“Thank you for stopping by, but we must be going.” Button nodded at the limo idling in the driveway.
Leigh stepped back and the heels of his shoes tipped over the edge of the first stair. Grabbing hold of the railing, he nodded at Button. “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Gold.”
“Thank you.” Button’s lips pursed as though she’d tasted something sour. She pushed past Eve, gave Leigh a wide berth, and stumped down the stairs in her sensible black shoes.
“Come along, Eve.”
She didn’t follow right away. “Are you coming to the funeral?”
“I’m helping my parents pack stuff into storage. They’re listing the house.”
“They’re moving?”
He nodded. “We’re doing a remembrance thing for Sara later, but I was planning to come to the funeral first.” He frowned, watching Button make her way across the lawn. “Just say the word and I’ll stay away.”
Ashamed of her weakness, she said, “You should come. If you want.”
“All right.”
For different reasons than her grandmother, she gave him a wide berth as she moved past him down the stairs, tottering only a little in Donna’s high heels.
He touched a fingertip to the back of her hand, opening the conduit between them. “Can we talk? I mean, not now. But later today, or tomorrow?”
Stiffening her shoulders to hide the wobble going on a little lower down, she remembered what he’d said to her the last time they’d been together, and repeated the lie back to him. “Soon. We’ll figure it out.”
“Eve …”
She crossed the lawn with mincing steps to keep her heels from sinking into the soft grass, and climbed into the dark interior of the limo.
“What’s he doing here?” Button asked once she’d closed the door.
“I don’t know.”
“I never did trust that boy. It was a terrible tragedy, what happened to his sister. But there’s something not quite right about him. He’s like, az me lozt a chazzer aruf afn bank, vil er afn tish, the pig you give a chair to, and next he wants a table.”
She barely listened. From behind the safety of the tinted glass, she drank him in like a recovering addict looking at her fix. He stood on the stairs, watching the limo pull away. His mouth was turned down, his shoulders slumped, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his suit pants. For the first time since Donna’s death, she felt tears burn her eyes.
“Eve,” Button said.
She turned around, giving Button a guilty look.
Button pulled down her sunglasses and examined her over the top of them. She wasn’t certain what her grandmother saw, but whatever it was made Button’s eyes tighten to slits.
“What?”
“Der ponem zogt ois dem sod, your face tells your secrets.”
She shook her head, giving her grandmother a confused look. All the while, she tried desperately to stuff her emotions back into the box where she normally kept them.
“Please tell me there’s nothing going on between the two of you.”
“Of course not.”
Button raised an eyebrow, and she squirmed.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
“Well that’s good. Because if there was …” Button trailed off and turned to look out the window at the grey landscape. They spent the rest of the ride to the cemetery in silence.
“What can we do for you, Detective Baird?” Button’s voice echoed, extra loud, from the front door.
Eve froze with the top half of her body stuck inside the fridge, where she’d been rearranging platters to make room for one more — she’d never realized how many versions of tuna and noodles there were — and closed her eyes in silent appeal.
Pleasantries had never been the detective’s strong suit. Sure enough, he got straight to the point. “I’d like to speak to your granddaughter.”
Detective Baird’s voice was unforgettable. It rumbled deep in his throat, reminding her of the way the old bloodhound next door, Oliver, had yowled when he smelled prey. A train had run over the dog when she was eleven — no such luck when it came to Detective Baird.
“What for?” Button said.
“Is she home?”
“This isn’t a good time. We’ve just returned from my daughter’s funeral. Perhaps —”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Eve’s head snapped up so quickly she banged it on the fridge light. Wincing, she backed out and let the door swing closed on the untidy stack of tinfoil-wrapped platters. She looked around the kitchen, frantic, caught between the instinct to run and the understanding that there really wasn’t anywhere for her to go.
“Well,” Button said in a high-pitched voice, and Eve could picture her clutching the collar of her bathrobe, pulling it tight against her throat. “I’m sure you can understand this is hardly the right time —”
“I can come back with a search warrant, if you’d prefer.”
The inside of her head felt like it was swelling, a balloon full of ringing panic. Her vision went fuzzy and her legs threatened to give way. She might have given up right then, if not for the quiet knock behind her.
She whirled to see Leigh peering at her through the small window at the top of the kitchen door. He was soaked, hair plastered to his forehead and dripping into his eyes.
“Eve?” His voice was muffled through the door. “Can we talk?”
She pounced on her chance, grabbing the tin of maple syrup off the table and flying across the kitchen. She opened the door onto a gust of wet wind and thrust the tin at him. “Take this!”
“What?”
“Take it!” She shoved it into his chest, hard enough to make him wince.
Leigh grabbed it before it could fall. “What’s going on?”
“Please! If you ever loved me even a little bit, you won’t ask any questions.”
He looked down with incredulity at the tin of syrup in his hand.
“Throw it in the river or something,” she said, and then issued a short, bitter laugh at the irony.
He shook his head, trying to hand it back to her. “I don’t know what you’ve got yourself into, but I don’t want any part —”
“Listen to me, you steaming pile of chicken shit. Detective Baird is at the front door. Remember him?”
His eyes widened.
“Do this for me, or I’ll tell him everything. And I do mean everything.”
His mouth dropped open. “Eve!”
She was as surprised as he was by her threat, but desperate times and all that. “I’ve been protecting you for a long time.”
“Ms. Gold?” Detective Baird said. “I’d like a few minutes.”
The sound of heavy footsteps in the hall stopped Leigh from saying anything more. Stuffing the syrup into the inside pocket of his coat, he faded into the wet night.
“Going somewhere?” Detective Baird said behind her.
Shutting the door, Eve turned to face him. “Where would I go?”
The detective had put on weight around the middle. His moustache was bushier, too, but his eyes were just the same. They were the kind of eyes that saw everything.
She went through a quick internal debate, wondering how best to portray herself to the detective. He wouldn’t buy frail and broken-hearted; maybe numb denial would work better. Or she could just be herself. This idea held a certain inelegant appeal.
She lit the burner under the kettle, even though it was still warm from recent use. She had no desire to drink another cup, but it gave her something to do besides look at Detective Baird.
“What can I do for you? I’m sure my grandmother explained that this isn’t the best time.”
“It’s never a good time, Ms. Gold.”
“Please, call me Eve.”
“Sorry.” He sounded anything but. “I guess that reminds you of your mother?”
She was determined not to take the bait. “Would you like some tea?”
“What I
’d like, for once, is the truth.”
She was glad her back was turned. Pulling the tea box out of the cupboard, she said, “‘Everything we hear is an opinion, not a fact.’ That’s Marcus Aurelius.”
“I’m not much for philosophy,” the detective said. “But here’s a quote I can get behind. It’s by William Lloyd Garrison. ‘I will be as harsh as truth, as uncompromising as justice … I will not retreat a single inch.’”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Only if you’ve done something wrong.”
Eve turned and leaned back against the counter, giving him a tight smile.
He returned it, his eyes like those of a hawk hungry for whatever lay beneath her skin. “If you come clean now, you’ll be charged as a juvenile.”
She forced a laugh. “Charged with what?”
“You think what happened to Sara is funny?”
Like the scream of a ghost on the river, the kettle began to whistle. It was bad timing, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled to life. “Far from it.”
She poured steaming water into the teapot, gave the tea a quick stir, and put on the lid to let it steep. “What I find funny is that you think I had something to do with it.”
“And what I don’t find funny is the number of people around you who have come to an unfortunate end.”
“I’m not sure who else you’re talking about, but I’d guess it was bad luck.”
“Hmm.”
He was getting under her skin, like he always did.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“As far as I can tell, the only bad luck these folks had was in knowing you.”
She felt suddenly exhausted, and slumped against the counter as though someone had dropped a weight on her shoulders. “Are we just about done? I’d like to take a bath and then sleep for about three days.”
“Trust me, Ms. Gold, you’ll know when I’m done.”
“You still think I did something to Sara?” Eve said, shaking her head.
“I think I haven’t heard the whole story.”
“And who else?”
Detective Baird pulled a photo out of his pocket and held it out. The man had bushy black hair and a bladelike face. “Ever see this guy?”
“No. Who is he?”
“Thomas Mahoney. A vagrant who went missing eight years ago.”
She looked at him incredulously. “When I was nine.”
“He liked little girls.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Nothing, necessarily. But his remains were found a football field away from where we’re standing right now. In a place called the Crook, where I’m told all the local kids used to play. Including you. There were several complaints about him hanging around the area, watching the neighbourhood girls. So, I’m thinking, maybe you ran across him at some point?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Here, take another look.” He held out the photo.
She didn’t even glance at it. “You think a nine-year-old is capable of hurting a full-grown man? What have you been smoking?”
“Maybe not most nine-year-olds.”
“I think that’s enough, detective.” Button stood in the kitchen doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She pointed her bony chin in the direction of the door. “Time for you to leave.”
He ignored her, watching Eve carefully. “I’ve been a police officer for forty years, and if there’s one thing I can spot, it’s a sociopath.”
“I didn’t know the police academy handed out psychology degrees,” she said.
He stepped closer, trying to use his height and girth to intimidate her. She would have stepped back if she hadn’t already been propped against the kitchen counter.
“I’ve put a rush on your mother’s toxicology reports.”
“Good.”
“Not the best mom, was she?” he asked softly. “I’m betting what she did to you when you were fourteen is just the tip of the iceberg.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re —”
“They found bloody spittle around her mouth. Hyperaemia was observed on her stomach lining. Do you know what that is?”
“Should I?”
“It’s usually caused by an irritant poison.”
“Poison!” Button said from the kitchen doorway.
“He’s just trying to scare us. Don’t fall for it.”
“They’re testing for everything. Garden poisons, barbiturates, cleaning solvents, cosmetics, kitchen cleaners, mushrooms. You name it, they’re testing for it.”
“Es vert mir finster in di oygn.” Button slid sideways, and Eve grabbed her before she fell. She led her grandmother to the kitchen table, eased her onto the bench.
“She buried her only daughter today. Where’s your compassion?”
“If you poisoned her, we’ll find out.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I’m not worried.” Stroking her grandmother’s cloud of curls, Eve said, “Let me get you some tea. And maybe an oatmeal cookie?”
“I wouldn’t eat anything your granddaughter offered, if I were you,” Baird said.
Button closed her eyes and sobbed.
“Please leave. Can’t you see what you’re doing to her?” Eve said.
Detective Baird watched Button dispassionately for a moment, and then shrugged. “I’ll see you soon.”
She listened to his heavy footfalls as he crossed the dining room and living room, followed by the opening squeak and hollow slam of the front door. The front porch shook as he descended the stairs. A moment later there came the rumble of a car engine, and the sound of tires slicing through puddles.
“Are you okay?” she asked her grandmother. “Should I call the doctor?”
“Eve.” Button opened her eyes.
“Yes? What do you need?”
With a hand that shook badly, Button reached across the table and touched the ring of rust where the tin of maple syrup had sat for as long as she could remember. Running a gentle finger over it like she was touching a baby’s cheek, she looked up at her granddaughter with eyes that were watery and wild with fear.
Her heart hammered in her throat. “What is it, Grandma?”
But all Button said was, “I think I’ll take my tea in the bedroom.”
TWENTY-FIVE
“WHEN CAN I GO HOME?”
“We’re not sure yet.” Leigh still wore his scrubs, and there was a stain on the shirt that looked suspiciously like blood. Her gaze was drawn to it again and again, perhaps so she wouldn’t have to see how her husband looked off to the corner, or above the bed, or down at his fingers … or anywhere else to avoid looking at her.
“Is it hard for you?” she asked.
“What?”
“Having a psycho for a wife.”
“Eve —”
“Do you tell anyone, the other doctors and nurses you work with, that your wife is locked up in Riverbend?”
Leigh opened his mouth, and then perhaps thought better of whatever he was about to say. He shook his head, and his gaze travelled up to her face for just a moment. “Dr. Jeffries will be here soon to discuss your results, and a plan of action.”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Eve,” Leigh said. “I get that you’re scared. But we’re all trying to do our best here.”
“Screw that. Your best is locking me up like some kind of criminal.”
He scrubbed a hand across his face, so hard she heard the rasp of his stubble against the palm of his hand. “You know what’s bothering me? You’ve been here for five days —”
“I have?”
“And you haven’t asked about Gabriel. Not once.”
“Oh.”
“Did you forget about him?” he asked, and she could hear the fear in his voice.
“Of course not. What kind of an awful person would forget about their child?” Even to her own ears, her protest was too strident.
“Not awful. Just in need of
help.”
“I don’t —” But she was cut off as the door to her room opened.
“Mrs. Adler.” Dr. Jeffries strode purposefully into the room. “Dr. Adler.” She extended a hand to Leigh, who stood to shake it.
Dr. Jeffries looked exactly as she had the last time Eve saw her, right down to the pale slick of hair, the ice-coloured eyes that swam behind thick lenses, and the incongruously girlish freckles dusting her nose and cheeks.
“I have the results of the MRI and the neuroplasticity workup. Comparing the results to those done six months after your accident, we can see some interesting anomalies.”
She took the only seat in the room and crossed her legs. She wore tweed pants and brown shoes with pointed toes. Flopping the thick chart open on her lap, she said, “The good news is, there’s significant improvement in areas of the brain that weren’t directly impacted in the accident. But I found this part curious.”
She turned the folder so Leigh could see. “Take a look at the hypothalamus.”
Leigh frowned. “Huh.”
“Eve, did you have trouble getting pregnant?”
“Not at all.”
“Any difficulty breastfeeding?”
“No.”
“We had to supplement with formula,” Leigh said. “Because her milk production was poor.”
“Right.”
“Do you sleep well at night?” Dr. Jeffries asked.
“Most of the time.”
“She rarely sleeps,” Leigh said at the same time.
The doctor looked from one of them to the other, but neither elaborated.
“Do you often feel too warm? Or too cold?”
“Cold,” Leigh said.
“I can never get warm.”
“And when did that begin?”
“Um.” She paused, thinking. “It’s been a long time. I rarely think about it anymore.”
“It’s been getting worse lately,” Leigh said. “She’s been wearing sweaters while the rest of us are sweating in T-shirts.”
“I’m not surprised, considering what I see here.” The doctor nodded at the chart in her lap. “Your hypothalamus function has deteriorated significantly since the last time we ran these tests. It’s responsible for many functions, including helping to control the pituitary gland. This can affect everything from sleep patterns to reproductive issues to the body’s ability to regulate temperature. Your blood tests show that you’ve become hyperthyroid, and your estrogen level is higher than we would like. But medication can bring both these issues under control.”
The Day She Died Page 15
