Элизабет Чандлер - Soulmates

Wheels… clocks, she thought. Clocks had gears-notched wheels-and old clocks, like the one that sat on the dining room mantel at home, had keys to open their casing. Why hadn't she thought of it before? In Beth's dream the wheels were spinning one way, then Ivy reached out and pushed them in the other direction-sending time backward, she thought, sending them into the past. In the past Caroline had lived in the house on the ridge. She could have hidden something in the mantel clock long ago.

Ivy glanced again at the clock on the classroom wall. There were twenty-five minutes left in the last period of the day. She knew her mother would be leaving to pick up Philip from school, and Gregory should still be in class. This was her chance. As soon as written work was assigned, she carried her books to the front of the room. "Mrs. Carson," she said weakly.

Ivy was excused immediately and didn't make the required stop at the nurse's office. Fifty feet from the school door, she made a dash for her car.

A cool autumn rain had moved in and was misting the town. Ivy drove two blocks before thinking to put on her windshield wipers. Her foot was fast and jerky on the clutch, and she started and stopped, impatient with the traffic in the narrow streets. Ella kept trying to climb onto her lap.

"Hang on, cat!"

When she finally got to the driveway to the house, she raced to the top, yanked on the parking brake, and got out of the car, leaving the door open. No one was home-at least no one else's car was there. Her hands shook with excitement as she unlocked the house door and turned off the alarm system.

Ivy ran through the kitchen and into the dining room. On the mantel sat the two-foot-high mahogany clock with its beautiful moonlike face and gold pendulum swinging steadily behind painted glass. She had remembered right: there was a keyhole in its casing.

Ivy lifted the string necklace over her head, then reached up with the key and inserted it in the lock. She turned it gently to the left, then the right. The lock clicked, and she opened the clock's door.

She expected to see something immediately. There was nothing, and for a moment she couldn't breathe.

Don't be stupid, she told herself. Someone has to wind the clock, someone else has a key-probably Andrew-so nothing's going to be left in plain view. She cautiously reached out and caught the pendulum in mid swing, then slipped her other hand in and felt around.

She'd need a stool to reach all the way up into the clock's works.

Standing on tiptoe, Ivy moved her fingers slowly up one side of the wood case. She felt an edge, a paper edge. She pulled it gently at first, afraid she'd tear it and leave part of it up in the clock. It was a thick folded edge, like that of an envelope. She tugged on it harder, and it came free.

Ivy stared at the old brown envelope she held in her hands. Then she swiped a dinner knife from the silverware drawer and quickly slit it open.

Inside the envelope Ivy found three pages. The first was a handwritten note that was barely decipherable, but Ivy recognized the signature at the end: Caroline's. Beneath it was a letter from the office of Edward Ghent, M.D.-Eric's farther, Ivy realized with a sudden jolt The third page looked like a photocopy of a technical report from a company called MediLabs.

Ivy skipped to the short letter from Eric's father. There were odd spaces between the words and several corrections.

Dear Caroline, The enclosed report indicates the situation is as you suspected. As I explained in the office, this type of blood test can prove, in certain instances where there is no match, that a man is not the father. Clearly Andrew is not.

Not Gregory's father? Ivy wondered, then went on.

The tests cannot prove that Tom S. is the father, only that he is a candidate, but I take it that that was not a question for you.

"Tom S., Tom S.," Ivy murmured. Tom Stetson, she thought, the man at the party, tall and lean and darkhaired like Gregory, the one Tristan said was a teacher at Andrew's college-the man who left roses on Caroline's grave. She finished the letter.

If I can be of any further assistance, let me know. Of course, this will remain confidential.

Meaning, Ivy thought, that no one else would know who Gregory's father was. No one else, including Andrew? The answer to that question might be buried in the scrawl of Caroline's letter. Ivy read it all the way through.

Andrew, I'm leaving this here for when the right time comes. In the divorce your son sided with you, lied for you, convinced the judge to let him live with you-or was it your money he wanted to live with? And is he really your son?

Sorry about that.

Caroline So Andrew didn't know, Ivy thought. And if Gregory knew, he wouldn't want anyone else to. He was counting on the Baines money. Ivy wondered what would happen if Andrew found out that Gregory wasn't really his son. And what would happen now that Andrew had another son, one he was growing very fond of?

Maybe Caroline had guessed what was coming. Maybe she'd realized that this was her chance to get back at both Andrew and Gregory. Ivy could imagine her taunting Gregory. She remembered the day that he'd come from his mother's house extremely upset-Ivy could imagine Caroline threatening to tell all.

Would Gregory have silenced her, killed her for an inheritance?

These letters were enough to take to the police, enough for them to start a serious investigation. Eric had left her what she needed. Angels, she prayed, let Eric rest in peace now.

Then she glanced up at the clock. It showed twenty-seven minutes before three, but she had stopped it with her hand, and at least five minutes had passed. Gregory would be home soon. Ivy moved quickly, starting the swing of the pendulum, closing and locking the clock door. She slipped the key string around her neck and refolded the three sheets of paper, putting them carefully in the envelope. Then she dashed toward the back door.

Outside the mist had become a light drizzle. Ivy stuck the envelope under her shirt and ran for her car.

She drove to the police station, her damp arms covered with goose bumps. At a red light in town, Ivy fumbled through her purse, then dumped everything in her lap, trying to find the card with the name of the detective who had investigated her assault.

"Lieutenant Patrick Donnelly," she read from the card, then tossed a lapful of tissues and hair ribbons into the back seat with the cat stuff.

That was when Ivy remembered.

"Ella," she called, hoping the cat was under the blankets. "Ella!" At the next light Ivy reached back and felt the old quilt. There was no warm lump. Ivy figured the cat had escaped when she left the car door open.

"Stay outdoors, Ella," Ivy whispered. "He can't corner you there."

When she arrived at the station, the desk sergeant took Ivy's name, then informed her that the lieutenant was out. "He'll be back any time now. Anytime now," he repeated, his mild blue eyes watching her as she tore at the edges of the detective's card. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"No." She tore at the card.

"I'll find you someone else to talk to," he offered.

"No, I'll wait," Ivy insisted. The story was too strange and too complicated to tell someone else.

She sat down on a hard bench and stared at the room's olive-colored walls and dreary tile. Directly across from her was a large clock. Ivy watched the minute hand jump from one black dot to the next as she tried to think what she'd say to the detective.

Better leave the angels out, she thought. It would be tough enough to make him take her seriously.

The door of the station swung open, and Ivy looked up hopefully. Two young officers reported to their desk sergeant, turning their backs to her. Ivy got up to ask if someone could telephone Lieutenant Donnelly.