The Back Door of Midnight (9 page)

“That you were here for me,” Erika said. “Are you still?”

“I don’t turn my back on friends.”

“Then I’m counting on you to keep her niece busy.”

Zack was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Date her.”

“What?”

“Hang out with her. Pretend you’re interested.” She laughed lightly. “Pretend you think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Erika asked. “You told me you don’t want to get hooked up with any one girl, not with college ahead. You don’t want commitments, and all that crap. Well, let the freckled little carrot be your bodyguard. Hang out with her.”

“You’re assuming she’d want to hang out with me,” he said.

“Oh, puh-lease! There isn’t a girl on this planet who wouldn’t, and you know it! Go ahead, give her a thrill, and help me out at the same time.”

“There are better ways to get information,” Zack argued.

“There is no better way to keep tabs on Iris,” she replied. “What’s the problem? Is Anna that bad? You can’t fake it with her?”

“I can fake it with anyone.”

“Then do it, okay? Please. For me? Zack, they could nail me with the old man’s death.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Then with arson. Arson doesn’t look good to a college admission board.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

You do that,
I thought.
You see if you can fake it with the freckled little carrot.

Obviously, my feelings were hurt. I felt like a fool for letting down my guard, for looking in his eyes, for admiring his shoulders, for enjoying the way he stood close to me on the dock.
Why do girls fall for this stuff ?
I thought.

I want to go back! I want to be asleep, having normal dreams like a normal person. I want out of here!

As before, wanting it badly enough seemed to make it happen. There was a rush of darkness, that same sensation of being reeled back. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in bed, staring at the low ceiling, feeling the breeze of the old fan.

I pulled myself up on one elbow to look at my clock:
12:30 a.m. I lay back down, hoping it had been nothing more than a weird dream, but believing otherwise. Last time, the morning after, I had found Aunt Iris’s jar of ashes. What would it be this time? I was exhausted from all that was going on and should have been sleeping soundly in this dark and quiet house. Why did some part of me keep slipping out the back door of midnight?

THE NEXT MORNING
I arrived at Always Christmas at the same time as Marcy. The shop was stuffy and silent when we entered through the back door, but within twenty minutes, the AC had kicked in, potpourri was spicing the air, and carols were playing. My odd summer night seemed far away.

For the next several hours I ran the cash register, learned the basics of the shop’s computer software, checked out the cleaning supplies, and wiped down the bathroom sink. During my “free” moments, I was expected to study the merchandise, memorizing the names and styles of artists who supplied the shop.

Marcy waited on customers and introduced me by my first name to two people who were local. I was grateful to her for not mentioning that I was an O’Neill.

Late in the afternoon a craftsman who supplied her store, a man who made strange little elves—carved and painted figures that looked a lot like himself—studied me as I studied his work.

“How’s things in the neighborhood?” he asked Marcy, still eyeing me.

“Fine.”

“How’s Iris? Behaving herself?”

“I haven’t seen her recently,” Marcy replied. “The tourist season keeps me busy.”

“That was bad news, finding Will in a trunk. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I’m sure it has been very hard for her. So, have you reduced the price on these elves?”

But the man wasn’t going to be sidestepped. “You’re an O’Neill,” he said to me.

Denying it would have been an insult to my birth family. “Yes.”

“Her niece—no, great-niece.”

I nodded.

“Are you psychic?”

“No, sir. Psychotic.”

The man raised his eyebrows, then laughed. All the little elves on the countertop appeared to laugh with him.

Marcy remained focused on business, examining the figures, turning each one in her hands. “This one is flawed,” she said, setting it aside.

“So why did Iris kill William?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did she kill him?”

It was the eyes, I decided, the bulging little eyeballs and the mouth that smiled with cleverness rather than happiness that made the elves look like him.

“That’s what everyone is saying, that Iris did it,” the man went on. “Some friends of mine take their cats to Iris, and they say she’s—” He made the motion for crazy, winding his bony index finger around his ear. “They say she’s hearing voices these days.”

“It seems to me,” I replied, “that the kind of people who take their cats to a psychic should expect her to hear voices.”

“But these are different voices,” he insisted. “Wicked ones, according to her. She yells at the voices and tells them she won’t listen anymore.”

I couldn’t argue that point, having witnessed her doing it. Still, I felt protective toward her. “If hearing voices and getting confused make you a murderer, retirement homes would be dangerous places.” I turned to Marcy. “Is this a good time to finish unpacking the boxes in the back?”

She nodded. “I’ll call if I need you.”

Ten minutes later, when the artist had left, I returned to the front of the store. “I know I should apologize for being rude, especially to someone as important as a supplier. The problem is,
he
was rude, and I don’t feel very sorry.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Marcy. “I don’t know why people jump on Iris. I suppose they fear what they don’t understand.”

“I’m a little afraid of her,” I admitted, “but with Uncle Will gone, somebody has to help.”

“She’s a lot to handle. Isn’t there another family member who can share the burden? There has to be a cousin somewhere.”

I shook my head. “Neither she nor Uncle Will had children. My birth mother was their only niece, and I’m my mother’s only child.”

“Where is your adoptive mother?”

“In Massachusetts with my younger brother and sisters. I don’t want to interrupt Mom’s vacation. We didn’t take one last year, and she’ll have the kids all by herself when I go to college. She needs a break. I can handle this.”

Marcy studied me as carefully as she did the little elves, but rather than discarding me as flawed, she smiled. “I knew I hired the right girl.”

That evening I planned to check out the “burial plot” behind Uncle Will’s den and begin a careful search of his office for anything that might be helpful for me to know. Finding the makeshift grave wasn’t hard. An old shovel had been left propped against the wall, close to an area of soft, upturned earth. The sandy dirt had a black handle sticking out of it, which I pulled: a butcher knife.

A long, sharp knife wasn’t what I would have chosen to mark a place where I wanted someone to rest in peace. On the other hand, the site wasn’t far from the kitchen and a knife would slide into the earth easily. So which was it, convenience or symbolism? And was anything other than a jar of cinders buried here?

I glanced toward the window of Aunt Iris’s office. She had said she’d be working there tonight, so this probably wasn’t a good time to dig up Uncle Will. And if she heard me searching his den, the room next to hers, she’d accuse me of scheming with his ghost to get rid of her. I put back the knife. My tasks would have to wait.

Heading toward the water, I heard a jingling of metal tags. The gate between the Flemings’ house and ours had been left ajar. A dog pushed his nose through, then came bounding toward me, ears flying, tail bobbing. He looked like a beagle, a very friendly one—my knees and then my chin got a good washing.

Kneeling in the grass, I reached for his tag.
HI. I’M CLYDE,
it said, and gave a phone number.

“Hello, Clyde.”

He sniffed me all over, then gave me a kiss on the ear.

A shrill whistle split the air. “Clyde!”

I looked toward the gate. “Your master calls.”

But Clyde wasn’t all that obedient. He wagged his tail at me as if to say,
Ignore him. I want to play with you.

I heard Zack call again.

“Come on, buddy.” I walked the dog back to the gate.

Zack was sitting on the patio—or maybe, when a flagstone area is bigger than my backyard at home, has glass-topped tables, black iron chairs, lanterns, and footed urns of flowers, you are supposed to call it a “terrace.” Anyway, he was sitting there with a spiral pad open on his lap. When he saw me, he smiled. “Good dog!
Nice fetch!
”

“He wasn’t fetching.”

“Bring her here, boy. Good job!”

The dog looked from Zack to me.

“I’ve been training him,” Zack said. “Up till now he’s brought home only dead rabbits, but I guess he’s finally getting the hang of it.”

“Great.” I turned my back to leave.

Zack jumped up. “Anna! I was kidding, just kidding. I was . . . flirting. Badly, apparently.”

It wasn’t the joke or the flirting, it was last night’s dream that made me turn my back.
Get a grip, Anna,
I told myself.
You can
’
t blame someone for what he did in your dream.

Zack picked up the sketchpad and pencil that had fallen off his lap. “Stay.”

“Are you talking to me or Clyde?”

He laughed. “Clyde. And you. Would you like a soda? Or
some iced tea?” he offered. “Water with a slice of lime?” That’s what he was drinking.

“No thanks. You look busy.” One of the patio tables was covered with photos.

“Just sketching. Stick around. Clyde will be disappointed if you don’t. How’s Iris?” he asked.

“The same. How’s Erika?” I replied, testing to see if the name in my dream was correct.

“Okay. How was work today?”

“It was interesting. I like Marcy.”

“I’m glad. Do you like to stand when you talk to neighbors?”

I looked behind me, backed up to a chair, and sat. Zack laughed.

“Whatever I do seems to amuse you,” I said.

“It’s just that sometimes you’re kind of fierce, and other times you’re . . . very shy. I think that you are
actually
very shy.”

“Maybe.” I turned toward the water, but when I looked at it, all I saw was the color of Zack’s eyes. “Can I take Clyde down to the creek?”

“Sure,” he said. “Take him for a boat ride if you want.”

“I can take the boat out, just Clyde and me?”

“That’s what you’d prefer, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll have to lift him in. Otherwise, he’ll try to jump down to the boat and capsize it. Like someone else we know,” Zack added slyly. “Put on a life jacket,” he called as I headed toward the boat. “And avoid ducks.”

Clyde stood patiently on the dock as I eased into the boat. He allowed me to lift him down, then settled in the center of the boat while I cast off.

I practiced rowing and felt good about my progress. I was finally getting the hang of it. After a while I slid down to the bottom of the boat next to Clyde, resting my back against the seat, drifting along, gazing at the streaky rose and violet sky. Clyde relaxed against my side, his tail lightly thumping against my thigh.

Suddenly, I felt him tense. I felt an upward surge of muscle, and short, strong legs pushing against me. The sound he made was one I’d never heard before, but I knew immediately it could summon people in red jackets on horseback. I grabbed him. The next moment the boat tipped, and Clyde and I and some very excited ducks were splashing around in the creek.

“Clyde, no! No, Clyde! Shoo, shoo!” I said to the ducks.

They flew up from the water, quacking their opinion of the dog and me. Clyde answered, baying for them to come back and play. Finally, he gave up and doggy-paddled toward shore.

I watched him all the way into the beach, then I swam
toward the boat. I knew Zack had heard Clyde’s baying, but I kept my eyes on the rowboat, hoping that Zack would stay focused on his artwork.

Reaching the rowboat, I discovered that the little maneuver I had seen yesterday—Zack pulling himself up and over the side of the boat—required more arm strength than I had. After three tries, I considered swimming and towing the boat to the dock. But I wanted to get in the way a real boater would. I gave it one more try, propelling myself from the water, kicking till I got my body halfway over the bow, and flopping into the boat like an oversize flounder.

Hoping that Zack had not been watching, I moved onto the seat, pushed wet hair out of my eyes, and considered rowing around for a while as if nothing had happened. But I was exhausted and eager to get my feet on dry land. I rowed to the dock, where Zack was waiting with Clyde, the dog cheerfully wagging his little beagle tail.

Zack smiled but perhaps knew better than to crack a joke or act concerned. I silently looped the boat rope around the piling.

“Want a hand up?” he asked.

“Okay.”

He reached down.

“Thank you.” I stood on the dock, staring down at the boat. “There’s water in it.”

“Not much,” he said in an easygoing way. “I’ll clean up later.”

“Thanks.”

“Did you want to keep this?” he asked, and I felt his touch on my shoulder. I was wearing a slimy river weed.

“No, it doesn’t look as good on land.”

He smiled down at me, then tossed it into the water.

“When you said ‘Avoid ducks,’ I thought you meant don’t
hit
the ducks—you know, like ‘Avoid pedestrians.’”

He exploded with pent-up laughter. “Sorry. I understand. I should have been more specific,” he said. “Come on, we keep towels just inside the terrace door.” I walked beside him up the hill, accompanied by Clyde, who kept trying to lick the water off my legs.

The towel Zack handed me was big and soft. I wrapped myself in it and sat down in the same chair as before. “It’s better if I stay over here and not drip on your stuff,” I explained.