“Did you?” Del asked.
William slipped a hand into his jacket pocket. “I did,” he said. “Born and reared.”
“So all of you knew her? She was a friend?”
Del sipped my wine, and I wanted to reach out and dash it from her hand.
“Everyone knows everyone in a small town,” he said.
I understood then the somber tone of the group, the absence of costumes—that this was a sort of vigil for Mary Rae.
“Oh, we know all about small towns,” Del said.
I wasn’t sure when I might join the conversation. Should I mention where we were from, or tell him I was a student? Should I ask him what he did for a living? But Del continued on.
“We can see if your friend has a message for anyone,” she said. “My sister and I can contact her.”
William had raised his beer to his mouth. I’d seen him glancing around for a way to excuse himself, but now he lowered the beer and angled his head at Del. “Pardon?” he said.
I should have stepped in and interrupted, but I found myself unable to summon the words to stop her. She went on to explain about the Spiritualists by the Sea, and how we received our training there as young girls. “I’m sure Martha wouldn’t mind a session. If your friends are curious, that is. Some people gain solace from a medium.”
I could feel my face redden. “No parlor tricks today, Del,” I said.
Del looked almost flirtatious. “She’s just being modest. We’re really very good.”
William clutched his beer with both hands. “The majority here don’t talk about her in the past tense,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is seeking closure.”
“I’m sorry,” I said to him.
I watched him walk off across the lawn with a sense of a missed chance.
8
I did like boys. The story I told Detective Thomson had been just that—a story with a small bit of truth—one afternoon Jane and I had gotten high and kissed in her bedroom as practice for the boys we planned to take each other’s place. I’d started it, and Jane had been embarrassed after—so much so that she’d begged me never to tell anyone, her eyes filled with anxious tears.
The sun lowered, and the sky darkened, and gray clouds slipped quickly across the horizon and out of view. Someone had added wood to the bonfire and tightened the ring of folding chairs around it. A grill on the terrace sent up smoke, the source of the grilled meat.
Del drank the wine back in one gulp.
“Another?” she said. She held the glass by its stem and twirled it. “This is fancy.”
“I can’t believe you said that,” I told her.
“It’s the night when lost souls return home,” she said. “It would be a perfect time to do it.”
“How do you know she’s dead?” I said. “You can’t talk like that here with her friends all around.”
“Oh, I have it on good confidence that she’s dead,” she said. “And she may be stuck in between worlds, or have some last words. She may want to name her killer.”
Mary Rae had stopped at the porch party that night, lingering, as if she wanted to join them. “Where did you hear this?” I asked Del.
“I have some friends who talked about it,” she told me.
I went to the bar and poured myself a new glass of wine. Del reached for the bottle. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Just stop it.” I grabbed the bottle back from her. Her medication clearly prohibited the addition of alcohol. “What friends? Where did you meet them?”
Del sighed. “It’s too hard to explain,” she said. “They live in the encampment. And I know you’re going to ask me ‘what encampment,’ but I’m not even going to try to describe it. I will take you there.”
“What?”
“They want to meet you anyway.”
“Who?” I said.
“Sybil Townsend,” she said. “She reads cards.”
“Not a very original name,” I said, laughing. “She reads cards in the encampment?”
“Yes.” Del spun her empty wineglass in her hands, and I took it from her and set it on the bar.
“You’re going to break that,” I said.
I worried that Del had lost the plot, as Geoff would say. I should have kept a more careful eye on her. The concerto spilled through the window speakers, and we could hear the low voices of the people around the bonfire.
“Sybil read my cards,” Del said. “She said someone close to me is in touch with the dead girl.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said. “That’s just not true.”