Элизабет Чандлер - The Back Door of Midnight

She slumped over the arm he had around her, and for a moment I thought she was hurt, then she straightened up and let him turn her so that she faced him, his big hands handling her gently. I thought she would see me as Aunt Iris had, but she didn’t.

“I’m afraid,” she said to Zack, tears running down her face. “I’m really afraid.”

“We’ll figure this out,” he replied, his voice soft and low.

“Just being here gives me an eerie feeling.”

“Then why do you keep coming back?” he asked.

Good question, buddy. Obviously, I didn’t buy the tears.

“I’ve got to find my cell phone. I must have dropped it along the path.”

“I told you, Erika, if any evidence was left behind, the police already have it.”

“I feel like someone is watching us. I feel it, Zack.” She pressed her face into his shoulder.

Why do guys fall for this stuff? I thought.

“You’re imagining things.” He stroked her hair as if he were soothing a child.

I wanted to flap my arms like a ghost and howl at her.

Actually, I did, but she hadn’t a clue I was standing there.

“But what if there is something to this psychic thing?”

Erika asked Zack. “What if the old lady knows?”

“Iris is confused,” Zack replied. “I’ve heard people say she’s been crazy for years. Even if she does know something, nothing she says will be believed by the police.”

“She scares me.”

Zack shook his head. “I told you before—”

“That you were here for me,” Erika said. “Are you still?”

“I don’t turn my back on friends.”

“Then I’m counting on you to keep her niece busy.”

Zack was silent for a moment. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Date her.”

“What?”

“Hang out with her. Pretend you’re interested.” She laughed lightly. “Pretend you think she’s the most beautiful girl in the world.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Erika asked. “You told me you don’t want to get hooked up with any one girl, not with college ahead. You don’t want commitments, and all that crap. Well, let the freckled little carrot be your bodyguard. Hang out with her.”

“You’re assuming she’d want to hang out with me,” he said.

“Oh, puh-lease! There isn’t a girl on this planet who wouldn’t, and you know it! Go ahead, give her a thrill, and help me out at the same time.”

“There are better ways to get information,” Zack argued.

“There is no better way to keep tabs on Iris,” she replied.

“What’s the problem? Is Anna that bad? You can’t fake it with her?”

“I can fake it with anyone.”

“Then do it, okay? Please. For me? Zack, they could nail me with the old man’s death.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Then with arson. Arson doesn’t look good to a college admission board.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

You do that, I thought. You see if you can fake it with the freckled little carrot.

Obviously, my feelings were hurt. I felt like a fool for letting down my guard, for looking in his eyes, for admiring his shoulders, for enjoying the way he stood close to me on the dock. Why do girls fall for this stuff? I thought.

I want to go back! I want to be asleep, having normal dreams like a normal person. I want out of here!

As before, wanting it badly enough seemed to make it happen. There was a rush of darkness, that same sensation of being reeled back. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in bed, staring at the low ceiling, feeling the breeze of the old fan.

I pulled myself up on one elbow to look at my clock: 12:30 a.m. I lay back down, hoping it had been nothing more than a weird dream, but believing otherwise. Last time, the morning after, I had found Aunt Iris’s jar of ashes. What would it be this time? I was exhausted from all that was going on and should have been sleeping soundly in this dark and quiet house. Why did some part of me keep slipping out the back door of midnight?

THE NEXT MORNING I arrived at Always Christmas at the same time as Marcy. The shop was stuffy and silent when we entered through the back door, but within twenty minutes, the AC had kicked in, potpourri was spicing the air, and carols were playing. My odd summer night seemed far away.

For the next several hours I ran the cash register, learned the basics of the shop’s computer software, checked out the cleaning supplies, and wiped down the bathroom sink.

During my “free” moments, I was expected to study the merchandise, memorizing the names and styles of artists who supplied the shop.

Marcy waited on customers and introduced me by my first name to two people who were local. I was grateful to her for not mentioning that I was an O’Neill.

Late in the afternoon a craftsman who supplied her store, a man who made strange little elves — carved and painted figures that looked a lot like himself — studied me as I studied his work.

“How’s things in the neighborhood?” he asked Marcy, still eyeing me.

“Fine.”

“How’s Iris? Behaving herself?”

“I haven’t seen her recently,” Marcy replied. “The tourist season keeps me busy.”

“That was bad news, finding Will in a trunk. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“I’m sure it has been very hard for her. So, have you reduced the price on these elves?”

But the man wasn’t going to be sidestepped. “You’re an O’Neill,” he said to me.

Denying it would have been an insult to my birth family.

“Yes.”

“Her niece — no, great-niece.”

I nodded.

“Are you psychic?”

“No, sir. Psychotic.”

The man raised his eyebrows, then laughed. All the little elves on the countertop appeared to laugh with him.

Marcy remained focused on business, examining the figures, turning each one in her hands. “This one is flawed,” she said, setting it aside.

“So why did Iris kill William?” the man asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Why did she kill him?”

It was the eyes, I decided, the bulging little eyeballs and the mouth that smiled with cleverness rather than happiness that made the elves look like him.

“That’s what everyone is saying, that Iris did it,” the man went on. “Some friends of mine take their cats to Iris, and they say she’s—” He made the motion for crazy, winding his bony index finger around his ear. “They say she’s hearing voices these days.”

“It seems to me,” I replied, “that the kind of people who take their cats to a psychic should expect her to hear voices.”

“But these are different voices,” he insisted. “Wicked ones, according to her. She yells at the voices and tells them she won’t listen anymore.”

I couldn’t argue that point, having witnessed her doing it.

Still, I felt protective toward her. “If hearing voices and getting confused make you a murderer, retirement homes would be dangerous places.” I turned to Marcy. “Is this a good time to finish unpacking the boxes in the back?”

She nodded. “I’ll call if I need you.”

Ten minutes later, when the artist had left, I returned to the front of the store. “I know I should apologize for being rude, especially to someone as important as a supplier. The problem is, he was rude, and I don’t feel very sorry.”

“I don’t blame you,” said Marcy. “I don’t know why people jump on Iris. I suppose they fear what they don’t understand.”

“I’m a little afraid of her,” I admitted, “but with Uncle Will gone, somebody has to help.”

“She’s a lot to handle. Isn’t there another family member who can share the burden? There has to be a cousin somewhere.”