“It’s a lovely house,” Aggie said. Rina agreed. It was not as large as her own home, but the brick fireplace and colonial-style furniture, set off by Marie Deaver’s collection of antique blue-and-white plates, gave a friendly charm to the house. Aggie walked to the big window at the rear of the living room and looked out. “Pretty garden too.”
“Thank you.” Marie Deaver closed the closet door where she’d hung their coats. “Those are the mums your mother just gave me, Rina.”
“Oh, yes, I remember.” Rina joined the others at the window. Several young bushes of showy golden chrysanthemums blazed against the black soil in the neatly hoed and weeded flowerbeds, just as they did in Mamma’s garden at home. “They’re doing well.”
“Thank you. But no one’s thumb is as green as your mother’s.”
“Certainly not mine!” Rina agreed.
“Excuse me. May I use your bathroom?” Aggie asked.
“Certainly, dear. Here, let me show you.” Marie led the way halfway up the stairs, then paused. “There you are, on the right side.” She watched as Aggie trotted up past her, then she turned back to Rina. “How about some coffee or tea?”
“Oh, don’t go to any trouble.”
“No trouble. I usually fix some tea for myself this time of the afternoon.” They went into the kitchen, and Rina helped arrange the lovely old cups and saucers on a tray while Marie put on the kettle and measured tea into a fat blue-and-white pot. She took a few butter cookies from a tin and set them on a plate. “I always feel like apologizing for my cooking when I’m with you Rossis,” she said, smiling.
“No need. But it is one of Mamma’s passions,” Rina admitted.
Aggie appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Oh, a proper tea!” she said enthusiastically. “What a good idea!”
Rina picked up the tray. “Where do you want it?”
“Let’s take it in the living room.”
“Mrs. Deaver, I couldn’t help noticing the room across from the bathroom,” Aggie said as they followed Rina to the coffee table. “The one with all the clocks.”
“Bobby’s projects,” said Marie. “He’s very good with mechanical things. He built some of the clocks, but of course he can’t keep many at the home. So I put them in his room here. He can have them when he’s ready to come home. Do you want lemon, Rina?”
“Thank you.” Taking the cup from Marie, Rina thought of Bobby’s room upstairs, kept ready for him just in case. Ginny’s room was ready for her too. But Ginny would come back, really, she reminded herself fiercely. She would!
Aggie and Marie Deaver were talking about the rest of the family. “Frank worked at the Federal Trade Commission,” Marie explained. “I took care of Bobby for a few years, but when we saw he’d do better in a special school I went to work too.”
“For the government?”
“Yes. Various departments. Under Johnson—the War on Poverty, remember?—I worked on implementing some of the welfare legislation. Getting it into the computers and so forth. It seemed like they had a new law every two days. A crazy time. I helped make sure we didn’t cut out eligible people by mistake. It was a madhouse some months. But we did pretty well on average.”
“That was important work. Do you miss it, now that you’ve retired?”
“I miss my friends. I still visit the old office occasionally to say hello. And I miss the excitement. But a lot of it was drudgery too.”
“Most jobs have a lot of drudgery. Mine—I love talking to people, but writing it down is a chore sometimes. Quilting must be the same, Rina. The excitement and fun of design, and then all those little stitches, thousands of them.”
Rina nodded. “That’s true. But there’s a satisfaction in completing a project well, too. In trying to live up to the vision. Tell me, Marie, does Bobby like his quilt?”
Marie placed her cup carefully on the tray and smiled. “Oh, yes. He was very engrossed in it. Stroked it.”
“I’m glad he likes it. It has nice bright colors.”
“Yes. Now, tell me why you’re here,” said Marie. “You said you had some questions.”
“Yes,” said Aggie. “Who do you think killed Mr. Spencer?”
Marie picked up her cup again. “I’m not a detective, Aggie,” she said mildly. “Or a reporter. And I certainly don’t want to point a finger at an innocent person, perhaps lose a friend.”
“Well, let me put it more delicately. Suppose you were a detective—what would you be looking for? Just supposing.”
Marie Deaver smiled. “Yes, that question is better. But I can’t think what I’d do that the police aren’t doing already. I’d try to find out something about John, in case it was a friend or acquaintance who did it, and I’d also try to work backward from where he was found, because it may have nothing to do with him, it might have been pure chance.”
Aggie took a butter cookie. “Do you think they’re right to ask so many questions of his friends?”
“It does get tedious,” Marie admitted. “And I can’t imagine any of us doing it, can you? So it does seem that they’re paying too much attention to us. But maybe they hope we’ll remember something about him, because it is possible that it was an acquaintance. These days, with such a drug problem, it’s difficult to trust anyone.”
“Was Mr. Spencer too trusting, you think?”
Marie shook her head sadly. “Of course I knew him only slightly, but my impression was that John was sensible. No more gullible than the rest of us. Still—the facts don’t bear that out, do they?”
“You mentioned drugs,” said Aggie. “You think they may have been involved, then?”
“I don’t know. I just said there were a lot of them involved in crimes these days, and young people—” She glanced uneasily at Rina. “I just meant that was one possibility.”
“You needn’t be polite on my account,” said Rina wearily. “I know Buck Landon has problems. And Ginny’s interest in him is a problem. I just don’t understand what she sees in him.”
“It’s hard to understand youngsters,” Marie said sympathetically. “I have trouble understanding what Bobby needs sometimes, and he’s my own blood!”
“Yes.” Her own blood. Rina felt that Marie had struck her, sideswiped her careful props from under her.
“But as for young Buck Landon, we can hope he gets straightened out before long,” Marie continued. “He really was acting very strange. We had to tell the police, you know that, Rina.”
Rina murmured, “Yes, of course you had to tell them.”
Aggie glanced at Rina with a hint of worry around her mouth, but her words didn’t help much. “Ginny ran away just then, too,” she said. “That called the attention of the police to her.”
“Yes,” Marie Deaver agreed. “Forgive me, Rina, but she was a bit difficult that afternoon. So was Buck.”
Quit pouting,Rina scolded herself.Use this opportunity. “I know she was, Marie,” she said. “Do you remember anything she said? Anything that would account for her being so upset?”
“Why, the cat, of course. I was upset—well, goodness, your mother was upset too, the minute she realized what she’d done. But Ginny does feel motherly toward the cat. She overreacted, but we were all upset.”
“Yes, but I mean, did she say anything that might be related to wanting to leave?”
Marie frowned. “Leave? No, I don’t remember anything like that. In fact, when she first came after the cat, she apologized that he’d escaped. Very mannerly, I thought. But then when the cat was hurt, she got upset and ran off to the den. That was the last I saw of her. No, any thought about leaving must have come afterward.”
Meaning after the murder? Rina put down her empty cup. “Well, if you do think of anything else, please let me know. I just can’t imagine where she’s gone.”
“Oh, she’ll be in touch soon, I imagine.” Marie smiled reassuringly at Rina.
“One last question,” said Aggie. “You’re familiar with the area near the library book drop, where
Mr. Spencer’s body was found.”
“Yes. And Delores and Leonora and I went to have a look at it afterward.”
“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary? I mean, besides the police tape and so forth.”
“Oh, dear. I hardly looked at it before all this happened, you know. It did seem to me that the area looked very trampled down when I went with the others. But we thought that was probably the police walking around.”
“The police I know are very careful about that,” Aggie said. “Trampled down, you say. Could you see footprints?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Goodness, I’m not an expert! It just seemed that a lot of twigs and branches were broken. More than I’d expect.”
“Interesting,” said Aggie. “So the killer might have taken a few minutes out of the car, you think? To arrange the body there?”
“It occurred to me.”
“I wonder what needed arranging?” Aggie looked at her watch. “Oh, dear, the high school will be getting out soon. I wanted to try to catch some of Buck’s friends before I spoke to him. Thank you, Mrs. Deaver. You’ve been a good sport.” She stood, and Rina and Marie Deaver followed suit.
“Well, I’m afraid I haven’t been much help, it’s so confusing,” Marie said.
“Oh, we’re all confused.” Aggie opened the closet and took out her white fur and Rina’s trench coat, then straightened the remaining hangers so Marie’s winter coats weren’t crammed into the corner. “But if we get enough facts, some sense may emerge. Thanks for the talk and the tea, Mrs. Deaver.”
“Thanks for the company. I’ll see you soon, Rina.”
She stood smiling at the door as they left, a small white-haired woman in a big empty house.
Nick snuggled the receiver to his chin. “What amI doing? Well—I’m in the hotel room.” The phone had rung a couple of minutes after he’d come in. He was sitting on the bed and could see himself in the wide mirror across the room: unkempt and still sweaty from rehearsal. Undershirt and old gray sweatpants, decidedly undecorative. He lowered his voice to a more romantic pitch. “I’m in my tux, of course. Bow tie slightly loosened. Room service brought me a glass of champagne and a bud vase with a single lovely marguerite.” He could hear Maggie’s giggle. “Glass in hand, I gaze longingly across the Mississippi to the east, and all alone beweep my outcast state.”
“Lovely!” There was relish in Maggie’s voice. “Tears on your satin lapel, and sighs.”
“Yep. Sighing like a furnace, with a woeful ballad to your eyebrow and all that.”
“Lovely. I get the picture. You’ve been working like a dog and probably haven’t showered yet.”
“Got it in one.”
“Rehearsals went well?”
“Yes. They forgot to tell us about a support column right in the middle of the stage area, but we worked it into the action. Breakfast and lunch shows tomorrow, we’ll be fine. Now, what have you been doing?”
“Talked to Buck Landon on the phone last night. Kid’s got a major drug problem. Ginny says he supplies the football team.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Yeah. I want to do some research before I talk to him face-to-face. And today I talked to Mrs. Deaver, one of the bridge party. Smart woman. I managed a quickie tour of her house while I supposedly went to the bathroom. Files are neat, stuff on her husband, her autistic son’s institution, even her cleaning ladies. Insurance, financial stuff in order. She used to work for the government, everything in triplicate, I guess.”
“Wish we had someone like that around the house.”
“Me too. But it was sad, Nick. She has this big house—her own bedroom, a den, even a little servant’s room. And she’s still got a bedroom for her son, even though everything in his file seems to say he’ll never recover.”
“It’s hard to give up on a kid,” Nick said.
“Yeah. I still admire her. You called Ginny?”
“Twice. No problems, she’s doing fine,” he admitted. “No more frantic than I’d be in her place.”
“That’s my feeling too. I’ll check tonight and tomorrow morning, you do the afternoon again, okay?”
“Fine. I can work that around the second show.”
“What else. I talked to a few high schoolers here, but of course no one said, ‘Hey, wanna know where I get my drugs?’”
“Youth is so secretive.”
“Right. And, uh, I did go to the bus station. Found the guy who drove to New York at five-thirty Thursday. Ginny was definitely on the bus. He recognized her photo, even volunteered that she was wearing a fedora.”
“Thanks, Maggie,” said Nick after a second. “I didn’t want to ask, but—”
“I know.”
“Will asking the driver about her give away her trip?”
“Possibly. I don’t think so. The same bus stops in Philadelphia, so she could have gotten off there.”
“Good. What else?”
“Well, after that I tried to call you and failed, and then I went for a run, and then I came back and called you again and here you are.”
“So you need a shower too.”
“Yep. We’re two of the most bedraggled on the continent just now.”
Nick smiled, visualizing her. “Bedraggled becomes you, love. Gives you a delicious glow.”
“Mmm. Thank God for your kinky taste.”
The conversation degenerated to murmured unprintables, but when he’d finally hung up and was heading for the shower at last, Nick was cheered. Maggie was learning a lot, though there was much more to learn. And Ginny was doing fine.
Still, he’d be glad to get this damn show over and get back to his kids.
By Monday night, when she finally got them both to bed, Ginny was exhausted. She flopped down on the chair in Will’s room for just a minute, and woke up at two a.m., cold and stiff. Rubbing her neck, she limped into the little study and looked around. There were her schoolbooks, untouched. There was the box, too, with the bookends and the slender scrapbook. She sat down on the couch and, hesitantly, opened the scrapbook.
There wasn’t much, a few newspaper clippings and dated photographs. 1960: a young Maggie doing gymnastics. 1964: graduating from high school. 1967: lounging with jaunty grin against a Hargate Theatre lighting instrument. 1968: standing in front of a square brick house with three other young women. 1969: snowy day, Maggie laughing, dressed in white, next to Nick in a horse-drawn sleigh. “Our wedding,” that one was labeled.
There were pictures of other people too. A smiling professor with spectacles and curly gray hair, Maggie’s father. A professor. A lean, robust white-haired woman, Maggie’s mother. Her own—God, it couldn’t be! Her own grandmother! Grandma, it appeared, was mayor of a town in Ohio. And as advertised, there was Aunt Olivia, the reporter, sitting next to a handsome man with curly black hair and the same dark-blue eyes that Ginny and Maggie shared. Maggie’s brother, Jerry. My uncle, thought Ginny. My Uncle Jerry. Uncle Jerry was a doctor, said the note.
Bad blood.
She could not quite believe in them, these attractive half-familiar faces. Fairy-tale faces.
There were two black-and-white photos in the back of the album. Ginny looked at them for a long time. In one, a teenaged Maggie was dressed in a dark skirt and jacket, knee socks, prim white blouse, but the demure outfit was belied by the radiant smile shining on the young man next to her. A handsome man, straight black hair cut in the oddly short early sixties style, returning Maggie’s smile with a look of warm affection.
The other photo of the same pair was fuzzier, full-length, against a row of shops: charcuterie, boulangerie, said the signs. Again, the two were laughing, holding hands; but the detail that mesmerized Ginny was Maggie’s coat. A white furry coat. The same coat she had worn to Maryland yesterday.
Ginny had a sense of doors crashing closed. A sense of loss. She frowned at the photos, trying to understand. It was all just as Maggie had said—the school uniform, the handsome young Frenchman with straight black ha
ir, the affection. And the coat that Ginny herself had touched. It was real.
Real.
The coat was real. The bookends. The homemade sausage.
Until this moment she had not quite believed in it. In Maggie, yes; she had known from that first instant in the dining room that this was her mother. There was no doubt of that. She had known in her deepest self that they were family.Il sangue chiama, Gram said. For days Ginny had been riding the flood of confused feeling that this new connectedness engendered, striving to cope with these fierce new loves and hates.
But she had not had to believe in the story Maggie had told, although it had found a place among her own fantasies. The schoolgirl in Paris had been no different from the prostitutes and princesses who had lived in Ginny’s imagination for so long. Maggie might have been any of them, might have played any part, just as she was now playing a journalist. The schoolgirl was just one more possible character in one more possible story.
Except that this story was real. The coat, the bookends, the sausage, the photos all showed that. And Ginny was dismayed as this new account shouldered its way brutally through all the others and established itself confidently as the only truth. She was so used to the other stories, so used to explaining herself to herself by one or another of the familiar shifting host of fantasies. How could she learn to live with just the one? Not knowing had been agony; her amputated past had left her adrift. But knowing, she saw, would be painful too. It threatened her. Walled her in. Forced her to be real too. Rooted in facts, not in shifting fairy tales.
Frightened, she threw the album back into the box. The schoolbooks were still lying in the package that the express company had brought. To Alice Ryan. Damn. She scratched out the name, then pulled out the books and took them to the desk. Concentrating fiercely, she worked all of the English assignments through next week, and started on the social studies.
A little after four a.m., sitting on the sofa with the text open on her lap, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep.
Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Page 20
