Art's Blood (37 page)

Come over here real quiet-like, she whispers, and points. There is a nest on the ground a little distance away. A large shiny bird— black with a brown head— is being fed by two much smaller gray parents. It flaps its wings and squawks impatiently and the little providers hurry off in search of more food for the huge nestling. That there’s a cowbird, she says. They’s the most hateful birds there is. A mama cowbird’s so no account she won’t even build a nest— just finds someone else’s and drops her egg in it. Then off she goes and leaves the other birds to raise her young un. And the young un, when it hatches, hit’ll push all the other babies outten the nest and they’ll die. She indicates two tiny desiccated fledglings, the little bodies crawling with ants, and I turn away.

In my memory we walk on and on into a green and golden haze. I am intoxicated with the sweet fragrance of spring. At the edge of the woods, the wild purple violets are blooming. We sit in their midst on a moss-covered log and she begins to sing one of the old ballads. The haunting refrain twines all around us.

And as her sweet clear tones fill my ears, my heart, my soul, I untie the blue ribbon and slip it into my pocket. A few bright strands of her hair twine around my fingers, clinging briefly, then the red-gold locks tumble about her shoulders. She sings on, never taking her eyes from me as I pick violets, and weave them into her hair. Her eyes are shining when she looks at me.

T
HE SOUND OF
B
EN’S TRUCK GREW FAINTER AS
Elizabeth and Phillip hurried back to the house. Inside, Laurel was on the phone and Aidan was restlessly pacing. There was no sign of his mother, except for her sandals, neatly placed by the door.

“Where’s Willow?” Elizabeth asked.

Aidan nodded in the direction of the guest room. “She said that she needed to be alone to bring herself into harmony with this news. She’s probably meditating and trying to get in touch with the recently departed. Any luck and she’ll have the full story for us in the morning.”

Neither Elizabeth nor Phillip responded and Aidan’s face grew grave. His hazel-green eyes met hers, then looked away. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be talking like that—”

Laurel hung up the telephone, immediately pressing Redial. “I’m trying to get Kyra but she must have her cell turned off. And the house phone just keeps ringing busy— they probably took it off the hook.”

“Let me call Hank— I think he’s on duty tonight.” As luck would have it, Phillip’s friend, a detective with the Asheville police,
was
just going off his shift. He quickly confirmed that a 911 call had been made from the Peterson residence and that a unit had been dispatched. He promised to call back as more information became available.

The four of them sat uneasily in the living room, trying unsuccessfully to talk of other matters while eyeing Phillip’s cell phone as if willing it to ring. After some twenty tedious minutes passed without a return call, Phillip stood and announced that he was returning to Asheville.

“If I’m in there, I’ve got a better chance of finding out something. Aidan, whoever sent you out here may have done you a favor. I strongly suggest that you and your mother both stay put till this is cleared up. Elizabeth…”

But she was on her feet and accompanying him to the door. On the porch he paused, but she shook her head and hurried down the steps in front of him. “I’ll drive you down to your car— it’ll save time.”

As they jolted down the road, she asked the question she had not wanted to raise in front of the others. “Phillip, I feel weird even suggesting this, but do you think that Kyra could be responsible—”

“You’re assuming this is murder, then? Elizabeth, we don’t even know for sure that Kimmie Peterson’s dead.”

“But Ben said that
Kyra
said…oh, I see what you mean…Kyra’s not exactly reliable, is she? If she could pull a stunt like the corncrib thing, then this could be another hoax. But there was a 911 call— your friend said.”

“That’s right. But—”

“I know, that doesn’t necessarily mean Kimmie’s dead. Okay…Maybe…Phillip, I’m confused. And I’m worried about Ben. They said he should stay away from Kyra and I can’t help thinking how unbelievable it was when Kimmie said that Kyra was acting friendly now. What if it was all an act, so she could get in the house? What if she wanted Kimmie dead?”

As she pulled to a stop beside his car, he reached out and laid his fingers against her cheek. “I’ll go to the Peterson house and see if I can find out anything. And I’ll call you when I do.”

It was somewhere in the sleepless hours between midnight and dawn that he had called. She had been lying in the dark, unsuccessfully willing sleep to come, and she picked up the bedside phone at once.

“Phillip?”

“Ben’s fine, Elizabeth. He’s at the Peterson house with Kyra.”

“And Kimmie…is she…?”

“She’s alive— but she’s lost the baby. She’s at the hospital— there was a lot of blood and she had lost consciousness. Kyra freaked out— not surprising, in light of her experience when her mother died. Evidently she thought it was a replay. She said she and Kimmie had had an early supper— Peterson was at a meeting somewhere— and Kimmie went to bed early, complaining of nausea.”

“Where’s Kyra’s father now?”

“They got in touch with him finally; he’s at the hospital. Anyway, Kyra said that she watched a movie and when it was over she went to Kimmie’s bedroom to see if her stepmother was feeling any better. The door was shut but the TV in the bedroom was on real loud. Kyra knocked on the door and called out to ask if she could get Kimmie anything. No answer. She knocks again, still no answer and she’s getting worried. So she opens the door.”

He paused. “You don’t want to hear all of this now— I’ll call back in the morning.”

“Phillip, I’m wide awake and I want to hear whatever there is.”

A weary exhalation. “Okay, well, Kyra said she pushed the door open and all she could see was Kimmie lying on the bed. She was deathly white and the sheets and her nightgown were blood-soaked.

“Evidently Kyra had a kind of flashback to her mother’s murder. She went to the phone and called 911, then called Ben. After she knew he was on his way, she went to look at Kimmie and realized that she was breathing…that there was not a bullet in her head…and that she was hemorrhaging massively.

“Lucky for Kimmie that Kyra was there and had the sense to pack towels between her legs to slow the bleeding— that little girl saved Kimmie’s life.”

Elizabeth was watering flats of cuttings in the smaller greenhouse when Ben appeared late the next morning. He looked haggard with lack of sleep, but his voice was jubilant.

“Did Phillip call you and tell you about Kyra? He said he would. Did he tell you she saved Kimmie’s life?”

Ben wiped his arm across his face and went on. “Damn, I’m getting all choked up. Anyway, Kyra seems to have let go of the whole thing about accusing her dad of killing her mom and Boz. She told me while we were waiting for her dad to come home from the hospital that a lot of that stuff she’d been saying wasn’t entirely true. She admitted that she knew Boz had been dealing crystal meth and that he’d gotten on the wrong side of some scary guys. She kind of figures that was who killed him.”

Ben’s voice threatened to crack as he continued. “And when her father came home this morning, he just looked at her and spread his arms and said, ‘Kyra.’ And she went to him and they were both crying till it got to me too.”

The door to the hospital room was ajar. From the hallway, Elizabeth could see that every available surface in the crowded room was covered with elaborate floral arrangements. She looked a little dubiously at the old pale blue mason jar in her hand. It was filled with bright zinnias— pink, orange, chartreuse, yellow, white, and coral— from her garden. A twist of natural raffia circled the jar’s neck. She glanced again at the flowers in the room— a Chinese porcelain pot of delicate orchids hovering like white moths above green moss, a mass of out-of-season pink and white lilies, stately in a tall, etched-crystal vase, and flown in from god knew where, a shaggy bouquet of pale yellow and creamy white Fuji mums in a deep blue ginger jar— then gently pushed open the door.

Marvin Peterson, casually immaculate in khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, sat at the bedside, reading
The Wall Street Journal.
His eyes widened as he recognized Elizabeth. The woman in the bed turned, following his gaze.

“Elizabeth,” she whispered, and struggled to sit up.

Marvin Peterson was on his feet and bending over the bed. “Kimmie, you know the doctor told you no exertion. Mrs. Goodweather wouldn’t want you to—”

“No, Kimmie, please stay still. I just wanted to bring you these and say how sorry I am.”

Kimmie’s pale lips quivered as she fought for control. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I guess it just wasn’t meant to happen.” She smiled weakly at her visitor, then turned to her husband. “But it’s not as bad as it could have been. At least now I have a daughter. Did you know Kyra saved my life?” Her eyelids fluttered and closed. She mumbled, “Pretty flowers…bright…” and was asleep.

Marvin Peterson put a finger to his lips. He took the jar of flowers from Elizabeth and set it on the windowsill by the orchids. “Come with me down to the cafeteria for some coffee.” The words were spoken softly but the command was unmistakable.

“They’ve got her all doped up,” he explained as they drank the unpleasant substance offered as coffee in the cafeteria. “They gave her a transfusion but she’s supposed to stay completely still for a while.”

“I wondered if I should come, but when I called the hospital to get her room number they didn’t say anything about no visitors.” Elizabeth put her cup down and pushed it away from her. “I got to know her a little in our painting class and—”

“Now, that’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? First, you take in my daughter and then you and my wife become buddies.”

Marvin Peterson’s eyes scanned her face and she felt a blush rising. “Hardly buddies, Mr. Peterson. But you’re right, it was quite a coincidence. Kimmie and I talked about it the last time she was at the class. She’s such a sweet person and she had told me how excited she was about the baby…so when I heard about the…about what happened, I wanted to come see her.”

Peterson listened without comment. Finally he said, “It’s just as well you did come in. I have some things I need to talk to you about. Things to get straight.” He fixed Elizabeth with a penetrating stare. “Kyra tells me she gave you and your friend the detective— no, sorry, ex-detective— a lot of bullshit about me having that lowlife boyfriend of hers killed. She says she even hinted that I’d done the same with her mother— with
Rose,
for God’s sake.”

He swallowed a gulp of his coffee and slammed the cup down on the table. The murky brown liquid slopped unnoticed onto the green formica surface. “I believe I mentioned to you that my daughter’s mental state is a matter of concern. Let me tell you a little about our family history.”

The silver-haired man fastidiously wiped the tabletop before resting his forearms on it and beginning.

“My family history is that there is none. My parents were migrant workers— back before the Hispanics took over. I was born in California but we never lived in one place for longer than a planting or harvesting season. My father left when I was nine, and my mother attached herself to a fellow named Pike. One night they left me in the old trailer we were renting and went out drinking. Lucky for me because when the semi plowed into their truck, I wasn’t with them.

“It’s a long story and none of it very nice. Mom was dead and if she had any family, I never knew them. A social worker showed up and I got put into foster care— not a fate I’d wish on a dog. Typical thing— bounced around from one family to another. But I picked up some education— both in and out of school. By the time I was eighteen and on my own, I was a partner in—” He paused. “It doesn’t matter. Call it a dubious, though not technically illegal, business. And I started making money.

“I had my first million before I turned twenty-eight. And by then my various…enterprises could withstand the severest scrutiny. What’s more, I’d buried the migrant kid and the foster kid forever.” He looked complacently at his highly polished shoes. “I learned how to dress well and how to speak correctly. Soon, I was an inevitability among the movers and the shakers in this town— in the long run, money, well-handled, can trump breeding anytime.”

“And then you met Rose.” Elizabeth studied the tanned face, the carefully barbered silver hair, the neatly manicured nails, looking for some sign of the orphan child. There was none. And then, as he spoke, his face softened.

“Rose was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen in my life. The first time I saw her, I thought that she was just like the white and gold angel at the top of a Christmas tree. I’d seen one in a store window when I was a kid and asked my mother what it was and she’d told me it was something for rich people. And Rose was just as unattainable at first, but I persisted. And somehow…she fell in love with me.”

Marvin Peterson smiled grimly. “Her parents— and more important, her grandmother— weren’t especially pleased. Rose was only eighteen and I was almost thirty. But when she told them she was pregnant, they caved. Rose wouldn’t consider an abortion, so they put together a fancy wedding in double-quick time.”

His eyes looked unseeingly at the table. “She was, as they say, a vision. When she came walking down the aisle in all that white satin and lace, she was smiling at me just like the angel on the tree. I think everyone in the church could see how much we loved each other— afterward at the reception even Miss Lily kissed me and welcomed me to the family.” He continued to stare at the table, lost in his memories.