Chapter 49
I FOLLOW MARY AS SHE SLIPS INTO WORK BOOTS AND HEADS OUTSIDE, the dogs at our heels.
The sun is barely above the horizon, and its weak rays struggle through heavy cloud cover.
The air is cold and penetrates my jacket with icy fingers.
I hug my arms across my chest and try to keep up as Mary strides for the barn.
The smell of animals and hay with a slight tinge of mold assails my nose. Horses whinny when they see Mary and bob their heads, two cream colored and one chestnut. A donkey brays and bats his long eyelashes. Mary quickly feeds them and opens their stall doors.
Three cats poke up from the straw and come running as Mary lays down their food.
One cat is a calico, the other two are tabbies.
Mary drops to her haunches and strokes their backs.
“These guys were feral, and I’ve slowly gained their trust. I hope to be able to get them inside and make them indoor cats before winter. ”
Mary sighs. “I guess you need an explanation about Alex and Ruth,” she says, getting to her feet and brushing off her jeans.
My head is spinning. “That would be nice.”
I follow her deeper into the barn, where she opens a gate and frees three woolly sheep, who baa and trot past her, heading for the pasture.
Despite the emotions that tear at my insides, watching the animals, inhaling their musky scent, does have a calming effect, as if nature in its beauty and simplicity can mask the ugly human world.
Mary and I walk outside and stand at the wooden rails. We look out over the pasture where the animals are grazing. One of the cream-colored horses kicks up his heels as if he’s happy just to be alive.
“Spencer family history has its dark chapters.” Mary lowers her head, looks to the wet grass. “And now, if what you say is true, things are only going to get worse.” Her gaze meets mine. “Do you really think that my brother killed other women?”
“I hope not, Mary. But we need to let the police know what I found.”
“Yes.”
“What about Ruth? If she is Alex’s mother, that would explain a lot.”
“He is her darling boy,” Mary says, shaking her head. “Ruth came to Cheshire Lake as a young woman. I heard the story when I was thirteen.”
“Who told you?”
“Myra Jones. She was our housekeeper. She told me one day when I was at the cottage. Alex and I had an argument and Ruth took his side as usual. Myra told me that years earlier, Ruth had come to Evansport with a girlfriend. They came up from New York City looking for seasonal work. A lot of young people did when the tourists came. Anyway, Simon was in town and she caught his eye. He had an old apple orchard out behind his house. He wanted help to harvest the apples, and Ruth and her friend volunteered. And she never left. Simon hired her as his housekeeper. Myra had been splitting the duties between our house and Simon’s.
Anyway, Ruth was very attractive, and Simon was, well, not so much.
He was a sweet man, a little shy around women.
But my father”—Mary blows out a breath—“he was powerful, handsome as a movie star. Anyway, he wasn’t always faithful.
My mom was a quiet woman, self-effacing, and frankly, a doormat.
” Mary grimaces. “My father was a scary and sometimes violent man. But that didn’t stop him from womanizing.
He and Ruth had a brief affair, and she became pregnant.
My parents had been married about seven years at the time and had had no luck in the baby department, so they made a deal.
Ruth would surrender her child to my parents. ”
“And then Ruth married Simon?”
“Yes. Simon was more than happy with the arrangement. He was older and didn’t have any other prospects, Myra said, despite his wealth. And Ruth got to watch her son grow up and be part of his life.”
“Your mother. What did she think about that? Having Ruth right next door?”
“I’m sure that whatever my father wanted, she agreed to. That was how it always was. She was scared to death of him.”
“But they had you together?”
“Yes. I came along a few years later. My mother finally getting pregnant.”
I shake my head. A horse’s whinny emanates from over a knoll. “From what Ruth said, she and your mother were friends.”
Mary chuckles. “They were of a sort. Ruth was a big help to her. My mother was raised in a wealthy household and didn’t know much outside of that world.
Ruth was better at taking care of us kids, making meals and baked goods.
She knew how to bandage scraped knees, treat runny noses, and so forth.
Mom relied on her. A strange arrangement for sure.
And when I was diagnosed with life-threatening food allergies, Ruth took charge to make sure that I was safe.
That there was an EpiPen in both houses. That kind of thing.”
“It’s a strange world,” I say, looking out across the pasture.
“Indeed,” Mary says, and sighs. “Let’s go back to the house and call the sheriff.”