Now it was Jim’s turn to search the photo for the clues that had inspired such absolute certainty.
“The Fisher family were from up the valley,” she said. “They came from Ireland. I’ve heard Father talk about this wake he was at when he was young, a real kegger of a funeral where the corpse is right there in the coffin, with the lid open so it doesn’t have to miss any of the fun.”
Jim laughed.
“It’s true,” said Ruth Rose. “Anyway, he says these guys at the wake rigged up the corpse so that it could really join in.”
Jim looked dubious.
“With strings” said Ruth Rose. “They attached strings to the arms and head, whatever — like a puppet — and then ran the strings up through the ceiling some way or other, probably through the heat vent. Then, when everybody was dancing and singing and cross-eyed with booze, these guys slipped out of the room, went upstairs and started pulling on the strings, so that the corpse sat up in its coffin and started waving its hands around.”
Jim could see it in his mind’s eye. It sounded demented, all right. But then he had never been to an ordinary funeral, let alone a wake. There had been a memorial service for his father but there was no casket. No body at all.
“You mean the haunting at the Tufts place…the lids dancing around on the stove pots and the irons walking down the stairs—”
“Strings,” said Ruth Rose. “And him pulling them, I bet.” Then she looked soberly at Jim. “They must have all been in on it.” There was a look of challenge in her eyes.
Jim nodded cautiously. His dad would have been twelve when that happened, just a couple of years younger than Jim was now. And Eldon Fisher would have been about the same age as Ruth Rose, with Tuffy somewhere in the middle. The Three Musketeers.
Jim himself wasn’t the practical joker type and his father hadn’t been, either. He wanted to tell her that, but the glinty lights in her eyes seemed to dare him to contradict her. Why did she have to make everything a contest of will? He had done all this research, but he wasn’t even allowed to have an opinion. He turned away, tried not to be disappointed, angry.
“You don’t want to believe it,” she said.
“I’m thinking,” he snapped.
And he was. Trying, at least, though she wasn’t making it easy. His father had been the youngster of the group, just tagging along, like Everett had said. If he was involved in the haunting, that wasn’t so bad. Except that it was because of the haunting that Francis was caught when he came home from starting the fire. So in a way, his father and Eldon were responsible for him being sent away to reform school.
Jim tried to imagine being sent away from home. How horrible it would be to feel responsible for someone else being sent away. No wonder his dad was so down when Francis Tuffy Tufts died. Down enough to quit school. It explained a lot. In fact…
Jim looked at Ruth Rose. “What if Tuffy got really bent out of shape — depressed — at reform school. Like he was pretty nuts to begin with, but being locked up pushed him over the edge. So he came back to make a point.”
“Make a point?”
“Suicide,” said Jim. “The fire, I mean. Like it was a statement or something. It was meant to make my dad and Eldon feel bad. Which it did, big time.”
He looked at Ruth Rose for encouragement. But she had turned her attention back to the article. Her forehead was wrinkled in thought.
“Or,” she said, “it wasn’t suicide.”
Her eyes locked on Jim’s. “They say Francis Tufts owned up to being the ghost when he got arrested. He didn’t point the finger at anybody else. Which could mean one, he did it all by himself, which seems pretty unlikely; or two, he didn’t rat on the others.”
“Which would make them kind of owe him,” said Jim.
“Right,” said Ruth Rose. “You said your bus driver called Fisher a real wheeler-dealer. So what if he cut a deal with Tuffy? ‘You take the fall and when you get out I’ll make it worth your while?’”
Jim wrinkled his nose. “How would he do that?”
“He was rich, or at least his daddy was. Bet he promised him money or something. Maybe he was going to come into his inheritance when he graduated from college.”
“I still don’t get why Tuffy would go for it.”
Ruth Rose looked exasperated, as if she were talking to an infant. “He was caught red-handed. He was going to jail anyway. So at least this way, he has something to look forward to. Except that when he gets out and comes back, Fisher tells him to beat it, or whatever. So Tuffy threatens to expose him — them, I mean, your daddy, too. Then, kazam! Tuffy goes up in flames. Pretty convenient.”
“Murder?“
She shrugged, but there was a satisfied look on her face.
“So you’re saying Fisher murdered Tuffy?”
Ruth Rose threw her head back against the couch. Jim was staring at her pale, thin neck when her head jerked forward again, and her eyes were filled with irritation.
“When are you gonna get it?” she said. “When are you going to face facts? We’re not just talking about Fisher, here, Jim.”
The insinuation was unmistakable. Jim blew up.
“Bullshit!”
Suddenly, there was a crash from the kitchen.
They both jumped to their feet. Snoot dashed past them, her hair on end. Ruth Rose grabbed a broom that was leaning against the wall and held it like a pike staff. They waited for another sound — the floor to creak, something else to break, someone to speak.
Nothing.
Jim sneaked towards the door and peered into the kitchen. Some crockery lay broken on the floor by the sink, supper scraps scattered all around it. This was a mystery that didn’t take much to solve.
Jim turned to Ruth Rose. “I’ll need your weapon,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, though his eyes gave away his anger at her. She was sitting on the couch again with the broom across her lap. She looked shaken, all the swagger and dark suspicion drained from her eyes. He snatched the broom from her.
He swept up the damage and then spent some time stoking up the fire, not wanting to talk to her, wishing she had never shown up. It was as if she wanted to hurt him, wanted him to feel the way she felt. As if she was lighting a fuse and waiting for the explosion…
When he returned to the parlour, Ruth Rose was fast asleep on the couch. Jim almost wanted to shake her awake, but he knew it would be fruitless. She was all done in. It was a relief, really. He couldn’t go through any more of this with her now. His father a murderer: the idea was absurd.
After a moment of just standing over her, watching her, he found her a blanket. Then he took the seat across from her. It was piled with his mom’s sewing stuff and clothes in need of repair. He moved them aside and sat staring at Ruth Rose in a stillness broken only by the pounding of his heart and the steady rainfall outside. Even in her sleep, Ruth Rose’s face was creased in a frown.
The heat came in waves from the kitchen stove. Jim found himself drifting off, his mind a jumble. There were a lot of ways to read the few so-called facts. And you brought to the facts what you wanted — what you needed to believe.
“All we’ve got in this God-forsaken corner of the county is history.” That’s what his father used to say.
If only history would stay where it belonged, thought Jim. And with that sobering thought, he picked himself up, switched off the light and went up into the cold.
15
In Jim’s dream, the Godmobile sailed into the farmyard without a sound, on a muddy lake of fall rain. And out of the car stepped Father Fisher, in his long black coat and with his black hat pulled low over his eyes, gliding towards the house, soundless and strong.