Authors: Karin Salvalaggio
Martha gazes out the window overlooking the snowbound front yard. In the bleak early evening light the entire world is powdered gray. “Have you thought about what you’ll do with your mother’s ashes?”
Aside from her aunt’s closest girlfriends, there’d been no one else in attendance at the crematorium service. Grace had stood next to her aunt dry-eyed and silent. She’d expected the theatrical blast of a roaring furnace but there was nothing aside from the quiet brush of heavy drapes closing. She’d expected her aunt to remain composed but Elizabeth had broken down in sobs, her small frame fluttering in a way the drapes could not. Afterward she’d adjusted the collar on Grace’s coat and cried some more.
Martha Nielson holds tighter to Grace’s arm and asks about the ashes again.
“I don’t know,” says Grace, staring at the Jeep pulling up outside the house. She turns in time to see Martha’s eyes crinkle around the edges into a smile.
“Oh, look who’s here,” says Martha, raising her voice and moving toward the front door, pulling Grace along with her. “Did you know Dustin was one of Walter’s best friends?”
Grace makes her excuses and heads for the kitchen. The counter is covered with plates of food and bowls of salad. A large ham sits sliced and ready to serve. She pulls the phone from its cradle and dials Jared’s number, but there’s no answer. Macy picks up on the first try.
Grace can barely speak. “Macy.”
“Grace, is that you?”
“Can you come get me?”
“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”
“Please come.”
“Where are you?”
Grace can hear Dustin’s voice in the living room. He’s not more than ten feet away. “At 23 Spruce,” she says, hanging up.
Grace ducks into the pantry and sits with her back braced up against the door so no one can get in.
Ten minutes later her aunt knocks. When she speaks she keeps her voice low. “Grace, sweetheart. I know you’re in there.”
Waiting for Macy, Grace has been doing a full inventory of Martha Nielson’s pantry. There are rows and rows of preserves: pickled cucumber, wild huckleberry jam, runner beans, elderberry conserve, sun-dried tomatoes, applesauce, buffalo berry jam to name but a few. All the labels are handwritten with a thin black pen. All the lids have bows. Grace pictures Martha in her apron, steam rising up from pots, working her fingers raw. Her kids are grown up and her husband is dead. There’s nothing left for Martha to do but make jam. Grace leans forward inspecting the labels closely. There are untouched rows dating back to the year Walter died. Grace plucks a dust-free jar of huckleberry jam off the shelf and secretes it away in her purse.
Unperturbed by Grace’s silence, her aunt continues speaking. “When you were little you used to hide in there when you were scared. Do you remember?”
“I just want to stay in here a bit longer. I’m feeling overwhelmed.” She’s more scared now than she ever was as a child. She expects her aunt to tell her to stop being rude but that doesn’t happen.
“Just know that I love you. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come out.”
She leans back and pulls a thin cord. The light snaps on and off like a flashbulb.
From her hiding place in the pantry Grace hears a dance of sensible heels break out in the kitchen as the ladies move plates of food from the counter to the dining room table for the meal. They’re all whispering. Grace imagines the knowing glances they throw toward her hiding place every time they walk past. Occasionally the deep baritone of a man’s voice cuts through the chatter but he’s shooed away when he tries to interfere. Soon the voices are muffled. They rise and fall with the saying of grace and they rise and fall with the telling of stories. Grace doesn’t need to hear anything. She already knows all of them by heart. No one mentions her mother, not even in passing, but Grace hears her own name spoken more than once.
Why don’t you try? Yes, that’s a good idea, why don’t you try?
There’s a scrape of a chair, footsteps, and the rise and fall of a voice she knows too well.
With only a thin wooden door separating them, Dustin Ash leans in close and talks at a whisper. “Grace,” he says. “Your aunt is dying. Who’s going to take care of you when she’s gone?”
“I can take care of myself.”
“By hiding in cupboards?”
“Go away.”
“You need to stop this nonsense. I won’t hurt you.”
Grace tries not to cry. “Tell me who killed my mother?”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Grace, I need you to listen carefully. The man who killed your mother has something of ours and we need to get it back.”
“My sketchbook?”
“He has the photos, Grace. He found them in your uncle’s office. He wants the money your mother took. Do you have it?”
“I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
“If I give him the money he’ll leave town and never come back.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“I’m the only one you should trust.”
“I’ll tell my aunt, she’ll help me.”
“Will she? I don’t think so. She lies to you, Grace. Did she tell you your mother called her last month? I know they spoke.”
Grace bangs her head on the door. “Please go.”
He lowers his voice further. “Think about what I’m offering. I can look after you.”
“Like you looked after Molly Parks and those other girls? Don’t try to deny it. I know it was you.”
She hears him take a deep breath before he speaks.
“I’m a lost soul without you.”
“You need to go get lost again.”
“If I go away there will be other little girls and they’d be on your conscience. We can make a fresh start, Grace. Just you and I. No one ever has to know what’s happened in the past. All this time you wanted me to come back. I know what’s in the sketchbook. He returned it to me. It’s all there in black and white. You drew my picture. You practiced writing your new name—
Grace Angelica Ash
.”
Grace has to put her hand over her mouth to stop a cry from escaping.
“I love you, Grace. That’s all that ever really mattered.”
“Tell me his name.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t do that.”
“I’ll do what you ask if you tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“He’s threatened to sell the photos if we don’t cooperate. Let me do this for you, Grace. It will be my way of making things right.”
Grace slowly slides up the door and stands. The metal handle feels cold against her palm. She can hear him breathing. It’s as regular as clockwork. He isn’t going anywhere. He promises to never hurt her again. He promises to look after her. He tells her that he is the only man who can truly love her. She changes her mind several times before she’s brave enough to face him.
She opens the door and blinks into the bright overhead lights but Dustin is gone. She doubles over and puts her hands to her face. Laughter escapes in nervous bursts. Stiff from sitting on the cold floor, she moves with difficulty. She brushes off the dust coating the back of her skirt. Outside in the dining room the lunchtime chatter continues. Aside from one voice, the remaining people are as familiar as a hymn. She listens. She wants to be sure he’s gone.
“Oh, there you are.” Elizabeth stands in the doorway with her arms stretched wide. “Dustin managed to get you out after all.”
Grace can’t look her aunt in the eye. “Is he here still?”
Elizabeth hesitates. “He had to rush off. That nice detective has just arrived though.”
“Macy?”
“Yes, but I think you should call her Detective Greeley. I’m sure it’s what she expects from all of us.”
“It’s okay, Elizabeth.” Macy comes up from behind Elizabeth and steps into the kitchen. “Grace can call me whatever she likes.”
“I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
“I got here as soon as I could. Are you ready to go?”
“I just need to get my coat.”
Grace feels strange sitting in the front seat of the sheriff’s patrol car. Macy checks her messages while she drives, and puts on the sirens to avoid sitting in traffic.
They stop at an intersection and she glances over at Grace. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
Grace takes hold of the handle above the door as Macy flies around the corner. “I was upset but I’m fine now.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
“Pardon?”
“Given everything that’s happened, you shouldn’t be
fine
.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s okay to be upset. To cry. To scream. To pull out your hair. To hit someone.”
“It’s never done any good so I’ve learned not to bother.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Jared told me about the trailer.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“Not this time, but don’t pull anything like that again.”
“He’s angry with me.”
“No, Grace. He’s worried. There’s a difference.”
“Did he tell you I tried to kiss him?”
“No, it seems he left out the best part.”
“I’m so embarrassed. I thought he liked me.”
“Don’t be. These misunderstandings are more common than you think.” Macy looks in her rearview mirror. “Are you ready to talk about what happened back there at Martha Nielson’s house?”
Grace shreds the tissue on her lap. “I’m working on it.”
“Don’t bottle it up for too long. It will just make you feel worse.” She pulls the car into the parking lot of the diner and finds a spot near the doors. “How do you feel about having some dinner? Your aunt told me that you didn’t eat anything.”
It’s after the dinner rush so there aren’t many customers. Macy chooses a booth near the windows before going to find the bathroom. “I’ll be right back. Order a diet soda and hamburger for me if the waitress comes by.”
Grace is still sitting in the same position when Macy returns. An unopened menu is laid out in front of her.
Grace stares out at the traffic passing on Main Street and tears roll down her flushed cheeks. “When I was fourteen I thought I was all grown up but I was just some stupid little girl.”
“We all go through that phase,” says Macy, sliding into the booth across from her. “It’s just that some of us get a little more bruised than others.”
“Nobody seems to have noticed how much I looked like Molly Parks when I was younger.”
“Give them enough time and they will.”
Grace rubs her eyes.
Macy keeps her voice low. “My theory is that the same man who hurt Molly and the other two girls may have done something terrible to you as well.”
Grace pulls her coat around her. “I trusted him.”
“That’s usually how it starts.”
“He took me to that house they’ve been showing on the news. I thought I was ready.” She looks down at her hands. “I actually thought I loved him.”
“You probably did.”
“I was expecting a cottage in the woods but it was nothing like that.” It was nothing like she’d imagined it would be. A single bulb hung from the low basement ceiling. The mattress was filthy and even though it was midsummer, it was cold.
“Was anyone else at the house?”
“I didn’t see anyone. It was disgusting inside. I kept on thinking that it was going to get better, that he had some nice surprise planned for me. Instead he took me downstairs to the basement. He went around turning on lights and I just followed him, not knowing what to do. I was more scared of the house than I was of him. He had me sit on a mattress that was laid out on the floor and told me to get undressed. He was so casual about it. I felt so childish when I admitted I was scared.”
“What did he do?”
“He did the same thing he always did when I was upset, he talked to me. He sat down next to me on that mattress and looked me right in the eye. He told me how much he loved me but that people wouldn’t understand so we needed to keep it secret for the time being. He reminded me of how many times he’d been there for me in the past and that I could always trust him.”
“I take it you believed him.”
“Every single word. Even now I still believe him when he says he loves me. In the last four years I haven’t learned a damn thing.” Grace looks around the diner. There’s only one other table occupied and it’s on the far side of the room. “He suggested it would be easier if I kept my eyes closed. After I let him undress me I sat there waiting. When I opened my eyes he was holding a camera.”
“He took your picture?”
“He took lots of pictures. I couldn’t stop crying. I didn’t understand. When he tried to kiss me I begged him to stop. I swear I got down on my knees and prayed.” Grace looks at her hands. She hadn’t realized that Macy was holding them.
“What happened?”
“I guess I was luckier than Molly Parks. He kept on saying how sorry he was. He promised he’d never try something like that again. A week later he left Collier and I didn’t see him again for four years.”
“You hadn’t heard from him in all that time?”
“Not a word.”
“Did he visit you the day your mother died?”
“He started coming round a week earlier. At first he just left letters for me at the back gate. He even wrote me a poem.”
“So the morning your mother died you got dressed up for him?”
“I was going to let him into the house but I changed my mind.”
“Is that why he killed your mother?”
“I swear it wasn’t him. Besides, he was more sad than angry. He said he wanted to be friends like before.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Yeah, I guess I did at first, but then I saw what was done to my bedroom wall. It was from a poem he’d written me. I hated him after that.”
“So you knew who did it and you didn’t say anything?”
She looks up. “Whoever killed my mother is trying to set him up. He’s never been in my bedroom.”
“You still should have told me.”
“He told me my uncle had the photos all this time. My uncle knew what happened to me and he never said a word.”
“These were the photos from the basement?”
“And now my mother’s killer has them.”
Macy leans back and watches the young woman across from her unravel. “Is there anything else you want to tell me? Like his name, for instance.”
“He has my sketchbook. I don’t want anyone to see it.”
“Grace, I need his name.”