“Right,” she said, rolling her eyes.
Trying not to be discouraged, he pulled out the foolscap copy of the story in the
Expositor
. He looked over her shoulder as she read, proud of his careful handwriting. When she had finished reading, she stared at Jim, her green eyes as big as moons.
“Now this is more like it. What did I tell you!”
Then he told her how the death of Frankie had affected his father, made him quit school. He told her what Everett had told him â about Eldon Fisher disappearing from town and then coming back a pastor. He stopped short of telling her about his father's hatred of Wilf Fisher.
Ruth Rose looked at the handwritten account of the fire.
“What do you think about the haunting stuff?” she asked. “I mean, doesn't it seem a little odd?”
Jim's eyes lit up. “Go on,” he said.
“Well, here's a guy so stupid he'd go light somebody's barn on fire and come home stinking of gas when there's a cop staying at his place. A guy so stupid he ended up lighting himself on fire. How'd a guy like that ever come up with such a cool practical joke? Let alone pull it off.” Ruth Rose looked at the photo again and poked the face of Eldon Fisher. “
He
thought of it,” she declared.
Now it was Jim's turn to search the photo for the clues that had inspired such absolute certainty.
“The Fisher family were from up the valley,” she said. “They came from Ireland. I've heard Father talk about this wake he was at when he was young, a real kegger of a funeral where the corpse is right there in the coffin, with the lid open so it doesn't have to miss any of the fun.”
Jim laughed.
“It's true,” said Ruth Rose. “Anyway, he says these guys at the wake rigged up the corpse so that it could really join in.”
Jim looked dubious.
“With
strings
” said Ruth Rose. “They attached strings to the arms and head, whatever â like a puppet â and then ran the strings up through the ceiling some way or other, probably through the heat vent. Then, when everybody was dancing and singing and cross-eyed with booze, these guys slipped out of the room, went upstairs and started pulling on the strings, so that the corpse sat up in its coffin and started waving its hands around.”
Jim could see it in his mind's eye. It sounded demented, all right. But then he had never been to an ordinary funeral, let alone a wake. There had been a memorial service for his father but there was no casket. No body at all.
“You mean the haunting at the Tufts placeâ¦the lids dancing around on the stove pots and the irons walking down the stairs â”
“Strings,” said Ruth Rose. “And him pulling them, I bet.” Then she looked soberly at Jim. “They must have all been in on it.” There was a look of challenge in her eyes.
Jim nodded cautiously. His dad would have been twelve when that happened, just a couple of years younger than Jim was now. And Eldon Fisher would have been about the same age as Ruth Rose, with Tuffy somewhere in the middle. The Three Musketeers.
Jim himself wasn't the practical joker type and his father hadn't been, either. He wanted to tell her that,
but the glinty lights in her eyes seemed to dare him to contradict her. Why did she have to make everything a contest of will? He had done all this research, but he wasn't even allowed to have an opinion. He turned away, tried not to be disappointed, angry.
“You don't want to believe it,” she said.
“I'm thinking,” he snapped.
And he was. Trying, at least, though she wasn't making it easy. His father had been the youngster of the group, just tagging along, like Everett had said. If he was involved in the haunting, that wasn't so bad. Except that it was because of the haunting that Francis was caught when he came home from starting the fire. So in a way, his father and Eldon were responsible for him being sent away to reform school.
Jim tried to imagine being sent away from home. How horrible it would be to feel responsible for someone else being sent away. No wonder his dad was so down when Francis Tuffy Tufts died. Down enough to quit school. It explained a lot. In factâ¦
Jim looked at Ruth Rose. “What if Tuffy got really bent out of shape â depressed â at reform school. Like he was pretty nuts to begin with, but being locked up pushed him over the edge. So he came back to make a point.”
“Make a point?”
“Suicide,” said Jim. “The fire, I mean. Like it was a statement or something. It was meant to make my dad and Eldon feel bad. Which it did, big time.”
He looked at Ruth Rose for encouragement. But she had turned her attention back to the article. Her forehead was wrinkled in thought.
“Or,” she said, “it wasn't suicide.”
Her eyes locked on Jim's. “They say Francis Tufts
owned up to being the ghost when he got arrested. He didn't point the finger at anybody else. Which could mean one, he did it all by himself, which seems pretty unlikely; or two, he didn't rat on the others.”
“Which would make them kind of owe him,” said Jim.
“Right,” said Ruth Rose. “You said your bus driver called Fisher a real wheeler-dealer. So what if he cut a deal with Tuffy? âYou take the fall and when you get out I'll make it worth your while?'”
Jim wrinkled his nose. “How would he do that?”
“He was rich, or at least his daddy was. Bet he promised him money or something. Maybe he was going to come into his inheritance when he graduated from college.”
“I still don't get why Tuffy would go for it.”
Ruth Rose looked exasperated, as if she were talking to an infant. “He was caught red-handed. He was going to jail anyway. So at least this way, he has something to look forward to. Except that when he gets out and comes back, Fisher tells him to beat it, or whatever. So Tuffy threatens to expose him â them, I mean, your daddy, too. Then, kazam! Tuffy goes up in flames. Pretty convenient.”
“
Murder?“
She shrugged, but there was a satisfied look on her face.
“So you're saying Fisher murdered Tuffy?”
Ruth Rose threw her head back against the couch. Jim was staring at her pale, thin neck when her head jerked forward again, and her eyes were filled with irritation.
“When are you gonna get it?” she said. “When are
you going to face facts? We're not just talking about Fisher, here, Jim.”
The insinuation was unmistakable. Jim blew up.
“Bullshit!”
Suddenly, there was a crash from the kitchen.
They both jumped to their feet. Snoot dashed past them, her hair on end. Ruth Rose grabbed a broom that was leaning against the wall and held it like a pike staff. They waited for another sound â the floor to creak, something else to break, someone to speak.
Nothing.
Jim sneaked towards the door and peered into the kitchen. Some crockery lay broken on the floor by the sink, supper scraps scattered all around it. This was a mystery that didn't take much to solve.
Jim turned to Ruth Rose. “I'll need your weapon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though his eyes gave away his anger at her. She was sitting on the couch again with the broom across her lap. She looked shaken, all the swagger and dark suspicion drained from her eyes. He snatched the broom from her.
He swept up the damage and then spent some time stoking up the fire, not wanting to talk to her, wishing she had never shown up. It was as if she wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel the way she felt. As if she was lighting a fuse and waiting for the explosionâ¦
When he returned to the parlour, Ruth Rose was fast asleep on the couch. Jim almost wanted to shake her awake, but he knew it would be fruitless. She was all done in. It was a relief, really. He couldn't go through any more of this with her now. His father a murderer: the idea was absurd.
After a moment of just standing over her, watching
her, he found her a blanket. Then he took the seat across from her. It was piled with his mom's sewing stuff and clothes in need of repair. He moved them aside and sat staring at Ruth Rose in a stillness broken only by the pounding of his heart and the steady rainfall outside. Even in her sleep, Ruth Rose's face was creased in a frown.
The heat came in waves from the kitchen stove. Jim found himself drifting off, his mind a jumble. There were a lot of ways to read the few so-called facts. And you brought to the facts what you wanted â what you needed to believe.
“All we've got in this God-forsaken corner of the county is history.” That's what his father used to say.
If only history would stay where it belonged, thought Jim. And with that sobering thought, he picked himself up, switched off the light and went up into the cold.
In Jim's dream, the Godmobile sailed into the farmyard without a sound, on a muddy lake of fall rain. And out of the car stepped Father Fisher, in his long black coat and with his black hat pulled low over his eyes, gliding towards the house, soundless and strong.
Then Ruth Rose was shaking Jim, shaking him hard.
“Wake up, wake up!”
Jim woke into the cold of his room with Ruth Rose sitting on the bed beside him.
“He's back!” she was saying, but it took him a moment to realize she meant for real.
He crawled to the end of his bed and peered through the curtains to see the van in the yard, its motor and lights off, the driver still sitting inside.
“What do we do?” asked Ruth Rose.
Jim got his robe from the back of the door. “I'll talk to him,” he said.
“Are you crazy?”
Jim didn't feel crazy. He felt scared. But he didn't want her to see it. She followed him along the upstairs hall.
“Don't let him in,” she whispered.
“Are
you
crazy?” he replied.
Something told him that meeting Father Fisher at the door was somehow a better plan than giving him the chance to break in.
“Stay up here,” he said.
Descending the stairs, he peered through the landing window in time to see Father crossing the yard. By the time he reached the darkened kitchen, Father was knocking on the door.
“I know you're there, Jim,” he was shouting. “It's an emergency, son.”
Jim flipped on the light and stood as tall as he could, staring out at the shadowy figure on the porch.
“There you are,” said the pastor. His voice grew friendlier. “I've got to talk to you.”
Jim approached the door and turned on the porch light so he could see the man outside more clearly.
His coat was undone; his hat hid his eyes.
“I'm not allowed to let anyone in,” said Jim.
Fisher rattled the doorknob. “Oh, come on, Jimbo, it's freezing out here.” He made a big deal of wrapping his arms around himself, shivering and smiling in a familiar way.
“Not anyone.”
Fisher held up his hand in a placating gesture. “I understand,” he said. “Your mother is a sensible woman and such a precaution makes good sense. But listen to me, Jimbo â”
“Don't call me that,” said Jim, surprising himself as much as he surprised Father Fisher. A convulsion of annoyance rippled across the man's bland face. It passed in an instant, but it was as if his mask had slipped a bit and Jim didn't like what he saw poking out from behind it. He stepped away from the door.
“Your mother is not being sensible about one thing, Jim. Ruth Rose is here.”
“No,” lied Jim without even the slightest compunction.
“Oh, please,” said Father Fisher, making no attempt this time to hide his anger. “I
smelled
her, Jim. Her perfume. She was here when I came earlier. I'm always leery of people who wear too much perfume. It makes me wonder what kind of stink they are trying to cover up.”
Jim rubbed the sleep from his eyes. There seemed to be some kind of stain on the lapel of Father Fisher's coat. Father noticed Jim's attention waver.
“Your mother lied to me, Jim,” he said. “That saddens me.”
“No, she didn't,” said Jim, no longer caring what he said. “Ruth Rose was here, but she ran away.”
Fisher looked exasperated. “When I arrived home, I found that my wife had also run away. I guess we've got ourselves some kind of epidemic. There was a note explaining how her mother had phoned and was ill. But, interestingly, when I checked Call Return on the telephone, I found that the last call had come not from her ailing mother, but from here.”
“So what.”
The pastor held up his hand and managed a patient smile. “There isn't time for games,” he said. He took off his hat and pressed his face up near the glass. He rearranged the mask again into a church-door greeting. “She has stolen something, Jim. It's that simple. I'm not going to harm her, I swear.”
“That isn't what she thinks.” It was out before Jim could stop himself. He saw the lights go on in Father
Fisher's eyes. “That's why she ran away,” he added. But Fisher wasn't fooled.
“This doesn't have anything to do with you, Jim,” he said.
Jim looked at the clock on the wall â 3:00
AM.
What could he want at three in the morning? He was drawn irresistibly towards the door, right up to the glass. This made Father smile even more confidently. But Jim was only examining his face. There was a cut, a bruise. Some kind of abrasion on his right cheek bone. His eye was half closed by swelling.
The pastor raised his hand to touch the injury. “I had a fall,” he said and sighed. “Young man, it has been quite a night, let me tell you.” He put his hands together. “Believe me, all I want is something of mine that Ruth Rose has taken. She can't possibly understand what it means, but I am sure she will have been quick to interpret it in the worst possible light. I must have it back, Jim. Please understand that.”
Jim stood in stunned silence. Ruth Rose had shown him nothing. Was she holding out on him? It didn't make any sense. Slowly he shook his head. Then he gazed again at the pastor's face.