It took several moments for Judy to calm down, and even then her hands were still shaking.
“There's no evidence at this point that anyone killed those girls,” I said as soothingly as I could manage.
“Don't insult me,” she snapped. “Don't insult God. God does not take away a treasure, only something evil will do that.”
“The girls were something special,” I had to admit, mostly to veer her away from her emotional gestalt.
“You don't know how they were,” she sniffed. “The first night I was ever in their house, had dinner with them, they were nothing but tads then. I was supposed to be the babysitter. We were all sitting around, looking down at the dishes and talking about this and that, and Rory spoke right up and said, âSo, Judyâpardon me for saying so, but you seem to be a midget.' I thought her mother would die.”
“Sara is easily embarrassed.” I grinned. “What did you say?”
“I let out a big old laugh.” Judy's face was transformed with the memory of the girls. “âWell, I'll tell you, Rory,' I said, âI am. That's just what I am, although most of us prefer to be called little people now days.' She says, âLike the leprechauns?' Her mother made her apologize to me but I said, âBeing little isn't a disease; it's okay to talk about it. In fact, I kind of hate when people don't talk about it and try to pretend it doesn't exist, you knowâI mean, I
am
shorter than
anybody here.' And Tess stands up and says, âI don't know, I might have you beat.'”
Judy looked up at me.
“Children get right to the heart of the matter, is my point.” Judy sighed. “They don't mind talking, don't beat around the bush.”
“I understand you were close to them.”
“You don't understand a thing,” she said plainly.
“All right, then explain it to me.”
“Explain what?” she growled.
Asking the right questions in a situation where you don't know the answers is as much a matter of psychology as anything else. For years I'd asked people as ornery as Judy about their lives the same way. I knew there was treasure to be had, but I didn't know what it was, or how deeply it was buried.
Ask a question, then be quiet and listen, I always used to tell my students. You can miss a lot if you're trying to think up your next question when the informant is talking.
“Tell me about Orvid.” I sat back. “You brought him up for a reason.”
“He's little, if that's what you mean,” she said, but it was nothing more than a statement of fact, “and he's what they call
albino
, white as milk. His hair's snow white, and his eyes are pinkish, and he can't go out in the sun long or it would kill him.”
“You met him in Chattanooga,” I prompted.
“I was standing at the bus stop in front of the Aquarium in the middle of the afternoon.” She smiled unconsciously. “There was a kind of a gang of young tough boys and they were bothering me. Big, tanned college boys from Florida, I think. They were drunk. They would run at me, and at the last possible moment, they'd leapfrog over my head. So close it would mess up my hair. I was scared.”
“Unbelievable. Were they saying anything?”
“Calling me names.” She shrugged. “I'd heard them all before.”
“Terrifying.” I shook my head.
“Then,” she said sweetly, “out of nowhere comes Orvid. His legs
are kind of bowed out the way a lot of little people's legs are, and he walked with a cane. It was quite stylish: a wooden stick near as high as he was tall, with a shiny silver knob at the top and a metal cap of some kind at the bottom. I was scared to death, but Orvid seemed completely calm and even looked at his watch to see what time it was as he came to stand beside me at the bus stop. He told me, real quiet, that the bus would be along any minute and not to worry. Said he'd wait with me. I felt better.”
She sat back, her smile bigger.
I had in my mind the image of the white-white, little man and the big, tanned boys leaping. I resisted the urge to comment.
“The college boys kept on saying things to us,” she went on, swallowing, “and I was afraid they might do something worse when one of them made the mistake of going to jump over Orvid's head. Now, I didn't even see Orvid move except kind of out of the corner of my eye, but just as the man cleared the top of Orvid's hair and before his feet even hit the ground, Orvid grabbed ahold of the silver knob at the top of the cane and drew out the longest, meanest-looking knife blade I ever hope to see.”
“The boy landed on top of it?” I leaned forward.
“Astride,” she said casually. “Orvid turned that blade up so that the boy was kind of frozen, straddling the blade, and afraid to move. The other boys stopped talking all of a sudden. I mean, I'm sorry to say this, but that blade was a quarter of an inch away from making that boy a gelding.”
Judy didn't look me in the eye.
“I was so scared, I couldn't speak,” she went on, “but Orvid said to the boy, more calm than ever, âDon't you think you should apologize to my date for scaring her?' and the boy said, right away, âAbsolutely. Ma'am, I am heartily sorry for disturbing you.' And at that exact moment the bus pulled up.”
She grinned at me then.
“What did you do?”
“I jumped on the bus!” She smoothed her hair behind one ear. “Orvid put his cane back together and followed me right on. We sat
all the way in the back and he escorted me to the house where I was staying.”
“You were living in Chattanooga?” I asked.
“Studying. I was taking my degree.”
“Really?” I leaned her way. “What was your course of study?”
“Dental assistant for juveniles,” she told me confidently. “That's my line of work.”
“And Orvid saw you home that afternoon,” I coaxed.
“And he asked me out right away.” She blushed. “I'll tell you what's the truth: I surely did let him kiss me that night. I thought he was about the most dashing man I'd ever seen, even in the movies.”
“You let a stranger kiss you?” I teased.
“A stranger is only a stranger until you get to know them,” Judy answered. “And by that time, they're a friend.”
“You've dated him ever since?”
“We're engaged,” she said, uncharacteristically girlish.
She held out her left hand and displayed a ring, antique, ornate, covered with diamonds.
“That's a family ring,” I guessed.
“The Newcombs surely do have money,” she acknowledged. “But I'm proud to say that Orvid works for a living. I help him with it, in fact.”
“What's his business?”
“Cutlery salesman,” she answered, mesmerized by the glitter of her own ring.
“You know that Tristan Newcomb owned my parents' show before they took it over from him,” I said, my voice husky.
“The Ten Show,” she drawled. “Yes. These Newcombs, they own near about everything, don't they?”
Her voice betrayed a vast suspicion and a subtle hatred. Both were common in Blue Mountain where the Newcomb family was concerned, but I found it odd coming from a woman who was in love with a member of that cursed family.
I steered myself back to the issue at hand.
“Well, I'm telling you, Judy,” I said, my voice a little flinty, “just as I told Lucinda: it's most likely that this was a terrible, terrible accident. No one tied them to a railroad track and ran over them with a train.”
“Bullshit!” she snapped.
I confess to being taken aback by such an adult word in a child-sounding voice. I started to apologize for the phrase
ran over them,
but Judy went on before I could gather my thoughts.
“Would
you
sit on a train track and let the engine run you down?”
“Not deliberately,” I confessed, “but if my truck stalled, the door was stuck; I misjudged the time I hadâif I had been drinking, say, or taking drugs.”
“Rory and Tess don't drink!” Judy stood. “And they don't fool with the drugs like a lot of these kids around here, so don't even start
up with that mess. Somebody's responsible for this, somebody bad. I have proof. I swear to God, I'll get the person that did this, and you'd better help me or you'll regret it!”
Her voice had gone shrill.
“I know you're upset,” I began, soothing, “and I'm unbelievably sorry for your lossâ”
“That's it!” she screamed. “Orvid!”
A dark form appeared in the doorway.
Orvid Newcomb was made of white fire. His eyes shone like lanterns; his wild, pale hair seemed to crackle about his face. He was dressed in a light green linen shirt, rolled to the elbows, and black pants. On his frame, the clothing seemed mythic.
He stood in the doorway, both hands on his silver cane, a smile creasing the right corner of his mouth slightly upward. As an afterthought I realized he was barely four feet tall; it was hardly the first thing anyone would have noticed.
I could not take my eyes off him.
“I've so looked forward to this meeting, Doctor,” he said softly.
His voice was hushed, deep, richer than complex Bordeaux. “He makes a nice appearance,” Judy said softly, “don't you think?”
“Certainly startling,” I managed.
“Take your pick, Dr. Devilin,” he whispered.
“My pick?” I still stared.
His pale eyes flickered, his smile increased.
“When Odin made the world and the sky,” he told me, taking a step in my direction, “from the body and skull of Ymir, the first giant, my people lived under the earth, master craftsmen, great artists in steel and wood.”
“Ymir?” I stammered. “That's Norse mythology.”
“Or would you prefer the
little people?”
he shot back, his accent touched with a perfect brogue. “Fabulously wealthy drunkards whose special art was, I believe, shoes.”
His stance took on a vague menace.
I exhaled and looked him squarely in the eye, realizing he was
testing me: a challenge. He was trying to scare me, intimidate me with his grasp of my own discipline. As luck would have it, I knew what he was doing.
“Right,” I said, settling back on the sofa, not rising to the bait. “I see show business is the curse of your family as well as mine. Nice entrance, though.”
He and Judy exploded in laughter.
“You have to admit,” he said, coming my way, “it would impress the rubes.”
“It's your easy-reference world mythology that impresses me,” I said, coming to my feet and offering my hand.
He grasped it. His thumb and little finger barely made it around my palm, but his grip was a vise.
“Odin,” he said, “the father of the Norse gods, killed the giant Ymir and made the sea from his blood, I believe. The bowl of heaven was his skull. I like this vision of the gods and my imaginary ancestry much better than the sort of drunken shoemaker dwarves of Ireland.”
“You do fit the Norse mold,” I answered, “if you had anything to do with fashioning the cane you have. The Norse dwarves had a genius for metalwork and jewels. That cane's beautiful, and, if what Judy told me was true, potentially deadly?”
In answer, he took a step back and drew a long, thin silver blade from the hollow of his cane. It was at least three feet long with one dull side and one sharp side, coming to a needle point at the tip.
“I did create this myself,” he said confidently. “Thanks for asking. Makes for a great demonstration at trade shows.”
“You said you'd been looking forward to meeting me,” I went on, taking my seat again.
Orvid put his blade away and sat on the table in front of me, his hand on Judy's.
“My cousin Tristan, who owned the show for which your parents worked, was my hero,” he began. “He stood on his own two feet, eschewed family money, made a name for himself on his own terms, and retired rich without help from anybody.”
“I thought you might be thinking about the rumors concerning Tristan and my mother,” I said directly.
No point in beating about the bush. My mother had slept with half the population of our county, and her most notorious liaison was said to have been with Tristan, giving rise to the gossip that Tristan had been my father. He had not been, my father was the magician Fletcher Devilin, but rumors persisted.
“No.” Orvid said slowly, “I don't think we're related, if that's what you mean, but we do favor one another in several ways.”
“I noticed that,” Judy interjected. “I told him so.”
“I heard, sugar pie,” he said sweetly to her, then turned to me. “But I've been looking forward to meeting you because Tristan told me so much about you.”
“He did?” I'm certain my voice sounded skeptical. “I only met him once or twice, when I was quite young.”
“He kept in touch with your mother for a long while,” Orvid said, a light in his eyes. “You might not realize how much your mother bragged about you to other people.”
“I generally prefer not to discuss my mother,” I told him, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa. “I knew her better by reputation than by experience, and her reputation remains something of a scandal here in Blue Mountain.”
“That's putting it mildly,” Judy said, grunting a single laugh.
“All right,” Orvid said, “I'll let it be for the moment, except to say that I've heard stories about you for many years. You're a strange, complex man, and I think that we're brothers of another sort even if we're not related in any biological way.”
“This whole matter of family,” I told him, clearing my throat, “it's not something I can talk about.”
He heard the clenched nature of the words, saw the tightened muscles of my neck. I watched him observe, assess, and decide.
“I only bring it up,” he went on breezily, “because I think we could work together to find who murdered Rory and Tess Dyson.”
I leaned forward a little, looked from Judy's face to Orvid's.
“May I speak freely?”
They both nodded, assuming I was about to reveal something important.
“I think, Mr. Newcomb,” I began, “that you and I are alike at least this much: we're both interested in helping someone we love deal with a traumatic event. Lucinda loved those girls, clearly Judy did too. I think the best way to help is to face facts: a train hit a car. Sad to say.”
“Ordinarily I might be inclined to agree with you, Dr. Devilin,” Orvid answered, inclining his head toward the darker part of the room, “but not in this case.”
“Why not?” I tried to hide my irritation.
He smiled indulgently.
“Because in this case, I saw the murderer.”
I managed a wry tone despite Orvid's insistent gaze.
“Have you told Sheriff Needle?” I drawled, smiling.
“That presents something of a dilemma.” Orvid's voice was calm, but he suddenly looked to the floor, as if something there had caught his eye. “He was there.”
“Skidmore saw the murderer too?” I pressed, still completely unconvinced that Orvid had seen anything.
“Not exactly,” Orvid sighed. “He was busy.”
“What was he doing?”
“Watching me.” Orvid sniffed and finally turned his face upward. “But that's another story for another time. I did see something, and I'm convinced that there's more to this situation than meets the immediate eye.”
“You saw something,” I said hesitantly, “
where
, exactly?”
“I saw something happen at the railroad crossing,” Orvid reported, “just before the girls pulled up to the tracks.”
“Another car?”
“No, I was trying to conclude my business quickly and had to fetch something on the other side of the abandoned station, but I could hear the girls laughing. I assumed everything was all right. The car sat at the crossing for as long as two minutes that way, and I think the engine was off.”
“But you didn't see any of this,” I said, absolutely certain he was lying.
“I had some business to attend to,” he repeated at a louder volume. “The next thing I heard was the train leaning on its whistle. Then the crash.”
Orvid shuddered without realizing it.
“You stayed to talk to the investigators, of course,” I said, eyes half-closed.
“I did not.” Again Orvid avoided my eyes. “My business was of a certain nature, a delicate nature, and I was not interested in explaining to the police why I was there.”
“Especially since Skidmore was there watching you.”
“Well, yes, but the train wreck distracted him.”
“I see.” I sat forward. “Is any of this remotely true?”
“What?” Orvid snapped back.
“Skidmore was there?” I ignored his ire. “He saw the accident?”
“No,” Orvid growled. “He heard it, exactly as I did.”
“Only he went running toward it,” I sighed, sitting back, “and you ran away.”
“Dr. Devilin,” Orvid said slowly, “it's really ill-advised to take a tone like this with me.”
“What was your business?” I asked him point-blank.
“That's off the point!” He stood, his volume cranked. “We have to get clear what happened at that crossing, what the girls were doing just before the train came! And you haven't yet heard the most salient fact concerning the sheriff!”
“Sweetheart,” Judy whispered gently.
Silence dropped over everything in the room like a sudden darkness.
“Yes, all right,” Orvid trailed off, realizing he was losing his temper.
Judy sighed.
“Different people,” Judy began meekly, looking down at her fingers, “deal with death in different ways. I look for who's to blame. Dr. Devilin has more of an acceptance of things, Orvid. Most likely the better path. Maybe we should let this go. It was just an accident.”
“You know you could talk to Lucinda,” I said softly. “I think she'd get a lot out of speaking with someone who loved the girls as much as she did.”
“That would be nice.” Judy stood. “I'll see you to the door.”
Orvid had locked his eyes on Judy's profile. He didn't move, but a razor-thin smile was on his lips.
As Judy walked me out of the living room, and she exchanged the same hint of a smile with Orvid, I realized that she did not actually believe acceptance was a better path than blame.
She had suddenly given up on asking for my help. She was just getting me out of the way, making ready to wreak her revenge.