The Sound of Glass (22 page)

At least Owen had scraped his plate clean, eating everything that was edible from his own lobster and earning himself a smile of appreciation from his sister.

Loralee balled her full napkin in her hand. “That was very good, Merritt. Your daddy never told me what a good cook you are.”

Merritt stood and started collecting plates. “That’s because he didn’t know. I started cooking when I was in college and never really had a chance to show him.” She avoided Loralee’s eyes as she took her plate.

Loralee touched her arm, causing Merritt to pause. “You didn’t need to stay away because of me, you know. I always made sure that I’d be away flying during your school breaks so I wouldn’t interfere. Your daddy would put fresh flowers in your room and make lists of things the two of you would do while you were home. I didn’t know until much later that he never told you that—that he just expected you to know that he wanted you to come home. To meet your new baby brother and spend time together as a family.”

Merritt placed the dishes in the sink, then looked out the window into the garden. “I guess I know where I got my stubborn streak.” She gave a little shrug. “And no, I never knew. It didn’t even occur to me, really. I just thought . . .” She turned on the faucet and let the water run over the plates in the sink. “He had you.”

Loralee tried to remember something her mama had once said about wanting to redo the past, but drew a blank. Probably because her heart hurt too much. “There was more than enough room in his big heart for both of us. And for memories of your mama, too. He wanted you to know that. He wrote you letters, but they all came back unopened.”

Merritt’s hands gripped the edge of the sink, her knuckles white. It was to keep from crying. Loralee knew this because Owen always did the same thing. She just hoped Merritt knew she wasn’t
accusing her of anything—there was so much hurt between Merritt and her daddy that Loralee never took a side. She just wanted Merritt to know that Robert had tried.

Owen, bored with the conversation, said, “May I be excused?”

Loralee sighed. “Not until we clean up the kitchen first. Merritt, leave those dishes alone. You cooked, so Owen and I will clean. You go relax. Gibbes is coming over later to pick up some of his boxes, but you probably have time to brush out your hair.”

Merritt finally turned around, a small smile on her lips. “You never give up, do you?”

Loralee beamed her brightest smile, the kind she’d always greeted passengers with—especially those traveling with small children. “Mama always said that the point of life was to spend it trying. Only quitters quit.”

Merritt wiped her hands on a dish towel. “And my mother always told me that the smartest people always know when it’s time to quit.” As she walked toward the door, she said, “I’m going to get Cal’s box to show Gibbes. I found it on the floor of the backseat of my car.” She paused as they both watched a reluctant Owen pick up the iced-tea pitcher from the table and move as slowly as possible to the refrigerator.

Loralee stood, trying not to lean too heavily on the table. “I guess we were both raised by a couple of really smart women.”

What could have been taken as a snort came from Merritt just as Owen yanked open the refrigerator door, then stood there, confused. “The light’s off and it’s not really cold in here.”

Merritt’s shoulders slumped. “Not that I’m surprised—that thing has got to be at least fifty years old. I just can’t believe it waited until tonight.”

Loralee stuck her head into the refrigerator, agreeing with Owen that it was definitely not as cold as it should be. “Mama always said troubles are sometimes a blessing in disguise. Just think how nice it will be to have one of those new stainless refrigerators.”

Merritt gave her a look that would have wilted kudzu.

“Can we get one with an ice dispenser in the door?” Owen asked.

Merritt closed the refrigerator door and waited a moment, then opened it again. The light flickered on and the motor started whirring. “Well, that’s reassuring. Although I think it just fired a shot across the bow. I’ll call somebody to come take a look in the morning, but I have a feeling we’ll need to replace it. I was planning on gutting the kitchen, anyway—just not so soon. Although it would be nice to have a dishwasher.”

The doorbell rang, and if Loralee had been a betting woman, she would have bet her favorite push-up bra that Merritt’s face actually brightened.

“I’ll get that,” Loralee said. “You go on up and get that box for Gibbes, Merritt.” She hoped that Merritt would take the hint and do something with her hair. The next time Merritt left the house, Loralee promised herself she’d go into Merritt’s room and burn every single one of those hideous plastic headbands.

“Owen, you stay here and finish scraping food into the garbage and rinsing off the plates, all right? I’ll come back and help in just a minute.”

Loralee looked at her soaking boots, then over at Merritt’s discarded house slippers. Before she could imagine what she might look like, she slid on the slippers, then went to answer the door.

Standing next to Gibbes on the front porch was Deborah Fuller from the Heritage Society, whom Loralee had met before. She greeted them warmly and held the door open. The sky behind them had brightened, yellow beams of sunlight struggling to get through the clouds even though a heavy drizzle continued to fall. “Looks like the devil’s beating his wife,” Loralee said as she stepped back.

“What does that mean?”

They all turned to find Merritt coming down the stairs, her expression wary. It was Deborah who answered her. “That’s what you say when the sun is shining while it’s raining.”

A crease formed between Merritt’s eyebrows. “That’s an odd thing to say.” A forced smile lifted her lips. “If I’m going to live here, I should probably get a translation dictionary.” She crossed the foyer to the front door, carrying a white shoe box with a dark blue lid, two rubber bands crisscrossed over the top to hold it closed. When Loralee looked closer at Merritt, she had to try very hard not to smile. The white plastic headband was gone, and her dark hair had been brushed over her shoulders in a perfect natural wave. It was prettier hair than most wigs Loralee had seen, and she’d seen a lot. She almost did a double take when she saw Merritt’s lips. They were the palest pink with just a little bit of sheen to them. Loralee smiled to herself, remembering the lip gloss she’d given Merritt, telling her it was SPF protection, figuring Merritt would need a practical reason to wear it.

But there was something in the way she approached Gibbes, a wariness that reminded Loralee of a person driving down unfamiliar streets without a map. Or a teenager on her first date. Which was strange, because Merritt had been married for seven years. If there was one thing Loralee had taken away from all those years of being a flight attendant, it was her ability to see past what people wanted you to see. She scrutinized Merritt, remembering the photos of Cal she hadn’t wanted framed, and began to consider what Merritt might not want the world to see.

“Hello, Deborah. It’s good to see you again,” Merritt said after giving just a quick glance and nod to Gibbes.

“Hello, Merritt. I ran into Dr. Heyward at the Piggly Wiggly, and he said he was on his way over. I invited myself to come see the nutshell studies.”

“Yes, of course. The sky’s brightened a bit, so it shouldn’t be too dark in the attic.”

“Wonderful,” Deborah said, her eyes darting toward the stairs. “I can’t tell you how excited I am to see them. I’m even hoping that if we can reach an agreement, you might loan them to the police department for educational purposes.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” Merritt said, heading for the stairs and then remembering the box in her hand. She held it out to Gibbes. “This is for you—it’s Cal’s box. I figure it means more to you than it does to me, so I want you to have it.”

He took it from her, then slowly rolled off the rubber bands. One of them broke and snapped back, slapping his hand. He placed the box on the hall table and lifted the lid. They all peered into it like they’d just dug up a buried treasure.

Inside was a dome-shaped bullet with three scored rings at its base, the lead oxidized to almost white, and a large steel bolt still connected to a jagged piece of blackened metal. He was silent for a moment, as if he were watching a movie in his head where he and his brother were the main players. “Yep. This is exactly what I remembered. I just can’t believe these were the only two things he thought were important enough to take with him when he left home.” Gibbes reached inside the box and took out the bullet, dislodging an object that had been stuck beneath it. A simple gold ring rolled to a corner of the box, then fell flat against the cardboard.

“I forgot that was in there.” Merritt picked up the gold band and held it in the palm of her hand. “It’s Cal’s wedding ring. He didn’t like to wear it because it interfered with his doing his job. So he put it in the box.”

Her fingers closed over the ring, and she seemed to be considering what to do next. “I should probably keep this.” Her tone reminded Loralee of when Owen said something just because he thought it was what his mother wanted to hear.

Merritt slid it into the pocket of her skirt, then led the way to the stairs, Deborah and Gibbes following her. Gibbes watched her closely, as if Merritt were a puzzle and he couldn’t figure out how all the pieces fit together.

Owen’s voice came from the kitchen as he sang the theme from
Gilligan’s Island
at the top of his lungs. They’d both become addicted to the old TV show when they’d seen an episode on one of the
children’s cable channels, and Loralee had purchased the entire series on DVD. They’d memorized the lyrics of the theme song just by watching it so many times, and when Loralee told Owen that singing sometimes helped unpleasant chores go faster, he hadn’t needed to be prompted. He would never be a singer—not that talent had anything to do with making records anymore—but the sound always made her smile.

She moved into the open doorway and paused. The rain had stopped, the sun glinting off the wet pavement and the river, the tips of the grass sparkling like tiny diamonds in the front yard. A rainbow arced across the sky in a brightly hued bridge, its end fading somewhere behind Lady’s Island. Loralee took a deep breath, her exhaustion gone for a moment. Rainbows always gave her hope—hope that something beautiful waited for those strong enough to survive the storm.

Loralee quickly closed the door so she could go write that down in her pink journal before she forgot. Or before she stopped believing it was true.

MERRITT

C
al’s wedding ring nudged my hip where it lay in my pocket as I climbed the stairs. I pulled open the attic door and waited for Deborah and Gibbes to go first. I hadn’t forgotten the first time I’d climbed the stairs with Gibbes while I wore a skirt, and wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

Deborah paused, looking up the steep, narrow attic steps. “Edith always kept the door locked, so I’ve never been up here. Not that I would ever go against her wishes, of course. She was a very private woman, and I respected that.” A small smile tilted her lips. “Mr. Calhoun never came up here, either, not that she locked the door when he was home. The man couldn’t abide a locked door.” She rubbed her hands over her arms as if she’d just had a chill. “I always wondered why she didn’t use the basement, where the old kitchen and slave quarters were, for her workshop. There was always the
potential of flooding, but it would have been a lot cooler.” She nodded toward the stairs. “But now I understand why. Her husband was a big man who was fond of his brandy. I don’t think he could have managed these steps.”

I scratched my head. “I haven’t even been to the basement—I’ve seen the half-moon windows from the outside, but they’re covered with dirt and cobwebs. And I know the door’s at the end of the back porch—which seems to me an odd place for it.”

Gibbes began climbing the steps. “When they added on the new kitchen, they didn’t enclose the basement door, although I have no idea why. I don’t think anybody’s been down there for years. I just remember how dark it was—with old wooden beams on the ceiling, and dirt floors. It would be a nice place to fix up—maybe a rec room for Owen.”

“It would be if he were going to be living here. Besides, if it’s prone to flooding, maybe I’ll just let it stay the way it is. Something less to worry about.”

Even to my own ears my protest didn’t sound very convincing. I hadn’t been in Beaufort very long, but even in such a short space of time I was finding it difficult reconciling the woman who’d sat in Mr. Williams’s office crying with the woman who’d willingly gone out in a boat, crossed a large swing bridge in a car, and worn a dress that showed more leg than some bathing suits.

I flipped on the light switch when we reached the top, then adjusted the air conditioner to a lower temperature and a higher fan speed. I still kept it on all day, but had compromised my need for cool air with my New England need to not be a spendthrift by keeping it on the “economy” mode when I wasn’t up there. Still, Deborah plucked at her blouse, trying to fan herself, drops of perspiration forming on her upper lip.

“It must have been unbearable for Edith up here during the hotter months. I don’t know how she could have stood it.”

I looked at Gibbes, knowing we were both thinking about why.
What was it about her life that made escaping into a scorching attic to make tableaux of crime scenes seem like a welcome alternative?

Deborah looked up. “It’s a sound roof, at least. It would have been a bad thing if it leaked. Imagine the mildew on the cardboard boxes.” She spotted the sea-glass table first and walked toward it.

Sticking a hand in one of the baskets of glass, she swirled them around with her fingers like a witch making a potion. “For a long time I thought Edith made her wind chimes to hide what she really did up here—from Calhoun. But she continued to make them even after he died, so I guess she probably had another reason.”

She peered out one of the attic windows and smiled. “We’ve had a few bad storms—like Hugo back in ’eighty-nine. Edith had to pull every one of her wind chimes inside so they wouldn’t become projectiles, but she always put them out again. I’m glad to see you’re honoring her by keeping them hanging.”

I felt Gibbes’s gaze on me, but didn’t turn around. I didn’t have the heart to tell Deborah that the only reason the wind chimes were still there was because I hadn’t yet found a ladder tall enough to reach them.

Her gaze scanned the room, finally resting on the makeshift shelves against the far wall. Recognizing what sat on the shelves, she walked directly to the first one and leaned down to see it more closely. It was a 1950s kitchen, not unlike the one downstairs, with a lifelike apple pie sitting on a windowsill, the real glass window cracked half-open. Four bright red apple-shaped place mats sat on the round table, tiny silverware and cups filled with clear cellophane in their correct spots. A braided rug lay in front of the sink, which was half-filled with what looked like soapy water.

The only indication that there was something wrong in this idyllic scene was the back half of a woman, dressed in navy blue pumps, a floral dress, and an apron, protruding from the open stove door.

“Ah, yes,” Deborah said. “I remember this one. A case from
Greenville, I think. I remember the woman was pregnant.” She straightened, a crooked smile on her face. “It wasn’t her husband’s. But it wasn’t he who killed her.” Pointing to the open window, she said, “Her lover thought he was being so clever coming in through the kitchen window, carefully removing the apple pie, and then replacing it so it appeared to be a suicide. He strangled her with the ties to her apron before putting it back on her.”

Gibbes shoved his hands in his pockets, his eyebrows raised. “But any amateur knows that an autopsy would reveal that she’d died of strangulation and not gas.”

“Yes, well, this was in the days before
CSI
, when the average person didn’t necessarily know the nuances of murder.”

I stepped closer, no longer as afraid of the boxes as I’d been before I knew what they were. Peering inside, I felt like Gulliver in Lilliput, examining a tiny world I was part of but wasn’t.

“The knobs on the stove move, and there are replicas of all the food items from the real refrigerator inside the model,” Deborah explained. “Edith was very good. I think Frances Glessner Lee would have been very proud to call her a protégée.”

“I’m glad she had this for herself. She must have found it very fulfilling personally, especially since . . .” I stopped, unsure where my train of thought was taking me, and unwilling to share it with anybody.

“Especially since what?” Gibbes asked.

I stepped back, pretending to study the shelves. “She seemed to do a lot of sneaking around so that her husband wasn’t aware of what she was doing. I find it rather sad that she lived such a solitary life even though she was married and had a child. And two grandsons.”

“My grandfather died long before I was born, and my grandmother never talked about him. But I don’t think it was a happy marriage,” Gibbes said.

I felt him looking at me but couldn’t meet his eyes. “Why do you say that?”

“Because there weren’t any photographs of him in the house. From the time I was aware of my surroundings, there was nothing of his still here. Which is saying something, because the house had been in his family, not hers. There was no clothing, mementos, baby shoes—nothing.” He paused, the air between us waiting. “Not even a wedding ring.”

My pocket seemed to burn, and I lifted my skirt away from my skin, feeling blistered.

Deborah’s excitement over the rediscovery of the shoe boxes made her oblivious to anything else, and she continued her examination of each one, exclaiming her admiration of every chair that reclined, every appliance that plugged into an outlet, every wind chime that sang.

“I really do hope you’ll loan these to the police department, or even the Heritage Society. There is a great deal to be learned here, and that can be done only if they are shared with the public.”

“Of course,” I said. “I really don’t feel as if I have a claim to them, regardless. I’ll leave it up to Gibbes.”

“I’m sure we can work something out,” he said. “Let me think about it and I’ll give you a call next week.”

“Thank you, Gibbes. I know your grandmother would be happy to know her work is still being used and appreciated.”

Sweat trickled down the side of her face, and dark stains appeared beneath her arms. She began walking toward the steps, having apparently seen all she needed to.

“There’s something else I wanted to show you,” I said. “I thought about asking you when we visited your office, but I got sidetracked. I’m not even sure this is related to the shoe boxes, but since it was up here in the attic, I’m assuming it is. Maybe you can tell us a little more.”

Gibbes retrieved the plane from its place in the corner and set it on the table with the sea glass, just as he’d done before. Deborah began to examine it, noting the oval windows and the people inside,
the unfurled steel around the hole on the side of the mottled fuselage that seemed pieced together with thick white papier-mâché and glass. Deborah put her hand to her heart, and I had the fleeting thought that I was glad we were with a doctor.

“Are you all right, Miss Fuller?” Gibbes placed his hand on her arm.

She nodded. “I’m fine. This is just such a . . . surprise. Did Edith make this?”

“We have no idea,” I said. “Although we assume so, because it’s up here, and from what we know, nobody else was allowed in the attic.”

“Except for Cal.”

We both looked at Gibbes, unsure what, if anything, that meant.

He continued. “There’s also a bag with the pieced-together wings and about forty or so passengers, some still strapped in their seats, each showing various injuries. Some of them with mud and grass stains on them.”

“Do you have any idea what this is?” she asked, her voice distant.

“According to Owen, it’s most likely a passenger plane used in the forties and fifties—maybe a DC-six. But that’s all.”

“That sounds right,” she said out loud, although it seemed she was talking to herself. “There was a plane crash here in Beaufort. It was the summer—1955.”

Gibbes nodded slowly. “That’s what the man at the antique store said—that the bolt Cal and I found in the marsh could have come from a crash that happened in the fifties. It might be the same one.”

“It was horrible.” She took off her glasses and rubbed them with a tissue she pulled from her pocket, as if she needed them to see her memories more clearly. “I was a little girl at the time, so I was protected from hearing about most of it, but I did a lot of eavesdropping on my parents and their friends. There were forty-nine souls on board, I believe. All of them perished.”

She continued to stare at the fuselage, a distant look in her eyes. “It was low tide, so the pluff mud collected a lot of the wreckage.” She swallowed, her hand on her heart. “Our neighbor had a seat with a passenger still strapped inside land in the marsh across the street from his house. The man was dead when they found him, but there were scratch marks in the mud on both sides of the seat, so he must have been alive when he hit the ground. Eight of the victims were never recovered, and two of the bodies went unclaimed and were buried at St. Helena’s.”

“That’s horrible.” I stared at the plane model with renewed fascination. “So this must be Edith’s attempt to re-create the scene.” Looking up at Deborah, I asked, “Did they ever determine the cause?”

She shook her head. “Not that I know of. For a couple of decades they printed anniversary articles in the local paper, but they stopped that in the nineties, I think. Even up until then there were always a lot of theories, but nothing conclusive. The final explanation that the experts seemed to agree with is that something sparked a fire in one of the gas tanks, which exploded just as the plane was flying over Beaufort. It was a hot summer—the hottest summer on record—and they think that might have played a part.” She thought for a moment. “I remember one of the newspaper articles mentioning that it was at its cruising altitude of twenty-two thousand feet at the time it exploded, which explains why so little of the wreckage was recovered, and why no definitive cause of the explosion could be determined. So much of the wreckage went into the river and the marshes and was then taken out to sea.”

She replaced her glasses on her face. “One of the things that struck me was that it wasn’t supposed to fly this far inland, but a little farther east, over the ocean. But there were some sort of military exercises going on offshore, so commercial traffic was rerouted. It added fifteen minutes to the projected flight time, on top of any delays they might have already had. I remembered wondering
whether that would have made any difference, if that extra fifteen minutes could have been the trigger or something.” She shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.”

I had the oddest feeling that I needed to warn these hapless passengers as I looked at them strapped in their seats. Like I could somehow play God and turn the clock backward. But I couldn’t, of course. I was like everybody else, forced to watch events unfold beyond our control.

Deborah continued. “One of the last articles about the crash mentioned that flight data recorders weren’t required until sometime in the sixties, so it was impossible to determine whether or not the pilots had any warning before the explosion. I’ve often wondered whether, if this had occurred just a decade later, we would have had enough technology to find out what really happened. It’s very difficult not having answers, isn’t it?”

I nodded absently as I squinted my eyes, seeing something I’d missed before. “All the seat and row numbers are painted in over the seats. I wonder if the dolls portray real people who were in those assigned seats.”

Deborah looked affronted. “If Edith made this, then of course they’re accurate. She never overlooked a single detail.”

I was barely listening, paying closer attention to the sightless people facing innocently forward. I noticed a woman with a pregnancy bulge under her dress, and a young boy wearing shorts and a jacket and tie sitting next to an older woman with gray curls and a neat hat. I jerked back, an unwilling witness.

Gibbes turned to me with sympathetic eyes. “I’m guessing my grandmother wanted to solve this mystery—that’s why the plane was put together in puzzle pieces and why some are still missing. Since she had an ‘in’ with the police department, she would have had knowledge of each plane part that was recovered and then made a copy of it. The pieces that weren’t found, she made of clear plastic.”