“They loved each other by then,” Mrs. Souder said. “Pink and Isabelle decided to get married. But Ida wouldn’t have it. She told the preacher that Pink and Isabelle were second cousins, but the preacher didn’t see how that mattered—second cousins were hardly blood relatives, he’d told her. At that point, I couldn’t talk to Isabelle anymore. She hated me.”
“She hated you?” Michelle said. “Why?”
“Not just me. She hated Ida too. She hated both of us for our deception.”
“Did Isabelle know Pink was her brother?” Michelle asked.
“When Isabelle was fifteen, same age as your daughter, Cassie, I told her. She never talked to me after that. I think that’s why she was so set on it,” Mrs. Souder continued, “like it would be a way to punish Ida and me for what we’d done. And it worked. Ida was so distraught . . . she killed herself.”
The strangeness of the evening cloaked itself around Michelle, a queer tingle running through her blood. “What about your husband?” Michelle asked.
“Buck? Buck didn’t hold with Pink and Isabelle being married. The shame overtook him. One night he called from Kentucky, where he was consulting on a project, and said he couldn’t live with the dishonesty anymore. He didn’t come home, and I never saw him again.”
“And Pink? Does he know Isabelle is his sister?”
Mrs. Souder shifted her gaze toward Michelle and for a moment it seemed like a strange light came from the old woman’s eyes, as if they glowed from within. Michelle had to look away for a moment to reset herself. When she looked back, Mrs. Souder was staring across the kitchen, her fingers absently wiping the tears from her cheek.
“That’s why he killed her.”
Michelle wasn’t sure she heard right. “What?”
Mrs. Souder turned to Michelle. “That’s why Pink killed her.”
“But . . . I thought she was alive.”
“Yes, she is, here,” Mrs. Souder said, “but she wasn’t before. I know Pink killed her.”
Michelle didn’t want to keep asking Mrs. Souder to explain, but she was having a difficult time following. Even so, Michelle felt a peculiar calm being with the old woman.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Souder. I . . . I don’t understand.”
“How could you dear,” the old woman said, as if returning from somewhere else. She looked over at Michelle.
“Pink went crazy when Isabelle told him.”
“Isabelle told Pink?” Michelle asked. “Why?”
“Because Claire, Isabelle’s sister, was having an affair with Pink. Claire didn’t know she was Pink’s sister. We only told Isabelle. Anyway, Isabelle got tired of it, especially when the affair became public. Isabelle didn’t care what people thought of her, but the idea of town-folks knowing about Pink and Claire’s affair was too much of an embarrassment and Isabelle wanted to punish him, the same way she wanted to punish Ida and me. The strange thing was, Pink never really believed Isabelle, but he couldn’t understand why she’d say something so vicious.”
Mrs. Souder folded her hands on the table.
“I finally told him the truth,” Mrs. Souder said. “That’s when he blew up, knocking things over, swearing, calling Isabelle a bitch, asking me how I could do such a thing. When he left here, I knew there would be trouble. I tried to make him stay, calm him down. It was the first time in my life he was deaf to me.
“After that night, I didn’t hear from Pink for over three weeks. I called, went to their house. He hadn’t been to the office. Clarence, Pink’s friend, hadn’t seen him either. Clarence was the one who found him.” Mrs. Souder looked over at Michelle. “Pink was up there working on his cabin . . . your cabin. He was drunk, putting shingles on the roof wearing nothing but his BVDs, cowboy boots, and a tool belt. No one saw Isabelle again after that. Pink and Isabelle’s neighbors had heard them arguing, and Claire reported Isabelle missing. Everyone was sure Pink had killed her because Isabelle would never have left Ardenwood. She would never have moved away. They called the police. Everyone searched for her. I asked Pink what happened. He wouldn’t even talk to me.”
“Why didn’t they arrest Pink?” Michelle asked.
“They never found her body. They couldn’t arrest him for murder without a body. Louden questioned him for days, but Pink would never own up to it. Finally, Louden had to just let him go. There was no proof a crime had even been committed.” Mrs. Souder got up from the table and went to the kettle. “More tea?”
“No. Thank you,” Michelle said.
Mrs. Souder filled her cup, adding milk and honey. She came back and smoothed the tablecloth with the flat of her hand. “Nearly a year went by, I had lost almost everything. Buck was gone. And Pink hadn’t talked to me that whole time. I couldn’t stand it anymore. That’s when I asked Lulu for help.
“Lulu was a powerful witch, the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter—the most powerful. I asked her to make things right again. I couldn’t stand losing Pink. I couldn’t stand the thought he had killed Isabelle. I couldn’t live if he cut me out of his life. He was all I had. Can you understand that, Mrs. Stage?”
Michelle understood perfectly.
“Lulu didn’t want to do it,” Mrs. Souder said. “She was afraid of the consequences. But I begged and begged, so she agreed. She always regretted it.”
“What did she do?” Michelle asked.
Chapter 35
Michelle found it difficult parsing the story Mrs. Souder was sharing—infinite, fluid realities, portals to multiple existences, shapeshifting, immortality. Mrs. Souder brought out a book, a worn, leather-bound text that appeared to be handwritten. Michelle was reluctant to touch it for fear the pages would crumble. The Philosophia Visita was scribed on the cover. Mrs. Souder told Michelle about a man, an alchemist and sorcerer, who taught Lulu everything about the subtle body, spirit, traversing the gateways. “He was born in 1605,” Mrs. Souder told Michelle.
“But . . . I don’t understand how . . . how could he have taught your friend?”
“He knew how to cheat death.” The statement was resolute, sending a chill through Michelle. “So did Lulu,” Mrs. Souder added.
She must have read the skepticism in Michelle’s eyes.
“Lulu is dead because she wanted to be. She was over 130 years old.”
Michelle’s rational mind was trying to piece this all together. For the first time since all of this started, Michelle could finally understand how perplexing it must have been for Cliff and Darcy listening to her own queer ramblings and rants. But the most disconcerting aspect of Mrs. Souder’s story, the part not easily written off as the discourse of a mad woman, was the absolute certainty with which she related it. Her words were not freighted with doubt. This was not myth, or speculation, in the old woman’s mind, but fact, which made Michelle squirm.