Tuck reddened. "Not on purpose. I mean, my sheep wasn't looking to make himself sick. Hannah..." He replaced his hat, rolled his big shoulders. "It's none of my business, but I think maybe it's time she stopped messing around with herbs and stuff. She's going to kill somebody one of these days, if not herself."
Clate nodded, walking out to Tuck's truck with him. "It's none of my business, either, but I'll give it some thought."
Tuck had barely backed out of the driveway when Hannah herself arrived in her little raspberry sedan.
"I thought you were supposed to be on the mend today," Clate said as she climbed out in one of her weird prairie dresses.
"A few cups of sage tea and I'm right as rain." She gave her long skirt a good shake and inhaled deeply. "Oh, I do miss my fresh sea air. May I come in?"
"Of course."
She smiled, deceptively sweet. "You're a Southern gentleman, aren't you?"
He laughed. "Not hardly."
"Meaning you were raised to exercise good manners," she clarified, "not that you're necessarily gentlemanly with money. Although I suspect you are, more than you're willing to admit."
"I was raised to get along on my own."
Pursing her lips, she gave a tight, confident shake of the head. "No. Someone taught you proper manners. You know what to do, what to say, even if your baser instincts are to be less polite." Her green eyes sparkled with insight, understanding. "And you often have been."
Clate pulled open the creaking front door and held it for her. "Certain of yourself, aren't you?"
"Almost always."
"I have a feeling, Mrs. Frye," he laid on the southern drawl, "that you're just a real good guesser."
"An excellent guesser," she said, unoffended, "but I don't need to guess when I already know, do I?"
Clate let that one go. She led the way to the formal front parlor, which, thus far, he hadn't so much as sat in. With her old-fashioned dress and white hair, she looked as if she belonged amidst the antique furnishings. He could imagine her waiting for a sea captain to return from the Far East, bringing home the china plates displayed on the mantel, the intricately carved chest off to one side of the prim, uncomfortable sofa, the ivory statue, the chess set made of whalebone.
She settled on the edge of a Queen Anne chair. He offered her something to drink. She declined. Her eyes leveled on his as he remained standing next to the cold fireplace. "It was my husband."
"What?"
"The man I saw that night."
Clate didn't move. "The night your parents died?"
"Yes. I had no memory of it until I moved out of here." She glanced around the musty room, but her expression didn't change. She was eerily calm for a woman who'd just accused her husband of killing her parents. "And even then, it came to me in a dream. A clear dream. There's no doubt. Jason Frye lured my parents onto a sandbar, robbed them, and left them. He took their treasure and buried it that same night out here, in his own back yard."
"Why?"
"So he wouldn't get caught." She spoke without hesitation or bitterness. "It would have ruined him, his family name. That was important to him. The Fryes don't have the scoundrels in their family tree that the Macintoshes do. I'm sure he was terribly sorry about what he'd done. It was probably a prank, something he did to make himself feel courageous and daring. Jason always wanted to feel courageous and daring. I expect he had no idea my parents would actually die."
"But if your parents recognized him when he robbed them—"
"He could have been wearing a mask."
Clate said nothing, trying to imagine the horror Hannah must have felt when she realized her husband of seven years had caused her parents' death, even if unintentionally.
Provided her memory of that night so long ago was reliable.
"He tried to make it up to me," she went on with conviction. "I can see that now, in hindsight. He helped my brother and me find housing, helped first him and then me find work, was always there if we needed anything. He supported me in all my arguments with the board of selectmen over the direction the town was taking. Eventually he even married me." She shut her eyes briefly. "It all makes sense now."
Clate edged toward the sofa. A breeze lifted the soft, faded white curtain, brought with it the smell of the Frye gardens. How had she lived here for twenty-five years, knowing yet not knowing? Had her subconscious not permitted her to remember? Or was she just nuts? "Mrs. Frye—"
"It all must seem so far-fetched to you." Her tone was patient, her expression still unchanged. "I understand. You're so young."
"Memory can be a tricky thing."
She smiled placidly. "I'm eighty-seven, Clate. I know just how tricky memory can be. But I do remember."
"Eighty years later, in a dream."
"Yes. Eighty years later, in a dream."