by Sandra Brown
Discreetly Mike Strother had alerted the flight attendant to her bereavement, so she had been treated deferentially, basically left alone. She passed the flight staring vacantly out the window, unaware and uncaring of what was going on around her.
Noah was at LaGuardia to meet her. She wasn’t happy to see him, but he relieved her of the arrival hassle at a major airport. Her baggage was reclaimed with dispatch. He had a car and driver waiting.
As the limo wended its way through heavy traffic into Manhattan, he somberly filled in the details that he hadn’t told her over the telephone. Daniel’s body was still in Massachusetts, where the autopsy would be conducted. There could have been a contributing health factor that caused him to fall, Noah explained. Pulmonary embolism. Cardiac arrest. An aneurysm that hadn’t shown up during his last physical.
“Most probably,” he told her, “Daniel simply lost his balance on the dark staircase.”
Daniel’s cane had been found in his bedroom. It was believed that he was ascending the stairs. Without his cane for additional support, he had tripped.
“He’d also had more than a few drinks,” Noah added reluctantly. “You know, Maris, we had feared something like this would happen.”
He informed her that following the autopsy the body would be transferred to New York. He’d made preliminary funeral arrangements but was awaiting her approval before finalizing them. Knowing she would be particular about the casket, he had held off making a selection until her return.
She commented on how expeditiously he had handled everything.
“I wanted to spare you as much unpleasantness as possible.”
He was solicitous, soft-spoken, obsequious.
She couldn’t bear to be near him.
She deplored even having to breathe the same air as he and instructed the chauffeur to take her to her father’s house. Accepting a friend’s offer to help in any way she could, Maris sent her to her apartment with a list of clothing and articles she wanted brought to her. If she could help it, she would never return to the residence she had shared with Noah.
She moved back into her old bedroom in Daniel’s house. For the next three days, when she and Maxine weren’t receiving people who came to pay their respects and offer condolences, they comforted one another. The housekeeper was disconsolate. She blamed herself for letting Daniel go to the country house without her, as though her presence could have prevented the accident. Maris tried to assuage her feelings of partial responsibility, all the while empathizing with them. She suffered similarly.
Her father had died while she’d been making love to Parker.
Each time her thoughts drifted in that direction, which was frequently, she halted them abruptly. She refused to wear a mantle of guilt for that. Daniel had urged her to return to Georgia. She had been there with his blessing. The last thing he had said to her was that she deserved her happiness and that he loved her. His death had nothing to do with her sharing Parker’s bed.
Nevertheless, the connection between the two had been made, and she would never think of one without recalling the other.
She learned that a death in the family was a time-consuming event, especially if the deceased was a person of Daniel Matherly’s standing. He was the last patriarch of the publishing dynasty; he was one of New York’s own. His obituary made the front page of the New York Times. Local media covered his funeral.
Maris endured the day-long affair with a steely determination not to crack under pressure. Dressed head to toe in black, she was photographed entering the cathedral, exiting the cathedral, standing at the grave site with her head bowed in prayer, receiving the mayor’s condolences.
The silent expressions of grief were the ones she appreciated most—a small squeeze of her hand, eye contact that conveyed sympathy and understanding. Most people said too much. Well-meaning folk told her to take comfort in the fact that Daniel had lived a long and productive life. That he hadn’t suffered before he died. That we should all be so lucky to go that quickly. That at least he hadn’t withered and died slowly. That a sudden death is a blessing.
Statements to that effect sorely tested her composure.
However, no one surprised or offended her more than Nadia Schuller. Noah was speaking to a group of publishing colleagues when Nadia sidled up to Maris immediately following the grave-site observance and gripped her hand. “I’m sorry, Maris. Terribly, terribly sorry.”
Maris was struck not only by Nadia’s audacity in attending the service, but also by her convincing portrayal of shocked bereavement. Maris pulled back her hand, thanked Nadia coldly, and tried to turn away. But Nadia wouldn’t be shaken off. “We need to talk. Soon.”
“If you want a quote for your column, call our publicity department.”
“Please, Maris,” Nadia said, leaning closer. “This is important. Call me.” She pressed a business card into Maris’s hand, then turned and walked quickly away. She had the decency not to lock eyes with Noah before she left.
He was the worst part of Maris’s endurance test.
She tried not to visibly flinch each time he came near her. Yet he seemed determined to be near her. At the reception following the funeral, he was never far from her side, often placing his arm around her shoulders, pressing her hand, demonstrating to their friends and associates a loving affection that was grossly false. The act would have been hilarious if it weren’t so obscene.
Dusk had fallen before the house cleared of guests. Maxine refused to retire to her room as Maris suggested and instead began supervising the caterers’ cleanup. That’s when Maris approached Noah. “I want to talk to you.”
“Certainly, darling.”
His ingratiating manner set her teeth on edge. He was thoroughly repugnant. It seemed that the two years she had shared a home, a bed with him had happened to another woman in another time. She couldn’t fathom doing so now.
Her only saving grace, her only reasonable excuse, was that he was an excellent role player. He was an adroit liar. She and Daniel had fallen for an act he had perfected.
“You can drop the pretense, Noah. No one’s around except Maxine, and she already knows that I’ve left you.”
She led him into her father’s study. The room smelled of him and of his pipe tobacco. It smelled of his brandy and the books he had loved. The room evoked such poignant memories for her, it was claustrophobic and comforting at the same time.
She sat down in the large tufted leather chair behind Daniel’s desk. It was the closest she could come to being hugged by him. She had spent the past four nights curled up in this chair, weeping over her loss between brief and restless naps in which she dreamed of Parker moving ever farther away from her as she screamed his name. No matter how desperately she tried to touch him, he was always beyond her reach. She would wake herself up sobbing over the dual loss.
Noah pinched up the creases of his dark suit trousers and lowered himself into an easy chair. “I had hoped your second visit south had mellowed you, Maris. You’re as prickly as you were before you left.”
“Dad’s death didn’t change anything between us. Nor did it change your character. You’re a liar and an adulterer.” She paused a beat before adding, “And possibly those are the least of your sins.”
His eyes sharpened. “What does that mean?”
She opened the lap drawer of Daniel’s desk and took out a business card. “I came across this in Dad’s day planner while I was looking up addresses for acknowledgment cards. It’s an innocuous card with a scarcity of information on it. Only a name and telephone number. Curious, I called. Imagine my surprise.”
He stared at her, saying nothing, then indolently raised his shoulders in silent inquiry.
“I spoke personally to the man Dad had retained to investigate you,” she told him. “Mr. Sutherland conveyed his sympathy over Dad’s passing. Then I asked him how his business card had found its way into Dad’s day planner. He was very discreet, extremely professional, and finally apologetic.
She spread her arms across the top of the desk. “I’ve searched for the mentioned report, Noah. It’s not here. Not in any of Dad’s files here, or at the office, not in the personal safe upstairs in his bedroom closet, or in his safe-deposit box at the bank.
“Coincidentally, you spent time in here the morning before you left for the country. While Dad was upstairs packing some last-minute items, you told Maxine that you had calls to make and came in here, ostensibly to use the telephone. You closed the door behind you. She thought it odd at the time, since you typically use your cell phone, but she thought no more about it. Not until I asked her if you’d been snooping around in Dad’s personal things that day.”
He shook his head and laughed softly. “Maris, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I might have come in here that morning. Frankly, I don’t remember if I did or not. But since when is this room off limits to me? From the time we began dating, I’ve been in this room hundreds of times. When I make private calls I usually close the door. Everybody does. If this is about Nadia—”
“It isn’t,” she said tersely. “I don’t give a damn about Nadia or anyone else you sleep with.”
He gave her a look that said he seriously doubted that. She wanted to strike him, to pound the conceit out of his expression. “I also spoke to the authorities in Massachusetts.”
“My, my, you’ve been a busy girl.”
“I questioned their ruling that Dad’s death was accidental.” She hadn’t struck him physically, as she would have liked to. All the same, her statement rid him of a measure of arrogance. His smile grew a little stiff, as though it had congealed. His spine straightened. “Honoring my request, they’ve agreed to reinvestigate. This time they’ll be looking for evidence.”
That brought him to his feet. “Evidence of what?”
“We have an appointment with Chief of Police Randall tomorrow to discuss their findings,” she informed him coldly. “I suggest you be there.”
* * *
The burg’s police department had a staff of six—one chief, four patrolmen, and a clerk who also served as dispatcher and official town gossip. The department handled minor emergencies such as broken-down snowplows and lost pets, parking tickets when tourists passing through stayed too long in an antique shop, and an occasional DUI.
By big-city standards, the gossip wasn’t all that scandalous. It might revolve around who had recently gone to New York City for a face-lift, who was selling their country house to a movie star who futilely wished to remain anonymous, and who had checked their daughter-gone-wild into drug rehab after a tempestuous family intervention. Residents could safely leave their homes and cars unlocked because thefts were rare.
The last homicide in the county had occurred during Lyndon Johnson’s administration. It had been an open-and-shut case. The culprit had confessed to the killing when police arrived at the scene.
The department’s lack of experience as crime solvers worked in Maris’s disfavor. But it worked to her advantage in that a murder investigation stimulated more enthusiasm than tacking up notices of a lost kitty or setting up bleachers for the Fourth of July concert and fireworks display.
The officers had approached the investigation of Daniel’s death with a zealous desire to sniff out the ruthless killer of an esteemed citizen, even if he was a weekender.
She and Noah drove up in separate cars. The exterior of the ivy-covered building looked more like a yarn-and-woolens boutique than a police station. Maris arrived a few minutes ahead of Noah. As soon as he got there, they were ushered into the chief’s office. Both declined an offer of coffee and sweet rolls from the local bakery.
Chief Randall, a ruddy-faced man with a bad, blond comb-over, sensing her desire to cut to the chase, kept the pleasantries to a minimum and settled behind his desk. He seemed more disappointed than relieved to report the outcome of his department’s investigation.
“I’m afraid I haven’t got all that much more to tell you that wasn’t in the initial report, Mrs. Matherly-Reed. My people went over the house with a fine-toothed comb. Didn’t find a thing that suggested foul play.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Noah complacently fold his hands in his lap.
“The officers think, and I concur, that your father simply fell down the stairs. There were some bloodstains on the floor where he was found, but they’re explained by the gash on his scalp. It split open when his head struck the floor.”
She swallowed, then asked, “What about the autopsy report?”
He opened the case file and slipped on a pair of reading glasses that were too narrow for his wide face. The stems were stretched and caused the glasses to perch crookedly on his nose. “The contents of his stomach verify that he ate only minutes before he died, which is what Mr. Reed had assumed.” He peered at Noah over the eyeglasses.
Noah gave a solemn nod. “When I went into the kitchen to call 911, there were dirty dishes in the sink. I had cleaned up after dinner, so I surmised that Daniel had gone downstairs for something to eat. On his way back up, he fell.”
“Is it possible that the scene was staged, Chief Randall?”
“Staged?”
“Perhaps the dishes were placed in the sink to make everyone think Dad had used them.”
“Oh, he used them,” Chief Randall assured her. “His fingerprints were on them. Nobody else’s.”
“The dishes could have been used upstairs. He often ate off a bed tray. How do we know he was downstairs?”
“Crumbs.”
“Excuse me?”
“Bread crumbs on his robe, his slippers, and on the floor near the sink. My best guess is that he stood and looked out the kitchen window while he ate his sandwich.”
Patting his comb-over as though to make sure it was still in place, he referred to the file again. “His blood alcohol level was above the legal driving limit but not by much.”
“Any trace of a controlled substance?”
“Only the medications he was taking. We checked out the prescriptions with his physician in New York. Dating from when they were last refilled, the correct amount of dosages remained. There was no sign that a struggle had taken place anywhere in the house.”
“You found his cane in his bedroom?”
“Leaning against the nightstand, and yes, we checked it for prints,” he said before she could ask. “His were the only ones on it. No evidence of a break-in by an intruder. Not a mark on your father’s body except for the cut on his head, which the ME said was consistent with the fall. He also places the time of death within minutes of when Mr. Reed’s 911 call was received. That’s all documented.”
He removed his glasses and rested his clasped hands on top of the binder containing the report. He cleared his throat and looked at her sympathetically. “When a tragic accident like this occurs and someone dies, their loved ones look for reasons. A scapegoat. Something or someone to blame. I know it’s hard for you to accept, but it appears that your father ran into some difficulty as he was making his way upstairs. He lost his balance and suffered a fatal fall. I’m sorry, Mrs. Matherly-Reed.”
Maris was neither heartened nor disappointed. The findings were exactly what she had expected them to be. She gathered her handbag and stood. Reaching across the desk, she shook hands with the police chief. “I appreciate your time and effort.”
“That’s what I’m here for. I’ve put your house on our regular drive-by route. We’ll keep a check on it for you.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
Once outside, Maris made a beeline for her car. Noah caught up with her before she could get in.
He gripped
her upper arm, pulled her around, and pushed his face close to hers. “Satisfied?”
“Completely.” Looking at him evenly, she said, “I’m convinced beyond a shadow of doubt that you were the ‘difficulty’ Dad encountered on his way up the staircase.”
His narrow lips stretched into a smile that raised the hair on the back of her neck. “There’s absolutely nothing to substantiate these nasty suspicions of yours.”
“Let go of my arm, Noah, or I’m going to start screaming bloody murder. That nice chief of police would dearly love to rush to my rescue.”
Seeing the wisdom of letting go, he did.
“Chief Randall might be interested to know that my father had retained Mr. William Sutherland to investigate you.”
“Which is circumstantial. So where does that get you?”
“Nowhere. You made certain there was no evidence of wrongdoing. But you underestimate my ability to recognize a good plot.”
“This isn’t a novel.”
“Unfortunately. But if it were, I would suspect you of being the villain. Part of my job is to isolate a character’s motivation, right? His goal must be clear or the story has no legs on which to stand. Well, Noah, you goal is glaringly apparent. Why did you shuttle Dad off to the country house while I was conveniently out of town, especially since we were separated? Why, when you enjoy being waited on, did you insist that Maxine remain in the city?
“You lied about Nadia. You lied about taking up writing again. What else have you lied about? WorldView? Surely. On that I would bet everything I hold dear. When Morris Blume inadvertently mentioned that secret meeting to me, you finessed your way through an explanation. You had covered your rear by informing Dad of it, on the outside chance that one of us would get wind of it. But I wasn’t convinced of your innocence then, and I’m even more certain of your guilt now.
