Blackthorn Winter (24 page)

There were as many people who had hated Liza as there were cobbled lanes in Blackthorn, I thought. All those twisting, narrow lanes and high stone walls ... It was such a small town, and the architecture reflected the way people lived in it. A beautiful place, and full of charm, but also full of secrets.

Stop. Or be stopped.

My head ached. I pressed my fingers to my eyes, then to my forehead, massaging gently. The sounds of the children's play receded. When I opened my eyes, the low, wet clumps of heather and bare-branched blackthorns edging Castle Hill shimmered for a second, and then were gone. In their places were tall, dry beach grasses and scattered palm trees. Instead of the shouts of the Goops and their friends, two other voices—women's voices, I thought—low and intense, filtered through my head:

We made a deal and you're in on it. No backing out.

I'm
not
backing out—I'm just asking for a little more time to get the money...

You'd better come up with it. You have till tomorrow—

I can't leave my kid!

Oh, don't worry, I'll watch her...

I blinked, and the voices were gone—along with the palm trees and long grasses waving in the dry California air. I was sitting on a cold bench in a brisk English wind.

But ... whose voices had I heard?

And ... what was I remembering?

 

"H
ULLO
, J
ULIANA
!" My reverie was broken by the sound of my name, shouted out by a group of people heading up the switchback trail below me. I blinked, then recognized Kate, followed by some of the kids I'd met at the Angel Cafe—Alina, Brian, and Will.

I stood up and waved to them. "Hi!" I called. Panting slightly, they arrived at the top. Kate had been leading the way but now hung back. Alina and the boys walked over to my bench.

"Marvelous view," said Brian.

"Yes, it is," I agreed.

Alina sank onto the bench next to me. "Do you come up here often? I come alone whenever I get the chance. It's a good place to think."

"Alina's our village poet," Will informed me. "She's always writing stuff. Won a poetry competition at school last week, she did."

"That's great," I said. "Congratulations, Alina!" Then I glanced over at the ruins. "But I'm not alone. My brother and sister and two other kids are chasing ghosts."

"Remember, Brian? How you and Harry and I used to chase all sorts of villains up here?" Will asked. "It was a great place to hang out when we were babies."

"Where's Harry now?" I asked, noticing that Will's brother wasn't with them.

"With Duncan MacBennet. Got a science project for school." Will crowded onto the bench next to Alina. "We've got projects, too, but we're procrastinating."

"And since there's nothing whatsoever to do in Blackthorn besides schoolwork," Brian added tersely, "we wander the streets and the hills."

"I don't blame old Veronica Pimms for leaving school," said Will. "Sensible girl."

"Don't be stupid." Alina frowned at him. "She's gotten into more trouble
out
of school than when she was
in
school. You know, I do worry about her. She's working two jobs now, and it's all very well, but how long will she last?"

"She's got a sort of talent for getting herself sacked," agreed Brian. "Skimming a few quid now and then out of the cash register ... Poking her nose in everybody's business ... Can't really blame people for firing her."

"No," agreed Will. "She'd better watch out that she doesn't get herself arrested. Liza Pethering once told my mum she'd caught Veronica red-handed, going through her handbag! Ronnie had taken Liza's wallet
and
her keys, just as cool as you please. And then returned them! Some nerve, that girl." He sounded faintly awed.

"Well, at least she returned them," Brian pointed out. "It shows she's not really dishonest at heart. But—what guts!"

Veronica's boastful words came back to me:
I copied 'em, didn't I ... Silly cow.

Alina was frowning at the boys. "Don't sound so impressed! And don't you two start hanging out with her."

"Aww, come on," drawled Brian. "It's just so
boring
being good."

Now Alina laughed. "You're not being very good today though, are you—trying to escape from having to chat with your auntie Mary!"

She turned to me. "Brian's aunt drove down from London. She's not his favorite person, so Kate and I came by to rescue him. Then we found Will sloping off from the
library. It's that sort of day, I guess. Where you want to make an escape. Is that why you're up here, Juliana?"

"Not exactly. I'm just babysitting." I looked over where Kate was standing at the edge of the hill, gazing down. "Were you escaping from something, Kate?"

She didn't answer me directly, but just kept staring down at the village. "It's a lovely little place," she said dreamily. "And from up here it looks so peaceful. From up here there's no hint of all the turmoil. Funny, that."

I wondered if she were referring to the murder. I wondered if she had come up here to get away from her overbearing mother.

"No hint of gloomy Aunt Mary," added Brian with a grin.

"It looks so small," Alina observed, pointing down at the cluster of buildings framed by woods and ocean, "but there's a lot going on, really. A lot of people and a lot of stories. A lot of friendships and lives twined together. That's what's nice about a small village where everybody knows everybody." She laughed lightly. "I feel a poem coming on!"

"You should write one about all the angers and hostilities down there, too," I suggested drily. And then I told the kids about the warning rock left on our doorstep. Kate turned away from the view and looked at me with wide, surprised eyes. But she didn't say anything.

Brian did. "That's terrible!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry, Juliana."

"You would think that in such a small town," Will said, "with everyone knowing everyone's business, we could figure out who would do such a thing."

"You'd think it would be obvious who murdered Liza Pethering, too," I said. "But it isn't."

"Of course it is," said Alina in surprise. And Brian nodded. "Simon Jukes did it," Will asserted. "And it's a relief to have him locked up."

I looked over at Kate, and she was staring down at the village again, silent.

 

T
HE OTHER KIDS
chatted with me a while longer then continued their walk. I hung out until the cold wind was making me shiver, then rounded up the Goops and their friends and hiked back down to the village. It was good to get home, out of the wind. I hunkered down in the little bathtub and tried scrubbing the uncomfortable parts of the afternoon—the weird vision and voices, and Kate's hostility—out of my head while at the same time washing my hair. The bathroom was much colder than the rest of the cottage. And without a shower to sluice all the cream rinse out of my hair, I was having a hard time. My hair was long, my legs were long, there just didn't seem to be enough space in the tub, and the water from the silly rubber spray attachment was spraying all over the place. When I finally emerged from the tub, all clean but shivering, I still had to mop up the floor on hands and knees, using two towels, and wipe down the walls. By the time I finished, I felt exhausted. I thought of my private bathroom at home, tiled in sky blue with sea green accents, with the huge walk-in shower and adjustable showerhead with five different functions:
Massage. Waterfall. Gentle Rain. Mist. Pulse.
The bathroom had been designed and built by my dad, as had our whole house.

Dad,
I thought, invoking his name as if he could banish all my troubles. I wrapped up in a towel and sidled out of the bathroom and through the kitchen, peering around corners to make sure the coast was clear before dashing up the stairs to my bedroom. I put on a black skirt and my fleecy sweatshirt, combed out my hair and braided it into one long tail while it was still wet, and stood there staring into the mirror, wondering whether Duncan thought I was pretty. Should I wear makeup?

Then came a knock on the front door and yodeling from the Goops as they welcomed Duncan. I smeared on a little lip gloss. That would have to be enough in the glamour department.

We walked across Blackthorn in the dark, in the cold. No rain so far tonight, but the air felt thick and smelled salty. Duncan didn't have much to say, but his shoulder jostled mine companionably as we walked. "Is Kate coming, too?" I asked as we arrived at his grandparents' house.

"No," Duncan told me shortly. "She couldn't be persuaded."

"Sorry."

"Not a problem," he said, and opened the Coopers' front door. "Come on in. Grandad and Granny are glad you're joining us."

I stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in stifling heat. The small sitting room had a fire lit in the grate
and
an electric space heater glowing in the center of the room. I shrugged out of my jacket as fast as I could.

Dudley Cooper, wearing a woolen vest over a longsleeved flannel shirt, came to greet me. His wife, also dressed warmly in a wool skirt and sweater (
jumper,
Mom had told me it was called here), was right behind him. "We're so glad
you could come, dear," she said to me in her sweet, quavery voice. "It's so good for Duncan to have someone new as his taste tester. It's all very well to learn to cook when you're just feeding family members, right, Dunk-o? But it's much more of a challenge, feeding a pretty girl!"

"Oh, Granny," Duncan said, reddening. "Well, we'll see if she likes it." Then to me he added, "I hope you're hungry!"

"Ravenous," I said, and it was the truth. But before I could be led into the dining room for the meal, Hazel Cooper patted the couch and smiled at me.

"Come sit here by me on the settee, dear," she said invitingly.

So I had to stay in that stifling room and chat with the Coopers while Duncan holed up in the kitchen making last-minute preparations. A large yellow cat leaped up onto my lap and settled down without any proper introductions. Hazel Cooper laughed.

"Well, now, that's Parsley. He's our old puss, and a good boy he is. We've had him since he was a kitten, and do you know? He's nearly eighteen years old, best we can figure. Eighteen! Have you ever heard of a cat living that long? And look how healthy he is! You're a lovely old puss, you are," she said, and reached over to pat the cat. I stroked his head and he started purring hard.

Dudley Cooper leaned toward me from his armchair. "Ah, a cat person. Cat people are always welcome here. Do you and your brother and sister have cats at home?"

"No," I said. "But we want a dog. So far our parents keep saying no."

"Try asking for a cat," advised Mrs. Cooper. "They're much cleaner."

Politely I said I might do that.

"So," said Mr. Cooper after a moment of silence during which I continued to stroke Parsley's head, "Dunk-o tells me you've received a threatening message. I'm sorry there's some anti-American sentiment in Britain, though you'll find most people don't share that feeling."

"I know," I said. "I don't really think the rock was left because we're American."

"Oh?" queried Mrs. Cooper.

"I think it's to do with the murder."

"Ah," said Mr. Cooper.

"That Simon Jukes is a bad 'un," Mrs. Cooper said comfortably. "I remember him as a lad—always had something up his sleeve. Always causing trouble, one way or t'other."

"But no doubt he'll be out on the streets of Blackthorn soon enough," added Mr. Cooper. "Soon as our American detective finds someone else to lock up in his place." He smiled slyly at his wife, then looked back at me. "Duncan tells us you're not convinced that Jukes is the murderer. Do you have a suspect in mind, dear girl?"

"Well, not really," I hedged. I could feel an air of suppressed excitement in the overheated room. "Do
you
have a suspect?"

Mr. Cooper shrugged. "I think enquiries into the case are best left to the professionals. The police are investigating, and in time all will become clear."

Mrs. Cooper coughed behind her hand. Her husband looked over at her with raised eyebrows. "I was just thinking," she told him softly, "about all the damage that Pethering woman did to our family. We're well rid of her, I don't mind saying."

"Now, Hazel," Mr. Cooper cautioned her. "All that happened a long time ago."

"It feels like yesterday," she said. I noticed her hands were never still. They moved in her lap, straining together, fingers wringing fingers. She turned to me. "One thing leads to another," she repeated. "You've got to watch out because any one little thing you do sets another in motion—and then you've got a chain of events unfolding."

"Like dominoes?" I ventured. I wasn't sure where this conversation was going. I hoped Duncan was nearly finished with his dinner preparations.

"Exactly!" Mrs. Cooper nodded at me. "The domino effect, exactly. You see, one day Liza Pethering met an Argentinian dancer in London and struck up a friendship. The woman was probably a stripper—and a prostitute—"

"Now, Hazel darling," Mr. Cooper interrupted. "Eliana was from Brazil, not Argentina. And we don't know she was a ... lady of the evening. We don't know that for sure."

His wife ignored him. She reached over and put a trembling hand on my knee. "That meeting in London was the first domino tipping over," she whispered harshly. "And it led to the others falling, too. Because next thing anybody knew, Liza invited this 'lady of the evening' dancer friend here to Blackthorn. To have her portrait painted! And all hell broke loose."

"She took to sitting in the pub every evening," Mr. Cooper reported, leaning in closer to me. "And Ian—that was our Nora's husband, you know, and Duncan's dad—was a regular at the pub. So he met Eliana. And then—"

"More dominoes," said Mrs. Cooper. "Ian started
sneaking out to be with that tart! Sneaking out on our Nora, can you imagine!"

"But that can't be Liza's fault, really," I felt I had to protest.

"Perhaps not at first," Mrs. Cooper allowed, "but Liza helped them get together! She invited Ian to use her gallery as a trysting spot! Knowing all the while that her old friend Nora was thinking Ian was at work."