You Let Me In - Camilla Bruce Page 0,69
have had help. Your father died violently, as we said, and certain skills were involved that your mother is very certain that your brother didn’t possess. Like woodcarving and weaponry.”
“He did fence for a while,” I tried to be helpful. “But as I said, I didn’t know him well, so I don’t know who could have helped him.”
“You write books about a lot of different things, though, don’t you? You have to know a lot of things to do that,” Parks plowed on. Amira’s cheeks stayed flushed.
“I certainly write very little about woodcarving and weaponry. I write mostly about beaches and fruity drinks.”
“You are no stranger to human anatomy, though.”
“Well, my stories sometimes get heated, but as you well know, Officer Parks, I have been a widow for quite some time.”
“You know very well what I mean.” The beard bobbed on his chest while he spoke.
“Tell me how my brother died.” I was eager to get them back on track.
“He hanged himself from the roof beam,” grunted Parks.
Amira mumbled, “So sorry … so sorry…”
“The murder weapon was found in there with him,” said Parks. “It has scribbles all over it, quotes from that book about fairies.”
“Huh?”
“That book about fairies, the one he wrote, the doctor who treated you.”
“Dr. Martin?”
“That’s the one, and your mother swears the scribbles on the spear are in your hand.”
“It is messy, though,” added Amira, “hard to tell with all the … matter.”
“I’m sure my mother has quite forgotten what my loops and curlicues looks like by now.”
“We are so sorry to bring such bad news,” Amira burst out, “and so sorry we have to ask all these questions.”
“As I said, we weren’t close.”
“Still…”
“Ours wasn’t a happy home.” I was still trying to throw them off the scent—using the truth, no less. “When we grew up there was much discord. You can read all about it in ‘the book about fairies.’”
“Thank you,” said Amira, “we’ll do that.”
Parks only grunted in reply.
* * *
“Why the heart?” I asked Mara when she finally reappeared, sitting in my kitchen as if nothing had happened, flipping through a wildlife magazine.
“It is a very effective way of killing.”
“Seems like a lot of work, though, digging that pit, whittling those stakes…”
“He was a big man and I didn’t want to take any chances. Down there he was pretty much stuck—you don’t walk away from a position like that. It works perfectly fine with real bears as well.”
“And what about Ferdinand?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he died, didn’t he?”
“It appears so.”
“He killed himself, Mara, and that isn’t good.”
“He should have filled in the pit first.”
“Yes, he should have—why didn’t he?” I slumped down in the chair opposite her, gently took the magazine from her hands so she was forced to look at me. On the glossy pages, stags were fighting, locking antlers in a tangle of bones.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “He got frightened maybe. I think seeing it made him feel bad.”
“Well, yes, it would, wouldn’t it? A grown man spiked and speared—”
“I never forced him to do anything.”
“But you went back there, didn’t you? You were there when Ferdinand died.”
“I was not.”
“But the spear, Mara, and the mushrooms?”
“I left the spear behind when I left. As for the fairy ring, you should ask your lover.”
“Pepper-Man?”
“The very one.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, if I didn’t do it, who else has such high stakes in this they went to your brother and strung him up … left footprints on the floor…”
“Oh no,” I said. “You can’t make me blame Pepper-Man for this. You are only mad that he hit you.”
“Well, think about it, Mother. It was the best way to protect you, wasn’t it, to firmly plant the guilt with him—with Ferdinand … And who is more eager to protect you in the whole wide world than the very creature that feeds from you?”
“You are cunning, my daughter, but I won’t play along. Not this time. Pepper-Man knew I didn’t want Ferdinand harmed—”
“When did he ever care about what you want? He is self-serving in every way, you have said so yourself, many times. If Pepper-Man thought it was better if he died, your feelings really didn’t matter.”
“He wouldn’t do that to me—”
“Yes, he would.”
“He is your father—”
“No, he’s not. I don’t have a father. Not anymore.” A tiny smile played on her lips. I looked at her for a while then, the unruly hair, the tattered feathers. My daughter—dark sister—born of pain.
“You should have filled in that hole,” I said weakly.
“What difference