Kitabı oku: «The Qualities of Wood», sayfa 2

3

The sun rose at the front of the house and gleamed through the kitchen window, bright and overwhelming, like a camera flash. Vivian liked the room’s energy, the unrelenting yellow a shock to her senses.

The place needed a lot of work. The house had stood abandoned for almost three years and every cupboard and closet was stuffed with clothing, books, papers, the assorted junk of a household. The boxes in the bedroom at the end of the hall needed unpacking, their contents dispersed between the Salvation Army and the dump. Vivian would have to go through everything.

The real work would begin after the sorting and clearing. The entire house needed a fresh coat of paint, inside and out. Many of the curtains and shades could be salvaged, but needed washing or mending. A couple of the windows were rusted shut. Repair jobs ranged from a broken doorknob to the huge mildew stain on the ceiling in one of the bedrooms. The attic was its own unique challenge, as Vivian discovered after breakfast.

The stairs from the kitchen were steep and narrow, blocked at the top by a trap door. Vivian pushed and with a reluctant groan it swung open, landing with a bang on the floor above. She pulled herself up and looked around, surprised by the expansive size of the room. The rafters met in a point, like a triangle. The ceiling was high, even at the edges, so she could stand and most of the space was easily accessible. Cardboard boxes were stacked along each wall, as in the spare bedroom. She wondered if Nowell’s grandmother had been planning to move and had begun to pack. Intricate patterns of spider webs decorated the corners of the attic and trailed between awnings like delicate suspension bridges. As Vivian walked, dust rose from the floor and fluttered back down.

The triangular windows let the morning sun through; the rays picked up these dust particles and held them in spirals and sheets. Underneath was a window seat. She cleaned it with a rag and sat down. The seat was hard and small, child-sized. Vivian swiveled and saw the red truck in the driveway. At a short distance, the road curved and disappeared over a hill. A few miles beyond that lay the town.

‘Are you alright up there?’ Nowell called, his voice muffled from below.

‘This floor will look great after it’s cleaned and polished,’ she called back.

‘I bet nobody’s been up there for years,’ he said. ‘Be careful.’

In the far corner sat a large wooden bureau, its purplish color muted by a thick layer of dust. A black vinyl garment bag hung from the back. Vivian walked over and unzipped it. Inside, a garment of dark blue fabric was covered in plastic wrap. Next to that, three dress shirts in white and pale blue. More old clothes, she thought. A brass coat rack, tarnished and dented, stood in front of the bureau. Next to that was a small wire cage, a house for a bird but now choked with spider webs. Clearing the attic would be a big job, one that she resolved to leave for later.

The first days at the house passed quickly. Vivian conducted a survey of sorts, working her way from room to room, making lists. In the afternoons, she sometimes pulled a rusty lawn chair from the shed and took some sun in the front yard. She had first tried sitting in the back, where she could have a view of the trees, but the grass was too high; it scratched her between the canvas slats of the chair. Also, biting bugs swarmed, jumped and hid in the tall grass. Nowell had promised to mow the lawn as soon as he reached a good stopping point in his work.

The world seemed to turn more slowly at the house. Lazy afternoons followed bright, sharp mornings filled with bird noises, clear sky, and country smells of warm grass and damp places. At mid-day the air became hazy and heavy and the birds quieted for a siesta. The house was shady then, a cool respite before the sun began its descent and beamed orange through the back windows. It was a lazy time. In the evenings, Vivian’s energy level peaked again and her sense of hearing sharpened. She heard crickets under the house and outside, the green, thick-veined leaves flapping, one against the other in the breeze. When a small branch snapped and fell, the other branches gently guided its descent.

In the week since her arrival she hadn’t accomplished much with the house, but she didn’t feel guilty. After all, she’d waived her annual vacation from the water management agency because Nowell had said the extra money would help. She deserved to take it easy after having worked straight through the last eight months.

So she was spending another afternoon relaxing. That morning, she had unpacked some boxes, mostly trash: used paperback romances, sewing things and scraps of fabric, an entire box of plastic silverware, plates and cups. She found it strange, going through someone’s belongings, without knowing the person or their reasons for keeping things. Now she lay on her stomach in the front yard with her arms at her sides, feeling the sun bake her back. Eventually she sat up to look at a magazine. The heat felt good on her skin and caused a thin, sparkly layer of sweat to bead between her breasts.

She heard the low hum of a car approaching. The postman was early, she thought. It was just after one o’clock and he usually arrived closer to three. Vivian leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, pushing the magazine underneath her leg so it wouldn’t fall. The car’s engine grew louder until she heard dirt crunching under the tires. She looked up as a long, metallic-green car rolled up the driveway. The postman never came up the driveway, only stopped his little truck at the silver mailbox on the main road.

The driver’s door opened and a woman got out. ‘Hello,’ she called cheerily. ‘Don’t get up, now. I’m nobody important.’

Vivian squinted up at her. She was tall, older than Vivian. Maybe almost forty. Over a pair of dark lavender pants hung a long blue t-shirt, decorated with a pattern of hearts and flowers. She walked up the driveway and stood towering over Vivian.

‘I’m Katherine Wilton,’ she said. ‘I knew Betty, uh, Mrs Gardiner.’

Vivian extended her hand. ‘I’m Vivian Gardiner. Mrs Gardiner was my husband’s grandmother.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I met your husband at the grocery store a couple weeks back.’ Katherine Wilton’s voice was pleasant, almost musical. ‘I almost knocked a chicken out of his arms, wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. I get distracted by the displays in the deli.’

‘That deli is famous,’ Vivian said. ‘My husband and his brother couldn’t say enough about it. I’ll have to see it for myself soon.’

Katherine Wilton laughed again, crossing her arms over the flowers on her ample chest. ‘The employees are all women with too much time on their hands, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody who has time to make a pie from scratch has got their priorities all messed up.’ She dropped her key-ring into a tan leather handbag. ‘Your husband told me you were arriving. I thought I’d see how you’re getting on.’

‘That’s really nice of you,’ Vivian said. ‘I just got in a week ago. I haven’t even left the house yet.’

‘I see you’re taking it easy. Good for you. City living gets hectic, I suppose.’

Vivian flushed, embarrassed at being caught doing nothing. ‘Yes, I’ve been lazy.’

‘Nonsense! You’re spending quality time, as they say, rejuvenating mind and body.’

‘That’s a nice way of saying it. Would you like to come inside for something to drink, Mrs Wilton?’

‘Only if you call me Katherine. ‘Mrs Wilton’ always makes me think of my mother-in-law, and the less I think of her the better.’

Vivian laughed and stood up. The magazine stuck to the back of her thigh for a moment then fell to the ground between their feet.

Katherine scooped it up before Vivian could. ‘That magazine’s left an imprint on your leg,’ she said.

‘What, where?’ Vivian twisted her hips, trying to find the spot where the magazine had stuck.

‘It’s kind of weird, really, a little face right on your leg.’ Katherine covered her grin with a ring-adorned hand. Brassy gold and multi-colored gemstones flashed in the sunlight. ‘It looks like a tattoo, although I don’t know why you’d want some supermodel’s face on your thigh.’

Vivian could make out only a small patch of color, reddish with some black. She studied the magazine page: an ad for hair coloring. She wrapped a towel around her waist and picked up her glass.

Katherine leaned closer. ‘I have a tattoo from my wilder days.’

‘I always wanted one,’ Vivian said. ‘What’s yours?’

‘A black panther. Right here.’ She pointed to a spot just above her pelvic bone. ‘Nothing political intended. I just think big cats are so amazing. Believe it or not, I ran on the track team in high school. So that was it, speed and grace.’ She smiled. ‘It sounds stupid, but I never realized the implications of having a cat so close to … well, right there.’

Vivian inadvertently opened her mouth.

‘It’s alright.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘My husband laughs about it all the time.’

They stepped onto the porch.

‘What tattoo would you get?’ Katherine asked.

Vivian paused. ‘A rose, I think. On my ankle.’

‘The ankle might not be a good choice. Too exposed, don’t you think?’

‘Well, I’d never do it anyway. Nowell wouldn’t like it.’

Katherine slowly nodded. ‘It’s the thought of something permanent. They like to think they invented you. Men, I mean.’ She touched Vivian’s arm. ‘I don’t know your husband well, of course. I was thinking more about an old boyfriend of mine.’

They lingered on the porch. Katherine had beautiful greenish eyes and clear skin. She’s quite pretty, Vivian realized with surprise.

‘Betty used to sit out here all the time,’ Katherine said a little wistfully, ‘working on her needlepoint or crocheting.’

‘Really?’

‘She used to throw bread to the birds, just like a regular old lady.’ Katherine laughed and Vivian joined in, as though old age was something they’d never have to worry about. She already felt comfortable around Katherine. She was easy to be with.

The kitchen was cool and dark. Katherine sat at the table and Vivian poured lemonade into two of Grandma Gardiner’s glasses.

‘Betty was a sweet lady,’ Katherine said. ‘Always served me something. Just like you.’

‘How did you meet her?’

‘At a quilting class they had down at the high school. Max, my husband, thought it would be nice for me to have a hobby. I’ve never been one for sewing, but I thought it sounded alright.’

‘I’m no good at things like that,’ Vivian said.

‘What kind of women are we?’ She laughed. ‘But quilts are nice, right? I figured it might be fun to choose the pieces of fabric from things I had laying around the house, saving for God-knows-what. Like the dress I wore when I graduated from high school, or the kitchen curtains from our first apartment. When I started putting things together, pulling a shirt from here and an old sheet from there, it was real interesting.’

‘Things you had forgotten you had,’ Vivian ventured.

Katherine nodded, leaning back so the chair made a crackling sound. ‘Going through those things was like looking through a photo album. Sometimes I’d sit with an old skirt or something, just feeling the fabric and remembering the way it felt to wear it. Quilting brings up memories as much as anything.’

‘I never thought of it that way,’ Vivian said, ‘and now I’m remembering all of the old clothes and things I probably have stored in boxes, tucked away and forgotten.’

‘It’s amazing what we keep lying around. The quilting class seemed like a good way to put some of it to use.’

‘So Mrs Gardiner was in the same class?’

Katherine nodded. ‘She was the sweetest woman. The first night, she brought a big box of fabric and we reminisced over it.’

Vivian thought guiltily about the box of sewing things and fabric swatches she had taken out to the trash that very morning. She wondered if it was still undamaged underneath the rest of the garbage. ‘Did she use all of her fabrics in the quilt?’

Katherine laughed. ‘Neither of us did. We both realized we liked sitting around shooting the breeze more than we liked the sewing, so we quit the class. Besides, working with those women was like being in the military. The first week, the woman who elected herself leader of the group gave us an outline of how each meeting should go. They didn’t do any sewing the first three weeks, just sat around discussing the theme of the quilt, and looking over samples people brought in.’

‘Sounds pretty boring.’

‘I guess that’s how you do it, but I swear, it just seemed like a lot of nonsense to sew a blanket. If I ever did a quilt I would want it to be just mine. I don’t want to sew all my precious scraps together with strangers’.’

‘Did Mrs Gardiner like doing crafts and things?’

‘Normally, yes. I was a bad influence on her as far as that class goes.’ Katherine fluttered her fingers at Vivian. ‘We kept talking about doing our own quilts, but when I came to visit we’d usually get to talking about other things.’

They sat quietly for a few moments while the shade enveloped them.

‘Betty was a nice woman,’ Katherine repeated. ‘Didn’t have many visitors, except her son every now and then. Before he passed, I mean.’

‘Her son?’

‘Yes, Sherman.’

Vivian shook her head. ‘Nowell’s father. I don’t think he came out here much. He lived about four hours away.’

‘From what Betty said, he came regular as rain, several times a year. She was real proud of him, always talked about how successful he was and those two tall sons of his.’

Nowell had told Vivian that his grandmother was stubborn and difficult and they hadn’t come to see her much. Even though he lived farther away than the rest, Nowell felt guilty for not visiting, especially now that she was gone and had left them both money and the house. Between the insurance settlement, the grandfather’s pension and Social Security, Grandma Gardiner had amassed quite an inheritance for her family. She divided the money equally between her three children: Nowell’s father and his two sisters, neither of whom had any children. Which left Nowell’s mother in charge of their third since Sherman was deceased.

‘What’s that for?’ Katherine asked.

Vivian followed the direction of her gaze. Katherine was looking at the thick sheet that Nowell had hung, curtain-like, to divide his study from the kitchen. ‘My husband works on his writing in there.’

‘Is he working now?’

‘He works most of the day.’

‘I think I’ll just say hello.’

Before Vivian could stop her, Katherine jumped up from the table, crossed the tile floor and flung back the curtain with the zest of discovery. ‘We meet again, Mr Gardiner!’

Nowell looked over from his position in front of the window. He appeared to be looking outside, taking a break from the computer. Vivian expected him to be annoyed, but he smiled. ‘I thought I heard someone out there. Hello again.’

Katherine gestured and her bracelets clinked together. ‘This sheet doesn’t block much noise, I would imagine.’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ he said, ‘but it makes me feel sequestered.’

‘It’s all in appearances, isn’t it, the things we let ourselves believe?’

Nowell made a move to join them, but Katherine waved him off. ‘No, you get back to your work,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to say hello. I thought I might take your wife into town, if she’s interested.’

‘That’s a good idea. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.’

Katherine took one look around the room, made a quick inventory, then let the curtain fall back. ‘So, what about it? Want to ride into town with me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Vivian gestured to her swimsuit. ‘I’ve been outside sweating.’

‘I’ll wait while you shower. I don’t mind.’ Katherine took her glass to the sink and rinsed it, as comfortable in the kitchen as though she’d been there a thousand times. ‘I thought I’d take you around and show you the hardware store, the crafts place. Your husband said you’d be doing some work around the house. I swear, it’s all I can do to keep my own place from falling into decay and ruin. It’s a big job, keeping a house going. Poor Betty was a hard worker, but her sight and energy were giving out. You should have seen how she kept this place before then. Neat as a pin, as they say.’

‘You’re sure you don’t mind waiting?’ Vivian asked.

‘Not at all. I’ll just sit out front for a while, see if those birds still come around.’

‘It’s very nice of you to take me. I’ve been avoiding driving that huge truck.’

Katherine looked down at Vivian and then through the screen door at the old red truck. She shook her head, eyes gleaming. ‘Ain’t that just the way with men?’

4

The color of Katherine’s car made Vivian think of cool, green things: celery, lime sherbet, mint. Inside, the seats were plush and velvety and Vivian let her body sink in.

When Katherine started the engine, a deep voice crooned from the speakers. ‘Do you like Placido Domingo?’ she asked.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard him,’ Vivian told her.

‘That man’s voice melts me, I swear.’ Katherine turned down the music then went through a series of preparations. She adjusted her seat belt strap and the rearview mirror, retrieved her sunglasses from a tortoise-shelled case, put them on and checked her reflection. Then she twisted in the seat, flinging her right arm across the seat back. Finally, she slowly reversed down the long driveway.

The scenery was just as it had been from the airport to the house, although they were headed in the opposite direction. Green rolling hills were broken up by plowed fields, the measured, parallel rows laid out as if by blueprint.

‘Where do you live?’ Vivian asked.

Katherine’s eyes flickered toward her, then back to the road. ‘West of town. There’s a road that veers off this one; our place is set back about a mile.’

‘Big house?’

Katherine shook her head. ‘No, it’s just me and Max. We’ve lived here all our lives, got married at the local chapel. Max owns one of the two dry-cleaning businesses in town. He used to have the only one until a few years ago. A family from out east moved here and opened one near the town center.’

‘Did they take away much business?’

Katherine waved her hand and her thin gold bracelets clanked against each other. ‘Oh, no. We’ve got loyal customers. Of course, there’s always new people moving in. Mr Vega’s store has a good location in the mini-mall and new equipment, but we’ve done fine, just fine.’ She patted the steering wheel. ‘Max bought me this new car a few years ago for our anniversary. Ten years then, thirteen now.’

‘It’s nice.’

Katherine glanced at Vivian’s hand. ‘How long have you been married?’

‘Just over four years,’ Vivian said.

‘Newlyweds,’ she said, a wry grin spreading across her face. Then she turned towards the window. ‘Sometimes I think I could drive around all day, but there’s not much to look at, just the fields and a cow here and there. It’s peaceful, though. About forty miles outside of town, some scenic roads wind up into the steeper hills. I’ll take you some day. We’ll pack a picnic.’

Katherine was a good driver, cautious but not distractedly so, despite her preliminary procedures in the driveway. Her hands looked natural on the steering wheel and her back fit precisely to the seat. She wore huge, square sunglasses with gold ornamentation that matched the tone of the bracelets jangling on her arm.

Vivian leaned back against the seat. She was glad to get away. Being at the house was relaxing, but Nowell immersed himself in his writing and much of the time left her alone. Sometimes at night they watched television together, but there wasn’t much to talk about. During the routine of her job in the city, Vivian had often daydreamed about coming to the house, about long walks in the country and the time to do whatever she wanted. Yet here she was, feeling lonely and a little stir-crazy after only a week. She decided to ask Katherine to show her some places in town, like the library and the movie theater. She needed to find things to keep busy, besides the work on the house.

She liked Katherine’s easy manner. She reminded Vivian of her mother, the way she took charge of things, planning and deciding and leaving little for anyone else to worry about. But Katherine was much younger than her mother, at an age where Vivian imagined herself carpooling children to soccer games and band practice, staying home to nurse sore throats. Yet here was Katherine, childless and seemingly unharmed by it.

‘Your husband says you’re staying for a year?’

Vivian looked over. ‘Give or take. Nowell’s writing his book and I’ve got the house to organize.’

Katherine shook her head. ‘Big job.’

‘I’m starting to think so.’

‘I’m happy to help out,’ Katherine said.

‘Oh, I couldn’t ask you…’

‘I’d be glad for the work and glad for the company,’ she interrupted.

They passed a road maintenance crew. A large truck pressed the newly laid asphalt like a rolling pin on dough while two workers in orange vests sat at the edge of the road, shouting to each other over the truck’s clamor and eating their lunches from brown paper sacks. One of the men leaned back and laughed, slapping his thigh. A third man turned a hand-held stop sign around and waved Katherine through.

‘I can’t believe they’re finally paving this,’ she said. ‘All of the roads out here are still dirt. There’s a main interstate nearby, but it leaves off miles outside of town. Just swings right by us, never comes close. It’s bizarre, I swear, like this town’s been bypassed by the entire modern world.’

The scattered farmhouses along the road started to appear more frequently and form neighborhoods. Suddenly, they were in town. They passed other buildings, a square gray post office, a blue-shuttered Sheriff Department. In a plaza surrounded by cobblestone and benches, a tall statue cast a narrow shadow over the road.

‘Who’s the guy on the horse?’ Vivian asked.

‘William Clement, the founder of the town.’

‘Was he a soldier?’

‘I don’t think so. Why?’

‘I thought with statues, they only put soldiers on horses. One foot of the horse is raised if the man died in battle, or something like that.’

‘Really?’ Katherine’s eyebrows made two reddish-brown points above her sunglasses. ‘I never heard of that. As far as I know, he wasn’t a soldier. He thought he was pretty important, though. Huge ego. Named everything after himself and kept a pack of Indians as slaves, just about. Of course they were here in the Midwest before we came along. Lost everything.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Yet everyone wants to look up to Clement, make him a hero. Some people around here claim to be descendants, either on the white side or the Indian side, and they make a big deal out of it. Back in ’82 when the new library was dedicated, there was a peaceful demonstration that ended not so peacefully. Made the national news.’

Vivian gazed out the window. ‘People like to have heroes, I guess.’

‘So do I, but I like mine realistic like people are, with good and bad parts but trying to do right. From what I’ve heard, Willie wouldn’t have known right if it hit him upside the head. He did terrible things, and people line up to claim they’re related.’ She turned the car into a mini-mall parking lot. There were plenty of open spaces and she took one in front of Clement’s Hardware. ‘See what I mean?’ She motioned toward the store sign and turned the engine off. ‘Here’s one of the famous descendants now.’

Inside, they bought cleaning supplies, wood stain, and a small tool set. There was no one in the store except for the elderly man who took their money. As they left, Katherine grabbed Vivian’s arm and turned her towards the far side of the mall where there was a donut shop and a dry-cleaners. ‘The dreaded enemy,’ she whispered.

‘What? Is that the other dry-cleaners?’

The store had faded posters in the windows, photographs of models in outdated clothing. The sign read ‘Kwik Kleaners’ in cursive red letters.

‘At least they’re not Clements,’ Vivian said.

Katherine chuckled. ‘Oh, but they could be. On the Indian side somewhere, possibly migrated south and now they’ve returned for their rightful place. They’re everywhere!’ She pretended to choke herself and Vivian laughed.

They stopped at an ice-cream parlor for double scoops and ate them at a table outside. The ice-cream melted quickly in the afternoon sun and Vivian felt like a kid sneaking a snack close to dinner, something that was never allowed when she was growing up. She felt guilty and excited, as though Nowell would care.

‘So what kind of books does your husband write?’ Katherine asked. ‘Betty only said that one of her grandsons was a writer and one worked construction.’

‘She passed away before Nowell’s first novel was published. He’s written one book, a mystery, and is working on the second.’

‘You’re kidding! I love mysteries. I’d like to read it. Would he autograph a copy for me?’

‘He’ll be flattered that you asked.’

‘I’ll pick up a copy in town this week. What’s the title?’

Vivian wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘Actually, it’s in limited release. You may have some trouble finding it. Besides, I’m sure Nowell would love to give you a copy. He has some at the house.’

‘Great!’ Katherine said. ‘What’s it about? Don’t tell me too much, I hate that.’

Vivian bit her lower lip, contemplating what to say. ‘It’s a murder mystery about the deaths of two young men. Is that enough?’

Katherine nodded. ‘If I know too much beforehand, the whole experience is ruined. That’s the whole point of a mystery, isn’t it? The not knowing.’

Vivian read Nowell’s book for the first time just before it was ready for printing. He had gone to visit his mother and left the manuscript on the kitchen table at their apartment. He had tucked a note under the cover: Couldn’t have done it without you. Two nights later, she finished it. She never read mysteries, although as a child, she loved hiding games and scary movies, the tight feeling of suspense and the release of discovery. Nowell’s book, Random Victim, seemed well written and it held her interest although she had guessed the ending. She couldn’t remember much about the story now.

They finished their ice-cream and started the drive back to the house. Katherine pointed out the library, a two-story brick building near the plaza with William Clement’s statue, and the movie theater on the same street, between a clothing store and a diner. The current film was only about a month old; Vivian was encouraged by this. Maybe she wasn’t out of touch with civilization after all, she thought.

‘This was the first downtown street,’ Katherine told her. ‘Most of these buildings are very old.’ She drove slowly down the street and like a tour guide, described the various businesses: who owned them, how good they were for shopping. They went by the Sheriff Department again, and the Post Office. USPS was stenciled on the front in blue letters.

Then the cool-green car left the heated asphalt of the town’s streets. They passed first the road crew, then the countless rows of grain, then the low, grassy hills.

‘I volunteer down at the grammar school three mornings a week,’ Katherine told her. ‘Right now they’re having summer school. I read stories to the kids, help corral them outside. And I work at our store every now and then, but the rest of the time I’m pretty free.’ An upbeat number played on the stereo; she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘It’ll be nice having you around for a while. Most women in town are older, or tied down with a pack of kids. And I’d be glad to help you out with the house, any time.’

Vivian shook her head. ‘Sounds like you’re pretty busy.’

‘When you’re redoing someone else’s, it’s more fun. Picking out curtains, painting – oh, remind me to give you the number of Max’s friend with the carpet business. He’ll give you a good deal.’

‘That’s probably something we’ll do last, after everything is moved out, including us.’

‘Keep it in mind, anyway.’ Katherine looked over, her eyes shaded by the huge lenses. ‘I never asked, what did you do in the city?’

After a moment, Vivian realized what she meant. Her job. ‘I just worked in an office.’ Down the road a short distance, she recognized the long driveway that led to Grandma Gardiner’s house. She reached down to get her purse.

‘What’s Sheriff Townsend doing out here?’ Katherine said.

Vivian looked up. A police car was parked in the driveway.

Katherine pulled behind the red truck, next to the cruiser. As they walked to the porch, they heard voices in the backyard. They turned and followed the sound. In the high grass behind the house, three men stood in a straight line like the trees behind them. Two wore the ill-fitting beige uniforms of law enforcement. One was taller and broader and wore a hat. He gazed at the tree line as the other one, a shorter and younger man with wispy blonde hair, spoke to Nowell.

The women waded through the tall grass. Nowell noticed them and waved, and the two policemen looked over.

‘Hello,’ Vivian said.

‘Hi, Viv.’ Nowell looked pale, even in the orange late-day sunlight, and he shielded his eyes. Vivian hadn’t seen him outside since the night she arrived.

‘Are you the welcoming committee, Sheriff Townsend?’ Katherine asked.

The taller, older man cleared his throat and said, ‘Mrs Wilton.’

Katherine turned to the younger man. ‘Don’t you two look solemn. What is it, Bud?’

Bud, the shorter and younger man, glanced at the sheriff, who was gazing into the trees again.

Nowell spoke first. ‘They found a dead girl back there.’