The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [46]
I’m going to kill you, Theresa. Sam will be mine.
Tess padded through the silent house. Not knowing what else to do, she followed J.T.’s lead. She jumped into the pool and started to swim.
EDITH MAGHER TOOK pride in her garden. She’d lived alone all her life, never having found Mr. Right, and by the time she was forty she knew she was destined to be a childless spinster and that was that. She adopted her garden instead, each flower, stalk, and leaf becoming precious to her.
She worked outside every day, spring through fall. In the narrow six streets that served as her tiny neighborhood, she was widely regarded as having the best yard, and even that new couple who bought the house on the corner kept their big, pawing Labradors at bay.
She was outside now, preparing her flower beds for winter. Late September was generally beautiful in Lenox, Massachusetts, the trees turning a rich gold, the sky an unbelievably bright blue. This year, however, the weather was turning cold unusually fast. On the news they were already issuing frost warnings, and even the diehards who vowed never to turn on their furnace until the first of November were beginning to think twice. Edith hadn’t decided whether she was prepared to turn on her heat yet, but she was definitely tending to her garden. She believed firmly in being prepared, which was why she’d been able to retire from her bank teller job at the age of sixty instead of slaving away until sixty-five, as so many others had. This afternoon was perfect for gardening; the huge maple tree in her yard reflected a dozen shades of gold and the slowly sinking sun made the leaves even deeper. When Edith breathed in deeply, she caught the rich odors of drying leaves, fertile earth, and mulled spices. Some people worked on their gardens in the morning, but Edith had always preferred dusk.
Yesterday she’d gotten word that her dear neighbor Mrs. Martha Ohlsson was finally returning from Florida. Given the news that that horrible serial killer—Jim Beckett, that was his name—had just escaped from Walpole, Edith was looking forward to Martha’s return. Living next to an empty house no longer seemed safe.
Edith reminded herself every night as she locked up her tiny two-bedroom bungalow that she had nothing to worry about. Her community was a small one, a quiet one. The heart of Lenox boasted old, beautiful Victorian houses that had once been the summer homes of Boston’s elite. Edith Wharton had given Lenox its claim to fame by building her mansion on the outskirts of town. Neighboring Tanglewood spread its lush green grounds and unbelievable mountain view for people who appreciated the Boston Symphony’s fine music and mother nature’s even finer grandeur. Between Tanglewood and the Wharton mansion, Lenox saw a fair amount of tourists during the bright summer months and brilliant fall.
Now, thanks to the unexpected cold spell, Lenox was already taking on its winter rhythms, tranquil and slow. Nothing much had happened in Edith Magher’s community since a few years before, when the Joneses’ oldest son had broken his arm in a car accident.
Every now and then, however, Edith had these spells. Not often—it had been years since the last one. But she was having them now, and sometimes at night she found herself lying awake just listening to the sound of her own heartbeat. She looked over her shoulder more too, as if expecting to see something awful.
Her great-great grandmother Magher supposedly had had the gift of sight. Edith didn’t believe in such things. She trusted only the earth, the power of mother nature, and the beauty of her garden.
Which was why when she looked up now and saw the ephemeral image of a thin blond girl standing at the base of the old oak with blood on her face, Edith shook her head and said, “Don’t you do that to me.”
The vision politely vanished.
Edith went back inside her house and brewed a strong cup of black tea.
TEN
DON’T STAND THERE.” “Why not?” J.T. grabbed her arm and dragged her toward him.