Something About Sophie (8 page)

She lit up talking about a foreign study in college when she spent the better part of a year visiting England, France, and Italy. She received a trip to Japan as a graduation gift three years ago; harped her way to Portugal, Spain, and Greece two years ago; and spent the last eighteen months working her way through the western states studying Native American art. At present, she was home again
staging
a trip to Egypt—a must-see in any artist's reality—which apparently meant tapping a trust fund she wouldn't come into for another six years.

Twinkling good-naturedly, she reluctantly admitted that eventually she was going to have to think about settling down somewhere. “Dad's a soft touch, but he isn't the one who runs things around here,” she said, and Sophie understood perfectly. While her own parents had spoiled her rotten, it had been her mother who put her foot down on occasion to keep her from smelling bad. Still, there was something refreshing and sinfully enjoyable in Ava's unapologetic acceptance of her own overindulged lifestyle: she was, she knew it, she liked it, and she didn't want it to change. It was that simple.

“I
n fact, they make the most wonderful crabapple crisp over at the Crabapple Café and Creamery—up the street there,” Ava said, several quick hours later as they stepped into a small bookstore. “Crabapple everything: pies, fruitcakes, jelly, butter, pickles, sauce . . . like for glazing hams? Lord. And ice cream you'd slit your wrists for.”

“Crabapple ice cream?” Sophie's face puckered.

“No, of course not—but in every other flavor imaginable, so I don't know why not. They have ice cream cakes, cookie sandwiches, and chocolate-covered ice cream logs. Ah! You can get it in a cone or by the bowl or, in my case, by the bucket.” She laughed merrily, as if she wasn't exaggerating. “They have a short menu, sandwiches and salads, in case you want to pretend you're there for lunch but you wouldn't be fooling anyone.”

They thanked the waitress for their frosty-cold coffee drinks and settled back in comfy chairs at a tiny table near the window at The Book Nook—a charming book-and-coffee enterprise they'd stepped into to scout out a copy of an older book title by an author they both loved that Sophie hadn't yet read. They discovered this commonality while browsing The Mystic Maiden, an eclectic establishment with everything from gemstone jewelry—humming over many of the same pieces but buying none—to caftans to incense and amusing bumper stickers that brought them to near tears with giggles. They had much in common.

“Mother wanted me to take you to lunch at her club out at the golf course, but I could see right away you weren't the type.”

It wasn't meant to be an insult, but the question had to be asked, “How could you tell?”

“Easy. Drew likes you, so that would make it highly unlikely that you're the country club type. But I liked you, too, right off, so that's a definite
no way
. Now, if you were a friend of Pam or Billy's, that would be an unlikely story right from the start.”

“Who are they?”

“You and Drew really haven't had much time to talk at all, have you? Not even the basic sibling stuff?”

“I knew about you, from the funeral. And your mother. Your father's a doctor, too, and your grandfather was a huge Wahoo.”

“That's it? Surface dust,” she scoffed. “Oh, where to start. . . .” She laughed. “And where to stop before I blow Drew's chances with you.”

Despite the way her heart rate kicked up, Sophie shook her head. “I'm going home soon. Chances are you won't be blowing anything.”

“Then why are they called chances?” She smirked knowingly. “So now . . . you should know that we McCarrens are pretty much
it
as far as Clearfield royalty goes. There are others in our league, of course, or my mother would be sitting in her club all alone, but as far as our pedigree goes: none's more pure. My mother's family, the Kingstons, were here before the Blue Ridge Mountains. Prosperous, civic-minded farmers for several generations. Abolitionism brought us back to earth, so to speak, but we managed quite well until the modern marvels of farming required fewer and fewer family members to run a large farm. That's when brave, adventurous Kingstons—like myself—ventured forth into the rest of the world and for the most part fell off the family tree altogether. Except for my mother's branch, of course. They stayed and eventually contributed a senator to the great Commonwealth of Virginia. A Governor, too, way back when. A Republican, so we don't talk about him much, but still. . . .” She shrugged. “My grandpa and his younger brother, Charles . . . better known in town as Chucky . . . or to us kids as Uncle Chuckle,” she giggled. “Anyway, they took turns being mayor of Clearfield for many years.” It was plainly a favorite family joke. “They were a pair.” She shook her head, remembering. “Where was I? Oh. My dad. He's old Massachusetts money. He says the only reason Mother went to college was to catch herself a rich husband and he walked straight into her trap. And for some reason that completely escapes me, he adores her. Even now.”

“You know, you and your brother don't sound like you like your mother very much.”

“Don't be silly, we love her dearly—even if she is the world's biggest pain in the ass.” Sophie gasped and laughed at the same time, while Ava simply sighed, disgruntled. “Oh, she's okay. She's just into everything and everybody's business all the time. Anywhere else she'd be labeled a nosy busybody, but here, in the upper echelons of this rinky-dink town, she's a solid citizen, a pillar of public service, an involved parent, a concerned neighbor, a community activist. She's the spoon in the soup pot that moves everything around, stirs things up, and keeps them swirling so nothing burns on the bottom. In any other pond, she'd definitely be an impressive trophy fish. Here, she's
the
fish and that's the way she likes it. It's also why my Dad set his practice up in Charlottesville when he could have gone anywhere. And, yes, I know I had too many metaphors going on there, but one is never enough to describe her.”

“So,” Sophie said slowly into the breathy silence that followed. “Do I want to accept her invitation to dinner tomorrow night?”

She grinned. “Oh, yeah. For you, she will be the perfect hostess, gracious and charming—that all comes with the meal—the payoff for her being . . . your life story, your connection to Arthur Cubeck, your reason for being here, your plans for the immediate future, and, consequently, my brother.”

“Um. Sounds lovely.”

“Oh, it will be. The extractions will be painless; simply tell her what she wants to hear. We never know until the last minute if Dad will make it for dinner, but
I'll
be getting the night off from being reminded of what a disappointment my lack of direction, purpose, and ambition are to her. And Drew, who has the most remarkable and annoying talent for letting most everything she says and does roll off his back, will be abnormally jumpy and on guard the whole time to keep you buffered from her . . . which will amuse me immensely.”

Sophie shook her head in wonder. “Well, in that case . . .” Then she wondered, “Will I get to meet your other brother and your sister?”

“Definitely not Pam. She's like a clone of my mother but, again,” she held up her index finger, “this is a one-fish pond. Mother was on the verge of eating that little fry when Pam married her college sweetheart and moved to South Carolina. Naturally, she's only a trophy fish down there, but she doesn't seem to mind much.” She fell into a moment of thought on that note.

“And your brother?”

Had she not spent the afternoon watching and enjoying Ava McCarren, Sophie might have missed the subtle shades of . . . confusion, wonder, and concession that rippled briefly across her features. “Billy. You never know about Billy. He's . . . well, he's Billy.” She hesitated briefly. “You know how people say,
There's one in every family
? Sometimes they compare kids with apples:
There isn't a bad apple in the bunch
or
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
?” Sophie nodded; she was the apple of their eye in her family.

“Billy's an orange.”

“An orange.”

“Yeah. He's a fine fruit, no doubt about that, but he doesn't fit in with the McCarren apples. If we had a banana and a pear or a peach to make us a proper fruit bowl, that would be something else. But he's an orange sitting in a bowl of big shiny apples—the unique one, the quiet, thoughtful one; the complicated one, the one's that's harder to eat because you have to peel him.”

“What does he do?”

“He's an artist, too.” She looked a bit sheepish. “A real one. The best and most beautiful parts of his world are in his soul.” She hesitated. “But that also makes him introverted, solitary, and moody sometimes—an historical definition of a great artist, I guess, but it can be hard to live with.” She shrugged. “Still, he isn't twenty-seven yet and he's already had two major shows. In Richmond and then Washington D.C. His talent's heading north, you see. Next: Baltimore, Philadelphia, New York. And then the world,” she said proudly. She smirked. “He's well on his way to being a phenomenal orange.”

Sophie laughed. “I'd love to see some of his work.”

“Mother has a couple pieces she's confiscated under the perpetual IYM ruling of 130,000
BCE
.”

Sophie was not the dullest knife in the drawer. “
I
'm
Y
our
M
other.”

“So you know it.”

“Quite well, as a matter of fact.” They grinned in unison. “I thought it was common knowledge. Right up there next to ‘
Thou shalt not kill'
.”

Not long after that, they parted on the corner of Main and Market Streets. Ava waved and started up Main to her sporty sedan; Sophie slipped around the corner to Market and her car parked in a small lot beside the museum.

She was enjoying the peace of a late-summer afternoon—drowsy and muted; birds chirping, a gentle breeze blowing away the day's heat—and reflecting on all the ways Ava defined the word
character
. Her lips slipped into a soft smile as she recalled Ava's relish in recounting an incident of pure sabotage in seventh grade, when she and a friend “borrowed” three goats from a farmer, labeled them 1, 2, and 4 and turned them loose in the middle school—which was dismissed early that afternoon while the faculty scoured the building for number 3. Their three-day suspension had been well worth it.

She caught the red of her Jeep and sighed contentedly. Wine on the porch with Jesse, another of her wonderful dinners, and she could chalk this Saturday up as one of the nicest she'd spent in—well, since her mother got sick, at least.

Fishing in her purse for her keys, her buoyed spirits sank like an anchor again when she realized her car was listing toward the back of the small lot. She could feel her blood draining from her face and she broke out in a full-body sweat as she hurried around to the rider's side and found both her front and back tires flattened, their rims set deep in the rubber.

One tire would have been a serious bummer. Two flat tires were deliberate and seriously terrifying.

Instinctively, she spun around to check behind her, to scan the rest of the lot, the old thin hedging that circled it, the worn alley that passed between the museum parking lot and the larger stores on Main Street. Nothing. She searched again, this time including every window and door she could see. Nothing. Still, someone was nearby, watching her; she felt it while the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rose up. With great caution she sidled around to the driver's side, unlocked the door, climbed in, relocked the doors and called 911. Again.

Chapter Seven

“S
heriff Murphy fingerprinted my car. It looks like I haven't washed it since I bought it. Dust everywhere. But there were so many prints; whole palm prints in some places. If I hadn't been so”—she shrugged while she searched for the right word. Confused? Angry? Terrified? Nauseous and resisting the urge to cry?—“upset, it might have been more interesting. But all I kept thinking was, Is that dusty stuff going to scratch up the paint on my car?” Her laugh was small but it was all she could muster at the moment. “After that, he called Lonny and had him tow it back to his shop.”

“Lonny.” Elizabeth McCarren didn't seem to know the name.

She had, however, set Sophie at ease the moment she and Drew arrived at the sprawling two-story colonial home. The place screamed lavish comfort and livability in an understated style—
plenty-o-money but not bragging
described it best, Sophie decided.

Cordial, courteous, and engaging—and not nearly as assertive or intimidating as she'd been made out to be—Mrs. McCarren was as graceful and put together as she'd appeared the morning of Arthur Cubeck's funeral.

Plus, she was an artful conversationalist . . . or interrogator—both applied. The cross-examine went exactly as Ava had predicted and was just as painless; and she'd diverted the dinner dialogue from any disturbing topics until after dessert and coffee were served in the airy living room with its high ceiling, huge stone fireplace, and the expanse of windows showing dusk settling on the low, rolling countryside.

“Lonny's Service and Tire?” Sophie said, as if feeding her clues. “In town? On the corner of Poplar and Main?”

“Yes, of course, I know Lonny's. I simply assumed the sheriff would send a guest to our town to a more, well, more modern, up-to-date facility for this sort of thing.”

“He probably would have,” Sophie said, recalling Mrs. McCarren's influence in town. “He's been very kind and helpful—the sheriff. But I asked him to call Lonny. His place is close to Jesse's and I'd actually stopped to get gas there yesterday morning.”

“But he's such an ornery old curmudgeon. He simply refuses to deal with that pile of used tires behind his shop.”

Sophie smiled; she didn't care about his tires. “I liked him. He's . . . wise. And I trust him,” she added—a monumental matter at the moment.

Sophie was a blooming paranoid in a garden of unfamiliar foliage. She was taking another look at everyone she'd come in contact with since she arrived in Clearfield—remembering and reassessing everyone in her head. At one point, she'd even considered canceling her dinner plans with Drew and his family, fearing she'd be one of those idiotic women in the horror films who walk straight into a basement full of ghouls and maniacs.

Frankly, it seemed to Sophie that simply
knowing
that such idiocy existed was her protection against it . . .
plus,
she'd wanted very much to meet Drew's parents.

“Yes, of course. And clearly his tires are as good as anyone's,” Mrs. McCarren said, a jovial jab at the unsightly pile behind Lonny's station. She scored three half-smiles. “It does concern me, however, that the incident is getting so little attention, as if it was no more than some random event.”

“Oh, Mother.” Ava shook her head, clearly weary of her mother's meddling.

“I'm serious. Taken with the Palmeroy murder, it seems to me to be extremely calculated and purposeful . . . a direct attack against Sophie. I don't know why the sheriff hasn't put her in protective custody or something.”

“Don't start jumping to conclusions, Mother. Please. Especially ones so frightening,” Ava said with a quick glance at Sophie. “There's a big difference between killing someone and an act of vandalism. Not to mention what a huge step down it is. Murder then tire slashing.” She used her hands to show the weight of the crimes. “Murder. Tire slashing. It doesn't make sense. Besides, who'd want to hurt Sophie? What motive would they have to target her? It's a coincidence, not something to scare the wits out of Sophie with. For once, I think Freddy's attention is right where it ought to be—on Cliff Palmeroy's murder.”

“I don't believe in coincidence. I believe things happen for a reason.” Elizabeth paused, then added, “And please don't call the sheriff Freddy. He doesn't like it.”

“Then he shouldn't act like a Freddy. Do you know it's been twenty-four hours since Drew and Sophie found the body and he hasn't got even one good suspect yet?”

“Without a witness it takes some time. Isn't that true, dear?” Elizabeth looked to Drew for confirmation—and it had the same effect as shaking him awake.

“Of course.” He tipped his head to one side, still deep in thought. “But I'm with you this time. This is more than a cosmic accident—Sophie's tires, her pictures in Cliff's truck. I don't like it.” Sophie was glad to hear him say it. She didn't like it, either. “And I don't like that the sheriff hasn't whittled down a short list of suspects yet. Cliff was a dick. He made an enemy every time he left his house. The sheriff should be doing a top-ten countdown by now, but he says he's still looking at the evidence and keeping an open mind.”

“Open like a wind tunnel. Who elected that guy?” Ava looked pointedly at her parent. “Mother?”

“He's a good, fair, honest man.” Elizabeth would always support her candidate. “He'll get to the bottom of this.”

“Well, my bet's on the enemies Cliff made at home.” Ava set aside her barely touched dessert and picked up her coffee. “Carla could have easily slit his throat . . . if she took him by surprise. He never would have imagined it—never would have seen it coming. But I don't think she'd cut Sophie's tires. What would be the point? And I don't think she'd have the strength anyway.”

“Nonsense. A woman is quite capable of deflating a tire—simply unscrew the cap on the valve and press on the widgie-doodle in the middle and the air leaks right out. Easy.”

“Sophie's tires were cut, Mother,” Drew said.

“Oh. Yes, of course. Well, I still think a woman could manage it, even one as small as Carla.
Not
Carla, naturally, she doesn't have the disposition for it,” she said carefully. “But a woman of her stature. The tire walls, near the hubcaps, aren't nearly as thick as the tread. With a good sharp knife and some elbow grease, I feel certain a woman could do it.”

A full five seconds passed as everyone in the room sat staring at her curiously.

“Am I wrong?” She seemed willing to debate it, but Sophie didn't know her well enough to play the devil's advocate, and the others apparently knew her too well to try it.

“Fine. Whatever.” Ava dismissed her mother's vote for feminism. “But my money is still on the family—one alone or all together.”

“Are you going to borrow money for that wager? Because I hear you're broke again, baby girl.” A tall, very thin and blond young man entered the room; loose-limbed and laid-back as he bent to kiss Elizabeth on the cheek and take a gentle swipe at Ava's hair, flipping it up and across her face before it settled back in place.
Great hair,
Sophie noted once again. Like everyone else, she watched him pose at the opposite end of the couch from Drew.

His siblings could not look more unrelated, and not in just their physical features and builds. He was wearing dusty, bagged-out jeans and old flip-flops with an open navy blue short-sleeved shirt over a gray T-shirt. If this was Billy McCarren, he was indeed an orange among apples—not as crisp or smooth or as polished as the others. But he did have the family poise and self-confidence in a fashion all his own. The apples didn't overwhelm him; he was unquestionably comfortable in his bowl.

“Not to mention,” he continued. “If you don't want to be sued for slander and defamation, you shouldn't make those kinds of bets with anyone but family.” His pale blue gaze drifted toward Sophie. “No offense.” She shook her head; he was right. “You're her, the girl?”

“I guess so.” Being called a girl by a man so very near her own age didn't bother her nearly as much as the way he said it—as if she wasn't what he'd pictured the girl involved in a peculiar bequest, a murder, and a tire slashing to look like; as if she didn't live up to her hype.

“Sophie Shepard,” said Drew. “My brother, Billy.”

“Hi.”

“Pleasure,” he said, managing the effort to make it seem so. “I have offended you. Sorry. But ‘that girl with the red hair' is the hottest topic in town these days . . . I was just checking.” He smiled to smooth out any feathers he may have ruffled. “No one mentioned that you were hotter than the gossip or I wouldn't have had to ask.”

She was more uncomfortable than pleased by the statement. The way he was able to turn his charm off and on like hot and cold water from one observation to the next irked her. Sophie's smile was small as she took furtive glances at the others, who looked to be holding a collective breath.

Drew grimaced a smile that begged forbearance. And Ava laughed. “See, Mother? A compliment. Those etiquette classes are paying off after all.”

Mrs. McCarren smiled at her guest. “Sophie, the real compliment here lies in the fact that he showed up to meet you at all. I didn't even have to threaten his inheritance.”

“Ah, yes. Here we go,” Billy drawled. “And as you might have guessed, Sophie, this Blast Billy game is one of the many reasons why I come around so seldom. Amusing as it is to us all.”
And yet there would be no need for games if you had better manners,
she thought. Then, as if to put his family in an equally awkward and uneasy position with their visitor, he boldly said, “But speaking of inheritances: What do you think yours is all about? Any idea what the old man was up to with that?”

“Billy.” Drew's voice cautioned him.

“I have no idea,” she said simply, refusing to allow her pleasant evening to turn tense—or to give him any satisfaction. “But Hollis and I should have the results of the paternity test back sometime tomorrow. I . . . as surprised as I am about it, I find myself hoping he is my brother. I like him very much. But deep down, I don't think he is. I wish, but I don't think so.” A small unhappy bob of her head. “I guess we'll know for sure tomorrow.”

“I'm sorry, dear,” said Mrs. McCarren with great sympathy. “I'm prying, I know, but it seems very peculiar to me that Arthur left you no explanation for his actions, no letter. . . . It's very cryptic and illogical, and very unlike him. Might he have sent a letter to someone else? Left one somewhere? A safe-deposit box, perhaps?”

Sophie shook her head to mean “maybe” and “I don't know” at once, and then spoke the obvious. “Hollis and Mr. Metzer know more about him than I do, and they're just as confused.”

“And it doesn't bother you to know that you might be someone's unwanted love child?”

“Billy.” Drew scowled at him.

She shrugged. She'd had an answer to this question most of her life. “No. I actually prefer to think I
was
created from love—all children, planned or not, should at least have their roots in love. And my parents always made sure I knew I was
their
child and they never let me feel unwanted. So, no. That part doesn't bother me.”

“What part does?”

“Knock it off.” There was a feral growl in Drew's warning.

It was good to know he had her back, but she could handle Billy. She was
flint,
Sophie reminded herself.
Flint.
And besides, if she couldn't confront whoever was planting evidence and doing these hateful things against her—well, Billy McCarren was good practice.

“The destruction of old Mr. Cubeck's good reputation bothers me. Your community thought highly of him. I'd hate for that to change. Hollis says he wouldn't mind having a half sister, but I'm sure finding out that his father knowingly gave his own child away would disturb him. And that would only be speculation anyway, because without knowing who my birth mother was, we'll never know if he knew about me early enough to stop
her
from giving me up. So I'm worried about him—Hollis. BelleEllen bothers me—I don't want it. And, of course, if it turns out that Mr. Cubeck isn't my father, that opens a whole different box of bees.

“Like why he left BelleEllen to you if he wasn't your father.”

She nodded. “Yeah, like that.”

He squinted at her. “I'm betting he's not.”

“Why?—”

“There's betting?” his mother broke in, clearly disapproving.

“Absolutely,” said Billy. “And don't bother looking surprised, Mother. You know the best odds are out at your club. All those old guys chewing on their cigars, riding around in their golf carts, betting on everything from their game that day to who'll win
Survivor
.” Billy grinned. “I suspect all you ladies are equally as enterprising, but
you'd
never admit it and your friends are too afraid of you to even whisper about it—”

“Knock it off, Billy.” Drew turned his attention to his mother, exasperated. “One night without his mouth was asking too much? Sophie could have come to town and left again without ever knowing he existed.”

“Hey. You're not afraid she's going to like me better, are you?” Billy laughed and winked at Sophie. “Cuz I don't think that's gonna be a problem, man. She can't stand me.”

“Do you blame her? Isn't that what you wanted?” Drew turned to him, more baffled than angry. “Why do you do this? You're better than this, Billy. You're a great guy. You're smart. You're talented. Why do you choose to be like this?”

“Whoa!” Billy stretched out his arms in exaggerated dizziness. “Déjà vu. I'm out there, man. Seriously. I feel like I've had this same conversation with one family doctor or another for the last ten years.” He sobered abruptly. Anger smoldered in his eyes. “Doctors who think they know
all
about me—how I think, what I feel, who I am.
You're unhappy. You're depressed. You're weird.
Here, take this fist full of drugs
.
Do it for yourself, not because we think you're nuts and the neighbors are complaining.
Why do I choose to be like this?” He pointed to himself with both hands. “Because this is who I am. This is it, man. This is me.” All of a sudden he remembered Sophie. “Wanna know what bothers me, sweetheart?” He didn't wait for an answer. “Normals and nuts. Who's to say which is which, you know? Maybe I'm the normal one and they're the nuts.” Pretending to be shocked and appalled, he got to his feet. “Did I say that out loud? Did they hear me? Are they reaching for their nets and straightjackets? I'd better jet. I feel a new label coming on. Not just bipolar, but Bipolar with Paranoid Delusions and Chronic Bad Manners. What's that in Latin, brother?”