A Wicked Snow

Chapter Thirty-eight

The yellow house was aglow as morning sunlight poured over it like honey from the sky. Slowly pulling into the gravel driveway, Hannah could see a woman by the gazebo, setting a hose with an oscillating sprinkler among plantings of three-and four-foot spires of fox-glove and delphinium. Her nerves sparked and adrenaline pumped. She tried to shake off the uneasiness. As the sprinkler swirled, the woman turned around and noticed the car. And for a minute Hannah stared and wondered why she had even bothered to search for her mother in the first place. Why did she care? What had she wanted from a reunion? All of that had been made all the more confusing with the extraordinary revelation that Ethan had just provided. Not only where was Claire Logan, just who was she? Was she her mother at all?

“Mrs. Wallace?” Hannah called out across the yard. Her voice was a little timid, and she cleared her throat. The sprinkler clacked and sprayed a ribbon of mist. When the woman didn’t respond, though she looked right at Hannah, she called out once more.

“Hello?”

Marge Morrison looked over and smiled. She hadn’t worn her glasses and she squinted at the visitor emerging from the pink Mary Kay car. Morrison might have been wary at the sight of a stranger, given the incident at the sheriff’s office, but it wasn’t her nature to be unfriendly or indifferent. “I didn’t hear you, dear,” she said, removing a straw garden hat and letting her silver ponytail swing freely. “Louise is inside. Are you a friend?”

“Yes,” Hannah replied without thinking. She was more nervous than she’d ever been—and she knew she had good reason to be. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. She’d waited for this moment a long time.

“I’m not surprised,” Morrison said. She dusted off her hands. “They’ve been coming in droves. Lou has more casseroles and salads than a supermarket deli.”

Hannah forced a smile. “I didn’t bring anything. I actually came to talk with Louise.”

“That’s all right,” Morrison said, stepping over a little sprinkler-made stream running across the front of the flowerbed. “Let me turn the water down and I’ll be right with you.”

Two minutes later, they had their shoes off, borrowed slippers on, and were inside. Morrison led Hannah to the room with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the icy-blue waters of the bay. Hannah searched the household bric-a-brac as if there would be a clue from Rock Point. A hint of the past. The place was beautifully appointed with matching furniture in striped and checked fabrics, but strangely cold. Nothing hinted at the owner’s personal interests. It had that distinctly Pottery Barn ambience, matchy matchy, but completely soulless. Nicely done. Neatly done. Baskets of pinecones and framed oil paintings of lighthouses and the like, but nothing seemed to be culled from some-one’s real life. Amid all of that was an elderly woman. Hannah’s eyes fixed on her. Louise Wallace sat in the blue wingback chair. Her ashy blond and gray hair was pulled back. She was not the woman who had accosted Amber back in Santa Louisa. Her hair had been black. Good, Hannah thought.

Her eyes were hidden behind the glare of eyeglasses. A combination magnifying lens and light fixture swung over her lap where she was working on a counted cross-stitch pattern depicting a basket of red apples.

“Lou, someone…” Morrison looked a little embarrassed because she hadn’t bothered to ask the younger woman’s name. “Someone’s here to see you.”

Hannah’s heart was beating like a sparrow’s. “My name is Hannah Griffin.” Perspiration rolled down her side.

Louise Wallace looked up to meet Hannah’s eyes and offered a friendly smile. Hannah froze the image and ran it through her mind like a computer in search of a matching file. What about her face? What about her eyes? Her teeth? Was there anything that matched?

“Why, let me think,” Wallace said, setting down her cross-stitch. “I don’t think we’ve met. Have we?”

Hannah’s brain was still scanning. Nothing hit. Nothing was saying to her that Wallace was anyone she knew. Her mother, adoptive or otherwise. Zero recognition. Hannah felt weak with relief. “Can I sit?”

“Certainly,” Wallace said. “But you’re not a reporter, are you?’

“No, not a reporter. I’m an investigator.”

“An investigator? That sounds interesting.” Wallace swung the magnifier to the side of the chair. Her movement was swift and a little startling. She smiled at Hannah and called to her friend.

“Marge, would you bring us some tea? More of that lovely chamomile we had earlier this morning?”

Her glasses on so she could get a good look at the visitor, Morrison nodded and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I’ve been sitting all morning,” Wallace said, “but I’ve been through so much lately, there’s not much more I feel I can do.” She shifted her wiry frame in the wingback. “Are you—Hannah, is it?—from the law office? They said they’d be sending someone over here. I thought it was going to be someone I knew. I know everyone on Kodiak Island.”

Hannah shook her head. “I’m an investigator, but I’m not involved in your case and I’m not from your lawyer’s office. I’m here on my own. I’m looking for my mother.”

Wallace barely glanced at Hannah. Instead she admired her cross-stitching; her scarred fingers smoothing the red of an apple. “I have no children.”

“Now? Or never?”

Wallace gazed out the window, the bay a frosty blue line to the horizon.

“Look at me, please.” Hannah moved closer. “Don’t you know me?”

“I can see that you are troubled. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“There is something about you that—”

“—reminds you of someone? That’s sweet. But I’m so sorry. You’re not one of those children searching for their birth mothers? Are you?”

Hannah’s face was red with anger, and she fought for composure. “No, thank God. If you are Claire Logan, then I know you’re not my biological mother. And I thank God for that.”

Wallace fiddled with her cross-stitch, the silver needle glinting in the stream of sun that had sent streaks across her lap. It was the first time her visitor—her pretty, young, and apparently motherless interrogator— had mentioned the Logan name.

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about,” she said.

Hannah listened to each word as if each syllable could provide an answer. Morrison brought the tea in and set it down. Louise thanked her and said the two of them would be taking their tea out to the gazebo.

“This girl’s searching for her mother. She thinks I might know her.”

“Be her.” Hannah corrected, only to see the reaction. But there was none.

“I see,” Morrison said, uncomfortable with the obvious tension in the room. “I’ll pick up in here; you two go on and enjoy the morning. I’m sure you’ll sort things out just fine.”

Balancing fine china cups and saucers, Hannah and Louise slipped on their shoes on the front steps, and Morrison went looking for the vacuum. When she couldn’t find it anywhere, she poked her head into Louise’s bedroom on the west side of the house. A grand four-poster bed with a damask canopy and a pair of matching chairs commanded the room. It was the bedroom of a queen, and Marge Morrison doubted any woman in all of Alaska had such a splendid boudoir. Morrison ran her hands over the silvery fabric. In doing so, she noticed a suitcase on the opposite side of the bed from the doorway. It was heavy with clothing and slid halfway under the platform of the bed, out of view. She gave it little regard and got the vacuum from the walk-in closet.

Out in the gazebo, Louise Wallace took a seat first and indicated Hannah should sit next to her in order to take in the view of the garden. A clematis vine climbed over a rail, and the heavy, earthy scent of marigolds wafted through the air.

“Now really, what do you want from me?” she asked, her genteel smile fading into a cold stare. “I assume you are here to ‘get the story’ like that awful Hoffman woman?”

Hannah could hardly believe her ears. The name caught her off guard. Dog Face was faster on her feet than she’d have ever guessed.

“Marcella has talked to you?”

“You know her?” Wallace let out an impatient sigh. “It figures. She phoned me last night, and I’ll tell you what I told her, the damned FBI, and anyone else with half a brain. I am not Claire Logan. Never have been. Never will be.” She sipped some tea and looked around her yard; a tapestry of flowers filled every bed. “A couple days ago my life was as peaceful as all of this. And now my world’s being turned upside down by a bunch of outsiders.”

“Maybe I’m not such an outsider.” Hannah was tentative, but she pressed on. “Maybe, in some twisted way, I’m a part of you?”

Wallace kept facing forward, as if something very interesting was taking place among the flowers of her garden. Her expression was frozen. “Like I’ve said, I have no children, no family. My husband is dead. That’s the only part of me that mattered.”

“Look,” Hannah said, “I need you to face me. I need to look into your eyes. What about Erik and Danny?”

Wallace turned toward Hannah, but her eyes were ice. “I don’t know anyone by those names. And I’d really like you to go now.”

By then, Hannah Griffin had wound herself up like a mechanical toy. There was no stopping her. It didn’t matter what Wallace said.

“What about Aunt Leanna?” she asked. Leanna’s name stuck in Hannah’s throat, so tight with emotion. The woman who had been her savior, who had raised her after the murders in Rock Point, had been her mother all along. “What about her baby… about me?”

Wallace remained ice. “Honestly, you’re completely unhinged, and I don’t know anything about anyone you’re talking about.”

“Your sister… she gave me to you to raise as your daughter. You, a mother. What a sick joke that turned out to be.”

This genteel, cookie-baking, Methodist do-gooder was unruffled. Hannah wanted to grab her right then and there, but somehow she held back. Wallace just sat, cool and dignified.

“That’s disgusting,” she said. She spat out her words, contempt in every bite. “What kind of a woman would give her baby to her sister? That sounds like trash to me.”

You’re trash, Hannah thought. You’re evil. Instead, she defended her aunt.

“She was the nicest woman in the world. I loved her more than anything. More than I ever loved you, Claire Logan.”

It felt good to say those words, as if Leanna was there, all lemony and sweet. It felt good to say Claire’s name.

There was a flicker of interest on Wallace’s face when Hannah’s words indicated a past tense. Leanna, it was clear, was no longer living, and Wallace seemed a little interested. But as quickly as it came, the curiosity evaporated.

Finally she spoke. Her words were dismissive. “I don’t know anything that will be helpful to you.”

“I think you do,” Hannah said. “Are you Claire Logan?”

Wallace wore a mask of willful, maybe even practiced, incredulity. She stood and faced her accuser. “I will not stand for this kind of harassment. Leave now or…” she stopped.

“Or you’ll kill me?” Hannah asked, pressing harder. “Throw me in a ditch with quick lime? Tell your friend here that I deserved it? That I didn’t matter? My life wasn’t important? Remember you told me how much you loved a military uniform? And the security that came with one?”

Even though she had sounded defiant and confident, inside Hannah was anything but sure about anything she was saying. Louise Wallace could be Claire Logan or she could be the Brownie Troop leader she remembered from Rock Point. She could be anyone. Her features had been pinched and sanded to oblivion. Nothing about the woman seemed all that familiar, not in the sense that she could be sure she was or wasn’t her mother from so long ago. She even took in a deep breath, knowing the power of the sense of smell to recall a memory.

“You are, aren’t you?” Hannah said more as a statement than a question. “You are my mother.”

Louise Wallace, or whoever she was, would have no more of it.

“I’ve reached my limit. Get out of here. Look for your mother somewhere else. Try Mexico… that’s where I’d go if I was Logan. Someplace warm.”

“I’ve looked for you for my whole life. Since you betrayed my father. Since you betrayed Marcus Wheaton.”

Again, was there a flicker of recognition? Emotion in the cold blue of her eyes?

Wallace stood. “I want you to get off my property.”

Hannah wasn’t ready to go. She wanted answers. She grabbed the old woman’s arm. It felt muscular and strong, not like some old lady who spent her days cross-stitching. This was the arm of a woman who chopped wood. Dug trenches. In that instant, feeling the pulse of the woman who could be Claire Logan, Hannah could feel herself losing control. She wanted to throttle Louise Wallace, just as she’d wanted to lunge at Joanne Garcia back in the hospital room in Santa Louisa. What was with these women? These so-called mothers?

“I hate you! I’ve hated you since the day you left me!”

“Stop! You’re hurting me.”

“You don’t know what hurt is. Hurt is burying your dad. Your two brothers. Waiting for your fucking evil mother to come back and get you and hating yourself because you still loved her. No matter what she’s done. That hurts.”

“I don’t know… what…”

“You do. I know you do.”

“Please. Let me go! Marge! Call the sheriff!”

Wallace struggled to get away, but Hannah yanked hard and felt a pop. God, I’ve done it now. I’ll be arrested for assault. I’ll lose Amber. Ethan will know I’m no better than Claire Logan, mother or not. Headlines would roll across the country. But I don’t care. I don’t care, she thought.

The sprinkler spun and the two women wrestled for a moment in the gazebo, one trying to get away, the other trying to hang on as if she could squeeze the truth out of the other by wringing it out of her. In truth, it was all Hannah could do to keep from strangling her. The sound of a teacup shattering on the gazebo floor, pieces scattering like a mosaic under their feet. The noise, harsh and sudden, was like a gunshot. It brought Hannah out of her rage. What am I doing? What in the world?

“I’m sorry,” she said, crying now, “I hurt you.”

Wallace’s eyes were full of terror by then. “Yes, you did! Look what you did. Those were my best Belleek. I think you broke my shoulder! Let go of me.”

“I saw Marcus Wheaton in prison,” Hannah blurted, not ready for their conversation, their fight, to end. “He told me where to find you. Marcus is the reason I’m here. He’s the reason the FBI is here… why Marcella Hoffman is calling you. You really played him, you know. Twenty years later, he still loves you.”

With a surprisingly powerful swipe, Wallace pulled Hannah’s hand off of her, and she rushed down the path toward the house, never once looking back. “Go bother someone else. Better yet, get some help. I’m not who you think I am; who you apparently want me to be.”

The crunching noise of breaking china under her feet distracted her. For the first time, Hannah looked down at the shattered cup. A portion of a cup had fallen next to her purse. A half moon of winy, red lipstick frowned from the rim. She returned her stare back to Wallace. She refused to let the old lady get the last word.

“I don’t know how you sleep at night,” she called out as she hurried across the gravel driveway to the pink car.

Wallace was at the front door by then. “Nytol and a shot of brandy,” she muttered, glancing back at Hannah, and hurrying inside without bothering to put on slippers. Hannah could see Marge Morrison looking busy wiping down one of the windows. Her friend had been listening to every word.

“I have never forgotten what you made me do. Never!” Hannah screamed and slumped behind the wheel and turned her car around for the Northern Lights, feeling sick to her stomach. Tears rained. What have I done? What kind of daughter doesn’t know her own mother? Then she thought of Amber and wondered what kind of mother would leave her little girl at home while she chased ghosts that she had prayed didn’t exist. She turned on the radio to distract her from her thoughts. When she thought she was lost halfway to the island’s biggest town, she found she didn’t care. She was on an island, for goodness’ sake.

How lost can you get on an island? she thought.

But a second later, a news report jolted her like seeing a kid dart in front of a speeding car on rain-soaked pavement. It couldn’t be. Hannah slammed on the brakes and pushed the volume control to its loudest setting. The reception on the remote island crackled. At first she thought she misheard it, but as the piece wrapped up, she knew her ears had not played tricks on her.

“Paine was best known for her role as the prosecutor in the infamous Claire Logan/Marcus Wheaton murder and arson case. Her assailant is still at large.”

“Oh God…” she said, “Not Mrs. Paine. …Notnow.”