The Drowned Woman. Terry Thomas Lynn

was a soft rapping at the door.

      ‘Come in,’ I said.

      A young girl came in carrying a tray.

      ‘Ah, Helen. Lemonade. Good. Sarah, meet Helen Dickenson.’ We said our hellos.

      ‘Helen is going to make sure you and Zeke have everything you need. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. See you later,’ Daphne said.

      ‘Thanks,’ I called after her.

      Helen Dickenson was a sturdy girl, with brown eyes and a quiet way about her that I liked right away.

      ‘I’ve taken a few of your things to be ironed. And I’m quite handy with the comb, miss. I can come back before dinner and fix you up real nice, if you’d like.’

      ‘Thank you, Helen.’

      ‘My room is just next door. If you need me, that’s where I’ll be, or downstairs in the kitchen. We’re all glad that Mr Zeke has come home, miss. I hope you’ll be happy here.’ With that, she walked down the corridor toward the staircase.

      ‘Oh, but we won’t be staying that …’ My words trailed off. Helen had disappeared.

      * * *

      I lay down on the sofa in the sitting area and soon fell asleep, Rachel Caen’s portrait the last thing I saw before my eyes shut. Daphne was right. The afternoon heat was relentless. I woke up groggy, damp with sweat, and parched. The sun had started to set, leaving the room bathed in a soft light that pierced the heavy curtains. The iced lemonade that Helen had brought up earlier had melted. I poured a glass of the watered-down stuff and chugged it, then poured another and sipped. A fan sat in the corner of the room. I propped it up on the desk, turned it on, and headed into the bathroom.

      I took a cold bath and had just buttoned my blouse when Zeke came into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. ‘Just me,’ Zeke said. ‘I’ve had a—’

      Someone banged on the bedroom door.

      Was there no privacy to be had in this house? I smoothed my hair and hurried out to meet whoever had come to speak to Zeke.

      ‘Simon, what do you want? If it’s about what happened at the mill, now isn’t the time.’ Zeke’s tone was so sharp, I stopped in my tracks.

      ‘No, we are talking about this now,’ the other voice said.

      I stayed hidden in the bathroom, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar, not quite sure if I should make my presence known.

      ‘You seem to think that you can come home, the prodigal son, and waltz into a position of authority at the mill,’ Simon said. ‘How dare you? You’ve always been arrogant, but don’t you think this is pushing it just a little bit? I’ve actually done a good job, made a difference to the workers’ lives, and have increased the profit margins. Not that Father would notice. He hasn’t said a kind word to me in years.’

      ‘Simon, we aren’t going to stay here. We have a life in Sausalito, a home, a business.’

      ‘Why should I believe you?’ Simon asked.

      This had gone far enough. I knocked on the door between the bathroom and bedroom, and opened it, like a lamb going to slaughter.

      Zeke leaned on his cane. His eyes flashed with fury as he faced off with his brother. Simon Caen, for his part, seemed just as angry. He shared Zeke’s flashing eyes, although his were blue. Both men were tall and lean, but the resemblance ended there. Where Zeke’s jaw was determined, Simon’s was soft. Where Zeke’s eyes held your gaze, never breaking contact, Simon’s flitted around. He had the countenance of a spoiled boy, and I judged him to be weak within seconds of laying eyes on him.

      ‘You must be Simon,’ I said, forcing a smile.

      ‘So this is the psychic wife,’ Simon said. He surveyed me, not bothering to hide his distaste.

      ‘You will address my wife with respect,’ Zeke growled.

      ‘Simon, I overheard what you said. We’re not staying here. Believe me.’

      Simon smirked. ‘You’re up to something, both of you. I would like to know what it is. Why in the hell are you two here?’

      Zeke hobbled over to the table and poured himself a glass of watered-down lemonade. He drank it in one gulp.

      ‘I’ve come to clean up your mess, Simon.’

      ‘I don’t have a mess, brother, and if I did, I wouldn’t want your help.’

      ‘Are you aware of Millport’s resident thief? Ah, I didn’t think so. Are you aware that one of Rachel’s emeralds has surfaced?’

      Simon’s face paled.

      ‘They’ve been reworking the autopsy and other evidence. What do you say about that?’ Simon’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth and shut it again, without uttering a word. ‘And it seems that you’ve somehow come up with the money to pay off your gambling debts,’ Zeke said. ‘So how did you get the money?’

      ‘Are you saying that Joe Connor thinks I had something to do with Rachel’s … My god, I cannot even fathom this,’ Simon said. He started pacing the floor beneath Rachel’s picture. The irony of this was not lost on me.

      ‘Where did you get the money?’ Zeke asked again.

      ‘None of your business,’ Simon snapped. ‘I’ll discuss it with Joe Connor. That’s all you need to know.’ He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

      I stood behind Zeke and started to knead the muscles in his shoulders.

      ‘It never will change,’ Zeke said. ‘Simon doesn’t want me here, my father doesn’t want me here, and – here’s the irony – I don’t want to be here.’

      I longed for the foggy days, our small, yet comfortable flat, and the day-to-day things that we dealt with at home – finding scrap metal for Jimmy Blithe to take to the corner; Mrs Fields and her cats that were always escaping; the clients who would wander into the office seeking help for small matters, such as lost jewelry or suspicions about wives who had spending problems. They all appealed to me now. I even missed the neverending noise from the shipyards that were turning out Goliath-like ships at a frightening pace. Now that I had a chance to miss the home we had created together, I realized that our life in Sausalito was very fine indeed.

      Zeke stood up, kissed me, and tucked a stray wisp of hair behind my ears, a familiar gesture of endearment that never failed to warm my heart. ‘Promise me that you won’t let my father upset you. He’s an ogre. Prepare yourself for the worst.’

      ‘Surely you know by now that I’m case hardened,’ I said.

      ‘Excuse me, miss?’ Helen rapped on the door before she opened it. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought you might like me to dress your hair.’

      ‘I’ll be back shortly,’ Zeke said. He nodded at Helen and left us.

      ‘He’s very romantic,’ Helen said.

      ‘He is. Now show me what you have in mind.’ I took the seat at the vanity.

      ‘Close your eyes,’ she said. I did as she requested. She took my silver brush and ran it through my hair in sweeping strokes that lulled me. She parted my hair and started curling and pinning, weaving my hair into loops and curls with the expertise of a professional.

      ‘Okay, I’m finished.’

      She handed me a small mirror. I surveyed my hair from the back. Helen had woven my hair into an updo, similar to the style worn by movie stars.

      ‘I can’t believe it,’ I said.

      ‘You look lovely.’ She beamed at me, her cheeks aglow.

      ‘You should be a professional, Helen,’ I said.

      ‘No,