Drawn and Buttered Page 20

  I stood in front of the same case of artifacts I’d seen at the grant presentation, the case with the little white cards noting that some of the artifacts had been loaned out. I read the cards again.

  Many items were familiar. Fishhooks. Marlinspikes.

  Marlinspikes. Most sailors had one—a metal tool, sometimes curved, used to untie knots in ropes or to splice line. The one loaned out by the historical society was huge—a foot long. I’d never seen one so big.

  “May I help you?” Heavy, spicy perfume surrounded me like a cloud of incense. Beltane.

  Today the tall woman had her dark hair braided and coiled around her head. She wore a gray version of the colonial dress that she’d worn at the grant presentation, but on her it looked right. Actually, she looked like she belonged in the 1700s, except for the eyes ringed with Cleopatra-level kohl and general air of bat crazy.

  Her eyes flicked to the case. “Oh, yes. Last-minute loans to the history department at the college.” She pursed her lips. “Patriarchy.”

  “Patriarchy?” I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Certain male professors think they own the place,” Beltane said.

  “Oh, Beltane, there you are.” Fern ran up. “I thought you were upstairs. Can I have the key to the library, please?”

  “Researching still? I thought your paper was complete.”

  “I want to show the diary to Allie.”

  Beltane took the key off a chain she had tucked in her pocket. “Fern is so dedicated to the history of Mystic Bay. She’s made some great discoveries, brought into the light those who were so unjustly forgotten, so erased. Those whose stories have been suppressed.”

  Does she mean Rosamund and Mercy Parish? I nodded tentatively.

  She gave me an appraising glance.

  “It’s okay, Beltane,” Fern said. “I told her what’s in the paper.”

  Beltane nodded. “The woman’s voice, so often silenced. I’m so glad that Fern is giving Rosamund a voice beyond the grave.”

  “Yes, me too.”

  Fern tugged my arm. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 35

  We cut through the kitchen garden and took the path to the small red barn. “The original barn burned down years ago. This was custom-built as an archives and library, so it looks old and charming on the outside but inside it’s state-of-the-art.” She pointed to the sign over the door. THE PARISH FAMILY TRUST ANNEX.

  We stepped inside. A foyer was decorated with more dour-faced Parish portraits and a dozen shield-shaped plaques with brass name plates. I looked at the one closest to the door, with the shiniest name plates. “Board of Mystic Bay Historical Society. Guardians of Mystic Bay History.”

  Current President: Royal Parish

  Past President: Professor Lyman Smith

  Manager: Beltane Kowalski

  Secretary: Gladys Burley

  “Royal Parish loves his family history, but he wasn’t interested in my research into the diary of Rosamund Parish, because it led to the truth behind the legend of Otis Parish,” Fern said. “I only showed my research to Lyman Smith, but he put me off. I’m sure he wanted to keep his friend Royal happy. Royal didn’t want our discoveries made public. The truth made public. It’s his version of Parish history or the highway.”

  A memory surfaced, confused me. Hadn’t I heard Lyman, Royal’s friend, telling the frat boys about the legend of Otis Parish?

  “You could make sure people know that he stole your research.”

  She laughed. “How would I ever get another job? Lyman Smith is my reference. He’s the only boss I’ve had for years. The academic world is small, Allie. I need the jerk.”

  “You’d think he’d want the truth. I mean, isn’t history supposed to be true?”

  “Oh, you poor misguided girl.” She unlocked a door at the end of the hallway. “History is written by the winners. Why do you think the first thing conquering armies do is destroy the libraries and art of the conquered? That’s how you erase people. Then your story is the only one left.”

  As she reached inside and flipped a light switch, Fern said, “This is the archives and library.” We stepped into a long room lined with windows on one side, shelves on the other. The room was quiet, hushed except for the buzz of fluorescent lights. Long wooden tables set with wire baskets that held scholarly magazines stretched the length of the room

  The door clicked shut behind us. “The room is climate controlled and has a state-of-the-art security system.”

  She took a key from the key chain and opened a glass-fronted cabinet. “Here’s the diary of Rosamund Parish.” Fern pulled a book from the shelf, its cover brown and mottled, and set it in a V-shaped holder, its spine falling open easily.

  “It’s so small!” The diary was barely as wide as my cell phone.

  “Look at the writing.” She opened the pages lovingly, carefully. “Paper was precious back then. Look at how tiny the writing is.” We bent over it, our heads close together.

  “I like to imagine Rosamund bent over a table, lit only by candlelight, scratching out her thoughts on that rough paper with a quill pen,” Fern said.

  The writing was crabbed and faded. “It’s hard to read.”

  “Look through this.” Fern slid a magnifying glass on a wooden stand close to me.

  I aimed it over the book. Fern turned the book to the inscription on the first page.

  This booke is mine. Rosamund Parish, aged 14 years.

  Seeing Rosamund’s handwriting made her come alive. “This is amazing!”

  Fern nodded. “A first-person document from that time period, by a woman, and not just a woman, but a young woman. We hardly have any surviving accounts from that viewpoint. This was stuck behind some old books. That’s what I’ve been focusing my research on and”—she lowered her eyes—“I’ve started a book.”

  “How wonderful!”

  Fern straightened her shoulders. “Lyman was always underestimating me. When I left on maternity leave, it was as if I disappeared. I kept researching. That was the nail in my coffin—he never took me seriously. Now maybe he’ll finally give me the credit I’m due, with all I’ve discovered about Rosamund.”

  “Fern.” Lyman Smith strode into the room. Had he been listening?

  “Oh.” Fern blushed. “Hello, Lyman.”

  His eyes flicked to me. I froze, praying he wouldn’t notice Max’s backpack on the table

  Fern cleared her throat. “This is my friend Allie Larkin.”

  “This space is only for researchers approved by the historical society. We both know you’re not on the list anymore.” Lyman Smith spoke as if chastising a small child.

  Could he be any more condescending?

  Fern’s cheeks blazed, but she gathered herself. Her look begged me to remain silent. “Excuse me.” As she carefully placed the book back onto the shelf I slid the pack off the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Come on, Allie.”

  I shouldered the backpack, angling my body to conceal it. Lyman Smith’s eyes lingered as he watched us leave. I hunched my shoulders under the disapproving looks of the Parish portraits in the hallway. Fern practically broke into a run as we burst from the door into the cool night air.

  I rushed to keep up with her. “What did he mean? You’re a researcher, right?”

  “I am.” Her voice was thick; she was trying not to cry. “Lyman took my name off the list of approved researchers when I stopped TAing for him.”

  “But Beltane let you—”

  “He and Beltane have a contentious relationship. That’s putting it mildly. She’s the manager, he’s a past president and friend of Royal Parish. He’s always making demands, as if he were the only historian who mattered around here. Though I guess”—her shoulders drooped—“he is.”

  “Was Max a researcher?”

  “Max? A historian?” She laughed. “He was more of an errand guy, Lyman Smith’s right-hand man. And clearly I wasn’t qualified for that role.” She swiped her nose with the back of h
er hand. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”

  I watched her rush back into the house through the kitchen garden, her head bowed.

  Chapter 36

  I got back in the van, troubled by what had happened in the annex.

  Under strings of lights, volunteers packed equipment and took down displays. Visitors drove back down the road toward Mystic Bay. A pang of guilt struck. They were probably all heading to Aunt Gully’s for a lobster roll.

  I drove back home. Danger emanated from the backpack on the seat next to me. Max had dug up all kinds of secrets that should have remained buried.

  As had Fern. Her research had shown proof that the vampire story was even more grotesque than the stories that had been common lore in Mystic Bay for hundreds of years. When would the historical society start selling OTIS PARISH VAMPIRE KILLER T-shirts? Offer tours to the Witch’s Rock? What an embarrassment for a man like Royal Parish, whose family history meant more to him than his actual family. His version of history, anyway.

  Where was Isobel? How was she handling being questioned by the police? I thought guiltily that I hadn’t visited Madame Monachova in three days. I drove to the hospital.

  I checked in with the hospital receptionist. She tapped her computer screen. “Good news. Ms. Monachova’s been released.”

  “Released! She’s gone home?”

  The receptionist shrugged. I ran back to the van. Finally some good news. I turned the wheel toward New London, thinking guiltily that I should take Max’s backpack to the police station. But it would be too late to bring it to the police by the time I finished visiting Madame, I mused. I’d bring it tomorrow.

  I pulled up to the curb in front of her house. The lights were on and a Mercedes sedan gleamed in the driveway. The curtains were drawn on the broad front window, but twitched aside as I threw the backpack over my shoulder and ran up to the door—Raisa and Rudi were watching. I rang the bell.

  Isobel Parish opened the door. I was so shocked I stood speechless for a moment. My hand flew to my shoulder. What if Isobel recognized the pack? I turned so it was angled behind me. Regaining my composure, I said, “Isobel! You’re—”

  “Not in jail.” Her lips twisted. “Good old Dad was good for something.”

  “Can Madame have visitors?” Raisa and Rudi threaded around our ankles.

  Madame’s voice called from inside. Her words were so soft and indistinct I couldn’t tell what she said. But Isobel held the door wide and went back into the living room. As I stepped inside, I slipped the bag from my shoulder and hid it as best I could behind an umbrella stand.

  Madame Monachova sat in the corner of the couch against oversized silk pillows. She wore a pale yellow quilted bathrobe with a gold and blue pashmina stole around her shoulders. A plate of cookies and delicate teacups covered the coffee table in front of her. I rushed to her and flung my arms around her. “You’re home! I’m so glad!”

  She laughed and took a deep breath. “Me, too.” She still slurred her words, but she looked stronger.

  Isobel sat cross-legged on the floor, scrolling on her phone. She took a cookie from the tray.

  “Hello, Allie.” Kathleen Parish sat on the piano bench, wearing jeans, a sweater, and shearling slippers. This was the most casual outfit I’d ever seen her wear. She looked at home, comfortable.

  “Hello.” I settled on the couch next to Madame Monachova. My eyes fell on a walker in the corner by the fireplace. Madame followed my glance.

  “My new best friend.” She laid her hand on mine, her words slow and deliberate as she worked to form each word. “Don’t look so shocked, Allie. It’s only a matter of time before I’m better. With the walker they will let me be at home, instead of a rehab center. I will have an aide to get me around. She starts tomorrow.” Madame patted my hand. “The doctor says my prognosis is very good. Evidently, I have the body of a thirty-year-old. Who knew?”

  We laughed. Raisa leaped into my lap and I nuzzled her.

  “The therapist asked me if I have a goal. I said my goal is to choreograph my ballet.”

  Kathleen filled Madame’s teacup. “And I’m going to make it happen.”

  “I have a particular dancer in mind for the lead role.” Madame squeezed my hand. “You.”

  * * *

  My heart was lighter than it had been in weeks as I grabbed the backpack and left Madame Monachova’s house. I tossed the pack on the passenger seat as my phone rang.

  “Hi, Verity.”

  “Hey, what are you up to? Do you have developments in the case?”

  “Yes. Get this. I found the backpack.”

  “Are you kidding me?” she shouted.

  “How about getting some ice cream? Scoops is still open.”

  “Meet you there.”

  I pulled away from the curb and did a U-turn to head back to the highway to Mystic Bay, humming the music from my solo.

  Movement drew my eye. Madame’s street was broad, lined with several one-story ranch-style houses on fairly large lots. Most people parked in their driveways, but I noticed a car pull from the curb down the road. Its headlights weren’t on.

  Who forgets to put on their lights? A drunk? The car followed but didn’t get too close. My unease grew as I left the busier streets of New London, but as I crossed the brightly lit Gold Star Bridge, the car fell back in traffic. I exhaled.

  Get a grip, Allie.

  I put on the Pat Benatar CD and sang along.

  I exited the highway onto a narrow, curving country road that led into Mystic Bay from the north, a quiet stretch by the reservoir lined with ditches and stone walls. Scoops was a mile down on the banks of the Micasset River. I glanced at the clock. Eight thirty. They closed at nine. There wasn’t any traffic. We’d be in time. I couldn’t wait to tell Verity what I’d learned.

  The growl of an engine made me look to my left. A dark car swerved alongside me, its engine roaring. The next second, it rammed into the side of the van. The impact forced me toward the ditches. Shock surged through my body as the steering wheel jerked in my hands. I fought to regain control, swerving back onto the road. Again, the dark car thudded against the van. A vision of Max’s murdered body flashed in my mind. Could this be the murderer?

  I gripped the wheel, trying to avoid the gaping ditches bordering the road. The car rammed me again. This time the impact wrenched the steering wheel from my hands. I screamed as the van hurtled toward the trunk of an oak tree.

  Chapter 37

  A car door slammed. “Allie!” Verity’s voice edged into my consciousness. An EMT shone a light at my eyes. I winced.

  “You’re going to be okay. Good thing you had your seat belt on.”

  “Does she have a concussion?” Verity asked the EMT. He shook his head. “Thank goodness! When you didn’t come to Scoops I thought maybe the van broke down!” Verity flung her arms around me.

  I sat on a tree stump, surrounded by first responders. Every bone in my body felt like it had been jarred loose. “A car.” My words wouldn’t come. I cleared my throat. “A dark car. Forced me off the road.” It all came back to me slowly. “Then somebody came to the van. Opened the passenger side door. Oh, no.” I stood up quickly, then swayed.

  “Sit still.” The EMT lowered me back onto the tree stump then looked at Verity. “We’re going to take her to the ER—”

  “No,” I moaned.

  “Just a precaution,” the EMT added.

  I grabbed Verity’s arm. “Check the van. I think the guy who ran me off the road took the backpack.”

  Verity ran to the van, where a tow truck was hooking onto its rear bumper. The impact against the tree had smashed in the front end of Aunt Gully’s van. Oh, no.

  Verity gestured wildly as she spoke to the tow truck crew. They shrugged but let her look in the front seat. She ran back, empty-handed.

  “Not there.”

  The EMT gestured to the ambulance. “Do you think you can walk?”

  “Wait a sec, Verity.” My mind cleared and I remember
ed Fern’s paper tucked in the magazine. “Check the van one more time. I left a magazine next to the driver’s seat.” Verity exchanged dubious glances with the EMT. “It’s important.”

  She ran back a few minutes later, waving the magazine. “I got it.”

  Chapter 38

  Thank goodness the next day I had a day off from rehearsals, one of my last before the Nutcracker madness began. The doctor at the emergency room had given me an all clear and a prescription for muscle relaxants. Aunt Gully told me to sleep in, that I could come down to the shack when and if I felt up to it. Without the van, she’d get a ride with one of her Gals. Normally if I didn’t have the van I’d ride my bike to the Mermaid—it was only ten minutes away—but Hilda offered to get me if I decided to go in to work.

  My body still ached. I stood slowly and did a mental check—gingerly moving my arms and legs. I tested my ankle and sighed when I stepped onto it—no pain. My neck and shoulders hurt but the doctor said that would be better in a few days.

  I took a deliciously long soak in the tub, borrowing some of Aunt Gully’s lavender bath salts. Afterward, I felt better, sore but better. I did some stretching, then some of my usual routine. Relief flooded me. I’d still be able to dance.

  I took a canvas tote bag from my closet, one printed with an image of Audrey Hepburn in her big Breakfast at Tiffany’s sunglasses. Before falling into bed after a cup of Aunt Gully’s tea, I’d hidden the magazine and Fern’s paper inside.

  Bronwyn called. “I just heard about last night. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Do the police know anything about the guy that hit me?”

  I heard her exhale. “Dark car on a dark road.” Relief battled with exasperation in her voice. “No buildings with security cameras anywhere near. The guy picked a good stretch to hit you.”

  “Remember I told you about the papers Max took?” I took a deep breath. I had to tell her the truth. “I found them, in his backpack. The driver who hit me took it.”