The Line

SIX

I spent another full day in bed after being released from the hospital, but at least it was my own bed. When I awoke early the following morning, I felt normal again, and was itching to get out. I made a point of abandoning my cell phone on the night table before making my escape, hoping to evade Iris’s mothering. The years I’d spent sneaking out as a teenager served me well; I climbed out the window and down the trellis, and found myself free on a fine, if humid, morning.

I started wandering around Savannah more or less on automatic pilot, without thinking about where I’d end up. I found myself near Chippewa Square, so I grabbed a coffee to go at Gallery and went into the park. The city had recently cut back the overgrown azaleas that many homeless had been using as makeshift shelters. I recognized the necessity of the work, but it still seemed like a shame. I kind of liked Chippewa in its derelict state; there was something familiar and even comforting about it.

The benches were all occupied, either by tourists doing their best Forrest Gump impersonations for the camera or by the very homeless people that the city was hoping to shoo out of the square. I deposited myself on the ground in the shade of my favorite tree. I tried to avoid thinking of Ginny, and of the violence done to her, by eavesdropping on every conversation around me. I drank my coffee and let my eyes trace the outline of the steeple on the Presbyterian church.

An angelic little girl ran past me, laughing as her father caught her and swung her up into the air. The distraction was bittersweet. Lord help me, how I envied that little girl’s relationship with her father, even now. If only my mama had revealed who our father was, maybe Maisie and I could have had days like that with him. Of course, I knew mama must have had a real good reason for not sharing, but I sure wish that she had.

“I knew you’d be here,” Aunt Ellen called out from behind me. “When you were little, and you were nowhere to be found, I could always count on finding you here, sitting in the shadow of that old gentleman.” For a second I thought she was saluting the statue of Oglethorpe, but I realized she was just shading her eyes. “That sun burns a whole lot hotter than it used to.” She made as if to join me on the grass, but then seemed to think better of it. “My dear, I’m afraid that I’m beyond the age of rising gracefully from the ground under my own steam, but not yet at that age where my pride would allow me to accept your help. Come on, get up and walk a bit with me.”

I smiled at her. Her eyes were clear, her voice was steady, and she seemed to be far more present than she had been in months. Her face was fresh. Her fair hair had new lowlights. Her nails were flawlessly manicured, and a slight tremor in her hands told me that she hadn’t had her first cocktail of the day. Ginny’s death had brought on an impromptu family reunion, and our house was packed to the rafters, buzzing not only with the extended Taylor family but with MacGregors, Ryans, and Duvals, known to us Savannah Taylors collectively, and somewhat derogatorily, as “the cousins.” I wondered if Ellen were trying to put on her best front for the larger family group, or if the house was simply too crowded for her to be able to raid the liquor cabinet surreptitiously.

Despite the unforgiving light and a decade or more of heavy drinking, Aunt Ellen was still beautiful. More beautiful than any other of the Taylor women, except, of course, Maisie. I stood and brushed the grass, moss, and sandy earth from my jeans. She offered me her arm, and I took it. “You’ve missed the worst of the gathering, you know,” she began as we moved our way along the McDonough Street edge of the park. “The part where the cousins all tried to act like they gave a damn about Ginny’s…passing.” She looked a bit guilty. “I shouldn’t be talking like this.”

“It’s okay. She hated me. I must admit, her death isn’t going to create any great void in my life,” I said. I didn’t really mean a word of it; I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to resolve my feelings toward Ginny and what had happened to her.

“It’s terrible. I know I should care more, but Ginny wasn’t just mean to you. She didn’t have a kind word for anyone since something like 1984. She was old and bitter and angry to the end.” Ellen stopped herself.

“But how did she get to be that way?” I asked. “I know she had too much responsibility to have a family of her own, but I don’t think she really wanted one anyway. I don’t understand what made her so hard.”

“I’ve got a theory. Now it’s only a theory, mind you, but I think I may be right,” Ellen began. “Ginny was a handsome woman, but not what I’d call beautiful, and the men weren’t exactly lining up for her. She was intelligent too, but shrewdly intelligent. Not a great intellect. She certainly lacked your amazing imagination. There was nothing that called her out into the larger world, so being chosen as an anchor gave her a tremendous sense of purpose and validation. But instead of using it as an opportunity to expand her horizons, she shut herself off, and as her world shrank she began to see herself as larger and more important than she had any right to. She saw herself as the sun, and expected us to spend our lives orbiting around her.” Ellen stopped talking as a tourist trolley pulled up alongside us. Something about its arrival put an end to her candor. “What a fine pair we are, speaking so poorly of the dead,” she concluded. Her forehead creased and she folded her arms around herself.

“Will the police be able to release the body in time for the memorial?” I asked, trying to bring her back out of her private thoughts.

“I don’t know, dear. Oliver is working on getting the body released, but I’m afraid it might be a few more days or even weeks before we’ll be able to lay Ginny to rest.” She paused. “I have to apologize to you, Mercy. I couldn’t help you when you were hurt.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault, Aunt Ellen.”

“But it was, in a way,” she began to tear up. “I wasn’t reachable when Iris called me. After you found Ginny, that is. I’m sure you know why I wasn’t home, why none of you knew where I was. Hell, I didn’t even know where I was. If I hadn’t been passed out, I would have answered my phone. I am going to quit drinking. I know, I’ve tried before…But this time I’m going to do it.” She looked squarely at me. “For real, this time, sugar. Do you hear me?”

I desperately wanted to believe her. For her sake. I smiled and tried to pull her to me, but she pushed away.

“I’m not through,” she said, determination putting lines on her forehead. Her knitted eyebrows exposed her cornflower blue eyes and made them seem somehow larger. “I couldn’t help you. Do you understand? I tried to heal you. Iris and Connor brought you to me before taking you to the hospital. It should have been easy. You had a jolt, but you’re young and strong and healthy, and I should have been able to heal you. Instead, I could have let you die.” The tears flowed heavily down her cheeks.

“I wasn’t hurt that bad!” I exclaimed. “Just knocked for a loop.”

“You were unconscious for days,” Ellen said.

It was true, helping me should have been a no-brainer for her. Out of my mother’s three siblings, I was most in awe of Ellen’s talents. I’d seen her stop bleeding cold and regulate the beat of a heart. Once I witnessed her bring someone back from the brink of death. I was scared to go near her for days after that. And maybe she had caught death’s attention by straddling the threshold between life and death for too long, because her own son and husband were killed in a traffic pileup a week later. I was certain that she blamed herself for what had happened. Nowadays she spent most of her time hiding from the sun with a cold glass of something strong in her hand.

“I don’t know what’s happened to me. I can barely patch up a scraped knee on my own these days,” Ellen continued. “You were in the hospital for a full day before I could locate your essence. Even then, I needed Maisie’s help to pull you back from your coma. But you wait and see; I’m going to get things back together. You have faith in me even if no one else will, okay, darlin’?”

“I do have faith in you.” This time she didn’t resist when I pulled her into my arms. I didn’t think the alcohol could be the only thing interfering with her powers, but I knew now was not the time to kick out any of Ellen’s supports.

“Will you walk me back into the house?” she asked. “I can’t face that bunch of buzzards on my own.” We took a few more steps, and she stopped again. “What do you think she wanted? Why did Ginny want to see you?”

“Honestly,” I lied, “I haven’t the darnedest.” We turned down Perry and headed home.

Folk usually chose to cross the street rather than passing directly in front of our house, an almost embarrassingly large, but still graceful, Victorian that took up the better part of the block. Maybe they crossed out of respect or fear, or maybe a century and a half of people doing so had carved some kind of psychic groove into the walkway. Which is why it was an entirely new experience to see a stranger sitting on the front steps.

“Adam Cook! Although it’s Detective Cook now, isn’t it?” Ellen addressed the man. A policeman. I knew without asking that he was there to interview me. I’d been expecting this conversation, but I had hoped that the police would find Ginny’s killer before I was forced to relive the morning I found her body. Unrealistic, I knew, but it would neither be the first nor last time I fell prey to foolish optimism.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct,” the officer said, standing and taking Ellen’s hand. “Thank you for remembering. It’s good to see you again.” Even after stepping down onto the sidewalk, he towered over the both of us. Mixed African American, American Indian, and Caucasian blood played in his handsome features. A high forehead, straight nose, and nearly cinnamon skin came together in an extremely eye-pleasing way.

“Oliver is going to be so pleased to see you,” Ellen said, then remembered herself. “Good heavens, don’t tell me you were left out here on the doorstep! Did no one respond when you rang the bell?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. There was a response. I was kindly asked inside to wait, but honestly there was so much…” he searched for a word and settled on “ ‘activity’ going on inside, I thought it would be better to wait out here and enjoy the morning air. I do hope to pay Oliver a visit before he heads back to California, but I’m afraid I’m here on official business.” His intelligent, tea-colored eyes flashed over to me. “Miss Taylor,” he said. “It’s good to see you up and about. I saw you in the hospital while you were still out, and I have to admit that I’m amazed by your recovery.”

“Well, we Taylors are a hardy stock,” Ellen responded for me.

“Yes, ma’am, I know that for a fact from personal experience,” he said, but his lips arced into an embarrassed smile, and he quickly changed the subject. “Miss Taylor, would you feel well enough to talk with me about the incident?”

I made the connection between his embarrassment and his history with my uncle. Detective Cook had obviously been another one of Oliver’s conquests. I almost blushed myself at the thought of the two of them together.

“Sure,” I responded. To my surprise, I was a bit relieved that the discussion I’d been dreading would soon be over. Maybe telling the detective my story would be enough to exorcise it from my dreams. “I can’t say that I’ll be able to help much, but I’ll do my best.”

“Fine,” he said, smiling, his manner clearly intended to put me at ease.

“Then I must insist that you come inside,” Ellen interjected brusquely, her furrowed brow betraying that she was offended. “We do not discuss such matters on the doorstep.”

“Yes, ma’am. Of course. I apologize for my tactlessness,” Cook responded.

As Ellen ushered us into the house, Maisie caught my eye. She wore an old white sundress, and her golden hair was knotted into a careless bun, but even so casually attired, my sister was one of the most breathtaking beauties Savannah had ever known. She pointed almost imperceptibly to the ceiling, and I knew she was telling me to meet her in our not-so-secret secret meeting place, a linen closet in the back corner of the house’s uppermost floor.

Ellen guided Detective Cook and me into the library and shooed away the members of the extended family who had set up shop there. Cook stopped a moment and took the room in. Ceiling high shelves with ancient leather-bound books lined the length of the western wall; the eastern wall was taken up by two sets of French doors that opened out onto the house’s side porch. The northern wall was devoted to an oversized fireplace that we rarely lit. A painting of my grandmother hung over its mantel. It was a beautiful room, but I spent so much time in it that I’d stopped noticing. Cook’s admiration prompted me to see it through new eyes.

“I should get Iris and Connor,” Ellen said. “They can fill in any blanks that Mercy might have.”

“No, thank you,” Cook replied with a little too much vehemence. “I would rather talk alone with Miss Taylor, if that is all right with you?” he said, looking at me for agreement. “If I understand correctly, you are shortly to turn twenty-one, and this is just a casual, informal discussion. You are certainly not suspected of having been involved in your aunt’s, or great-aunt’s that is, assault.” He chose the most benign terms: incident, assault.

“I believe the phrase is ‘cold-blooded murder.’ And yes, I am fine with discussing what I saw without ‘adult supervision,’ ” I responded. Ellen’s eyes warned me not to reveal too much. Too much about what? I didn’t know who killed Ginny. Hell, I wasn’t even quite sure what had hit me and turned out the lights. “It’s okay, Aunt Ellen. We’ll be fine.”

“At least let me fetch you something to drink, Detective. Some sweet tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I don’t anticipate taking up too much more of y’all’s time. I appreciate this is a trying time for the family, especially Miss Taylor here.”

“All right then. You call out if you change your mind,” Aunt Ellen said and quietly shut the door behind her.

“That’s her way of saying that she’ll have her ear pressed to the door,” I joked and then realized that any number of my cousins could use their powers to listen in on our discussion. Many witches have the ability to project their consciousness to a place—even somewhere on the other side of the world—and witness the events happening there. Spying on our library would take no effort at all. I suspected that Aunt Ellen was even now rounding up someone with this ability.

Detective Cook smiled. “Do you mind if we sit? I really won’t take up much of your time, but I’ve been training for the upcoming marathon, and frankly my middle-aged legs are beat and my dogs are barking.”

“No, of course not.” I sat down in the upholstered wingback and motioned toward the love seat that faced it.

Cook ignored my gesture and pulled an ottoman toward my chair instead, sitting directly in front of me. Up close I could make out a shadow of stubble that was reclaiming the territory it had lost when he shaved that morning. His appearance, his every move, demonstrated the easy type of masculinity that Uncle Oliver found so attractive. Cook leaned in toward me and began, “I grew up here in Savannah. Not two miles from this very house. I am loosely acquainted with your family. I even used to hang with your uncle from time to time when I was young. Now I know y’all have your own ways and such, but I do have to ask.” He leaned back as if to take me fully in. “You walk in to your elderly aunt’s home. You find her bludgeoned to death on the floor, and the first call you make is to your aunt”—he flipped open a small black notebook—“Iris? Didn’t it occur to you to call the police first, or maybe an ambulance?”

“I didn’t call for an ambulance, ’cause I could tell she was dead.”

“Oh, so you’re medically trained then? From what I have gathered from talking to your family, you are quite the student. A class or two at Savannah College of Art and Design qualifies you to determine if someone is beyond medical assistance?” His sudden aggressive turn took me by surprise, as he’d no doubt calculated it would.

“No,” I shot back, suddenly angry. “Seeing the top of her skull lying across the room and her brain popping out the top of what was left qualified me.”

Cook leaned back a bit further, attempting to look more relaxed. “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I meant it to. I’m just incredibly frustrated with the tampering you all did at the crime scene.”

“I never touched a thing,” I replied.

“Maybe not with your hands, but you passed out on top of the body. You knocked it a good foot away from its original placement, and got your hair and clothing fibers all over.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize,” I mumbled, now understanding his consternation. I couldn’t believe that no one had told me, but then again, I would have preferred never to have found out.

“Okay. Let’s talk about the facts of life here, Miss Taylor. I really, really do not suspect that you had anything to do with your great-aunt’s death.” He bent back in and looked me squarely in the eye. “Really,” he repeated. “But I am sure you are aware that in most cases someone is murdered by someone they know. And more often than not, by someone in their own family.” He paused.

“Looks to me like whoever did the old lady in hated her,” he said. “It took three blows to take her down. She was one tough old bird. But that last blow, as you witnessed, took the top off the roof, so to speak.” He leaned back toward me and in a lowered voice, he asked, “You didn’t like her much, did you?”

“No. But I sure didn’t hate her. Not really. Certainly not enough to kill her.”

“Why did you hate her?” he asked, completely ignoring my statement to the contrary.

“What does it matter? I sure would never have hurt her.”

“I believe you, I do,” he insisted. “But if she inspired hate in you, it is likely she did the same in other family members. Maybe someone else hated her for the same reasons you did. And maybe sharing those reasons with me will help me bring her killer to justice.” He hesitated. “I know you Taylors have your own way of thinking about how things should work, but you do believe in justice, right?”

“Of course, I do. Ginny didn’t deserve to be killed, especially like that.”

“Then tell me why you hated her.”

I stopped resisting and spoke a truth I had been waiting my entire life to share. “I hated Ginny,” I replied, “because she made me feel like I was a mistake. Like I didn’t have the right to exist.”

“Go on.”

“My mother died having me. You know I have a twin sister. Maisie,” I informed him, sparing him another peek in his black book. “Ginny adored Maisie. Me, not so much. She thought my mother might have made it if there hadn’t been two of us.” Hot tears burst from my eyes, and I gasped with the pain as the words ripped out of me.

“And she made you believe that, didn’t she?” he asked. He reached out and nearly touched my hand, but he must have thought better of it because he gently pulled his hand back.

“Yeah, I guess she did.” And I realized it was true. I did believe it, and I always had. I swiped at my tears with my bare hands and tried to pull myself together.

“Well, she was wrong. I suspect Ginny Taylor was wrong about a whole lot of other things too,” he said, pulling a tissue from a pack in his jacket pocket and handing it to me.

“Really, like what?”

“Like thinking it was a good idea to leave her doors and windows unlocked. The door was unlocked when you got there, right?”

Again, I felt myself tighten up. “Yes. Aunt Ginny never locked up. She didn’t need…” I started, but then realized that if I explained how Ginny thought she could keep the bad guys out, I might be opening another whole can of worms. Cook smiled and let my faltering statement pass. He had known my family for years all right.

“So it was common knowledge among your family members that Ginny never locked her doors.”

“Well, yeah, it was common knowledge to everyone. The dry cleaner, the grocery delivery guy. Everyone, not just family.”

“I see,” Cook said, briefly flipping his black book open and then closing it again just as quickly. “So tell me, Miss Taylor. Why did you call your Aunt Iris rather than the police? Were you maybe trying to protect someone? Someone like your Uncle Connor, that is? He’s a big man, with a big temper. He’s well known for it, right?”

“Uncle Connor”—I began almost choking on the “uncle” part—“had nothing to do with Ginny’s death.”

“You sure about that? You can give him an alibi?”

“I saw him at breakfast. I’m sure he was with Iris all morning. You can ask her if you haven’t already, but I know he never would’ve done it.”

“Not even for the inheritance he’s going to get from Ginny?”

“He isn’t getting anything from Ginny,” I guffawed. “Ginny made no secret of the fact that she thought Maisie was the only one of us who was worth a spit and polish. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving dinner without her announcing that when she was gone, she planned on leaving everything to Maisie.” I realized I had stepped in it.

“Well thank you for your time, Miss Taylor.” He stood up abruptly, if a bit stiffly. “I can let myself out.” He smiled and left the room, leaving me with the strong sense that I had just been had.