Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8)

by P. M. Carlson

  “Rina, dear?” Mrs. Gallagher, assuming everyone had agreed, held out her trench coat.

  Rina bowed to reality. “Thank you, Mrs. Gallagher.” What a fiasco!

  “Don’t worry now, dear, we’ll send Leonora home in good time.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Gallagher. I’ll be back in touch soon!” The bright Lyons smile flashed at Mrs. Gallagher, and then the young woman followed Rina into the hall. They walked in silence together to the elevator. Seething, Rina jabbed the button.

  The reporter said mildly, “Please excuse me for kidnapping you, but we really should talk a little.”

  “Miss Lyons, I’m sorry I can’t help you. But really, I have no comment.” Then her control snapped and she flared, “I’d think you had plenty to write about already from what they said in there!”

  “Oh, I do.” The elevator came, and Aggie Lyons held the door open for Rina. “But Mrs. Marshall, I don’t think I have the whole story yet.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to make do with what you have, I’m afraid.”

  “Sure, if you insist.” They emerged from the elevator and out the lobby doors. Aggie Lyons unlocked the passenger door of a black Camaro with muddy New York plates. Still angry at the trick that had left her at this woman’s mercies, Rina could see no alternative now; she got in and slammed the door. The reporter put the key in the ignition but did not turn it for a moment, just sat with her bony hands resting on the wheel, a slight frown half hidden by the sunglasses. She said, “Maybe it would help if I summarize what I have right now. Hero: a friendly old man, behaving very properly but with a nice sense of humor, bringing a pleasant bit of spice into the lives of three warm and friendly widows his own age. Okay so far?”

  “Yes,” said Rina, her voice tight.

  “Good. Villains: a rude teenage boy and his girlfriend, who are angry with the heroic old man because he scolded them for talking back to her grandmother. Question: Do they get their revenge by killing the old man with her scissors?”

  “No!” cried Rina. “No, no, no! It’s not like that at all!”

  Aggie Lyons gave her a broad smile and turned the ignition. “Well,” she said as she steered skillfully out into the traffic, “I really don’t think it’s like that either, you know.”

  “Well, then, why did you say so?”

  “Because you tell me I must make do with what I have. That’s what I have, Mrs. Marshall. You haven’t told me anything about the girl or the boy, you see. What I have is that they both yelled at Mr. Spencer, and that her scissors were used to kill him, and that she ran away at just that time. Doesn’t that look odd?”

  “Yes,” said Rina, glowering at the other woman for telling the truth. “But it’s ridiculous. You don’t know Ginny.”

  “That’s why I was hoping you’d tell me what she’s like.”

  “She’s wonderful! She’s bright, straight A’s. And loving, and beautiful, and talented. Everything you’d want a daughter to be.”

  The reporter negotiated a turn onto the highway in silence, then said, “Talented, you say. At what?”

  “Soft sculpture. Wonderful little creations from scraps of cloth. She’s won prizes in adult competitions.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. She’s very good. And also, she dances very well. Ballet.”

  “I see. She certainly sounds perfect.”

  Rina realized she was overdoing it. She said, “Well, she’s got a temper sometimes, but no worse than any of us. I mean, we don’t bottle things up in our family. And she had good reason to be angry Thursday. You heard about it. Even Mamma admits that. Ginny’s very attached to her cat.”

  “But not attached to her grandmother?”

  Trapped. Rina fought back. “Of course she is! But sometimes they have little disagreements. It’s perfectly normal, just what you’d find in any family.”

  “True. So why did she run away?”

  Anger and unease were playing tag in Rina. She said, “Look. You asked me what she was like, and I told you! She’s not a villain for your story. She shouldn’t be dragged into this kind of affair at all!”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Mrs. Marshall.”

  “Of course I am. I know her. She’s a wonderful daughter.”

  “And she’ll come home, and you’ll all live happily ever after.”

  “Yes! Yes, why not?”

  Aggie Lyons shrugged and drove in silence for a block or two. Then she said, “Would it be imposing on you too much to ask if I could see your house?”

  Rina wanted to scream,Yes, idiot, it would be imposing! Damn you, damn your misconceptions! But she managed to say levelly, “I’m really very busy. I appreciate the ride home, but I have a lot to do.”

  “Just a quick look?”

  “No. I’m sorry. I just can’t manage it.”

  The reporter shrugged again. The black car bore them up Ridgewood. She pulled into the driveway.

  “Well, thanks for the ride,” said Rina, relieved enough to be civil. “Good luck with the story. I’m sure you’ll be fair.” She leaned forward to open the door.

  “I try to be,” said Aggie Lyons. “I’ll do my best, I promise. By the way, my sources on Long Island say that Ginny is adopted.”

  Rina froze, her fingers on the handle of the door she was opening, her eyes closing in reflex against the blow. Headlines danced in her mind. Adopted girl reverts to type! Innocent family friend slain by changeling! Bad blood infects suburbs! Ginny would never forgive her, never come home, if she let the adoption get into the news. She had to stop this woman, had to explain somehow. Mrs. Farnham’s round face drifted into her mind, as vividly judgmental as it had been all those years ago. Bruised, Rina forced her eyes open to look at the woman who had just slashed open the fabric of her life.

  “Okay,” said Rina, defeated. “I guess you’d better come in.”

  XIV

  The reporter was silent as Rina unlocked the front door, the pleasant enigmatic face in the sunglasses shifting to survey the shingled walls, the begonias still bright in the reflected sunlight, the little flagged front terrace. Rina turned the knob and motioned her in with forced courtesy, and in response a little mocking smile twitched at Aggie Lyons’s mouth. But as Rina followed her in, the younger woman stopped abruptly.

  “My God,” she said, “that is beautiful!”

  She was looking at Rina’s quilted hanging, glowing on the wall across from the stairs, where the light from the tall sheer-curtained windows beside the door brought out the warm fairy-tale colors of the calicos that made up the happy country scene. Rina’s pleasure in the compliment was soured with suspicion, with a sense of violation. She didn’t answer for a moment, just walked stiffly past the reporter and up the half-flight toward the living room. At the top she paused and looked back down. “Thank you,” she said politely.

  Aggie Lyons laughed and bounded up the steps past her, the white fur fluttering. “I meant it,” she said. “But I wouldn’t want a compliment from me either, if I were you. A pushy reporter, half blind, who blackmails her way into your home, and could publish all your darkest secrets to the world if she isn’t stopped. Evil personified, that’s me.” She slapped her chest extravagantly. She was striding around the living room, inspecting the piano, the furniture, the fireplace, the plants, the window that looked out on the late flowers in Mamma’s garden.

  “What do other people do with you?” asked Rina in despair.

  “Oh, they differ. Some love the attention, like Mrs. Gallagher. Some clam up completely. I always worry about those, because it’s hard to be fair when you don’t have their side of it. A few have even written me thank-you notes. But I don’t expect you to believe that, yet.” She was circling the living room again, like a hawk looking for prey, Rina thought. She stopped at last in front of Rina. “Is your husband home? You should tell him I’m here and ask his legal advice.”

  So she knew Clint was a lawyer. Rina was not surprised. “Why do you eve
n bother to talk to me? You know everything about us already.”

  “Of course I don’t, that’s why I’m here. But it saves time if I do my homework before I bother people.”

  “I see. I think I will call Clint.” Rina went to the kitchen phone. As she dialed the church number, she found herself gripping the receiver as though for support.

  “Hello? This is Rina Marshall. May I speak to Clint, please? He’s at the deacons’ meeting.”

  In a moment Clint’s warm, concerned voice came on. “Hi, honey. Are you okay?”

  “Yes.” She glanced at Aggie Lyons, who was watching from the kitchen door. “But there’s a new complication. A reporter.”

  “You don’t have to tell them anything.”

  “I know. Most of them I’ve turned away. But this one knows so much already. It’s a question of getting it all in context.”

  “What do you mean, knows so much?”

  “About Ginny running away. About her scissors. About her being adopted.”

  “Damn. And she’s threatening to print this? Nothing proven, and she’d ruin a kid’s life?”

  “Well, she says she wants to be fair.”

  “Yeah, they all say that, don’t they? What the hell else does she want to know?”

  “I don’t know. She says background. And—well, she didn’t say anything about the scissors and the adoption to Mamma’s friends just now. She could have, but she didn’t. So she’s been discreet so far.”

  “Mmm. I see. May I talk to her?”

  “Just a minute.” Rina handed the receiver to the reporter, who was lounging against the kitchen door frame, her knicker-clad legs crossed.

  “Hello, Mr. Marshall? This is Aggie Lyons.” Her free hand played with the clasp of her shoulder bag as she listened.

  “Yes, Mr. Marshall, I realize that she’s young, and that publicity could be very damaging. My problem is that the surface facts already seem rather damaging to your daughter. I’d like to get a more rounded picture of the situation. Obviously there’s a problem, or she wouldn’t have run away. But the only problem that’s clear so far is the murder. And the murder was committed with her scissors. You see my difficulty.”

  Clint said something, and she nodded earnestly at the phone. “Right. I know a story like this could damage her unfairly if she’s innocent. So I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I’m a fanatic for fairness. Had a bad experience myself once.” She shook her head. “No, the police didn’t tell me. They’re searching for your daughter, of course, they aren’t keeping that secret. But the other information was from private sources, which I can’t reveal.” There was a pause. “Libel law? Sure, I know a bit about it, and one of my friends works with Morgenstern and Wilcox in New York. Besides, as I say, my interest is in a fair account of factual material. I’m sure this situation is more complex than it seems on the surface, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  Clint made a long comment.

  “Yes, Mr. Marshall,” the reporter agreed. “I’m very concerned about the effect on your daughter too. I have a daughter myself. And I promise that nothing will be used if it’s not necessary to the story of Mr. Spencer’s death.” She smiled. “Okay, here she is.” She handed the receiver back to Rina.

  “Hello again.”

  “Well, Rina,” said Clint, “she appears to understand the problem well enough. There’s no way to stop her from publishing facts, or using the public records. So possibly a fuller account would be better. Fairer. And you say she was discreet in front of your mother’s friends. I just hope—well, that’s irrelevant. Just try to keep the emphasis on Spencer so she won’t get sidetracked into making Ginny the center of the story.”

  “I see. Okay.”

  “I’ve got to give my report. But I’ll be back as soon as I can, maybe an hour or two.”

  “Bye, honey.”

  Rina hung up and looked wearily at Aggie Lyons, who was leaning against the door frame again. “I’m to minimize the damage if I can,” she said.

  “I’m a bully,” admitted the younger woman cheerfully. “But it’s a sincere attempt to avoid doing damage. To anyone besides the murderer, I mean. Now, where was the card table set up?”

  Keep the emphasis on Mr. Spencer, he had said. Good. “In here,” Rina told her, leading the way to the spot near the sofa.

  “They used a folding table and chairs?”

  “Yes. We keep them in the closet there. Do you want to see them?”

  “No. I can imagine them, I think. The cat comes from the hall down there, and hides behind the plant here.” She was talking to herself, moving around the room again, as though photographing the scene. “And your mother blows up, kicks him. The cat splits for the hall, Ginny after him yelling insults over her shoulder, the older people clucking up here. Okay, I’ve got that.” She smiled at Rina again. “You’re very patient, Mrs. Marshall.”

  “There’s not much choice, is there?”

  “I’ll try to be quick. Fast forward, now, to the point where you arrive home. Front door? Garage door?”

  “Garage door, into the hall of the lower level.”

  “So you came up these stairs?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then?”

  “I said hello to my mother and her friends, and she introduced me to Mr. Spencer. Then I asked if Ginny was home, and she told me she was in the den, and that the cat had gotten out.”

  “I see. Where had you been?”

  “Damn it, I can’t watch them every minute!” Rina burst out.

  “My God, why should you watch them every minute?” Aggie Lyons seemed astounded.

  “Well, yes. That’s what I mean.” Rina felt uncomfortable. She had to keep control. She knew that the eyes behind those glasses were studying her.

  “Were you somewhere you’re ashamed of, Mrs. Marshall?”

  “No, of course not! I have a part-time job at a college crafts center. This term, twice a week, I have a quilting and soft sculpture class.”

  “That beautiful thing in the entry hall is yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “My God, Mrs. Marshall. I’m impressed.”

  “Yes, thanks, but that doesn’t have much to do with Mr. Spencer,” said Rina coolly.

  “You’re right. Okay. Next, you go into the den and talk to Ginny.” She moved so swiftly, Rina didn’t catch up until they were in the bedroom hall looking into the den. “Then Ginny decided to go to the library, right?”

  “Yes. She went to her room for the backpack.”

  “This is her room? No, this is the bathroom.”

  “Next door.”

  “Okay.” The reporter walked in as though invited, and straight across to the worktable under the window. “The scissors were here?”

  “That’s where they usually were. So I suppose they were.”

  “May I touch the doll?”

  “Yes, it’s nearly finished.”

  The younger woman picked it up almost reverently, and studied the unhappy little face. She said after a moment, “She’s really good, isn’t she? I wouldn’t have expected this much talent. Most teenagers do pretty sappy stuff.”

  “Last year she won a prize at the State Crafts Fair,” said Rina. “The youngest person who’s ever won in this section.”

  “Really?”

  “There it is.” Rina gestured back at the wall over Ginny’s headboard, next to the door. The reporter turned around and froze for a moment, as though stunned.

  The doll figure Ginny had made was not large, perhaps ten inches tall, unromantically ugly but full of character. It was all of cloth, very old-fashioned in general effect, despite the fact that the muslin body was dressed in denim. Anguished embroidered blue eyes stared hopelessly; the mouth, a slash of dark thread, appeared to be moaning. The unbleached muslin head and hands were carefully primitive in form. The whole was twisted, suspended in a large stuffed fabric frame about two feet square, complete with quilted curlicues. Slender white filaments of thread from the f
rame held the doll’s body in midair, stretched in agony. The long black hair was stretched too, so that it appeared to be buffeted by a stormy wind. From the waist, where the figure’s navel might have been, a single pale filament of support thread dangled unattached, the only loose end in the construction.

  Old-fashioned sampler-style letters stitched to the stuffed frame spelled out the title: “Self-portrait 1978.” Next to them, a little red ribbon announced that the work had won a prize.

  Aggie’s fingers had clenched around the post of the footboard. “Damn, damn, damn,” she said huskily.

  “It makes me cry,” admitted Rina.

  “Me too,” said Aggie, and Rina saw that it was true. She felt a flicker of hope that perhaps this odd young woman would understand after all.

  “You see what I mean,” she said hopefully.

  “Yes. It’s eloquent. Damn.” The ambiguous sunglasses turned to Rina, and Aggie took a deep breath. “Mrs. Marshall, you’re right. You have a remarkable daughter. But why the hell do you—” She clipped off her sentence unfinished and became restless again, moving around the room. “Cat toys. Novels.” Her fingers paused on Haley’sRoots. “Does she read all this stuff?”

  “Yes. Sometimes to the detriment of her schoolwork.”

  For a moment Rina thought that her blunder had not been noticed, because Aggie seemed to be absorbed in riffling through the notebooks on Ginny’s desk. But she pulled out a paper and handed it to Rina as she answered.

  “Yes. The detriment of her schoolwork. Tell me about her grades again, Mrs. Marshall.”

  The paper was marked “D.”

  Rina said miserably, “She’ll make A’s again. It’s the school’s fault. She’s bored. Too bright for them.”

  “Yes. Maybe. But maybe you should think it through a little more, Mrs. Marshall. Look at all the evidence.” There was a hard edge in her voice now.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me. Who killed John Spencer?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You were here in this house. So was Spencer. So were the scissors. Implication: So was the murderer. Who was it? Who took those scissors? Who wanted to kill him?”