A House by the Side of the Road Read online

  Her bare feet moved silently across the old, dark green rug of the living room and then the worn maple floor of the kitchen as she went to pour a drink into one of the two glasses she’d left in the cupboard. She swirled the bourbon briefly and downed it, needing to steel herself for the first glimpse of him, knowing the effect it would have on her. She had to be calm tonight because tonight she would tell him that he was moving with her, not in the six months or so that he had promised, but soon. Within the next few weeks. Before the end of April.

  All through the winter and early spring, she’d enjoyed her secret power and his ignorance of the fact that she had it. It had made her casual, and that had stopped the easing away he had started late last fall. She’d intrigued him again, and she hadn’t needed to use her knowledge. But now it was time. Just this morning, he’d denied that he had ever set a specific date to join her in Boston. It would be better, he’d said, for him to stay here for the rest of the spring and the summer. There were people who depended on him, he said, and a lot of work he had to finish. Besides, breaking the news of their involvement would require delicacy, and time.

  No, he wasn’t staying for the summer, and she would let him know about that tonight. At first, she wouldn’t mention it. She would just slide her hand up his arm to grip the muscles of his shoulder, bury her face in his neck, and let her sweet-smelling hair fall over his face. Then, later, she would let him know about their future and what it would be like.

  A key turned in the lock of the kitchen door. He had walked over, as usual, so there would be no sign of his presence. She arranged herself on the couch, assuming a languor she did not feel, and picked up a book so when he walked in she could let it drop and stretch like a cat—a beautiful, soft, purring cat.

  When she stretched again, an hour later, it was without planning it. She snuggled closer to the man next to her and draped one arm across his chest, admiring the gold of her skin. The man lifted her arm and got out of bed, sliding into his jeans.

  “Where are you going?” she asked sleepily, patting the sheet next to her. “Come back.”

  “I’d like to,” he said, smiling down at her. “Can’t. I gotta get home.”

  She sat up and leaned over the side of the bed to reach her clothes on the floor. “You promised you’d stay,” she said, as calmly as she could. She concentrated on keeping her voice neutral. He hated anything that sounded like a whine. “After I move, it may be weeks until you’ve finished what you have to do and can join me.”

  “Look, Angie…” He hesitated. The pretense had gone on too long, but he had dreaded the scene she would make. Still, it wouldn’t be a public scene. One here in this lonely house, no one would hear her scream at him, accuse him. And much as she might want to upset him by talking about their affair all over town, she wouldn’t, because she would never admit to being dumped.

  He sat down on the side of the bed and looked sadly at her. “I told you. I have to stay for the summer. We’ll see how soon in the fall I can come.”

  She’d give him one chance. “You can’t stay, darling. You can’t. I love you too much. I can’t spend five or six months without you. I need you. You can’t leave me.”

  He made his voice light. “Actually, Angie, you’re leaving me.”

  The dismissiveness in his tone frightened her. How could he fail to see what was so obvious? They were perfect for each other. He used to know that. He would see it again as time passed.

  “You know perfectly well I’m not leaving you,” she said softly. “I’m moving. I’m moving to allow the person who inherited this piece of trash to live in it, which she seems in one damn hurry to do. You know I’d never leave you.” She put a hand against the side of his face. “Don’t say we won’t be having a life together, because it’s just not true.”

  “I’m afraid it is,” he said, relieved to have the delayed conversation underway. If she wouldn’t let him spare her, that was her choice. “Look, I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But, if you must know, I’m tired of this whole thing. I can’t stand being clutched at. It’s time to go our own ways.”

  Angie stared at him. Her chest felt hollow. “Are you crazy? You will never find anyone who is as right for you as I am!”

  He laughed. “Oh, Angie, Angie. Look at us! We don’t exactly go together, do we? It was fun but it’s over. It’s just over, all right?”

  She stood up and slapped him across the face. “No,” she said, breathing hard and looking down at him. “It’s not all right. And it’s not happening, either. This is what you planned all along, isn’t it?” Her voice, never her best quality, was harsh. “That’s why you thought Boston was such a good idea. Well, I’m warning you, it’s not happening. Do you hear me?”

  He looked at her stonily, the left side of his face showing the mark of her hand. “I hear you,” he said. “I’m just ignoring you.”

  She took in a breath that hissed between her teeth. He was her world; he knew it. He had to know it. If she lost him … But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

  “That’s not smart,” she said. “I know what you did.”

  His brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, what I did?”

  She just nodded and regarded him, then started pulling on her clothes. She smiled. “I know. I know. I know all about you and your ‘cousin.’ If she’s your cousin, darling, you all must come from someplace where the branches on the family tree get a bit tangled.”

  He reached out one hand and gripped her by the belt, his knuckles biting into her smooth skin. He pulled her toward him and down until she was on her knees between his. He leaned closer, looking directly into her eyes. His voice was soft. “So she’s not my cousin. So she and I enjoyed each other. So what? Who cares, besides you?”

  He let go of her and put his hand against her chest, pushing her away. She laughed, keeping herself from falling backward by bracing herself with her arms.

  “No,” she said, “the fact that you’re a cheat may not be all that big a secret. Maybe nobody except me would much care about that. But the other things you and she did together, now that would be more interesting.”

  He stared at her, disbelieving and horrified, and she giggled. “I need a drink,” she said, getting up and striding toward the kitchen. She felt her hair swinging behind her, her heels against the floor. She felt strong and alive. “Want one?”

  When he came into the room, she was standing with her back to the kitchen window, sipping from a tumbler. He poured bourbon into the other glass on the countertop and took a long swallow.

  “You’re crazy,” he said, shrugging with assumed dispassion. “I don’t really care what you think or what you say. I’ve got a good reputation in this town. What’ve you got? Six months’ worth of speeding tickets. So, go on, talk. Talk to anybody.”

  He spoke quietly. His eyes, watching her, were cool. But he saw everything he had worked for crumbling. How much did she know?

  “Oh, I will. If you make me,” she replied. “I don’t want you to make me. I want us to go on happily together. Forever.” She hitched herself up onto the edge of the counter and crossed her feet, took another sip from her glass. “You and she have been involved in something interesting. Everyone in town will find it fascinating; I know I did.”

  She put one heel up on the countertop and hooked her arm around her leg. She reached out her other foot, pointed her toes, and rubbed them against his thigh.

  He realized with horror that she was flirting with him. “I don’t know what you think you know,” he said coldly, moving beyond her reach. “But if you’re planning to spread something you hope will damage my reputation, no one will believe you.” He lifted the bottle by its neck and tipped it to pour more bourbon into his glass.

  She looked surprised. “Did you think I was just planning to gossip? Oh, no, darling! I’ve got proof! Right here.”

  It frightened him, and fear made him angry. “There is no proof, you dumb bitch,” he said.

  She threw h
er glass. The movement was so unexpected that the tumbler struck him directly in the chest before hitting the floor and rolling away. It was a heavy glass, and Angie was a strong young woman. The intensity of the pain shocked him. He took two steps forward and swung his right arm. She started to raise her hand, to turn away, to scream, but the bottle he was still holding caught her on the side of her head. She crumpled onto the countertop and lay motionless, then started a slow slide to the floor.

  The bottle dropped from his fingers and rolled heavily away. He staggered toward the sink, overwhelmed with nausea. When his stomach stopped heaving, he knelt beside the woman. There was a widening pool of blood under her head. He pushed her silky hair aside and put two fingers against her neck. Her pulse was faint and irregular.

  He stood, swaying, and looked at her. Her skull was fractured, that was evident. He went into the living room and lifted the receiver of the phone, which responded with a dial tone. She hadn’t canceled the phone service; he could call for help. No one would be able to recognize his voice if he whispered.

  No. He replaced the receiver. If she survived, he might be able to make her understand that the whole thing was a horrible accident. But if she died, there would be an investigation. A careful investigation. Before he called anyone, he had to wipe away any prints he’d left—on the bottle, his glass, the faucet. That wouldn’t be enough. He had touched things in her room, in the bathroom, the handle of the door …

  It was while he was scrubbing frantically at the bourbon bottle that he remembered what she’d said. She had proof. She couldn’t. What proof could there be? Photographs would prove nothing. A diary or notes would be awkward, but not proof. What could she have meant?

  Damn his rage! That hadn’t been him, that violent man. He wasn’t an animal. He was a calm, reasonable person and intelligent enough to stay out of trouble. If she had been telling the truth—she couldn’t have been telling the truth—but, if she had been telling the truth, she had something. What? Maybe she’d sent it on to Boston. No, probably not, or why would she have said, “Right here.” In the house?

  What proof? There couldn’t be. But if there was, it meant he couldn’t risk having the house unavailable to him. It could not be sealed off with yellow tape, could not be searched by anyone but him.

  He went through the rooms methodically, wiping the surface of anything he might have touched. That required little thought, so he concentrated on what he would need to do. He had no time. The new owner was arriving almost immediately. He had tonight, he knew. Did he have tomorrow night? He couldn’t count on it.

  He had to be both thorough and efficient, which meant he needed a plan. It took some time, but he worked it out while he listened to the quiet of the night and waited for Angie to die.

  Four

  Sunlight was bouncing off the hood of the car and the narrow road it traveled. Meg Kessinger drove with her left elbow resting on the open window. She made small contented noises from time to time, breathing in the soft Pennsylvania air with its mingled faint scents of freshly turned earth and growing things. Around one of the curves ahead, the house would lie off to the right—her great-aunt’s house for many, many years. Her own house now.

  She drove slowly, gazing to the right and left at farms and fields and trees and the occasional house set well back from the road, sometimes stone or brick, usually tidy white frame with a generous porch. She had passed through Harrison, the closest source of grocery stores, druggists, and a library, ten minutes before, delighting in its air of settled stability and the huge park that seemed to take up a good sixth of the town. She knew the weeks to come would contain hours of anxiety about her decision to leave Chicago, but at the moment she felt only euphoria. Her most treasured possessions filled the trunk and backseat. The rest should arrive tomorrow morning, if the movers were as good as their word.

  Just beyond a pretty little house with a huge tree in the front yard, from which hung a swing, a hand-lettered sign caught her eye: DAFFODILS—500 yards.” The sign, attached to a stake at the edge of the road, was a new one, unbattered by wind or rain, so the chances were it was accurate. Meg looked eagerly down the road, slowing more as a small roadside table came into view. Another sign was taped to its edge: “DAFFODILS—Picked Today.” The table held only a small metal box and a stack of newspapers, but next to it stood a washtub filled with flowers. Behind the table, which was shaded by a cluster of tall trees, sat a girl in a lawn chair, reading a book and scratching her ankle.

  Meg eased onto the shoulder and braked, and the girl looked up from her book and smiled shyly. She was about twelve, with shoulder-length tawny hair and thick bangs above wide hazel eyes. There were grass stains on the knees of her jeans. Presumably, she could verify the “Picked Today” claim.

  Meg got out of the car and gestured toward the washtub. “They’re beautiful,” she said. “How much are they?”

  “Seventy-five cents a bunch,” the girl replied. “There’s a dozen in a bunch. Or three bunches for two dollars.”

  Meg looked at the flowers. She wanted every single one of them. “I’ll take six bunches,” she said. She dug into a back pocket and extracted a crumpled five-dollar bill. “Keep the change,” she said. When the child hesitated, she went on, “Consider it a bribe to be nice to your new neighbor. I’m moving in down the road.”

  The girl took six dripping bunches of daffodils out of the tub and wrapped them loosely in newspaper. She handed them to Meg and declined the proffered bill. “Housewarming,” she said.

  “Oh, but you worked to pick them!” said Meg, dismayed. “Please let me pay you.”

  “Mom would have a fit,” said the girl. “You can buy some tomorrow or next week, if you want. But not today.”

  “In that case,” said Meg, “I’d like six more. Today.” The second she spoke, she regretted it. She did not know this child and, therefore, this child did not know her. It was unfair to tease a stranger, especially one so young. But the girl’s laughter was immediate.

  “I’m so sorry,” she replied, motioning toward the scarcely diminished tub. “There aren’t any left.”

  Aha, thought Meg with relief, laughing. “I’m Meg Kessinger,” she said. “I’m moving into a house down that way.” She gestured toward the east. “The one that used to belong to Louise Marriott. She was my great-aunt.”

  The child nodded. “You’ll be right next door. Mrs. Marriott’s house is the next one. I remember her from a long time ago, and my mom used to visit her in the nursing home. There was another lady living there for a while, but a moving truck came on Friday, and yesterday her car was gone.”

  “Yes,” said Meg. “A renter. Aunt Louise left her house to me, and I decided to move in, so the renter moved out. Do you have a name?”

  “Gosh, I’m sorry! I’m Jane. We’re the Ruschmans. There’s me and Mom and Dad and Teddy. He’s seven.”

  “And you’re … thirteen?” It was wiser, thought Meg, to err toward older. The opposite of dealing with adults.

  “Twelve,” said Jane. She looked at Meg curiously. “Are you, like, a Boy Scout leader or something, Ms. Kessinger?”

  Meg glanced down at her dark green shirt with the embroidered “Boy Scouts of America” above the right pocket in red. “No, I just like the shirt.”

  “So do I,” replied Jane, settling back into her chair and picking up her book. “I’ll tell Mom we’ve got a new neighbor. She’ll be glad.”

  A dog came bounding down the driveway, barking an excited greeting, and Meg stooped to welcome him. “Hey, good-looking,” she said, ruffling his ears as he pushed his head against her and wriggled happily. He was a large, burly, well-shaped dog, a young Labrador with a cream-colored coat. He jumped against Meg, knocking her onto the ground and licking her face.

  Jane got up. “Get off, Harding!” she said, tugging at his collar and yanking him away.

  “It’s okay,” said Meg, getting to her feet. “He didn’t mean any harm, and none was done. What a gorgeous guy! Har
ding?”

  “Uh-huh. Actually Warren G. Harding, but Mom’s the only one who ever uses his whole name, and she only does when she’s mad. She’s the one who named him. She says he’s handsome and sociable but has no reliable moral center.”

  “Well,” said Meg. “He’s young…”

  “Just barely a year,” said Jane. She patted him affectionately. “Do you think he might get a moral center?”

  The dog whined, rising onto his back feet and hopping in place as he lunged against the restraint.

  “Sure,” said Meg. “Give him time.”

  She raised her free hand in farewell and placed the flowers carefully on the passenger seat. Pulling back onto the road, she drove around the curve. “Right next door” proved to be about a quarter of a mile away. As the house came into view, she pulled onto the shoulder again and stopped to look at it from a distance.

  It was old and shabby, but the graceful proportions shown in the photographs Meg had received were even more evident to her now. It was a low house with a wide front porch and a huge, unkempt lawn and had been painted, seemingly many years ago, a shade of yellow that had faded under the onslaughts of sun and rain to a dim, unattractive hue. Rosebushes grew in abandon against the walls and the picket fence that stretched, with noticeable gaps, from the house almost to the road, across the front of the property, and then back again.

  The roses, sturdy and tangled, were just beginning to get leaves. It would be a while before they bloomed; no telling what colors they would reveal as spring turned to summer. Tulip foliage had emerged near the house, and the earliest flowers were beginning in pink and white and yellow. There was a driveway on the left side of the house. From it, by following a flagstone path, one could arrive at the front porch. A second door, on the side, presumably to the kitchen, had only a stoop.

  Meg sighed with satisfaction. She knew the property needed work, large amounts of work. First she would have to fix the fence so the puppy she planned to get would be safe from traffic. The house sat back a good distance, but cars moved swiftly on country roads.