The souls of lost lake, p.22
The Souls of Lost Lake, page 22
Gary pulled back and patted Wren’s upper arm. He sniffed, but a tear traveled down his cheek, burying itself in his beard. “Come.”
Wren couldn’t speak. The burning in her face was every ounce of internal angst spreading through her blood, her pores, her muscles. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. She couldn’t say goodbye.
Gary rubbed her arm. “Kiddo, we can do this.”
Wren felt awful, shaking her head at the man whose wife was being torn from him in the name of cancer. “Gary . . .” Tears dripped from her cheeks and ran down her neck.
Gary’s own fell. “She’s ready to go. She is. It’s time for her to go Home.”
Wren nodded. “Okay.” The empty hollow inside her pressed out any other concerns. It was a resignation to the inevitable. The inevitable stealing away what was most precious and leaving behind only whispers to accompany them into the future.
Every footstep toward Patty’s room was weighted. Time slowed to an almost imperceptible movement. Wren entered the doorway, Gary just ahead of her. Sunlight splayed across the room, the filmy white curtains creating a quiet glow of beauty. Patty lay on the bed, her eyes closed. Wren could see her breathing. Labored . . . a long pause . . . slowly releasing. She was frail—more frail-looking than she’d ever been. If she could have seen the other world that hovered just beyond the veil of spirituality, Wren was certain she would see Patty’s soul reaching from the shell of a body that had betrayed her life here on earth.
Eddie sat by his mom, his frame curled as close to her as he could be. He held her hand so gently against his cheek. His eyes lifted and met Wren’s. Her breath caught at the helpless pain in them. A lost, stricken look that knew he could do nothing to keep his beloved mother here. A willingness to relinquish her to her Heavenly Father. A brokenness that in that relinquishment came separation. A tearing, a stripping away of who Patty was—to all of them. Eddie was her son, a little boy, a man . . .
Wren approached the bed, dropping to her knees beside Eddie. Gary lay down next to his wife. The moment was intimate, desperate, and yet somehow peace entered the room as Patty wrestled for breath. Her eyelids flickered. Gary took Patty’s other hand, holding it. She squeezed his fingers. Wren bit her lip hard. She laid her hand on Patty’s blanket-covered leg. It was warm. Soft. She was alive . . . but she was leaving.
Wren tried to summon strength from deep inside her soul, only there was none to find. She couldn’t still the stream of grief as it rolled quietly down her face. Gary settled his forehead against Patty’s shoulder, his eyes closed.
“Mama . . .” Eddie reached out and brushed his hand across Patty’s forehead.
Her eyes fluttered. She opened them, but it seemed as though she barely focused. Then came a brief respite—an awareness. Wren could see the acceptance in Patty’s expression. Even so, in every crevice of her face, she was a mother. No matter when a person held hands with death, they reached with their other to hold on to those they loved.
“Buddy . . .” she rasped. Her fingers moved against Eddie’s face, her fingertips memorizing the man he’d become, yet her eyes seemed to see the boy he had been.
“It’s okay, Mama.” Eddie turned his face into her hand. He closed his eyes. “Go in peace,” he whispered. He was crying. Wren had never seen Eddie cry. Not like this. Not the letting-go type of tears that left a person with a gentle, empty ache.
Wren bit her lip, not noticing the pain.
Patty turned her head toward Wren. “You’re never lost,” she whispered. A tear trailed down her cheek. “His eyes are on the sparrows—” a pause, a small smile—“on my Wren.”
Wren’s face crumpled. She sucked in a sob.
Patty turned back to Eddie. “My Buddy.” There were no words. There didn’t need to be. Everything a mother needed to express to her boy was in her eyes. The cherished love and years. The moments she treasured she now passed on to Eddie to hold.
Gary stroked his wife’s cheek. Patty closed her eyes, but her words were now for him. “Don’t you cry now.” Her hand released Gary’s. “I’ll see you soon.”
Eddie’s chin shook. His chest heaved, and he laid his head on Patty’s shoulder. Gently. So gently, a soft hum filtered through her lips. Their song.
Good night.
Eddie hummed with her.
“Au revoir,” Patty whispered, and then there was silence.
None of them moved. Gary lay against Patty, his eyes closed, tears staining his cheeks. Eddie mirrored his father.
Wren felt an ache spread through every crevice of her spirit. An ache that held hands with an inexplicable peace.
Patty had gone Home.
31
Ava
She’d heard Noah return to the parsonage late last night. She’d heard him sigh too. And it didn’t help this morning when they met at the breakfast table with each of them avoiding the other’s eyes. Noah looked downright guiltier than a man who’d spent the night gambling away his life savings, only Ava was sure the guilt had nothing to do with that. It was the fact that she was there. Sitting at the table, eating a piece of toast and fried egg with the same combination on a plate for him. Like an old married couple. But they weren’t married. There was the problem—leastways how Noah saw it.
The truth was, Ava had thought less of their unmarried predicament than she had of the predicament of Jipsy’s body and Matthew Hubbard’s death. In light of that, the parsonage pairing of the two of them seemed trivial at best. Either way, it did make for awkward eye contact in the morning, and Hanny hadn’t bustled in with some excuse to make the situation any less awkward.
“You find out anythin’?” Ava had finally broached the subject of Jipsy and the police.
“Just that Weber still has folks around town antsy, hoping you don’t show back up. There’s talk you’ve escaped justice and are already miles away from here.” Noah lifted his eyes for a brief second as he took a sip of coffee. “Others think you’re hiding out, waiting to get your next victim.”
The idea was ironic. It also didn’t help nothing. She was stuck here at the parsonage, in hiding. Noah was stuck having her here in hiding. He was bearing the brunt of her life on his shoulders. It just wasn’t fair. And that he was carryin’ it without complaint? Wasn’t right. Just wasn’t.
The more she sat, the more she dwelt on Jipsy’s death, on Matthew Hubbard’s death, and the more she knew she could not leave it all to rest on Noah’s shoulders. After Noah had withdrawn to the church to work on pastoral things, Ava made quick work of preparing. Her overalls were dry, but they were soiled and in sore need of washing. She kept on her navy-blue dress she’d worn to breakfast, tied her hair back with a ribbon, and slipped her feet into her shoes. They were still wet. She opted for bare feet, and within minutes she’d snuck from the parsonage.
Ava dodged the main street, slinking behind the buildings in the shaded alleyways. Now, a noise sent Ava sprawling against the brick wall of the general store. No one should be back here, but then that didn’t account for the fact that sometimes they stored goods on the back dock. But a quick survey assured Ava the doors to the dock were closed, and there wasn’t anyone around Ava could see. She just needed to get to the station—to the police.
Maybe it was suicide of a sort that didn’t take her life but took her hopes of a future. Still, she needed to get Noah off the hook. He was bait just dangling, and some big-toothed fish was going to bite. Noah would be eaten alive, and it wouldn’t save her any more than if he was completely out of the picture. Ava figured if she could get to the station without being seen by the people of Tempter’s Creek, she could bank on the slim hope that Officer Larson would listen to her. Give her some benefit of the doubt. He had, after all, put up a fight for her the first night the town had grouped together after Matthew had died. He could find a different solution for protecting her until this was all sorted. Or, if he wanted, he could just throw her in jail. Either way.
Ava stilled and leaned against the back wall of the general store. She wasn’t a silly girl. She knew she was beginning to carry a torch for the preacher. Fact was, it worried her. That she cared about anyone at all.
“Where’n heck have you been?” The voice behind her whispered loudly, and Ava bit back a shriek, ducking down by the corner of the store behind a sumac bush. She leveled wide eyes at the person who had spotted her. Ava’s shoulders lowered. She blew out a breath of relief.
“Ned.”
His hair seemed grayer on the sides since the last time she’d seen him . . . what was it, just a week ago? Time was going too slow, and this mess was like a slow-spreading barrel of spilled maple syrup.
The lean, older man looked in all directions before squatting down next to Ava, pushing a sumac branch from his face. “Town’s gonna be right mad if they see you lurkin’ in the shrubs!” he stated.
Ava did her own quick surveyal of the area. “Don’t I know it!”
“Where’ve you been?” Ned batted the branch again as it sprang back and scratched his cheek.
“Don’t matter.” Ava trusted Ned, but she had no intention of incriminating Noah to anyone. “I need to talk to Officer Larson.”
“Whatever for?” Ned reared back. “He’d be the one to arrest you!”
“I know, but he also said there wasn’t proof I did anything to Hubbard, and it’s gotta be the same with Jipsy.”
Ned grimaced. “Jipsy. Who’da thought!”
“I bet Widower Frisk is fit to be tied.” Ava could only imagine the old man. He’d either be moanin’ in his liquor or fuming at the world.
“He’s a wrong number any way you spin it. Jipsy coulda done better than him.” Ned affirmed. “But he swears up and down he’d never have hurt her—he ever lift a hand to Jipsy when you were there?”
Ava shot Ned a quick look. “No.” No, Widower Frisk had only been rough with her. Jipsy had stood between them, and Widower Frisk never crossed Jipsy. She had some sort of magic hold on the man. He worshiped her as much as he still had a wandering eye.
Ned scooted closer to her. Ava could smell cigarette on his clothes. He whispered conspiratorially, “I was thinkin’—if Jipsy is dead, it might be Mrs. Sanderson’s fault.”
Ava swiped at a black fly that landed on her neck. “Mrs. Sanderson? Why on earth would she have any reason to off Jipsy?”
“Jipsy wasn’t no friend of hers. You know, Mrs. Snooty-Pants thinkin’ she’s better than everyone else. I heard tell Jipsy was planning on letting out some secrets about her. Scandal. All that.”
“Like what?” Ava had not heard of this.
“Don’t know for sure. Somethin’ about Mrs. Sanderson and Matthew Hubbard.”
Ava tried to silence her snort of laughter. “Mrs. Sanderson and Matthew Hubbard?” she repeated. “You’ve lost your ever-lovin’ mind, Ned.”
He looked offended. “Have not. You saw how upset she was the other night at the town meeting.”
“Upset with me!” Ava retorted. “Not Jipsy. Mrs. Sanderson thinks I killed Matthew.”
“That’s my point. Why’d she care one way or another who did it unless she cared about Matthew?”
Ava contemplated this for a moment. Matthew Hubbard. In all the hoopla of Jipsy and being accused of murder and blacking out, Ava hadn’t allowed herself to dwell on him. He was in his early forties, twice Mrs. Sanderson’s senior and a bit more Ava’s senior. But he’d been a decent man. Nothing special. But—
“He worked for Sanderson,” Ned said, interrupting her thoughts. “Stands to reason the missus would’ve met him.”
Ava waved Ned into silence. She looked around them again, afraid someone else was going to round the back of the mercantile or open the loading dock doors. When she was reassured they were still alone, she responded, “If Mrs. Sanderson was goin’ to kill anyone, she’d use arsenic or somethin’ fancy. She wouldn’t use an ax or—” Ava caught herself. She wasn’t about to admit to Ned that she had laid eyes on Jipsy’s body. That the woman had enough blood on her clothes that whoever had done it had been up close and angry. Not with an ax either. Ava guessed it was a knife, which meant someone had stabbed Jipsy several times. She couldn’t fathom pinch-faced Mrs. Sanderson in all her delicate femininity driving a knife into Jipsy once, let alone more than once.
“Be that as it may . . .” Ned rose from his crouch and glanced around. “I’d put money on it.”
“And what is your point, then? What am I s’posed to do about it?”
Ned eyed Ava as if she were dumb. Maybe she was. He was only a tad older than Matthew Hubbard. Maybe years added some reason and figurin’ into a man’s mind that she simply didn’t have yet.
“You want to clear your name, right?” Ned asked.
“Of course.”
“Then you’d best get that woman alone and get her to tell you everything. Or find some sort of proof she did it.”
“But what about Hubbard?”
“What about him? He’s dead and gone. There isn’t a thing you can do about that.”
“I know, but if Mrs. Sanderson offed Jipsy ’cause she was jealous, who killed Hubbard?”
Ned stopped. Frowned. “Dunno. One murder at a time, Ava, one murder at a time.”
Slinking around town like a bandit was one thing, but doing it in the daylight was a whole other lot of talents Ava was pretty certain she’d run out of real quick. Ned sauntered off to avoid looking suspicious, leaving Ava to scurry from the bushes and head into the woods that trailed along the border of town. She diverted from her intention to find Larson, to beg for his leniency and bank on his ability to reason based on evidence and not emotion. Darn if Ned’s suspicion hadn’t gotten under her skin now. And it didn’t make a lick of sense! No more than the wild assumption that Ava herself had killed Hubbard and Jipsy. ’Course talkin’ never hurt anyone, and it mayhap was a better idea than bustin’ into the police station and blabberin’ out a self-defense.
Ava squirmed as she eyed the Sanderson house. Here she was in the Sandersons’ woods at the border where the tree line met the lawn. Ava was lost as to what to do next, so she made practice of breaking sticks into one-inch sections while waiting for some sort of brilliance to invade her mind and resolve this entire mess she was in. She couldn’t rightly go up and knock on the door! Mrs. Sanderson had never been one for conversing kindly. There was a way about Mrs. Sanderson. An education, an etiquette maybe, that made her feel ages older than Ava, even though they truly were mere years apart.
The screen door on the back porch swung open, and Ava ducked down so she wasn’t seen. Mrs. Sanderson stepped out, looking all pretty in a green polka-dot dress that flowed midway down her shapely legs. Her blond hair was cut chin-length and waved perfectly. The woman made her way to a chair and table, took a seat, and primly opened a small book. Probably poetry. Ava couldn’t picture Mrs. Sanderson wasting her time on fiction. She was too good for stories.
It was now or never. Ned had said she should just ask. But who in their right mind would up and respond, Oh yes, I did murder Jipsy. I took a knife and buried it in her multiple times. She was so vexing.
Ava rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. No. She’d have to be smarter than asking outright. Maybe if she—
A rough hand clapped over her mouth. The motion jerked her head back against a man’s chest. She grabbed at the hand, but his other arm came up around her midsection, pinning her to him. As he dragged her backward, Ava tried to scream into the callused palm. Instead, all that released were whimpers and squeals. She kicked at the ground, but he was too strong for her.
He clasped her head against him. Ava couldn’t move it to make out who had snatched her.
“Sneaky little chit.” The words growled in her ear, the man’s breath hot against her skin.
Ava squirmed. His grip tightened.
“Goin’ to go to Sanderson, eh? Think they’ll help ya?”
Ava strained to recognize the voice. It was the same hoarse whisper as in the church the other night. A whisper that seemed purposefully disguised. Speaking an octave lower than their normal pitch maybe? His mouth brushed her temple as he held his cheek and jaw against her head.
“Murdering witch. It’s in your blood. You feed off the killin’. Forty whacks and all that nonsense is as much about you as anyone!”
Ava grunted. She tried to kick with her feet, but he’d pulled her back far enough to where she was stretched out at an angle against the earth, her head and shoulders braced against his body. She twisted, trying to identify him. All she could see was an unfamiliar hat pulled down over eyes and tilted enough that the only parts of the face Ava could see were a mouth and a chin.
“I should snap your neck right here an’ now and be done with you.”
But he didn’t. Ava twisted. He rammed his knuckles into her cheek. Ava’s scream was garbled, the violent act shocking her into submission. The throbbing of her face was equal only to the heat of pain the blow had caused.
“Breaking into the church. Sneaking off with the reverend.”
Ava wrestled against him. He jerked her tighter to his chest. The chin that pressed against her shoulder was clean-shaven. Whiskered, but no beard. Ava racked her memory trying to place who she knew in Tempter’s Creek—aside from Noah—that was clean-shaven. Seemed like every man from Widower Frisk to Officer Larson had a full beard.
“No. I’m not gonna end you. Not yet.” He squeezed her until Ava was gasping for air, her chest constricting beneath his clutch. “Too much fun watchin’ you squirm and hide. You deserve to, you know. And I’m goin’ to hunt you. How does it feel to be the prey, my pet? My prey? How does it feel?”
He launched her forward with a shove. Ava cried out, her body smashing into the forest floor, twigs stabbing at her bare arms and legs. She rolled over and tried to sit up to see who had accosted her. Crashing reverberated through the forest as he ran. The snapping of branches. Ava glimpsed blue denim. An arm clad in brown wool. But he was soon gone.
