Big Foot Stole My Wife Read online

  Anyway, I think I would like to see you, if only for old time’s sake. The only two days I will not be available are December 24 and 25, when I’m visiting Cousin Heather for the first time in years. She has four kids now, and Harold is some kind of manager at his office. This time I’ve warned Miss W. that I am definitely going, even if she objects or claims to be sick. I’m hoping to be at Heather’s by dark, and will be home the next evening. I feel terribly guilty about leaving Miss W. all alone in the house for two days, but our cleaning woman insists on being with her own family and no one else ever comes by to see Miss W. I don’t really blame them; the house is so isolated at the end of the road, and you can’t have neighbors if you own all the land for several miles. It’s the only drawback I can think of to being rich!

  Write me a note once you’re settled. I’d tell you to call, but the squirrels have been gnawing on the telephone lines again and it usually takes several weeks for a repairman to come.

  Your daughter,

  Kristy

  Wellington House

  #1 Wellington Road

  Hampser, NC 27444

  April 11, 1985

  Shady Oaks Realty, Inc.

  3168 Katherine Avenue

  Hampser, NC 27444

  Dear Ms. Rowan,

  Please address all future correspondence concerning the sale of Wellington House and the adjoining property to me, c/o Thomas Domingo Literary Agency, 188 West Seventy-ninth Street, New York, NY 10122. I’m sure you are aware of how lengthy a process probate can be, but I believe that we can entertain offers and perhaps work out a lease-purchase agreement until a sale can be finalized.

  As for the house Miss Wellington owned in the Clover Creek addition, I have rented it to a distant member of my family and will allow him to occupy it at least until the estate is settled.

  Should an emergency arise, I am staying at the Plaza and you may leave a message at the desk. If the remodeling proceeds on schedule, as of the first of June I will be in permanent residence at the house on Willow Lake.

  Yours truly,

  Kristen Childers

  Dear Suzanne,

  I’m sorry it’s taken so long for me to respond to your charming letter, but I must say I’m impressed with the dedication you’ve shown in discovering my real name and tracking me down at this address. I’m delighted that you enjoyed Lady Amberline’s Fortune, and I agree that she’s a feisty young woman with a strong sense of ambition. You might watch for Shadows and Smoke, a more contemporary novel about a girl just a few years older than you!

  As for your generous offer, I fear I must demur. Although there are days that I feel as if I’m drowning in papers, I simply wouldn’t be comfortable having someone come in to assist with the filing and correspondence. You sound like a sensible girl, perhaps as ambitious as Amberline, and I’m confident that you’ll find a way to have a successful career in literature, just as I did.

  Warm wishes,

  Kristy Childers

  *An English muffin and tea, and have you ever read The Roses in Eden by Veronica St. James?

  Heptagon

  “Miss Neige,” I say, tactfully using the name she prefers, “please try to open up to me before our time is over. I can understand how difficult this must be for a young woman such as yourself, but we must talk about it.”

  “Are you bored, Doctor? I’ve been many things, but never bored. Shall I entertain you with a narrative of the murder?”

  I struggle to reply in a neutral tone. “Let’s go back just a bit. The information I was given has led me to think that your childhood was stressful.”

  “I think that might be too mild a description for the torment inflicted on me by my stepmother. My real mother killed herself when she found out that my father was unfaithful to her. He claimed she died of tuberculosis, but we know better.”

  “We?”

  “You and I, Doctor.” She settles back on the couch and puts her hands behind her neck, her elbows jutting sharply. From this angle I can see the nerves bunched in her neck like metal cables.

  “In the mornings,” she continues in an oddly detached voice, “I’m grumpy until I’ve had my coffee. She was always jabbering at me, pecking at me like a magpie. All I wanted was peace and quiet. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” I reply, writing the word “grumpy” in my notebook. It’s a peculiar word coming from someone so young and well educated.

  “She didn’t agree, and was forever telling me that being grumpy wasn’t attractive. She knew how much she annoyed me—which is exactly why she did it!”

  I take a moment to answer. “Miss Neige, we’re not here to decipher your stepmother’s motives. You are what concerns us in this session. How did you feel when your stepmother said these things?”

  Her lips twitch with repressed anger. “How do you think I felt? Do you expect me to say I was grateful? I assure you I was not. She criticized me continually, but always with such subtlety that my father never noticed. He would beam at her as if she were the most beautiful and generous person he’d ever met. There were times I wanted to slap the smile off his face and make him see what she was doing to my self-confidence with her sly digs about my appearance or lack of a social life.”

  “You lacked a social life? I would have thought an attractive young woman like yourself would have been surrounded by suitors.”

  “Then you would have been wrong. As a young child, I was bashful.”

  “You—bashful?” I say, making a note of the word.

  “After my mother’s death, I rarely spoke to anyone other than the household servants. Since I was taught by tutors, I had no opportunity to make friends. By the time I was twelve, I was bashful so much of the time that I was unable to engage in ordinary social interaction. Any persistent effort to force me to do so gave me hives that only bed rest and antihistamines could relieve. Oh, yes, I was bashful. She found that très amusant.”

  “You seem quite articulate,” I say encouragingly.

  “I’m not always bashful now,” she says. “Despite her twisted pleasure in my disability, I eventually overcame it and made a few friends. She was quick to point out that my father’s wealth and power were my two best attributes, but I refused to listen to her. I persuaded my father to give me a clothing allowance so she could no longer dress me in unflattering smocks and bulky sweaters.”

  I feel a distinctly unprofessional pang of sympathy for my patient. She has a lovely face, with luminous green eyes and a heart-shaped mouth. I have yet to see her smile, but I suspect she has even white teeth and a dimple. Her voice is so melodious I expect her to burst into song at any moment.

  Aware that she is waiting for me to respond, I say, “It sounds as if your life improved at this point.”

  “Oh, yes, there were times when I was happy. When John Earl asked me to accompany him to the Harvest Ball, I was almost ecstatic. I bought a new dress and spent the day at the salon having a manicure, pedicure, and facial. The proprietor himself did my hair.” She sits up and pushes her raven hair above her head in a sloppy cascade; I must admit the effect is beguiling. “While I was getting dressed for the ball, she came into my room and told me I looked like a prostitute. I replied that I was happy and that she was jealous of my youth and beauty. She pushed me, so I pushed her back. Before I realized what was happening, we were kicking and scratching each other, and our screams brought my father to the door.”

  “What did he do?” I ask softly.

  “She began to cry and accused me of attacking her for no reason. My father chose to believe her filthy lies and ordered me to stay in my room for the rest of the night. John Earl was told on the doorstep that I’d changed my mind about going to the ball.”

  “You must have been disappointed.”

  “I certainly was no longer happy,” she says with a trace of sarcasm. “I remained in my room for a month, refusing to go downstairs for meals. I was sleepy all of the time, as if I were under the infl
uence of a hypnotic spell. My stepmother took to standing over the bed and telling me that I wasn’t sleepy, but instead sluggish and self-indulgent. I couldn’t help it, Doctor. Some mornings I’d force myself to get dressed, but then I’d realize I was sleepy and simply lie down on the bed.”

  “Do you think you might have been depressed?”

  “I was sleepy, not depressed! Why can’t you listen more carefully? My dreams became increasingly bizarre, until the line between fantasy and reality became blurred. Did John Earl really climb the wall to my bedroom window and plead with me to escape? Did my mother come into the room and tell me I could go to the ball if I’d wear her wedding dress? Maybe I’m sleepy now—and you’re a figment from a nightmare! If I snap my fingers, will you vanish in a puff of smoke? Shall we find out, Doctor?”

  Although our fifty minutes are up, I am reluctant to end the session while she’s agitated. I excuse myself, go into the reception room, and tell my secretary that I’m going to continue the session and will lock up the office when I’m finished. Upon my return, I find Miss Neige sitting on the edge of the couch, her purse in her lap and her eyes red and watery.

  “Would you care for a glass of water?” I ask her.

  “No,” she says curtly as she puts her purse on the floor and lies back.

  I want to assure her that she is not the first patient to lose her composure on my couch, but I am leery of upsetting her with unwanted solicitude. “Well, then,” I say as I resume my seat, “shall we continue, Miss Neige?”

  “Where was I?”

  “I believe you were discussing the period in your life when you were sleepy …”

  “Or so I thought until one of the kitchen maids saw my stepmother putting a few drops of something in my morning coffee. The girl smuggled the vial to me, and I quickly determined that it contained an opiate. I hadn’t been sleepy, Doctor—I’d been dopey as a result of her insidious scheme to further discredit me in my father’s eyes. I gave the maid a few coins and asked her to replace the vial and say nothing.”

  “Dopey,” I write in my notebook, circling it several times. Again, a strange choice of words for a sheltered young woman such as Miss Neige. I add “happy” and “sleepy.” A pattern seems to be forming, as yet too indistinct for me to comprehend. “What did you do?” I ask.

  “I poured the coffee out my window each morning and continued to lie in bed with a languid expression on my face. After a time, my system was cleansed and I was no longer dopey. She never realized, as she prowled around my room, that I was watching her. She tried on my jewelry and smoothed my skin creams on her wrinkled face as if they could transform her. If my father had seen her scowling into the mirror on the wall, he would have realized what an old hag she really was, but she’d poisoned his mind.”

  “Surely he would have been concerned if you’d told him about this opiate.”

  “She was much too shrewd,” says Miss Neige. “Somehow she discovered that I’d learned of her scheme. She accused the kitchen maid of theft and fired her, then took the vial to my father and claimed that she’d found it in my room. She convinced him that I needed to be sent to a hospital to overcome my dependency. Before I could present my side of the story, I was taken from my home and placed in a room with barred windows and an iron cot. Sadistic nurses watched my every move through a slot in the door. Other patients pinched me until my arms were covered with welts and bruises. I was allowed one hour a day to walk on the grounds, always accompanied by an attendant with thick, flabby lips and an insolent smirk. Despite my revulsion, I feigned fondness for him and persuaded him to help me escape.”

  “That was very clever,” I murmur.

  “I thought so, until I ventured beyond the fence and realized I had nowhere to seek refuge. I was afraid to be seen walking along the road into town, so I went into the woods, hoping I might chance upon an abandoned dwelling in which I could take shelter. The attendant had provided me with enough food to survive for several days. As soon as the furor over my escape had abated, I could steal clothes off a line, disguise myself as a country girl, and seek employment in some menial capacity. It was hardly the life I’d envisioned as a child, but it was all I could think to do until my circumstances changed.”

  “Did you find such a dwelling?”

  “I do believe my mouth is getting dry. May I please have a cup of water?”

  I go into the reception room to ask my secretary to bring a carafe of cold water and glasses, but she has left for the day. As before, when I return, Miss Neige is upright and clutching her purse. I see on her face the steely expression that must have been there when she was fighting her way through the woods, determined at all costs to take control of her life.

  I offer her a cup of water.

  She snatches it out of my hand and greedily drinks. When the cup is empty she says, “Shall I continue?”

  “Please take your time, Miss Neige.”

  “As the sunset faded, I came upon a small cabin situated near a stream. There were no lights on inside or any indication that it was inhabited, yet I was leery of approaching. I was taught to speak French and play the harpsichord, but training in self-defense had never been included in my curriculum. Neither had breaking and entering—but it’s not nearly as difficult as one might assume.”

  “And was the cabin empty?” I ask.

  “Yes. It was very dark by then, and I had no candle or lantern. I found a pile of filthy blankets in one corner. I made a bed, ate some of the bread and cheese in my bag, and then curled up and fell asleep of utter exhaustion.”

  “And the next morning?”

  “I was able to take a better look at my temporary home. The only furniture consisted of a crude, hand-hewn table and two benches. Bits of crockery and cutlery were scattered on the floor. I gathered them up and washed them in the stream, then did the same with the blankets and hung them on branches to dry. I spent the rest of the day whisking the floor with a clump of weeds, scrubbing grime off the windowpanes, and searching the woods for edible berries. I stayed near the cabin in case I heard bloodhounds and needed to retrieve my remaining food and flee once again. I never did, though, and came to believe that when my father and stepmother were informed of my escape, she convinced him it was for the best to leave me out on my own. I’m quite sure she secretly hoped I would be killed by a wild animal or expire from hypothermia. She would have liked that. I could envision her standing by my grave, weeping for my father’s benefit while considering which trinkets of jewelry to take from my dressing table drawer.”

  I make a small noise meant to assure her that she has my attention. “And …?”

  “I knew a diet of berries and water would not sustain me much longer. The berries, in particular, made me sneezy. I was forced to rip up my slip for handkerchiefs.”

  “Berries made you sneezy?” I add the word to my growing list. “Isn’t it more likely that you were allergic to mold inside the cabin?”

  “Does it matter why I was sneezy?” she retorts with a sardonic smile. Contrary to my expectations, her teeth are as sharp as those of a fox.

  “Please continue,” I say, disconcerted.

  “Only if you’ll stop contradicting me. I do not care to be labeled by someone who knows so little about me. It’s very rude, Doctor.”

  “My apologies, Miss Neige.”

  “And you understand that I was sneezy?”

  “I’ll record it in my notebook.”

  “All right, then. Keeping the cabin as a base, I commenced to explore in all directions until I found an isolated farmhouse several miles away. I stole potatoes and turnips from bins in the barn. A week later I returned, waited until the family left, and went into the house. I filled a pillowcase with candles, matches, packages of beans and rice, and a loaf of bread. I could have taken more, but it was vital that the residents remained unaware of my unauthorized visits.”

  “You went back several times?”

  “Oh, yes, and also to other farmhouses I’d discovered. Oft
en the houses were occupied, forcing me to rely on what I found in barns and outbuildings. But every now and then fortune smiled on me and I was able to return to my cabin with the makings of a veritable banquet. Who would have thought I’d make such a fine thief?”

  It is not difficult to imagine her concealed by shadows, spying on farmers and their families. I make a noncommittal noise.

  “Don’t you agree, Doctor,” she continues in an amused voice, “that someone of my breeding should be totally inept in basic survival skills?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I murmur, noticing that it’s beginning to grow dark outside. I consider turning on my desk lamp, but decide to wait. “Perhaps we should move along, Miss Neige.”

  “As you wish.”

  I expect her to speak, but she gazes at the window. My tape recorder is whirring like an insect in a distant field, ready to capture our voices so I will be able to provide an accurate transcript to the prosecutor. I decide to venture into treacherous areas. “This must have been a lonely time, Miss Neige.”

  “But it wasn’t, not at all,” she says heatedly. “They began to arrive. First one, than another—each demanding a meal, a place to sleep, clothing. It was draining. I was obliged to become the nurturing figure, much as yourself. I was the doctor, the one who murmured much as you’ve been doing and encouraged them to relax. I had no choice. They insisted on calling me ‘Doc’ despite my protests.”

  “They?” I am bewildered. There is nothing in the police report to indicate there were other occupants at the scene of the crime.

  “Yes!” she snaps. “The cabin became quite crowded. I was forced to scavenge for food several times a week to keep them fed. The blankets had to be washed every day. I would leave, and when I came back, find that the fire had been doused or the table overturned. Things had been peaceful before they came, and I begged them to go away.”