed. “Clam up, it’s good for you.”

I fled into the Book Bin and nodded at the owner, Alice. She was even taller than I was, just shy of six feet, and had wiry black hair caught up in a knot on the back of her head. She wore, as she always did, baggy cotton trousers in a vibrant blue pattern, a loose crinkly maroon shirt with a drawstring neck, and Birkenstocks. She had a silver pendant around her neck, a curled-up cat on a leather thong.