The Winslow Incident (21 page)

“Do you think the guests will want
pancakes?” Honey flung open the refrigerator door. “I suppose I could make
waffles.”

“The guests are all gone,” Hazel
said. “Remember?”

Honey dropped a carton of eggs to
the tile floor. “Well fine! If they don’t want waffles, I’ll give them grilled
cheese.”

Ignoring Honey, Sarah rose from
the table and told Hazel, “Let’s go into the other room.”

“Grilled
ham
and cheese,”
Honey decided. “That’s always good.”

“Honey,” Hazel said, following her
grandmother through the kitchen. “Nobody’s going to eat. Anything.” Hazel
pushed through the swinging door and entered the dining room behind Sarah, who then
lowered herself onto a chair at the head of the table.

Hazel felt like standing. After
she and Patience had raced down the servants’ staircase to find out who was
screaming in this room, they’d been whisked outside. But not before they saw
the knife, and the blood that followed. That had been enough—and Hazel had
never wanted to hear any of the other grisly details. Until now. Patience’s
escalating obsession now made Hazel want to know everything, made her want to
know why this incident still felt so raw. “Patience thinks it’s her fault her
grandmother died in here. Hers and mine.”

“I know.” Sarah looked pained, as
if she didn’t want to talk or even think about it.

“And I’ve never understood why Ben
Mathers thinks it’s your fault.”

Sarah folded her hands, looking
unhappily resigned. “You had to be here.”

“I
was
here.”

“Only for part of it.”

Before Hazel could change her
mind, she said, “Tell me the rest.”

Sarah sighed again, in a way that
sounded sad. “Of course your grandfather was still with us then. Randall had
just begun to carve the prime rib I had prepared, rare to perfection. For
achieving that, he smiled at me in appreciation.”

Hazel glanced around the dining
room, imagining her august grandfather Randall Winslow still alive and playing
host to Winslow’s finest.

Sarah continued, “We heard you and
Patience scuttling up the servants’ staircase, and I looked at Lottie across
the table, asked her what she supposed our little witches were brewing up this
time. She laughed and agreed that you two had been whispering a lot about
witchcraft. Then she’d cocked her head at your grandfather, saying, ‘Who may we
thank for this latest obsession?’ I laughed too, telling her that for once it
wasn’t his fault. That you, dear Hazel, always so inquisitive, had discovered a
book about the Salem Witch Trials all on your own.”

Ruefully, Hazel remembered doing
just that, and then immediately corrupting Patience with it.

Sarah seemed to be growing more
distant, reliving that night. “Lottie had rolled her eyes, saying, ‘Heaven help
us—we’ll all be deemed guilty of witchcraft.’ Then she raised her face
and cupped her mouth, shouting to you two on the upper floor: ‘Don’t tempt
fate, girls!’ ”

Hazel winced, stung by Lottie’s
prescient reproach.

“And your grandfather’s eyes were
playful when he said, ‘Truth be told, Lottie, all are guilty, but some are
guiltier than others.’ Just then Ben Mathers rejoined us from the kitchen,
juggling a tray of drinks: vodka tonics for Jules and Meg Foster, and Scotch
for Randall and himself. Lottie and I would stick with cabernet; were already,
as I recall, well into our second bottle. Coming up behind Lottie, Ben had a
puzzled look on his face. ‘Guilty of what?’ he asked. And Lottie shot out of
her seat—as if seriously startled—bumping the drink tray with her
right shoulder. Ben Mathers danced, tried to regain his balance. The tray
tipped anyway and sent glasses flying, ice cubes bouncing off the table, booze
cascading to the floor.”

Hazel felt her stomach curling
upward, much like it had that night.

Sarah’s eyes were wide and bright,
manic with memory. “I rose, saying, ‘Lottie, what is it?’ over and over. She
was clutching one hand to her throat as if she were choking. Right before our
eyes her lips puffed up and her throat swelled. Jules Foster rushed to her from
the opposite side of the table while Ben backed away saying, ‘Help my wife,
help her, help,’ until he fell backwards over Lottie’s upturned chair.”

Hazel knew exactly where this was
going; the play was about to reach the part where she and Patience had entered,
stage right. Suddenly she regretted having her head filled with these new
images—she had enough haunting memories already stored up.

But Sarah went on, “Lottie was
wheezing, suffocating on her own swollen neck, while her arms flailed across
the table, crashing decanters into soup urns, and shards of crystal and
porcelain flew through the air and cabernet splashed the tablecloth, the
ceiling, all of us in red.”

If Hazel had not heard the
crashing and seen the aftermath for herself, she’d have to think her
grandmother was embellishing this horrific story.

“By the time your grandfather
restrained her arms, Lottie’s face was purple and her eyes bulged. Jules picked
up the knife and poked clean through her throat. If Lottie hadn’t twisted at
that exact moment, Jules wouldn’t have hit her artery. As it was, blood poured
out but no air flowed in.” Sarah lowered her head and pressed her fingers to
her eyelids. “It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. It was already over.”

“Why does Ben blame you?” Hazel
asked. “We all saw Dr. Foster stab her.”

“He
did
blame Jules Foster,
until the coroner’s report came back and confirmed that short of having a
syringe full of epinephrine in his pocket, there wasn’t a thing the doctor
could’ve done to save Lottie.”

“I thought she bled to death.”
Hoping to quell the memory of all that blood, Hazel kept her eyes on her
grandmother.

“No, her death was due to anaphylactic
shock—an allergic reaction to my escargot. Lottie had never had snails
before, never dreamed she was allergic. So with Dr. Foster in the clear, Ben
turned on me. He accused me—he continues to accuse me—of poisoning
his wife.”

“That doesn’t make any sense. You
and Lottie were close friends.” Just then it struck Hazel as extremely strange
that Patience told her earlier tonight that Gram Lottie says,
The cows knew.
She shook her head hard. “Why does it have to be
anyone’s
fault?”

Sarah looked tired all of a sudden,
her bright eyes dimming. “Ben couldn’t accept the truth—there wasn’t any
blame in it. And he
needed
that blame to help him through it.”

Hazel’s anger reignited as she
recalled the cruel words and harsh glares that had constituted Ben Mathers’
ceaseless campaign against her family ever since. Placing her hand on Sarah’s
arm she asked, “Grandma, what’s happening now?”

“Looks like we’re headed for
another bad patch,” Sarah said. “Like when—”

“Get out! Get out!” Honey yelled
from the kitchen.

Hazel rushed back into the kitchen
to find Honey chasing Jinx, dangerously whipping a saucepan through the air
while the dog struggled to find traction on the tile.

“Stop, Honey!” Hazel darted past
her and flung open the back door so that Jinx had a route of escape.

The dog’s floppy ears lay
plastered against his head, tail tucked between his legs, feelings clearly
hurt.

“I won’t have wolves in my
kitchen!” Honey gave Jinx a fuzzy-slippered kick to the ribs.

He yelped in surprise and pain
before scurrying out the door.

“Have you lost your mind?” Hazel
shouted at Honey before running after her dog.

When Hazel caught up to Jinx where
he cowered at the front corner of the hotel she knelt and pet him, trying to
calm him down. “You all right, boy?”

He was tense and low to the
ground, frightened not only by Honey’s mad chase but by the men who were
shoving Jay and Julie Marsh through the yard toward the front porch. Julie
tripped and fell and Jay knelt to help her. Kenny Clark clipped Jay aside and
hauled Julie up by the collar of her down jacket and pushed her up the porch
steps.

Jinx made a sympathetic sound.

“Please,” Jay said, “we’re fine.
We don’t need any help.”

Help?
Hazel thought. “Who’s helping anybody?” she whispered to Jinx
and the dog began to bark.

No use hiding, she came around
into the yard to face Kenny and Old Pete. But she didn’t know what to say
because she didn’t understand what she was seeing.

When Pete noticed Hazel, he
ordered, “Under no circumstances are you to let them leave.” Gesturing at Kohl
Thacker pressed up against the bay window of the ballroom, his face staring out
at them in frantic-eyed interest, Pete added, “We gotta assume it’s
contagious.”

And with that Kenny gave Jay a
final shove and waved the Marshes into the hotel.

Contagious?

The word bounced around inside Hazel’s
head; she wouldn’t let it lodge there.

Guess we’re not talking about
food poisoning anymore.

Day Five of
the Heat Wave

B
y the time they headed out in the earliest
light by which Hazel dared to navigate her dirt bike, there were twenty people
assembled at The Winslow and they were running out of beds. Nobody was sleeping
anyway. But Hazel was dead tired with a serious adrenaline hangover.

“Everything will be fine,” she told
Jinx over the engine buzz.

Jinx sat precariously balanced on
the motorcycle tank between her legs, leaning back into her chest. This was
slow going because steering was awkward and the dirt road rough, but Doc
Simmons lived out a ways and it would’ve taken them too long to walk.

And the dog was sick.

At first she’d thought he was bruised
thanks to Honey’s kick in the ribs, but then she’d noticed the red in his weepy
eyes and his incessant salivation—the yellow tank of the Yamaha was slick
with dog spit—and realized he was suffering from something worse.

His front legs began to tremble
and Hazel feared he’d slip off the bike. “Just hold on,” she told him.

He nuzzled her under her chin with
his nose and then chuffed mistily. His red coat was dirty and matted but that
was okay and she nuzzled him back, recalling how they had all called him “Red”
until Patience renamed him Jinx. The dog earned the name when he caused Patience
to wipe out on the gravel driveway of The Winslow by darting right in front of
her pink Schwinn.

Now he twisted his head to look at
Hazel with wet, inquiring eyes.

“I know, boy,” she murmured. “I
know.”

Chuffing again, he sprayed her
face with doggie goop.

“Don’t worry, Jinx.” She didn’t
dare take a hand off the handlebars to wipe her face, even if what Jinx had
really was contagious. “Doc Simmons will help us.”

But a few minutes down Loop-Loop
Road, Hazel spotted a red truck pitched halfway in the ditch to the right side
of the road. Pulling up beside the truck she realized it was Doc Simmons’ Ford.
She peered through the cracked windshield into the cab, empty save for a few paper
coffee cups and a worn leather case on the passenger’s seat. Then she noticed
the drops of blood dotting the dirt that led from the driver’s-side door up and
out of the ditch.

Dread clutched at Hazel and she
wrapped a protective arm around the dog.

“Come on, boy.” She pulled away. “Let’s see if we
can find him.”

D
oc Simmons’ place was painted barn red; a low
hedge framed his dying lawn.

Hazel pulled up the driveway, and
Jinx leapt off the bike and scrambled onto the porch before she could even
park. The dog had turned agitated, barking, looping around the porch.

She felt uneasy too, and she
climbed the porch steps hesitantly, hugging her arms, suddenly less certain
that she wanted him to be home.

“Doc Simmons?” she called out.

Jinx’s barking was the only
response.

“We need your help,” she said, her
apprehension growing.

There was no doorbell, so she knocked
once on the door. Then she heard furtive movement inside the house, followed by
incoherent muttering that told her Simmons was not only in there, but likely
sick.

Had Jinx not needed help, she
would have fled. Instead, she raised her hand to knock again.

Through the lace curtain covering
the door’s window, she made out a man kicking aside a chair.

When he opened the door, her worst
fears were confirmed.

Jinx growled.

The man barely looked like the Doc
Simmons she knew. His face had transmogrified into a grotesque mask. And along
with the rifle he held, he looked dangerous.

“Mad dog!” he screamed. “Mad dog!”

Hazel spun and ran back down the
steps, Jinx on her heels, and jumped on her motorcycle.

She had never started her old YZ
on one kick before and thanked her lucky stars that this time she had as she
flipped it around in a spit of dirt and gravel and hauled ass down Doc Simmons’
driveway.