A Midwinter's Tail

26

Maggie’s Bug was parked in the circular driveway in front of the main entrance to Marsh Farm, but she wasn’t in it.

“That’s a good sign,” I said to Owen. There was a small silver truck in front of her Volkswagen.

I’d brought the cat carrier bag with me, and Owen climbed inside without argument.

Marsh Farm looked nothing like any farm I’d ever seen. The house was bigger than Wisteria Hill—three floors instead of two. It was shingled with blue-gray cedar shakes and had many large, multipaneled windows. The wine-colored front door was unlocked and I stepped into a beautiful foyer with cream-colored walls and an elegant crystal chandelier overhead. A wide staircase led to the upper floors. The treads were dark polished wood with an Oriental carpet runner in shades of burgundy and cream. Behind the stairs I could see a huge window and above it there was a massive oil painting of a Victorian-era woman on a horse.

“Maggie, where are you?” I called.

“Back here,” she answered.

“That was helpful,” I said to Owen.

I got a snippy meow in return. Owen didn’t like any criticism of his ladylove.

Maggie’s voice had come from the left side of the big house, so I went in that direction. The huge front room looked as though it had been a parlor of some kind. It led into a smaller room, which in turn led to the kitchen, which was where I found Maggie and Olivia Ramsey.

“Oh, uh, hi, Olivia,” I said. “What are you doing out here?”

“She came to check out the kitchen for Georgia,” Maggie said. She leaned toward the cat carrier. “Hey, Owen.”

He murped a hello back at her.

“Where is it?” I asked.

Maggie gave a little shudder. “The second set of stairs up to the third floor.”

“I offered to go take a look,” Olivia said.

“But I thought it would be safer if she stayed down here. With me,” Maggie hastily added.

“It’s okay,” I said, giving her what I hoped looked like a reassuring smile. “Owen and I will go see what’s going on.” What I really wanted was to grab Maggie and get out of there, but I didn’t want Olivia to know I was onto her.

I let Owen out of the bag on the second-floor landing. “Go for it,” I said.

I could see something gray and furry about five steps from the top. Owen crept slowly from tread to tread. Suddenly, he stopped. I held on to the strap of the cat bag, ready to swing it if something decided to make a run for it in my direction.

Owen was already on the step with whatever the furry animal was. He grabbed it in his teeth and started back down to me.

Great. It wasn’t dead. I really hoped Maggie wasn’t waiting down by the front door. As Owen got closer to me, I realized whatever he was carrying in his mouth definitely wasn’t dead. Because it had never been alive. The cat stopped at my feet and looked up at me.

“What is that?” I said. He dropped his find on the floor and then swatted it with one paw. It rolled about six inches.

I leaned over for a closer look. It was a fur pompom, probably from a hat or a fur coat.

“Good job,” I said.

He preened appropriately.

Maggie and Olivia were still in the kitchen.

“Did he get it already?” Maggie asked.

“Yep,” I said, holding up the little ball of gray fur. “You were menaced by a pompom.”

Maggie had her arms folded over her chest, shoulders hunched, and now she gave me a sheepish look.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” she said. She looked at Owen, who was standing just to my right. “But you’re still my hero.”

He smiled at her. I swear.

I handed her the seating chart Lita had given me. Maggie looked at it and frowned. “I don’t think this is going to work,” she muttered. Then she looked up at me. “Would you like to see the room Everett wants to use?” she asked.

“I would,” I said.

Olivia was opening cupboards and making notes on a small pad.

“We’ll be back,” Maggie said.

Olivia nodded over her shoulder. “Okay.”

I scooped up Owen and put him back in the carrier bag before he had a chance to disappear into another room or disappear altogether.

Maggie took us back through the two rooms I’d passed through, to another large space on the other side of the huge house. It was actually two rooms, separated by a set of leaded-glass sliding French doors.

“This is beautiful,” I said

She nodded. “I know. But it’s a lot fancier than what Rebecca had in mind.”

“Everett seems to have lost his mind when it comes to this wedding.”

Maggie pulled out her phone. “I’m going to take some pictures of the room on the other side. I think it might be the better choice.”

Maggie snapped several shots of the other room and then stopped dead in the center of the space. “I’m supposed to meet Oren in about forty-five minutes,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “I completely forgot.”

“You have lots of time to get back to town,” I said.

“I know. But Olivia needs to take some measurements in the kitchen and make an inventory of some of the equipment for Georgia.” She looked around uncertainly. “I’ll try Oren’s house. Maybe he’s still there.”

Oren Kenyon was one of the few people I knew who didn’t have a cell phone.

There was no answer at Oren’s.

Maggie put her phone in her pocket. “Kath, I hate to ask, but could you stay here with Olivia and then lock up?”

I nodded. “Go,” I said. I could fake it with Olivia for a few more minutes.

I followed Maggie back to the kitchen, where she explained to Olivia what was going on. A small blowtorch was sitting in the middle of the large island in the center of the room.

“Are you sure you don’t mind staying?” she asked me. “Georgia really needs to figure out her dessert menu and get back to Everett about the price. She’s working at Fern’s this morning, so I said I’d come out and look at the kitchen for her.”

“It’s not a problem,” I said.

“Why do you have a blowtorch?” Maggie asked, gesturing at it.

Olivia smiled. “Would you believe it was one of the things Georgia asked me to look for? She uses it to caramelize the top of crème brûlée.”

Maggie smiled. “I didn’t know that. Then again, I’ve never made crème brûlée.” She handed me the keys and gave me a hug. “I owe you lunch at Eric’s for this,” she said.

Olivia had gone back to looking in cupboards and writing in a wire-bound notepad.

“I’m just going to look around a little,” I said to her. It made me a bit uncomfortable being in the same room with her, given what I believed she’d done. But then again, there was absolutely no way she could know what I suspected. Once I was in the front parlor again, I pulled my phone out of my pocket, thinking maybe I’d see if I could reach Marcus.

“Put the phone away,” Olivia said behind me.

I turned around to look at her. I hadn’t realized she’d followed me.

She was holding the blowtorch except now it was lit, a tight blue flame coming out of the end.

“What are you doing?” I said.

She smiled, but the gesture was cold. “Protecting myself.”

I frowned. “From me?”

Olivia shrugged and looked around. Then she took a couple of steps toward me. I backed up toward the foyer. She knew, I realized. She knew that I knew what she’d done.

“You’ve been looking at Ed Jensen’s Web site,” she said. “You’ve been spying on me.”

Behind me Maggie’s voice said, “Olivia, what are you talking about?”

I swung around. Maggie was standing just inside the big front door. “I forgot my phone,” she said, walking over to me. She looked at Olivia. “Why are you carrying that blowtorch? What’s going on?”

I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “Nothing’s going on, Mags. But you’d better get going or you’ll be late for your meeting.” I tried to keep my voice even and calm.

“Not so fast,” Olivia said.

I put the strap of the cat carrier over my head so the bag was resting against my hip. “I don’t understand,” Maggie said, her forehead wrinkling into a frown. “Kathleen wasn’t spying on you.”

I stepped in front of her so I was between her and Olivia and the blowtorch.

“Edwin Jensen has some kind of software on his computer to monitor visitors,” I said.

Olivia nodded. “He has the coolest tracking widget. He could tell someone from Mayville Heights was looking at the pictures he took the night of the robbery, and”—there was a disconcerting cunningness to the smile she gave me—“he could also tell which Web site that person arrived at the blog from.” She arched an eyebrow at me. “When Edwin told me it was a news service for libraries, I knew it had to be you poking around.”

“That’s why you confessed to me that you knew Dayna. You knew I’d been checking you out.”

“You’re right,” she said. “Pretty smart of me, wasn’t it?”

I took a step backward. Maybe I could keep her talking and we could make it to the door. Even though I was in sock feet and Olivia was wearing boots, I felt pretty sure I could outrun her in those heels she had on, and I knew Maggie could.

“How did you get him to help you?” I asked.

“I played the helpless victim,” she said. “I told him an old boyfriend wouldn’t leave me alone.” She shrugged. “I had to do him a couple of times, but it was worth it.”

I swallowed down the sour taste at the back of my throat.

“I don’t understand,” Maggie said. “You killed Dayna Chapman? But you ate one of those chocolates. You could have died.”

Olivia shook her head. “No. I had that all worked out.” She looked at me. “I did improvise the part where you got my autoinjector. That was pretty good.” She turned the blowtorch and studied the blue flame. “I really wish I didn’t have to kill you. You know, I came up with the whole plan in the library. I did all my research into that old book on your computers and I borrowed every single Edgar Allan Poe book you had. That’s how I got the idea that I was going to have to eat one of those chocolates, too.”

“‘The Purloined Letter,’” I said.

Maggie looked lost.

“It’s a Poe short story,” I explained. “About a hidden letter. Poe’s detective finds the letter when the police can’t because it’s been hidden in plain sight with some other mail.” I didn’t take my eyes off Olivia. “Who would look for a valuable, stolen letter in with the everyday correspondence? Just like who would think anyone would deliberately eat a chocolate that could kill them?”

Olivia turned the blowtorch back around so it was facing us again. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Since I almost died, too, why would anyone suspect me?”

She looked pleased with herself.

“You were the lookout the night of the robbery,” I said. I nudged Maggie backward another step, hoping I’d get an opportunity to shove her toward the front door.

“And no one was supposed to get hurt,” she said. “If that old man had just opened the safe when Jake told him to, everything would have stayed on track.”

“You knew the book was there.” I eased my right hand toward the pocket of my jacket. Could I get my phone and hand it back to Maggie?

Olivia suddenly leaned forward and flicked the torch at me. “Hands where I can see them,” she said. She straightened up. “Yes. We knew that old book was there. A friend of Jake’s saw it. Leo figured if the old man had some crappy old book in his safe, it had to be worth something. Turns out he was right.”

“How did Dayna find out?”

She shook her head in frustration. “The stupid-ass prosecutor let Dayna look at the pictures from the night it all happened. She noticed the parcel I’d had just disappeared.”

“She knew you had something valuable.”

Olivia was moving her fingers back and forth, just beyond the edge of the blowtorch flame. She didn’t even look at me. “I knew she’d be bleeding us dry for the rest of our lives. I didn’t really have a choice.” She glanced at me for a brief second. “I told Dayna she should come for the rare-book lecture so we could find out how much that Poe book was worth. Thank you for setting that up, by the way. It made it so easy to get her to come here.” She smiled at me. “Now that we’ve finished the recap for anyone who tuned in late, move away from the door.”

I stayed where I was and reached behind me to grip Maggie’s arm.

“There’s no point in trying to make a run for it,” Olivia said, gesturing at my hair with the flaming torch.

I could feel the heat as she flashed it by my face. Still I didn’t move. Our best chance to get away from Olivia was to get close enough to the door to bolt for the yard. Unfortunately, we were about halfway between the stairs and the door.

She made a sour face, took several steps to her left and with her gaze still locked on my face used the blowtorch to set the semi-sheer, floor-length curtains on the big window behind the stairs on fire. The flames shot up the thin fabric.

“Next time that’ll be your friend’s hair,” she said. “Move away from the door.”

I gave Maggie’s arm a reassuring squeeze and stepped away from her.

“No,” Olivia said, emphatically. “Her too.” She took a step toward Maggie.

I looked at Mags, hoping the fear that was squeezing all the air out of my chest wasn’t showing on my face.

“Up,” Olivia said, gesturing with her free hand. I knew going up those stairs was a bad idea, but I couldn’t chance her setting Maggie’s clothes on fire.

The elaborate staircase went up six steps to a small landing. Then it turned ninety degrees for another four steps before making one more ninety-degree curve up to the second floor.

I could feel the heat from the burning curtains. I looked around for any sign of a sprinkler system, but I didn’t see anything. Owen moved in the bag against my hip. Through the top mesh panel I could see him crouched down inside, ears flattened against his head. I needed to keep Olivia distracted long enough to open the top of the bag the rest of the way so hopefully Owen would do his disappearing act, jump out and somehow have a chance at getting away.

I slid my hand up the nylon fabric so it was resting on the top of the bag. “How are you going to explain the fire?” I asked.

Maggie started to cough. The foyer was filling with smoke. Whatever those filmy curtains were made of gave off a foul, chemical smell that mixed with the smoke.

Olivia brushed her hair back from her face and swiped at her eyes. She continued to move toward us. I had to start up the first turn of steps to stay ahead of her.

“I think I’ll blame it on Maggie,” she said. She looked at Mags and shrugged. “I’m sorry. I really only want to kill Kathleen, but you’re kind of a package deal.” She turned her attention to me. “You’ll tragically lose your life trying to save your friend. I’ll tell everyone how brave you were.”

We were about halfway up the stairs now, facing the wall of flame behind the stairs. The fire had made it up to the curtain rod and as I watched, it jumped to the huge oil painting on the wall above the windows. It crackled and snapped, fueled by the oil paint and dry canvas. The smoke was heavier and I pressed one hand to my mouth. Next to me Maggie had another coughing fit.

Olivia gestured at the cat carrier with the blowtorch. “Give me the cat,” she said.

I pressed the bag against my hip. Owen hadn’t yet realized the top was open and he could jump out. “No,” I said.

Olivia’s eyes narrowed with anger. “You want the poor thing to die in here? What’s the matter with you?”

She leaned over so the flame was just inches above the elegant Oriental carpet runner.

“Give me the cat,” she repeated.

What else could I do? Maybe I could get us all out of this. My hands were shaking, but I eased the strap of the cat bag off my shoulder. Olivia held out her hand.

“Sorry,” I whispered to Owen, and then instead of handing over the carrier I threw it at her. As the bag arced down over the few steps between us, Owen somehow launched himself up and out. Eyes wide and angry, and fur going every which way, he landed three steps below me and darted between Olivia’s legs.

It was enough to knock her off balance on those high heels. She fell backward, dropping the blowtorch. It ignited the edge of her faux leather pants. Whatever they were made of was highly flammable.

Flames shot from her ankle to her hip in seconds. She screamed, hands flailing, which only succeeded in setting her sweater on fire. I flung myself on her, smothering the fire with my body and my heavy woolen coat. Above me Maggie sank onto a riser. She tucked her face in her elbow and looked at me. I tried to get my breath, but it was almost impossible, as there was so much smoke now.

Olivia moaned in pain, tears streaming down her face. Her fake leather pants had melted more than burned, and there were patches of the fabric layered onto the burns on her leg.

The blowtorch had fallen on the landing, and the Oriental carpet runner was already on fire.

Maggie had stumbled down around the turn of the stairs. “We’ve gotta get out of here!” she said. She coughed, bending almost double.

Olivia was shaking and whimpering. She was going into shock, I realized. The fire had spread now from the huge framed oil painting to the wallpaper. The woolen carpet was smoldering, making even more heavy dark smoke.

“Grab her shoulders,” I yelled to Maggie. Talking started another coughing jag, but I managed to grab Olivia’s feet. Maggie caught her under the arms and we got her around the turn and down the few stairs.

Then I heard a wrenching groan as if the house itself were in pain. The massive oil painting behind the stairs seemed to shudder and then, almost as though in slow motion, it broke from the wall and fell forward.

“Maggie!” I screamed.

Out of reflex she jumped backward, pulling Olivia with her. The momentum from the falling picture knocked me backward as well, up the stairs. Beside me Owen yowled as the carpet, which had been mostly smoking before, now began to really burn.

Olivia gave an agonized moan of pain.

“Kath!” Maggie screamed, struggling to get to her feet. The burning canvas was wedged on its side like a wall of flame between us.

“Get out!” I yelled at Maggie. “Go!”

She hesitated.

“Go!” I screamed. “Get yourself and Olivia out and go!”

Wheezing, she pressed her face into her elbow. “I’ll come back for you,” she shouted when she could breathe again.

“No!” I hollered. “Just get out and call nine one one.”

The flames were licking their way closer. Owen was beside me on the stairs, crouched low, ears flattened, hissing in anger or in fear, I wasn’t sure which. I waved Maggie down the stairs.

She gave me a last panicked look and began to drag Olivia down the steps.

I grabbed Owen and the empty carrier bag, pressed the crook of my elbow against my mouth and nose and began to climb. I knew it was a very bad idea, but I had nowhere else to go.

There were four large rooms on the second floor of the old house. Every one of them was locked. I grabbed the doorknob of the closest door with both hands and tried to make it turn. I shook it. I took a step back and kicked it. It didn’t give. I tried to force the door open with my hip, but it was heavy solid wood with raised panels. It didn’t move. None of them did.

The fire continued to lick its way up the carpet runner.

“We don’t have a choice,” I said to Owen. I started up the staircase to the third floor.

The air was actually a little better on the top floor of the old house, but I knew that wouldn’t last very long as the thick, noxious smoke rose through the stairwell. The doors on this level were locked as well. I was coughing most of the time and wheezing when I wasn’t. I put all my fear into kicking the doorknob to the room at the far right end of the hall, and by some miracle the door opened. I slipped inside, pushed the door shut with my hip and set Owen down on the floor. I doubled over, hands on my knees, and coughed. When I stood up again at least it was easier to breathe.

There was very little smoke in the room. Owen looked at me wide-eyed.

“We’re going to get out of here,” I said, swiping a hand across my face.

The room we were in was set up as a sitting room with several elegant chairs grouped in front of a high, multipaned window. I couldn’t get it open, and even if I had, we were three floors up. It was too high to jump.

I sank down on to the floor and Owen climbed into my lap and nuzzled my chin. I stroked his fur. “We can do this,” I said, my voice shaky. “We’ve gotten out of worse messes.”

I remembered being trapped in that tiny cabin in the woods the previous winter, locked in a dark, cramped basement with a leaking propane stove above us. We’d gotten out just before the cabin exploded and I’d walked through snowdrifts up to my knees. But we’d survived.

Smoke was rolling in under the door. “Hang on,” I said to Owen.

I pulled off my coat and jammed as much of it as I could into the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor.

The floor was warm. I felt the gleaming hardwood all around the area of the door. It was very warm. The fire had to be below us, working its way up the walls.

“We have to get out of here now,” I told Owen.

The cat turned to the long window. I walked over and looked out over the backyard. It was too far to jump. We’d never survive the leap.

Then I saw it—a small balcony just slightly to my left and one floor down. Was it possible? Could I somehow drop onto those few square feet? From the balcony it was maybe a twelve-foot drop to the ground, less if I landed in one of the banks of plowed snow. I might end up with a broken leg, but the odds were better than if I jumped from here.

It would have been better if the balcony were larger or directly underneath the window instead of off center from where I was. I tried to calculate how far off it was. My hands were shaking.

It was too much of an angle. I couldn’t jump. “What if I miss?” I said to Owen. He looked at me for a moment; then he walked across the room and climbed into the cat carrier. Was that his vote of confidence?

I couldn’t let Owen die and he couldn’t get out without me. I rubbed away tears I hadn’t known I was even crying. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

I picked up the closest chair, took two running steps forward and flung it through the window. It smashed the glass and fell to the ground. Cold air swirled into the room. It felt wonderful.

There was a poker by the fireplace. I used it to clear away the broken glass and the bottom part of the window.

I held on to the wide trim and looked out, careful not to get too close to the edge. The balcony looked a long way down.

“We need something to hold on to,” I said to Owen. The four-poster bed was covered with a rose-patterned quilt. I flung back the edge. Yes! It was also made up with sheets. I hauled them off the bed, used my teeth to start an edge and tore both of them into long strips.

The area of warm floor was spreading. I knew I was running out of time. I knotted the ends of the sheets together, hoping this would work as well as it did in every prison escape movie Maggie had ever made me watch.

I was tying the makeshift rope to one leg of the big four-poster when I heard voices outside. I held on to the sheet and edged my way to the window again.

Burtis Chapman’s big black truck was in the backyard almost directly below the balcony. Marcus got out of the passenger side and climbed onto the roof. I watched as he steadied himself, jumped and almost fell into the bed of the truck. He was trying to reach the balcony, I realized. He was coming to get me.

The tears started again and I brushed them away. Marcus got hold of the railing on the fourth try. He pulled himself up and over onto the balcony.

I zippered the top of the cat carrier and put the strap over my head. Then I made a loop in the end of my knotted sheet rope. Holding on to that, I went back to the window. Marcus was looking up at me. I’d never been so glad to see his face.

“You have to jump,” he yelled.

I nodded. The balcony where he was standing seemed like such a long way down. Every part of me was shaking.

Marcus held out his arms. “Hang on to the window ledge,” he shouted. “Swing your legs to the right and let go. I’ll catch you.”

I did the math in my head. It was about fifteen feet from the window ledge to the balcony below. Marcus was over six feet tall. Given my own height, I’d only be about eight inches from his arms.

Eight inches felt like eight feet.

“I’ll catch you,” he shouted. “I swear to God I’ll catch you.”

I heard something collapse behind me in the hallway. A wall, maybe? The stairs?

I was out of time. I shifted the cat carrier around onto my back and grabbed my bedsheet rope. Then I got down on my hands and knees and backed out the open window. My arms could only hold my weight for a few seconds, but that was all I needed. I swung my legs to the left and let go of the makeshift rope.

And fell . . .

Right into Marcus’s waiting arms. I knocked him back against the French doors, but he didn’t let go of me. And I didn’t let go of him.

“You all right?” he said. He felt my arms, touched my face with his fingers. I nodded. I couldn’t seem to find any words.

“We have to get off this balcony,” he said.

Below us Burtis was standing in the bed of his truck. Marcus helped me over the railing.

“You sure you’re okay?” Burtis asked, concern making tight lines around his mouth and eyes.

I nodded. “I’m okay,” I said before another bout of coughing made it impossible to speak.

Maggie was standing by the tailgate of the truck, tears sliding down her face. Burtis helped me down and she wrapped me in a hug.

“I’m okay, Mags,” I said. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Owen made a loud meow of protest.

Maggie let me go, swiped at her face and tried to smile at me but couldn’t quite get there. I pulled the bag over my head and undid the zipper. Owen poked his head out and looked around. His eyes seemed a little loopy, but otherwise he looked okay.

Behind me Marcus jumped down into the bed of the truck. Ric Holm and his partner were coming across the snow to us carrying their first aid gear. I could hear sirens in the distance.

I was still shaking, but I was safe.

I was safe.