Page 23 of One Last Breath

The fog lifts, and once again, I am firmly grounded in reality. I smile at her and say, “It’s wonderful to meet you, Sylvia.”

“Wharton tells me you’re taking the children for ice cream,” she says. “You must allow me to treat you. I know their favorite shop.”

“You’re very kind,” I tell her, “but I can’t allow you to buy ice cream for eleven people.”

“Oh please,” she says, as I know she will. “I insist.”

I smile. “Well, if you insist.”

***

The shop she takes us to is in one of the parks adjoining the historic district. The children finish their ice cream quickly, and a surprising amount of it reaches their mouths before melting onto their clothing. When they finish, they convince Wharton to take them to the playground thirty yards distant. As that’s close enough for me and Sylvia to see all of them as well, he relents.

While they play, I take my chance to learn what I can from Sylvia. “So how long have you and Annabelle known each other.”

“Oh, our whole lives. We were in school together all the way from kindergarten through middle school.”

"Ah, yes. Then she was tutored through high school, correct?"

Sylvia’s lips thin a little. “That’s right. Her parents believed she would benefit from a personalized education. Her father’s a real stickler for upbringing.”

She puts a slight emphasis on that last word, but what surprises me more is that it’s James and not Elizabeth she mentions. “Her father?”

“That’s what she told me, anyway. The Greenwoods aren’t old money.”

That surprises me. “They aren’t? But their estate is a century and a half old!”

“The property is, yes, but James is the first Greenwood to own it. Prior to that, it was owned by a family called the Blythes. A lot of the more established families in town still call it the Blythe Estate. Not that I or anyone else under the age of fifty cares about that.”

“But James does?”

“So Annabelle says. She told me that he wants desperately to be a member of the aristocracy. When he bought the plantation, he imagined himself as the Southern Rockefeller. This is all what she said, mind you.”

That’s the third time she’s insisted that she’s only repeating Annabelle’s words. I wonder if she doesn’t trust her friend’s claims. “How did Annabelle get on with her governess?”

Sylvia scoffs. “She hated her. Didn’t listen to a word the poor woman told her to do.”

“Really?”

That contrasts with the dismissive attitude Annabelle shows earlier but fits very well with the defensiveness that comes when I ask what happened to her. I wonder if Annabelle might know more than she tells me.

“Really,” Sylvia confirms. “She was so cruel to her. Lila, I think her name was. She seemed a nice enough woman. I only saw her a few times when I’d come to visit, but I never thought she deserved the hate Annabelle gave her.”

“What did she do?”

"Oh, typical teenage nonsense," Sylvia said with a shrug. "Telling her she hated her, that she was stupid and worthless and better off dead. One time, she even threatened to do it herself."

“What?”

"Yes. She said… I can't remember exactly what, but something like, 'If you don't stop harassing me about homework, I'll use you to fertilize the garden.' I remember that last part about fertilizing the garden. I just don't remember if it was homework that prompted it or something else. I feel bad because I could tell Lila was really upset by it, but I laughed. I mean, it was ridiculous. Use her to fertilize the garden? Like Annabelle was some mob boss or something." She sighed. "Children can be cruel. It was all in fun, though. At least for Annabelle. She didn't really understand what she was saying."

I don’t correct Sylvia, but I don’t believe her either. Not about the last part. A fifteen-year-old child might not understand everything about the world, but they can understand that threatening to murder someone isn’t funny.

And the way she threatened her. Using her to fertilize the garden.

It all fits. Violet’s distrustful behavior and her own dark past. Elizabeth’s oddness and her obsession over a plot of geraniums. Her almost pleading conversations with people who aren’t there, perhaps the Secret Keeper, perhaps the ghost of Deirdre McCoy.

Or perhaps the very real body of Lila Benson.

---