Bellewether

  It was only Malaika. “Hey, Sam. I thought I heard your voice down here.”

  In the exchange of “good mornings” and small talk that followed as Lara came down the stairs after her, I poured Sam’s coffee and my own and fetched the Tupperware container I’d kept hidden in the cupboard. When I set it on the counter with Sam’s coffee mug he glanced at it, then grinned. “No way!”

  “I promised.”

  He looked like a kid with his cinnamon bun. A possessive kid. Lifting it up and away from Malaika as she leaned in closer to see what it was, he said, “Mine.”

  She assured him he could keep it. “I just have to look at those things and I gain ten pounds right on the spot.”

  “Better not watch, then.” He bit off a mouthful and looked at me. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I brought you something, too,” he said, and nodded to the space beside the side door just behind him, where unnoticed by me until now, a wooden-framed screen leaned against the wall.

  My turn to smile. “Oh, Sam, that’s perfect!”

  Malaika ventured, “Dare I ask?”

  I told her, “I asked Sam if he could make a screen so we could sift the soil they’re digging up, for artifacts.”

  “I made you three,” he said. “The other two are in the truck.”

  Malaika’s glance gently reminded me we hadn’t run this through the proper budgetary channels for approval. “How much did they cost?”

  “That’s okay,” I said, “I’ve got this. I’m paying Sam out of my pocket.”

  Sam shook his head. “I’ve been paid.” And he lifted the cinnamon bun as his evidence. “I already had most of the pieces just lying around in the shed, they’d have gone to scrap anyway.”

  If I’d read his face right he was telling the truth, but if that was the case he took pride in his work because what he had brought didn’t look roughly made. He’d built it almost exactly to the width I’d shown him with my hands, about two feet wide, and maybe six inches longer in length so it made a slight rectangle, with rounded handles at one narrow end. And he must have done some research on his own because at the other end, opposite the handles, he’d attached a hinged ladder-like “leg” that was built to lie flat on the back of the screen when it wasn’t in use, and then swing down and serve as a pivot supporting one end of the screen so whoever was doing the sifting could work on their own simply rocking it back and forth.

  “I used quarter-inch mesh. Stainless steel,” he said. “That seemed to be what most other ones used. Was that right?”

  “You just happened to have that lying around in your shed, too?”

  “Yep.” Now he was fibbing, but he knew I knew it, his eyes not even trying to be serious. He lifted his mug, took his first swig of coffee, and couldn’t entirely hide his reaction. He covered it well, though, and I had to give him credit. When I’d made him coffee last time it had turned out like the tar sands, and today the coffee-maker’s mood had shifted so that mine, even with double cream and sugar, tasted thin and weak as water. “Anyhow.” He set the mug down carefully. “I figured quarter-inch would let the soil through fairly easily and still catch things like that old button you showed me.”

  Malaika looked from Sam to me. “What button?”

  “Oh.” I hadn’t meant to keep it secret from her, I’d just been distracted by my reading of Frank’s uncle’s papers in the meantime. “When I was locking up after the board meeting, I stumbled over a button beside the foundation trench. Mid-eighteenth century. Possibly French.”

  She connected the dots with her usual quickness. “As in a French officer’s uniform?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Well then, I think we should definitely see what else is down there in the dirt. Where’s this button now?”

  “Up in my office.” I hid my reluctance to go back upstairs when I offered to show her, then hid my relief when she shook her head.

  “Show me tomorrow. I’ve got to get going.”

  “And I need to open the store,” Lara said, brushing by me with a sideways hug. “I’ll call you later with the verdict.”

  “Verdict?”

  “The luncheon. The Sisters of Liberty. Didn’t I tell you? I thought I did. Never mind. I had a talk with my clients,” she summarized, “and they thought having us speak was a great idea. They said they’d talk to the powers that be and let me know sometime this afternoon.”

  “Sounds good.” This time I knew my smile wouldn’t have fooled my mom, but it felt fairly convincing and seemed to fool Lara.

  So I was a little surprised when Sam, once we were left on our own in the kitchen, met my gaze knowingly. “Not your idea of fun?”

  “What?”

  “A Sisters of Liberty lunch.” He was down to his last bites of cinnamon bun. “Are you sure you don’t want any of this?”

  I was sure.

  “Well, don’t worry,” he said. “They’re a nice group of women. They’ll make you feel welcome.”

  All except one of them, I thought. My grandmother wouldn’t be happy to see me. In fact, as their president, she might just veto the very suggestion of having me be their guest speaker.

  But Sam, although he lived here, either didn’t know my family’s messed-up history or was too polite to mention it. “Too polite” was my guess, as I watched him diplomatically attempt another sip of coffee.

  “You can pour it down the sink,” I said. “It’s awful. I know. The machine has a mind of its own.”

  He did as I suggested, rinsed the cup and washed his hands. “How do you drink this stuff?”

  “I take caffeine any way I can get it.”

  “You’re braver than me.”

  No, not really, I wanted to say as I watched him head back out to work, leaving me on my own in the house with whatever had pulled that plug out of the wall in my office. I’m not brave at all.

  But I wasn’t about to become like Frank’s aunt, either, jumping at things that went bump in the night. Or the daytime.

  I refilled my coffee mug, switched off the coffee machine, rinsed the pot out, and then—having delayed things as long as I could—I went back up the stairs.

  In the door to my office I paused, and reminded myself that I didn’t believe in ghosts. But just in case I was sharing my office with something that didn’t care whether I thought it was real, I decided to play it safe. “Look,” I said, speaking aloud to the empty room, “just knock it off, okay? Leave me alone.”

  Nothing answered, or moved, so I ventured inside. The plugs for the lamp and the fan still lay motionless on the floor next to the baseboard, behind my desk. Clearly I wasn’t going to get anywhere by trying to plug them back in there, but the lamp was a necessity and I could really use the fan. The room felt stifling.

  Picking up the lamp I crossed with what I hoped was nonchalance and moved it to another outlet opposite my desk. My fingers only shook a little as I plugged it in, and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  Reassured by that, I found a new spot for the fan beside the window, where its plug could share the power bar with my computer.

  For the rest of the day, while I filled out the budget forms, dealt with my emails, and drafted a loan request letter to send to the other museums that held the few items we knew had once been in the Wilde House, my room remained obediently quiet. Nothing moved, apart from me, except the oscillating fan that sent its rhythmically repeating flow of cooling air across my desk and had a low-key whirring hum that muted the sounds of the workmen outside. So when my cell phone rang, the noise was jarring.

  It was Lara.

  • • •

  “The Sisters of Liberty? That sounds fun.” Gianni Bonetti, the son of our neighbour, leaned back in his chair with a grin. He’d brought us meatballs and had stayed to help us eat them, and the three of us were sitting on the front porch of my brother’s house now in the sultry warmth of this late summer evening, while the colours of the sunset sky were softly overtaken
by the deeper shades of blue. I’d once thought his mother was matchmaking, sending him over here, but I was starting to think it was Gianni’s decision to play the delivery boy.

  Twenty-two years old, he had a true Long Island accent—or, as he’d pronounce it, “LawnGUYland”—that turned all the rs at the ends of his words into ahs and lengthened his vowels so “whatever” came out “whatevah” and “coffee” was “cawfee,” which I found adorable.

  He also had a ladykiller smile and eyes for Rachel.

  When she turned her gaze on him, he asked her, “What? I’m being serious. We used to cater their meetings before they moved out to the Privateer Club. They’re a fun group of ladies.”

  “Ladies? Really?” Rachel challenged his word choice. “That’s so patronizing.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “I’ve heard you say ‘lady.’ ”

  “I say it ironically.”

  “Women, then.” He shrugged it off and raised his arms to link his hands behind his head, a move that showed off his physique to good advantage.

  I liked Gianni. He was a good-looking guy and he knew it, but underneath the cockiness he had a thoughtful nature and was smarter than he seemed.

  He said, “I used to like to work their meetings. They had good presenters, really interesting. Once this lady—woman—came and talked about geology and how that ridge there, all of that was made back in the ice age, when the glaciers pushed the rocks down here and left them. That was fascinating. And another time, Sam Abrams—you know Sam, who’s working up at your museum? Well, he talked about the architecture of the houses people lived in here during the Revolution. That was really cool.”

  I thought of Sam telling me this morning that if I spoke at a Sisters of Liberty meeting they’d make me feel welcome. I hadn’t known he was speaking from personal experience.

  Settling back in the chair I had chosen, the old wicker rocking chair angled to face the road, I set it idly in motion.

  My apartment in Albany hadn’t had a balcony, let alone a porch, and I’d forgotten just how much I liked to sit like this, half sheltered by the railing and the roof but with the whole outdoors before me in a panoramic view. The cooler air of evening felt revitalizing after my long day of working in the heat, and the summer sounds of insects singing in the reeds that edged the water of the bay behind the house rose on the breeze like music.

  The sun had fully dropped from sight now. All along the ridge of darkened land that Gianni had just pointed out—the glacial moraine that formed the hills that gave this section of Long Island so much character—small lights had started twinkling on, like stars in the descending night. They were the lights of all the houses tucked amid the trees and winding roads that edged Millbank, some as old, or very nearly, as the Wilde House.

  Watching those lights, I remarked, “I guess Sam’s done work on a lot of old houses.”

  “Well, sure,” Gianni said. “He was doing some work up at Bridlemere while they were meeting there, so that was cool, too, to see how he used antique tools. I mean, it isn’t from the Revolution, but that house is old, you know?”

  Tracing a finger through the condensation on the glass of iced tea I was holding, I cleared my throat and clarified, “The Sisters of Liberty used to have meetings at Bridlemere?”

  “Oh, yeah. For years. They just moved to the Privateer Club this past spring.” His shrug was pragmatic. “I think Mr. Kiersted made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  That didn’t surprise me. For all he followed Sharon’s lead on our board of trustees, Harvey seemed to like to throw his weight around in town. “Does the Kiersted Group own the Privateer Club, too?”

  “Nah, but one of Mr. Kiersted’s friends does. Owns the whole marina. So I’m sure Mr. Kiersted gets something for bringing him business.”

  Rachel thought that was unethical, and said so.

  Gianni shrugged again. “You can’t stop people doing what they do, you know? Some guys will always find a way to put an extra dollar in their pocket.” But he did add, “It’s a shame, though. I used to like working those meetings. Veronica did all the food. It was great. You won’t get food like that at the Privateer Club.”

  Veronica, the daughter of the owner of the deli Gianni worked at, handled the catering side of their business. She was also the significant other of our museum treasurer, Tracy, and at my very first board meeting there’d been a tray of incredible canapes sent by Veronica, who had been testing new recipes for some upcoming event. Having tasted her cooking, I knew Gianni was right—any other chef probably wouldn’t be able to match that.

  But still, I felt relieved the meeting wouldn’t be at Bridlemere. If I had to face my grandmother, at least it would be easier for this first meeting to take place on neutral ground. Besides, if it had been at her estate, there would have been no guarantee she’d even let me through the gates.

  Gianni, though, had been through those gates. That made me curious. I asked him, “What is it like inside?”

  “The Privateer Club?”

  “No, Bridlemere.”

  “Big. Really fancy, old-fashioned, and big.” Gianni lounged farther back in his chair and propped his feet carefully on the smooth top of the porch railing. My brother had “fixed” the porch railing when they’d first moved in, and you had to know just how to lean against it or else it tilted and wobbled, but Gianni appeared to have mastered the trick of it. “Too big for me,” he said. “I’d rather have a house like the ones Sam talked about—you know, square house, square rooms, all the space you need and none you don’t. I’d like to build a house like that, someday.”

  Rachel pointed out that, in a place like this, he wouldn’t need to go to the trouble of building one. “There are lots of old houses in Millbank. You could just buy one and fix it up.”

  “Nah, I could never buy an old house. Might come with mice. Or a ghost. Hey,” he said to me, “have you run into the soldier yet, up at the Wilde House?”

  I answered a little too firmly. “No.”

  Rachel frowned. “What soldier?”

  Gianni jumped in with the story and I let him tell it. He told the same version, or nearly the same, as Frank’s—Lydia Wilde and the captured French officer falling in love, making plans to run off with each other, and being caught out by her big brother Joseph, who, seeing the light of their lantern pass by, had come out and confronted them there on the path, and had shot the French officer. But the way Gianni had learned the tale, Lydia Wilde hadn’t died of a broken heart. She’d drowned herself in the cove. “She just followed him. Followed the light of her dead soldier’s lantern, and he led her down to the water, and she walked right in.”

  One of the lights on the darkening ridge had begun to move—probably a motorcycle coming down one of the streets, but even so it made me feel uneasy and I looked away. I noticed Gianni, in his version of the story, hadn’t given Lydia a name. She’d just been “Captain Wilde’s sister.” So I said, “Her name was Lydia.”

  “Yeah?” He looked at me with interest. “And the French guy? What was his name?”

  “We don’t know that, yet. I’m trying to do some research, though, so maybe I’ll find out.”

  I recognized the look that Rachel sent me as the same one that my brother always used when I said something idiotic. “You do know it’s just a story, right?”

  “A lot of stories start from facts,” I pointed out.

  “I highly doubt you’ve got a ghost.”

  But Gianni begged to differ. “I’ve seen the soldier a bunch of times.”

  Rachel, her tone unimpressed, asked him, “Really? And what was he wearing?”

  “You don’t see the whole guy, you just see the light from his lantern. But trust me, it moves like a guy.”

  “Trust you?”

  “Yeah.” Gianni turned his head towards her and the angle of his chin was like a dare. “I’ll take you up there now, tonight, and you can see him for yourself.”

  She faced him, too, and I was fairl
y sure that for the two of them, in that one moment, I’d become invisible.

  “Nice pickup line you’ve got there,” Rachel said. “I’ll bet you get a lot of girls into the woods with you at night, with lines like that.”

  “I’ll bet you scare a lot of guys away, with lines like that. Not me, though. I don’t scare so easy.” Gianni’s grin flashed briefly in the dimming light. “Do you?”

  In all her life, I’d never seen my niece back down from any challenge. And she didn’t do it now. “I don’t get scared by things that don’t exist. You’re on.” She stood, remembered me, and turned to ask, “You want to come?”

  “No, thanks.” I stayed exactly where I was, securely in my rocking chair with my iced tea, and watched them leave in Gianni’s car. I told myself I’d only stayed because I didn’t want to be the third wheel, interfering in whatever was developing between them. But the truth was, I didn’t feel nearly as certain as Rachel did that there’d be nothing to see. That they wouldn’t find someone—or something—up there by the Wilde House, still walking the shadowy paths through the woods.

  Lydia

  She wasn’t alone in the woods.

  She had known it for some minutes now, since she’d left the bright afternoon sun of the clearing around the small cluster of headstones and stepped again onto the path through the trees, and had glimpsed his blue coat through the branches behind her.

  Before, in the time she’d spent pulling the weeds from her mother’s grave, the clearing and woods had been empty and silent except for the trilling of birds and the buzzing of insects and now and again the swift rustling of some little creature across the thick carpet of mouldering leaves.

  Now, though, those rustlings had taken a rhythm that, although yet faint, confirmed someone was following.

  Even if she had not seen his blue coat she’d have known it was him, because no shoes or boots would make sounds like that—only the softer-soled Indian footwear that Mr. de Sabran had taken to wearing these days when he went for his walks. It had taken them all by surprise when he’d pulled those strange shoes from his pack one day. Fashioned from deerskin and stitched all around, they were tied to the foot and not buckled, with flat, supple soles that had no added heels.