Secrets of Glenmary Farm

By E. S. Burton

Janice Harmon knows there is more to retirement than sitting in her apartment feeling sorry for herself. Ready for new beginnings and with the help of her son, David, Janice moves to GlenMary Farm, a beautiful, peaceful estate tucked away in the gently rolling hills near Louisville, Kentucky. Yet despite her years and wealth of experience, nothing could have prepared Janice for what was to come.

On the seven-hundred-acre estate, the old mansion and the thoroughbred barn have been transformed into a shared residence for senior citizens and emotionally disturbed children. As she settles into the mansion and begins fraternizing with her fellow residents, Janice soon meets young Emily Carpenter and her Arabian horse, Junior. The two strike up a lively conversation, and Janice feels right at home. But that warm feeling is about to disintegrate as she unwittingly becomes involved in unraveling a fourteen-year-old mystery that has already claimed two lives.

In this suspenseful tale filled with intrigue and murder, Janice soon discovers that the rippling effect from a violent incident is not only about to shake the very foundation of her belief in herself, but also her faith in her fellow man.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781450297615

E. S. Burton

E. S. Burton was born and raised in Louisville, Kentucky, graduated from the University of Kentucky, and was an investment advisor. Now retired, she lives on a farm with her two rescue dogs in the beautiful hills of Southern Indiana where she divides her time between writing and volunteering with the local Humane Society. This is the third book in her GlenMary Farm mystery series.

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Copyright © 2011 by E. S. Burton

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-9763-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9762-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-9761-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011915947

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 09/26/2011

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

For my son, Daniel, a

believer in people

GlenMary%20House%201st%20Floor%20cropped.JPGGlenMary%20House%202nd%20Floor%20cropped.JPG

Prologue

Yogi Berra’s world-famous remark, it’s déjà vu all over again, might have fit the occasion, except that it wasn’t exactly déjà vu, not in the strictest sense, for it was more than just an extrasensory perception—that vague impression of knowing what was to come the instant before it does, because somehow, maybe in another life, it had happened before. And then time would catch up, and the future would no longer be in the present, and everything would click into its proper place. No, what she, Janice Harmon, was feeling was real, not something that would disappear into nothingness and be lost. It was just one short, yet devastatingly long, month ago that she’d made the decision to leave GlenMary Farm, and now she was on her way back—something she’d vowed would never happen. She could make the excuse that it was a month living under her son’s roof that had been the mitigating factor. Her son, David, and his wife, Barbara, led a frantic, rushing-to-catch-up lifestyle that was unacceptable—even nonsensical—at her time of life. But the excuse wouldn’t hold true, for it was not a permanent situation, and it had never been meant to be one. It was just a bridge to stand on, a place from which she could see in both directions—forward to a new life or backward to the old. And then Emily had called and asked her to come back, and it hadn’t taken her a moment to decide. Janice accepted that the painful memories would always be there, no matter where she lived, but they would fade. And now that the shock was over, she could begin to face the past and understand how it might shape the future, perhaps in a positive way. It was that small ray of hope which had given her the necessary courage to return.

Looking back at all that had happened, she wondered why she’d run away. It was unlike her, so completely out of character, but then the events of that fateful day—not to mention the things that had led up to it—were extraordinary. Despite her years, nothing could have prepared her. … Besides, going back meant she could still be of use, and wasn’t that one of the strongest reasons to face the difficulties that would most certainly plague them in the coming weeks? It would be hard, but it would not be the impossibility she had once imagined. Who better than she knew of the power a particular place might hold? A place had the ability to conjure up memories with such devastating clarity. It was the place that Janice had run away from—the place and the situation—but it was Emily who made her realize that she couldn’t run away from the people.

Déjà vu. It was the atmosphere in the car that had brought it about; for, the season was only slightly different, the sliding from spring to summer too subtle to be perceived. The landscape might be a bit greener, a bit more lush. Yet she’d lived here all her life, she was familiar with the cycles, so she would be bound to notice such a thing. Every season was distinct, each with its own special beauty—from spring, with the burst of daffodils and tulips and flowering shrubs; to the deep green of summer, with the early morning dew heavy on the grass, and the sun high in the sky. How reluctantly it gave way to fall, and yet how quickly. All at once, so it seemed, the green would be gone, replaced by a glorious display of yellow and red and orange, and the smell of bonfires and spiders weaving webs that caught on your sleeve and in your hair. Even winter in its starkness was lovely, the cold air clear as leaded glass, while the bare trees covered the hills in a lacy shawl of silver and bronze.

But today the sun blazed hot, drawing life from the dormant earth and turning the woods into a veritable jungle. The sun shines bright on my old Kentucky home. … Janice smiled to herself, wondering where the sun had been that day last spring—early spring, when she and David had made this same drive. She had been wracked with nerves back then, uncertain about her decision to come. It was not so different now, though the reasons for coming were vastly changed. She closed her eyes to savor the memory, leapfrogging back over the ugly events to that happier time of anticipation and of hope.

Emily

1968

Chapter 1

As the car made its way down the highway, Janice Harmon leaned closer to the passenger window for a better view of the passing landscape. Almost immediately a cloudy circle formed on the cold glass, and the world outside turned a shade grayer. Second thoughts did much the same, she mused, removing the circle with a swipe of her hand, especially a severe case, which, thanks to her son David, she was now experiencing. She gave a small sigh and the circle reformed. How, she wondered, could a mature adult of above-average intelligence, not to mention age and experience, allow herself to be so influenced by another human being, especially when that human being was her own son, a son she’d fed and diapered, nursed and comforted, and abandoned in tears at the kindergarten door. But then Englishton, Kentucky—what little there was of it—began to slide by in earnest, and her self-examination took a sharp turn. Could anything this insignificant—a mere handful of buildings—really matter? Surely not. Still, the eclectic, rather sad assortment of same was doing just that. It seemed somehow different, not at all as she’d remembered. Then again, her memory’s rather dubious editing habits might be partly to blame—adding a dash of color or a tiny erasure until her mind had re-created the scenario into a tolerably pleasant one. It was a dangerous habit, clearly evinced as abridged and unabridged collided.

Of course it could be the weather. On her first visit, some four weeks ago, it had been one of those warm, sunny days that occasionally pop up in February, while today was quite in character for March. The bilious clouds alone would keep the hardiest soul huddled by the hearth. The air of desertion pricked at the gregarious side of her personality. Perhaps a month ago she’d taken a little trip on the wings of euphoria. The idea met with repugnance. If she, Janice Louise Parker Harmon, could boast of a single quality, it was common sense. Euphoria indeed!

The village was quite old. She’d unearthed a short history in the Louisville library. Although the Englishton Historical Society’s contributors were far from literary giants, the thin pamphlet, written in simple chronological fashion, stretched back nearly two hundred years. The square that had once held the county seat was now adorned by a beautiful Italianate fountain, a gift from George Clifton English, a direct descendant of the founding father.

The low stone wall surrounding the square was bound by a hodgepodge of structures, which, most being quite old, gave it an air of hanging on, something the gloomy afternoon did little to improve. Several small shops, including a food mart and hair salon, made up the first side of the quadrangle, and The Englishton Arms and an abandoned movie theater occupied the next. A gas station, tucked away on the far corner, looked particularly forlorn as the leftover leaves of fall skittered across the open space to congregate between the two glass-domed pumps. Municipal buildings took up the entire third side, while on the fourth side, separated by its deep-set lawn, was a church and its manse, the square-cut St. Meinrad stones reflecting soft hues of yellow and gray that blended with the dreary sky. Englishton had the basics; Janice would give it that. Yet she doubted a pied piper would be needed to rid the town of its youth; any with spirit would be long gone as soon as they could be.

Highway 235, having circled the square, now veered sharply to the right, becoming little more than a country lane. The loose macadam, held together by lacy drizzlings of tar, meandered like a carelessly dropped ribbon, following closely and precisely the lay of the land. Though the road twisted and turned, rising and falling until it reached Brighton some twelve miles away, their destination was just beyond town: The old MacNeill estate, known as GlenMary Farm. It had been converted to a retirement home, and today it would become Janice’s home as well.

Settling back against the cushions, Janice let the sound of the wind rushing against the window lull her into a trance. All around her was Kentucky, her beloved Kentucky—not the famous horse farms of Lexington and Versailles and Paris, but the rugged hills that erupted from nowhere like a host of witches’ caps tossed randomly across the landscape. Except for a spattering of cedars, the trees were barren of foliage as they crept in ever-increasing sparseness up the steep slopes. A creek ran parallel to the road, darting past a tumbled-down farmhouse attended by an array of bleached sheds and broken fences. Its pasture boasted a meager covering of grass, which, in places, like a well-worn rug, exposed the floor of rock beneath. So familiar was the scene that it seemed a part of her—as if a piece of her lived and breathed in those rocks, that soil. But then David was muttering, something about Houdini and Highway 235, an engineering triumph, she thought she heard him say. With a sigh, she sat up and adjusted her scarf; the spell, fragile at best, now broken.

David Harmon’s muttering was directed at the minefield of potholes Kentucky was currently passing off as a highway. It had captured all his attention, until suddenly his mother, normally a docile passenger, jerked forward and began waving a hand dangerously close to his face.

Easing the Chrysler New Yorker’s right wheels onto a perilously narrow shoulder, he came to a stop. On his left was a field. Shaped like an hourglass, it ran parallel to the road; certainly nothing to get excited about. And then he saw it: a horse, hell bent for leather, rapidly making its way through the cleavage of the hourglass to freer ground. From a distance it appeared gray, the black-stockinged legs moving swiftly as the rider, taking a half seat, urged the horse to greater speed. They cut quickly through the tawny grass on their way to the woods that formed its far border. It was, indeed, a mesmerizing picture as the angle of the afternoon sun, peeking through a slice in the clouds, caught the pair. Like a giant kaleidoscope, light and dark flickered together, creating magical shadows that magnified each stride in length and breadth.

I’d sure hate to farm that piece of ground, David commented drily.

You mean you didn’t see it?! She shot him a suspicious glance that ended in a chuckle and an Oh you!

He smiled. She took teasing better than most, and she certainly didn’t lack a sense of humor, though there was a definite primness about her, a veneer of shyness, which could never quite be peeled away.

When the horse and rider disappeared, David checked the rearview mirror then pressed on the accelerator. As they pulled away, he felt the automatic transmission gear down for the sharp climb ahead.

That was lovely, Janice murmured, letting her head fall lightly against the back of the seat. The horse, the way the sun …

I thought the administrator said there was no livestock on the farm.

Mrs. Chancelor? Well, yes, that is what she said, dear, but I’m sure she was talking about cows and pigs, not horses.

Edible as opposed to rideable?

Horses aren’t considered livestock … not in Kentucky, anyway, she replied a bit stiffly. You were in her office when we discussed all of this.

David let his mother have the last word, wondering how much of a surprise the horse really was. She had this thing about horses.

He was beautiful, wasn’t he? Janice murmured. Maybe he belongs to someone close by.

No barn left unturned, David replied with a wry smile.

He could be a therapy horse, she said, for the children, you know.

What kind of therapy has a child galloping alone through an open field?

Yes, of course you’re right. They probably weren’t part of GlenMary, she frowned. But who was it said, ‘The outside of a horse is the best thing for the inside of a man’, Will Rogers?

An orthopedic surgeon, more likely.

David, dear, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were still holding a grudge over that little riding mishap umpteen million years ago.

A broken arm is hardly a mishap, Mother.

Oh, it was just a little tumble.

So it might seem when one is a spectator with two feet planted firmly on the ground. Put that same spectator on the back of a bucking, bolting horse and it’s a different story altogether.

"Ohforheavensake! It was only a small pony, and he hardly bolted or bucked. He simply made a dash to the green grass on the other side of the arena. If he hadn’t stopped and put his head down so suddenly, I doubt you’d have fallen off. And, if you hadn’t been picking your nose at the time …"

Mother, for God’s sake!

"David, really …" Such a long time ago, and yet he still took it to heart. She smothered a chuckle.

As they rounded a curve, the old MacNeill mansion came into view. Sitting well off the road, it was nestled in its own stand of trees. Spirals of smoke from several of the chimneys showed white against the weather-darkened sky, and pinpoints of light marked various windows, both upstairs and down. The scene, warm and inviting, seemed to have a contradictory effect on David. It was an unorthodox setup to say the least, certainly not your conventional retirement home—not with those emotionally disturbed children stuck out in that converted barn they called a clinic. As an architect and a human being, he’d had grave doubts as to the propriety of that. But it was legitimate. He’d taken the time to check out the licensing and accreditation for both.

According to Mrs. Chancelor, the administrator, the home fell into the category of genteel yet nonprofit. It seemed William MacNeill, a wealthy widower, lacking an heir, had set up a trust for the benefit of two specific groups: senior citizens and emotionally disturbed children. It was a bizarre combination, and David obviously wasn’t alone in his misgivings. Even with the more-than-reasonable rates and attractive setting, after seven years, it had yet to enjoy full occupancy. His mother explained it away easily enough claiming it was just too far from the shopping malls to interest most old biddies.

He had to admit it was a beautiful setting, the huge old mansion, and the lawns that fell away to the rock-strewn creek. The stone fence bordering the grounds was identical to the one encircling the square in Englishton. The snug little village of Englishton. It all seemed a little too good to be true.

They crossed a picturesque stone bridge and began the climb to the house. Rather than a direct route, the road chose instead to take advantage of the rolling landscape, making several scenic loops in the process. Just after passing a grotto, the drive split off; the main one going to the house, while the other turned to the barn/clinic.

Janice, attempting to take everything in at once, marveled at all she had overlooked on her first visit. Past the avenue of maples, she could see someone had possessed an eye for landscape and season. Evergreens and holly, strategically placed in groupings and alone, gave color through the dull winter months while clumps of bushes, their leafless stems swollen with buds, promised a showy display throughout midsummer. The willows by the creek had already begun greening, their limbs flowing gracefully in the March breeze. She and her late husband, David Sr., always had such fun planning the lawns and gardens in all their homes. The pang of melancholy took her by surprise. This was all finished, nothing left to do but enjoy. And wasn’t that exactly what she wanted, the enjoyment without the headaches?

As they arrived at the house, she noticed the paint on the columns was slightly crackled, like the shell of an egg. Chastising herself for finding fault so soon, she decided it was indeed much larger than she remembered. It was hard to imagine a widower with no children requiring so much space. Then suddenly she realized David was opening the car door.

As soon as they stepped onto the rather smallish front porch, the front door swung inward, and Adrienne Chancelor’s face appeared from behind, making Janice wonder if she’d been peeking out the window. Her greeting was effusive and obviously well practiced as, with head tilted charmingly to one side, she offered a welcoming smile.

Accepting the flurry of attention with her usual reserve, Janice pulled David forward, producing him as she had for the Sunday school and kindergarten teachers, as well as any number of other figures of authority throughout his childhood. Adrienne was delighted, as she seemed to be with just about everything. Janice guessed her to be somewhere in her mid-fifties, comfortably stout in a bosomy sort of way, the healthy country look accentuated by Harris tweeds and sensible shoes. Several strands of hair, not entirely gray, escaped the bun on the back of her neck, giving her a slightly harried look.

While Adrienne took Janice to a small office behind the foyer to finish the last-minute paperwork, David fetched the luggage. The three then met upstairs in Janice’s room. She was disappointed to see that, other than the freshly made bed, the room was not set up. The furniture, sent ahead the week before, was simply lined up along the walls with the cartons stacked in the center. Adrienne quickly assured her that all of this would be rectified in the morning with the help of one of the farmhands.

When it came time to stay their good-byes, Janice could tell David was upset, for he wore the same look when he’d left his oldest daughter at summer camp for the first time.

Barbara’s coming out Tuesday, she said, thinking to ease his anxiety, while at the same time working him into the hallway. Then, turning to Adrienne, she explained, My daughter-in-law. We love to go to lunch and check out the flea markets.

A charming man, Adrienne commented, watching David just a bit longer than Janice considered necessary. But a final charming seemed to put him out of mind, and Adrienne returned to her administrative duties.

Well, now, I can’t wait to introduce you around. We’re a small family, and I know you’re going to fit in beautifully.

Beautifully, wonderfully, splendidly, marvelously—the woman was a virtual thesaurus of superlatives. However, when Janice felt herself being taken in tow toward the stairs David had just descended, she knew her limit had been reached. She came to a halt, and, taking a firm grip on the newel post, physically prevented herself being moved any farther.

I wonder if we might postpone the introductions, Janice said. After that long car ride, I feel the need of some fresh air.

The momentary look of surprise told her that this was not the normal request, though Adrienne, with the week’s menus still to be done, was quick to accede to it.

Oh yes! Of course! We do need our exercise. It’s something I harp on.

God help us, Janice thought, and then, suddenly, remembering the horse, she quickly described the scene to Adrienne. It was in the field just below the house.

Adrienne twisted her head in a slightly fazed manner. That would be the Sexton Field. Gray? Was the horse gray?

Yes, with black stockings. The picture flickered pleasantly in front of her.

Then that would be Emily. Emily Carpenter. She rides out most every afternoon.

From here?

Yes, she keeps her horse here. A sweet young lady, but I’m afraid a little … oh dear! There’s my buzzer, and no one is on desk. If you don’t mind, I’d better get that.

Yes, do, Janice urged, curious as to what Emily was a little, but not enough to stick around and find out.

Decked out in a heavy coat, overshoes, wool scarf, and gloves, Janice descended the back stairs and stepped onto the terrace. The once-uneven flags were now smooth from years of wear. She wrinkled her nose at the random scattering of iron furniture that was more in keeping with a cemetery than a private home. Stopping to take a deep breath, she let the cobwebs of worry clear away. To her right and some distance back sat the converted barn; to her left, the odd-shaped field where they’d seen the horse. It was getting late, but surmising that anyone who rode out most every afternoon would probably not come in until dusk, she pulled the scarf a little tighter and turned to the left.

As she stepped onto the grass, a revelation presented itself: She might have a garden, maybe spiff up that interesting grotto they’d passed on the driveway. She’d never had a rock garden before. It might be fun. The downward slope steepened before taking her across the last piece of lawn to the low stone wall. Finding a smooth place, she sat down to catch her breath.

You’re out of shape, Janice, old girl, she scolded herself, thinking it had been all downhill. What would Mrs. Chancelor say if you didn’t make it back? She chuckled as a number of appropriate superlatives came to mind.

From her vantage point, she could see the rear of the house and part of one side. The white clapboard gave it a homey look, despite its size and the seasonal lack of greenery. Then, just when she was beginning to believe she’d missed the young lady and her horse, she heard hoof beats. Turning, she saw horse and rider trotting up to the wall some distance away. She was mildly disappointed to see that, rather than jumping the wall, the horse slowed to a walk and passed through at a place where the stones had apparently fallen away.

She called out, raising both arms to make herself more visible in the rapidly fading light, and was rewarded to see horse and rider immediately change course. As they drew near, she was surprised to find that, rather than a young lady, the rider was a mere slip of a girl, no more than twelve or thirteen.

Emily?

A wary look crossed a youthful face that was more cute than pretty. Her light-brown hair reached just past her shoulders and was all in a tangle from the ride.

You don’t know me, Janice smiled, sensing the chariness. I’m a new resident here. I saw you riding across the field a little while ago when my son and I drove up. You and your horse made such a nice picture. Mrs. Chancelor told me your name. Mine’s Mrs. Harmon.

Apparently, the information—combined with the fact that she was an old woman bundled in a coat and scarf that made her look about as harmless as one of Santa’s elves—seemed to tip the scales in Janice’s favor, for the child slid from her horse. Taking the reins in her left hand, she extended her right.

Pleased to meet you. The gravity of the girl’s greeting caught Janice off guard, as did the sudden smile, which seemed not only to flip on a switch in her personality but also to expose a mouth wired with braces. I hope you’ll like it here. We do!

The effervescence, like soda water, reminded Janice of her middle granddaughter when she’d been that age. In fact, even now, all grown up, Jennifer still had that sparkle and fizz.

I’m sure I shall, she laughed. You know, other than Mrs. Chancelor, you’re the first person I’ve met.

Really? Emily exclaimed.

Well, to be honest, after I signed in, Mrs. Chancelor wanted me to meet everyone, but I sneaked off to have a look around.

I would have, too, Emily grinned, then, seeing the old woman’s eyes drift to the horse, she introduced him. This is Sur Abhan. We call him Junior. And turning to her mount, added, Junior, you have the honor of being the third … um … being that Mrs. Harmon has met today.

He’s awfully nice, and he’s so big! Janice said, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.

He’s only fourteen two hands; just right for an Arab, though.

Oh, an Arabian, Janice replied, exhibiting what she hoped was the proper amount of respect.

"Not just an Arabian, but an Egyptian Arabian. They’re the best, the smartest, and the gentlest."

And he belongs to you?

Uh-huh, I got him last Christmas. Emily reached under his mane and gave him a vigorous scratching with her knuckles, whereby he swung his head around and, with a nudge, sent her reeling to one side.

Janice took a step back. Apparently, this was a normal routine, as the child seemed to take it in stride, never missing a beat in the conversation. He’s smart as a whip; too smart sometimes.

As they started up the hill, Janice carefully kept out of nudging distance, while Emily chattered away, peppering the conversation with little jerks on the reins and the admonition of behave to the impatient horse.

He can’t wait to get back to the barn, Emily explained. It’s feeding time. That’s the trouble with riding this time of day; all he thinks about is his supper.

Like some people I know, Janice laughed.

Are you going to live here? Emily asked.

Janice, amused at the U-turn in the conversation, thought about Jennifer all over again. Mm-hmm. My furniture and most of my things arrived last week. Everything isn’t in place yet, but it’s all here.

They chatted easily, as Janice related David’s experience at horsemanship and laughed at Emily’s less-than-charitable response.

Well, here we are. Better get the June-Bug here some supper. Maybe I’ll stop by and see you tomorrow before I take my ride.

That would be nice, Janice smiled. I’d be very pleased.

As she stood for a moment watching the pair trudge away, it suddenly occurred to her that she had no idea who Emily was. Recalling Adrienne’s I’m afraid she’s a little statement, Janice supposed the girl was one of the disturbed children, but she certainly seemed normal enough. Maybe there was something to the theory of equine therapy, after all. It was only when she started up the back stairs that she remembered how worried she’d been about making the uphill climb back to the house.

Chapter 2

Emily hurried to the barn. It had been an exciting afternoon, if measured by GlenMary standards, but it was a school night, and she was late—all because that stupid Mrs. Sypes had invited her and her father to dinner after church. Determined to have a ride, she’d taken a shortcut across the lawn,—slightly verboten—and then she’d allowed Junior to have his head—completely verboten. It had all turned out fine, except for the small incident near the woods, and even that had amounted to nothing. She thought back to the moment when she’d seen the car stop on the shoulder of the road.

Wanting to show off, she’d nudged Junior with her heels and moved farther forward in the saddle so that his mane, whipping in the wind, lashed at her face. She pretended she was a hunter running to hounds; however, after they crossed the midpoint where the field was narrowest, and just as they were rapidly approaching the copse of trees on the far side, reason asserted itself, and she tried to pull up. Steadied by a handful of mane, she hauled hard on the right rein, causing Junior to gallop sideways for several strides before skipping to a halt. But, as soon as she eased her hold, he tried to bolt, causing her to draw him up again, this time with an added whoa boy. She pulled his chin smartly behind the bit. Her heart skipped a beat as, feet prancing and tail swishing, he tried to evade the command. It was one thing to be wired—he usually was after a good gallop—but this was different. Like a tightly coiled spring, the hardened muscles of his back and neck seemed ready to explode. But she held him, and after a minute or two the low soft tones of her voice gradually calmed him.

The cause of the behavior soon became clear as she saw a small boy partially hidden in the tall grass. In his haste to retreat, he’d apparently tripped and fallen; and, as he scrambled to his feet, an angry flush stained his pale cheeks.

Small but tough, anger seemed to force him upward until, like a cat fluffed up and ready to spit, he appeared larger. Where in the hell d’you come from? Jeremy Denning yelled, offering a sneer that involved only one side of his face.

Surprised by the curse word erupting from such a youthful mouth, Emily merely stared.

You one o’ them inmates they got stalled in the barn over to GlenMary?

Apparently his quiver held a full complement of taunting arrows; for, before she could reply, he’d restrung the bow and sent another one flying.

Got us a gawker-no-talker, Corey. The sneer spread to his entire face as he swaggered backward to deliver the coup de grâce. Reckon they let you out fer the last time. Ain’t nobody runs down Jer’my Denning, ’specially no loony-toony. When I get done tellin’, they’ll lock up yer stall an’ throw away the key. He folded his arms across his chest and spat on the ground for good measure.

I didn’t run you down! Emily exploded. Turning to the slope, she looked for Corey, the possible witness. Not seeing anyone, she eased Junior closer to the edge of the ravine.

On a large rounded rock at the very bottom, a position which would have prevented his witnessing anything, sat a miniature of the older boy. The way the wisps of colorless hair sprang from his scalp reminded her of a Kewpie doll. She quickly slid off her horse and looped the reins around a bush as she’d seen John Wayne do in the movies.

Gee! she exclaimed, waving her arms in a backstroke to keep from careening down the steep slope. Where are you from?

Easily extricating himself from the bush, Junior took a step toward Jeremy. The boy scrambled backward, a look of alarm on his face.

Hey! Emily shouted. Grab those reins!

Unfortunately, Junior chose that moment to shake his head and clear his nostrils.

Emily suppressed a giggle. They were strange kids—two little ragamuffins straight out of Oliver Twist. Maybe they were runaways! Focusing her attention on the smaller boy, she sank down beside him, crossing her ankles.

I’m Emily Carpenter. Then, turning a saucy face up to where Jeremy stood, she added, From GlenMary Farm, where I have the next stall down from Junior’s.

Who zat?

Him, silly, she replied, jerking her thumb upward. My horse.

Jeremy tentatively reached out for the reins as he watched Emily’s next attempt to get information from Corey.

Corey, don’t talk! And, motioning with his head, he said, We’re from Shadymere.

Shadymere?

His eyes made a trip around the heavens.

Only the biggest damn farm around, with hunnerds an’ hunnerds o’ Holsteins.

What are Holsteins?

Dairy cows. Ever’body knows that.

Oh. Her brow furrowed, and a wrinkle settled on her nose. That place, she thought. They passed it every day on the school bus, and, even with the windows shut, the stench was unbearable.

My pa runs it fer ol’ man Terry.

When she didn’t respond, Jeremy said, You don’t look like no inmate.

"Don’t be silly; there aren’t any inmates at GlenMary. They’re patients. She said firmly, adding rather primly, It isn’t nice to put labels on people."

Labels? Like lickin’ an’ stickin’? he snickered.

Like name calling.

Oh like ‘silly’? he chortled.

If the shoe fits, wear it, she shot back.

How ’bout Miss Priss! Bet that don’t pinch yer toes none.

As she started to climb up the side of the ravine, he suddenly threw down the reins and took off. She looked after him for a minute, puzzled by the strange behavior. Luring Junior with a treat from her pocket, she hopped on his back. It was only once she was well on her way home that she realized he thought she was one of the patients, and he was scared of her.

After that, she’d met Mrs. Harmon at the wall. What a strange afternoon. Imagine meeting three new people, after she’d ridden out for almost as many months and never seeing a single soul.

Without the groundskeeper, Mr. Wickcliff, around to nix it, Emily gave Junior an extra flake of hay then proceeded to pick up his stall and fill his water bucket. By the time she finished her chores, she was surprised to see that it was already dark out. Maybe her father was still busy with patients and he’d never know she was late.

Rounding the long line of hemlocks that effectively hid Rose Cottage from the barn and the main house, she saw that a truck—a real junker—was pulled up at the front door. As she watched, a big man, tall and ruggedly built, walked hurriedly from the porch and got in. He appeared to be angry as he came out of the cottage and stomped down the porch steps. Flinging open the truck door and sliding behind the wheel, he slammed the door so hard it bounced back open. He closed it more softly the second time then drove off. Emily slipped into the security of the hedge as he passed, holding her breath until the worst of the copious fumes from the truck’s exhaust had evaporated.

Almost immediately, her father appeared on the porch, followed by the familiar figure of Mrs. Chancelor. Her curiosity piqued, Emily covered the last few yards at a lope. The two adults appeared startled to see her, and, although Mrs. Chancelor recovered first, greeting Emily effusively, her father seemed uncomfortable. To be on the safe side, she immediately offered up the excuse of helping Mrs. Harmon.

Mrs. Harmon! Adrienne Chancelor’s hand-splayed bosom heaved a great gasp. I knew I should have discouraged the walk so late in the day. Did she make it back to GlenMary House? Is she all right?

"I didn’t mean help her, help her. Emily slid her eyes to her father, noticing that his elevated brow had reached the skeptical level. It’s just that it took her ages to climb the hill."

The crisis defused, Adrienne assured Emily that she was a dear, and then, wishing the Carpenters a goodnight, the administrator switched on her flashlight, casting the beam on the ground and followed it away.

Emily quickly slipped into the cottage. After a final puff on his pipe, Dr. Carpenter went in as well. He contemplated the long day with a weary sigh. Sundays were always long, but this one was even longer with the addition of this last business. He’d have to get to the bottom of it, find out what she’d been up to.

Em.

The cottage was small. A center hall divided the four downstairs rooms, while a set of back stairs from the kitchen accessed two more tucked beneath the eaves. She was bound to have heard him, but for some perverse reason—being thirteen as good as any—she chose not to answer.

Emily! He called out again, saying her whole name this time, his tone decidedly firmer.

"I’m in the bathroom!" The sacrosanctity of the room evident in her tone. He’d barely settled into his favorite chair, however, when she appeared and perched on an arm of the couch.

She reminded him of a sprite, the way she slipped from one place to another, and the way her light-brown hair curled about her face and down her back. Usually she pulled it into a ponytail when she went riding, but she’d probably been too anxious to get away to bother. Now it was all over the place, making her appear slightly fey.

What’s up? she inquired, a bit more pertly than the situation merited.

I … ah … I had a visitor just before you came home. A man named Jake Wilmer. He paused for any glimmer of recognition. He’s from just the down the road. A place called Shadymere Farm.

The color rose in her cheeks, and her eyes darted to the fireplace.

You know him?

No.

But you know who he is.

No, but I ran into two little boys on my ride. They said they were from Shadymere.

He’s their stepfather.

So why was he here?

You don’t know?

She shrugged and began picking at an invisible hangnail on her thumb, hating that expectant look on her father’s face. Obviously, the little brats had tattled. So she’d taken a little gallop. So what? It was the one time she’d broken the rules, but nothing had happened.

Emily?

The tone in his voice startled her. Her father was rarely sharp with her or anyone, for that matter. She ran her tongue over the wires on her teeth, gently easing them away from the soft lining of her lips where they poked unmercifully.

What happened when you saw them?

Nothing. Why?

He sat for a moment calmly observing.

Nothing?

I was riding across the Sexton Field like I always do, and, right before I got to the woods, there was this boy hiding in the grass. I couldn’t see him, but Junior spooked and nearly dumped me. I think it must have scared him, ’cause he got really mad. But it was the boy’s own fault. He shouldn’t have been hiding in the grass.

That’s it?

Gosh! It’s the Spanish Inquisition all over again!

It’s important, Em.

She pursed her lips. We talked. The older boy cussed and kept calling the patients ‘inmates,’ and then he just took off. I got back on Junior and came home.

You got off your horse to talk to him?

Yeah, I tried to talk to the little one, but he wouldn’t say anything.

Junior didn’t accidentally bump into him, did he?

"Did he say that?"

John Carpenter drew a deep breath.

Mr. Wilmer came here because he claims you were racing your horse across the field and when you came up on his boys, you ran into them. According to him, they were lucky not to have been killed.

They’re lying, she whispered, staring past him.

He stood up and went to the fireplace. After a moment of poking and prodding at the embers, he turned back to her.

I told Mr. Wilmer to bring the boys to my office tomorrow. I want you there, too.

Good! Then you’ll see they’re lying. If I ran over them they’d be all bruised up, maybe even have some broken bones. She added scornfully, So where are the bruises and broken bones?

Maybe that’s something we’ll find out tomorrow, he said.

Emily climbed the stairs to her room. The all-too-familiar knot of dread had already begun to form in her stomach. She gazed into the small gilt-framed mirror over her dresser, staring past her reflection and into that safe world created by the glass. Why did someone always have to come along and spoil things? First it had been Margaret, and now it was those nasty boys. Why did they lie?

Her father hadn’t believed her. She could tell. But that didn’t matter, as long as he didn’t take Junior away! That’s all that mattered. Junior was the one thing that was real in a world where nothing was real. Her father thought he had all the answers, but he didn’t.

The image in the mirror returned Emily’s sad smile. Wasn’t she living proof of that?

After leaving Emily and Junior, Janice checked her watch. Almost five-thirty. Hadn’t Adrienne Chancelor said dinner was at five-thirty? She hurried into her small dressing room to freshen up, but a cursory glance in the mirror revealed no major repairs were needed. The fresh air had put color in her cheeks. Besides, if she hadn’t gone out, she wouldn’t have met Emily. That promised to be interesting and entertaining. She chuckled to think what David would say when she told him how quickly she’d located the horse!

The front hall was empty, as was Adrienne’s office. Be careful what you wish for, Janice inwardly admonished herself. The face she’d been so eager to escape earlier would now be a most welcome sight. She stepped into the small vestibule beneath the stairs. The sound of voices, pleasantly mixed with the clink of china, drew her to the doorway. As expected, the dining room was large, longer than it was wide. On the opposite wall was a modern buffet table attended by a woman in her mid-fifties. Several residents were busy filling plates, so that only their backs were visible, while three others waited in line, their conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. The banquet-sized dining table was apparently an original piece, as was a handsome breakfront. Functional meets elegant, Janice thought. The past still safely existed, only the cast of characters had changed.

A tall, willowy woman somewhere in her mid-sixties looked up, and, breaking away from her contemporaries, she swept forward—chin high and head tilted, reminding Janice of a 1930s siren from the silver screen.

You must be our new resident, the siren said, hand outstretched. Adrienne didn’t say you’d be here for supper, or I’d have been on the lookout. She was called over to Rose Cottage about thirty minutes ago. I took the call; desk duty, you know. When Janice looked confused,