In a Dark Season (22 page)

Chapter 26

It’s All Connected

Sunday, December 24

W
hat time is it?” Elizabeth yawned enormously as they walked hand in hand down the path toward the jeep, following the bobbing beam of Phillip’s flashlight. Lights twinkled like fireflies in the field below them as other departing guests headed for their cars.

“Twelve twenty-three.” The words were punctuated with a yawn even larger than hers. “Your friends are a hardy lot.” Phillip looked back to the big house. It seemed to hover above them, emanating light and music, a giant ship, manned by extremely friendly aliens. “We aren’t first to leave, but not the last by a long shot.”

“It could go on another hour or so, but I’m done in.” Elizabeth stopped and pulled him to her. “Are you glad we went? That stuff Maxie and Thelma were telling us—wouldn’t you say it could be connected—”

He kissed her lingeringly and held her to him. “Lizabeth, I enjoyed the party a lot more than I thought I would. I like your friends and I hope they’re going to be my friends. But those two women—that story—well, it’s given me a lot to think about.”

“It was sometime in October—the last party of the season,” Thelma had said. “Guides from all the companies always had a big bonfire and a combined picnic, campout, cookout, all-day, all-night, hoop-de-do down in the field by the bridge. There’d be a lot of drinking and a fair amount of weed but it was always a good vibe; me and Max had never had any trouble in the years before. Oh, there’d always be some guy who was sure that if she’d ‘give him a chance,’ he could turn her into a ‘real’ woman, but it was more of a standing joke than anything ugly.

“But this time Max was talking about, the party got crashed by a bunch of jerks who’d been up at the old house, drinking at Revis’s so-called private club. At first they seemed okay; they’d brought some bottles of tequila and were passing them around and everything was cool. Then this one guy starts putting the moves on Maxie. I had a pretty good buzz going and I was just sitting on this log, watching the whole thing. I knew my girl back then, just like I know her now, and I was sure she wouldn’t be crawling in anybody’s sleeping bag but mine. So it was just kind of humorous to see this guy try and impress her. I was watching the whole thing like it was some fucking sitcom.”

Thelma had taken a swig of her beer and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Anyhow, I’d gone off behind a bush to take a fast pee and just then this prick tells Max oh dear, he hadn’t realized how late it was. He’s got to leave because his mama’s not well and he promised to get home before whatever time it was. Sweet Baby here was such an innocent back then that when he told her he forgot to bring a flashlight and would she help him find the way to his car, she fell for it.”

Maxie had blushed and looked away as her partner continued the story. “Luckily I came back to the fire just in time to see them heading off into the dark, so, not being as trusting as Max, I followed after them. It didn’t take long; once they were away from where the party was going on, the bastard grabbed her and put one hand over her mouth. When I caught up, he was pulling her toward one of those abandoned cars that used to be down there. I always carried a little Beretta back then—a dyke had to be careful in some company—and I pointed it straight at his crotch and told him what was going to happen if he didn’t let Maxie go.”

Thelma had laughed richly and reached out to ruffle her partner’s hair. “I should have shot the sorry fucker’s dick off, but there would have been too many complications. The minute he let go of Maxie and slunk off into the dark, we got our shit together and headed for home. That little experience was another reason we dropped out of the whole rafting scene for good.”

“Maybe you should have shot him, Thelma.” Maxie’s quiet voice had been grim and her expression steely. “When we heard about them finding that body in the silo—was it just last week? I remembered that night and I wondered if it could have been Bam-Bam. Remember, we never did find out where she went.”

Elizabeth and Phillip had fallen asleep while discussing the implications of the missing girl; the story was still in Elizabeth’s mind when she awoke in the chilly light of Christmas Eve morning. James had wedged himself tightly between her and Phillip, and Molly too had sought the additional warmth of the bed, preventing Elizabeth from stretching out her legs.

“Phillip,” she whispered, “are you awake?”

There was no answer. His back was uncommunicative, a blank comforter-covered wall.

“Phillip?” she persisted.

“Uhmm?”

“Are you going to call Mackenzie first thing and tell him about what happened to Maxie? And about this Bam-Bam person?”

“Uhm-hum.” He tugged the covers higher, dislodging James from his nest and disturbing Molly who stood and, with a reproachful look to Elizabeth, circled twice before curling up once again at the foot of the bed.

“Thelma said that Bam-Bam was a guide with River Runners. I know those folks; I’ll call Debbie and see if they have any record of her. With a name like Bam-Bam, they should remember her.”

“Uhmm.”

“I know it’s probably nothing—Thelma and Maxie said that guides came and went all the time. But it all goes back to that October of ’95. Isn’t it possible that the bones you found in the silo are this girl? And what if the guy who grabbed Maxie was part of the rape? They said ‘a bunch of guys who’d been drinking up at the stand.’”

“Uhm-hum.”

“And what the
hell
should I do about those pills Nola’s not taking? If it’s the nursing home overmedicating her, there’s no sense talking to anyone there. And I don’t trust Tracy, who is, I suppose, Nola’s guardian at this point.”

There was a long exhalation of breath and Phillip rolled over to face her. His eyes were shut but the suspicion of a smile played about his lips as he reached for her.

“Come here, Sherlock.”

“Okay, I understand that Christmas Eve is probably not the best time to start bugging Mackenzie about all these things that happened over ten years ago. But I just did a little Google research on those pills Nola’s been spitting out.”

Phillip looked up from his book as Elizabeth emerged from the office clutching a printed page. “Listen to this, Phillip. Side effects from Ambien can include hallucinations, delusions, altered thought patterns, poor motor coordination…there’s more, but some of this could certainly apply to Nola.”

She thrust the printout at him and waited for his response. Outside, a light snow was drifting down, fat feathery flakes giving silent promise of a white Christmas.

They were alone in the greenery-bedecked house, but for the dogs. Laurel and Rosemary had gone down to help Ben and Amanda with the ongoing care of the greenhouses, full of tender seedlings and cuttings that required watering.

“And then we’re going in to Ransom,” her daughter had told them. “A friend of Ben’s is having a kind of open house we’re all invited to. I know, Mum”—Rosemary had held up a forestalling hand—“yes, it’s snowing. But I looked at the weather on the Internet and it’s just light flurries till after midnight. We’ll be fine. And Amanda doesn’t drink at all, so she’ll be the designated driver. If you want, we’ll take the jeep so we’ll have four-wheel drive.”

He had watched the play of conflicting emotions on Elizabeth’s face. It was clear that she didn’t want the kids driving in snow—even a light sprinkling was enough for her to postpone all but the most urgently necessary travel. What was it she called herself—a Weather Wimp?

It had also been clear that she wasn’t going to protest.
She’ll just stay on edge till they’re all back safely. Add that to Nola’s pills and what her friends told her about the missing Bam-Bam—sweet Jesus, what a name—and she’s going to be bouncing off the walls the rest of the day.

Phillip took the page that was waving under his nose and glanced at it. “You’re right, Lizabeth, some of it
could
apply to Nola. But isn’t it also possible that Nola’s behavior is the result of her fall? Or whatever it was that caused her to jump in the first place?”

The set of her jaw told him that she wasn’t convinced. For the sake of peace, he hastened to say, “But I’ll get hold of Mackenzie about this on the twenty-sixth—we’ll have a better shot at getting his attention then; same with the other stuff.”

Her tightened lips relaxed and he was relieved to see a lopsided smile appear. “Sorry, Phillip, I’ll let go till Christmas is over. You’re right; it can’t hurt to wait a day or two. Besides, I need to go do some cooking for tomorrow. And polish Gramma’s silver.”

She pulled the printout from his fingers, folding it as she made her way back to the little office. “I’ll just make a quick call to Debbie at River Runners first and ask about Bam-Bam.”

Phillip shook his head and returned to his book.
She’s hopeless. I guess I just have to wait till she runs down.

In a few moments, Elizabeth was back. “I called their house. All I got was the answering machine playing ‘God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen’ at me.”

Phillip closed his book. “Miz Goodweather, I take that as God’s way of telling you to relax.” He stood, causing an instant eager response from the dogs, who crowded around the door to the mudroom, anticipating his next words.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk. I’ll polish Gramma’s silver for you when we get back.”

Chapter 27

God Rest Ye Merry

Monday, December 25

I
don’t get it—it says, ‘to Phillip from Fifi and a guy who digs chicks who dig chicks.’ What the…Who’s Fifi, anyway?”

He looked around at the others gathered there on the sofas before the blazing fire. Laurel was standing by the huge Christmas tree, fulfilling her traditional role of distributor of presents; Elizabeth was on the love seat beside him, reading glasses pushed up on her head and pen and paper at hand to record gifts from out of town so that thank-you notes could be written. Rosemary, Ben, and Amanda occupied the larger sofa, but none of them had been given a present yet—only him.

They were all watching him expectantly as he examined the brightly wrapped rectangular package that was obviously a book. No answers were forthcoming, however, so Phillip shrugged and began to remove the red yarn bow.

“Not yet!” Laurel’s urgent cry stopped him and he looked at Elizabeth for guidance.
What now?

The Goodweather Christmas was in full ritual progress. The household had awakened with the sunrise and hurried into jeans and sweaters or flannel shirts. Laurel had been dispatched to feed the chickens with the eager accompaniment of Molly and Ursa, while Rosemary saw to the filling of the various bird feeders near the house. Phillip had raked the still-warm ashes from the fireplace, brought in wood, and built a new fire while Elizabeth set the table.

“Merry Christmas!” Ben’s voice had rung out as he and Amanda came through the door. Ben carried a basket, heaped high with some last-minute additions to the pile of presents under the big tree.

“Merry Christmas!” Amanda had echoed, setting the large glass bowl of ambrosia she had brought on the dining table, and “Merry Christmas!” Elizabeth had called from the kitchen, the sound of her voice wafting, it seemed, on the mouth-watering aroma of the cheese strata she had just taken from the oven.

At least breakfast was straightforward enough,
Phillip mused.
No weirdness there.

“We’ve always tended to chores and eaten breakfast before opening presents,” Elizabeth had explained. “When the girls were little, we’d get up around five-thirty or six, and first thing of all, they’d have their stockings and the unwrapped presents that Santa left. But we like to take our time with opening the presents from each other.”

Evidently,
he thought, looking at them all as they watched him studying the still-unopened package Laurel had handed him. All the other gifts remained beneath the tree and no one moved to claim them.

“Phillip, I’m sorry—I forgot you wouldn’t know about our little game.” Elizabeth motioned to her daughter. “Laur, give me one of mine. Then Phillip can see what we’re up to.”

As Laurel rooted around in search of the appropriate gift, Elizabeth asked, “Did Ben tell you about this thing we do, Amanda?”

“Oh, yes, he even got me to help with some of the tags for his gifts to you all.” Amanda curled her long legs gracefully under her. “I think it’s a wonderful idea—at home my—” She brought her hand to her mouth and coughed. “Excuse me, I guess it’s the dry air. Anyway, my parents always let me just rip into presents so fast I didn’t have time to really appreciate what I was getting. This sounds like a fun way to slow things down.”

“Laur, get Mum the squishy one in the paper with the holly on it. It’s an easy clue.” Rosemary pointed at a lumpy package.

Laurel picked it up and put it in her mother’s lap. Elizabeth squinted at the homemade gift tag, then adjusted her reading glasses and read aloud: “‘To Mum from the man nicknamed for the old cut on his cheek, the man who lost the high card.’” Phillip looked around. Every last one of them was grinning, except Elizabeth, whose face was serious. She appeared to be working out a problem of some kind.
Weird.

“‘Old cut on his cheek’”…Elizabeth spoke slowly, as if thinking aloud. “‘Cheek’ as in ‘face,’ Rosie? Or…”

“Face, definitely face.” Rosemary’s own face was full of delighted anticipation. “And an old cut would become a…?”

“Scab?” Elizabeth hazarded.

“Close…later it would be a…”

“A scar? Oh, I’ve
got
it!” Elizabeth’s face lit up with sudden glee. “Scarface! Right?”

Rosemary nodded. “Now, if Scarface loses the high card…”

“And aces are high! So Scarface minus the ace is
scarf!”
She untied the ribbon and carefully set it aside, then tore open the flimsy paper.

“Oh, Rosie, one of your gorgeous hand-knit scarves! And the beautiful yarns, so many shades of red! Thank you, sweetie. And what a terrific puzzle!”

Elizabeth draped the long scarf around her neck and turned to him. “Do you see how it works? The tag is a clue to help you guess what’s inside.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure this is a book. But I don’t see where Fifi or this other stuff—”

“But the game is to guess the title or the subject or the author of the book. Or all three.”

He looked at her and saw a plea in her bright blue eyes.
Please, be part of this. Part of us.

Running a hand over his head, he grinned. “Jeez, a fella has to be a detective to open presents with you guys. But I think I get it. You all do a few more before I try mine, okay?”

Amanda’s package appeared to be another book.
These are some reading folks—I’d say at least half the packages under the tree are probably books.

“‘Almost a fact and more than a smile.’” The smooth beautiful brow creased minutely in the least hint of a frown. “‘Weed out the capsicums and find a female’s spheroid toy.’ Wow, this is tough.”

She looked toward the love seat. “It’s your writing, Elizabeth, isn’t it? Any hints?”

“You’re looking for three words—start at the end: ‘a female’s spheroid toy.’”

“A ball?” Amanda’s voice was tentative.

“Whose ball?” Elizabeth insisted.

“Hers…the female’s…her ball. Her ball…is that it? An herbal? I’ve been wanting one so I can look stuff up.”

“But
whose
herbal?” The glee in Elizabeth’s face was infectious.

Amanda grinned back at her. “One of the most famous, of course. Culpeper’s. Brilliant! ‘Weed out the capsicums’—cull the peppers.” Her elegant fingers began to remove the wrapping and then stopped. “But what’s the other part: ‘Almost a fact and more than a smile?’”

“I’m pretty proud of that.” Elizabeth lowered her eyes in assumed modesty. “It tells what
kind
of copy of Culpeper’s Herbal it is.”

There were blank looks all round and then Rosemary’s quiet voice said, “It’s a facsimile copy
—‘almost a fact’—
F-A-C—and
‘more than a smile’—
S-M-I-L-E with an extra
i.”

She nodded at her mother. “Good one, Mum.”

And so it had gone till the last clue had been unraveled, explained, applauded.
It’s really the game that’s the big deal, more than the presents. The game and the time they take to appreciate each other’s puzzles. I like that.

And he had acquitted himself well, with the cheerful help of broad hints.
Damn, they’ve got me doing it.
The gift from Fifi had resolved itself into a copy of
The French Broad,
by Wilma Dykeman. It was from Ben and Amanda, and Ben had talked him through the clue, beaming with pride at his own cleverness. After that, Phillip had managed to puzzle out the other tags attached to the modest pile of gifts that had come to him.

It had been a pleasant day.
A terrific day.
He had dreaded being asked to carve the turkey, not wanting to seem to take what had been Sam’s place. But there hadn’t been a turkey. Instead there was a trio of roasted ducks, burnished golden brown, which Elizabeth had skillfully and quickly sliced and disjointed. A pan of dressing: an exotic mixture of bread cubes, herbs, onions, and celery, dotted with andouille sausage, pistachio nuts, and kumquat slices; thin bright green beans; and a lettuce-and-citrus salad garnished with jewel-like pomegranate seeds accompanied the ducks. Champagne with the meal, then coffee and a creamy white dessert that Elizabeth had said was “Gramma’s Charlotte Russe.”

“I don’t think I’ll need to eat for a week,” he groaned, dropping onto the sofa and falling back against the cushions.

Elizabeth looked up from the three open books which she seemed to be trying to read all at once. “You survived it—the full family folderol.”

“It was great, Lizabeth, the way Christmas should be.” His eyes were closing of their own accord. “Family…”

Elizabeth jerked awake and the book that had been on her lap fell to the floor as the telephone’s shrill ring ripped through her contented, semicomatose, post-Christmas-dinner doze.
Turkeys have tryptophan that makes you sleepy; I wonder about ducks. Quite a few glasses of champagne and some port probably contributed.

She pulled herself up and hurried to the phone. Phillip, stretched full length on the sofa, slept on. The house was very quiet, Ben and the three girls having set off to enjoy the sunset from the top of Pinnacle. Ursa and Molly had followed them out the door, but James had only shivered and settled deeper into the cushions on the love seat.

Snatching up the phone, she greeted the unknown caller with all the cheerfulness she could muster in her befuddled state. “Merry Christmas!”

“And tra la la to you, Lizzy.” Gloria’s voice was cold and there was a suspicious slurring to her words. “I’d been hoping my only child might call on Christmas Day but as he couldn’t find the time—”

“No fair, Glory. Ben tried twice this morning to get you and there was no answer.”

“Oh. Well, Jerry and I were at the club for brunch—they do a magnificent buffet—and we just got back. Jerry and I have reconciled, thank you for asking. Oh, and thank you for the wreath
—very
charming. So clever of you. I hope the blouse I sent is something you’ll wear. Your wardrobe is so
drab—
a little glitter now and then will perk you up.”

“Thank you so much, Glory! I love the color. Coral is one of my favorites.”
And if I can pick off the bloody sequined flamingo, I might actually wear the thing.

“Wonderful. Now let me speak to Ben; Jerry and I are on our way to a party and he fusses if I leave my cell on.”

“Good for Jerry. But Ben and Amanda and the girls have gone up the mountain. There was a lovely fluffy snow yesterday and they were hoping to get some pictures of the sunset from the top—”

“God! Hiking! How
dreary
of them. Well, give them all my love….”

A thought struck Elizabeth. “Glory, wait a second! I was wondering, do you happen to know anyone named Greer who lives in Tampa? I know it’s a big place and all, but—”

“In a minute, Jerry!” Gloria was evidently speaking to her husband in the next room. “For heavens sake, this is my only sister and it’s Christmas! In just a goddamn
minute!”

Wonder how long this reconciliation will last?
Elizabeth waited.

“Greer? Hmmm. It
sounds
familiar but I can’t quite place it. Charlie Greer? No, that was Charlie Weir. Oh, of course! Greer was the name—Hang on, Lizzy. I have a call on the other line.”

You have a call on
this
bloody line,
fumed Elizabeth, but rather than hanging up, as she usually did when Gloria put her on hold, she gritted her teeth and practiced patience. At last Gloria returned.

“I swear, that woman can’t dress for a party without having to find out what all her friends are wearing. If—”

“Greer, Glory. Do you know someone named Greer?”

“Well, Lizzy, I was trying to tell you. Spencer Greer was the name of the man Amanda’s mother, Ronnie Lucas, used to be married to. It was such a tragic
—All right, Jerry! Here I come!
Sorry, Lizzy, Jerry’s about to stroke out. We’ll talk later.”