Spinning the Moon (51 page)

I let the tears fall until none were left. My gaze roamed the room, searching for what, I did not know. Finally I settled on the gown I had worn the previous day. Delphine had hung it outside the armoire to dry thoroughly before putting away. I sat up quickly, the room spinning for a moment. Slowly, I slid from the bed and approached the dress. My fingers crept to the large patch pocket and pulled out the gold key. Reaching in again, my hand closed over something smooth and hard, and I lifted it out. I opened my palm and stared at the pipe, the smell of tobacco still fresh. I recalled John's puzzled expression as he descended the attic stairs and felt with certainty that I knew why.

I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
The pipe fell from my hand, landing with a small
thud
, and sprinkling dark tobacco on the cream-colored rug like spots of blood.

*   *   *

Soldiers came at dawn the next morning to take Elizabeth away. I did not venture downstairs, but watched from my bedroom window. I saw John speaking with familiarity to the captain. The captain squeezed John's shoulder, and I wondered if they knew each other from the war and if their friendship might bear some weight on the proceedings.

I listened as the soldiers scuffled their way into the parlor and began
carrying out the coffin. A man cursed and something crashed to the floor. With a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, I raced to the top of the stairs, clutching my wrapper tightly about me.

One end of the coffin had dropped, a deep gash in the freshly polished wood floor bearing testament to what had happened. The lid had slipped, revealing Elizabeth's face, her sightless eyes now open and staring directly at me. I turned my face away, more from respect for the dead than from any fear I might have felt. Despite the vagaries of my life over the last few days, I stubbornly clung to my fearlessness. If war, starvation, and grief had not yet killed me, then surely they had made me stronger. For seeing the corpse of my sister, her clear blue eyes coldly appraising, did not scare me. But what had put her in her coffin certainly did—if not for my own sake, then for that of her child, Rebecca.

I turned back to see John placing coins over Elizabeth's eyes to keep them closed. With impatience, he instructed the soldiers to seal the coffin again. They hesitated, and more than one remarked on the incredible preservation of the body. If not for the still chest, she appeared to be sleeping.

With the cloying scent of freshly hewn pine heavy in the air, they lifted the coffin once more and carried it out the door to the waiting wagon. I stayed where I was at the top of the stairs, listening until I could no longer hear the wheels rolling down the long drive. Before I could turn to go, John reentered the house and stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at me with a shadowed face.

“You look like an avenging angel.” His gaze swept over me, lingering on the almost-transparent white fabric of my wrap that fell over my legs and then moving slowly upward until our eyes met.

Unbidden, my pulse raced faster. I clutched the fabric tightly under my neck. “Perhaps I am.”

His eyes darkened as he put one booted foot on the lowest step. “What do you mean?” He climbed another step toward me.

I did not back away. “I meant that perhaps I am here for a reason.”

He did not drop his gaze but continued to climb the stairs. When he reached the step below me, we were at eye level. I did not blink under his close scrutiny. “Tell me, then, Catherine. What do you think happened to Elizabeth?”

I dropped a hand from my wrapper and reached for the banister behind me. “I do not know. I think we all must wait until we learn of the cause of death.” My pulse raced and skittered, but not from fear. What I felt was much more of a curse.

He was close enough that when he spoke, his warm breath pushed at the fine hairs lying on my forehead. “Do you think I had anything to do with her death?”

I could feel my own heart beating. The need to ask him again pressed down on me. “Did you?”

His black eyes stared directly into mine. “As I told you before, and as I will doubtlessly be forced to say repeatedly, no. I did not.”

He stepped past me and into the upstairs hallway. I faced his retreating back. “Clara Lewiston said you shot and killed a man in cold blood in Boston.”

Stopping, he turned around. “It was self-defense—which was proven in a court of law. It is public record, if you should choose to question my word. As for idle gossip, you are bound to hear quite a bit. Unfortunately, speaking ill of the dead is not something the people around here shun. I would ignore it all. Although some of the rumors might hold a grain of truth, I will not justify them with any remarks and cause a scandal. I want Rebecca to hold her head up high when she is old enough to care about such things.”

As if summoned, a door opened down the hallway, followed by the quick scampering of small feet. “Papa!” John reached for Rebecca and scooped the child up in his arms, holding her close to him. His face softened as he held her, the love and adoration he felt clearly etched on his usually forbidding features. He was undoubtedly the same darkly handsome man who had the disconcerting habit of stealing my breath away, but he was almost unrecognizable when with Rebecca.

He faced me. “You need to get dressed, Catherine. They want you down at the town hall for questioning. I told the captain we would be there before noon.”

I nodded and watched as he carried Rebecca back to her room. His broad shoulders cradled her head, his strong fingers gently patting her hair. Could a man who loved a child as much as he obviously did also be capable of the ultimate act of violence?

A movement from downstairs caught my attention and I found my gaze drawn to the large mirror in the foyer. I had taken off the sheet and had heard no more about the subject from Marguerite. Something dark and shadowy flickered in the depths of the glass, and I started. Surely it had been a trick of the eye or the reflection of a bird flying outside the window.

I leaned over the banister to get a better look and spied Marguerite standing in the dining room doorway and watching me with a smug expression. I straightened and went to my room without acknowledging her, the sound of Rebecca's humming suddenly flooding the house with its melancholy and mournful tune.

J
ohn helped me into the buggy and then slid in next to me, taking the reins. The roads were full of puddled ruts from the recent rains, the air thick and heavy. Navigating the road took most of John's concentration, and I used the opportunity to scrutinize him closely.

He wore an elegant coat of black wool broadcloth and a light gray silk waistcoat. A gold chain hung from the pocket, and I recalled that Elizabeth had purchased him a watch for their wedding and wondered if it was the same one. Being tall and broad shouldered, he wore his clothes well, his taut muscles discreetly covered but as obvious as if he were shirtless. I recalled how he had turned heads on his visit to Saint Simons. As a child of fourteen, I had been immune, but now, as a woman of almost twenty-two years, the physical force of his presence was impossible to ignore.

Staying as far away from him on the single seat as I could, I allowed my gaze to travel the length of his powerful body, watching the shift of his leg muscles through the fine cloth of his pants. I lifted my gaze to his hands, bare of gloves. I had felt the gentleness of his touch but knew also of their hidden strength. The fine muscles moved under the skin as he handled the reins, and I imagined those same fingers touching Elizabeth as a man would touch his wife. How would those hands have reached for her if confronted with evidence of her infidelity?

My gaze shifted to his face. Lean and tanned from his daily work on the plantation, it hinted of brutal strength and unforgiving words. But I had seen it soften as he looked at his daughter, and fleetingly wondered what it would be like to be the object of such a gaze. The brim of his hat covered his black hair and shaded his eyes to such an extent that I didn't realize at first that he was watching me closely.

Flushing, I turned away, an apology ready on my lips as the wheel
hit a rut and sent me skidding over to him, my hands greedily clutching his coat. He used his arm to steady me, my face pressed momentarily into the shoulder of his coat.

I lifted my head with a sudden motion, oddly disturbed by a scent lingering in his coat. I looked into his dark eyes and realized what it was: freshly turned earth. It was not an odor I would ever forget, having buried so many loved ones in such quick succession, as well as tending the barren earth of a garden that would not grow for me. I pulled back and his hand fell from my shoulders.

Flicking the reins, he stared ahead. “Do I repulse you so much, Catherine?”

I looked down at my hands, covered in the soft gray kid of my sister's gloves. Squaring my shoulders, I faced him again. “On the contrary, John, you are much of an enigma to me.” I took a deep breath, wondering if I should be thankful for my newfound confidence—a trait hard-won and not without its terrible price. “I have glimpsed a kind and warm soul in you since I arrived. But there is something else in you—something that battles with the goodness. It is like a dark shadow on your soul that you go to great lengths to hide.”

His hands tightened on the reins, the skin over his knuckles pulled taut. “I do not recall you being so outspoken the last time we met.”

I settled my back gently against the seat. “I was only fourteen when last we met. I have changed a great deal since then. Not that I think you took much notice of me with Elizabeth near.”

He faced me for a moment, something flickering in his eyes. He turned away again before speaking. “You wore your hair loose down your back, regardless of your mother's pleas to tie it back or put it up. You would walk barefoot on the beach every day with your sketch pad and your paints, and spend hours painting the birds and ocean. Your smile was open, honest, and genuine, and your laugh was like an ocean-born breeze. I found you intoxicating.”

I stared at his broad back for a moment as he leaned forward, imagining the play of muscles under his coat. “I . . . I had no idea. . . .”

“No, you would not have. You were fourteen and completely without guile. Since Elizabeth looked so much like you, it was not hard to imagine that perhaps she held the same blithe spirit.”

“And did she?”

He flicked the reins again before settling a dark look upon me. “No. She did not.”

I waved away a swarm of gnats that had surrounded my bonnet, hovering in the heavy humidity. “I loved Elizabeth—worshipped her, almost, as only a younger sibling could. Despite our age difference, I always fashioned that we were quite close.” I closed my eyes, recalling the look on John's face when he told me the child Elizabeth carried could not have been his. “I cannot help but wonder if I inherited my parents' adulation of her. She was so beautiful, it was hard to imagine her capable of doing any wrong. I . . . I wanted to be more like her.”

John reached out suddenly, grabbing my wrist, his expression firm. “Do not. Do not ever say that.” His gaze flicked downward toward his hand and he quickly let go. “Elizabeth was very clever and very charming. She only let you see what you wanted to see. Until it was too late.”

I turned away and stared at the scrubby trees along the road, not wanting to look at John or hear the truth in his words. There had been times in my childhood where Elizabeth had frightened or hurt me with her sharp words, but her charm and beautiful smile always made her easy to forgive, or at least made one believe that her actions held no evil intentions to harm or deceive.

Finally, I said, “Perhaps we are all like that.”

He leveled black eyes on me. “I think you may be right.”

The buggy climbed the road to the levee, the murky water of the Mississippi moving thick and lazy below us, chunks of leaves and debris from the recent storm dipping and twirling in a watery dance. It was so different from the salty blue ocean of my Saint Simons. For a brief moment I felt a stab of nostalgia, a deep longing for the way things used to be when I was free from grief and Elizabeth stood high on a pedestal to be admired and adored.

*   *   *

The town of Saint Francisville remained relatively unchanged in the years since I had last seen it. Because it had not been in the direct line of marching troops, it was virtually unscathed by the recent war. However, as was evidenced by the boarded shops and flaking paint on some of the buildings, the changing fortunes of many of the townspeople
were clear. Because of the new military rule descending on Louisiana, soldiers wearing the dreaded dark blue of the Federal Army marched around the town square, the weathered storefronts frowning darkly down upon them at the town's new fate.

The Stars and Stripes flew over the town hall, filling me temporarily with dread. I held tightly to John's hand as he helped me down from the buggy, feeling strangely relieved that he was here with me. Our gazes met briefly as he placed me on the ground, and I thought I recognized relief in his eyes, too.

While John was escorted into another office, I was led into the chambers of the town magistrate, an officer named Major Brody who had kind brown eyes and a warm countenance that calmed me despite the navy blue uniform. He waited for me to be seated before seating himself and calling for refreshments. I wondered briefly if John was being afforded the same treatment. I recalled the respectful greetings of the other officers in the building, many who seemed to recognize John and hold him in high regard, and I knew that he was among friends. I wished only that I could feel the same way.

The interrogation lasted almost an hour, each question asked with a gentle regard for my feelings. I answered each as best I could, explaining that I had not been in contact with my sister in almost seven years. I did not imagine I had been able to help much with the investigation, and wondered at my own hesitation to offer possible motives for Elizabeth's death.

As Major Brody stood to dismiss me, he asked one last question. “Mrs. Reed. How is it that you found yourself at your sister's house? I believe you live on Saint Simons Island.”

“Yes, that is true. But since I had not seen my sister in so long, I was quite desperate to see her.”
I need you, dear sister. I am so afraid.
I shut out my sister's words, seeing instead the dark eyes of John McMahon and listening to his denial that he had anything to do with his wife's death. I imagined him again with Rebecca, his smile soft and warm, and knew I could not tell this man about Elizabeth's letter and turn their attention in the direction Elizabeth might have been planning all along.

Major Brody nodded. “I see. So you would not have known that she harbored thoughts of taking her own life.”

I held my breath for a moment. “No. Never. My sister would never have contemplated such a thing.” I hoped that my doubts at my own words were not detected. Elizabeth's heart harbored many shadows, and I would never know how dark some of them lay. I held the man's gaze. “She . . . She was expecting a child. Dr. Daniel Lewiston told us yesterday. Elizabeth had been to see him the day before she vanished.”

“A double tragedy for your brother-in-law, to be sure.”

I could do nothing but nod. Would the mere existence of an unwanted child be enough for Elizabeth to end her own life? Or could having proof of a wife's infidelity drive a man to murder? I could not point an accusatory finger at John. Nor could I sully the reputation of my dead sister. Perhaps John was right. There were secrets best buried and forgotten.

The major showed me to the door. “If you think of anything, please do not hesitate to contact me. I am most sorry.” With a gallant bow, he dismissed me.

John stood waiting for me in the corridor, his tall frame nearly blocking the light from the large smudged window at the end of the hallway. Without a word, he offered me his arm and led me down the steps and outside into the hot afternoon sunshine. He helped me into the buggy and then we set off, the silence between us almost palpable.

Just as we cleared the outskirts of Saint Francisville, the buggy jolted over a rock. Something, presumably tucked under the seat and out of sight, was loosened and cascaded into the back of my shoes. I looked down and picked up the object, holding it gingerly between my fingers.

It appeared to be part of a wasp's nest mixed with long strands of dark horsehair. It lay on a small square of red silk, the fabric marred with smudges of dirt. It seemed to carry with it the scent of sun-scorched earth and grass as I held it, feeling the brittle weight of it in my hands. “What is it?”

John's gaze swept from my hands to my eyes before he pulled off the road, parking the buggy behind a live oak, obscuring us from any possible passersby. Before I could question him further, he reached under the seat and pulled out a man's leather glove.

His eyes darkened as he regarded me, and I shivered in the heat as
if a dark cloud had covered the sun. “I found it clenched in Elizabeth's hand when I found her. I think that's what made Rufus so crazy—he called it bad gris-gris.”

Lowering the bundle into my lap, I began to cover it in the red silk. “Who do you think put it there?”

He paused for a moment before answering. “Elizabeth.”

I stared at him. “Elizabeth? Why would she do that?”

He held up the glove. “For the same reason she placed my glove near where her body was found. The red silk is from a handkerchief of mine, and I have no doubt that the dark horsehair came from my horse. She wanted it to look like I had been at least involved in or even responsible for her death.”

I blinked in the strong sun, noticing the stillness of the trees around us. No breeze stirred a single leaf nor teased my cheeks. The air sat heavily on my shoulders and I could barely move. “So, you also believe that she took her own life.”

He sat as still as the air around him, the heat swirling over his broad shoulders like an aura. “I am quite certain of it. A week before she disappeared, we had one of our arguments. We were standing in Rebecca's room, arguing over something I cannot even remember.” He took a deep breath. “She told me she would rather die than live another day here with me. She said she would leave this place even if she had to take her own life to do it.”

I thought back on Elizabeth's note to me. Was this what Elizabeth had been so afraid of—that whatever desperation had grabbed her soul was bringing her to the brink of suicide? I clenched my eyes, unwilling to look at the despair that had hovered so close to my own soul since Jamie's death. I could not blame Elizabeth for her desperate act; I knew the temptation far too well.

We sat in silence and breathed in the heated air, watching the gnats flit around us. Finally, John looked down at the red-wrapped bundle and held out his hand to show me the glove. He gave a short bark of laughter. “Her final act of revenge against the man who could never give her what she really wanted—whatever that happened to be.

“It is presumed she took poison—something that is hard to detect and had some sort of preservation qualities to it. This would explain the
good condition of her body. Your sister was known to dabble in . . . such things, and would know which one to use.” He shook his head. “So vain—even in death. But I would not have expected any less from her.” He looked at me closely, and I did not flinch. “I have convinced them to list the cause of death as unknown. That will be easy to accept, since nobody had any real motivation to kill Elizabeth. Except for me, of course.”