Blackthorn Winter (26 page)

I was relieved. "Oh, so you bought it yourself—just this afternoon?"

"No." He looked at me closely. "The Girl Guides were using it last week. Why?"

"Well," I hedged. "It's just ... well, you know. And there are those stones by the sink."

"You can't be thinking my grandparents painted that warning on the beach rock."

"Well, of course not. I mean, not
really.
But, well, I'm just
wondering—
"

His frown was fierce. "You can't be thinking either of my grandparents would take one of their stones, and then paint it, and then carry it all the way across town to your cottage!"

"Look, I'm just trying to figure out—"

"You can't sit here and chat with this wonderful old couple, and eat their food and accept their hospitality, and then accuse them of
murder!
" Duncan's voice was cold.

"Well, I haven't actually accused them of anything, have I?" I said with asperity, "since you won't let me get a word out!"

"Why would they have killed Liza Pethering, anyway?"

"They hated her! They spent the whole time you were
getting the dinner ready telling me how much they despised her!"

"You're sick, Juliana."

"Oh—am I?" I untied the sash of the apron, my fingers fumbling in rage. Then I flung the apron onto a dining room chair.

"Yes, you are." He grabbed my shoulders. I felt his thumbs pressing hard.

Unhand me,
I thought dramatically, trying to believe we were still friends, still somehow just playing. But I didn't say anything, because we both knew, really, that this was no game.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. "Listen, Duncan. I can't blame you for being loyal to your grandparents. But you can't blame
me
for wanting to know what's going on. Someone left a scary message on a rock at my door. Written in red paint. And your grandparents both sat there before dinner going on and on about how Liza Pethering ruined their daughter's life. Things start to add up, Duncan, that's all."

I wrenched myself out of his grip.

He laughed, but it wasn't a happy sound. "Just remember how bad you are at algebra. Adding up numbers isn't exactly your strong suit."

I walked into the hall and grabbed my coat off the hook. "Please tell your grandparents I had to leave."

"Are you going to the police about this stupid pot of paint?" He hurried after me to the front door. "And the stones?"

"I should." I opened the door.

"Anyone can buy red paint, Juliana! Lots of people pick
up stones from the beach. They'll just laugh you out of town."

"Good night, Duncan," I mumbled. My stomach was in knots. "Thanks for the meal."

"Wait—," I heard him say, but I turned and practically ran down Castle Street.

I'm losing friends just about as fast as I make them,
I thought.
First Kate. Now Duncan.
I ran faster, needing the rush of cold air on my face, cold air in my lungs. I didn't know what I thought anymore. Nothing made sense. But every day I was finding new sources of unease.

As I neared the Old Ship, a hooded figure moved out of the old stone archway. The low-lying fog made it seem to glide down the street ahead of me—like a ghost. But when the person glanced back, almost furtively, the hood fell back and I saw it was Veronica Pimms. Before I could say anything or even lift my arm to wave, she ducked out of sight down an alleyway. I shivered, tucking my hands into my pockets.

Veronica Pimms looked guilty of something. Was it pilfering from the cash register of the Old Ship—or something far worse?

It would make everything so much easier if I could just believe, as everyone else did, that Simon Jukes was guilty as charged. If only it hadn't been for my encounter with Henry Jukes after the funeral—and his protest that his brother was innocent and the two brothers had been together the whole evening. The police discounted Henry's testimony. But I had seen something in his eyes that convinced me—another outsider looking in—that he was telling the truth. Yet if his brother Simon hadn't killed Liza—did that mean Veronica had? Or did I really suspect
the Coopers of coming into our house and knocking Liza Pethering on the head, then dragging her to drown in the Shreen, then leaving that rock on our doorstep as a warning to me to stop asking questions? Did I really think Celia Glendenning could have done those things? Or Oliver Pethering? I remembered how the Coopers talked about Liza, how much they disliked her. I remembered Celia's fury over the ugly portrait. I remembered that Oliver's photograph stood on her bedside table, and Oliver had not seemed overly upset at his wife's funeral. But were these really reasons to kill?

Was
anything
a reason to kill?

The question reminded me of Dad. He and I would often have philosophical conversations during Saturday morning bike rides in the park, asking each other questions. If there were a fire and you could save only three things you own, what would they be and why? If you had to choose between drinking a cup of urine or drinking a cup of blood, which would it be? Would you ever want to travel in a spaceship to Mars? Would you still go if it meant you could never return to Earth? Would there be any reason you would kill another person? If so, why?

These questions roiled around in my head as I ran, muddling my thoughts and making my heart pound. And suddenly I wanted my dad desperately. As I turned the corner onto Dark Lane, I stumbled on the old cobblestones and had to put out my arms to keep from falling.

What kept me from falling was a person—a man.

"Dad?" I cried out.

But of course it wasn't Dad. The man held me up and we staggered together against a lamppost. "Whoa, girl!"

"Oh—sorry!" I said, catching my breath.

"No harm done," the man said, setting me back on my feet. He was tall, like my dad, but that was the only resemblance. He was wearing a black woolen coat and a jaunty striped red and purple scarf. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail. "Oh—you're the American girl. What was your name again, duck?"

"I'm Juliana Martin-Drake," I told him. "And you're Rodney Whitsun. I remember now."

"Nice to see you again," he said with a grin. "Now, what's with all the rush through the cold, dark, foggy night? Are you on the lam? Running away from home? Or from the big bad wolf?"

"Sort of," I said, trying to laugh off my crazy flight through the streets of Blackthorn. "No, really, I'm just—um—jogging."

"You Yankees," he shook his head. "Always keeping fit! So, are you on your way home now in a desperate hurry? Or do you have time to pop in to our place for a moment? Andrew and I have just printed up some flyers about our glassblowing classes for children. If you wouldn't mind taking some, perhaps your little brother and sister might pass them around at school after the weekend, drum up some business for us."

Don't talk to strangers,
Mom's voice whispered in my memory.
Don't ever go anywhere with a stranger
...

But then came Duncan's voice, cold and rough, just as I had heard it only minutes earlier:
You're sick, Juliana.

Rodney Whitsun wasn't exactly a stranger. I had met him at Quent's party. He was a neighbor. I took a deep, calming breath.

"Oh, okay," I told him. "I can come for a minute."

He led the way to the end of Dark Lane and around the
corner onto a small, lamplit alley. The narrow passage was perhaps the width of a single car. The terraced cottages were very old and leaned toward each other from both sides of the lane. "This street—," I said. "It's right out of medieval times!"

"It is a lovely spot, isn't it?" asked Rodney. "But only for tourists, at least as far as we're concerned. It gets a bit claustrophobic in here, and there's hardly room to swing a cat. No room at all for running a business, a fact Oliver Pethering knew perfectly well when he decided to open his Emporium over on Castle Street instead!" His voice was jovial but held more than a hint of bitterness. "In fact, that's where I've just been—out to call upon our local grieving widower and feudal lord, Sir Oliver Pethering, Himself." He snorted. "Old Oliver is snatching up properties left and right, all through this village. Fancies himself some sort of superlandlord, I don't doubt. Wants to own the whole village, I daresay! Well, at least we've got our own little corner, for what it's worth. And ... here it is," he said, stopping in front of a low stone cottage in the middle of the row. "Small and humble, but it's our own. Now come right in and I'll find those flyers for you." He pushed open the front door, ducking his head. "Andrew? We've got company!" Then he looked back over his shoulder at me. "You're tall, so watch your head on these low beams and doorways. This cottage is fifteenth century—parts of it, anyway—and people were shorter back then. When we first moved in I cracked myself on the head at least five times a day."

"Didn't knock much sense into you, though," said Andrew, appearing from the back of the cottage. He smiled at me. "Oh!—hello there—Juliana, isn't it? From America?"

"That's me," I said.

They showed me around their little place. They used the back rooms for their living space, and the front two rooms for their sales gallery and studio. Some of the glass sculptures were enormous, others smaller, delicately spun of glass that looked like sugar. Many hung suspended from wires in the ceiling beams like giant, luminous kites. Shelves lining the two front rooms were overflowing with bowls and goblets and vases, all handblown, Andrew told me proudly. He made the more utilitarian objects—things people could use in their homes—while Rodney made the more fanciful things: mobiles, sculptures, fountains, jewelry. At the back of the cottage were bedrooms, a minuscule kitchen the size of a closet, and a bathroom. Those rooms, too, were crowded with displays of glass and with boxes stacked in the corners.

"We don't have enough room to put out all of our glassware," Andrew said regretfully. "We hope we'll be moving again as soon as a more centrally located property becomes available. Castle Street would be ideal. Or over by St. Michael's."

"Liza Pethering's studio would be ideal," Rodney snapped. His face reddened. "I don't see why Oliver is being so
unreasonable.
You should have seen him, Drew! He just flat-out refused!"

"I
told
you—you approached him too soon, man. He's just lost his wife ... I
told
you to wait awhile..." Andrew took Rodney's arm as if to calm him.

"He's just as grasping and greedy as she was," Rodney groused. "Two of a kind! Why he needs their big house
and
the Emporium
and
the portrait gallery, I don't know! All I can say is, he'd better watch himself—"

Andrew interrupted him hastily, thrusting a sheaf of
papers into my hands. "Here, young Juliana, these are the flyers advertising our Saturday classes for kids. Teens, too. I hope you'll join one of the two morning sessions. We'll start by making a simple vase—and move on from there. You'll love it!"

"I'll talk to my mom," I said. "I'd love to learn to make jewelry like the things you've got on display."

"Oh, absolutely," Andrew said cheerfully. "Jewelry's on the to-do list. Earrings! And perhaps your brother and sister can hand these flyers round to children at school?"

Rodney sank into an armchair in the corner of the gallery and stared broodingly out the window into the shadows of the alley. "Nobody will come to the classes," he said morosely. "They won't be able to find us back here."

"We'll be putting a big sign out in Dark Lane, Rod—you know that. With a big arrow pointing the way. Nobody will be able to miss it!" Andrew smiled at me. He headed into the studio room, motioning for me to follow. He pointed to the corner where a large freestanding signboard stood. He pulled it out from the wall with a flourish: "Look at this!"

 

GLASSBLOWING

Demonstrations and Classes for Children,
Teenagers, and Adults of all ages!

Saturday mornings, 9:00 and 11:00 a.m.
COME and CREATE!

 

I looked at the carefully hand-painted sign. Painted in red. I looked at the red arrow pointing the way. I drew a deep breath and managed to smile at Andrew.

"Eye-catching," I said. "Did you paint it yourself or have it made for you?"

"Painted it myself," said Andrew easily. "Just the work of half an hour."

"It's great," I said weakly. "It'll really pull people in." I headed for the door, carrying the flyers. "Well, I've got to get home. My mother will be wondering where I am."

They waved me on my way. I heard the door of their cottage click behind me with relief.
That's the terrible thing about an unsolved murder,
I reflected, hurrying along the narrow alley and out onto Dark Lane where welcome light from the streetlamps made hazy circles in the night gloom.
Everyone seems suspicious.

I was half laughing at my fears, but I still felt uneasy as I headed for Water Street. My footsteps sounded too loud in the quiet village. As I passed the clock tower in the center of town, I saw some dark figures leaning against the wall. I heard laughter and saw the glow of a cigarette. "Hey, Juliana," someone called, and one of the figures detached itself from the wall and became Brian. "Want to join us?" Alina's giggle coming out of the darkness sounded slightly demented, but I made myself answer pleasantly.

"No thanks," I said, waving in their general direction. "Not tonight. I've got to get home." And I hurried on. I could hear wind through the blackthorn branches and the crash of waves from the beach. All the way home I was looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows.

It didn't help that Henry Jukes was passing outside our door just as I arrived at the wall. He was hunkered down against the wind and didn't look at me as he passed. But what was he doing near the Old Mill House?

Mom had taped a note on our cottage door saying that
she and Ivy and Edmund were with Quent, and that I should come over as soon as I returned home. So I walked back along the path to the Old Mill House and knocked. Quent let me inside, his smile warm and welcoming. "There you are! Isn't Duncan with you?"