Page 10 of The Bane Witch
10
Sheriff
I didn’t create the monster, I just married him. But I met the woman who did.
After he proposed and I accepted, Henry explained that he came from an old English family, a relic of the British nobility on his mother’s side—Eleanor. She’d technically been born and raised in the United States but clung to the social etiquette of her ancestors. It had made his childhood especially challenging. He adored his mother, but she was cold, and she didn’t mingle with people outside her own family. He wanted to invite her to the wedding, but he had to be sure she wouldn’t encounter any guests “beneath her station.” As it turned out, all Charleston was beneath Eleanor’s station. So, we married alone, with only her arctic blue eyes and disdainful pout to witness it.
The ceremony was minuscule, under the wide branches of oak trees at a historic site with just the three of us in attendance.
She walked up to introduce herself after the nuptials in a black lace skirt and jacket set, dark crimson lipstick rimming her smile. She had Henry’s lean build and thin hair, but her eyes were lighter, like those of a corpse. “You must be the bride,” she said as she looked me over.
I smiled nervously. I wanted so much to make a good impression, to please Henry in this way. I knew what his mother meant to him, despite their troubled relationship.
She turned to her son. “Her hips are too narrow. Has she any people? Any heritage? Can she even give you children?”
He dropped my hand. “Mum, please don’t be rude. Piers has been very successful here in Charleston.”
She glared at him, opened her handbag, and pulled out a pair of white gloves. “You know I hate when you call me that, Henry.”
His face reddened. “Sorry, Lady Mother.”
My mouth dropped open.
With her gloves finally on, she held a hand out for me to take. I grasped her fingers and gently shook them once before letting go. She peered at me. “Eleanor Frances Astley Davenport. You may call me Eleanor. Not Ellie or Nell or Fran or Mrs. Davenport. Certainly not mother-in-law or anything of the kind. To Henry, I am Lady Mother, never Mum. Though he persists in his childish infatuation. To you, only Eleanor. Do you understand?”
I nodded, speechless.
“Close your mouth,” she told me. “You look like a codfish.” She cast her frigid gaze on Henry. “I had such high hopes when you were born,” she said with a touch of wistfulness. She turned to me again. “You will be welcome at Excelsior Hall on holidays and when expressly invited. Never in between. You are to mind my son in all manner of things, is that clear?”
I looked to Henry, aghast. But he stared at me as if this were all perfectly normal.
“You haven’t any reason to trust your own judgment, being of low birth with no real position in society, so it should prove easy for you. Be an obedient, dutiful wife and I’m sure this union will succeed. But if you are willful,” she continued, “if you are negligent of my son or indecorous in your behavior, if you disappoint him…” Her eyes flashed. “Well, you will find him to be well-trained in the art of discipline. I saw to that myself.”
I stood there, horrified, unsure how to respond when Henry finally spoke up. “Piers, show some dignity. Find your tongue.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I finally uttered, too shocked to say anything else.
“Shall we luncheon then?” she asked. “Is she respectable in public?”
Henry slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “She will be agreeable. I assure you, Lady Mother.”
Eleanor sniffed. “Very well then. Proceed.”
I spent the next hour and a half feeling like I was in another time, maybe on another planet. Henry and his mother discussed the stock market, the state of the British royal family, the upkeep needed at Excelsior Hall—which I had gathered was their crumbling family home in Virginia, one she hung on to with great effort after his father disgraced them with several bad investments—and the perils of steeplechasing, a horse racing event I’d never heard of. When I asked for a glass of champagne to celebrate, Henry took it away while it was still half full and gave it back to the waiter. He ordered me the roast chicken, taking pains to make sure they did not cook it in too much butter. Eleanor ate only a wedge salad.
When lunch was over, she kissed her son on the cheek. “Don’t waste time,” she told him. “You have a duty. Fertility is likely her only virtue, and it has a shelf life.” Her eyes cut to me and back again. “Grandchildren are all you can give me now.”
“Can we drive you to the airport, Lady Mother?” he asked her.
She waved a hand. “Don’t be absurd. I don’t need assistance. I remain perfectly capable of maintaining my own affairs. Let’s hope you do the same.” She leveled her gaze on him before turning to me. There were no cheek kisses, not even another handshake, just a cold, “Piers.”
We watched her get into a car and drive away.
“She won’t even stay the night?” I asked.
Henry rounded on me. “Could you say nothing? Seriously, Piers?”
I swallowed my words. “I—I’m sorry. I was nervous.”
He glared at me. “You know how important this was for me,” he said angrily.
I gaped. “Henry, she insulted me! At every turn! On my wedding day! And you stood by and said nothing. You let her speak to me like that.”
He grabbed me by the arm and tugged me to the car. “Get in,” he said, pushing me toward it.
Shakily, I climbed into the passenger seat. We didn’t speak the whole ride home. I cried silently, wondering how the happiest day of my life had gone so terribly wrong. I believed then that it was Eleanor’s fault, that she brought out the worst in him. Later in bed, when he began to undress me, to kiss my neck and breasts, I convinced myself it was over. She was gone, and things would return to normal. Henry would dote on me, cherish me, take care of me. He would forget her outlandish advice and accusations. He never apologized, but by the time he was inside me, I didn’t care. I mistook his sexual attention for affection, a gesture of reparation. He was hungry for me that night, so eager and insatiable, ferocious with his thrusts. “No one will ever love you like I do.”
I remember the way his hand wrapped around my neck as he came, almost tender, how it slipped over my own mouth as I moaned with pleasure. “Hush,” he told me, looking down. “Don’t spoil it.”
Eleanor died six weeks later. She suffered a fatal heart attack. Her maid found her sprawled across the wool rug the next day, but it was too late. The night Henry got the news was the first night he hit me. I remember him putting down the phone slowly and turning to look at me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, noting the strange fall of his face, his slack jaw. “Did something happen?”
He walked toward me, staring, eyes brighter than usual. “You did this,” he said quietly.
“Did what?” It was late and we’d just finished moving into our new house the day before, the one he bought by surprise and convinced me would make us happy. The one I never wanted. I was wearing a tank top and pajama shorts, a loose sweater thrown over.
“What did you do?” he asked.
I stared at him, baffled, my mother’s words only a beat behind his— What have you done? I was five years old again. Confused and culpable in ways I didn’t understand.
And then he screamed, “What did you do!”
He lunged at me, and I tried to run, but he caught me by the hem of that sweater and yanked me to him.
“Henry, please!” I cried. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you mean!”
But he was gone, something demonic filling the pale depths of his eyes. He grabbed my face, squeezing it in his hand, shaking me as he called me names. “This is your fault! You’re worthless. Barely good for a fuck, you know that? She’s dead because of you! Because you can’t give me a child. You can’t do anything right!” He punched me hard in the stomach and I doubled over, unable to draw a breath.
I hadn’t confided in Henry that I’d had an IUD inserted the year before. I didn’t realize when we married that he’d want children so soon, but I had no intention of getting pregnant yet.
“Please, Henry. I’m sorry. Please let me help you,” I wept.
“I don’t need your help,” he growled as he shoved me down, grinding the side of my face into the carpet. “You can’t even help yourself.”
I slept curled up beside the coffee table that night, where he’d left me. When I woke, he was gone, but there was a blanket over me and a note that read, Dinner at 7:00.
T HE CAF é ERUPTS in chaos. Myrtle shouts at Ed to call 911 before tearing across the room and getting one of the Drunken Moose regulars to help her roll the man over. “Start chest compressions!” she orders him. “It looks like an allergic reaction. I’m going up to the storeroom to see if I have an EpiPen.” Her eyes fall on the sobbing woman who came in with him. “Someone get this woman some ice for her face,” she barks and the other Drunken Moose guy heads for the freezer. “Anything to calm her down.” She looks down at the man doing chest compressions. “Don’t let him die,” she breathes.
He looks up. “But, Myrtle, it’s too late.”
“Then bring him back!” she shouts before spinning toward the back stairs.
By now, I’ve made my way inside, skirting the mess and the madness with wide eyes.
Myrtle grabs me by the hem of my shirt and I instinctively wince. She lets go but takes my hand. “You’re coming with me,” she says under her breath, herding me to the back and up the staircase in front of her.
Once in the storeroom, she slams the door behind us. “What did you do?” She shakes me by both arms, and I crumple, my face washing with tears as my heart races through my chest. I suddenly find it hard to breathe, and my inhales sound like I’m sucking them through a sieve. I’m hyperventilating.
Myrtle backs me toward the futon and sits me down. She kneels before me. “We only have a minute,” she whispers. “This is very important. Do you hear me, Piers?”
I nod my head.
“I have to go back down there soon. That poor bastard was dead the second you laid eyes on him; they won’t bring him back. But that’s neither here nor there. I need you to empty the cabinets of all the jars, do you understand?” She rises and swings open the far door, the very same one I was in last night. “Bury them in the salt,” she tells me, pointing to the large plastic bin I helped her fill. “Bury them deep. You hear me? No one knows about this. Dry your face, and when you come back down, stay calm.”
I feel like a small child being scolded. I cover my face with my hands. “I spit into his coffee,” I tearfully admit. “That’s all. I—I don’t know what happened. I don’t understand.”
Myrtle pulls my hands away. “Piers, look at me.”
My eyes meet hers and in them, past the fear and the panic, I see strength. She may be the first person in my entire life I can truly lean on. “This is not your fault.”
“Okay,” I whisper through rattled breaths.
She goes to the door. “Remember, bury them deep,” she says over a shoulder.
“Myrtle?” I ask, shaken. “How do you know? How do you know it wasn’t me?” If I’m not to blame this time, then maybe I’m not to blame for Don or the man when I was five.
She turns to me before she leaves. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she looks proud. “Oh, honey, this may not be your fault, but you killed him sure as I’m standing here.”
Her words wash over me in a tide of anguish. Don’s panic-stricken face flashes through my memory. The salt lick of flesh in my mouth at five. I keep seeing the man downstairs stumbling, his belly swelling impossibly large, the sickly golden change in his skin, the sudden drop. I force myself to breathe through the terror. I did this. I killed a man. A bad man, to be sure. But there is something called due process in this country, something called innocent until proven guilty, something called a jury of your peers. And if I am responsible for that dead man lying downstairs, then I am responsible for Don, too. For that man when I was just a child. I am a criminal, hapless but deadly. An accidental murderer.
One could argue that as a child I was innocent by default, that Don was self-defense, but the man downstairs, that arrogant prick who liked to beat up on women, never laid a finger on me. And that makes me guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Suddenly, Myrtle’s command comes barreling back to me. I rush to the cabinet, hastily pulling the jars out, as many as I can hold. Carrying them to the salt bin, I shove them down one at a time, salt up to my armpit. It takes a few rounds to get them all. There must be more than ten. Fortunately, some are quite small. They all fit easily into the container, and while the salt level rises, it doesn’t spill over. When I’m done, I run a hand over the top to hide the indentations where my arm had been, smoothing out the salt. I make sure to shake any excess off my sleeve before leaving the room.
Slowly, I creep down the stairs, using my injured foot as an excuse to draw it out. People are standing around in small clusters, whispering to one another. The man doing chest compressions has moved aside for Myrtle to take his place. The abused woman is sitting with a dish towel full of ice pressed to her face, sniffling quietly. The energy, for all its hysteria minutes ago, has shifted to subdued.
My eyes fall on the dead man. His face is gruesome to behold—staring, tainted eyes and vomit smeared across his chin. The only thing worse than the sight is the smell. Myrtle is right; he’s long gone. But she pumps away, looking up to meet my eyes just once. Her face is unreadable, but I know she’s given up on reviving him. Everyone has.
I find an empty seat and slide down into it. My mind cannot work out the connection. With Don, I knew the pokeweed was to blame somehow. It must have lingered in my system, contaminated my mouth or skin, something he came into contact with during his attempt to rape me. But even so, wouldn’t he only have encountered a trivial amount? An inconsequential trace? Surely not enough to be fatal.
This is different. The pokeweed I ate is long gone, passed through urine and sweat, washing me clean. It can’t be responsible for what happened to this poor asshole. I can’t be responsible, unless…
Unless Myrtle’s cabinet stash is just as lethal. Unless whatever I devoured during my midnight pica excursion wasn’t harmless but devastating.
My eyes fall on her bent form, the agitated thrusts of her arms, the resignation in her face. Her long, silvering hair is clipped behind her head, falling gracefully over her shoulders even now. We are a family of crows, she told me once as a young girl. Crows feed on what others can’t, including other birds.
I am seeing Aunt Myrtle with new and terrifying eyes.
The sound of a siren cuts through my abstraction. An ambulance rolls into view and comes to a stop. Paramedics leap out and rush into the room, moving Myrtle aside. She explains what happened as they work, what everyone witnessed. I know nothing about saving a life, but it looks like they’re giving him all the usual procedures despite their resigned expressions. They load him onto a stretcher and head outside, the wife or girlfriend tripping behind. “He needs a hospital,” one of them says to Myrtle.
He needs a morgue, I think.
Behind them, two fire trucks pull up, lights whirling. Relief steals over me as the body is whisked away. I slump against the back of the chair, letting out a long, slow breath. I dare a glance at Aunt Myrtle, who looks similarly relieved, leaning against one of the standing tables, a hand to her head as she allows herself a much-needed break.
But a white law enforcement vehicle with green and gold stripes parks at an angle outside the café, and just as quickly as we’d let down our guard, we erect it again. A uniformed man steps out, the brim of a hat obscuring his eyes, and marches inside.
I rise from my chair, my gaze meeting Myrtle’s for a split second before she greets him. “Sheriff Brooks,” she croons, smiling momentarily. “Thank you for coming.”
As he looks up, I nearly tumble back into the seat behind me. Gray, fathomless eyes rake the room before settling on me. His lips part as he removes his hat, the shorn beard tidy along his jaw, and his shoulders strain against the fit of his shirt, a vein in his neck pulsing. It’s Regis, who gave me a ride from the market in Saranac Lake, who made me a grilled cheese sandwich and let me sleep in his house. Who held my hand a beat too long standing at his door. I can’t reckon the misfortune in having shared a night with a cop in between murdering two different men and staging my own death. Everything in me goes icy cold as I recall him noting Don’s ring, which I so recklessly offered for a ride out of town.
Myrtle steps between us. “We haven’t touched anything yet,” she tells him. “But I have a full night of cleaning and sanitizing before I can open this place up again. So, let’s make this quick.”
“Sure, Myrtle,” he agrees with a small smile. “I’m just gonna take a statement and a few photos if that’s okay with you. We can bring you in for questions later if it seems necessary.”
She begins recounting her version of events. Beside her, the two men from the Drunken Moose keep interrupting with their own details, eager to share their stories. Regis glances up continually between the three of them, jotting things on a notepad. Finally, Myrtle snaps at one of the men. “If I’da wanted your help, Terry, I woulda asked for it. Last I checked, I can speak for myself just fine.”
I notice Regis trying to conceal a smile. “Thank you, Myrtle,” he says when they’re done. “Mind if I ask around, talk to some of the other patrons.”
She shrugs. “Be my guest. We all saw the same thing.”
He nods and starts my way.
Uneasy, I begin stacking chairs and pretending to wipe off tables. Myrtle’s right about one thing—this will be a hell of a mess to clean up. I dare a peek over my shoulder and see Regis chatting with a few other people, but it doesn’t take him long to find his way to me.
“Acacia Lee from Near-Austin, Texas,” he says. “We meet again.”
I nod. “You didn’t tell me you were the sheriff.”
“Didn’t think I needed to,” he says. “You commit any crimes in Franklin County recently that I should be aware of?”
I laugh nervously. “Aren’t you a little young for a position like that?”
He shrugs. “Not according to the citizens of Franklin County, who elected me after Sheriff Jackson died five years ago.”
I nod my head, feeling like submission is my best policy.
“I’m from this county,” he says after a moment. “People here know how seriously I take the job. They trust me.”
I imagine his rugged good looks didn’t hurt when it came time to run, but I don’t mention it.
“But I’ll tell you a little secret if you promise it doesn’t leave this circle.” He leans in. “I thought I was a bit young for the job myself.”
I grin as his breath tickles my cheek. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“You changed your hair,” he says. “I like it.”
I blush, feeling the heat creep over my cheeks. “Thanks,” I say with a genuine smile.
He starts to smile, but carefully clears his face, remembering where he is, why. “Acacia, why don’t you tell me what happened here tonight.”
“M-me?” I stammer, somehow unprepared though I had to know this was coming.
“You were in the café when the man collapsed, weren’t you?” he questions.
I clear my throat. “Uh, outside actually. I mean, I was just coming back in. I saw it happen through the glass of the front door.”
He turns to look out the front. “Interesting vantage point. Far as I know, you’re the only one to have it. It’ll be helpful to know your account.”
I shrug, put a hand on my hip. “Same as everyone else’s, I’m sure,” I tell him. “He stood up, didn’t look right. Started grabbing at his stomach, got sick, and fell over.”
Regis’s gentle eyes bore into mine with sudden intensity. “Define didn’t look right. ”
“Oh, you know. He, um, well… his stomach kind of swelled up, and he turned this funny color. He looked real scared.”
“Did he?” Regis scrawls something across his paper.
“That’s when he fell. And then the woman started screaming.”
His eyes meet mine. “The woman?”
I swallow, mentally kicking myself. “She came in with him. Must have been his wife or girlfriend. She’d been… hurt. ”
He drops his arms, squinting. “Define hurt, Ms. Lee.”
“Her face was bruised,” I tell him. “I think he must have hit her.”
He stares at me. “That’s a big assumption to make,” he says.
I look down, avoiding his gaze. “He seemed the type. But that’s just my opinion.”
“The type?” Regis crosses his arms.
When I meet his eyes again, I think he can see the unspoken words in mine. “I’ve been around men like that,” I say. “He was bossy. And she didn’t want to look at me.”
He nods quietly but doesn’t press me.
“You can ask Myrtle,” I add quickly. “She gave the woman ice for her face after the guy died.”
He casts a glance over his shoulder at my aunt. “Did she? Funny, she didn’t mention the woman.”
I realize I’ve messed up, but it’s too late to take it back. “It was a lot,” I tell him. “She’s shook up.”
He cocks his head. “Never known Myrtle to be rattled by much of anything.”
“Well,” I try to explain, “a guy died right in front of her.”
He gives me a tight smile. “Wouldn’t have been the first time,” he says coolly.
If I could bite my own tongue without drawing attention to myself, I would.
“Thank you, Miss Lee,” he says before stepping away. “You’ve been very helpful.”