Dead to Her(102)

63.

The main gates had been left open this time and Marcie parked beside Iris’s Mercedes before getting out and darting up the front steps before the rain could fully soak her all over again. Her heart was racing. Once again she was back at William Radford’s house. This time she wanted answers.

“I wondered if you might need some food,” Marcie said, holding up the deli bag as Iris opened the door. “I brought a bottle of wine too.”

“How thoughtful of you, dear.” After a moment Iris’s surprise faded and she stepped aside and let Marcie in. There was no sign of Zelda. The main lights were off, only two table lamps glowing in the vast hallway, and Marcie shivered as she glanced up at the portrait of Eleanor still up on the wall, watching them in the gloom. “Must be strange being here alone,” she said.

“Actually I find it quite comforting. And Eleanor’s things are a treasure trove of memories to me. So much old history half-forgotten.” She gave Marcie an odd smile and started up the stairs. “Why don’t you go put that food in the kitchen and come and see if you’d like.” She didn’t look back as she glided up the sweeping staircase, and with a racing heart, Marcie did as she was told. She put the bag of cold cuts and cheese in the fridge—no coconut waters in there now—and left the French bread on the side.

She poured two glasses of wine and took a sip from one to steady her nerves. Iris was Eleanor’s oldest friend, everyone knew that. She’d cared for her throughout her illness. They’d been side by side since childhood. If anyone was taking revenge for Eleanor it had to be Iris.

Marcie crept up the stairs, as if afraid of waking the ghosts, and followed the pale-yellow beam that led to Eleanor’s bedroom. Iris was sitting on the bed, a small valise tipped out empty beside her—a collection of old photos.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass.

“You should put more lights on,” Marcie said. “Don’t you think it’s creepy?”

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” Iris said. “As you get older you have to make your peace with it.”

Marcie thought of the disgusting black ball in the trunk of the car. “I meant to ask.” She perched on the mattress. “Did Midge ever show up?” Iris’s missing cat, all black fur and yellow eyes.

“No,” Iris said, distracted, sifting through pictures. “Sadly not. He was old. Noah says he probably crawled away to die somewhere.”

Marcie could still feel the cold rough fur under her fingertips, matted in the earth and blood. Had Iris strangled Midge before skinning him? Marcie shivered. Here in the house, it felt as if she and Iris were the last people alive. Anything could happen and no one would hear them.

“Look at this.” Iris held up a photo. “How young we were. I must have been maybe sixteen and Eleanor thirteen. Those three years made such a difference back then.” She laughed gently. “Now three years is simply the bat of an eyelid.”

“She must have been like a sister to you.”

“I suppose yes, she was.”

Marcie scanned the photos. Iris had been organizing them into groups according to age: childhood to glorious youth, and then family and friends, and then just family. The last two sections weren’t spread out but stacked up. They weren’t such treasure, too recent to hold any surprises.

“I miss her every day,” Iris continued. “Getting old is no fun, Marcie. Whatever your problems now, at least you have youth.”

Iris was still looking at the pictures. Whatever her problems? What was happening here? Was Iris playing innocent and waiting for the police to follow whatever trail she’d laid to Marcie? Didn’t she want her to know she was responsible for it all?

“Oh my, look at these short trousers,” Iris said, passing one old photo over. It was from the childhood spread. “Emmett was such a funny-looking boy.”

“Emmett?” Marcie took the photo and looked more closely. Even as a boy, he was wearing glasses, perched high up on his nose.

“He grew up with us as well. You know how close this community is. It was a lot tighter back then. Our parents were far more conservative than we are. Society mattered more to them. Your name. Your money. Your history.”

Marcie frowned, moving through several of the pictures. The same faces came up in all of them. History rewriting itself in her head. Ghosts of people they used to be. Eleanor, Iris, Emmett, and another girl. Marcie looked more closely. She was stocky with mad dark curls. Not quite filled with the confidence the others had and her clothes didn’t quite fit right. Marcie knew that look from her own childhood. Hand-me-downs.

Sometimes the girl was playing with Eleanor, in one she was laughing on a swing with Emmett. All of them aging through the glossy paper, from children to awkward teens, Eleanor blossoming into a beauty, each taking turns in front of the camera. In each image, somewhere in the background, a tall black woman was watching over them. A very tall black woman. Marcie’s breath caught.

“Who’s that?” she asked, pointing at her.

Iris’s face broke into a grin. “Oh, that was Eleanor’s nanny. Well, nanny and maid, really. Mama L we called her.” She smiled. “Elizabeth’s mother. That’s why Elizabeth was always with us. She lived there, with Mama L. My, we all loved Mama L. She came from New Orleans and seemed so fascinating. Dyed her hair orange once and, well, Eleanor’s mother nearly died at the shock of it. She’d teach us girls love spells and charms. Told us that she was a voodoo queen.” Iris laughed softly as if it had been a fairy tale. “My, how we missed her when they had to leave. I do believe that Eleanor loved Mama L more than her own mother.”