by Nora Roberts
“No.” She shook her head. She hadn’t thought about it, but her mind was instantly made up. “I need to stay here. Don’t worry, I understand reporters.” She managed to smile before he could argue. “You don’t want me to eat that, do you?”
“Yeah.” He set the bowl in front of her, then handed her a spoon. “You’re going to need more than cold spaghetti.”
Leaning over, she sniffed. “Smells like first grade.” Since she felt she owed him, Grace dipped in. “Do I have to come down and sign a statement?”
“When you’re ready. Since I was here, it simplifies things.”
She nodded and managed to swallow the first spoonful. It didn’t taste like her mother’s. He’d done something to it, honey, brown sugar, something. But oatmeal was oatmeal. Grace switched to her coffee.
“Ed, will you give me an honest answer?”
“If I can.”
“Do you think, I mean going on your professional judgment, do you think that whoever … whoever did this chose this house randomly?”
He’d already been through the room again the night before, as soon as he’d been certain Grace was really asleep. There’d been little of value there, but a new electronic typewriter had been untouched, and he remembered seeing a small gold locket that would have hocked for fifty or sixty around Kathleen’s neck before they’d put her body into the plastic bag. He could give Grace a comfortable lie, or the truth. It was her eyes that decided him. She already knew the truth.
“No.”
Nodding, Grace stared into her coffee. “I have to call Our Lady of Hope. I’m hoping the Mother Superior can recommend a priest and a church. How soon do you think they’ll let me have Kathleen?”
“I’ll make some calls.” He wanted to do more but only covered her hand with his, the gesture clumsy, he thought. “I’d like to help you.”
She looked down at his hand. Both of hers could fit easily into it. There was strength there, the kind that could defend without smothering. She looked at his face. The strength was there too. Dependable. The thought made her lips curve a little. There was so little in life you could truly depend on.
“I know.” She lifted a hand to his cheek. “And you have already. The next steps I have to take myself.”
He didn’t want to leave her. As far as he could remember, he’d never felt this way about a woman before. Because he did, he decided it was best to leave right away. “I’ll write down the number of the station. Call me when you’re ready to come down.”
“Okay. Thanks for everything. I mean it.”
“We’ve arranged for pass-bys, but I’d feel better if you didn’t stay here alone.”
She’d lived on her own too long to consider herself vulnerable. “My parents’ll be here soon.”
He scrawled down a number on a napkin before he rose. “I’ll be around.”
Grace waited until the door closed behind him, then stood to go to the phone.
“Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.” Ben leaned against the side of his car and drew out a cigarette. They’d been doing a house-to-house all morning with the same result. Nothing. Now he took a moment to study the neighborhood with its tired houses and postage-stamp yards.
Where were the busybodies? he wondered. Where were the people who stood by the windows peering through openings in the drapes at all the comings and goings? He’d grown up in a neighborhood not so different from this. And, as he remembered, if a new lamp was delivered, news of it ran up and down the street before the proud owners could plug it in. Apparently Kathleen Breezewood’s life had been so bland that no one had been interested.
“According to this, Breezewood never had any visitors, almost invariably arrived home between four-thirty and six. She kept obsessively to herself. Last night, everything was quiet. Except 634’s dog, who went on a barking spree about nine-thirty. That fits if the guy parked a block over and cut through their yard. Wouldn’t hurt to check the next street over and see if anyone noticed a strange car or a guy on foot.” He glanced at his partner to see Ed staring steadily down the street. The curtains were still closed at the Breezewood house. It looked empty, but Grace was inside. “Ed?”
“Yeah?”
“You want to take a break while I check out the next place?”
“I just hate to think about her in there by herself.”
“So go keep her company.” Ben flipped his cigarette into the street. “I can handle this.”
He hesitated and had nearly made up his mind to check on her when a cab drove by. It slowed, then stopped three doors down. Together they watched a man and a woman get out on opposite sides. As the man paid off the driver and grabbed a single bag, the woman started up the walk. Even with the distance Ed could see the resemblance to Grace, the build, the coloring. Then Grace herself was running out of the house. The woman’s sobs carried as Grace folded her into her arms.
“Daddy.” Ed saw her reach out and clasp hands so that the three of them stood and, for a moment, grieved in public.
“It’s rough,” Ben murmured.
“Come on.” Turning away, Ed stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He knocked on the door himself, resisting the urge to turn back and look at Grace. Watching her now was an intrusion. In his business he had to do enough of that with strangers.
“Lowenstein’s checking out the ex,” Ben put in. “She should have something for us when we get back.”
“Yeah.” Ed rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Sleeping in the chair had left it stiff. “It’s hard for me to buy the guy flying here, sneaking in the back door, and doing his wife.”
“Stranger things’ve happened. Remember th—” He broke off as the door opened a crack. He had a glimpse of a mop of white hair and a gnarled hand studded with cheap glass rings. “Police officers, ma’am.” He held up his badge. “Would you mind answering a few questions?”
“Come in, come in. I’ve been expecting you.” The voice cracked with age and excitement. “Move back now, Boris, Lillian. Yes, we have company. Come in, come in,” she repeated a bit testily as she bent, bones popping, and scooped up a fat slug of a cat. “There, Esmerelda, don’t be afraid. They’re policemen. You can sit down, sit right down.” The woman wound her way through cats—Ben counted five of them—into a dusty little room with lace curtains and wilting doilies. “Yes, I told Esmerelda only this morning that we should expect some company. Sit, sit, sit.” She waved a hand at a sofa alive with cat hair. “It’s about that woman, of course, that poor woman down the street.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ed stifled a sneeze as he sat on the edge of the cushions. An orange cat crouched at his feet and hissed.
“Behave yourself, Bruno.” The woman smiled and rearranged the symphony of wrinkles on her face. “Now isn’t this cozy? I’m Mrs. Kleppinger. Ida Kleppinger, but you probably know that.” With some ceremony, she fit a pair of glasses on her nose, squinted, and focused. “Why, you’re the young man two doors down. Bought the Fowler place, didn’t you? Terrible people. Didn’t like cats, you know. Always complaining about their trash being strewn about. Well, I told them if they’d just put the lids on tight my babies would never dream of bothering with their nasty garbage. They’re not savages, you know. My babies, I mean. Glad to see them gone, indeed yes. Aren’t we, Esmerelda?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ed cleared his throat and tried not to breathe too deeply. It was more than apparent that litter boxes were placed liberally through the house. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“About that poor Mrs. Breezewood, yes, yes. We heard it on the radio just this morning, didn’t we, darlings? I don’t own a television machine. I’ve always believed they make you sterile. Strangled her, did he?”
“We wondered if you noticed anything last night.” Ben tried not to jolt when a cat leapt into his lap and dug in, dangerously close to his crotch.
“Boris likes you. Isn’t that nice?” The old woman sat back and stroked her cat. “We were meditati
ng last night. I’d gone back to the eighteenth century. I was one of the queen’s handmaidens, you know. Such a trying time.”
“Uh-huh.” Enough was enough. Ben stood and struggled to detach the cat from his leg. “Well, we appreciate your time.”
“Not at all. Of course, I wasn’t surprised to hear about all of this. Been expecting it.”
Ed, who’d been more than concerned that Boris would let loose on his shoes, looked back at her. “Have you?”
“Oh, absolutely. The poor dear never had a chance. Past sins catch up with you.”
“Past sins?” Interested again, Ben hesitated. “Did you know Mrs. Breezewood well?”
“Intimately. We survived Vicksburg together. A dreadful battle. Why, I can still hear the cannon fire. But her aura …” Mrs. Kleppinger gave a sad shake of the head. “Doomed, I’m afraid. She was murdered by a group of Yankee raiders.”
“Ma’am, we’re more interested in what happened to Mrs. Breezewood last night.” Ed’s patience, usually generous, was running thin.
“Well, of course you are.” Her glasses slipped down her nose so that she stared myopically over them. “Such a sad woman. Repressed, sexually, I’m sure. I thought she might be happy when her sister came to visit, but it didn’t seem so. I can see her leave for work each morning while I’m watering my gardenias. Tense. The woman was tense, bundle of nerves, just as I remember from Vicksburg. Then there was the car that followed her one morning.”
Ben sat back down, cats or not. “What car?”
“Oh, a dark one, one of those rich cars, so big and quiet. I wouldn’t have thought a thing of it, but as I was watering my gardenias, one has to be so careful with gardenias. Fragile things. Anyway, as I was watering, I watched the car drive down the street behind Mrs. Breezewood’s, and I got such palpitations.” The woman waved her hand in front of her face as if to cool it. The glass on her fingers was too dull to sparkle in the light. “My heart just pounded and skipped until I had to sit right down. Just like Vicksburg—and the Revolution, of course. All I could think was poor Lucilla—that was her name before, you know. Lucilla Greensborough. Poor Lucilla, it’s going to happen again. Nothing I could do, of course,” she explained as she went back to stroking her cat. “Fate is fate after all.”
“Could you see who was driving the car?”
“Oh my goodness no. My eyes aren’t what they were.”
“Did you notice the license plate?”
“My dear, I can hardly see an elephant in the yard next door.” She pushed her glasses straight again, and surprised her eyes into focusing. “I have my feelings, sensations. That car gave me a bad feeling. Death. Oh yes, I wasn’t surprised at all to hear the news on the radio this morning.”
“Mrs. Kleppinger, do you remember which day you noticed the car?”
“Time means nothing. It’s all a cycle. Death is quite a natural event, and very temporary. She’ll be back, and perhaps finally, she’ll be happy.”
Ben closed the front door behind him and breathed in hard and deep. “Christ, what a smell.” Cautious, he pressed a hand to his upper thigh. “I thought that little bastard had drawn blood. Probably didn’t have shots either.” As he walked to the car he tried vainly to brush off clinging cat hair. “What did you make of her?”
“She’s lost a few bricks since Vicksburg. She might have seen a car.” Glancing back, he noted that several windows of her house would afford a clear enough view of the street. “Which may or may not have been following Breezewood’s. Either way, it doesn’t mean shit.”
“You’ve got my vote.” Ben took the driver’s seat. “You want to stop in for a minute?” he asked with a nod toward the house down the street. “Or head back in?”
“Let’s go back. She probably needs time with her parents.”
Grace had plied her mother with spiked tea. She’d held her father’s hand. She’d wept again until she simply had no energy for more. Because they had needed it, Grace had lied. In her version, Kathleen had been well on the way to establishing a new life. There was no mention of pills or controlled bitterness. Grace was aware, if Kathleen hadn’t been, that their parents had had great hopes for their elder daughter.
They had always considered Kathleen the stable one, the reliable one, while being able to smile and think of Grace as amusing. They’d enjoyed Grace’s creativity without being able to understand it. Kathleen, with her conventional marriage, her handsome husband and son, was easily understood.
True, the divorce had shaken them, but they were parents, loving ones, and had been able to shift their beliefs enough to accept, while harboring the hope that in time their daughter would be reconciled with her family.
Now they had to accept that it would never be. They had to face that their older daughter, the one they’d pinned their first hopes on, was dead. It was enough, Grace had decided. It was more than enough.
So she didn’t mention the mood swings, the valium, or the resentment she’d discovered had been eating her sister from the inside out.
“She was happy here, Gracie?” Louise McCabe sat huddled beside her husband and tore a Kleenex into small pieces.
“Yes, Mom.” Grace wasn’t sure how many times she’d answered that question in the last hour, but continued to soothe. She’d never seen her mother look helpless. Throughout her life, Louise McCabe had been dominant, making decisions, executing them. And her father had always been there. He’d been the one to slip an extra five dollars into a waiting hand, or to clean up after the dog had had an accident on the rug.
Looking at him now, she suddenly realized for the very first time that he’d aged. His hair was thinner than it had been when she’d been a girl. He was tanned from the hours he spent out-of-doors. His face was fuller. He was a man in the prime of his life, she thought, healthy, vigorous, but just now his shoulders were slumped, and the liveliness that had always been there was gone from his eyes.
She wanted to hold these two people who had somehow made everything come out right for her. She wanted to turn back the clock for all of them so that they were young again, living in a pretty suburban home with a scruffy dog.
“We wanted her to come to Phoenix for a while,” Louise continued, dabbing at her eyes with the ragged remains of the tissue. “Mitch talked to her. She always listened to her dad. But not this time. We were so happy when you came to visit her. All the trouble she’s been having. Poor little Kevin.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Poor, poor little Kevin.”
“When can we see her, Gracie?”
Grace squeezed her father’s hand, watching intently as he spoke. He looked around the room, trying, Grace believed, to absorb what was left of his older daughter. There was so little here, a few books, a pot of silk flowers. She held on to him, hoping he didn’t see how cold the room was.
“Tonight maybe. I asked Father Donaldson to come by this afternoon. He’s from the old parish. Why don’t you come upstairs now, Mom, so you’ll be rested when he comes? You’ll feel better when you talk to him.”
“Grace is right, Lou.” And he’d seen. Like Grace, he had an eye for detail. The only spot of life in the room was the jacket Grace had negligently tossed over a chair. He wanted to weep for that more than anything else, but couldn’t explain it. “Let me take you up.”
She leaned heavily against her husband, a slim woman with dark hair and a strong back. As she watched them go, Grace realized that in grief they had shifted her to the head of the family. She could only hope that she had the strength to pull it off.
Her mind was dull from weeping, cluttered with the arrangements she’d already made and those yet to be settled. She knew when the grief ebbed, her parents would have the comfort of their faith. For Grace, it was the first time she’d been slapped down with the knowledge that life wasn’t always a game to be played with a grin and a clever brain. Optimism wasn’t always a shield against the worst of it, and acceptance wasn’t always enough.
She’d never had a full-power emotional blow befo
re, not personally or professionally. She’d never considered that she’d led a charmed life and had never had patience with people who complained about what fate had handed them. People made their own luck. Hit a rough spot, coast for a while, then find the best way out, she’d always thought.
When she’d decided to write, she’d sat down and done it. It was true she had natural talent and a fluid imagination and willingness to work, but she’d also had an innate determination that if she wanted something badly enough, she’d get it. There’d been no starving in a garret or creative suffering. There’d been no angst or agony of the artist. She’d taken her savings and had moved to New York. A part-time job had paid the rent while she drove through her first novel in a wild and breathless ninety days.
When she’d decided to fall in love, she’d done so with the same sort of verve and energy. There’d been no regrets, no hesitation. She’d fed on the emotion as long as it had lasted, and when it was over, she’d moved on without tears or recriminations.
She was nearly thirty and had never had her heart broken or her dreams smashed. Shaken a time or two, perhaps, but she’d always managed to right herself and forge ahead. Now, for the first time in the whirlwind of her life, she’d hit a wall that couldn’t be climbed over or breached. Her sister’s death wasn’t something she could change by shifting into neutral. Her sister’s murder wasn’t something she could accept as one of life’s little twists.
She found she wanted to scream, to throw something, to rage. Her hands shook as she lifted the cups from the table. If she’d been alone, she’d have given in to it. More, she’d have wallowed in the release of it. Instead she steadied herself. Her parents needed her. For the first time, they needed her. And she wouldn’t let them down.
She put the cups down at the sound of the doorbell and went to answer it. If Father Donaldson had come early she’d go over the funeral arrangements with him. But when she opened the door, it wasn’t to a priest but to Jonathan Breezewood the third.
“Grace.” He nodded at her but didn’t offer his hand. “May I come in?”
