The Seeker: A Mystery at Walden Pond Page 6

  “Thanks.” The lightest anger simmered at the fact Joe had dragged Karla into even the fringes of my world. “I need a Karla in my life. Things are just too calm.” My sarcasm was clear.

  His grip on my hand tightened. “I’m sorry. Honestly, I haven’t seen her in months. I broke it off with her that night. I haven’t responded to her phone calls, e-mails, or texts. I’ve done everything I know to make it clear I have no interest in seeing her.”

  Great, Karla was an obsessive, psycho witch. Then I realized I was being unfair. Hell, my entire family was as irrational and crazy as Karla. That was the pot calling the kettle black. “Don’t worry about it. I can handle myself.”

  “Let’s hope Karla stays in my past where she belongs.” He turned my hand over, studying the palm. “I was sweet on her. I admit it. Makes you wonder if you ever really know another person. I mean behind the mask, beneath the public skin that everyone wears. Every single one of us is capable of things we never suspect until the moment is upon us.”

  10

  I heard nothing from Joe for a week. Thoughts of him interrupted my work. The weather held, crisp and beautiful. Instead of my morning walk around Walden Pond to connect with my muse—I didn’t want to appear to chase after Joe—I stayed in the cabin or wandered the inn’s grounds.

  The date had concluded satisfactorily. He brought me home and walked me to the door. He’d kissed my cheek, his lips lingering before they brushed over my lips. And he’d left.

  Had I done something wrong? Had I said something to push Joe away? The foolish questions of my insecure inner child niggled in my brain.

  Dorothea didn’t help. She asked me every morning at breakfast if Joe and I had plans for the evening.

  “He’s smitten with you, that much is clear to see,” she said on the sixth morning as she poured coffee into my cup. “I just wonder why he’s not knocking on your door. That boy has always been a little on the strange side.”

  “I have more important things to worry about than my dating life.” I sounded as priggish and stupid as a dime-novel heroine.

  “Yeah, I see that.” Dorothea winked at me. “You’re wandering around like a moonstruck teenager. I don’t miss much. And I see how Patrick sniffs after you. He’s a good kid, but he likes to fancy himself a real Don Juan. Don’t hurt him. He’s got it bad for you.”

  “He’s a kid.”

  “And a fanciful one at that. He thinks playing the great lover would make him a man. He’ll get his heart broken if he isn’t careful. Just be aware he’s built up a fantasy around you. He’s pretty naïve. He’ll swagger and talk big about his conquests, but the reality is he’s inexperienced. And he is sweet on you. First love is always painful.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for letting me know the score.”

  “Now Joe, he’s perfect for you. Women today go on and on about career,” she said. “But when push comes to shove, we all want a man we can rely on. The yin to our yang, the fish to our chips, if you get my drift. We desire the other, the essential completion of ourselves into a whole. I look at Joe, and I see the things you lack.” She winked again and went on her way.

  After I finished my breakfast, I struck out for town on foot. I needed copy paper, a new ink cartridge for my printer, and a few simple office supplies. My solitary wanderings had begun to yield results. The thesis was taking shape. Once it was outlined, I would turn to finding sources to prove Bonnie’s existence.

  The day was brisk and sunny with white clouds scuppering across a deep blue sky. I yearned for Walden Pond, but I had chores to do, and I didn’t want Joe to think I was stalking him. Perhaps I’d end up in a story he told his next date about an avid academician who simply couldn’t bear to let him go.

  His comments about Karla were not unkind, but his demeanor had been clear—he didn’t want her and she refused to accept it. Pathetic was a worse label than prude. Karla was pathetic.

  All the same, once I invoked Karla’s name, I couldn’t shake the idea he’d spent time with her recently. He said she was unstable, which was often code for sexually exciting. Unstable people lacked the inhibitions and restraints of normal people.

  The cuticle of my ring finger beaded with bright red blood. Fretting, I’d picked it to the quick. I had to switch my mind off Joe and Karla. Determined to regain control of my mental energy, I entered an office supply store. Ten minutes later, an ink cartridge, highlighting pens in several colors, gel-tip black pens, clips, and Post-it notes were snuggled in a recyclable shopping bag. Not a huge haul, but enough of a financial setback to make me hesitate over an expensive coffee and sticky bun at the Honey Bea. The sacrifices I made for my education!

  While I was in town, I ambled over to Cassidy’s Vintage Resale. I loved vintage clothing, and New England had the best shops I’d ever seen. Most mountain people in Kentucky were poor. Dresses were utilitarian by design and worn out by the number of hand-me-downs. A Sunday dress might last three generations in the same family.

  Photos of my female relatives showed women with clear gray eyes, glossy dark hair, high cheekbones, long-fingered hands, and severe dresses, none with the slightest frill. “Pretty for the sake of pretty” seemed to be considered sinful. The Cahill clan nurtured some farfetched ideas about sin and redemption. In between the two, the Cahill Curse waited to spring upon the unsuspecting.

  The dress shop smelled of lavender soap and vanilla. I migrated to a sale rack, where a beautiful sage-green silk dress caught my eye. The ruched bodice was tucked with tiny pearls, and the hem floated free and swingy above the ankle. Holding it against my chest, I consulted a mirror.

  “It’s the perfect color for your eyes,” the saleswoman said with a well-aimed strike at my weakness. The dress brought out the dark green streaks in my irises, my one vanity.

  “Thanks.” I checked the tag and put it back on the rack. Right size, wrong price.

  “If you lived in Salem two hundred years ago, you’d find yourself hanging at the end of a rope.” The clerk laughed nervously. “It’s your eyes. During the witch trials, people were hanged for a lot less than unusual eye color.” She went behind the counter and brought out a book on Salem’s infamous witch trials and hangings. “Sorry, it’s been slow today and I’ve been reading too much.”

  She was my age or maybe younger, a pert woman with dimples and smooth, pink skin. Her make-up was elegant and understated. The ring on her finger told me she had both a career and a private life. “Innocent men and women were murdered, all in the name of stopping Satan.” She opened the book and read: “To spot a witch you must look for the mark of Satan upon her body. A mole or mark, a crooked finger, the unusual coloration of the eyes.” She put the book down. “Beautiful could get you in a lot of trouble, I guess.”

  I cast a glance in the mirror. The dress seemed to focus the light directly into my eyes. Maybe a spell had been cast on it. “And I thought green eyes weren’t unusual.”

  She shrugged. “Any reason was good enough to accuse someone of consorting with demons and the devil. Green eyes like yours, marbled with light and dark. Pretty extraordinary.”

  “Good to know. I’ll steer clear of Salem.”

  She laughed, a bubbly sound of fun. “The witch trials were a long time ago. 1700s, I think.”

  “Actually, the witch trials were held from 1688 through 1692, and in many cases they were about property.” I’d researched this topic in gender studies classes. “The women who died were mostly land-owning widows. The cheapest route to land acquisition was to accuse them of witchcraft and steal their property for a pittance when they were dead.”

  The sales clerk frowned. “That’s not in the history books. Not this one, anyway.”

  “History is written by the victors. The dead women didn’t have a chance to tell their side of the story. At any rate, allowing hysterical children to testify against helpless widows eventually backfired. When the children began accusing the rich, the trials were shut down.”

  She studied
me openly. “You’re not from here, but you sure know a lot. Are you a teacher?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet.”

  “You have a funny accent.”

  I’d tried to eradicate backwoods Kentucky from my diction, but not as successfully as I’d hoped. My “hick” accent had made me a target in boarding school and even into my undergraduate years. Reading aloud in class was comparable to taking a beating.

  Now, I didn’t care. My accent, though diluted by years of Massachusetts, was a point of pride. Perhaps I’d go back to a good school in the South. Emerson or Duke or Tulane in the City that Care Forgot. Anywhere but Kentucky.

  “I’m from Harlan County, Kentucky,” I said with a rural twang.

  “But you’re smart.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

  “No need to apologize for falling victim to a stereotype.” I’d become immune to people’s accidental cruelty.

  “Try the dress on.” She’d wisely moved to a new topic.

  I slipped it from the rack, held it up to my chest, and stared at my image in the tri-fold mirror. If I put it on, I’d have to own it. The dress was that gorgeous. Better to walk away now. I had no occasion for such elegance.

  “You won’t know if you don’t try it on. I might see my way clear to marking it down another twenty percent.”

  The dressing room was large, with a chair and three mirrors. My fingers slowly worked the pearl buttons, and soon the dress floated down over my head. I stepped out to see how I moved in it.

  “It’s perfect.” Awe inflected the clerk’s tone. “As if it were made for you.”

  The mirror agreed. Nothing I’d ever worn had shown my hair, skin, eyes, and figure to better advantage. “I’ll take it.”

  How I would pay my credit card bill at the end of the month was another matter, but when I left the shop, the dress was in a box under my arm.

  I window-shopped at the hardware store and the pharmacy, where Christmas ornaments had already nudged Thanksgiving aside.

  “Hey! Hey, you! Bitch!”

  I turned to see Karla striding toward me. She wore black tights, high-heeled boots, and a purple coat with fake purple fur around the hood. I assumed she wore a skirt of some kind, but I couldn’t swear to it. Micro-mini?

  I ignored her and moved down to a florist’s window, all a-dazzle with glittery red, green, and white sparkling bows and red and white poinsettias.

  “Bitch, don’t walk away when I’m calling you.”

  I didn’t want to, but I faced her. She was alone, and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

  “So you’re the one Joe has taken up with.”

  “You should speak to him.” I did an about-face and started walking.

  She caught up to me and gripped my upper arm with enough strength to bite through my thick jacket. “If I wanted to talk to Joe, I’d be in his face. I’m speaking to you. It’s a pretty simple message. Stay away from him.”

  “Or what?” I wrenched loose and put my packages down at my feet. Anger simmered, a silvery liquid coursing through my body. I hadn’t grown up with brothers, but I’d had cousins, and I’d learned to protect myself. Fighting was a survival tool.

  “I’ll kick your ass back to whatever redneck place you came from.” Karla clenched her fists.

  “Give it your best shot.” I spoke softly, a deceptive tactic my cousin Wally taught me in grade school. Lure them closer, then cut loose.

  “You daring me?” Karla was smart enough to be wary. She’d expected me to run.

  “Yeah. I am. You want to start shit with me, bring it on. Right now.” I hadn’t been in a fight since my first year at boarding school. The girl who’d jumped me went home and never came back. She had to be fitted for a bridge.

  Karla edged sideways instead of forward, as if to corner me. “Stay away from Joe. That’s what I want to tell you.”

  All bluff and no action. I bent down for my packages. The blow to the back of my neck was unexpected, and painful. Only the thickness of my coat collar saved me from serious injury.

  I forced myself upright and punched her hard in the face. There was a crack and blood blossomed on her face. Her squawk sounded like a mortally wounded seagull. I stood and watched as she sank to the sidewalk. Someone started screaming, and people ran out of shops and then stopped, unsure what to do.

  “Press charges,” I told Karla, “and I’ll make it a point to find you.” I picked up my packages and headed back toward the inn.

  “You think you know Joe.” Her voice was blubbery from blood, snot, and tears. “Ask him about Mischa. Just ask him.”

  11

  By the time I reached the inn, I’d stopped shaking. I’d exploded in violence—like one of my hopped-up relatives. I’d crawled away from the oxy trade, the guns, the beatings, but I hadn’t left it behind me. It was part of my DNA. Aggression and addiction, a few birth defects and mental instability, these were the hallmarks of the Cahill clan. There wasn’t a substance invented that a Cahill couldn’t grow dependent on, except maybe money. No matter how much of it a Cahill earned, it never stayed around.

  Through the long years of my education, I’d worked in fast food, clerked in hardware stores, and nannied for families who could afford the luxury. I’d sold myself cheap to survive. I’d changed my hair, my clothes, my diction. I’d beaten back the dark superstitions, the fantastical visions that had plagued me as a child. Granny Siobhan told me that educated people knew such things weren’t real and that if I ignored them, they would go away. Midnight fancies were buried along with my past.

  I’d worked hard to reinvent myself, but scratch the surface and the Cahill violence leaked out. My thoughts were black, and my self-loathing grew as I bypassed the inn and went down the path through the woods to my cabin. I saw the note pinned to the door before I got there.

  We need to talk. Joe.

  Simple as that. I hadn’t heard from him in a week and now he wanted to talk. Another wave of anxiety and anger passed through my limbs, but I contained it. It had taken years to gain the composure necessary to navigate the pettiness of academia without physically assaulting someone. A temper could be a fatal flaw in that environment. And now I’d had a brawl on a public street. Because of Joe.

  Maybe not because of him. It wasn’t fair to attribute Karla’s crazy behavior to Joe. It also wasn’t fair that she had accosted and ambushed me. Still, I knew I’d likely have plenty of time to rue my hasty action.

  But not as much time as I thought. The knock on my door a few minutes later was official and demanding. When I looked out the window, I saw a uniformed officer with Dorothea at his heels. Curiosity was clearly killing her.

  “Miss Cahill?” the officer asked when I opened the door.

  “Yes.”

  “Please come with me. You’re wanted for questioning in an assault charge.”

  This development wasn’t unexpected, but I still felt as if I’d been gut-kicked by a mule. “Let me get my purse.”

  I put on my coat and preceded the officer onto the porch.

  “What’s this all about?” Dorothea asked.

  The officer ignored her, so I answered. “I was in an argument with Joe’s ex-girlfriend. Could you call him?”

  “You bet.” She hurried back to the inn, and I followed the officer to his car.

  Just as I ducked my head to get into the patrol car’s back seat, a slender figure appeared in the shadow of the trees not fifty yards away. She wore a puffy red coat with a hood and black pants. Her size, the slenderness of her legs, told me it was a female.

  “Who is that?” I asked.

  “Where?” The officer turned toward the trees, but the figure had vanished.

  “It was a child. Over by that big fir.”

  “Probably someone from the inn.” He closed the door and slid behind the steering wheel.

  A second later we were gliding away from the inn. I twisted in the back seat and tried to examine the woods. A streak of
red shifted between the dark tree trunks. She was still there. She didn’t want to be seen by anyone but me.

  The bare green walls in the holding room were marked with brown stains that could have been dried blood or other bodily effluvium. Every corner was crusted with filth and dust. The place hadn’t been thoroughly cleaned in at least a decade. Justice in Concord was neither swift nor sanitary.

  A particular wall blotch put me in mind of Granny Siobhan’s birthmark. Another spray of reddish brown reminded me of a pod of whales. No matter where I found myself, I was never far from my heritage.

  I’d been alone for the better part of an hour, waiting to be questioned. Waiting to be charged. Waiting for the words that could end my academic career. I doubted I could get a job teaching with a conviction for assault and battery on my record. What would I do with myself if no school would hire me? The answer was a black void.

  “Look, Ms. Cahill was defending herself.” Joe’s voice funneled down the police department’s main corridor. Dorothea had been as good as her word.

  “I have witnesses,” Joe said. “Cassidy Holmes saw the whole thing. Karla Steele accosted Ms. Cahill and struck her in the back of the neck. Aine was only defending herself. If anyone should press charges, it should be Aine.”

  The mumble of the officer wasn’t clear.

  “She cannot have this on her record,” Joe said. “A conviction for assault could jeopardize her future career.”

  More mumbling.

  “Charge her, and you open the city to a lawsuit. Karla Steele isn’t rational, and you know it. Look up her record before you make a big mistake.”

  The hubbub died down and I was left to walk the width of the small green room with minimalist furnishings—a table and two chairs. I wondered if there were cameras or audio devices so they could hear and watch me. I didn’t care. Pacing wasn’t a criminal act.

  After an eternity, the door opened and Joe came in. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is my fault.” An officer stood at the door, looking in. Joe closed it.