The Widows of Braxton County (28 page)
K
ate opened a can of soup for supper and heated it on the stove. After it was warmed through, she knocked on Trudy’s door, but there was no response. She opened it and peeked inside.
Trudy lay on her side with her back toward the door while the TV still blasted away.
Lacking the strength for another go-around with Trudy, she quietly shut the door and left her alone. After she’d completed her solitary meal, she checked all the windows and doors, then trudged up to her bedroom. Today’s drama with Will and Trudy had left her exhausted.
As she entered the bedroom, she glanced at her laptop. She could do more research, but her brain felt fried. All she had were scattered threads of ideas and none of them connected.
“Probably never will,” she muttered to Topaz, who lay curled up in the center of the bed.
The cat raised her head and blinked her amber eyes slowly.
After staring at Kate for a moment, she laid her head on her paws and went back to sleep. There’s a definite advantage to being a cat, Kate thought as she changed into a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. She wished she could shut her mind off as easily.
Kate lay on her back and cradled the back of her head with her hands. The first thing she intended to do tomorrow was take Trudy to see Doc Adams and set up a full battery of tests. One minute the woman seemed normal, then the next deluded. She needed to know if Trudy’s issue was, as Doc suspected, dementia.
Kate frowned into the darkness. The second thing she’d do was fire Darwin Brown and hire a new attorney. She no longer trusted Will and Rose, and Will had frightened her twice in one day.
The house creaked and settled around her as Kate curled on her side and stroked Topaz.
“You’ve the right idea, don’t you, cat,” she whispered, “go to sleep and forget about it for now.”
Kate must have drifted off. The next time she opened her eyes, the clock said almost midnight. Groaning she pounded her pillow and tried to find a comfortable spot. She shivered and pulled the quilt up to her shoulders.
The strains of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” wafted up through the floor vent.
Son of a bitch!
Kate bolted upright in bed. That crazy woman had found the music box and somehow put it back together. After turning on the light, she jumped out of bed and shoved her feet into a pair of slippers.
From the behind her, Topaz hissed. Looking over her shoulder, Kate saw the cat standing in the center of the bed with her back arched and her ears laid back. Before Kate could grab her, Topaz leapt off the bed and headed out of the room.
Kate followed, but when she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and sniffed the air.
Gasoline.
She rounded the corner of the hallway into the parlor and noticed a soft glow coming from the kitchen.
Oh my God . . . was the house on fire? She had to wake Trudy and get them both out of there.
In her rush through the parlor, she struck her thigh on one of the end tables, sending its antiques flying. She heard the crash of fragile glass but didn’t slow her speed.
She jerked to a stop when she reached the kitchen. The smell was stronger there and it made her light-headed.
The light above the stove was on and Trudy was awake. She stood in the doorway between the kitchen and her bedroom with her back toward Kate, staring into the room. Her gray hair straggled down her back, and she appeared weighted down by something in her arms. She slowly turned.
In one hand, Trudy had a large red plastic jug that Kate recognized as containing gasoline, and clutched in her other hand was a box of matches. The front of her nightgown was wet.
A low growl from the kitchen table caught Kate’s attention momentarily. Topaz was crouched on the table, watching Trudy.
“Come on,” Kate said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Let’s go outside.”
Trudy shook her head and, before Kate could grab her, she dropped the can and opened the box of matches, then held one aloft.
“Only fire will cleanse this house,” she said, her eyes wild.
Kate held up her hands. “Wait—don’t you want to tell me why?”
“You know why,” she replied petulantly. “But you weren’t supposed to wake up. Why did you wake up?”
“I heard your music box.”
Trudy smiled. “No, you didn’t. You took it away from me. You shouldn’t have taken it away. Now the secret’s out.”
“You still haven’t told me why.” Kate slid one foot forward.
“We have to die, of course,” she answered in a childlike voice. “Joe’s lonely without us.” She held the match against the strike plate on the side of the box.
“Joe wouldn’t want this,” Kate insisted, trying to draw Trudy’s attention away from the match.
“Yes, he would.” Her face twisted. “We both have to pay for our sins. The sins of the father,” she finished in a singsong voice.
“What sins?”
“You were a bad wife. You brought the curse down on Joe.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Kate noticed a flicker of movement at the kitchen door, followed a second later by Will’s face appearing in the window. Kate gave a slight shake of her head, and he disappeared.
She had to keep Trudy focused on her, not the box of matches or the kitchen window.
“You told me
my
sins—what are yours, Trudy? Why don’t you explain it to me?”
“Don’t you try and fool me,” she exclaimed with a wave of the box. “You knew what he was going to do—pack me off. He came in that day, gushing about you, how happy the two of you were going to be.” A tear slid down her wrinkled cheek. “He didn’t care about my happiness.” She gasped for breath as if saying the words physically hurt.
“But you said he’d been stabbed when he came into the kitchen.”
“No, no, no. It happened when we argued—about you,” she spit out, “I was so mad that I forgot the knife in my hand and when I whirled around, the knife stabbed Joe.”
Kate forgot her fear and took a couple of steps toward Trudy.
“You stabbed your own son!”
Trudy began to tremble. “The knife gouged him. It was an accident. I tried to save him.”
“Why didn’t you tell anyone what had happened?” Kate took another step.
Trudy backed away from her. “I—I couldn’t think.” Suddenly her trembling stopped. “See, if we both die, then it will be fine. My hand killed my son, but you made it happen.”
Trudy held the match next to the box and cocked her head as if she was listening to a voice that only she could hear.
The grandfather clock striking midnight suddenly brought her out of her daze, and before Kate could grab her, she struck the match and tossed it into the bedroom.
As flames whooshed across the floor and engulfed the bed, the back door flew open and Will rushed into the room.
“Get out of here!” he yelled as he yanked Trudy away from the flames rushing toward her. The room began to fill with smoke, but not before Kate saw Topaz dash out the open door. Covering her mouth with the bottom of her T-shirt, Kate looked for Will and Trudy.
He’d slung her over his shoulder and, as he came by, gave Kate a push in the direction of the door. Together, they fled into the night.
Standing in the yard, Kate watched as flames danced in the windows of Trudy’s bedroom. And over the distant howl of sirens, she heard a woman’s scream.
“Drink this tea,” Rose said, shoving the warm cup into Kate’s hands.
She took a sip, then sputtered. “This isn’t tea.”
Rose shrugged. “Well, it might have a shot or two of whiskey in it. Drink it down. It’ll be good for you.”
Kate did as she was told and let the warm liquid ease the tightness in her throat. Sitting in Rose’s recliner, she looked out the window as she pulled the afghan tighter around her shoulders.
Topaz, not taking kindly to being disturbed, stood, kneaded Kate’s lap, then settled down again.
“Has Will called?” she asked Rose.
“Not since you asked me five minutes ago.” Rose took a seat on the couch across from Kate. “He’ll call as soon as he can. He wanted to stay until the fire was out.”
“I wish I knew how Trudy was.”
“She’s probably at the hospital by now.”
“Rose, I’m sorry I doubted you,” Kate said.
“You’ve apologized about ten times now, and you needn’t again,” Rose replied kindly. “I understand why you questioned our motives.”
Kate placed the cup on a table next to her chair and massaged her tired eyes with her fingertips. “I can’t grasp what happened tonight.”
“None of us can, sweetie.” Rose was silent for a moment. “Did you make much sense out of what Trudy said?”
“Just that they were fighting about her moving into town. Somehow, she whirled without thinking and accidentally caught Joe with the knife.” Kate dropped her hands away from her face. “I suppose she was so shaken by what happened that she carried it to the car with her.”
“Then threw the knife in your Jeep as she was leaving the hospital.” Rose frowned. “Do you think she was trying to frame you?”
“Honestly?” Kate asked with a lift of her eyebrow. “I think when Trudy saw Joe die on the way to the hospital, all sense of reality broke for her. You saw how she acted until after the funeral. Her mind had shut off.”
Before Rose could respond, Kate jumped to her feet. “Someone just pulled in.”
She hurried to the door, expecting Will, but it was a sheriff’s car. Kate stifled a groan as Detective Shepherd got out and walked to the house.
“Let me guess . . . you have some questions?” she asked sarcastically.
“I will, but not tonight. I’ve already got Will’s statement.” He glanced down at his feet. “I just wanted to stop by and let you know that your mother-in-law died on her way to the hospital. Doc Adams thinks it might have been a massive stroke.”
Trudy had joined her son. As the detective walked away, Kate prayed that at last she had found peace.
Fall 1890, the Krause homestead
J
oseph wove across the barnyard, a lantern clutched tightly in one hand and a bottle in the other. His, all his. He’d won. No more Pa . . . No more Hannah. He didn’t care what that bitch said. Crazy talk, that’s all it was. He snorted. “The sins of the father.” He took a long pull from his bottle. He’d never allow his woman to back talk him like she did tonight. His woman. He did a little dance in the hot evening air. He owned property now. He could have his pick of any woman he wanted. He stopped and thought for a moment, squinting his eyes up at the moon.
Better pick a stupid one.
He gave a drunken nod.
Yup, stupid and pretty, that was the way to go.
That had been the trouble with Hannah. She was too smart. He chuckled.
Smarter than Pa.
And he’d tried to beat it out of her. Not him, better to start out with stupid—less trouble. And whoever the lucky woman was, she’d be so grateful for his attention that he’d never hear a sharp word out of her mouth. She’d raise his kids and wait on him. He threw out his chest. And he’d make sure those kids grew up tough like him. Just like his father had done for him.
“Sins of the father”? He felt a niggle of fear. Ahh, he waved his hand at nothing, bullshit, nothing but a load of bullshit.
Feeling better, he started back toward the house, then stopped. What was that claptrap about not being silenced? Apprehension seized him. She didn’t know, couldn’t know. He kicked a rock across the yard and almost fell. Righting himself, he took two staggering steps.
She was the one responsible for what happened. She hadn’t been where she was supposed to be.
He covered his face with his hands and began to sob. “I’m sorry, Pa, I’m sorry.” He dropped to his knees. “Her—it was supposed to be her. Why didn’t you fall asleep on your side of the bed instead of hers?”
Wiping his nose, he staggered to his feet. He was safe. No one remembered his mother’s fancy cutlery set, but he had. They’d been long hidden in the loft. Closing his eyes, he could still see his mother polishing those knives in the aftermath of Pa’s spells. He’d always wondered if she’d get the gumption to use one on Pa, but she never had the chance. She’d “fallen” down the cellar steps and died from her injuries. The knives hadn’t helped her any more than they had Hannah.
He cocked his head and the world tilted. In a way, it was rough justice—his father had killed his mother and his mother’s knife had killed him. After stumbling up the steps, he crossed the floor to the kitchen table. He blew out the lantern and fell into one of the chairs.
Yup, rough justice, he thought as his eyes closed and the room spun. He could live with that.
His hand stole over the polished wood of Willie’s music box, and he lifted the lid. A drunken grin spread over his face as he clapped along, one beat off, to the music of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home.” Rocking back and forth he chuckled. The brat’s never going to come marching home again. And neither is she.
When the tune had finished, Joseph grabbed the long knife lying on the table. So happy that Charles Walker had seen fit to give him back the knife. A Civil War side knife like this one was worth a lot of money and it had belonged to his ma’s father. He took the tip, and using it as a screwdriver, dismantled the music box, then with one eye shut and using the same knife, began to carve words into the bottom of the box.
When he finished, he studied his handiwork.
THE SINS OF THE FATHER
. He choked out a sob and wove his way back to Pa’s bedroom. Falling across the bed facedown, he buried his face in the pillow.
“I’m sorry, Pa. I’m sorry,” he muttered to the empty house.
He was unconscious a moment later and never heard the faint scream drifting across his land.
