The Deepest Water Page 11

  "Abby," Maxine said, approaching, "I'm so sorry about Jud. Are they making any progress yet on the case?"

  "I don't know," Abby said. "Thanks. Just coffee, please."

  Maxine withdrew, and in a moment brought a mug of coffee, glanced at Felicia questioningly, and left them alone again. Felicia already had a small pot of tea.

  Now Felicia leaned forward after a quick glance at the two girls, who were deeply into confidences apparently and paying no attention to anyone else. "Dear, unless there's an eyewitness, and there isn't, or unless they find someone's fingerprints that shouldn't be at the cabin, the police won't come close to learning who killed Jud."

  Abby stared at the old woman, surprised by the vehemence of her voice, the way she had plunged directly to the point she wanted to make. On the way to Bend, Felicia had asked about Willa Ashford, asked about Lynne, how Abby was holding up, things of little consequence, and Abby had assumed that she just wanted to talk, after all.

  "This is all I've been thinking of," Felicia said. "It's all I can think of. The police will look for a mysterious stranger, someone like that, and they'll get further and further away from the truth. You're holding the clues, Abby, in that box"— she pointed to the carton on the third chair at their table—"or in that pile of stuff you're getting copied. That's where the truth is, but the police won't recognize it even if they see it."

  "Willa thinks they suspect her," Abby said slowly. How much did Felicia know about the way Jud wrote, that he had used real incidents, real people heavily disguised?

  "Oh, good Lord!" Felicia said. "Willa! That's what I mean. They won't get near the truth by themselves. Jud and Willa ... I think for the first time he was really in love, and she was, too. Willa!"

  "She said they were going to be married," Abby said.

  "I believe that," Felicia said, nodding vigorously. "He was floating on air for months. But let me tell you what I've been considering. Someone might have suspected that Jud would be writing the truth about him. That implies it was someone very familiar with the way Jud worked, his raw material, and it means that someone had time to look for whatever it was he was afraid of at some point. That narrows it down."

  "Parts of the novel seem to be missing," Abby said faintly. "And a disk is missing."

  Felicia nodded again, as if in satisfaction this time. "But you can see the problem. If you're in one of his novels, you might recognize yourself, some aspect of yourself anyway, but who else would relate that particular incident to you? I saw myself and Herbert clearly, but I don't believe anyone else did. And I saw Joe Beardwell and Joyce after I learned how to read the novels."

  "Did you recognize Teri and Lawrence Frazier?" Abby asked, nearly whispering now.

  Felicia drank her tea and refilled her cup, keeping her gaze on the little pot. It took her a long time to answer. "I saw them," she said finally. "Changed, circumstances different, the witness different. Lawrence knows; he always knew that Jud saw whatever happened that day. Even before the novel was published, he had to sell out, move away."

  They became silent when the girls stood up, put on jackets and hats, and left. A blast of cold air swept through the building when they opened the door. Maxine moved down to the gift shop section and busied herself there, and they were alone in the cafe.

  Abby was considering what Felicia had said: someone who had had time to learn whatever it was that Jud was writing. Someone who had access to the cabin when Jud was absent, who knew what he was looking for, not just engaging in a blind search that night. Someone who had known about the handgun in the drawer. Who knew about Spook and the dog door.

  "But there's still the problem of how anyone got there and out again," she said after the long silence.

  Felicia waved that away. "If we can find out who, then we will find out how," she said firmly.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Abby, I want to help find out who did that. And I can. I know how to read his novels, I know the people involved. Jud was smart. He built a resort at the lake and brought in a lot of people from all over the world, with their intrigues and schemes, their wounds, their ambitions, but the people he really wrote about were people he knew well. He saw things, heard things, and didn't forget. You've been away for a long time, ten years now, busy making your own life, you might not even know some of the people he used in his work. And the way he went back and forth in time, things that happened when you were a child, before you were born even, turn up in new scenarios. I want to read the novel. I want to find out who did that to him."

  Abby stared at her, this old woman with her curly white hair, whose fingers could turn a lump of clay into a dragon or a bird or a person so effortlessly that it looked like magic, and she realized that although she had known Felicia Shaeffer all her life, she did not know her at all. Her eyes were bright blue, and so piercing, Abby felt as if her brain cells were being examined, her blood vessels visible, her thoughts tangible. Felicia had said that she and her dead husband were in one of Jud's novels, but Abby had not known that; she had not recognized them as a couple in the cast of characters, the parade of scenes, the play of incidents.

  "He was more than just a friend," Felicia said. "He was sometimes a brother, sometimes a son, a confessor, a confidant. More than just a friend. I want to find his murderer and see him die for doing that to Jud."

  Slowly Abby nodded. "So do I," she said. "But I can't leave the novel out here. I have to compare it with disks, try to find the missing sections."

  "Not here. I'll come to town and stay at the condo. I can come to your house every day."

  "No," Abby said quickly. She remembered Brice's words, urging her not to confide in Willa or Felicia, and she had talked to both of them. And now she would join forces with Felicia. They would work together on the novel, on the fragments. "Where is your condo?"

  They were still talking, planning, when the attendant from the copy shop came to the table to say he was done. "It's a great big stack of boxes," he said. "Help you carry them to your car."

  "I have to go get it," Abby said. She added a box of floppy disks to the finished work, paid the man with a credit card, and didn't even blink at the size of the bill. She left to retrieve the van, with the new tires in place, then collected Felicia and the boxes, and headed for the supermarket, and finally back to the lake. Rain mixed with snow began to fall as she drove. At Felicia's cottage, they clasped hands briefly and Abby said, "I'll call you on Monday. Be careful driving in."

  10

  By the time Abby reached the cabin, rain was coming down hard, driven by a cutting wind. She was wrapped in a waterproof hooded poncho, and the boxes and bag of groceries were all protected by the tarp, but the wind was very cold and the rain stung her face; she was chilled when she pulled up to the ledge. Christina was there with Jud's oversize umbrella. Although there wasn't enough wind to create real waves, the dark water had a chop, and now and then it sloshed up over the ledge, over Christina's feet. Spook didn't seem to notice that it was raining; she stood near the boat, wagging her tail wildly, spraying water all about.

  They got everything inside the cabin. "I left the originals in the van," Abby said. "Not much point in lugging them across, then back in the morning." She had also left the private papers locked up in the van.

  "Never mind that," Christina said as Abby took off the dripping poncho, then hung it up on a peg in the kitchen. "You're freezing. Sit down." She hurried across the cabin and pulled a throw off the couch, came back and draped it over Abby's shoulders, drew it in close around her, and nearly pushed her down into a chair. "I made coffee. It's hot, in the carafe. Just sit still and get warm."

  Another side of the woman, Abby thought, one she had not glimpsed before. Christina brought coffee and then knelt down to take off Abby's wet boots. Her own feet were still wet, but she was paying no attention to that. "I'll do it," Abby said in protest, and pulled off her own boots. Christina picked them up and placed them on a mat by the door. She hurried out to the bedroom, c
ame back with Abby's fuzzy slippers, and put them on her.

  "You should dry your own feet," Abby said.

  Christina looked down in surprise, then hurried out again, this time to return with her own slippers on, holding her wet boots. They were very handsome—snakeskin? alligator? Something decorative, and impractical for this part of the world.

  "I just want to make sure nothing happens to you before you get us back to dry land," Christina said lightly. She put her boots next to Abby's, then got herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table.

  Abby smiled at her, and Christina shrugged.

  "When Jud came to New York the first time, right after he sold Siren Rock," Christina said meditatively, "his editor suggested he should get an agent and gave him my name. He called, we met, and it was like finding an adolescent boy in my charge suddenly. He was so eager to see everything, understand everything. He wanted to take the tourist boat around Manhattan, something I'd never even done before, and I'd lived there most of my life. I showed him around for a week, every afternoon somewhere different, museums, the Statue of Liberty, library, my favorite deli. . . bookstores. He was insatiable for books."

  She was gazing past Abby with a distant look. "He made me see my own city through his eyes. I still don't know how he did that. Then he left. I felt like a mother must feel when her only child goes off to college." She was not drinking the coffee, just holding a mug with both hands, as if to warm them.

  "He came back with the next novel, and he insisted that I read it while he waited. I said I couldn't read it in the office with the phone ringing, people coming by, so much distraction.

  I said I would read it overnight and call him, but he insisted that I had to read it immediately. We went to my apartment, and he read the newspaper, magazines, manuscripts, whatever he picked up, while I read his novel. He made dinner while I read. I started to cry. The first novel was good. More than that, it was very good, but the second one, The Black Shore, it made me cry. And I fell in love with the writer. Before, he had been a companion, a pal, like a ward almost, shy and tentative; suddenly he was Jud the writer. He knew what he had; he was exultant. His excitement couldn't be contained, and neither could mine."

  She became silent, gazing at the black lake beyond the cabin.

  "Yesterday, you cried again," Abby said softly.

  Christina nodded. "Yes. The new novel is the best thing he ever wrote. Even if it's never finished, just as it stands, it's beautiful, powerful, his best work yet."

  "It's finished," Abby said fiercely. "He told Willa it was finished, he just had to arrange the pieces, discard early drafts, put it in final shape. Whoever stole the disk, and the pages, whoever turned off his computer didn't touch the hard drive. It's there, and I'll find it. We'll get it together and get it published. I promise you."

  The next morning they left the cabin early, in a driving rain. It was a nightmare boat ride across the water for Christina, but she helped with the boxes, held an umbrella over Abby as much as possible as she loaded the van, helped her drag the boat into the shelter of the shed. She didn't complain when Spook shook water on them both.

  Abby had warned her that there might be snow on the pass over the mountains, and there was, not a threatening snow, not this early, just messy enough to slow traffic to a crawl and turn the world into a surreal black and gray landscape with startling patches of white in unexpected places. On the west side of the pass, the snow gave way to rain again, the world became green again; it was still raining when they came to a stop in the driveway at Abby's house.

  "If there's someplace where I can change, repack my bags," Christina said hesitantly. "I want to put the manuscript, all that other stuff in the carry-on. I'll put clothes in the cartons and check them through."

  "Upstairs, a spare bedroom," Abby said, and led the way into the house, where Brice met them with an anxious expression.

  "They kept saying snow in the mountains," he said, holding Abby close. "It scares me when you're up there in the snow."

  "Just in the pass," she said. "And not much. We have a lot to bring in. Volunteers accepted." *

  Later, at the airport in Eugene, Abby helped Christina unload her baggage and get it into a cart. There was an awkward pause as they regarded each other. Christina was once again the stylish New Yorker, her makeup perfect, her hair perfect; Abby felt like a bum in her old jeans and boots, her poncho. Christina held out her hand and they shook hands solemnly. "He said you were always the most terrific kid in the world," Christina said. "I think you're still a terrific kid. Thanks."

  Abby drove home through the driving rain and let herself in; Spook greeted her as if she had been gone for months. Brice came down the stairs as she was getting her poncho off.

  "You really look exhausted," he said, studying her face. "You're trying to do too much, too soon. Sit down and we'll have a quiet drink and talk."

  He had a fire going in the living room; she sank down gratefully on the couch and leaned her head back. Brice went to the kitchen and returned with a tray that held cheese, crackers, and Irish coffee.

  "She's the most brittle woman I've ever seen," he said, sitting next to Abby on the couch. He put one of the cups in her hand. "What all did she take back with her?"

  "A copy of the novel manuscript, and a lot of short stories and essays. Some go back nearly thirty years." The coffee was very good, not too strong with Irish, heavy whipped cream on top, sweet. Just what she needed. They were quiet for a time, sipping the coffee, eating cheese.

  "Is the novel finished, publishable?" he asked when she put her cup down, empty.

  "She said it's very good. He told Willa it was finished, so it just needs piecing together, we think. She's going to work on it in New York, and I'll work on it here. Between us, we'll get it in shape."

  Brice reached for a piece of cheese and then said slowly, "You've talked to Willa? I thought. . . Never mind. The police are asking a lot of questions about her. She told them that Jud proposed. They asked me if I believed her story. I had to say no. I don't believe it. And if she's lying about that..."

  She felt very tired. The warmth of the house, the fire, the Irish in the coffee, had relaxed her; she wanted to go to sleep. She had forgotten that she had not yet told him about her walk with Willa. Sunday night, when she arrived home, Brice had been furious at the office secretary, who had put a memo in his in-box that a client was due Monday morning and had not included his file for Brice to review. He had gone back to the office to find it himself. All they had talked about on Monday night was Jud's contract; Brice had been stunned by the amount of the option, fifty thousand dollars, and the purchase price if they made the movie: one and a half million. Tuesday? She could no longer remember why she had not brought up her conversations with Willa, only that she hadn't. Then she recalled his anger because the police had gone to the office that day and asked his associates questions. That had not been a good time to bring up Willa, either. Well, she thought, now it was out in the open. "Willa doesn't lie," she said. "Why can't you accept her word?"

  "She wasn't his type," Brice said after a moment. "Honey, you love people so much, you're blinded. Your father wasn't the type to settle down with one woman. And Willa wouldn't accept less than that finally, no more than I would, or you would. But you can't see that affair the way the rest of the world sees it."

  "You hardly even know her," Abby said. "What makes you so sure what she would settle for?"

  "I know her well enough to know that she's steady, responsible, that she has a lot of self-respect. Like your mother. Like you."

  "Like you," Abby said, trying to keep her anger in check.

  "Yes, like me. Darling, face it, Jud wasn't like us. I'm not saying bad or evil or anything like that, just different."

  "And you think that this steady, stable, responsible woman went out there and shot him dead," Abby said harshly.

  Brice flushed slightly. "Yes, I do. I think Willa killed your father because he told her he was going away as
soon as the novel was wrapped up. He hinted as much last summer, remember?"

  She shook her head. "No, I don't remember anything like that."

  "He said there was a lot of world he hadn't seen yet, he had a lot of catching up to do, starting with southern France and Italy, that he needed a rest from words, from books, and a lot of looking to do."

  "He and Willa planned to go to Italy in April," she said, remembering the conversation he was talking about. They had been on the back ledge; her feet had been in the water, they had all been swimming. The basalt had absorbed a lot of heat, hot under them, the water cold on her feet.