The Back Door of Midnight

  “Did he ever tell you about someone vandalizing his boat?”

  “No.”

  “Spray painting his truck?”

  “No.”

  “Setting fire to the grass at the top of his driveway?”

  “No! I had no idea he was having trouble.” I felt badly, as if I should have somehow known and helped him out.

  “Are you psychic?” the sheriff asked.

  I straightened, surprised. “No.”

  “Keep your cell phone charged and with you.”

  Because I couldn’t sense danger? Did one statement follow on the other?

  “Tell Iris that I’ll be coming around to check on how she’s doing and that I know she wants William back as soon as possible.”

  “Okay.”

  He handed me his card. “Call me. Any thoughts, any questions, any worries. Any time.”

  “Thanks. There is one other thing. Uncle Will liked to hunt. I went through the house, but I didn’t see any guns.”

  “He kept them locked up in his pickup. Legally, I can’t remove them; illegally, I took the key. Do you want it?”

  “No. But thanks for doing that.”

  I asked him for the lawyer’s phone number and address, which he wrote down, then I asked for directions to Jamie’s, feeling as if I needed strong coffee and carbohydrates to think through what I had just been told.

  “Go for the day-olds,” the sheriff advised.

  I nodded. “Half price and just as good.”

  “Exactly.” He got a funny look on his face, then laughed. “I told you that.”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  seven

  ELEVEN A.M., AND it was already hot and humid. I took Water Street over to High, passing a marina, a crab house, and a municipal park, thinking that being close to the river, I’d catch what little breeze there was. High Street, which ended at the river, was Wisteria’s “Main Street.” On the first block above the intersection with Water were large homes bearing plaques with the words “Historic Landmark.” Beyond that block were smaller houses, many of them converted to shops and restaurants.

  I found Jamie’s place, Tea Leaves Café, on the fourth block up from the water in a long building that had been built as a series of windowed storefronts. After buying six fresh doughnuts and an iced cappuccino, I snagged a seat by the window. It was a comfortable kind of place, with an old tile floor and wooden tables and chairs painted in a rainbow of colors, none of the sets matching. At the back of the café were two cases displaying bakery items, salads, and yogurt. I watched a girl about my age waiting on customers. I wished I were her, working a summer job in a place that seemed friendly—and normal.

  Sipping my cappuccino, I gazed out the window at the people walking by, eyeing a family with little kids, suddenly missing Jack, Claire, Grace, and Mom so much that I started to sniffle. I pulled out my cell phone. I could call. I could call and—ruin their vacation? Even if I said everything was fine, my voice might give me away. Instead, I’d text Mom later on and tell her that Wisteria was “interesting.”

  I dabbed at my nose, then saw a guy standing on the curb across the street, looking in my direction. He was tall, wearing slick sunglasses and a preppy-looking shirt, its sleeves rolled up neatly to the elbows, as if he were working an office job. He smiled a gorgeous smile. I surveyed the sidewalk on my side of the street, then turned to look behind me, wondering who he was smiling at. When I turned back, he pointed in my direction. You, he mouthed, and lifted the shades. Zack.

  The traffic light changed, and he started across the street, as if he was coming to Tea Leaves. I felt a thump-thump inside my rib cage and realized suddenly that it was my heart. He came through the door and flashed me a grin. Then he joined a girl and guy at a table across the room. The girl, the crying girl, the hot costar.

  I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed her—I was probably ogling the baked goods—for she was straight out of Drama Club at my old school, the kind of person who was on stage even when she wasn’t. A table of tweens watched her with awe as she talked with Zack and the other guy. The other guy had brown hair streaked with peroxide and close-set eyes with brows rising toward the center. A smile would have made him cute in a quirky way, but his mouth was a long straight line.

  Pulling my eyes away from the three of them, I got out my map of the town and the sheriff’s map to the burn site, trying to focus on what I was here to do. I’d call the lawyer, find a food store, look for—

  “Hi, Anna.”

  I glanced up. “Hi . . . hi.”

  “Zack,” he said, as if I might have forgotten his name.

  I nodded. “Zack Fleming.”

  He smiled, not only with his mouth, but with his amazing eyes.

  “The sheriff told me your last name.”

  That got rid of the smile.

  “Saving this seat for anyone?” He assumed I wasn’t and sat down.

  “So . . . so you spoke to him,” said Zack.

  “Just now.”

  “Was he helpful?”

  “In what way?”

  Zack hesitated. “In whatever way you need help.”

  There was something about the tone of his voice. He was worried.

  “Yes and no.”

  He waited for me to say more. His friends at the other table were watching us closely.

  He tried again. “Have the police learned anything new?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “So what did McManus say?” he persisted.

  “Nothing much more than you did.”

  Two can play this game, I thought. I didn’t trust him. Worse, I didn’t trust myself not to be suckered in by those deep-as-a-quarry, understanding eyes. I looked out the window.

  When I glanced back, he was eyeing the maps I had spread in front of me. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  I shrugged and studied High Street again. “A lot of things. A grocery store, a muffler shop, my aunt’s lawyer, a murderer.”

  His hand rested on mine. “That’s a big list,” he said gently.

  I pulled my hand away. “Yes.”

  “It must be really hard for you.”

  I looked him in the eye. “Not as hard as it is for Aunt Iris. And not half as hard as it was for an old man whose property was being vandalized by spoiled kids.”

  Zack sat back in his chair. There was a guarded expression on his face.

  A quick glance told me the girl and guy at the other table were still watching us intently. “Do your friends lip-read?” I asked.

  Zack turned, then nodded at them. I didn’t know what that gesture meant. Maybe he was telling his friends yes in response to some question they’d asked; maybe he was just acknowledging the fact that they were staring at us. Turning to me again, he said, “I’ve got to get back to work,” then rose and left the café.

  I shrugged off his abruptness. When he was gone, I gathered up my stuff and walked toward the small waterside park I had passed earlier. I found a bench close to the river and put in a call to the lawyer’s office. Her secretary gave me an appointment for three that afternoon, plus directions to a food store and a local gas station, one that would fix mufflers. I was feeling better now, more in control, working down my list of things to do. For a moment I relaxed, gazing out at the river, listening to the clink-clink of a line against the mast of an anchored boat. I watched a sailboat tack, its triangle of white shifting, becoming dazzling against the blue.

  Suddenly, I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I turned around.

  He was sprawled under a tree, the guy I had seen at Tea Leaves, the one sitting with Zack’s girlfriend. I turned back to the river. It’s a park, I reminded myself; people come here to sit and gaze at the river. But I felt uneasy. I couldn’t shake the feeling he was here because I was.

  I exited the park, acting as if I hadn’t noticed him. As I walked up High Street, I glanced once over my shoulder, but I didn’t see him, not till I doubled back to check what was playi
ng at the movie theater. He slowed to a stop and found something interesting in a store window.

  I moved on. He moved on. I crossed the street. He crossed the street. Did he think I wouldn’t notice him, or did he hope I would? Maybe this was harassment; after all, he knew I could identify him as Zack’s friend. This was just a game.

  Game or not, I was getting ticked. I longed to confront him, but city living had taught me that you don’t confront people you don’t know. I darted up a set of steps and into a shop. If he followed me into a place with a shopkeeper and some kind of security, then I’d take him on.

  Looking down from the shop window, I saw him stop in the middle of the brick sidewalk. His long, thin mouth shaped itself into a smile, as if he were amused by the fact that his rabbit had found a hole. He glanced up. At first I thought he saw me, but he was looking higher, at the words painted on the window. It took me a moment to decode the backward letters: ALWAYS CHRISTMAS. It was easy, however, to read his response: the F word. I wondered why his amusement would change so quickly to anger. He moved on. I hoped he was giving up, not waiting out of sight.

  “May I help you?”

  I turned quickly, then stepped away from catastrophe: One swing of my backpack and I would have cleared a shelf of ceramic angels.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked, eyeing my backpack.

  “This is a nice shop.” My response sounded lame.

  “Thank you.”

  I needed to buy some time, to encourage Zack’s friend to find another quarry.

  “May I look around?”

  “I’m not open for business on Mondays, but if you are careful, I see no harm.”

  “I think I’ll put my backpack by the door.”

  “Good idea.”

  I had been in Christmas shops at Jersey and Maryland beaches, but boardwalk stores can be a little junky and usually smell like seawater and tar. In this shop aggressive air-conditioning made it as dry as winter; spicy smells gave it a holiday mood. The walls were painted in midnight blue, and carefully placed spotlights made snowflakes sparkle. Figurines painted in old-fashioned clothes and antique-looking angels perched and dangled everywhere. The shop created a once-upon-a-time Christmas—the kind everyone likes to “remember,” even though most of us haven’t experienced it. I looked at things I would never buy—not with those price tags—working my way around the store until I reached the cash register.

  HELP WANTED, the sign said, and in small print, MINIMUM 3 YRS. RETAIL EXPERIENCE. I wondered if wrapping up bagels and sandwiches would be considered retail. It didn’t matter—I just wanted to use up time.

  “I’d like to apply for the job.”

  The woman looked up, surprised. “I require at least three years’ retail experience.”

  “Are you the owner?”

  The woman smiled a little. She had a sleek brown bob and light eyes accentuated by expert makeup. “I am.”

  “I’d like to apply. Is there a form to fill out?”

  She flipped open a book and pulled out an application form. I took my time filling it out, using Aunt Iris’s address and phone number, then handed it back.

  She read the name and address and glanced up. “I should have known by the hair. You’re an O’Neill.”

  “Yes.”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Marcy Fleming.”

  Fleming. “Zack’s mother?”

  That’s why the stalker hadn’t liked my rabbit hole. He thought I was running straight to Zack’s mom—stepmom.

  “Stepmother,” she corrected, then smiled. “I owe you for yesterday. Thank you for getting rid of our four-legged friends.”

  I nodded.

  “How is Iris doing?” she asked.

  “I—I’m not sure. There are a lot of things I have to figure out. She’s not really—uh—”

  “Normal? Then I guess she is doing the same as before. It was very decent of you to come,” Mrs. Fleming added. “There aren’t a lot of young people who would visit their batty aunt.”

  “I didn’t come for that reason.” It seemed as if I had given this spiel a hundred times since arriving. “Uncle Will invited me. He said there were some family things to talk about, so I came expecting to see him.”

  “You mean you didn’t know? Oh, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Someone should have informed you.”

  “According to Aunt Iris, Uncle Will should have.”

  She smiled a little. “How long will you be staying?”

  “I don’t know yet. I have college orientation in August.”

  “So you’re looking for a summer job.”

  What could I say? No, I’m as paranoid as Aunt Iris and think people are following me. . . .

  “Yes, but the truth is, I don’t have the experience you want. I worked at Panera Bread for two years—you know, handling bagels, sandwiches, that kind of thing.”

  “I see. And how many bagels a week would you say you dropped?”

  “I had a counter in front of me. There was no place to drop them.”

  She laughed a tinkly laugh that seemed too girlish to go with her businesslike appearance. “You’re hired.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Honesty is important. And I need an employee who knows how to position herself so she doesn’t drop things. Of course,” she added, “Zack would advise you not to take this job.”

  “Why?” I asked bluntly.

  That tinkly laugh again. “I’m a tough stepmother and a tough employer. Sometimes we’re swamped, other times it’s slow. When it is, I’ll expect you to help with cleaning, inventory, whatever I need. There is no slacking off in my shop. And there is certainly no socializing, no little visits from friends.”

  I thought fast. Aunt Iris’s problems weren’t going to be solved in a week, probably not in several weeks.

  “What were you paid at Panera?”

  I told her.

  “I can match that. And on the bright side,” she went on, “I would understand if you have an emergency involving Iris and couldn’t come to work. I also know you will be leaving for school. You realize, of course, no one in town will hire you if they think you are leaving in August. But some help now will get me through the longest days of the tourist season.”

  Working in a shop might keep me sane; it would definitely keep me in air-conditioning. It would give me extra money for college—and a new muffler. The only strange thing was Mrs. Fleming’s connection to Zack. But I liked her. She was no-nonsense and blunt, the kind of person I found easy to get along with.

  “I’m thinking ten to five Wednesday through Saturday, twelve to five on Sunday.” She cocked her head. “Interested?”

  “Yes.”

  “When can you start?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Training tomorrow,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  She folded her arms and appeared pleased. “It will be worth your time, Anna. If you do the job well, I’ll teach you more than clerking a store. You’ll learn how to run your own business.”

  “Awesome.”

  “There’s a small lot in the back for parking. Don’t block me in. See you tomorrow.”

  A few minutes later I was hurrying home to Aunt Iris’s. Zack’s friend must have given up the game. Aunt Iris was out, so I got to enjoy the rest of my doughnuts on the kitchen stoop, gazing at the creek. At noon I roared off to the gas station to get a new muffler, then drove more quietly to Tilby’s Dream.

  The old farm lay along Oyster Creek on the eastern bank, like the O’Neill house, but on the other side of Scarborough Road, past the bridge. “Can’t miss it,” the sheriff had told me. “Got a big old tulip poplar on the corner”—whatever a tulip poplar was. I drove slowly, looking at every large tree I passed—there were a lot—and finally turned onto the first paved road I saw.

  McManus had said to go almost to the end, then turn right on an unmarked dirt road, hidden by trees. Mrs. Fleming—Marcy, as I was supposed to call her—had looke
d at my penciled map and said the road was used for hayrides in the fall, but she couldn’t remember any kind of landmark helpful for a girl like me who was used to road signs and marked intersections. I drove more than a mile through golden green fields of soy and corn, then spotted a grove of trees that might be camouflaging a dirt road. Since I had been warned about potholes, I pulled over and got out to walk.

  I knew I was in the right place when I saw the deep tracks made by heavy equipment that had passed through recently—fire trucks, I assumed. The trees that lined both sides of the road had been planted at even intervals, perhaps to make a shady avenue, but were now overgrown with shrubs, vines, and smaller trees. Although it wasn’t wilderness, to a city person it was the middle of nowhere. There wasn’t even the distant whoosh of traffic that afternoon, the cornfields and trees shielding the road from every sound but that of insects.

  After ten minutes of walking, I reached the site. In my dreams I had come in darkness; now the site was bathed in sunlight, but the smell was the same—pine and sour ashes. It was unnerving to feel that a place was very familiar when I had never physically set foot on it.

  I surveyed the area surrounded by yellow police tape. The scorched ground was sandy with pieces of shell embedded in it, oyster shells, like those on Aunt Iris’s driveway. Perhaps there had been a building here once. On either side of the clearing were fields. The one on the right was nothing but dried stalks and was hemmed with a stand of pine; the one on the left stretched to distant woods with row after row of green soy.

  The dirt road continued past the burn site and through another avenue of trees. I recalled the sounds of sirens and running feet from my first dream. If fire trucks had entered from one direction, it would have been easy for the kids setting the blaze to exit through the other. It seemed an ideal place for arson.

  I ducked under the police tape and walked to the center of the cordoned-off area. Standing there, I turned slowly, my eyes sweeping the landscape. It was like looking at something in a wavy mirror, like looking at your living room reflected in a Christmas ball, finding it both strange and familiar. Somehow, the image of this place had gotten inside my head. Somehow, it had rooted in my brain before I had seen the place for real, and it scared me.