Walleye Junction (23 page)

Emma picked up the keys and turned them over in her hands. There was a metal heart with the letter
L
engraved in it. It felt strange to be holding something that once belonged to Lucy.

“I came across some homeless people when I was running this morning,” said Emma. “They were living in tents out near the footbridge.”

“I didn't think to warn you. Locals steer clear of that area now.”

“You just told me that the homeless were mostly families.”

“Yes,” said Francine. “But there are also addicts and people suffering from mental health issues.”

“So these guys were one or the other.”

“I'm afraid so. We're not heartless. We offer them counseling and a hot meal. Sadly, most are unwilling to get help. It's the war veterans that really break my heart.” Francine rose from her chair, leaving her untouched food behind. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”

They spread the contents of Lucy's art portfolio out on the living room floor. The work wasn't as accomplished as Emma remembered. Among sketches of landscapes and farm animals were a half dozen portraits of Emma that dated back to when they were in high school. She didn't remember sitting for them. They had a voyeuristic quality. She picked up a portrait that Lucy must have done while Emma was sleeping. She held it up for Francine to see.

“Since we know what was going on in Lucy's head at the time, this is kind of difficult to look at,” said Emma.

Francine sifted through the pile. “I remember them being better than this.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

The last sketch was more abstract than the others. The pen strokes were heavy. In places the paper had torn under their weight. A man stood with his back to the viewer. It appeared to have been set at night.

“Do you think it's a picture of Caleb?” asked Emma.

“Looks too broad to be Caleb.”

“He's carrying a suitcase. Maybe it's a visitor.” Emma held it up to the light. It looked more like a toolbox than a suitcase. “I thought I might go over and have a word with Dot Whitaker.”

“I told you to ignore what I said.”

“This has nothing to do with Dad. I want to ask her about the time Lucy worked for her as an assistant.” Emma leaned back against the coffee table. “Maybe if I work through some of my issues it will be easier to come back here to visit more often.”

For once her mother didn't disagree.

*   *   *

Dot's house wasn't as impressive as Emma remembered. The façade was a confused combination of different architectural styles. Corinthian columns were never meant to butt up against redwood cladding, and the large portico topped with Greek statues was completely out of place in northern Montana. Emma parked next to a fountain where a statue of a scantily clad nymph poured water into a pool filled with water lilies. Emma had dressed well for the occasion, in a tailored jacket and skirt, but her complexion was pale in the rearview mirror. She dabbed on some blush and puffed out her cheeks. She was tired of people telling her she was too thin. It was one of the last things her father had said to her. They'd been in the check-in line at San Francisco International. There was a section of wall covered with mirrors. They'd stood side-by-side studying their reflections.

I'm worried about you, Emma. You're far too thin.

She'd given her father a defiant look.

I'm eating enough,
she'd said.
You saw me at lunch. A whole hamburger. I even had French fries.

It's not adequate given how much you exercise.
He'd squeezed her hand.
Promise me that you'll look after yourself better. You're going to get ill if you keep this up much longer.

The sound of Dot's doorbell echoed through the house. Emma waited under a covered porch that ran across the front. Cushioned benches were set in alcoves that overlooked the sloping lawn. She spotted Dot coming along the drive from the direction of her studio. She wore an oversized flannel work shirt that was covered in paint and smelled of turpentine. She greeted Emma with a smile as she slipped off a pair of worn-looking clogs.

“I lost track of time,” Dot said. “Were you waiting long?”

“I've only just arrived.”

Dot led Emma into the high-ceilinged entryway and pointed to some open double doors. “I'll just be a second. Please wait in the living room.”

Emma had expected dark paneled walls and heavy brocaded furniture, but instead the room was upholstered and painted various shades of white. A series of framed oil paintings hung on one of the walls. Emma walked over for a closer look. She was surprised to see Dot's signature at the bottom of all of them. Francine had spoken the truth. Dot had gone over to the dark side.

The paintings featured a young girl on the cusp of womanhood. Rendered in intricate detail, the girl's face was partially hidden behind a veil of jet-black hair highlighted with a few strands of white. An eye was visible in one painting, red lips in another. Her nose was small and turned slightly upward. Her eyebrow was arched and razor sharp. Emma scanned the paintings several times, but the varying parts of the girl's face failed to make up a whole. In the first painting the girl was squeezed into a red dress with a Peter Pan collar. She sat on the steps of a mobile home, peeling a shiny red apple with a hunting knife's long serrated blade. Her bare feet were filthy and a sharp-eyed crone hovered behind the screen door. Though the girl faced the viewer, only her lips were visible. In another painting she wore a red hospital gown, but this time she held a bloody heart in one hand and the knife in the other. Her hair hung over her face like a veil. All you saw was one eye. In the third painting the girl had changed into a red baby doll nightie. She stood in profile at a locked gate speaking to an old man who carried red roses in one hand and a Bible in the other. Snow was falling. In the next painting the same girl ran barefoot through woods covered in snow chased by footprints that couldn't possibly be her own. In the final painting she walked toward the viewer wearing a red coat and matching boots. Her hair whipped across the front of her face. In the background the mobile home burned orange and red against a black sky.

Emma studied each of the paintings carefully. Everything from the hair to the grit beneath the young girl's broken fingernails had been rendered with precision. The hyperreality touching on the surreal reminded Emma of Andrea Kowch's work. There was a story in there somewhere, but Emma couldn't figure out what it was. She was so engrossed she didn't hear Dot enter the room.

“Do you like them?” asked Dot.

“Yes, very much,” said Emma. She stepped away and stood next to Dot. “They seem to be a modern take on Snow White, but I don't recognize all of the references. The author Angela Carter comes to mind, as does the work of Andrea Kowch and Andrew Wyeth.”

“Oh, this is no fairy tale. Grace Adams is very real. I was so inspired by the girl's story that I felt compelled to make something more of it. Hence the paintings.”

“Who is she?” asked Emma.

“Grace grew up in Collier, but I don't think she lives there anymore. Fascinating story. When her mother was murdered it was as if Pandora's box suddenly opened up. Who knew there was such evil in that town? It turns out a network of pedophiles and sex traffickers had been operating there for years.”

“And this girl was at the center of all of it?”

“She's one of the lucky ones,” said Dot. “As far as I know she's still alive. When the news broke it was all anyone talked about. Other people may have been attracted to the sensationalized stories but I was fascinated with the allegorical nature of the crimes. Here is a story that has been told since the beginning of time.” Dot pointed to the old man and girl standing at the gate. “There is death and there is the maiden. As she draws her first real breath of freedom he stands ready to snuff it out.”

“This is so different from the paintings you used to do.”

Dot straightened the frame closest to her. There was a wistful look in her eye.

“I used to paint for approval. Now I paint for myself.”

“Do you still have your gallery?”

“Only to support other local artists. I show my work on occasion, but it is no longer for sale.”

*   *   *

They had lunch at a table in the conservatory. The room was filled with dappled light. Two gray-haired cats lounged on a settee that was bathed in sunshine. Despite Emma's protests, Dot poured them both a glass of white wine.

“Humor me,” Dot said. “I don't like to be seen as someone who drinks alone.”

Emma took a sip. “Thank you,” she said, holding the glass up to the light. “I'm very impressed with how you've moved on with your life.”

“My divorce from Peter was just the kick up the backside I needed. I was finally free to do as I pleased. I hear from your mother that you've not settled down yet.”

“She thinks it's the only thing that will make me happy.”

“Surely, you don't buy into that nonsense.”

“I did for a time,” said Emma. “Now I'm not convinced. I have married friends who are incredibly happy, and I have married friends who are incredibly good at faking they're incredibly happy. They all seem to think I have a fabulous life, so I guess I'm good at faking it too.”

“I suppose there's a Mr. Right lurking out there somewhere.”

“You make him sound like a stalker.”

“Maybe a stalker would suit you. The magazines say you should keep an open mind.”

“Duly noted,” said Emma. “What about you? I'm surprised you kept the house after the divorce. It must have a lot of painful memories.”

Dot stared at Emma for a few seconds too long. It was that same dark look Emma had seen at the church service.

“Dot?”

Dot softened her gaze. “Sorry, I was a million miles away. That happens to me sometimes. I'll be looking at one thing but thinking about another. There's a series of paintings I'm working on. Ideas come and go. What were you saying?”

“I was asking you about keeping the house after the divorce. It must have a lot of painful memories.”

“Staying on has been a challenge, but this is where I raised my children. I want them to be able to come home to the house where they grew up. It requires a lot of upkeep so I've had to fight hard to make it work.”

“How are your children?”

“All grown up now. You were in school with my son Alex as I recall.”

“I've not thought of him in years.”

“He's not fared as well as my eldest two, but he's doing all right in his own way. He's a huge disappointment to Peter—his father. I take a more pragmatic view.”

Emma tried to picture Alex as a man but couldn't see it. He'd been one of the lost boys back in high school.

“That's really all you can do,” said Emma.

“Anyway, I may not have moved on from the house but I've changed it as much as I could. Made the corners less sharp, so to speak. Peter was a big fan of mahogany. I painted everything white.” Dot's hand fluttered toward a large wall unit. The brush strokes were visible. “Anyway, you didn't come here to ask me about my home furnishings.”

Emma placed her folded napkin neatly next to her plate.

“Since I can't deal with what happened to my father I've decided to obsess on something else.”

“And what is the object of your obsession?”

“I'm afraid it's Lucy Winfrey. After all these years it's time I finally tried to figure out what happened to her.”

Dot picked up the bottle. “I think you're going to need more wine.”

Emma paused while Dot poured. Emma hadn't realized that she'd nearly drained her glass. She made a mental note to slow down.

“My mother mentioned that Lucy used to work for you.”

“I'm surprised you didn't know,” said Dot.

“It turns out there were quite a few things I didn't know about Lucy. She was one person when I left for England and an entirely new one when I came back. In eleven short months she'd turned into someone almost unrecognizable.”

“Had she always kept things from you?”

Emma smoothed the white tablecloth.

“Not at first,” said Emma. “We were getting on fine until the spring of our sophomore year. Lucy was very resentful. She thought the sole purpose of the trip I was planning to England was to get away from her.”

“Was it?”

“It wasn't central to the reason I was going, but I did consider it an added bonus. Lucy was my best friend. We were incredibly close, like sisters I suppose, but it was a friendship that was shaped by constant drama. With Lucy it was all or nothing. Sometimes it was too much.” Emma drank some of her wine. “Anyway, it wasn't just her. I was suffocating here.”

“What have you got against Walleye Junction? It's pretty much like every small town I've ever visited. I doubt you've found a much better life beyond the county line.”

“Things with my boyfriend were also difficult. The expectation was that we would get married. I wasn't ready for that, but living in a place as small as Walleye made it difficult to move on. All I knew was that I wanted out. Going away seemed easier than breaking up.”

“Are you talking about Nathan Winfrey?”

“Yes,” said Emma. “He was my boyfriend for over three years.”

“So, it wasn't Walleye that was getting you down, it was the Winfrey family.”

“Seems that way.”

“Nathan and my son Alex were part of the same crowd. They got into a lot of mischief together and I'm convinced Nathan was behind most of it. He tried to make out that he was an all-American boy, but he could be a bit of a shit. Alex avoids him now. Blames him for a lot that went wrong.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”