Cover

The Deadly Visitor

“I’ve got a problem and I don’t know what to do,” Nancy said in a practical conversational tone, as if her appearance were nothing unusual, as if she and Rose had just bumped into each other on the street.

“You’re dead, Nancy,” Rose winced at the harsh truth in the words.

Nancy made a face. “I know that,” she said, dismissing it. “But could you come with me a minute?”

Rose wanted to scream, but found herself floating toward the door on the tidal wave that was Nancy’s dress. Nancy’s clutching hand was cold and dry. Rose could feel the bones inside.

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Title

Copyright

Lines page 82

from Byron, “The Dream”

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware

that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and

destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the pub-

lisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part,

or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by

any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For in-

formation regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., 730

Broadway, New York, NY 10003.

ISBN 0-590-43310-5

Copyright © 1991 by Patricia Windsor.

POINT is a registered trademark of Scholastic Inc.

12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 12 3 4 5 6 7 8/9

Printed in the U.S.A. 01

To my good friends E.W. Count and Milton Wyatt

Half Title

Part One

Rose

One

Nancy Emerson disappeared the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. She’d been baby-sitting at the Berrys’ and left to walk home just after dark. Around seven-thirty, her mother phoned to ask if Nancy would be back in time for supper. Mrs. Berry was surprised; Nancy had been gone for more than two hours. Nancy’s mother remembered her daughter saying she wanted to meet some friends at the mall that evening. Uneasily, Mrs. Emerson waited until nine o’clock when everyone had returned home. Nobody had seen Nancy. Something was very wrong. Mrs. Emerson called Silver Henning, the police chief. A search party was organized. It was out all night but Nancy wasn’t found.

The Thanksgiving atmosphere was tainted. Although people were worried, they also seemed annoyed, as if Nancy could have picked a better time to disappear.

Rose Potter remembered the previous winter when she’d actually spoken to Nancy. It seemed strange now, but maybe that was only hindsight.

It had been a cold and dreary day, the kind Rose liked to think of as Thomas Hardy weather, complete with leaden sky and ashen leaves. The kind of day poets made into romantic melancholy but which often left her feeling just plain grumpy. She had been walking home from dance class, willing herself not to shiver as the sweat turned to ice crystals on her back. She’d been too lazy to change properly and had just thrown her parka over her thin, damp leotard. Rose was busy hypnodzing herself into being warm, saying it like a mantra over and over in her head. She crashed right into Nancy Emerson.

Nancy began apologizing before Rose could get a word out. Her nose was running, and her eyes were red.

“No, it was my fault,” Rose said, but Nancy burst into tears and made no effort to brush them away as they rolled down her face.

“It’s not that,” she said, sniffing.

Rose waited a moment out of politeness. There didn’t seem much point in hanging around. But when Rose turned to go, Nancy grabbed her arm. “I’m in trouble,” she said. “I don’t know what to do.”

It was one of those moments when you have to decide whether to be virtuous or your usual selfish self. Rose felt around in her duffel for a dingy tissue and made some sympathetic noises.

“This is really stupid,” Nancy said after she’d blown her nose.

“It’s okay.”

“I’ve just got to face it.”

“Face what?”

Nancy looked up. She was short and pudgy, with the kind of very white skin that comes out in red spots in the cold. Her blonde hair was straggly and her eyes puffy but she was cute in spite of it, like a cuddly piglet in her pink down jacket.

“You’re the Cleer girl, aren’t you?” she asked. “Rose?”

Rose nodded. It wasn’t the time to get into explanations about her name being Rosecleer, an obsolete name that had somehow appealed to her mother.

“Look,” she said to Nancy, “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m freezing. Want to come over to my house for hot chocolate?”

Nancy nodded gratefully and came tagging along, still sniffling.

“You a cheerleader?” she asked, eyeing the big duffel that was full of Rose’s dance gear. Rose laughed and said no, she wasn’t the cheerleader type. Nancy confided her hopes of getting on the team. “I may not make it, ’cause I’m so short,” she said. “But I’m gonna try hard.”

Something changed inside Rose then; a subtle shifting of the heart. Suddenly Nancy was a real person, not a cute piglet. Rose slowed down for her to catch up. They walked along companion-ably for a bit and then Nancy stopped.

“I feel a lot better now.” She swiped at her nose with the ragged tissue. “Thanks.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Rose protested.

Nancy shook her head under the street lamp, and its golden light caught the tears dinging to her eyelashes, making them sparkle.

“Yeah, you did. Listen, I can’t come to your house. I have to go. Thanks for asking me, though.” She gave a watery smile and backed away. “Thanks a lot.”

“Really … it was nothing. .. .” Rose said, bewildered, but Nancy had turned and was trotting down the dark street on her chubby legs. Poor piglet, Rose thought, you’ll never be a cheerleader, and she felt a flash of anger at Doreen, the cheering squad captain. Doreen’s skinny legs were at least forty feet long, and everyone on the team was chosen to match.

She went home and took a hot bath and never gave another thought to Nancy Emerson or whatever her problem was. Nancy was two years behind Rose in school anyway. Their paths didn’t cross. After a while, it was as if that wintry meeting had never happened.

The Potters said a prayer for her over the turkey and stuffing and cranberry sauce, and all ate too much, as usual, and fell asleep in front of the football game on TV. Rose woke with a fuzzy head and dry mouth. Her dad was snoring. Her brother Jerram was simultaneously watching the game, reading a book and doing his math homework. Mom was in the kitchen, washing out the roasting pan. The house still had the Thanksgiving smell, nice but a little greasy. When Rose walked into the kitchen, her mother asked if she wanted a hot turkey sandwich.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“You’ll all be hungry again later. Just when I’ve got all the leftovers nicely arranged in their containers and the kitchen is spotless, you’ll all be in here for another meal.”

She looked so cosily motherly at that moment, wearing her yellow plastic apron over her good dress, her face all satisfied with having Thanksgiving almost over. Rose hugged her.

“I was thinking about that girl,” she said, hugging back.

Rose almost said “Me, too,” but in truth she hadn’t given Nancy a thought since dinner.

“It must be terrible for her parents. Not knowing is worse than knowing the worst,” Mom said.

They stood with their arms around each other, their reflections safe and sound in the window over the kitchen sink.

By eight-thirty, everybody did want hot turkey sandwiches. Jerram ate his with his earphones on, tapping on the kitchen table so it shook and fiddling with his calculator.

Dad announced he was going to spend the entire weekend on the couch.

“You always say that, Carl,” Mom said. “But you never sit down for a minute.”

“I’ve been sitting down all afternoon, and I’ll still be sitting come Sunday night. That’s a promise.”

“We’ll see,” Mom said smugly.

And she was right. They called on Friday morning to ask Dad to join the search for Nancy. The sky was like lead. Snow threatened. Rose watched him zip up his jacket in the back hall. He looked grim.

“I’m coming, too,” Rose said impulsively.

“No, darlin’. You don’t want to be there if we find her.”

“You think it’s bad as that?”

He gave her a flat look, like he didn’t really want to think about it, no less speak. Jerram came rushing downstairs in the ratty sweats he slept in. “Wait up, I’m coming,” he shouted and ran back to get dressed.

“Me, too,” Rose insisted but made no move toward her coat.

Mom stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms wrapped around herself, still in her raspberry-red robe.

“You don’t have to go, too, Jerram,” she said when he came back down to put on his boots.

Jerram straightened, red in the face from his efforts at doing up his Velcro straps. “I’ve never seen a dead body,” he said.

Mom looked stricken. “Don’t say that, we don’t know …”

“No more discussion, please,” Dad said. “Let’s just get this over with.”

When they opened the door a harsh wind blew in. Rose shivered and changed her mind about going. She went upstairs to sit in her big old favorite chair and glare out the window at the sky and hope for snow or sun … something to make the season seem alive.

The search was unsuccessful that day and the next. On Sunday, there was a silent prayer for

Nancy in church. The atmosphere was morbid. Rose felt her mother’s hand grab hers. She wondered if her mother was feeling glad that it wasn’t Rose who had disappeared. And maybe feeling guilty for thinking it.

Two

By Monday, everyone had a theory: Nancy had run off because she was pregnant; Nancy had been kidnapped by two strange men in a dark red car that ran a light at Madison and Beacon on Thanksgiving eve; Nancy had been murdered by Wallace Romola. Silver Henning had to bring Wallace in because of all the calls he received over the weekend, people swearing Wallace had been acting suspiciously on the town common the night Nancy disappeared. Nancy would have walked across the common on her way home.

“Poor Wallace,” Mom said at breakfast Monday morning.

“He’ll be free by noon,” said Dad.

“But it’s a shame for him to be put through that.”

“Maybe he did it,” Jerram said, lifting a spoonful of cereal to his mouth and missing. His eyes were on his history book, busily cramming for the exam he hadn’t studied for all weekend.

Mom looked horrified. “How can you say such a thing? Wallace is a harmless boy.”

“Wallace is thirty-six years old,” Dad said. “Wallace is brain dead,” said Jerram.

“He is not,” Rose butted in. “If people would just accept him the way he is, let him live his life his way, he’d be perfectly fine.”

Her mother patted her arm. They agreed that Wallace was misunderstood. The Romolas were one of the richest families in town. They owned a winery and lived in a mansion on Swan Drive. When Wallace was sixteen, they gave him a Lamborghini sports car for his birthday. He totaled it the next day. He dropped out of high school and got a job pumping gas, and the Romolas realized he’d never be able to take over the family business. Now he hung out on the common, wearing rags and begging for money. People who didn’t know he was a millionaire felt sorry for him and gave him small change. Rose had seen him laugh, slyly and secretly, when he thought no one was watching. Wallace was probably a lot smarter than he let on, but that didn’t mean he’d murder anybody.

“Bus!” Mom announced. Jerram groaned and drank the rest of his cereal from the bowl. Rose grabbed her knapsack and parka, and they ran out the door just as the bus came rolling toward the driveway.

Her best friend Grace had saved her a seat. She wanted to talk about Nancy. They’d talked about it on the phone all weekend, but Grace was still bursting with theories. She rattled on until she realized Rose wasn’t paying attention.

“Okay,” she said, “so you think I’m being ghoulish.”

“Maybe a little.”

“But you’re the most ghoulish person I know.” “I’m not.”

“You are. You love it,” Grace said with conviction.

“I don’t. I detest horror movies.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean all your stuff, you know, astral planes and psychic awareness.” “There’s nothing ghoulish about that.”

She made a face. “It’s ghoulish to read people’s minds. I, personally, for one, would not like someone reading my mind.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Jerram said from the seat behind. “A ghoul is a person who robs graves.”

“So?” Grace challenged, turning around. “Isn’t that just the right word? If you read a person’s mind, it’s like robbery.”

“It’d have to be a dead mind to qualify,” Jerram said. “But that’s not hard.” He gestured around the bus. “Take your pick.”

Of course the whole school was talking about Nancy. At midmorning, there was a PA announcement that counselors would be available in the gym during lunch and after school if anyone wanted to talk things out.

“That means she’s dead,” Grace whispered. “They only have counselors when someone dies.” It began to bother Rose then, remembering the strange encounter last winter. Nancy had

been in trouble, and she hadn’t bothered to find out why. Could it have been related to this? She didn’t want to go talk about it with the counselors, but she confessed to Grace.

“Don’t do a guilt trip on yourself,” Grace said. “You couldn’t know then what would happen now. It was ages ago and probably some minor nothing.”

“I know all that,” Rose said, sounding ungrateful.

Grace never got ruffled by other people’s bad tempers. “Well, maybe you should talk to a professional person. I’ll go with you, if you like.”

“The gym will be crawling with kids from her class. Let’s not make fools of ourselves.”

She had this nagging feeling, like someone softly breathing on the back of her neck. Once or twice she had to turn around, expecting to see someone there. In fact, once she thought she actually saw Nancy in the crowded hall: a glimpse of straggly blonde hair, a pink jacket. It gave her a funny feeling deep down inside. The kind of feeling you get when you think something bad is going to happen. It was crazy, but she was getting spooked. She wished they’d find Nancy, or at least find out what had happened.

At lunch, she phoned Mom to ask if there was news.

“No,” Mom said. “But I’m sure I’ll hear first thing from Barney.” Barney — Mrs. Barnes — was their neighbor and the local Big Mouth. “Was Nancy a special friend? I didn’t realize you knew her that well.” Mom sounded worried.

“It’s just that everybody’s talking about it here.” “Don’t let that imagination run away with you, Rose,” Mom said.

“Nothing new,” Rose told Grace when she hung up, and Grace said, “Well, no news is good news.” “Look, let’s stop talking about it and thinking about it, okay?”

“Sure I’ll stop talking, but I don’t know if I can stop thinking,” Grace said in her reasonable way.

“It has nothing to do with us. We weren’t her friends. We didn’t give her a single thought before; why are we upset now? We’re just being sentimental.”

Grace sighed. “You’re probably right. People are always sorry after the fact.” She looked at Rose earnestly. “But I’d be pretty upset if you disappeared.”

“If I plan to vanish, I’ll let you know.”

Grace dragged her upstairs to the cafeteria. “Let’s see if Gregory and Company are there.” “They’re always there, Grace.”

Grace was in love with Gregory Paschek. He acted as if she didn’t exist, although he had been known to make eye contact on occasion. In fact, he sat on her beach towel twice last summer — without saying a word — and looked at her in the hall on September 11th and October 19th. Grace remembered these events, she took notes.

Gregory and Company did not seem to have been affected by Nancy’s disappearance. They were sitting at their usual window table, throwing pasta shells at each other.

Grace mooned over, dragging Rose. Gregory

looked up for a moment and got a shot of pasta sauce in the eye for his trouble.

“Need a tissue, Gregory?” Grace asked. She said if she openly acted like a moo cow, she could pretend it was all a joke and make Gregory think she didn’t take him seriously.

“Hi, Rose,” Gregory said, ignoring Grace’s tissue and wiping his face on his sleeve.

“Hi, Rose, Hi, Grace,” said Paul and Randy.

“Hi, Grace, Hi, Rose,” said Daniel.

“Hi, you all,” Grace said, curling her fingers over into a silly wave.

“You’re too late for lunch,” Daniel said, looking straight at Rose in a disconcerting way. They cared about each other, Rose thought, but they kept dancing around instead of making real contact. Grace’s outrageous behavior gave them cover; people were too busy watching Grace and Gregory act up to notice Rose and Daniel staring at each other. Sooner or later, Rose thought, something’s got to give. But who was going to give in first?

“We had yogurt in art,” Grace said, batting her eyes. “Valerian doesn’t mind if we eat in class.”

“They ate in art,” said Paul, and this cracked the rest of them up. They fell around the table laughing and punching each other and not noticing that Daniel just sat there quietly looking at Rose. The noise of the cafeteria receded, and it was as if they were suddenly alone. A shiver of possibilities went through her, quickly squelched by that persistent underlying hesitation, worrying that Daniel would disappoint her by acting as jerky as the rest of them. Jerram said she had unreasonable expectations about men, which came from his being her twin brother and absolutely perfect. Jerram never hung out with guys in the cafeteria. But Jerram never did anything anybody else did.

There was dance class that afternoon so Rose took the town bus instead of going back with Grace. Daniel rode it, too, and it was accepted that they sat together. The conversation was not always a success. Rose was never sure of Daniel’s mood. He could be friendly and open and they’d talk. Or he could be preoccupied and distant, making Rose feel shy and uncertain. Nervousness brought out the worst kind of Jerram-like remarks, witty but caustic, and she’d hate herself afterwards. Why was it always so hard to just act natural around Daniel?

“How’s it going?” he said as she sat down. He smelled of tomato sauce.

“Okay … I guess.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. A heavy day. What do you think about it?”

“About Nancy? I’m not sure,” Rose began but Daniel seemed eager to voice his own theories.

“She probably hitched a ride when she left the Berrys’. Faster to get to the mall than walking. It’s the only way it could have happened, really, that she went along with it.”

Rose felt shocked. “You mean, it’s all her fault?” Daniel looked surprised. “No, nothing like that. I just meant it was probably someone she knew. Somebody she trusted.”

“But it makes it even more horrible.”

“I’ve heard that most murders are committed by people the victims know.” Daniel looked so pleased with his theory, Rose felt a twinge of distaste.

“Wonderful,” she said sarcastically.

“Well, what do you think happened?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it, if you don’t mind,” she snapped.

“Okay, fair enough,” Daniel said, unperturbed, and looked at her as if waiting for the next move. But Rose couldn’t think of anything to say after that. It was sickening. What did people talk about before Nancy disappeared? she wondered. When she got off the bus she heard Daniel say goodbye. Softly, softly, underneath the words there was still a promise. Wasn’t there?

She was thankful for dance class. She could forget anything once she was out on the floor working. Only the movement and the music mattered, her muscles responding. She’d been studying with Muriel for five years, ever since Muriel came to town one snowy Christmas and opened up her school. It had been like a dream come true for Rose, a real teacher from New York instead of plump Mrs. Drury who taught ballet and tap in the basement of her home. Muriel had introduced Rose to modern dance: bare feet and freedom of movement instead of the constricting toe shoes and exacting positions of ballet. More than anything, Rose wanted to go on to study in New York. But was she good enough? Muriel said she was the best student she had, but Rose wasn’t naive enough to think being the best dancer in Bethboro, Connecticut, meant the best in New York City.

Muriel wasn’t just a teacher, she was a friend. They talked about things Rose couldn’t discuss with her mother. Muriel listened differently and responded differently. Her advice never sounded like advice at all. If Rose had a problem, Muriel would say, “Sit in it like Buddha.” Sit in it — experience it — live it — know it, and the answer would appear. Muriel had the kinds of ideas nobody else had. She seemed mysterious and glamorous, and Rose often wondered why she had come at all to a small town like Bethboro because although she was here, it was as if part of her was somewhere else at the same time.

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