Venom and the River (6 page)

“I’ve heard. She told me, as a matter of fact. Came to my house right after and gloated. You see, no one’s been in here, ever.”

“People have lived here, so what do you mean?”

“No fans of the books have been allowed in, and you can believe we’ve tried. Don’t let anybody tell you that nasty wire fence was put up to keep out potential vice-presidential assassins; it’s there to keep us out.”

“Us?”

“Fans of the books. Little Girls. This place has been locked and boarded up for decades. And now it’s open.” Marti smiled. “Just for you. The vice president’s new secretary.” She sipped Scotch, rose, and walked toward the alcove and the desk. “This painting is stunning. I can’t wait to tell people about it. Her nipples are astounding. No wonder she called it The Red Lady.”

“It’s a copy, but I guess the girl lived with the original.”

Marti turned slowly, taking it all in. “Ida May certainly plumbed the physical details of her environment for her writing. It’s very much the way she described it in the books. Over a hundred years later—it’s just the same.”

“Not quite; the place has been rewired and I’m sleeping on new sheets.” Leigh reached for her backpack and took out the library books. “I’ve never read even one book by Ida May Turnbull, but I just checked some out. You’ve retired from teaching?”

“Quit, didn’t retire.” Marti pointed. “You cannot start with that one;
Little Girl, Big World
is the fourth book.” She shifted her finger slightly. “And certainly not
Big River Autumn.
Book six
.
”

“I just grabbed a couple. Aren’t these any good?”

“They’re wonderful.
Autumn
is actually my favorite, but you need to start with the first one in the series,
Little Girl, Big River.
” Marti walked quickly to the front door, hoisted her large bag from the floor, and returned to the brown chair. She poked around in it and pulled out two slender paperbacks and tossed them onto Leigh’s lap. “Books one and two, please read them in order. A house-warming gift.”

“You carry them with you?”

“Of course. I give away two or three a week. Can’t keep old stories like these in print if we don’t make new fans.” Marti settled back into the chair, rocking her glass slightly, the clinking of ice cubes the only sound in the house. Finally, she cleared her throat. “I might have given them to you a couple years ago and you could have become a fan then. We came close to meeting once before. I was going to introduce myself at that time, but I missed the chance.”

Leigh’s hand froze over the pile of books on her lap. “When?”

“Timmy Thompson’s wife’s funeral. Right after my divorce some years back Timmy and I had a sweet little thing going. He used to drive over from Mankato now and then to visit the VP. One time he stopped at Dee’s for a drink after he’d been with his pal. We got to talking, and, well, he stayed in Pepin a little longer than he planned that night. My god, he always stayed a long time, if you catch my drift. One of his many talents in bed. But then, I probably don’t need to tell you what he could do in the bedroom. After that first time, whenever he was in town or if we could coordinate an afternoon in the Cities…” She shrugged. “So he never told his ghostwriter about me? Don’t know if I like that or not. I heard about the two of you and assumed—”

“If that’s what you heard, it was a lie. We weren’t lovers. I worked with him on his book, that’s all.”

“Then you missed out on some sweet sex, Leigh Burton. He may have been old enough to be my father, but oh my, he was ardent and he was skilled. Didn’t have to waste sack time teaching him anything.” She pointed a finger. “Don’t smile. He was—is—old enough to be my father. I told you, I’m fifty-three. You?”

“Forty-seven. And I smiled because I was picturing that potbellied old liar in bed.”

“Oh come on, everybody’s gorgeous when the lights are off, and not very many are so sweet and funny when they go back on. Timmy’s still a good friend, even though the affair ended when his kids took away his car keys. I went to his wife’s funeral and heard the whispering about you and decided, once I spotted you across the room, that you were a kindred spirit. I wanted to introduce myself, but you slipped away before the lunch.”

“I was told not to come by the family. And don’t be so sure we’re kindred spirits.”

“Don’t you be so sure that we’re not.” Marti rose and resumed her survey of the cottage. She stopped at the door and stroked the notched wood. “Peach ran into your car on purpose, did you know that?”

“I’ve guessed as much. She’s paying for the repairs.”

“That was extreme, even for her. But, then, we Little Girls are a wicked bunch, though usually we save our claws and talons for each other.”

Leigh studied the honed, red nails on her visitor’s hands. “I’m not sure I understand how some old children’s books have the power to do that.”

“Do what? Don’t worry, Leigh, you’re not thinking anything I’ve not said out loud. You don’t understand how some books have the power to transform women into bitches, is that it? That’s fair. We ladies haven’t always played nice, not when it comes to Ida May.” She gestured toward the door. “Before my divorce I used to live just across the park.”

“With the closeted gay man?”

“Yes. He’s still there, by the way. Hank and the old queen he fell in love with. You’ll probably see them outside, tending their rather ostentatious garden. Feel free to stop in and admire it; they love to give tours.”

“He got the house?”

“He was attached and I was feeling generous. And I didn’t want the heating bill. No, what I loved about that place is I could look out my front window and see this place.”

Trees and more trees, Leigh thought. “Only in winter, I’d wager.”

Marti laughed. “True enough. It’s quite hidden, which is what the man who built it wanted. You know the story?”

“I know enough.”

“Not sure you do, dear. Not sure you know nearly enough to deal with Peach and her gang.”

“Isn’t her gang your gang?”

Marti shook her head and mouthed, No.

“Enlighten me, Marti.”

“A long story, Leigh. All you need to know now is that the Little Girl books turned me into a voracious reader by age eight. They’re why I majored in literature in college and why I went into teaching. Well, okay, maybe not that. I had to support a son of a bitch of a husband through medical school, that’s why I went into teaching. But they’re why I was a good teacher. They’re why I still live in Pepin after my divorce, and the books are why I will not sit back as that gushing idiot controls and perverts Ida May Turnbull’s legacy.” She sat again in the chair opposite Leigh and stretched out her legs. “Ida May wrote her first stories here, right in this cottage. None were published, but she sent them out faithfully. The first one when she was only ten. Imagine.”

Leigh lifted her glass. “To young writers.”

“They’re beautiful books.”

“Marti, I don’t much care if they’re beautiful or not. I do care that they have made me a victim of other people’s obsessions. The least you can do is answer some questions.”

“I was sixteen; he was a friend’s older brother.”

“There’s faded purple wallpaper in one of the bedrooms. Peach Wickham was dressed head to foot in the color.”

Marti looked toward the hallway and the back of the cottage. She murmured, “Maud’s favorite color.”

“I thought her name was Ida May.”

“Maud’s the girl in the book. Ida May’s the author. We fans tend to conflate the two in our enthusiasm.”

“Is that fair, do you think? Do you really suppose one life mirrored the other?”

“I know they didn’t. Still, even Ida May apparently nurtured the myth that they were one and the same.”

“So purple is the fictional girl’s favorite color?”

“Lilac, please. First mentioned as such in the third book. Chapter 7.”

“Peach was wearing a tiara.”

“Peach always wears a tiara. Her son gave it to her for Mother’s Day a few years back. She never leaves the house without it.”

“Then it’s not connected to the books?”

“Of course it’s connected. Peach Wickham’s life is a continual saccharine homage to the books. A tiara was the coveted prize for a contest to be princess of the river. The three girls—do you know about the three girls?”

“I’ve seen the banners on Main Street. The book covers.”

“So much to learn, Leigh. Fourth book,
Little Girl, Big World.
There’s a contest to be princess of the river that almost breaks up the friends until they realize the real princess should be a Dakota girl they’ve met.”

“The blue vase? The Matisse? The battered tea kettle on my ancient stove?”

Marti rose from the chair and walked to the kitchen doorway. She crossed her arms and leaned limply against the wall. “Read the books, Leigh. It’s all there. There’s a convention this summer; it starts in a few weeks. Come to that and you’ll learn more than you ever thought possible to know about an author and her books. We fans have been organized and rabid for years. Peach Wickham took control a long time ago and some of us don’t like what she’s been doing.”

“What’s she doing?”

“It’s about the books, Leigh. The writing, the beautiful writing and the world created by that writing. It’s not about sentiment. Not the color lilac, not Little Girl fashion shows, not the goddam tiaras. Some of us formed our own organization to focus on the literature, and Peach got pissed. Once upon a time she even told me to get out of town. She actually had the nerve to tell me that she was born here and Pepin belonged to her.”

“So I’m caught in the cross fire between warring fan clubs. I’ve heard a bit about the convention. Terry Bancroft said he’d hire security to protect the cottage.”

Marti nodded. “Not a bad idea, especially now that it’s no longer boarded up. This summer is the 120th anniversary of Ida May’s birth, and there will be several hundred women descending on Pepin. Some of the ladies get mighty aggressive upon occasion in their pursuit. Yes, make sure he hires the guard. You know what the Bancroft connection is, I assume.”

“The outline. But what’s the Wickham connection?”

Marti made a face, tipped her head, and finished her drink. “Peach grew up here.” She pointed out the window. “Brick bungalow on the corner across the park.”

“You were neighbors.”

“For years and years, just one house apart. She’s lived there her entire life. Peach was a daddy’s girl. Devoted to the books and to her father. Daddy died when she was well past thirty, and she had to turn that repressed desire to something. She decided that Pepin needed to pay more attention to its literary heritage. She became the biggest and loudest fan. As such, she oozed her way into certain places, made connections with certain people. Publishers, producers, and a couple of television stars who were too young to resist her energy. Have you seen the travesty by the Dairy Queen at the edge of downtown? That god-awful house they brought in from Hollywood and turned into a museum? People worship the TV show, Leigh, not the real thing.”

“Terry told me that Peach is related to the author.”

“She is not,” Marti said firmly. “Ida May had no blood relatives, so she named a goddaughter’s son her heir. Peach insinuated herself into his life, offering advice about dealing with the publishers and who knows what and before anyone could see what was really happening, she married him. I’d bet this month’s commissions that until he met Peach, Donnie Wickham didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to negotiate a woman’s body, and trust me, I’ve become something of an expert in identifying that shortcoming. Donnie must have managed to swim through the folds of organdy at least once, though, because a few months after the wedding they had a son. They named him—get this—Turnbull Wickham.”

“Poor kid.”

Marti nodded. “And if she could do that to her own child, imagine how she runs the Little Girl Society.”

“That’s the name of your club?”

“Her club.”

“Do pedophiles ever try to join?”

“Exactly. Try Googling it sometime; you’ll get a pretty skanky list. I can go on and on about Peach and her kingdom, dear, but not without another glass of this lovely Scotch, and I don’t dare have that on an empty stomach. What say we order in? Woo’s delivers. My treat.”

Leigh rose. “I have leftovers from the big house. The housekeeper sends me home with them every day. Feel free to wander around while I heat things up, but I warn you: I have a librarian’s memory and I’ll know if you touch or take anything.”

8.

“The girl has talent.” Marti said after a few bites of day-old
coq au vin.
“She and the Veep…?” Her eyebrows arched.

Leigh attended to the food on her plate. “You know, I think this is even better reheated.”

“Oh, all right, don’t say anything. That’s fair enough. He signs your paycheck and she cooks your food. Not that I judge her.”

“Marti, she says the babies aren’t his, and that’s all I know and care to say. You’re fortified now, so are you ready to tell me more about Peach? And what about your little splinter society? If I’m going to be besieged by women in this town, I may as well know it all. What’s your group’s name? Big River Mamas? Little Girls Gone Wild?”