Page 4 of The Gallagher Place
“Darling, it looks like you didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ll come and get you if you’re needed.”
Her mother was every inch the pragmatist, and when she was faced with strife, she put the dead weight to bed first so things could get done.
Marlowe convinced herself that she wasn’t following an order by turning on her heels and padding down to the basement, but she felt like a child. Marlowe was never considered a useful member of the family. Quiet, artistic maybe, occasionally sarcastic, but never useful.
She shut herself in her bathroom and shrugged off her coat, letting it fall to the tile floor. It was then that she noticed hertrembling hands. She yanked open her medicine cabinet, looking for the familiar label, not finding it, and then slamming it shut. The house cleaner who came once a week sometimes moved things around. Glory too. Marlowe could never be sure who the culprit was.
Marlowe had meant to rest for only a moment, but when she sat down on her bed fully clothed, the soft pull of sleep overtook her. She awoke thirty minutes later to the low hum of a car in the driveway and the sound of a murmured conversation just outside her window.
Sitting up, she rubbed her eyes and listened for another minute before heading back upstairs. In the kitchen, Glory was at one end of the massive wooden table custom-made from repurposed barn doors, her hands wrapped around a mug. Stephanie was beside her, absently swirling tea in her cup, while Constance leaned against the counter, her arms crossed, her eyes darting toward the window every so often. A singsongy melody drifted in from the den; the children had been placed in front of a television program.
Their silence gave Marlowe the sense that the three women had been talking about her.
Glory glanced up as Marlowe entered. “The police are here,” she said softly. “Henry took them out to join Frank and Nate in the field.”
“Did you speak to them yet?”
“The police? No, Henry met them outside,” Glory said. “Feeling better?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
Marlowe surveyed the straight line of Glory’s back. She was over sixty but still moved as well as she had twenty years ago. It had to do with her childhood on a farm. There was something in her that was as all-enduring as dirt.
On the other hand, Marlowe’s father had been waning for years. She had concerns about his walking all the way out to where they’d found the body. He had heart trouble and lung trouble and sugar trouble. He hated growing old and helpless. He despised needing help to get up and down stairs, and he resented being unable to walk wherever he wanted on his own land.
It must be strange, Marlowe mused, for Glory to know for certain she was going to outlive her husband, likely by many years.
Marlowe pushed the thought aside and then quickly grabbed her coat as she headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” Glory asked.
Marlowe shut the door behind her. She didn’t have to explain to her mother why she had a right to go wherever her brothers went. For the second time that day, Marlowe crossed the street and walked through the old Gallagher property.
Marlowe’s breath shortened as she trudged over the Rise and down into the gully, faster than she’d gone before.
There was no massive crowd, no white tent that Marlowe had expected. For now, there were just two policemen cordoning off the area with stakes and yellow tape. One of them was taking photos, not of the tent but of the ground and the landscape. Another was talking to Nate and Frank and taking notes. No one had approached the tent yet; it seemed they were waiting for the experts.
Marlowe drew to a stop beside Henry, where he stood scanning the tent and the police officers. Pale light pooled in uneven patches along the banks of the river. The water levels were low, but she could still hear the faint trickling.
“Detectives are on their way,” Henry said.
“Do they know who it is?” Marlowe asked.
“Dad recognized him,” Henry said. “He’s a Gallagher cousin.”
Marlowe’s brows shot up. The Gallagher brothers had owned thebarn and fields across the street from the Gray House when the Fishers first bought it. All three Gallaghers had been single and childless. It was part of their tragedy. When they passed, Frank purchased the land, extending his own property to its current size. Marlowe was a teenager at the time, but she had never heard of any other Gallaghers.
“Or a great-nephew.” Henry shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and shook his head. “Cousin once removed. Something like that. He came to talk to Dad a few years ago about buying some of the land back.”
Marlowe had never heard Frank talk of anyone approaching him about the Gallagher land. She glanced over at her father, who appeared to be watching the water move. The skin of his face had taken on a purplish hue. It was a miracle he had been able to walk all the way out here. Crises gave people strength.
“Did you know about this?” Marlowe asked.
“What, about the land?”
“That a Gallagher had come back wanting to buy some of it.”
“Dad must have mentioned it to me when it happened, but there wasn’t much of a conversation. He’d never sell.”
