The Steward

  Gavin’s eyes were full of sadness and pain. “Maggie, you haven’t heard, have you?”

  “Heard what?”

  I began to sob again, anger giving way to panic and fear. I tried desperately to hold it together.

  “Candace tried to commit suicide. She cut her wrists—her mom found her in the bathtub.”

  His words stunned me. I heard them come out of his mouth and they registered in my head, but they didn’t make sense to me. I lost my balance for a moment and he caught me, helping me sit down. I had just seen her, and she was happy when I left. This has to be Chalen’s doing. She wouldn’t have hurt herself.

  “Keep this quiet, because nobody outside of the ER knows this yet, but they did get her heart started again.”

  A wave of sobbing ran through my body and the tears poured down my cheeks, hot and wet, faster than I could wipe them away.

  “She wasn’t breathing and didn’t have a pulse when the paramedics arrived. They stopped the bleeding and have been giving her blood, but she’s in bad shape,” he whispered.

  I sat back in the seat, drew my feet up, and embraced my legs, muttering “no” to myself over and over. Gavin took a knee and looked up at me with his big chocolate eyes.

  “Why would you think Chalen was involved?” he asked.

  His question struck me wrong, “Just drop it! Please!” I snapped through clenched teeth.

  With his deep, caring voice, he whispered, “Of course, I’m sorry.”

  He closed his eyes and listened. I guessed he was listening to what was going on in the emergency room. He confirmed my suspicion a minute later, when he told me, “They’ve repaired the arteries—that’s good news.”

  I grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him to me, burying my face in his neck. He didn’t fight, but wrapped his warm arms around me instead.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I just can’t believe this is happening to her. I saw her just a few hours ago and she was great,” I whispered.

  “Really?” he asked.

  “Yes, great, she wasn’t suicidal—this doesn’t make sense.”

  I paused for a moment and looked up at him. He was still staring into my eyes, and holding me gently.

  “Gavin, you have to help me figure out what happened.”

  “I will,” he said, pulling me back to him.

  I looked up and noticed that Doug was staring at me. I smiled at him and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

  He walked over to us and sat next to me, eyeing Gavin. I sat back and held his hand. Gavin put one hand on my shoulder, and one hand on Doug’s. He smiled at both of us before he walked back over and sat between Mitch and Justin, scooping them up protectively.

  Gavin did exactly what he said he’d do that Sunday after my birthday party—he gave me some distance when Doug was around. I didn’t want distance, but I had it nonetheless.

  SIXTEEN

  GOODBYES

  It was early May and much had changed in the Weald. The garden and forest were different now—summer was coming and the early spring blooms were gone. Leaves hid the mountains, and many of the bluffs surrounding the cove, with hundreds of shades of green as every deciduous tree in the Ozarks had finally awoken from winter. The paths through the Weald were shaded now, and the enormous oak trees around the cottage allowed in only dappled light from the early afternoon until evening. The flush of leaves made viewing the lake more difficult from the cottage—there were a few vistas not completely blocked by the canopy, but not many.

  Warmer weather brought something new to the Weald: sound. I had always thought of the woods as a quiet place, and I was afraid the quiet would feel suffocating. That wasn’t the case. Until now, I’d never stood in a forest when the wind blew. Across the lake and through the mountains, the wind always seemed to blow, and it created music as it did. The sound of rustling leaves was incredibly peaceful and soothing, not in the same way as the ocean, but it was nice in a very different way. That was only part of the Ozark soundtrack, though.

  Now that the last frost had finally passed, insects were everywhere and so were all the things that fed on them. People who say they like the peace and quiet of the country are obviously referring to a different kind of quiet. Crickets, locusts, and tree frogs competed with songbirds and owls for a chance to be heard. It was the loudest quiet place I’d ever been, and I loved it. Yes, I’ve mastered my fear of the woods.

  The look of the Weald had changed in other ways. The pastel flowers of spring were gone, replaced by summer blooms in much bolder colors. While I was undecided on which was prettier during the day, because I did love springtime, the coming of summer seemed a fair trade each evening. The Weald was alive with fireflies, or lightning bugs, as they called them here. From the moment dusk began until well after twilight, the lightning bugs twinkled on and off near the lake edge and up the hills into the dark parts of the Weald.

  Butterflies, bees and dragonflies, in numbers I’d never imagined possible, visited the cottage garden each day. I hesitated using the terms fairy tale or storybook again to describe this place, but it was surreal.

  Despite the beauty of the Weald and my new love affair with it, a profound sadness settled on the mountain today. It affected not only my family and me, but I could sense it in the Fae who were here as well. It was a tangible sadness, or so it seemed, almost as if I could reach out and touch it. Aunt May was gone and today was her funeral.

  I’d heard the term heavy heart before, but until now I never knew what that meant. I stood at the bluff, silently staring at nothing in particular, with two violets in my hand. No one else understood the violets, or why two of them, but Aunt May would know. It rained, of course. It always seemed to rain on days like this.

  Nonetheless, we followed Aunt May’s instructions—she wanted to be a part of the Weald forever. We carried her ashes in an urn that Mom had made, and we spread them to the wind at the bluff above the caves. No one spoke—no one needed to. Her final instruction was for each of us to spend a few moments simply remembering something about her—whatever we wanted. With the wind blowing through the leaves, I thought about many things but settled on one memory.

  Aunt May had been feeling worse, but she never complained about it. The pain on her face was obvious anytime she got up or had to move much. I wanted to help her, we all did, but there was nothing she’d let us do. It left me feeling helpless and angry. I wasn’t angry with her. No, I was angry with everyone who seemed to continue on with life like normal, at everyone who could do the things she couldn’t.

  My anger eventually passed—it had lost the fight to sadness. Emptiness. I simply tried to concentrate on my memory. It was from the night of the Air trial—the night of her anniversary. Just after she’d shown me the picture of Kyle, she had shown me something else. The lights were turned down low, just illuminating the plaster walls and knickknacks she kept about the room.

  “Open that music box. I’ve got somethin’ ya need ta see—in the garden.” Aunt May pointed to a small wooden box sitting on her dresser. It was adorned with inlaid, semi-translucent stones and silver clasps and banding. It was beautiful.

  “I wanna show ya Lola’s ballet—now watch the winda,” she said, taking a labored breath.

  I’d never seen her use her ability—in fact, I often forgot that she was Air inclined at all. I sat on the corner of her bed near the window and she took my hand, telling me this was a thing Lola did to entertain her when she was little. Aunt May rolled her head to face the bedroom window and stared out at the garden. A gas lamp in the yard, just beyond the glass, flickered in the lead mullions that separated the diamond panes. The music box played a haunting tune—it was beautiful, delicate, and somber.

  As I watched, two violets slowly fluttered up around the torch lamp. In a graceful ballet, both swirling around each other and then spinning separately, the violets danced like they were tied somehow to each note that tinkled out of the little box. It was beautiful and poetic—I fe
lt it in my chest and my eyes misted. I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed it—I could sense the Fae in the garden draw closer. They were as captivated as I.

  It moved me, as the tune played along, just how sublime the movements were. I had focused so much of my attention on doing big things, like flying, that I hadn’t considered just how beautiful small, delicate control could be. It was true, Aunt May could not move mountains, but she could move me. That was my memory of her, sitting there watching the ballet, soaking in each note until the last one rang out in the darkened room.

  That was the story of living here in the Weald with May O’Shea. Whether it was her teaching me the value of patience when she slowly made me tea the first time, or when she taught me the importance and beauty of control by doing nothing more than tossing two tiny violets around in the night air, she always taught me something. I was going to miss her.

  I knew she wouldn’t want me to be sad, so I tried not to be—I owed her that. With a smile soaked in tears, I let the flowers go and cradled them for just a moment with my mind before I walked away with the tune from her music box playing in my head.

  SEVENTEEN

  COOK

  The day after Aunt May’s funeral, things went from bad to worse. We were all home, learning to adjust to being in the cottage without her. It was early afternoon and raining when a detective rang the house saying he wanted to talk. Mom opened the gate. A few minutes later, a Carroll County Sheriff’s car pulled up at the cottage wall. Three men approached, two in uniform, the third wearing a suit.

  I didn’t remember the names of the men in uniform, but I did remember Lieutenant Cook, the man in the suit. He was with the Arkansas State Police. Pale and not much taller than me, maybe five-foot-ten, he appeared to be in good shape for his age. I guessed that to be his mid-fifties. His hair, gray and short, was thinning on top, and he had hard blue eyes. He didn’t smile much, but when he did, deep lines formed around his mouth, across his forehead, and around his eyes. His yellowed teeth were short, a little crooked, and his gums were receding.

  “Mr. O’Shea, I’m Lieutenant Tim Cook, with troop D, the criminal investigations division of the Arkansas State Police. The Carroll County Sheriff’s Department asked me to come up here and follow up on a few matters concerning your aunt’s death. May O’Shea Burnell, she was your aunt, correct?”

  “Yes, but she didn’t take the name Burnell. That was her late husband’s name, my uncle, James Burnell. She kept O’Shea.”

  “Oh, I apologize.”

  Not much of a detective if you don’t even know her name.

  “And may I extend my apologies to your family. I know this has to be a rough time for you.”

  “Thank you, and you’re right, it is a rough time. How can I help you Lieutenant Cook? What matters are you talking about?”

  “Oh nothing, really, just a few housekeeping things—do you mind if we go somewhere to talk in private?”

  “Sure. The library?” Dad suggested, pointing to his right.

  The three men followed my father into the octagonal library and pulled the glass doors shut.

  Mom frowned and sent Mitch to his room. Justice followed him down the stairs. When he left, she walked closer to the door and turned her back on them, but she clearly intended to listen. I stood beside her, but I wasn’t afraid to stare through the leaded glass.

  Despite being in the other room, we could hear their voices. At first, Cook asked questions about Aunt May, and then he directed a few questions to Dad about whether any of us had a problem with her. I was stunned by the question and his mannerisms. He was rigid, formal, and he seemed slightly agitated. Staring at Dad with an off-putting intensity, Cook rarely blinked. I knew something was wrong, and so did Dad. He became uncomfortable with the questions rather quickly.

  “Gentleman, I’ll ask again, what is this about?” Dad raised his voice. “May died in her sleep.”

  “I’m sure she did,” Cook said. There was an acerbic tone in his voice.

  The questions and his tone threw me, as I hadn’t considered the possibility that her death was anything but natural. I only lingered on that possibility for a moment, because while Cook’s suspicions about her death came as a shock, the way he treated Dad upset me even more. They were suspicious of him—I could tell. They asked him dozens of questions about inheriting the Weald and whether he knew the value of Aunt May’s estate.

  “I’m not sure how much it’s worth, actually. If I were to venture a guess I’d say a couple million,” Dad said.

  “The land alone is worth more than that, sir, a great deal more,” Cook said, laughing as if it were funny.

  “Well, sure, if you say so. I really don’t know. Look, I’m not an expert on land value, especially in Arkansas. We just moved here in January.”

  Mom walked away, cursing softly in Spanish.

  “Oh, I see. She, your aunt I mean, had an extensive collection of cars didn’t she?”

  “Yes, twenty-five or thirty. So?”

  “Mm hmm, that’s got to be worth some money too, right?”

  “Yes, I suppose.” Dad seemed bewildered by the question.

  “You suppose? I checked with state registration records and did a little research, and I found, as I’m sure you’re well aware, that several of them are worth at least six figures, some more. She has a…” He fumbled through his notes. “A 1931 Duesenberg SJ worth at least seven figures—wow!” he said, turning to the deputies. “I’ve got to see that one…”

  I have no idea what that is.

  “…And what else, yes, two rare Packards worth half-a-million ... each.” He paused and stared at Dad. “A 1939 Ford Woodie, worth over a-hundred-thousand dollars, a-hundred-and-fifty-thousand dollar Jaguar, a quarter-of-a-million dollar Aston Martin, and that doesn’t include the boats—hell, just in the barn alone, there’s at least five million dollars.”

  How do they know what cars are in the barn?—Cook’s a better detective than he let on.

  “I’m not inheriting this place or any of those vehicles ... so I don’t know why you’re bringing any of this up.” Dad grew more agitated by the moment. His face turned red, and he gripped the top of the mahogany desk, flexing the muscles in his arms and chest.

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, dammit, I don’t,” Dad said sternly.

  The veins in his neck popped out, and his already red face darkened. I hadn’t seen him that agitated before. Mom opened the door, walked over to Dad, and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “I called Kevin Fontaine. He is the family lawyer, and he said not to answer another one of your questions until he gets here, which should be any minute.”

  I could tell the news didn’t sit well with Cook. He shook his head and appeared inconvenienced at the very least.

  “What, uncomfortable with a lawyer on the way,” Mom snapped.

  “Mrs. O’Shea, we’re simply trying to gather facts.”

  Oh, he clearly doesn’t know the rules about challenging an angry Cuban mother.

  “Well, you can gather them with counsel here,” she said quickly, flashing a forced smile. “Now, if you will have a seat. Now! Gentleman … Coffee?”

  I felt a profound sense of pride watching Mom in action. He asked for it.

  Several awkward minutes passed, Mom staring a hole through the officers the entire time, before Mr. Fontaine let himself in the front door and came directly to the library. He smiled and shook Dad’s hand, nodding his head in a comforting way, before slowly turning around to face the officers.

  “What in the hell are you doing?” he said slowly, in a low, soft voice full of authority.

  Cook smiled, his irritation gone, and seeming completely comfortable—if not a little smug. “We’re here investigating Ms. O’Shea’s death, of course.”

  As Mr. Fontaine listened to the officer, he stuck his tongue in the side of his mouth so it pushed his cheek out a little, and raised his eyebrows, nodding like a complete smartass. Now I know where Canda
ce gets it.

  “She was seventy-six,” Mr. Fontaine said, “in bad health, and she died peacefully in her sleep. Help me gentlemen, what is there to investigate? And more importantly, why today? Her funeral was yesterday … really, why are you here?” His voice rose just a little.

  Cook maintained his smug expression. “Natural causes? No sir. We don’t believe her death was natural, though it was staged to look that way. When the paramedic’s moved her, they noticed water in her airway, and foam. The autopsy confirmed it. She drowned, and she did it while sitting in her bed completely dry.”

  He might as well have punched each of us in the mouth given the impact of his news. Mom and I both gasped at the same time, and Dad’s mouth dropped open.

  “But you say you aren’t going to inherit this, Mr. O’Shea?”

  “Umm, wha … sorry…” Dad started, dumbfounded. “No, my aunt told me two months ago that she was leaving the estate … umm … to someone else.”

  I had wondered whether my parents were aware of Aunt May’s plans. This confirmed that they were, though they’d never said a word about it. Mom and Dad exchanged concerned looks and it was obvious, to me at least, that they were trying not to look in my direction.

  “Did that make you angry, Mr. O’Shea?” Cook pressed.

  “David, don’t answer that question,” Mr. Fontaine interrupted, “I have a copy of the O’Shea family trust, and I have May’s Will with me. Do you have a copy of the coroner’s report?”

  “Not with me,” Cook said before smiling.

  “Convenient,” Mr. Fontaine said, raising his brow.

  “No, just poor planning on my part. Sorry. So who is set to inherit this?”

  Mom, Dad, and Mr. Fontaine exchanged quick glances.

  “David, do you want to do this now?” Mr. Fontaine asked.

  Dad paused for a moment and got a nod from Mom. “Sure, maybe it will help.”

  Mr. Fontaine opened his leather bag and retrieved a thick envelope. He unfastened the front, unfolded the papers, and read it aloud.