surprise. “You know, I had a feeling you might be by today. It’s strange — well, maybe not so strange, really, all things considered. Nearly everybody’s been here today, wanting to talk about Susan Peterson.” The nurse clucked her tongue sympathetically. “Isn’t it terrible? Such a loss for Henry and Estelle. And of course everyone seems to think that little Michelle Pendleton had something to do with it.” She leaned forward slightly and lowered her voice to a confidential whisper. “Frankly, some of the things that people have been saying, I wouldn’t want to repeat.”
“Then don’t,” Corinne said, tempering the shortness of her words with a friendly grin. “Is Uncle Joe here?”
Suddenly abashed at her near indiscretion, Marion reached for the phone. “Let me buzz him, and see if he’s busy.” She pressed the intercom. “Dr. Joe? A surprise for you — Corinne Hatcher’s out here.”
A moment later, the inner door opened, and Josiah Carson appeared, his arms extended, a wide smile wreathing his face, though for a moment Corinne thought she saw something else in his eyes. A sadness? Whenever one of his patients died, particularly a child, Josiah Carson took it hard. Since his own daughter had died, long before Corinne was even born, Carson had lavished his paternal instincts on the children of Paradise Point. But today there was something beyond sadness in his eyes. Something she couldn’t quite identify.
He took Corinne in his arms in a massive bear hug.
“What brings you down here?” he said. “You feeling all right?”
Corinne wriggled herself loose. “I’m fine. I guess — well, I guess I was just worried about you. I know how you get when something happens to one of your children.”
Carson nodded. “It’s never easy,” he said. “Come on into the office, and I’ll buy you a drink.”
Carson gestured her to a chair and closed the door. He produced the bottle of bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk, and poured each of them a generous shot, eyeing Corinne carefully.
“All right,” he said, sipping his drink. “What’s up?”
Corinne tasted the bourbon, made a face, and set it aside. Then she met Carson’s eyes.
“Michelle Pendleton,” she said.
Carson nodded, “Doesn’t surprise me. As a matter of fact, I thought you’d be here sooner. Things getting worse?”
“I’m not sure,” Corinne said. “Today must have been horrible for her — none of the children would have anything to do with her. Until yesterday, I thought it was just her limp. But now — well, you know how this town can be. People get blamed for things, even when they aren’t to blame, and nobody ever forgets.” She picked up her drink, sipped at it, then set it aside once again. “Uncle Joe,” she said suddenly, “is Michelle all right?”
“It depends on what you mean. You’re talking about her mind, aren’t you?”
Corinne shifted in her chair. “I’m not sure,” she said. “In fact, I didn’t really know I was coming down here until I found myself out in front. But I guess my subconscious was trying to tell me something.” She paused for a moment, and suddenly drained half of her drink. “Have you heard about Michelle’s imaginary friend?” she asked as casually as she could.
Carson frowned. “Imaginary friend?” he repeated, as if the words had no meaning to him. “You mean the kind of thing very small children do?”
“Exactly,” Corinne said. “Apparently it all started with a doll. I’m not sure exactly what kind, but Mrs. Pendleton told me that it’s old — very old. Michelle found it in the bedroom closet when they moved in.”
Carson scratched his head as if puzzled, then nodded. “I know what it looks like,” he said smoothly. “It
Corinne nodded soberly. “Apparently. And guess what she’s named it?”
“She told me she named it Amanda.”
“Amanda,” Corinne repeated. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” She finished her drink and held her glass out. “Am I old enough for a second drink?”
Wordlessly, Carson refilled her glass and his own. “Well,” he said abruptly. “Apparently she’s heard some stories about the Point.”
Corinne shook her head. “That’s what I thought. But June told me she named the doll as soon as she found it. The very day they arrived.”
“I see,” Carson said. “Then it was just a coincidence.”
“Was it?” Corinne said softly. “Uncle Joe, who was Amanda? I mean, was she real? Or are they just stories?”
Carson leaned back in his chair. He’d never talked about Amanda, and didn’t want to start now. But apparently the talk had already started, as he’d known it must. The thing to do was to direct it.
“She was my great-aunt, actually, or would have been if she’d lived,” he said carefully.
“And what happened to her?” Corinne asked.
“Who knows? She was blind, and she stumbled off the bluff one day. As far as anyone knows, that’s all there was to it.” But there was something in his voice — a hesitation perhaps? — that made Corinne wonder if there wasn’t something more.
“You sound as though you know more than that.” When Carson made no response, she pushed him again. “Do you?”
“You mean, do I believe in the ghost story?”
“No. Do you believe that’s all there was to it?”
“I don’t know. My grandfather, who was Amanda’s brother, believed there was more to it.”
Corinne said nothing.
Carson leaned back in his chair and turned to look out the window.
“You know,” he said slowly, “when the Carsons named this town Paradise Point, they didn’t really have the setting in mind. It was more an idea, I guess you could call it. An idea of paradise, right here on earth.” His voice was filled with an irony that Corinne couldn’t miss.
“I knew the Carsons were ministers,” she said.
Josiah nodded, “Fundamentalist. The real fire and brimstone variety. My great-grandfather, Lemuel Carson, was the last of them, though.”
“What happened?”
“Lots of things, from what Grandfather told me. It started when Amanda lost her sight. Old Lemuel decided it was an act of God, and he tried to pass Amanda off as a martyr. He always made her dress in black. Poor little girl. It must have been hard for her — what with her blindness and all. She must have been a lonely little thing.”
“And she was all alone when she fell off the bluff?”
“Apparently. Grandfather never said. He never talked about it much. I always got the idea there was something odd about it, though. Of course, he never did talk much about the family at all — too many serpents in Lemuel’s paradise.”
“Aren’t there always?” Corinne observed, but Josiah didn’t seem to hear her.
“It was Lemuel’s wife,” he went on. “It seems she had something of a wandering eye. Grandfather always thought it was a reaction to Lemuel’s constant hell and damnation sermonizing.”
“You mean your great-grandmother was having an affair?”
Carson smiled. “She must have been quite a woman. Grandfather said she was beautiful, but that she never should have married his father.”
“Louise Carson,” Corinne whispered, “ ‘Died in Sin.’ ”
“Murdered,” Josiah said softly. Corinne’s eyes widened in surprise. “It happened out in that building June Pendleton uses for a studio. Lemuel found her out there, with one of her lovers. Both of them were dead. Stabbed to death.”
“My God,” Corinne breathed. She could feel her stomach tighten, and wondered for a moment if she was going to be sick.
“Of course, everyone sort of assumed Lemuel had done it,” Josiah said, “but he had the whole town pretty much under his thumb, and in those days an unfaithful wife wasn’t particularly highly regarded. They probably thought she’d gotten what she deserved. Lemuel wouldn’t even give her a funeral.”
“I always figured the inscription on the gravestone must have meant something like that,” Corinne said.
