Stillwater (4 page)

Chapter Six

It was long past midnight when Beth started the drive home. The Lathams were convivial company, especially Gwen, who had an anarchic sense of humor that belied her ‘twinset and pearls' image.

While Arthur did the washing up, leaving Beth and Gwen alone in the lounge, Beth touched on the subject of the pain associated with Gwen's condition. “How do you cope with it?” she asked her.

“I smoke dope,” Gwen Latham said candidly. “Marijuana. It helps.”

“So I've heard.”

“And I get a little high…which is nice,” she added with a knowing smile.

“I'm just amazed you can get the stuff out here in the sticks.”

Gwen laughed. “You're right. It's not commonplace. Luckily I have my own supplier.”

Beth raised her eyebrows. “Really?”

“It's Arthur actually. He has contacts. One of the benefits of working in the state school system.”

Beth smiled to herself as she drove the short distance home. She was so immersed in the memories of the evening she almost hit the young woman, who broke from the trees and dashed across the road. Beth was suddenly aware of a white shift dress flapping in the breeze, a pale, almost white face with large frightened eyes, and long flowing hair that trailed behind her like a black cape.

“Shit!” she shouted, and pressed on the brake. The car lurched to a halt and she was thrown forward, her momentum halted by the seat belt, which slammed her back against the headrest.

But there was no impact. Thankfully, miraculously, she hadn't hit the woman: the road ahead was clear.

Beth took a moment to compose herself, and then checked her wing mirrors. The road behind her was clear as well. There was no sign of anyone.

She sat in her seat and looked at the trees to the left, the direction the young woman was running.

Through the gaps between the trees she could see the Stillwater Lake, seemingly weed free now; the black mirrored surface reflected the round disc of a silvery full moon. As her panicked breathing returned to normal she thought she saw movement out there—something white, flitting from tree to tree.
Now you see her, now you don't
, Beth thought.

This was when her disability frustrated her most. A few short months ago she would have been out of the car and dashing through the trees to catch up with whoever was out there. Even if all she did was remonstrate with her about her reckless behavior. Instead she was virtually trapped in the car. She could struggle out of her seat and get into her wheelchair, but she could see from the uneven nature of the landscape it would be foolhardy, and possibly dangerous. Instead she just sat there and fumed.

The incident brought back every memory of the accident that had robbed her of her legs.

After a few more minutes the young woman appeared at the edge of the lake. Beth had her finger poised above the electric window button. She was about to wind down the window and shout out, but what happened next dried the words in her throat.

The young woman glanced about her furtively, and then, with a movement that looked well practiced yet at the same time perfectly natural, she slipped into the waters of the lake and disappeared from view, leaving only a silvery wake as she glided through the water. Beth watched, mesmerized. Only when the wake smoothed out did she start the car again, and ease forward.

She thought about the girl she had nearly run down for the rest of the short time home, but when she reached the house she was just as puzzled as when she started. Puzzled…and curious.

Who was she? And why would she be running in the dark, through the woods at nearly one o'clock in the morning?

Beth pulled up at the rear of the house, disembarked and wheeled herself up the ramp to the back door. The night was dark; unlike the city nights, out here there were no streetlamps, and no house lights to make even night seem bright.

As she went to put her key in the lock she noticed that the door was slightly ajar. She drew back her hand as if it had been stung. She was almost positive she had closed and locked the door when she left the house earlier. But almost wasn't a certainty.
Get a grip
, she told herself.
Think
. She tried to retrace her steps in her mind, but while the memory of hauling herself behind the wheel was clear, the actions leading up to that were foggy.

Shaking her head, and angry with herself, she pushed open the door and wheeled herself inside, closing the door, double locking it behind her.

As she made herself a cup of warm milk to take to bed with her, her mind went back to the young woman in the woods, and the questions in her head started again.

She took her milk and the questions to bed with her, and it was nearly three when her eyes finally closed, and she drifted into a fitful sleep.

She awoke to something scratching persistently at the door. Blearily she turned her head to look at the alarm clock on the bedside table. The green digits read 3:35.
You have to be kidding
, she thought sleepily. As she gradually came to, her mind tried to make sense of what she was hearing. Finally she heard a low moan, slowly rising in pitch until it became a full-throated meow. “Teddy! Give it a rest!”

The cat appeared not to have heard her. Either that or he was willfully ignoring her. The meowing and scratching continued and, if anything, increased. Hanging from the ceiling above her head was a stout iron chain attached to an inverted D-shaped handle. She reached up with both hands, wrapped her fingers around the porcelain grip covering the straight edge of the D, and hauled herself into a sitting position. She let go of the handle and, using her hands, moved her legs to the edge of the bed. And then she reached across and pulled her chair closer. The side of the chair was hinged and the seat was level with the bed, so all she had to do was to ease herself into the wheelchair, and return its armrest to the upright position.

On paper it was a simple maneuver, in practice it took her fifteen minutes and by the time she adjusted the armrest she was sweating profusely, and all the time her cat was yowling outside the door.

“All right, all right, I'm coming.”

She wheeled herself across to the door, and opened it a crack.

Teddy forced himself through the gap, and sped into the room. In a couple of strides the cat leapt onto the bed, and burrowed down underneath the duvet.

“Great,” Beth muttered. It looked like she had company for the rest of the night. She shut the door, and rolled back to the bed.

Once she was settled again she reached under the duvet, and laid her hand on the cat's back, ruffling the fur, at the same time mumbling words of reassurance. Teddy was trembling.

“What scared you?” she said quietly. “Silly boy, there's nothing to be scared of.”

And then the scratching at the door started again.

The reassuring words dried in her throat, and she stared at the door. The scratching continued. Under her fingers the cat's body stiffened, fur bristling. Beth's mind went back to the open back door. It was obvious to her what had happened. Another cat must have come through it earlier in the evening. It would account for Teddy's erratic behavior. He was never a sociable cat. He hated other cats since a run-in with a neutered tom in London had left him with a torn ear and numerous scratches and bites. The incident had left her out of pocket in vet's fees. She didn't want a repeat of that.

She was too exhausted by the lateness of the hour to attempt getting out of bed again. Instead she reached for the thick Jilly Cooper paperback on her bedside table, and hurled it at the bedroom door. It hit the door with a best-selling thud, and slid down to the floor, landing open and facedown, cracking the book's spine. The scratching stopped instantly.

She lay there, half expecting it to resume, but after five minutes or so she started to believe she had scared the interloper away. “Thank God for that. I'll deal with it in the morning,” she muttered, and closed her eyes. Within seconds she had drifted back to sleep.

Beth awoke the next morning to glorious summer sunshine that poured through the bedroom window like warm honey, bathing the bed in a golden, warming light. Through the window she could see trees, and hear birdsong. There was something to be said for country life.

Beside her Teddy slept, his body rising and falling as he breathed. She poked him, but he slept on.

“Okay,” she said to him. “Stay there, but it's a lovely day. You could be basking in the sunshine.” And then she remembered the scratching in the night. “Actually, you're probably better where you are. Let me deal with the other moggy first. I'll come and get you when the coast is clear.”

She wheeled herself from the bedroom, closing the door behind her, switched on the coffee maker on the kitchen counter and searched as much of the house as she could. She stopped by the bottom of the stairs, and stared up into the gloom. The cat was probably up there somewhere, sleeping off the night's adventure. Beth shrugged. There was nothing she could do about it so she went to the back door, unlocked it and opened it wide, giving the cat a way out of the house. Then she went back to the kitchen, and poured herself a large mug of strong Columbian. She took the coffee through to her office, and woke up her computer.

Reading through the work she'd completed the day before she found herself pleasantly surprised; not satisfied—never satisfied, but it was better than she'd expected, considering her long layoff.

When a voice called, “Hello!” she glanced at the computer's clock, and was amazed to see she had been sitting in front of the screen for the best part of three hours.

“Through here!” she called back. “In the office.”

“I hope I'm not disturbing the creative flow,” James Bartlett said, as he sauntered into her office. Casually professional.

“No, you're fine,” Beth said. “I was just revising and editing.”

“That's good. I just thought I'd pop by to see that you were settling in okay and…” He hesitated. “And to see if you'd like to come for a picnic.”

Beth stared him, surprised. Today he was dressed in jeans and a tight and faded Smashing Pumpkins T-shirt. Timberland boots and an unshaven chin completed the look. He stared back at her, a mixture of uncertainty and hopefulness in his smoky gray eyes.

“You're serious?”

“Never more.”

“Well it's very kind of you but…”

“Come on,” he said. “Where's the harm? It's a glorious day. The sun is shining, the—”

“I have to work.” She cut him off. “Sorry.” She found herself blushing; could feel the color rushing to her cheeks.

“Two hours. Surely you could spare that, just to enjoy the sunshine.”

She could feel her resolve wavering. Lack of sleep and a marathon editing session was making her mind feel sluggish. Perhaps being outside in the sunshine would help.

“Just two hours?”

“No more. Promise. Estate agent's honor.”

“Is there such a thing?” She had a sudden thought. “Excuse me a moment. I have to do something.” Quickly she wheeled herself to her bedroom, and opened the door. Teddy was waiting on the other side, and as soon as he saw daylight he shot out of the room, and dashed to the back door. In the doorway the cat paused and looked back her, the flicking of his tail betraying his uncertainty.

“It's all right. Go on.”

The cat gave a final meow, and disappeared into the garden.

“What's wrong with the cat?” James said.

“He had a bad scare last night. I left the door open when I went out last night and a stray cat came into the house. He doesn't handle confrontation well, and he freaked.” She paused thoughtfully. “Actually, you could do me a huge favor.”

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “Go on,” he said suspiciously.

“I'm worried the stray is still in the house somewhere. Could you check the upstairs? Obviously I—”

“You're not allowed up there.” He cut her off tactfully. “I'll do it now…while you get dressed.”

“What?” She looked down at herself, and was mortified to see she was still wearing her pajamas. “Sorry,” she spluttered. “I lost track of time.”

He was smiling, and waved her explanation away. “You don't have to worry with me. Besides…” The smile broadened.

“Stop laughing at me.” She turned and wheeled herself into the bedroom.

“I was going to say, I think you look cute.”

She reached out and slammed the door shut.
Cute! Really?
she thought angrily. Then she caught her reflection in the dressing table mirror. To her surprise she saw that she was smiling.

Chapter Seven

By the time she had dressed, applied her make-up, gelled her fingers and run them through her close-cropped dark brown hair another hour had gone by. Sheepishly she rolled back into the other room. “Sorry, it doesn't normally take that long.”

He was standing on the other side of the room, by her CD player and the small stack of discs by the side of it.

“It's okay. I can forgive you for that. But I'm not really sure I can forgive you for this.” He held a disc out for her to see. “I mean, Celine Dion? Will your heart
really
go on?”

She wheeled herself across to him and snatched the CD out of his hand.

“Guilty pleasure,” she said. “I'm sure you have plenty.”

“Afraid not,” he said. “Unless you count Dire Straits,” he added thoughtfully.

She pounced on that. “I do,” she said. “We're equal.”

He smiled and shook his head.

“Did you find the stray?” she said.

“No,” he said. “Not a sign…apart from that.” He pointed to the coffee table. For the first time she noticed the broken fragments of a blue and white willow-pattern plate piled forlornly in its center.

“It's beyond repair, I expect,” Beth said.

“It certainly looks like it. I can't imagine how it was knocked off the wall though. The hook it was hanging from is fairly high up.”

“I'll pay for it of course.”

“I really wouldn't worry too much about it. I'm no expert but I shouldn't think Sotheby's will be mourning its loss to the antique world. You might have to pay for this though.” He walked across to the bedroom door and pointed. She followed him and stared. Two-thirds of the way up the door was a series of deep vertical scratches.

“Your stray must have been a hell of a size to reach up and scratch this high. And strong too, judging from the depth of them.”

Beth peered closer at the scratches. “They don't look like they've been done by a cat,” she said. “They're too high, too deep, but look at how wide they are apart.” She reached out, and traced the scratches down the door with her fingernails. “A bigger animal than a cat made these. A dog perhaps, although…”

“It wasn't a dog,” James said. “At least not one that I've come across. I used to keep a Great Dane—and that's a pretty big animal—and she could never have made marks like these. I don't think dogs' claws are that sharp.”

Beth shivered. “Well, whatever the animal was, I'm glad I didn't open the door to it, and I'm relieved it's gone now. Could have been a fox?”

“I think I was lucky not to have run into it upstairs. It could have ripped my throat out.”

She looked up at him sharply. He was smiling.

“It's not funny,” she said. Then she, too, was smiling. “All right. Perhaps it was…a little. I
do
get a little intense sometimes. I have an active imagination.”

“Come on,” he said. “Let's get this picnic underway.”

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“I don't think so,” he said, puzzled.

“Food?”

“Ah,” he said.

She glanced at the fridge. “I might be able to throw something together…”

“It's in the car.”

She wasn't really listening to him. “…or we could always drive into the village and… what?”

“It's in the car. A hamper.”

“Oh,” she said. “Actually, I thought we could go in my car. It's specially adapted.”

“We don't need a car. I know the perfect spot and it's within walking distance.”

She stared at him, unsure if he was being ignorant or not. She looked down at her chair. “You may not have noticed, but walking is not exactly my strong suit.”

“It's within wheeling distance as well. I'll push. You can carry the hamper.”

Before she had time to protest or object, James came up behind her, grabbed the wheelchair's handles, and propelled her out of the house.

“I know where we're going,” Beth said.

James was pushing her along the path leading to the lake.

“Really?”

“The lake,” she said. “I came here with Miranda.”

The left hand wheel of the chair dropped into a shallow pothole in the path, and the chair lurched to the side. The wickerwork picnic hamper resting on the arms of the chair started to slide. Beth grabbed it before it could fall.

“Sorry,” James said. “Didn't see that one. Almost there, and yes, we are going to the lake. I hope you're not disappointed.”

“No,” she said. “It's fine.” A little later she said, “Did you know her?”

“Who?”

“The girl who drowned in the lake. Jessica?”

James Bartlett stopped pushing. “Yes, it was. How did you hear about it?”

“People talk,” she said.

“I wish they wouldn't.”

“Are we having the picnic here?” she asked, after they had been stopped for a while.

He seemed miles away, lost in thought.

“Well?” she prompted.

He physically shook himself. “Sorry. No. It's a few hundred yards further on.” He leaned against the wheelchair, and started forward again.

“You didn't answer my question.”

“Did I know Jessica Franklin? Yes, I knew her. She was a year below me at school.”

“And was she as bad as people make out?”

“Jessica? Bad? No. If she
was
bad it was a side of her I never saw. I thought she was rather sweet. Away with the fairies for much of the time, but not what I would call a
bad
person.”

“I heard she was unpopular. Disliked even. Did you notice people taking against her?”

He ignored the question. “It's just up here.” He wheeled her along the path and took a sharp right through a stand of elders.

They broke through the trees into a clearing roughly opposite the point she and Miranda had emerged during their walk the other day. With dappled sunlight pouring through the crowns of surrounding trees the spot looked idyllic, and just the site for a picnic. Even the lake seemed more picturesque than it had been before. The weeds here were thinner, and water could be glimpsed in the gaps, catching the sunlight and splitting the rays, making it look like tiny diamonds were dancing on the surface.

He took the hamper from her, set it on the ground and raised the lid. He took out a folded, plaid blanket, shook it open and spread it out. Then he went back to Beth and released the drop-down armrest of the wheelchair. She said nothing as he slid his arms underneath her, and lifted her from the chair, taking her across to the blanket, and softly setting her down. It was a gently intimate thing to do, but she didn't object.

Squatting next to her he started to remove other items from the hamper: two thermos flasks—“Tea and coffee. I didn't know which you would prefer.” Foil-wrapped parcels of food came next, followed by china plates, cutlery and wine glasses. With a flourish he produced a bottle of champagne sheathed in what looked like a padded, sleeveless jacket. “Ice pack.” He indicated the jacket. “I hate warm champagne.”

“Me too. You didn't answer my question.”

He looked at her blankly.

“Did you notice if she was being bullied at school, or outside for that matter?”

He sighed, and popped the champagne cork, pouring the foaming liquid into the two glasses. “Jessica had a couple of things going against her. For a start she was a newbie. It's very difficult starting a new school in your teens, trying to make friends. The second thing…well…she was very attractive. Stunning actually. So the other girls were jealous of her, and the boys were in awe of her. Nobody ever asked her out, and she gradually got a reputation for being aloof, when in actual fact she was just trying to protect herself.” He handed Beth a glass of the bubbling champagne. “Here's to you,” he said, raising his glass. “Let's hope Stillwater fires your imagination.”

They clinked glasses and Beth took a sip. “Delicious,” she purred. “Let's eat.”

With her stomach full, and two glasses of champagne playing havoc with her thoughts, she lay back on the grass and stared up at the sky. “Butterfly,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“In the sky. The clouds look like a butterfly.”

He looked up. “Ah, yes. I see it.” He leaned back on his elbow, scanned the sky and pointed. “Dragon.”

“Where?” She squinted up, shielding her eyes from the sun.

“To your left. Quickly, the sun's burning it off.”

“Got it,” she said.

The cumulus clouds rearranged themselves, melding and twisting, drifting slowly toward each other, forming a few more recognizable shapes before uniting in a large amorphous mass.

“Do you think she killed herself?”

“Who?”

“Jessica.”

“Why the interest? It was years ago.”

“It just seems odd, that's all. A healthy young girl, a strong swimmer by all accounts, drowns in a placid lake. I mean,” she said, staring out across the water. “It hardly looks hazardous does it?”

“She got herself tangled up in the weed. That's what did for her. As for suicide…she wasn't the type. Mentally she was very strong.”

“You speak of her with a lot of admiration in your voice. Were you one of the boys too awestruck to ask her out?” When he didn't answer she added, “Or were you two an item?”

Irritation flared in his eyes. “Do you mind if we change the subject? This topic was old news fifteen years ago; it's ancient history now. Sorry.”

“No,” she said. “It's me who should be apologizing. I didn't mean to pry.”

An uneasy silence settled over them.

James finally broke it. “How's the new book coming along?”

“Surprisingly easily. Mind you, it's an old idea that's been simmering away for the past few years, but it's finally found a focus. I think Stillwater might have something to do with it. It's peaceful there, the telephone hardly rings and I don't have friends popping in for coffee at the drop of a hat.”

“Just idiots inviting you out for picnics.”

“No, I didn't mean it like that. I appreciate the gesture. It's been lovely.” She touched his hand.

“Good. I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself.” He didn't pull his hand away.

“For some reason people see you working from home and, worse still, know you're a writer, and suddenly you're just there for their convenience. My mother's one of the worst; always dropping in on the flimsiest of pretexts. Sometimes, when we get a quiet moment together, she'll say, ‘Writing stories is all well and good, Elizabeth, but it's not like it's a
real
job, is it?' She compares me with my sister, Katherine, who worked in banking, conveniently forgetting that it was money earned from my books that not only bought my mother her bungalow, but also kept my sister's kids at their private school when Katherine lost her
real
job.”

“Not that you're bitter.”

“I'm not,” she protested. “Really I'm not. I just wish sometimes that people realized that writing is hard work, bloody hard work, and just as valid an occupation as approving loans and selling insurance.”

“Jessica used to write. Poetry. She had a way with words; lots of dark imagery…lots of angst as well, but then I think that's usual with teenage girls,” he said.

“So she was a troubled teen.”

“And then some.”

It was obvious that, despite his protests, he
wanted
to speak about her. Beth pressed on. “Is that what you meant when you said she was
away with the fairies
?”

“Partly that, but there was more. She started reading books about the occult. Weird stuff some of it. She got her hands on one book, and she insisted the book's cover was made from human skin.” He shuddered. “And she started going into town and hanging around with some…well, some murky types. I rarely saw her once that started. She'd often skip school, and take herself into town during the day. I don't know what she got up to but one of the girls in her year had seen her at a club, surrounded by a group of boys who were hanging on her every word and apparently she was reveling in the attention she was getting.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice, and he stared off across the lake.

“You used to come here with her, didn't you?”

James said nothing, but nodded his head slowly.

After another long and difficult silence he said, “I'm sorry. I know how it looks.”

“It looks like you're still in love with her,” Beth said.

James's gaze followed the flight of a dragonfly, flitting across the surface of the lake, a yard above the weeds.

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

“Don't be,” Beth said. “I understand the potency of first loves. Some of us never crawl out from under its spell.”

“You sound as if you're speaking from experience.”

She shook her head. “No. I've just done a lot of research on the subject. I think we should get back. I have a chapter that needs finishing.”