The Cabin on Souder Hill Read online

  Cassie stood in the doorway on her tiptoes. “It wasn’t like there was anything gross in there,” Cassie said. “Except this ugly black and red bug. I flushed it before I sat down because it was disgusting.”

  Cliff appeared in the doorway and put his arm around Cassie’s shoulder.

  “Did you break the cabin? If you break it, you buy it,” Cliff joked with Cassie.

  Michelle appreciated Cliff’s easy manner, the way the sharp corners of his intensity were seemingly rounded off.

  “Yeah, I broke the whole cabin. Here’s a dollar,” Cassie said, handing him a wrinkled bill from her pocket.

  “Hey, is this my change from the gas station?” he said, studying the money. “I forgot about that. Where’s the rest? I gave you a twenty.”

  The familiarity of Cassie and Cliff’s banter was both reassuring and heartbreaking, since Michelle’s own feelings for Cliff were so different now.

  Cassie returned with a mop and bucket and swabbed the water from the floor. Michelle changed into a spare pair of jeans. Cliff called a plumber, then suggested having lunch before they got too carried away with packing.

  Michelle and Cassie drove into Ardenwood and ordered lunch from Thai Mountain. After picking up the food, they passed the converted house on Main that had been Pink’s office. Michelle hardly recognized it. It was now an ice cream parlor called Sprinkles and Cream.

  Cliff was packing canned food from the pantry when they came in. Michelle placed the take-out on the kitchen counter, and Cliff came over behind her and put his hands on her waist. The caress surprised her. Since she’d been back, they slept in the same bed but hadn’t touched each other. After he moved out, she hadn’t even thought about it, their lack of intimacy over the past few years having become routine. She thought about them making love that one afternoon upon returning from the cemetery. But that was a different Cliff, the man missing a finger. She was quick to remind herself that that wasn’t part of this reality, and Cliff would have no knowledge of that afternoon.

  Michelle pulled his change from her pocket and laid it on the kitchen counter, surprised to see the pentagram among the nickels and dimes. She picked it up. Maybe these were the jeans she’d been wearing that night with Pink, the pentagram making it through a wash and dry cycle at home. She didn’t want it, still unsure how to dispose of it. Cliff saw it in her hand.

  “Is that Cassie’s?”

  Michelle looked up. “This? No.”

  Cliff pulled plates down from the cabinet, and then tore off paper towels to use as napkins. They ate out on the deck. They had just finished eating when the plumbers arrived, two men wearing blue shirts and jeans, both with name patches. Cassie and Michelle went out on the deck while the men checked the bathroom pipes, the drains in the laundry room, the kitchen. Cliff came out on the deck a while later and told Michelle and Cassie they might want to come watch.

  “The plumbers?” Cassie said.

  “Yeah, they have a video camera like surgeons use for laparoscopic surgery. I mean it’s bigger and clunkier, but it’s amazing.”

  “Ughh, no thanks,” Cassie said. “I don’t want the guided tour of our sewer system.”

  “You’d have something to share with your friends,” Cliff said, laughing.

  “Yeah, right. That’s the kind of thing we always talk about.”

  Even though Michelle was glad that Cliff’s relationship with Cassie was intact, Michelle felt like she was trapped behind two-inch thick bulletproof glass. She wanted some of the lightness Cassie and Cliff enjoyed, to be part of the jokes they tossed between each other. Had it always been this way, them laughing, joking, and her on the periphery watching in silence?

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” Michelle asked Cassie.

  “Let’s see,” Cassie said, mugging an inquisitive look. “A walk amid the mountain laurel and fresh air . . . or a dark, dismal journey to the center of the septic tank? This is tough. Let’s go, Mom. Sorry, Dad.”

  “We won’t be gone long,” Michelle said. “We can start packing when we get back.”

  “Just remember, Dad, Mom said that, not me.”

  Michelle and Cassie walked up the road in silence, the smell of fresh pine in the air. Michelle took Cassie to the pathway Pink had built through the trees. When they reached the gnarled poplar tree, Michelle was first to climb the worn, wooden planks nailed to its trunk.

  “Wow, Mom,” Cassie said. “That looks a little dangerous.”

  “Come on,” Michelle said. “Just be careful.”

  When Cassie reached the top, she walked past Michelle, holding the railing, and looked out over the varied green hues of rhododendron, mountain laurel, and conifers. Michelle told Cassie about Pink, how he’d built the path for Isabelle. When she finished the story, she took the pentacle from her pocket and lashed it to the railing.

  “Why are you doing that?” Cassie asked.

  Michelle explained that she’d found it in the house, that it was Isabelle’s. “This is where it belongs now.”

  “Mom,” Cassie said, “I’ve been thinking about what I heard you tell that woman on the phone the other day, that Lulu woman.”

  “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Cassie said. “It’s not freaking me out or anything. Actually, it made me think about something that happened last year with Chloe. I mean, it’s not anything like what happened to you, but it was kind of weird.

  “Chloe had this beautiful necklace she let me borrow,” Cassie said. “A week or so later I gave it back to her. Then two weeks after that, Chloe asked for her necklace. I told her I gave it to her already, at Ginny’s Halloween party. Chloe told me that was impossible because she hadn’t been at the Halloween party, that her parents hadn’t let her go. It was too weird, because she was at the party. I remember.”

  Michelle was surprised by her own desire to offer Cassie a logical explanation. In spite of all she had experienced, her mind hungrily craved the comfort of a predictable universe, quantifiable reality, irrefutable laws of nature.

  “Are you ready to head back?” Michelle said.

  Cassie kicked rocks as they walked along the macadam road toward the cabin. A hawk drew a quick shadow across the pavement in front of them, causing them both to look up. But it was the blue and red flashing lights splashing through the trees that caught their attention.

  When they reached the cabin, they saw two police cars blocking the driveway. Cliff was on the deck, his hands on the railing, his eyes on the riff of distant mountains. He didn’t turn until Michelle called his name.

  “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

  His face was white.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?” Cassie asked, her eyes darting between the house and her father.

  “They found a skeleton,” Cliff said.

  “What are you talking about?” Michelle said, shifting her gaze between the opened door and Cliff. Two officers stood inside the house, one of them speaking into the microphone attached to his collar. With his tan uniform, he looked like a state policeman.

  Cliff explained that the plumbers checked all the pipes with the video scope and found no problem then checked the pipe leading to the septic tank. “It was unbelievable,” Cliff said. “The skull looking back . . .”

  “In the septic tank?” Michelle said. “They found a skeleton in the septic tank? But how . . . I don’t understand.”

  Sheriff Fisk walked out onto the deck with Deputy Bogan following. The sheriff shook his head, his eyes fixed on Michelle.

  “Been a hell of a time for you folks,” he said, “with Mr. Stage gone missing, then you, Mrs. Stage, disappearing like that. Now this.”

  “What’s going on?” Michelle said.

  Sheriff Fisk took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t know for sure, but I’d say that’s probably Isabelle S
ouder in that tank. We suspected he’d buried her here at the cabin, but never thought to look there. Who would, you know? I’m not a gambling man, but I’d wager that’s Pink’s wife. State boys’ll sort it out. In the meantime, we got to go get Pink.” He riveted his gaze on Michelle, as if trying to pull up vital information from the deep green of her eyes. “He’s a pretty bad mess.”

  Michelle couldn’t look at Sheriff Fisk.

  “You folks mind if I have a word with Mrs. Stage alone,” Sheriff Fisk asked, his question pointed at Cliff and Cassie.

  Cliff wrapped his arm around Cassie’s shoulder and guided her toward the driveway. Michelle wondered if this would ever be over.

  “A few years back I bought my wife a blouse for her birthday,” Sheriff Fisk said. “The day before I was to give it to her, she saw a woman in the grocery store wearing the same blouse and turned to me and told me how ugly it was. Well, I took the blouse back to the store and exchanged it for bath oil beads and little soaps I knew she liked. So I’m a strong believer in serendipity. But Pink showing up after all these years, then a few days later we find Isabelle’s remains? Well, it strains all credibility, if you follow me. Now, I know you been through a lot, but I really need to know what happened between you and Pink, especially with this new wrinkle.”

  Michelle repeated the lie that when she’d made it to the highway, she hitchhiked into town and saw Pink’s office and stopped there because she remembered the sheriff telling her Pink had built the cabin. And she thought she could use the phone to call Cliff. “I don’t remember much else.”

  The sheriff regarded her a long moment, a mild ripple of disgust tightening the straight line of his mouth. “Ma’am, Pink don’t have him an office. Hasn’t had one in years. Not here in Ardenwood. Do you mind telling me where you two happened to link up?”

  Michelle stared into the sheriff’s eyes. Deputy Bogan stood beside him, both men awaiting the answer.

  “It’s a blur,” Michelle said. “Isn’t that obvious? I can’t remember anything clearly.”

  Fisk continued to wait for a more adequate answer until a heavy truck rumbled up the road and pulled in behind the squad cars.

  The sheriff put his hat on, screwing it slowly from side to side until it fit just right. “I already explained to your husband that you folks won’t be able to stay here tonight, being a crime scene and all. State boys won’t want evidence spoiled. But I don’t think we’ve had our last talk, Mrs. Stage. Lot of folks are wondering where Pink’s been, and Pink keeps saying he’s been in Ardenwood all along, says we’re all crazy and throws a fit. But chances are, Pink’s going to trial for Isabelle’s murder—and when that happens, prosecutor’s going to want to know what you know. You understand, Mrs. Stage? You’re the first person to see Pink in years. And he talks like you and him are old friends. State boys might even get it in their mind you’ve been hiding him all these years, that maybe you had something to do with this, if those bones turn out to be Isabelle’s.”

  The two men who brought the backhoe came up on the deck and asked the sheriff where to dig. Deputy Bogan escorted them around the side of the house.

  Sheriff Fisk looked back at Michelle. “Hell of a thing, all this new technology. They run a cable fixed with a camera and light no bigger than a dang pencil down the pipe. Even has a sensor on it that ol’ Andy there can follow with that contraption he’s holding, lead him right to the tank. They’ll pull out them bones and check ’em with all their fancy equipment, find out exactly who that is in there. Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

  The backhoe fired up and sputtered under a large plume of blue smoke. It rattled loudly across the yard.

  Michelle said nothing, unconvinced the sheriff could really believe she had anything to do with the skeleton, with any of what was happening. But he could subpoena her back to Ardenwood for Pink’s trial, force her to perjure herself before judge and jury. She could tell the truth and test the limits of incredulity, risk insulting the judge and judicial system with her preposterous story. And what about Pink? He would have no idea about the murder. In the version of his life he was living, he had not killed anyone. He could probably pass a lie detector test without a problem, a lot easier than Michelle could.

  “Can I go?” Michelle asked. “We’re going to head back to Atlanta today.”

  “Sure thing,” Sheriff Fisk said. “I gave the state boys all your contact information. Someone from the prosecutor’s office’ll probably be getting in touch with you.”

  “You can’t possibly believe I had anything to do with this?” Michelle said.

  “Not directly, but you and Pink have one heck of a vexing story. It just doesn’t jibe, ma’am. And that puts an itch in my sheriff’s brain I just can’t scratch.” The sheriff tweaked the brim of his hat and headed in the direction of the men with the backhoe, down the back stairs off the deck. She heard the crisp slice of metal into dirt, followed by the sound of clumped mud and rock tumbling through the weeds as the backhoe dumped its take from the fresh hole.

  *****

  Cassie asked questions from the back seat. Michelle didn’t want to talk, her mind a whorl of intangibles, roads going nowhere, travelers without destinations, night without end. She wanted it to be over.

  They drove back to Atlanta in silence, Michelle incapable of unplugging from the lies she’d told Sheriff Fisk, how embarrassing they were, how stupid they’d sounded. She’d seen that Pink’s office was an ice cream shop—why did she stay with that lie? It seemed impossible to construct a believable truth from what she knew, all the facets of reality she’d seen, how the pieces should all fit.

  Cassie slept on the trip back. Cliff turned on the radio. “The real estate agent didn’t say anything about skeletons in the septic system,” Cliff said.

  Michelle looked at him, unable to grasp his meaning.

  “It was a joke. You know, real estate agents are supposed to—never mind. It was a bad joke. Why don’t you close your eyes and rest?”

  Michelle curled against the seat, the woman in the lavender gown coming in her dream.

  Chapter 44

  When Lulu opened the door, she was surprised Pink wasn’t sitting on the couch watching television. That’s where he’d spent nearly every waking hour since she’d picked him up from the hospital, there or in the fridge looking for something to eat. Most nights he didn’t even sleep in the spare bedroom she’d set up for him, just dozed off in his boxers on the couch, the television playing all night.

  Burrito ran over to her, jumping up and down, propping himself up with one paw on her shin. She leaned over and rubbed his head, then got some dog food and poured it in his dish. “You’re supposed to make sure Pink doesn’t sleep all day,” she said to the dog.

  Lulu set the sacks of groceries on the kitchen table. Pink had hardly spoken to her the last couple of days, ever since she’d told him the story of Mattie and Ida and what they had done. Maybe it was a mistake telling him, she thought, but he needed to know if Fisk came for him. She knew Fisk had questioned him in town and hadn’t arrested him. Lulu wanted to ask Pink what he had done with Isabelle’s body but she didn’t have the courage.

  She put the lettuce and cucumber in the vegetable crisper and closed the refrigerator door, remembering how Pink had first reacted when she came to the hospital after his breakdown. She’d come in the evening, after visiting hours, hoping to avoid making a scene. Evelyn, the night nurse, had let her in.

  “Lulu?” he’d said, seemingly still trying to pull himself from sleep. “What the hell! Lulu, you’re dead—”

  Lulu had clamped her palm over his mouth. “Quiet, Pink.”

  He had tried to wrestle free of her grip. When he settled down, she drew back her hand.

  “There must be hell to pay if I’m seeing you, Lulu!” Pink had said, wiping his mouth. “Damn, I helped Mama spread your ashes!”

  A few days later, Lulu pic
ked Pink up at the hospital and brought him to her house. He was groggy from medication, so she waited a few days to tell him about Mattie and Ida—and Isabelle.

  He’d been napping in front of the television.

  “Pink” she’d said, shaking his arm.

  “Uh, oh, Lulu,” Pink had said, rubbing his eyes. “What is it? Supper?”

  “Pink.” Lulu had switched the television off. “I have something unsettling to tell you and I need you to listen.”

  Lulu had tried to frame the story in terms Pink could deal with, but she could tell he’d been flummoxed by the account. “That’s just batshit crazy!” he’d shouted, pushing himself off her couch. “How could Isabelle be my sister?” he said. “And how could I have killed her?” he said. “That’s one whopper of a yarn, Lulu.”

  “I’m so sorry, Pink,” she’d said. “But you need to know.”

  “Why would I need to know something like that?” he’d shouted. “Hell’s bells, Lulu, I’ll never get that damn story out of my head. Why would you concoct a tale like that? Hell, you should’ve been in the damn hospital, not me.”

  Pink had gone to his bedroom, and Lulu had heard the television in his room come on. The next few days had been tense. Pink was impossible to talk to. He took his plate to his room, and she’d see it in the sink in the morning when she got up to make coffee. Every time she spoke to him, he’d fly into a tirade. “Everybody in this whole damn town’s crazier than a hornet on a bug strip.” Then he’d slam his bedroom door.

  Lulu filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. She turned the burner on and remembered the railing on the porch needed some attention, feeling it would be good for Pink to busy himself with something other than police shows and horror movies.