Blackthorn Winter (21 page)

I had a few things I'd like to quiz her about, too. Like her relationship with Oliver Pethering, for one.

But she was going on about the Springtime Art show coming up: Did my mum realize that it was also a competition? And Celia herself would be one of the judges—along with several other art collectors and critics from London. "First, second, and third places receive money," she added. "Not a lot, but still an honor. First prize gets to hang in the Tate Gallery for a month! Your mum should be sure to submit her finest pieces," she was telling me. "All the best artists in town will be entering, and there are many different categories—"

"Even photography," murmured Kate.

Her mother snorted. "Let's not get into that discussion again, Kate. But speaking of photography, how about if you take a nice picture of your new friend? Let's have a lovely little photo of Juliana to remember this evening by."

"You're forgetting something, Mother." Kate's voice was cold.

"What is that, dear?"

"My camera is broken."

"Oh, yes—I'd forgotten that it fell. But, you know that was your own fault—"

"I don't know anything of the kind!" Kate's voice was a low muttering. I listened with interest, looking back and forth between Kate and her mother as if I were watching a tennis match.

"You don't look after your things properly. What can you expect? Still, you can get it repaired. But that is, in fact, part of my point, dear. A camera is just a copying machine.
Real
art comes from the artist—through manipulation of a medium like paint or clay. Cameras don't make art."

"If the London critics say there should be a photography category, I don't see how you can still say photography isn't art!" Kate protested, red-cheeked.

"The critics are just pandering to popular sentiment." Celia shook her head disdainfully. I saw Kate's mouth open. I hoped she would say something, something angry, something to defend her own interest in photography. But she just sighed and sat back, defeated.

"Well," I said boldly to Celia, "you must like
some
photos because I noticed the one of you and Oliver Pethering up in your room."

Celia Glendenning shot me a withering glance—as if I'd been caught prying up in her room rather than having been given a tour. "One can like a photo of one's friend, of course," she said coolly. "Especially a photo taken by one's daughter. But that doesn't make it
art.
"

One's friend,
I was echoing in my thoughts—and skeptically. Had Liza Pethering known that this woman kept a photo of
her
husband by her bed? What if Liza had somehow found out about the photo that night at the party?
Would she have tried to attack Celia? Would Celia have tried to defend herself—with the beach rock? But what would they have been doing upstairs in our cottage?

How much would Liza Pethering have cared that Celia Glendenning had a picture of Oliver, anyway?

I noticed Kate watching me with narrowed eyes, almost as if she could tell what I was thinking. A blush started up my neck and into my face.

Time to change the subject.

"We went to the police station this afternoon," I announced. "Kate and Duncan and I."

"Really?" Celia raised her well-plucked eyebrows roguishly. "Caught in the act, eh?"

"Mother!" Kate sounded embarrassed. "
What
act?"

"Peering in windows?" Celia asked. "Pilfering from the shops?" She laughed gaily. "All right, tell me, then. What did the police want with you?"

"They wanted the beach rock I found in the Shreen," I said evenly, watching her closely. Was she teasing us to divert us from her own guilt? "They said it was evidence."

But Celia just looked intrigued. "Evidence?"

She sounded so innocent, but she'd had time to get her act together, I told myself. The innocent tone could all be good acting. Maybe Celia was part of the Blackthorn Drama Society.

"They think it might be the stone used to knock out Liza Pethering," Kate clarified. "Before she was left in the stream to drown."

"It was stolen from our house," I added. "Probably by the murderer."

"Well, let us hope there are some nice clear prints belonging to Simon Jukes," Celia said. "That'll make convicting him easy." She shook her head. "Your poor mother! It must be hard for her to work now in that room. Perhaps I should offer her a space here..." She glanced around at the crammed rooms.

"Maybe Oliver would let her use Liza's gallery," I suggested, just to see what her reaction would be.

"Oh no, that would remind your mum all the more of her dear, departed friend!" Celia shook her head emphatically. "That would never do. I think probably Quent Carrington will offer her a place to paint over at his house. I daresay that would be better, wouldn't it? Closer to home for your mum." She winked at me. "And there's always the chance that Quent might find it highly diverting to have a lovely American artist under his roof. He's all too focused on the London art scene these days, and it wouldn't hurt to have him sticking around Blackthorn a bit more! At least it would make things
interesting.
"

The last thing I needed was for Celia Glendenning to start playing matchmaker for my mom. However
interesting
she would find it. "Well, I'd better be getting home," I said, not commenting on her remarks about my mom and Quent. "My mom and my brother and sister are probably back from their dinner now. Thank you for the meal."

"They're not
really
your brother and sister, are they?" Celia asked brightly. "Even though you all look so remarkably alike."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Mother!" hissed Kate.

"Well, you heard from Duncan that Juliana was adopted," Celia declared, "and I think that's very interesting! That's all!" She looked back at me with a big smile. "So all I'm saying is that presumably your sister and brother
aren't biologically related—not that it matters, of course," she added hastily, seeing my astonishment. "It's just that you look so much alike, all with that fair hair, I never would have guessed."

"Edmund and I were both adopted," I said evenly. "But I totally consider him and Ivy both to be my
real
siblings—and legally that's just what they are."

"Of course, of course," Celia said hurriedly. "I didn't mean that they weren't, truly. Not at all! I was just thinking about how much you three look alike. How
fascinating
that you're adopted! Where did your real parents come from, do you know? Do you know anything about your background?"

Her voice rang stridently, and I found myself leaning back in my chair as if to get away. Why did she care? Why would I tell her, even if I
did
know my history? The dark clouds obscuring my memory seemed to press closer, as if a storm were gathering.

I had felt strong and in control when I quizzed Celia Glendenning about Oliver Pethering, but now I felt on the defensive. Celia's piercing gaze didn't waver as I muttered my response to her question. "I consider the parents who are raising me to be my
real
parents—I mean, they certainly aren't
fake
parents, are they? And I don't know anything about my background. A lot of adopted people don't."

"Of course they don't," Celia said breezily. "And of course babies couldn't remember anyway! And of course your parents aren't fake—I never meant to imply they were. Well, not to worry! I think it's all just delightful!"

"I'll walk you home, Juliana," Kate said hurriedly, and jumped up to clear our plates.

"It's okay—," I said, but she cut me off.

"I'll walk you."

So we walked through the dark village streets back to Water Street. The night air was brisk and cold, and blew away the usual heavy smell of woodsmoke. The fresh scent of the sea tickled my nose. I was getting used to it; the dizziness came less frequently these days. I was glad for the wind tonight after the stuffy air in the Glendennings' house. Kate strode along at my side, not speaking until we were nearly at the red door in the wall.

"I'm sorry if I wasn't supposed to tell anyone you're adopted—"

"It's not a secret at all!" I replied hotly. "It's just that I don't know much about it. I don't really remember anything ... I was pretty young, you know."

"That's what Duncan said..."

I hated the thought of Duncan and Kate discussing me when I wasn't with them. "I just don't see why your mom is so interested," I said. "Unless bringing it up was just a way to get off the subject of Oliver Pethering!"

"You think my mum had something to do with it," she said flatly.

"Something to do with what?" I hedged.

"I could see it in your eyes, earlier—when you were talking about that photo of Oliver. You were thinking that photo proves something. Well, it
doesn't.
I gave my mum that photo because it was the very first one I developed myself. I'd taken a lot of shots of people all around town, but that one of Oliver turned out best. I framed it because I wanted to show her how a photographed portrait can be every bit as good as a painted one. So you needn't go on thinking that it means anything else at all!"

"Okay, okay," I said soothingly. "I'm
not
thinking anything! It's just ...
interesting,
that's all. And your mother
likes things to be
interesting,
doesn't she?" I was still stung by Celia's blunt remarks.

Kate grabbed my arm and made me stop walking. "Are you trying to say you think my mum killed Liza Pethering because she's in love with Oliver?" cried Kate. "Is that what you're thinking? Well, you're dead wrong. So just keep out of it and don't think you're going to come around our house again, pretending to be so friendly but really just wanting to snoop around in people's bedrooms!"

"Hey—that isn't fair! I didn't snoop—your mom showed me her bedroom of her own free will. And the photo is just
there,
where anybody can see it."

Kate and I reached the red door in the stone wall and stopped. "Right—out in the open, not hiding. She doesn't have anything to hide!" She faced me squarely. "Just listen to me, Juliana," she said in a hard voice with an edge of desperation. "My mum didn't have anything to do with
anything.
I'm completely and absolutely certain of that, and that's
final,
so just stop snooping around and playing detective."

"Fine," I opened the door and stepped through into the Old Mill House garden. "No problem. Good night!" I closed the door and leaned against it. By the desperation in her voice, I knew Kate wasn't really absolutely certain of anything at all.

 

B
ACK AT THE
cottage, Mom was home from the restaurant, drooping on the sitting room couch, her hands cupping a mug of tea. Dinner with Quent had been very nice, she told me tiredly, but the restaurant had been rather fancy for Edmund and Ivy, and Quent seemed rather annoyed that they ate quickly and wanted to leave instead of sitting and savoring the many elegant courses. He'd wanted Mom to come over to his place afterward, but she told him she had to get the kids into bed first. And now she had a headache. Even the few steps across the garden to the big house seemed too far to go, she was that tired. She asked me if I would please go straight in to supervise the Goops, who were supposed to be getting into the tub, one by one—as if baths would make them any less goopy. I headed for the kitchen, glad that Mom hadn't been especially eager to cozy up with Quent. Mom stayed in the sitting room. I heard the TV (the
telly,
they called it here) come on. Canned laughter.

I phoned the Mill House, wanting to talk to Duncan about what had happened with Kate and her mother. Quent answered and said Duncan wasn't back yet from his grandparents, but would be soon, and he urged me and Mom to come over for a nightcap. I figured he meant a drink. I told him Mom was looking pretty tired and had a headache, but I'd give her the message. Then I said goodbye and rolled up my sleeves to deal with the Goops.

Edmund was sitting at the kitchen table, eating potato chips (
crisps,
the package said they were called), waiting his turn for the tub and complaining because they'd flipped a coin to see who went in the bath first, and he'd lost. "And now the water is going to be all disgusting and soapy from Ivy," he muttered to me resentfully. "And probably cold. I don't see why English people can't take separate baths, like we do at home."

"It's not exactly about English people, Goop," I tried to reason with him. "It's about old houses with small water heaters, that's all. And so we suffer." I ruffled his yellow hair, then tapped politely on the bathroom door. "Come on, Miss Mermaid. Time's up."

At last Ivy emerged from the bathroom, yelling for Mom to untangle her hair and to find her nightgown. Mom called for me to see that Edmund took his turn in the tub, and would I also please comb out Ivy's hair and go upstairs and find the nightgown, because now she had a
splitting
headache and she'd made the tea too weak and was going to have to start over with a fresh pot.

The little cottage reverberated with agitation, and Mom wasn't the only one who had a headache. My own head was starting to pound. After my afternoon with the police and my evening with the Glendennings, I needed peace and quiet and a good book to read in bed. I didn't want to sit and drink tea with Mom, and not with Quent, either. Not even with Duncan, really.

Dad,
I thought.

I needed my dad. Somehow he'd always had a way of making me feel snug and safe.

Safe?
But I was safe here, wasn't I?

Liza Pethering hadn't been. The thought stabbed through my head as I called to Mom that I'd take care of everything. I pushed thoughts of Liza away, and I shepherded my sister up the stairs, glad to see that the sunroom door at the end of the hall was closed.

Mom seemed totally frazzled. Being a single mother wasn't agreeing with her, obviously.
Good,
I thought unfeelingly as I combed the snarls out of Ivy's hair. Maybe she'd see now that life with Dad wasn't so terrible after all.