Nora and Liz (25 page)

“Yes, certainly,” Marie said—stiffly, Louise thought. “I’ll tell Charles. We will of course go over there. Thank you for letting us know.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll call again if I hear any more.”

***

By around eleven, Helen Whipple had an eager crowd clustered around her counter in the Clarkston Post Office. There was so much chatter she couldn’t get a word in edgewise, as she put it to her husband later.

“I just can’t imagine her…”

“She used to play with my Betsy every summer!”

“…became a teacher in New York, I think. Some fancy school.”

“I wonder if she was after money, somehow. I hear those private schools don’t pay much.”

“Funny way to get it, I’d say. Besides, the
Hardys
had money, I always thought. Most summer people do, anyway.”

“You never can tell about people!”

“Poison, they think.”

“Yes, in the dinner. Roast beef, I think it was.”

“No, no, dessert. Some kind of cake.”

“Must’ve been rat poison.”

“No, that makes you dry up. Probably arsenic. Or strychnine.”

“They say she’s in jail now. You know, being held for questioning anyway.”

“Must be.”

“Who,” asked Roy Stark, coming into the post office for his mail, with Zeke trotting amiably behind him, “is in jail?”

The women, for the crowd was all female, fell silent and looked as one toward Helen.

“So far it’s just talk, Mr. Stark,” Helen said, scanning the crowd severely.

“Oh, it’s more than talk,” one of the women burst in. “It’s Liz Hardy. Surely you’ve met her, Mr. Stark, that New York woman who’s been staying in her family’s cabin on
Yellowfin
Lake.”

Roy, Helen thought, looked both amused and interested.

“Good grief, yes, I’ve met her. Nice woman. What’s she done?” he asked.

Maryann Loren, who lived down the main road from the
Tillot
farm, stepped closer to Roy, her eyes bright but her voice lowered, as if sharing a confidence. “Of course a person’s innocent till proven guilty.” She glanced at Helen as if for approval. “But they say she poisoned Corinne
Tillot
last night.”

Roy looked startled and his interest seemed to escalate; it made Helen uncomfortable. “Poisoned who?” he asked, his key poised in front of his post office box.

“Corinne
Tillot
,” several of the women chorused.

Roy turned. “Not that young woman from the farm?” he asked.

“No, no,” said Maryann. “Not Nora. Corinne. Nora’s mother. We live near
Tillot
Farm,” she explained to Roy. “You know, the old place tucked away down that really bumpy dirt road off the main road?”

“Yes, yes,” Roy said. “The crazy farm, the kids call it. A big house, no electricity, lots of land.”

“Around fifty acres,” Maryann said, nodding; Roy, Helen noticed, raised his eyebrows.

“Well, we’ve known the
Tillots
for ages, of course,” Maryann continued, “quiet people who’ve always kept to themselves. The parents are ill, and the daughter, Nora, poor thing, has cared for them for years, devotedly, I might add.” She glanced around again; the others nodded. “And last night my husband and I heard sirens and we saw flashing lights passing by.”

“Maybe she’ll sell the old place,” one of the other women said, “now that Corinne’s gone.”

“She certainly should,” Maryann agreed, nodding emphatically. “It wouldn’t be healthy, staying on with such memories. And Ralph’s bound to get worse. But mark my words, he’ll never hear of it. Nora will have to hold onto the place till he dies. Then I bet she’ll get out in a hurry, poor child.”

Roy’s eyes, Helen noticed, darted from woman to woman as the conversation about the possible fate of the farm continued excitedly near the counter.

But Maryann tugged at Roy’s sleeve. “Ralph’s Corinne’s husband, Nora’s father,” she explained. “And apparently he told the police that Liz Hardy poisoned Corinne. Liz Hardy’s been seeing a lot of poor Nora all summer.”

Roy unlocked his post office box and pulled out a few envelopes. Helen couldn’t see his face when he spoke. “I’ve gotten to know Liz a little, and I can’t believe she’d do murder,” he told them all slowly. “You say she’s in custody?”

The Greek chorus of women nodded. “That’s what we heard,” one woman said.

“That’s just a rumor,” Helen said sternly. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“Well, maybe I’ll just go over to the police station and see.” Roy stuffed his mail into his jacket pocket, whistled to his dog, and strode out of the post office, leaving Helen and the other women staring after him.

“I heard he went out with that Hardy woman,” someone whispered. “Poor boy.”

“I think it must have been only once, though,” said someone else. “Clara Davis—you know, the Davises took him under their wing—Clara told me he couldn’t get anywhere with her. That she’s getting over a broken heart.”

“A broken heart will do a lot of things,” remarked Maryann, “but I don’t think it usually leads to murder. I daresay there’s more to the story than just that! I must say, I do wonder about the money angle.”

Helen Whipple had had about all the gossip she could take. “Nonsense,” she said crisply. “I’ve known Liz Hardy for years, summers, anyway, and so have some of you. This whole thing is utter nonsense.” Angrily she began stamping postmarks—the Clarkston Post Office wasn’t automated—on the outgoing mail.

***

At the police station, Roy found out nothing except the fact that Liz was not being held.

“Is she a suspect?” he asked.

The dispatcher shrugged. “I can’t say.”

“Why the hell not, man?”

“Because no one’s told me,” the dispatcher snapped. “And if they had, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. Call the chief if you like. All I can tell you is that she’s not here and wasn’t ever brought in.”

Thoughtfully, Roy left the post office and made a quick call from the phone booth on the corner. Georgia Foley wasn’t in, but he was able to leave a message with her secretary. Then, whistling to Zeke, he climbed into his car, driving straight to Liz’s cabin and then to the
Tillots
’, where he lingered about halfway down their dirt road, out of sight of the house. After a while he got out of the car and walked slowly through the woods and across the back fields.

***

Quite a while later, Liz, pale and with dark circles under her eyes, opened the
Tillots
’ front door in answer to Roy’s knock.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “you don’t look much like a murderess.”

Liz stared at him, blankly, he thought.

“May I come in?”

“Uh—no, Roy, sorry. I don’t think so. Mrs.
Tillot
…”

“Yes, I know.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m glad to see you’re not in jail. I’ve heard lots of rumors. Of course they’re ridiculous.”

“Yes,” Liz said expressionlessly. “They are. Would you please let go of me?”

“I just thought you might need a little support.”

“No. Thank you. I’m all right. Roy, please!”

He moved his hand away, letting her go. “I just wanted to offer my condolences,” he said blandly. “To you, especially. And to ask if there’s anything I can do. Or that Georgia can; I’m sure she’d want to help. You know, if things get too unpleasant.”

“Georgia?” Liz asked. “Georgia Foley? But what…”

Roy shrugged. “Just an idea,” he said. “If things get nasty.” He paused. “For instance, if you decide to leave after all, to sell, or if Nora does. I mean, it seems to me a lot has changed, for both of you.”

For a moment she stood motionless, staring at him. Then very quietly she said, “Go away, Roy. Please just go away.”

Roy nodded and without saying anything more, he turned abruptly and left.

“Who was that?” Nora asked when Liz went into the kitchen. Nora was standing in the doorway, still wearing the clothes in which she’d slept, as was Liz. It was 3 P.M.; they’d just gotten up.

“Roy Stark.” Liz reached for the coffee pot and pumped water for it.

“What on earth did he want?”

“I’m not sure. Partly to find out if I was in jail, I guess.”

“In jail!” Nora sank down into a kitchen chair. “But how…?”

“He said he’s heard rumors. So I guess people are talking. Do you want some coffee? Or tea?”

“Please.” Nora stood up stiffly. “Coffee, I think. I’ve got to see to Father. I’ve got to get their baths ready and…” She stopped, her head on one side, her eyes swimming with tears again. “No, his bath. Only one. Only one now.”

Liz put down the coffee pot and held Nora till she broke away and went to the sink, filling the bathwater kettle and putting it on the stove, which, Liz saw, was nearly cold. Trying not to think about what Roy had said, she moved Nora gently aside and blew on the coals, putting on kindling and then, when it caught, a fresh log. “Right?” she asked. “Am I doing this right?”

Nora nodded, then groaned as Ralph yelled, “NORA!” from his room.

“Coming, Father,” Nora answered. “I was just getting your bath water started. Would you like some coffee?” she asked when she got to the door of his room. How had he gotten to bed, she wondered, last night? He was still in his clothes, but she had no memory of putting him to bed. Maybe Liz had, or the doctor.

“I’m dizzy,” he complained, rubbing his head. “My stomach hurts. I’m dizzy. You’d better call the doctor.”

“He’ll be coming anyway, soon, I think.”

Ralph struggled to sit up. “How’s your mother?” he asked.

Nora felt her eyes fill again; she wiped them with the back of her hand. “Father,” she said, kneeling by his bed and taking his hands. “Don’t you remember? Mama—Mama passed away.”

“I know that!” he shouted angrily. “But she didn’t ‘pass away’! She was murdered, poisoned by that woman. I want to see her. To see my wife.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, talking very fast, his eyes wild. “We’ll keep her here,” he said. “We’ll keep my sweetheart here where we can care for her. We’ll go on just as always. You’ll bathe her and dress her and we’ll take her into the kitchen for her meals and outside to sit near the garden. And we won’t tell anyone until that woman is tried and convicted and punished, and we’ll show them my sweetheart in court and they’ll all see how well we take care of her, so they won’t make us put her in the ground, and…”

“Father, stop!” Nora shouted, shaking him. “Stop!”

Liz appeared in the doorway. “Nora? Are you all right?”

“You!” Ralph shouted, rising to his feet, swaying tipsily. “You!” He grabbed his walker and, shoving it angrily ahead of him, staggered into the kitchen, groping for the phone. “911!” he yelled into the receiver. Nora could hear the dial tone, but Ralph paid it no heed. “The police, damn you! Operator! Get me the police! There’s a murderer here, a murderer! The police, damn it, the…”

At that moment, Dr. Cantor walked into the kitchen and took the receiver from Ralph’s hand. “The door was unlocked,” he said over his shoulder to Nora. “I heard shouting so I came right in. Ralph,” he said sternly, as Nora sank down into a chair, with Liz standing beside her, “Ralph, calm down. You’ve already called the police. You don’t need to call them again.”

“Are they coming?” Ralph asked in a thin voice, like a little boy’s, Liz thought, watching again in fascinated horror. “Are they coming? They killed my sweetheart,” he moaned, still in the childish voice. “Those two.” He pointed to Nora and Liz. “Those two, they killed her, and the police have to come and take them away.”

“
Shh
, Ralph,” said Dr. Cantor, leading him back to his room. “That will do. Let the police decide. Water, please,” he said over his shoulder to Nora as they shuffled past. “I’m going to give him another sedative.”

Liz put her hand out, stopping Nora. “I’ll get it.”

Nora sat still when Liz had left with the water. She watched the pattern the early afternoon sun made on the floor. Thomas, who had fled into Nora’s room when the shouting started, emerged and jumped into Nora’s lap; Nora, trying to absorb the silence, sat stroking him. I will not go mad, she said to herself. I will not. There will be an end to this, a solution. But nothing will be the same as it was, ever. Everything will be new. And eventually, life will continue in a new way, and I have to be ready to meet it, somehow. “I will be,” she said aloud, reaching for a pad and pencil she kept on the shelf above the table for when a poem struck her, “
a
new person, whole but forged from fragments,”
she wrote, “
pieces of bone and skin and sinew, painfully ripped away and mixed anew, pasted carefully onto my old frame…”