“It isn’t almost heaven, Rupert, it is heaven.” And then to myself I added, “I hope.”
Rupert poked his nose through the cedar rails of our cabin balcony. I’d already taken my Irish setter for a chilly predawn romp, and he was going to have to put off any further mountain exploration until I’d finished my coffee. A mid-October Virginia sunrise over the Shenandoah River was not to be missed. Red and gold trees were on fire with the morning light, and a pine-scented, westerly breeze mingled with the pleasure of sipping my favorite dark roasted brew.
I smiled affectionately at my cup and at Rupert. The coffee mug had a Hogwarts crest on it, and my daughter had named her puppy after Rupert Grint, the English actor who played Ron Weasley in the Harry Potter movies. In the early morning light, Rupert’s coat did look like Ron Weasley’s tousled red hair. But the dog was ten now, Lindsey was a sophomore in college, and I was trying to begin a new life without Lindsey and without her dad.
“It’s just you and me, Rupert.” He wagged his tail, and pushed his head under my hand so I could scratch behind his ears. I put my coffee on a wicker end table, kneeled down, and buried my face in his fur. More tears? Damn. Hadn’t I cried enough? When Lindsey left for college, and then, the very next week, when Mark left to live with his executive assistant?
Clearing out our Arlington home had been the worst. Alimony and my part-time job as a librarian didn’t provide enough money to hang onto the house. It took me over a year to sort through the belongings and the memories of a twenty-year marriage. Neither Mark nor Lindsey seemed to care about any of it. They had already moved on. Only Rupert was there to witness my constant anguish: what to keep, what to give away, what to sell—and what to burn.
I gave Rupert one last pat and picked up the coffee mug again. Lindsey had kept her drawing pens in it when she was a little girl. She no longer wanted the mug, but I did. I wanted the memory of my daughter transported by the magic of the J.K. Rowling books. And I desperately needed a little magic of my own.
“Come on, Rupert. The sun is up. I’m ready to explore.”
* * * *
Raven Valley in the Blue Ridge Mountains was a far cry from Washington, DC, and its suburbs. But the very good news was that even after the 2008 housing crash, selling our home in Arlington gave me the means to take a year’s lease on a beautiful little cabin, and still have plenty of money to live on until I decided what I wanted to do after my midlife crisis. Many people considered me a fairly youthful and even attractive forty-two-year-old—I could tell that by how Keith Renwick lit up whenever I walked into his general store.
“Hello, Carolyn! It’s a fine day, isn’t it? Did you see the sunrise this morning? You’ve got the best view on the mountain.”
Keith was not only the owner of the general store, he was also my landlord. And my insurance agent. In a pinch he could probably set a broken leg, birth a calf, and pull a rabbit or two out of his ever-present porkpie hat. But Keith wasn’t the kind of magic I was looking for.
The store owner extracted a dog biscuit from a large glass jar. Rupert dutifully sat and put one paw out. Keith laughed appreciatively and gave him the biscuit. “Good dog! He sure is one smart pup.”
I let Keith and Rupert bond over tricks and biscuits while I put groceries into my basket. Shopping was easy when I only had to feed myself and a dog. I selected a dusty bottle of overpriced shampoo, and paused before adding a medium-brown hair dye to my purchases. I kept thinking I’d let my natural hair grow out, but every time I saw a widening band of gray at my scalp, I chickened out. Mark’s thirty-year-old trophy babe was already making me feel old before my time. I didn’t need to see my mother in the mirror.
Next to the hair dye was a display of earrings unlike any I’d ever seen. They were made of copper and feathers and beads, but the designs were—I don’t know—almost otherworldly. As I rotated the display, each pair seemed more fascinating than the next. But one pair held my eyes.
The artist had created a copper heart, then cut the center out so that one earring was the outline of the heart while the other was the cutout center. A piece of turquoise hung from the tip of the smaller heart, almost like a dewdrop or a tear. The larger heart had turquoise and a tiny black feather hanging through the cutout portion. Onyx and turquoise beads decorated the wire that fit into the ear.
As I looked in the nearby mirror and held the earrings up to my face, I liked how the turquoise made my eyes look blue instead of gray, and the copper brought out the red in my hair. After putting the earrings in my basket, I even exchanged my usual mousy-brown hair color for one with auburn highlights.
After tallying my selections, Keith pointed to my jewelry purchase. “I’m glad somebody likes these. I thought they were fishing lures when she first brought them in.”
I pulled my wallet from my purse. “She?”
“Haven’t you met Crazy Marla yet? Hell, she lives just down the road from you.”
“What makes her crazy?”
“She likes animals better than people. Talks to them more, too.”
I patted Rupert’s head. That didn’t seem crazy to me.
“Well, I like the earrings. Maybe I’ll pay her a visit. I’ll let Rupert introduce us.”
Keith laughed. “Well, you know mountain folk.” He tapped his hat to communicate that “mountain folk” were all a little crazy. “I’ve only lived here eight years, but old Sam who delivers our firewood swears Marla’s grandma was a witch and a shapeshifter.”
I’d read Native American folklore about shapeshifters—Navajo skinwalkers or the Ojibwe Deer Woman. “Does Marla seem friendly?”
Keith’s brow furrowed. “I can’t say I really know her. But, yeah, she’s sometimes friendly. I even asked her out to dinner one time. She didn’t talk much, didn’t ask questions. But it was like after a half hour she knew me better than I knew me. Spooky. Now I just see her when she drops off things to sell or picks up supplies. Sometimes she makes extra money by leading groups of hikers, or hiring herself out as a fishing guide. Nobody knows these mountains like Marla.”
A denim-clad man carrying an open beer can pushed through the door. He didn’t seem drunk, but he didn’t seem quite right either. I noticed a leather-sheathed hunting knife on his right hip. His dirty-blond hair was cut close to his head with the exception of one thin, long braid, decorated with what looked like an eagle feather. A small black swastika was tattooed on the side of his neck. Lovely.
“Hey, Pops! How much for a six-pack of Bud?”
Keith gestured toward the beverage section. “We have different types and different sizes. The prices are on the case.”
Feather Braid sauntered forward. I pulled back and Rupert barked a warning. The man grinned and made his way around me to the refrigerator.
I wanted to leave, but something told me there was safety in numbers—for me, for Keith, and even for Rupert. An Irish setter was known for being friendly, but Rupert’s tail wasn’t wagging. I set my groceries down and held Rupert’s collar with my right hand.
Still grinning, the man slid an eighteen-pack of Budweiser Select on the counter. Winking at me, he said, “I could use a little company. Get rid of that mutt of yours, and we can have a party.”
Rupert let out a low growl. Feather Braid laughed, pointed at a pack of Marlboros, and pushed two twenties across the counter. Keith’s hands shook as he handed the customer his cigarettes and counted out the change.
The man seemed to be enjoying the tension. Instead of leaving, he ripped the cigarette pack open with his teeth, pulled a book of matches from his breast pocket, tapped out a single cigarette, lit it, and inhaled deeply. On the exhale, he threw the matches into my grocery bag and leered at me. “Suit yourself, sugar, but if you change your mind, the address of my motel is on the matches—room fourteen.”
Rupert growled again. As the man picked up his beer, he added, “I’d keep that mongrel at home, lady. Hunting season is already open in these parts—somebody might just mistake him for a deer or a coyote.”
His laugh went through me like an icicle. I kneeled next to Rupert and held him close while I watched the odious jackal set off on foot toward Route 32.
Keith helped me to my feet with still-shaking hands. “Carolyn, are you okay? I’m sure sorry about that. I was afraid if I said something, he might pull that gutting knife on one of us. But I think he was all talk.”
I didn’t know what I thought. For the first time since I’d arrived in Raven Valley, I was missing my pretty little Arlington house, where I’d known and trusted everyone in my neighborhood. And where there were regular police patrols. I didn’t even know how far away the sheriff’s office was from my cabin. Crazy Marla was probably my closest neighbor.
“Well, Rupert and I are going to lock our doors. That’s for damned sure. I thought hunting season didn’t open until November.”
Keith shook his head. “Guns are in November. Archery season opened yesterday.”
* * * *
I was grateful when it rained later that afternoon. With a log burning brightly in my fireplace, a pot of tea on the stove, and Rupert at my feet, it seemed cozy and safe inside. I’d used the stranger’s matches to light my fire, and then Googled the location of “Hunter’s Haven Lodge and Tavern.” It was over three miles from my cabin—I would have preferred fifty miles, but at least it wasn’t next door.
While still at my computer, I realized I was curious about “Crazy Marla,” who really was my neighbor. I had put on my new earrings as soon as I got home and loved them. They reminded me of my teenage years—before I’d married Mark, and long before I’d become president of the local PTA and an expert at coordinating bake sales for any occasion. Marla’s website address was on the back of my earring packaging, and when I pulled it up, I laughed out loud.
Marla’s site was as delightful as her earrings. She clearly liked to feed the impression that she came from a magical and mysterious lineage. At the top was a holographic impression of the moon, with the image constantly changing phases and giving a corresponding calendar. The hunter’s moon was due tomorrow night. I never paid much attention to such things in Arlington, but here in the mountains, a full moon drew you outdoors to watch the show—orange to yellow, yellow to white. It was magical.
In addition to jewelry, Marla McKenna created beeswax candles, tapestry purses, potions, natural honey, and venison sausage. She was also available, by appointment only, as a fishing guide, a massage therapist, and a tarot card reader. My neighbor’s talents were so eclectic, and the illustrations on her website so whimsical, that I decided to call her right away. Except there was no phone number and no address.
I searched every page of her website, and the only way to contact her was through email. I briefly wrote that I’d purchased a pair of her earrings at the general store, and wondered if I could make an appointment for a tarot card reading. I hesitated for a moment. A tarot card reading? Really? But just as I’d felt attracted to the earrings, I felt drawn to this woman. The mountains were changing me. It didn’t feel silly; it felt right. I hit the send button.
Rupert and I went out on the deck to get a few more logs for the fire. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still overcast. No moon tonight.
Over the ridge I heard a “yip, yip, yip” and a long, lonely howl. Rupert barked back, and I put my hand on his head to quiet him. It didn’t sound like a coyote pack—just a lone hunter. The Shenandoah hills were home to a hybrid mix of coyote and gray wolf. The animals were much larger than western coyotes and more likely to hunt alone. A shrill, hollow scream sounding like a death cry pierced the night. It was better to be hunter than hunted. I grabbed the firewood and quickly herded Rupert into the safety of our cabin.
After getting a good blaze going on the hearth, I opened a can of Rupert’s favorite certified organic beef dog food. He became glued to my leg while I scooped out fresh food and poured water in his bowl.
I made myself a salad, adding shrimp and avocado to the basic greens. I wanted something hot to eat, too. My kitchen cupboard was depressingly bare, so I ventured downstairs to see if there might be a stray can of chicken or vegetable soup in the pantry.
I wished I’d come downstairs earlier, while there was still daylight. My pantry adjoined the sunporch, and at night it felt like being in a goldfish bowl. Involuntarily, I thought of Feather Braid from the general store. As quickly as I could, I switched on the light, found a couple of cans of Progresso soup, turned the light back off, and raced back to Rupert and the comforting fire.
* * * *
I was surprised to wake up fully dressed and in my living room. I hadn’t done that since my first week here. The fire had long gone out. After turning off the television, I squinted at the clock: 4:23 a.m. Too early—the sun wouldn’t be up for hours. But my being awake was enough of an alarm clock for Rupert. I heard him scratching at the front door. I couldn’t be angry at him. The poor dog was probably desperate.
“Coming, boy!” I flipped on the porch light and opened the door. He rushed by me, but stopped to examine a brown woven basket sitting on the stoop. After a few sniffs, he trotted to a nearby bush, did his business, then circled back to the basket to sniff some more.
First pulling on a coat, I kneeled down and opened the lid. Inside was a jar of honey, a black velvet pouch, and a note written with blue ink on pale blue, lavender-scented stationery.
“Welcome, neighbor. Many thanks for buying the healing heart earrings. I’m glad you found them. Consider this jar of honey and your first card reading a welcome present from me to you. I’ll be back at ten with hot biscuits to go with the honey. We’ll do your reading then. Marla.”
I brought the basket upstairs to the kitchen and tossed a dog cookie to Rupert. When had Marla delivered this? Was it okay to open the pouch? As gently as I could, I untied the drawstrings and peeked inside.
It was a pack of cards, and they were beautiful. The backs were a shimmering midnight blue with the imprint of a silver wolf in front of a full moon. And on the front of each card was a painting of an animal, or a bird, sea creature, or reptile. There was even a painting of a turtle with the words “mother earth” written underneath. I’d read that American Indians called earth Turtle Island. Along with the cards was a book of interpretation. According to the book, turtle was about deep creativity and protection—but I still had no idea what that had to do with me. “Rupert, it says here that dog medicine is all about loyalty. I can vouch for that.”
At precisely ten o’clock, there was a light tap on my front door. I’d already made a fresh pot of coffee and heated water for tea. But even with the forewarning of the earrings, the website, and the basket, Marla McKenna was astonishing.
The woman didn’t seem to walk so much as glide. Although she was slender, her swaying hips and full breasts exuded sensuality. I estimated that she was at least four inches taller than my five foot five, and in contrast to my medium-length, medium-brown hair, her hair was raven black and hung straight down her back, past her waist.
Despite the cool weather, Marla wore sandals, a turquoise cotton skirt, and a coral scoop-neck blouse. She was tanned—you could see the white of her skin when her blouse slid slightly off her shoulder. And her eyes were mesmerizing. Rimmed with long black lashes and framed by perfectly arched brows, the irises of her eyes were the same brilliant turquoise as her skirt. When she reached to shake my hand, I inhaled vanilla, coconut oil, and something else—something earthy and musky. It wasn’t unpleasant, just very different from the Chanel and Calvin Klein scents that wafted off city women.
Even after we settled at the kitchen table, I truly couldn’t tell how old she was. In some lighting, she looked like a child with an infectious smile around brilliantly white teeth. But when she stood after petting Rupert, she looked ancient—I had to blink twice to restore the image of the beautiful young woman.
Marla tapped my earring with her long right forefinger. “So you’re the one in need of a healed heart. After we pour our tea and spread honey on a few biscuits, let’s see what we can do about that.”
Somehow she knew her way around my kitchen better than me: going straight to the cupboard housing the teacups, finding the silverware drawer at first try, and pouring just the right amount of cream in my tea. Maybe I should have been frightened by her clairvoyance, but I was having the opposite reaction. I hadn’t realized how hungry for a friend I’d become. And Rupert never left her side during the entire visit.
After four hours, she knew just about everything there was to know about me, including my middle name, that I hated soggy brussels sprouts, every detail of my marriage and divorce from Mark, and my sadness over how distant I felt from my daughter. All I knew about her was that she was half Cherokee and half Scottish and that her family had lived in Raven Valley for a very long time. It wasn’t like me to talk so much, but as my words spilled out, particularly the angry and bitter ones, I felt lighter—like my heart was being cleansed in those deep turquoise eyes. She held my hand while I sobbed over my wayward husband, simply nodding and saying, “Yep, menfolk keep having to spread their seed. It’s just the way of it.”
Reaching for my fourth honey-coated biscuit, I asked, “Do you have any children?” Her eyes darkened, and she shook her head. Scratching Rupert’s ear, she said, “The critters are my children. And my art. I’ll invite you over in a few days to see if I can tempt you with anything else.”
I touched my ear. “You called these healing heart earrings. I already feel better.”
Marla smiled. “Folks pick out what they need. When I made those, I used deer medicine—there’s nothing gentler. And the feather is from a chickadee.”
I thought of the man with the braid and the eagle feather and described him to Marla. She frowned. “Did he look like a Native American?” When I said no, she replied, “Eagle feathers are sacred. It’s illegal for anyone to have them except indigenous people. I don’t remember seeing anyone like him around Raven Valley.”
As she gathered together her animal cards, I asked her if she’d like to go somewhere for dinner. “Maybe we could find a place with a band,” I added hopefully.
She shook her head. “Not tonight. You need to stay close to home tonight.”
“Me? Why?”
Marla studied me before answering. “I don’t know why, but I know I’m telling you the truth. Call if you need me. My number is on the honey jar label.”
And before I could ask any other questions, she was gone.
The rest of the day was routine. The sky had cleared, so I took Rupert for a long walk. I kept thinking about Marla and her card reading. She said that I was living too much in my fear—rabbit medicine—and I needed to develop my strengths using bear and hawk medicine. Her turquoise eyes looked through to my soul when she said, “A healing message is coming your way. Act without fear.”
I didn’t know why, but I believed her. She didn’t seem at all crazy to me.
* * * *
Rupert and I sat on the river bank watching the late afternoon sun sparkle on the water. Two kayakers paddled by and waved. It made me feel the pangs of my loneliness again. I attached Rupert’s leash and said, “Come on, Mr. Loyalty. It’s time to head home. We don’t want to get caught down here after dark.”
By the time we got back, the sun was setting. I poured a glass of iced tea and grabbed my cell phone from the kitchen. What? There were twelve texts from my daughter asking me to call her as soon as possible. My hand shook a little as I pressed the call back button.
“Mom?”
“Lindsey. Thank God! Are you all right? What’s going on?”
She started crying. Between sobs and hiccups I finally made out, “Jeff dumped me.”
I bit my tongue to keep from saying, “Is that all?” I knew it was a very big deal. Lindsey and Jeff had been dating since high school. As much as she’d denied it at the time, I knew that Jeff was the reason Lindsey had chosen Cornell over Yale. He had been her first love and her heart was broken. I knew only too well how that felt.
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”
After another round of sobs she choked out, “Yes, I’m on my way down to you. My GPS says I should be there in an hour. But I don’t know how to get to the cabin. I’ll call you from the general store.”
Ithaca, New York, was well over three hundred miles away. “How long have you been driving, Lindsey?”
“I don’t know. Around five hours. I’m-I’m-fine.” And the sobbing started again.
“Lindsey, listen to me. If you get tired, pull over at a rest stop or check into a motel. You don’t sound fine.” I envisioned her driving through the pitch black mountains while she was having an emotional breakdown. Dear God, please protect my baby.
“I-I will, Mom. I’ll call you.”
I kept myself busy for the next hour, but after that Rupert and I moved out to the deck, where the cell phone reception was better. I tried to quell all of my mom fears, but my only real comfort was in watching the gigantic hunter’s moon rising over the trees. At least the narrow switchback roads wouldn’t be completely dark. Finally after another hour, I broke down and called my daughter. Her voice mail picked up instantly. “Hi, Lindsey here. You know what to do.”
“Lindsey, please call me as soon as you get this. You’re over an hour late, and I’m beginning to think you’ve gotten lost.”
I followed the call with a text message. Then I called Keith’s store. Closed. Oh, hell! On Sunday, Keith always closed early. He and his son Tommy ate dinner at a cousin’s house.
I started pacing. I didn’t want to leave. If Lindsey made it here, she didn’t have a key. Then I saw Marla’s jar of honey sitting on the table. Tapping the number from the label into my cell phone, I prayed that Marla would be home. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hey, Carolyn. What’s up?”
Now it was my turn to sob.
“Sshh, sshh. Hush now, Carolyn. We’ll find her. Remember me? I’m the best guide in these woods. I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
Hearing her voice helped to calm me down. I washed my face, threw on a clean sweater, and fed Rupert. But when I opened the door for Marla, I started crying all over again.
“It’s okay. I’m going to drive, and you’re going to keep calling. We’ll leave the front door unlocked. Rupert’s here to guard the place. Are you ready?”
Marla took the mountain road slowly, and I kept checking to make sure there were no signs of a car going off the edge. The hunter’s moon had climbed high in the night sky. Although the bright glow helped to light the road, it cast menacing shadows through the trees and the underbrush. My morbid imagination had vaulted into overdrive.
“Carolyn, think like your daughter. Why wouldn’t she call you?”
I tried to push the horrifying thoughts from my head. “Well, she could have lost her phone, or stopped at a motel or a rest stop and fallen dead asleep. Or the phone battery may have died. Or she’s in a dead zone.” I didn’t like all the times I’d mentioned death in those last few sentences.
Marla pulled her car in front of Keith’s general store and picked up her phone. “Keith? Carolyn Holloway and I have a little problem. Her daughter, Lindsey, was supposed to get into town almost two hours ago, and there’s no sign of her. Did you see her? No, I’ll put Carolyn on and she can describe her.”
Describing my beautiful blond daughter with hazel green eyes and her dad’s cleft in her chin brought back my tears. I almost missed Keith saying, “I saw her, Carolyn—over an hour ago. She was at the Hunter’s Haven Tavern. But…”
“But what?”
“She looked pretty drunk. And there are a lot of men in town. I wouldn’t waste any time getting over there.”
I didn’t have to repeat Keith’s message. Marla had already thrown her Jeep in gear and was heading toward the motel and restaurant.
“Marla, that’s Lindsey’s car!” I pointed to a little white Audi convertible at the edge of the parking lot. “Do you see the Cornell sticker?”
We jumped from the car and headed into the tavern. Keith hadn’t been joking. The place was wall-to-wall men. Where was my daughter?
I ignored the catcalls and whistles while I fought through the bar to get to the poolroom in the back. There she was, sprawled facedown on the pool table, cue stick in hand, with Feather Braid on top of her helping her with her “game.” I screamed as loudly as I could, “Lindsey!”
Her head bobbed up, but her eyes didn’t seem to focus. What was going on?
Marla stayed right by my side. I pushed the man off Lindsey, and he pushed me back. “Well, if it isn’t mama bear coming for her cub. How about a threesome?” Then he looked at Marla. “Or a foursome. C’mon, boys, there’s enough to go around.”
Men began to circle us. I pulled my cell phone out to call 9-1-1 when I realized that a uniformed deputy was one of the men egging Feather Braid on. “Come on, Lindsey. We have to get out of here, now.”
My daughter was as limp as a rag doll. She’d never been much of a drinker, but it couldn’t just be alcohol. Had somebody drugged one of her drinks? I pulled her toward me one more time and Feather Braid gave me a hard shove into a pair of hairy arms. The strange man put his hands over my breasts, and I screamed.
That’s when Marla stepped in. “Ah, Hank, what are you doing? Leave Mrs. Holloway alone. She wants to get her baby girl.” Hank immediately dropped his hands. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re just having a little fun.”
Then Marla set her sights on Feather Braid. “And you, big boy, why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” She slid between the man and my daughter, and put her arms around his neck, tugging his braid playfully. She motioned for me to get Lindsey.
Marla was plenty distracting for Feather Braid. Lindsey slumped against the table when he dropped her. I managed to half drag and half carry her to a safe corner near the bar. “Lindsey, where are your car keys?” She still couldn’t focus on me, but she pointed to her backpack underneath a barstool. When I pulled the backpack out, I called the bartender over. “There’s a woman alone with a bunch of men in the poolroom. Please go back and help her.”
The bartender pushed into the crowded back room while I tried to get Lindsey to drink some bottled water I found in her backpack. She kept passing out. “How many drinks did you have? Do we need to pump your stomach?”
She shook her head and held up two fingers as if to say she’d only had two drinks. Nobody gets that drunk on two drinks. What had that monster given her?
After about five minutes, the bartender returned. “There’s no woman back there, lady. Somebody said she left with one of the hunters.”
“But…could you stay with my daughter for a minute?”
I went to look for Marla. This time the men drew away and made a path for me. The menacing alcohol- and testosterone-fueled atmosphere had abated. “Where’s my friend? Did anyone see her leave?”
The men looked at the floor or shook their heads.
I fished my phone out and texted Marla. “r u ok?”
The answer came instantly. “Yes. Drive Lindsey home in her car. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * * *
Lindsey was still asleep at eleven the next morning. I didn’t sleep at all. Between checking in on her every fifteen minutes and hoping for a text from Marla, I was a wreck. When Lindsey finally did wake up, she had no idea where she was.
I got her a glass of orange juice and described the previous night’s events. Her eyes grew wider and wider. “Wow, Mom. I remember going to the bar, but that’s about it. I did stop at the store, but it was closed. My phone was dead, and there was no public phone. I flagged down a car—this guy with a braid and a feather was driving. He told me there was a place where I could call right down the road. All I had to do was follow him. There was somebody using the bar phone, and Larry—I think that was his name—said he’d ordered me a beer. That’s the last thing I remember, Mom. I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”
I did. It had happened to me once in college. I didn’t know what the drug was then or now, but I recognized the symptoms. But how do you report something like that when the damned deputy was in on the fun? Some “almost heaven” this was!
After bringing Lindsey coffee and toast, I tried calling Marla. No answer. When I left a text, she responded immediately. “Glad your girl made it through. I’ll be over at noon.”
I needed milk and eggs, but I didn’t want to leave Lindsey. The general store was number four on my speed dial. “Keith, Carolyn here. Could you send Tommy over with milk and eggs when he has a chance? Two percent—and if you have the large brown organic eggs, that’s my preference. Yes, we found Lindsey. Thanks for your help. I’ll tell you about it later.”
Marla arrived exactly at twelve. When she handed me a bouquet of late-blooming roses, I noticed a bandage on her right arm. “Are you okay? Did that Larry jerk get rough? I went back to look for you, but you were both gone.”
She didn’t answer. “May I see your daughter?”
I led her to the spare room. Lindsey had fallen asleep again. Marla walked over to her, pulled the covers around her, and briefly touched Lindsey’s gold hair fanned out on the pillow. Rupert was sleeping on the rug next to the bed, and Marla leaned down to pat his head. “Good boy. Keep her safe.”
Marla tiptoed out of the bedroom and sank into a kitchen chair. “You asked me if I had children. I had one daughter. Somebody just like Larry raped her and left her to die by the side of the road. She was twelve, Carolyn. Just twelve years old. I couldn’t let that happen to your daughter, too. Let Lindsey sleep. She’ll be fine.”
The story about her daughter was horrifying. I tried to say how sorry I was, but she shook her head and raised her hand to stop me. Then Marla rose to leave.
“But what happened last night? Are you okay? What happened to Larry?”
Marla lowered her eyes and smiled sadly. When she looked up, I could have sworn her eyes glowed amber. I looked again and they were back to turquoise. She turned abruptly, waved as she glided toward the door, and said, “I’m fine. We’re all fine. It’s just the way of it.”
A half hour later, Tommy banged on my front door, and I ran to stop him. “Shhh, Tommy. My daughter’s trying to sleep.”
He handed me my grocery bag and took off his cap. “Sorry, Ms. Holloway. Did you hear the news? A coyote got one of them drunken hunters last night—ripped his throat right out. The doc says he’s never seen nothin’ like it. Looks like the man tried to fight back—his knife was right next to him, and it had blood all over it. But it didn’t do him no good.”
My heart began banging against my rib cage when I thought of the bandage on Marla’s arm. Trying to keep my voice calm, I said, “Tommy, did the man have identification on him?”
“Oh, it was nobody you’d know, Ms. Holloway. He wasn’t from around here. Larry something, Larry Naston or Napier. I dunno, Larry something.”
“Did he have a braid?”
Tommy gave me a long look. “Now that’s weird. Dad said a man with a braid had come in the store. With an eagle feather. I know from Boy Scouts you’re not supposed to have an eagle feather. Not unless you’re an Indian.”
My hands trembled as I pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of my purse and handed it to the boy. “So did the man have a braid and an eagle feather?”
Tommy shook his head. “Not exactly. Doc said there was a blond braid next to him. He thought maybe the man cut it off himself when he was trying to fight off the coyote. But there wasn’t an eagle feather around.” The boy held up the twenty. “I don’t have change, ma’am. Dad said you can put it on your account.”
I closed my purse and took a deep breath. Exhaling slowly, I said, “That’s okay, Tommy. Keep the change. And Tommy?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“When you grow up—when you become a man—please promise me you’ll never forget how to be a good Boy Scout.”
Robin Templeton is a Virginia-based writer. Her long-time career as a professional photographer and experience as a private investigator formed the basis of her work-in-progress, Double Exposure. She was awarded the William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Grant for Unpublished Writers, and an early version of Double Exposure was a finalist in the Minotaur Books/Malice Domestic Best First Traditional Mystery Novel Competition. Her story “The Knitter” appeared in Chesapeake Crimes: Storm Warning, and she was thrilled when “Hunter’s Moon” was selected for Furs, Feathers, and Felonies. You can find out more about Robin’s writing and photography adventures at www.robintempleton.com.