in the study.
I called the sheriff’s office from the phone in the kitchen. Then I called Rudolph. I told him as gently as I could but some news is not gentle, can not be gentled.
The afternoon seemed to stretch on forever; yet I could never later remember it clearly. The rise and fall of sirens. Cars, an ambulance. Men gathering at the pier, moving restlessly as flashbulbs exploded in the wet grey afternoon. Voices. Rudolph’s face.
The sheriff turned to me at one point. “You found her, Miss Carlisle?”
“Yes.”
“What made you think she might be here?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said dully. “I just came.”
“She didn’t say anything to you, the last time you saw her, that would help explain this?”
I remembered Amanda lying on her high bed, her face greyish with pain and fatigue, and her voice telling me sharply, “Now you go on downstairs, Miss K.C., they need you.”
I had gone because she expected it of me. She took her responsibilities very seriously. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint her.
Amanda’s life had never been easy. She was widowed when just past thirty. Rudolph’s sister, Essie, died of sickle cell anemia at fifteen. Amanda had no skills, no education, no opportunities, just determination and courage. She had made a good life for herself and her son.
What could have driven her to end that life?
Not ill health. Not Amanda. She knew illness. She would accept it as a burden but she would never give in.
What else was there in her life? She had devoted her life to her son and to the Carlisles.
“Miss Carlisle?”
The sheriffs voice brought me back.
“I’m sorry. Sheriff, I just don’t know. She was sick but I can’t believe . . .”
It did no good to say I did not believe. It had happened. Amanda had driven to a deserted lakeshore on a misty October morning and reached uncomfortably far to squeeze the trigger of a shotgun.
Time passed as it always does, no matter how joyful or dreadful the hours. It was all done, finally, and I was in my car driving back through the rain to La Luz.
It was dusk by the time I reached my apartment. When I unlocked the door, my shoe kicked an envelope that had been tucked under the door. When I picked it up and turned on the light, my hands began to tremble.
I recognized the handwriting. I had seen so many grocery lists in that firm looping script. Amanda wrote a fine hand for a girl who had had to quit school in the eighth grade and go to work to help her family.
I shut the door behind me and ripped open the envelope.
“Dear Miss K.C., I couldn’t face the trouble I’ve made, but I want you to know I didn’t mean to do it. That Miss Boutelle lied to me. She tricked me.”
“Oh, Amanda,” I said softly.
“I didn’t know she was a bad woman,” the letter continued. “She acted so nice and she told me your momma said I could talk to her. She said she was going to write a book about the Carlisle family and she was gathering material. I should have known it was funny she always came on Tuesdays when your momma was gone to bridge but I never thought. I talked to her five or six times and I told her everything but I didn’t know she was going to turn and twist things to hurt you. She seemed to know a lot and I didn’t pretend things were different than they were though I should have known your momma would never have told anybody about how Mr. Stephenson acted . . .”
Stephenson. I stared down at the letter. Stephenson? The name meant nothing to me. I didn’t . . . Oh, Stephenson. Wasn’t that the name of the interior decorator Mother had hired to re-do the city house five or six years ago? Larry Stephenson. It was while I was away at school. Amanda had mentioned him in a letter or two.
“. . . but Miss Boutelle seemed to know all about him. Oh, Miss K.C., I told her so many things I shouldn’t have, but the worst of all was about you and Sheila. I wasn’t going to have it in a book that your momma thought it was
I called the sheriff’s office from the phone in the kitchen. Then I called Rudolph. I told him as gently as I could but some news is not gentle, can not be gentled.
The afternoon seemed to stretch on forever; yet I could never later remember it clearly. The rise and fall of sirens. Cars, an ambulance. Men gathering at the pier, moving restlessly as flashbulbs exploded in the wet grey afternoon. Voices. Rudolph’s face.
The sheriff turned to me at one point. “You found her, Miss Carlisle?”
“Yes.”
“What made you think she might be here?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I said dully. “I just came.”
“She didn’t say anything to you, the last time you saw her, that would help explain this?”
I remembered Amanda lying on her high bed, her face greyish with pain and fatigue, and her voice telling me sharply, “Now you go on downstairs, Miss K.C., they need you.”
I had gone because she expected it of me. She took her responsibilities very seriously. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint her.
Amanda’s life had never been easy. She was widowed when just past thirty. Rudolph’s sister, Essie, died of sickle cell anemia at fifteen. Amanda had no skills, no education, no opportunities, just determination and courage. She had made a good life for herself and her son.
What could have driven her to end that life?
Not ill health. Not Amanda. She knew illness. She would accept it as a burden but she would never give in.
What else was there in her life? She had devoted her life to her son and to the Carlisles.
“Miss Carlisle?”
The sheriffs voice brought me back.
“I’m sorry. Sheriff, I just don’t know. She was sick but I can’t believe . . .”
It did no good to say I did not believe. It had happened. Amanda had driven to a deserted lakeshore on a misty October morning and reached uncomfortably far to squeeze the trigger of a shotgun.
Time passed as it always does, no matter how joyful or dreadful the hours. It was all done, finally, and I was in my car driving back through the rain to La Luz.
It was dusk by the time I reached my apartment. When I unlocked the door, my shoe kicked an envelope that had been tucked under the door. When I picked it up and turned on the light, my hands began to tremble.
I recognized the handwriting. I had seen so many grocery lists in that firm looping script. Amanda wrote a fine hand for a girl who had had to quit school in the eighth grade and go to work to help her family.
I shut the door behind me and ripped open the envelope.
“Dear Miss K.C., I couldn’t face the trouble I’ve made, but I want you to know I didn’t mean to do it. That Miss Boutelle lied to me. She tricked me.”
“Oh, Amanda,” I said softly.
“I didn’t know she was a bad woman,” the letter continued. “She acted so nice and she told me your momma said I could talk to her. She said she was going to write a book about the Carlisle family and she was gathering material. I should have known it was funny she always came on Tuesdays when your momma was gone to bridge but I never thought. I talked to her five or six times and I told her everything but I didn’t know she was going to turn and twist things to hurt you. She seemed to know a lot and I didn’t pretend things were different than they were though I should have known your momma would never have told anybody about how Mr. Stephenson acted . . .”
Stephenson. I stared down at the letter. Stephenson? The name meant nothing to me. I didn’t . . . Oh, Stephenson. Wasn’t that the name of the interior decorator Mother had hired to re-do the city house five or six years ago? Larry Stephenson. It was while I was away at school. Amanda had mentioned him in a letter or two.
“. . . but Miss Boutelle seemed to know all about him. Oh, Miss K.C., I told her so many things I shouldn’t have, but the worst of all was about you and Sheila. I wasn’t going to have it in a book that your momma thought it was
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