Chapter 29 #2
“But because of Alex, they want to make more out of it.” Ruth’s gaze turns to me. “You haven’t said anything to anyone, have you, Emma? Have reporters called you?”
“I haven’t spoken to anyone about it. When I get an unknown caller, I don’t answer.”
“Smart girl.”
Despite the delicious comfort food, my thoughts are in a whirl.
It’s full dark now. The windows rattle with the wind.
The corners of the room are dim where the light from the chandelier doesn’t reach.
I feel strangely alone, and I shudder to think how entwined I’ve gotten so quickly here with these people at Cheshire Lake.
My mother would never have let her guard down so quickly.
And I think of Noah. Have I made a huge mistake?
Noise from the kitchen has Ruth turning in her seat. “Jeffrey?”
The young man, head bowed, stands in the doorway. “I just came in with a load of firewood,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. He must’ve found Ruth’s axe after all. Or maybe it was never lost to begin with and he had another reason for being in the Spencer House cellar.
Larry jumps up. “I’ll help you with it.” He and Jeffrey disappear back into the kitchen.
“It’s gotten so chilly at night,” Ruth says. “Larry likes to build a fire in the front room in the evening.”
“I haven’t been using our fireplace. Not when I’m at the house by myself. Do you think Alex will be back anytime soon?”
“He said he’d be staying in Boston for the time being. Do you need anything?”
“No. I was just wondering.”
After some grunting and scraping from the kitchen to the front room, Larry returns to the table. He glances back at the kitchen until we hear the back door close.
“He said Detective Bellman talked to him earlier,” Larry says quietly, leaning in.
“About what?” Ruth asks.
“I didn’t get too much out of him. You know how he is, but he’s nervous, Ruth. More than usual.”
Larry’s gaze catches mine. “The detective talked to you lately?”
“No.”
Larry nods. “Jeffrey did say that Bellman wanted to search the cottage.”
Ruth bats her eyelashes. “What did Jeffrey tell him?”
“He said he needed to ask you first. You own the place. What do you think, Auntie? Should you let the detective do his job?”
Ruth toys with her napkin. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t believe Jeffrey could ever have harmed Simon.”
“Then they won’t find anything, will they?”
“I suppose not.” She picks up her water glass, sips.
Something about Larry leaves me unsettled.
He’s brusque, but nice enough when he needs to be.
He seems more intrusive now that Simon is no longer here, as if he’s running the show or Ruth’s life anyway.
That he’s daring you to try to shut him out, put him in his place.
But we’re both outsiders here. Not Spencers, or Harwoods, or Coles.
Larry and I belong on the same side as the Thompsons, if anything, with Jeffrey occupying this nebulous no-man’s-land.
The meal continues with Ruth and Larry speculating on the investigation, running over the same details, their ideas spinning in circles.
My mind keeps flipping back to Noah and Aubrey.
Should I mention the scarf to Detective Bellman?
But I really don’t believe Noah would hurt Aubrey.
And the scarf in Noah’s possession doesn’t mean that anything nefarious happened.
After helping Ruth with the dishes, I head back to Spencer House. It’s dark and drafty inside and I walk through the rooms, turning on all the lights. I decide to turn on the TV and see if there’s any coverage tonight on what’s happening here. I need to stop avoiding it.
Sitting on the sofa, I pull my purse over and remove Mary’s photos.
With the voice of the news anchor in the background, I continue through the pictures.
The same young people by the lake. Then I get to one of a woman by herself, standing at the end of the dock.
Her long dark hair flies across her face, which is turned partway to the side, looking off at the water, as if she didn’t want her photo taken.
A greenish-white T-shirt covers what looks like a bikini top, pinkish straps peek out at the neckline, knotted by her collarbone. Mary.
I lean back and sigh. The news coverage across the room flashes with scenes from a fire in Boston.
I set the photo aside, not wanting to replace it back in the stack with the others, as if I could somehow keep it safe, keep her safe.
After this picture, the subjects change.
No more young friends, instead the next picture is of the Spencer backyard.
I see the rope swing and something on the ground next to it.
I bring the photo closer to my eyes. It’s a rabbit.
Its round, dark eye turned to the camera.
The next picture is also of the backyard, flowers, a row of fading peonies.
The next photo is of the woods with the path to the cemetery in the center.
I wonder if Mary was trying to capture nature shots or just trying to use up the roll so she could take it to be developed.
Knowing what I think I know of her, I believe Mary was taking nature shots because they interested her.
I flip to the last photo and my heart stops.
This one isn’t nature. A young blond woman stands at the edge of the frame, her face turned to the side, her hand outstretched as if beseeching someone standing across the room.
This room. The photo falls from my hand, flutters to the floor. The woman in the picture is my mother.