by Belva Plain
The car slid, tracing a figure S on the treacherous road. All she needed was to slide into a drift and be stuck; how then to explain what she was doing out here at night?
She gripped the wheel. God, don’t let this car slide, she prayed. God, get me home, please. My babies are there.
It was so cold that the snow seemed to freeze on the windshield almost as soon as it struck. The snow danced in front of the headlights so that she could see barely a few yards ahead. The snow was an enemy. During the few minutes she had spent in that cursed house, the storm had tripled its power, no longer a storm but a full-blown blizzard.
Something touched her thigh as she moved in the seat. She had actually run out of the house with the revolver still in her hand. And it was loaded.
Now panic gripped her again. It crawled up her back as it does when, in the deserted darkness, you feel someone coming behind you. With enormous effort, she kept herself from stopping the car to see whether anyone might be crouched on the floor in the rear. Every few seconds she searched the road through the rearview mirror.
Then she cried out to herself: “You’re driving. You’re heading toward home, you fool, with the revolver in the car!”
It was not far from the river. So came the logical common instinct to dispose of it there. The slope from the road was steep, the slope down which that poor woman had raced into the water. It would be impossible to climb down and climb back in these mounting drifts. She could slow the car, lean over and throw it out the window. But if it should miss and lie there on the road or bury itself in the snow, only to be discovered when the snow was gone? No. She would have to stop the car with the risk of not regaining traction enough to start it again, get out and stand on the bridge to drop the thing safely into the river. There was always the risk that some lone driver out on this night would see her there and would of course remember the woman parked on the bridge in the midst of a blizzard. But she would have to try.
No one came. So far, so good, she thought. You have been lucky. Lucky! If you thought you had troubles before tonight, think again.
Her mind was unusually wide-awake. In a case like this, the authorities would question everyone, family, friends, and employees. You will be asked where you were this evening. Nanny will say you told her you were going to the movies. Therefore you must go to the movies.
But perhaps she should go to the police now, right now, and tell them about the accident? After all, she was Sally Grey, a decent person who had never even had a ticket for speeding. They would surely understand it was an accident, wouldn’t they? Or would they?
If only Dan were home! Imagine walking into that police station all alone, crying. Tears were already lumped in her throat. She would be stammering into those grim faces. No, not tonight. It was impossible.
Lights were still bright in the small suburban center, and cars were still parked in the lot next to the theater. The drugstore was open. She parked the car and took her place near a group of people who were the first to leave the theater, and lingered a moment on the sidewalk with a deliberate air of uncertainty.
“Sally Grey! Can you believe what’s happened in just two and a half hours? We’d never have gone out if we’d had any idea it would be like this.”
And the two Smiths, Eric and Lauren, stood in dismay, looking at the snow.
“I’m wondering how we’ll ever get home,” Sally said.
“We’ll follow you,” offered Eric. “We’ll stay right behind you so if you get stuck, we’ll be there to help.”
Sally laughed. “And what if you get stuck? I won’t be much help, I’m afraid.” Then thinking further, she asked, “May I ask you to wait two seconds while I run into the drugstore for my cold medicine? I feel as if I’m coming down with something.”
The druggist would make another witness to her presence in the village. “Great picture, wasn’t it?” he remarked as he made change. “That woman, I never miss her pictures.”
“Wonderful. I loved it,” Sally agreed, making a mental note to read the movie reviews.
The cars plowed their way home. The snow was already banked high against the house and Sally struggled her way from the garage to the front door through drifts up to her thighs. For a moment, she stood surveying the landscape, a pure dazzle of unmarked white, with the snow still coming down. There will be no car tracks left anywhere, she thought. She closed the door and then, with all her adrenaline by now consumed, went upstairs and collapsed on the bed.
Hours later she got up and went into her children’s rooms. The tears that flooded her eyes at the sight of them in their innocent sleep were hot enough to scorch. Even the memory of what that evil man had done to Tina was faint compared with dread of what the future might bring to these little girls. And to Dan. And her mind went over everything that had occurred that night, seeking and analyzing every step: no fingerprints, the gun at the bottom of a turbulent river, the Smiths, the druggist, everything.
She seemed secure. And yet, you never knew. There might still be something, some tiny clue that had eluded her. You read about such things all the time.
On the return to her bed, she passed the sitting room where the children played. For no reason that she could explain, she went in and turned on a lamp. There on the table stood the carousel, glittering in its beautiful, absurd extravagance. Again for no reason at all, she reached out and touched it. Turning a trifle, it played the last few notes of “The Blue Danube” waltz, and then she recoiled in horror, as if she had touched a snake, as if she had touched the evil that was Oliver Grey.
He was dead, and he deserved to die, although she had not wanted to be the cause of his death, or of anyone’s. But so it had happened.
Chapter Sixteen
December 1990
She had slept a deep, exhausted sleep for two hours and on opening her eyes, had sprung from bed to look out the window. It had stopped snowing. The driveway was clear with no signs that an automobile had ever been near it. She hurried to shower and dress, taking special care so as to appear perfectly normal before Nanny, and thinking “Trust no one!” she waited for the telephone to ring.
It rang at seven. The agitated, almost incompressible voice was Happy’s.
“Sally! I don’t know how to begin, it’s so awful, it’s a nightmare, Father’s been shot!”
“Shot! Is it bad?”
“He’s dead! We got here last night and found him.” She began to cry.
“My God,” Sally said. “How did it happen? Does anyone know?”
“Let me get a drink of water. Let me sit down. Ian is inside now with a doctor, waiting for the people to take the body. And the police, of course. We’ve been up all night—oh, it’s unbelievable.”
“My God,” Sally said again. “There’s nothing that much to rob in that house, unless they thought he was carrying cash.”
“They don’t think it was robbers. He had seven hundred dollars in his wallet, there was his watch, and nothing was touched.”
“Then who can it be? I can’t imagine that Oliver had any enemies.”
“Lord only knows. Some maniac, we think. Ian and I had a dinner date but we canceled it on account of the weather. As it was, we had a dreadful time struggling up here through the storm. We walked in just as the caretaker was laying Father on the sofa. He said he was taking a nap after supper when he thought he heard a sound like a gunshot, although his wife said it was nonsense, it was only the cold cracking a tree limb, but he got up anyway. Then we called the police. It took almost two hours for them to reach us. Even the front steps here were buried.” Happy was out of breath.
Sally had to say something, and yet be careful to say as little as possible. “Everything is buried here, too. I should get out there to be with you! Later, after they clear the roads, I will.”
“No, don’t come. There’s nothing for you to do here. We’ll stay until the detectives are finished—they’re going over the whole house—and then we’re leaving for home. This is a nightmare. And
we were planning such a beautiful few days here, especially for Clive’s sake.”
“How is he taking it? Of all people—so especially close to Father.”
“Badly. He fell apart, Roxanne said. But she’s taking good care of him. She’s a princess, a real princess. They’ll come over as soon as a path can be shoveled for them. He’s insisting.”
“I wish Dan were here,” Sally said.
“He’s due in today, isn’t he?”
“Tonight. But I don’t see how. The airport can’t possibly be cleared that fast.”
“This is hardly a homecoming welcome for him! Oh, Ian wants me. I’ll talk to you later. Wait, I just have to tell you, there’ll be detectives who’ll want to question all of us, Ian says. It’s ridiculous, questioning us, but I guess they have to do it. So don’t be too upset.”
“I’ll try not to be, but it’s all beyond words.”
Indeed, she could not afford to be upset, just “normally” upset. Now, what would be normal? To call Amanda. And so she put in a call to the hotel.
Amanda had already heard the news over the local radio station.
“Well,” she said, “what a fortuitous death! Or I should say ‘murder.’ And when I came all the way to see him! Who did it?”
“They have no idea.”
“Was it a break-in, a robbery?”
“I don’t think so. Nothing was taken.”
“He had no enemies, I suppose. Not Oliver Grey, oh no. Unless you can think of any.”
Sally said briefly, “No, I can’t.”
If it was Amanda’s intent to draw her out, she was making a mistake. Trust no one. And Amanda was the only human being who, because of yesterday’s revelation, could have the remotest reason to connect her with Oliver’s death.
“I was so disturbed by what you told me yesterday about yourself and Lucille and everything that I had to get out of the house. In all that weather I went to the movies.”
“I suppose the funeral will be a big event.”
“I guess so.”
“I don’t suppose you were too fond of him.”
“What makes you say that? As a matter of fact, until I heard yesterday what he had done to you, I had enormous regard for him. I was even fond of him.”
“Well, you live and learn, don’t you. I wish I knew about the funeral so I could send a wreath.”
“I take it that you don’t plan to go.”
“No. I’m flying out of here as soon as the planes move again.”
“What about the business you want to discuss?”
“It wouldn’t be seemly to talk about money. I’ll fly home and be back in a couple of weeks when the dust has settled. Anyway, I love to fly.”
There was something too snappy and flip in this interchange. The woman was—she was brittle. Still, it must be quite a blow to be cheated out of the revenge you’re so entitled to take.
“You’ll be safe in sending a wreath to Oliver’s church,” Sally said. “I really don’t see why you need to do it, though.”
Amanda laughed. “I’m a Grey and we were raised by the book of etiquette. By the way, there’ll be detectives, you know. Don’t let them make you nervous.”
“I have nothing to be nervous about,” Sally said.
Indeed, two of them were in the house already, in the kitchen with Nanny. Apparently they had arrived while Sally was on the telephone with Clive, who, in the enormity of shock and grief, had been put to bed. From the top of the back stairs she was able to hear them and, given her circumstances, felt no guilt about eavesdropping.
“This visitor came from California, you said?”
“I said I thought so. I don’t pay attention. It’s none of my business,” Nanny said indignantly. “If you want to know about this family’s affairs, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
So they really were going over everyone with a fine-tooth comb. Well, she was as ready as she would ever be. And she came down by the front stairs to meet the men in the living room.
“Detective Murray,” said one, a neat, balding man who reminded her of her dentist.
“Detective Huber,” said the second, who was younger and looked like her hairdresser.
She had expected them to look—well, different, perhaps formidable, perhaps tough. But that was absurd.
“Do sit down,” she said pleasantly.
The young one began, “We don’t like to intrude on a day like this, Mrs. Grey. You’re a family member, but—routine questions, you understand.”
“I understand.” And she wondered whether they were always as courteous to people not like the Greys. Perhaps they were.
“Your husband is the nephew of the deceased?”
She nodded.
“I’m told he’s out of town.”
“He’s flying home today.”
“When did you last hear from him?”
“Yesterday. He telephoned from Scotland yesterday morning.”
“Using this number?”
“Why, yes.”
The balding man, Murray, made notes. They would check the telephone company to see whether he really was in Scotland.
“Are you certain that he did not take an earlier plane, that possibly because of storm warnings he decided to come back a day early?”
“I’m quite certain.”
“Can you give me the airline and the flight number?”
“Of course. I have it here in the desk.”
“Your husband and Oliver Grey were close, would you say, on good terms?”
“They were like father and son. A good father and son.”
“He will be shocked when he gets this news.”
“We all are. It’s horrible.”
“Your husband has a sister in California, I understand. Your maid mentioned her just now. Nobody else in the family made mention of her being here.”
“They didn’t know she was. She came unexpectedly.”
“Oh, you hadn’t expected her either?”
Probe. Dig. She shouldn’t have used the word “unexpected.”
“It was a surprise, then.”
“Yes. A surprise.”
“Is she in the habit of making surprise visits from California?”
“In the habit? No.”
Murray raised his head from his notes. “Often, does she do it often?”
“No.” The less said, the better.
“Well, how often? When was the last time she came to your house?”
“She had never been here before.”
“Oh?”
She hated the way he said, “Oh,” with disbelief in the rising lilt.
“So she generally stayed at Hawthorne whenever she came?”
She would like to spare Amanda the grilling that was bound to come out of all this, but a saving lie would not really save because either Ian or Clive would state the facts.
“No,” Sally said, “she’s never been in Scythia at all, not since she was thirteen years old.”
“Peculiar, wouldn’t you say? After all these years to surprise you at your front door?”
“I really don’t know.”
“She must have had some reason. Didn’t she give you any?”
“She wanted to see the children. She brought Christmas presents.”
“That’s peculiar, too.” Huber’s narrowed eyes seemed to be challenging Sally. “Never comes in all these years, and all of a sudden decides to travel across the country with Christmas presents. No other reason given. Don’t you find it so, Mrs. Grey?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask her.”
“Your maid said Miss Grey was staying in town.”
“Yes, at the King Hotel.”
“Thank you. Now, after she left you—do you recall what time that was?”
“About five o’clock. My children’s suppertime, maybe a little later.”
“So, you gave supper to the children. And then what did you do?”
“Gave them baths. Then I went to the movies.”
“Pretty bad weather to go out in, wasn’t it?”
“Not that bad when I left the house. Anyway, I’m used to it.”
“And it’s not so far to the shopping center, if that’s where you went.”
“Yes, I saw Judy’s Daughter.”
“Did you like it? What do you think of the ending?”
Thank God she had read that review! “It was a real shocker. I never expected him to come back from the war.”
“It was a long picture, after eleven o’clock when it lets out.”
Thank God once more she had noted the time. “Ten-thirty. At least that’s what it said on the clock in the drugstore.”
They would, of course, check her story at the drugstore; they would check with Amanda, to find out when she had returned the rented car, and surely they would ask her about her conversation with Sally Grey. Amanda was clearly no fool, but neither were these detectives, so she could only hope that no accidental word of Amanda’s would plant a seed in their fertile minds.
When they had gone, she was left with a well-remembered dread from her school and college years: Had she passed the finals?
She had a need for solitude. A frightened animal crawls into its hole, she thought. The dog hides in the closet when it thunders. And she went into the kitchen to tell Nanny that she was feeling sick with a cold.
“I’m going to shut my door and lie down,” she said. “Will you keep the girls away for a while?”
“You just take care of yourself, Mrs. Grey. You look peaked, and no wonder. What a terrible thing! Some crazy up there in the mountains must have broken into the house. An awful lot of crazies are running around loose these days.” And Nanny shook her head, deploring the state of the world.
From the bedroom window Sally looked out upon the white expanse. There was no life in sight, not even a rabbit’s track. Here and there a draft of wind lifted a flurry of snow and sent it skimming across the frozen surface of the earth. An intense melancholy filled the afternoon. She drew the curtains to darken the room and lay down.
In a few hours Dan would be home, and she tried to imagine how she would tell him what had happened. Often in reading the papers or watching television, she had put herself in the place of someone caught in one of the century’s disasters, wondering how, for instance, you broke the news that the house had been bombed and the children were dead. Now she herself was to be the bearer of unbelievable news: I killed Uncle Oliver.
