Chapter Nineteen

I’d once asked my grandmother why we had to water the tree every other day with water from the natural springs, and she’d said because every time a Caretaker forgot, the tree began to wilt. As an academic accustomed to rigorous scholarship, that didn’t sit well with me. All I knew was that on the days I forgot the tree—I never claimed to be a perfect Caretaker—the tree wilted and its waxy leaves curled and fell from its branches. I’d also found that my shortcuts didn’t work either. Like gathering extra water and saving it to water the tree another day. The tree still suffered when I did that. It seemed to me that the only way to guarantee the tree’s health and the health of the essence was to water it every other day with fresh water from the springs. I hoped when I read the ledger my grandmother had given me that I would learn more about this.

Even though I was terribly worried about Jo and now about Rainwater because I knew his beloved sister was somehow involved in Redding’s death, I still had to water the tree. If I waited until the next day, the tree would suffer, as would the shop’s essence. I needed the essence to help me help Jo, so I didn’t see any choice other than to go after dark to lessen the risk of being seen. It was my duty, and one that I would carry until I passed it on to a daughter of my own, if I ever had one. No pressure.

I opted to walk to the springs along the well-worn path that led from our backyard to the edge of the park. I stopped at the garden shed before leaving the yard to grab the watering can I would need.

When I came out of the shed, Emerson was sitting by the gate with his skinny black tail whipping back and forth like a pendulum.

I put my hands on my hips. “Really?”

He smiled in the way only a mischievous cat can.

“Okay, fine,” I said to the cat. “You can come along, but stay close and don’t run off.” There was really no point in arguing with him.

He purred a response that sounded like a lawn mower firing up in the quiet wood.

When Emerson and I walked into the woods, a calm fell over me. I hadn’t realized how the tension of the day had affected me. Not that I was completely calm. I still didn’t know where Jo was. She wasn’t answering my text messages or emails. I promised myself that I would track Bobby down over the next few days. Jo worked for him. Maybe she’d told him where she’d gone and when she would be back. Or I could reach out to her brother again—but I didn’t want to create added strain there.

My footsteps were noiseless on the mulch-covered path that led to the springs, located in a break in the trees.

An enormous boulder twice my height in the hillside marked the beginning of the springs. Evergreen shrubs and moss covered the rocky wall, where a tiny waterfall, no larger than the width of a man, trickled down it and filled the pool, where I gathered the water. The constant movement of water from the hillside and bubbling up from the aquifer that ran the length of the village and broke to the surface in this one spot kept the water clear and free of algae and pests.

Moonlight broke through the trees, playing on the hillside and then on the pool of water below. Birch trees encircled the springs, and an owl hooted softly from a pale branch. It was tranquil. It was where I needed to be to calm my spirit. Emerson sat beside me at the edge of the pond as I dipped my watering can into the clear water. The can filled quickly, and as much as I wanted to stay there, I stood up, cradling the container and the precious water to my chest. I looked down at the little cat. “Let’s go home.”

He whipped his tail, and I took that as agreement.

We were halfway down the path when a snap sounded from deep in the woods. Emerson jumped onto my back and climbed up my sweatshirt to perch on my shoulder. I almost dropped the watering can and all its precious water. That single ominous sound had displaced any sense of tranquility, reminding me that I was a woman alone traipsing along the woods at night with a killer on the loose.

I patted his head. “It’s okay, buddy. It’s probably just a deer.”

He dug his claws into my skin.

“Emerson, that hurts. Get off of me.”

He hunched down, digging in even harder.

I set the watering can down on the path and tried to remove the cat from my shoulder. He wouldn’t budge. “Emerson, I’m not moving a step until you remove your claws.”

As if he understood what I said, he retracted his claws. I let out a sigh of relief and hoped they hadn’t drawn blood.

There was another snap of wood deep in the forest. Emerson’s claws dug into me again. The cat’s reaction had me thoroughly spooked. I didn’t bother to tell him to calm down again. All I could think of was Dahlia Waverly in these same woods nearly a hundred years ago. She had died collecting this water. Was that to be my fate too? There were people who killed for far less in this village. I knew that from my own experience.

Another twig snap spurred me into motion, and I ran the rest of the way home.

I didn’t feel safe until I was inside the shop and had locked the back door behind me. Emerson must have felt the same, because as soon as the bolt slid home, he retracted his claws and jumped from my shoulder.

“I’m sure it was just a deer,” I said.

He meowed in response. I didn’t think he was convinced, and neither was I. I walked through the swinging door that led from the kitchen into the main part of the shop. The shop was dark except for the moonlight coming through the skylight in the ceiling and through the front windows.

Faulkner flew from the sales desk to the top of the tree. He was a black shadow above me. Only when he was directly under the skylight could I make out his features.

Without ceremony, I poured the water into the dirt base around the birch tree, taking care to shake every last drop from the can. When I was done, nothing happened. It never did. With a sigh, I carried the watering can back into the kitchen. I would return it to its spot in the shed tomorrow. I wasn’t going back outside tonight after getting spooked in the woods.

I decided to text Jo again. I knew it was a long shot that she would reply. JO. THIS IS VIOLET. I WANT TO HELP YOU. TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE, AND I WILL COME TO YOU. I KNOW YOU ARE AFRAID. I’M HERE TO HELP.

I hit send and paced around the birch tree for the next ten minutes. There was no response. I sighed and shoved the phone in my pocket.

As I came around the tree for what must have been the twelfth time, Emerson was sitting at the foot of the stairs, as he always did when he thought it was high time we went to bed.

I glanced at the door. Rainwater had said he would stop by that night and tell me what was going on.

My phone pinged in my pocket. I jumped like I had been hit by a dart in the back. I was convinced it was Jo texting back. I looked at the phone and saw that it was from Rainwater. CAN’T DROP BY TONIGHT. SOMETHING CAME UP. WILL TRY TO CALL IF NOT TOO LATE.

My face fell, but I texted him back and told him I understood. I was starting to learn that this was just part of being in a relationship with a cop. You never knew when they would have time to see you.

Emerson was still on the step and meowed at me. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go to bed.”

Faulkner cawed agreement. He never could truly rest until I took Emerson into my apartment for the evening. The crow was convinced the cat would attack him in his sleep, which wasn’t too far from the mark, if the way Emerson studied the crow with rapt attention was any indication.

Emerson and I headed up the stairs, and I let us into the apartment. In the middle of the sofa was another copy of Whitman’s poems that I knew I hadn’t left there, and no one else would have been in my apartment since the Red Inkers had left for the night. I picked it up and found that it was open to the same poem the shop’s essence had revealed to me when the Red Inkers had been here. My eyes fell on the lines in the middle of the poem.

Have you guess’d you yourself would not continue?

Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?

Have you fear’d the future would be nothing to you?

Is to-day nothing? is the beginningless past nothing?

Was this what the murder was about? Death? Fear of it? I frowned and took the book into the bedroom with me.

I went to bed with Emerson the cat and Whitman the poet. I read Leaves of Grass late into the night, hoping I would hear from the police chief before too long. Much to my disappointment, I didn’t hear from Rainwater at all.