Winter House

by Carol O'Connell

  “Deal.” And Coffey would abide by it. The favor bank of cops, politicians and other felons depended upon the principle of honor among extortionists.

  Cleo Winter-Smyth made a break with manikin demeanor. She was so much softer now. Leaning down to the trunk, she wiped ages of dust from the small brass plaque to read the name of her youngest sister, “Sally.” The woman sank to the floor and knelt before the spilled remains of a dead child. There was no flesh on the bones. A hole had been gnawed in the trunk, and that could only be the work of hungry rats.

  So much for the theory that it was the house and not the exterminator that killed the vermin and other pests.

  The rodents had left behind a long corn-silk braid. Cleo caressed it with a trembling hand. “Baby Sally. That’s what we called her.” She picked up a tiny shoe, brittle with age. The laces had rotted away. In a stutter of tears, she said, “We were a family, Sally, Lionel and me.”

  Bitty was stunned. Mother instinct had been there once, but it had been exhausted on a little girl who had died so long ago.

  Mother? Can you see me? I’m standing here right beside you. I’m alive. Look at me. Look at me!

  This was the lament of a child, and it had never worked. Bitty stared at the ax in her hand and the destruction of the closet wall. She was still invisible for all of this.

  “Baby Sally,” echoed Lionel with more feeling than Bitty would have thought possible. Suddenly, the bizarre little family reunion with a skeleton was done. Feelings spent, brother and sister donned their masks again and turned in unison to face Sheldon Smyth.

  Lionel stepped toward the man, as if to strike him. “Your father told us she died in the hospital. But Sally never made it that far.”

  “What are you saying?” The lawyer was backing away.

  “Uncle James was long gone,” said Cleo. “Sally didn’t have a guardian to authorize hospital care. Did that worry your father, Sheldon?”

  “Maybe,” said Lionel, “he was afraid the authorities would ask too many questions. They might find out that our guardian had abandoned us.”

  Cleo seamlessly continued her brother’s thought. “The court would’ve appointed another guardian and asked a lot of questions. But the Smyth firm wasn’t finished draining our trust fund.”

  Lionel pointed to the bones at his feet. “So it was Sally’s bad luck to get between the lawyers and the money.”

  “You can’t believe my father would have any part in murdering a small—”

  “No, I don’t,” said Cleo. “Sally was dying from the day she was born. But I think her death was damned inconvenient for him.”

  “And when she was dead,” said Lionel, “your father put her inside that wall. If she was ever found, then Uncle James could take the blame—if he ever came back.”

  “If Uncle James ever demanded the rest of his cut,” said Cleo. “There’s no other explanation for keeping Sally’s body in the house. Or did your father intend to blame it on us?”

  Lionel Winter turned to his niece with mild surprise, as if noticing Bitty for the first time. “Your mother and I were only children—so easy to intimidate. Uncle James disappeared after a few years, and the three of us were left with a nanny and Sally’s nurse. If the authorities found out what our situation was, they would’ve split us up and put us in foster care. That’s what the lawyers told us. They said we were penniless. Sheldon’s father moved the three of us into the summer house. He said the cost of taking care of us was out of his own pocket—his generosity, his money.”

  “He told us we were worse than penniless,” said Cleo. “He said this house would have to be rented out to pay down the family debts.”

  “One day, your mother and I came back from school, and the nurse told us our little sister had been taken to the hospital. We never saw Sally again.”

  “She was here all that time.” Cleo glared at her ex-husband.

  If the ax were in her mother’s hand—

  “I’d like to know,” said Lionel, “was Sally dying or dead when the nurse called your father out to the summer house to collect her?”

  “No, Sheldon,” said Cleo, “don’t shake your head—don’t pretend that you don’t know all the details. I know your father would’ve warned you about a little body walled up in this house.”

  “The Smyths are long-term planners,” said Lionel.

  Cleo looked down at her daughter, another Smyth. “Didn’t you ever wonder why your father never wanted custody of you? The Smyths plan ahead for generations.”

  Bitty turned to her father, but he was looking elsewhere. All her life she had been told of a custody battle that had never taken place. And all this time, she had been her father’s tie to the Winter family fortune, a tie that could not be undone until a day when all the money would flow back again the other way—generational planning.

  The lawyer in Sheldon Smyth was smiling at his ex-wife. “If this is made public, Cleo, you and your brother lose everything back to the trust fund. When Nedda dies, it all goes to the Historical Society. You’ll be dead broke, the both of you, and lucky if you don’t wind up in jail.”

  “But we didn’t do anything wrong,” said Cleo. “We were the victims.”

  “I don’t think the district attorney will see it that way,” said Sheldon. “It all depends on what sort of a deal I make for myself—if it comes to that—if you push me to it. You two became co-conspirators when you had the trust fund money repaid to your personal accounts. You were originally intended to have a lifetime draw, but you wanted all the money. Those were your terms.”

  “That was so long ago,” said Lionel. “Surely the statute of limitations—”

  “It doesn’t apply here. Ask my daughter. She’s a lawyer. The yearly reparations installments—oh, let’s call it extortion—that makes it an ongoing crime.”

  Lionel and Cleo turned to Bitty, silently asking if this was true.

  It was an interesting moment for a legal consultation. Bitty loosened her grip on the ax, then idly shifted it from hand to hand, giving this problem actual consideration. “Did either of you sign anything to get those yearly payments?”

  “Damn right, they did,” said Sheldon. “That money is trust fund restitution. It can’t be disguised as any other form of compensation. If the firm goes down, so do they.”

  “Sorry.” Bitty shrugged. “That’s how Daddy’s firm ensured your silence. They made you part of the crime.” She looked down at the tiny skeleton at her feet. “Two crimes.”

  “And no statute of limitations,” said Sheldon, who was enjoying this just too much. “You see, the trust was never entirely drained. The theft of the restitution money is a crime in progress—conspiracy grand theft.” He nudged Sally Winter’s trunk with the toe of his shoe. “And, may I point out, that you’re the ones in possession of a dead child. The fact that the body was hidden—well, that guarantees a homicide investigation. Reporters camped out on the doorstep, television people and their cameras following you everywhere you go. You find that appealing?”

  No, they did not. Cleo was holding on to Lionel’s arm for support.

  “So,” said Sheldon, “it appears that we have a lot to talk about. And then we have to put Sally back in the wall.” He turned to his daughter. “Bitty, my love, you’re also a part of this now.” He gave her his most radiant smile, then turned back to his ex-wife. “Cleo, suppose you put on a pot of coffee. We’ll all sit down together and—”

  “Bitty,” said Cleo, “go up to your room. I’ll call you down when we’ve agreed on something.” She reached out and plucked the ax from her daughter’s hand as if this deadly weapon were no more than a disallowed sweet that might ruin Bitty’s dinner. “Go on now.”

  Defenseless, Bitty climbed the stairs. When she turned back, she saw her uncle picking up the bones of his little sister and gently, reverently placing them in the trunk.

  Nedda was drinking Courvoisier in Charles’s front room when she began to beep. She pulled the pager from her pocket
. “Bitty made me take this when we were at the hospital.”

  “Horrible invention,” said Charles. “I’d never own one. Pagers and cell phones. Those gadgets don’t make life easier for people. They simply make escape impossible.”

  She looked at the glowing display of digits on the face of the pager. “And, of course, this number is Bitty’s cell phone.”

  “Then I’ll give you some privacy,” said Charles. “I have some work to do in my office across the hall. I might be a while, so don’t wait up. Sleep well. See you in the morning.”

  Nedda waited until he was gone, then rang Bitty’s number, charmed by the old-fashioned rotary dial on the antique telephone. She held the receiver to her ear and only counted one ring, before she heard Bitty’s voice. “Hello, dear. How are you feeling. . . . What? . . . Calm down. . . . Yes, dear, but why did you leave the hospital? . . . Why would they . . . Don’t upset yourself. . . . No, of course I don’t mind. . . . We’ll sort this out when I get there.”

  Nedda found paper and a fountain pen in the drawer of a small writing desk. She left a note for Charles, explaining that Bitty needed her and that she might be gone for a few hours. Her next call was to the car service.

  An unmarked police car stopped beside a recently vacated stretch of curb outside of Charles Butler’s apartment building. The watchers were changing shifts, and all the attention of the man behind the wheel was devoted to the task of parallel parking. His partner stood on the sidewalk, directing the stop and starts of squeezing the car into a tight parking space. That done—a perfect job—they settled in for the last tour of duty on this plainclothes detail. When the custody order arrived, the old woman would be taken away by police from another division. It was going to be an early night, and they were both thinking ahead to cold beers and hot slices from Ray’s Pizza as the taillights of Nedda Winter’s limousine disappeared around the corner.

  Harry Bell, the desk sergeant in the SoHo station house, looked up to see a rookie standing before him, though he should not have seen the youngster’s face for another five hours. The cop was supposed to be sitting in a chair outside of Bitty Smyth’s hospital room, an unauthorized posting that had drained the bank of favors owed to Detective Mallory.

  “Peterson,” said the sergeant, “you should be uptown. Guard duty at the hospital? Is it all coming back to you now?”

  “I was relieved of duty,” said Peterson, tacking on a belated “sir.”

  “Now that’s funny, kid, ’cause I don’t remember calling you back here. So whose idea was—”

  “It was the family. They relieved me.”

  “The Mafia? That family? Was gunplay involved?”

  “No, sir.” The boy made the mistake of smiling at his sergeant’s little joke instead of running for his life. “It was Sheldon Smyth. He’s the lady’s father—and he’s a lawyer.”

  “Oh, well, that makes it okay.” Sergeant Bell knew he could shoot this boy right now for just cause and get away with it. “I guess they changed the line of command. Now it’s lawyers giving orders to the uniforms—instead of their sergeants. Well, somebody should’ve told me.”

  Harry Bell’s smile grew wide and wicked as the young cop’s face quickly reddened. The torture of raw recruits passed for sport on a slow night. That was what rookies were for. That was why God had made so many of them. “Tell you what, kid, why don’t you go upstairs and explain all of this to Detective Mallory? No, go ahead. She’ll understand. Ever met her?”

  “No, sir.”

  Perfect.

  “Well, she looks like a babe, real pretty, but don’t let that fool you. Down deep, she’s a motherly type.”

  Harry Bell watched the rookie drag his feet climbing the stairs to Special Crimes Unit. If the sergeant had been wearing a hat, he would have removed it and whistled a funeral hymn.

  Winter House was dark when Nedda opened the front door. By the dim glow filtering in from the street, she could see the floor strewn with haberdashery and bits of plaster. Her niece’s frightened ramble on the telephone seemed more coherent to her now.

  The wall switch would not work, but the security alarm still glowed. She tapped in the code to disable it, then crossed the threshold into the front room, moving toward the staircase in total darkness. Her only weapon was beneath the pillow in her bedroom. She looked up at the sound of her name whispered from the second-floor landing. By the light of a candle, Bitty drifted down the stairs, pausing halfway with a finger pressed to her lips to caution silence. She lifted the candle high to light Nedda’s way as they climbed slow and stealthy toward Bitty’s bedroom.

  Once they were behind a closed door, her niece said, “I called the police. They’re not coming. Maybe I put it badly. I might have seemed hysterical. I told them I was afraid to leave my room. The lights wouldn’t work. They already think I’m crazy. They said I should call an electrician.”

  Scores of candles were alight on every surface and wavering with the drafts of the house. Nedda picked up a candlestick and walked back to the door. “I’ll go down to the cellar. I know where the fuse box is.” But first she would go to her bedroom to fetch the ice pick.

  “No!” Bitty grabbed her aunt’s arm, pulled her away from the door, then slid the thick bolt safe home. “They’re all downstairs in the kitchen. They’ll see you.”

  “They?”

  “Uncle Lionel and my parents.”

  “Why does that—”

  “Please, Aunt Nedda.”

  This was probably not the time for a rational conversation. She only wanted to end Bitty’s fear. “All right, dear. If that worries you, I’ll use the garden door to the cellar.”

  “But one of them pulled out the fuses!”

  “So I’ll put in new ones. There’s a big supply of them on top of the fuse box, a flashlight, too.” Nedda put one hand on the doorknob.

  “Don’t leave me alone.” The look on Bitty’s face was pure anguish.

  Nedda was wondering how much of this could be put down to hysteria, and then Bitty described the trunk of Sally Winter and its sad contents.

  Hard news—as though her youngest sister had died only this moment, and the grief was new.

  Sally, my Sally.

  So the house, truly sickened, was coughing up its dead tonight.

  “I know why the house has gone dark,” said Bitty. “I’m supposed to have an accident on the stairs.”

  The desk sergeant noted every head in the station house turning toward the stairs, and it was no surprise to see Kathy Mallory flying back to earth, her feet touching down on every third step. Apparently, young Peterson had confessed.

  With eyes cast down, Sergeant Bell feigned interest in his paperwork. As the detective sped by his desk, he inquired after the health of his young rookie. “Did you kill him?”

  He looked up to see the back of Mallory pushing through the door and into the street.

  I’ll take you back to Charles’s place in SoHo.” Nedda looked through her purse by the light of a dozen candles, finally emptying it out on the bed to search for a scrap of paper with a phone number for the car service. “Here, I found it.” She picked up the telephone receiver and listened to a dial tone. “Well, the phone is still working.”

  Bitty screamed and grabbed her aunt’s arm.

  Nedda whirled around. On the far side of the room, the wastebasket was in flames. The fire climbed the curtains with astonishing speed, eating the lace, flames licking the ceiling and spreading along the wallpaper. Bitty was yelling and waving her arms. The bird ran from its cage, wings flapping in a fair imitation of his mistress. Nedda scooped up the bird and crammed it into a deep coat pocket, then grabbed her niece by the arm. “We have to go, Bitty. We have to get everyone out of the house.”

  Nedda slid back the bolt and dragged her niece into the hall, closing the door as the bedcovers burst into flames. They were at the edge of the stairs when she saw a march of three candle flames below and the glow of three disembodied heads floating in the dark. Th
e small procession of Cleo, Lionel and Sheldon moved toward the staircase.

  Smoke seeped out from under the door and, rising in a draft, drifted across Bitty’s face. “Oh, God!” She broke free of her aunt’s grasp and ran up the stairs to the next landing.

  “No, Bitty! Come back!” Nedda gave chase as the little troop of candles had dwindled to two and climbed the stairs.

  Bitty’s face was a picture of abject horror as she looked back toward her room. The smoke was escaping through the wide crack beneath the door and winding upward, following her up the stairs. Nedda caught up to her niece, but failed to get hold of her. Bitty’s hands were windmills to fend off all comers as she ran upward. The smoke went with her rising in her wake. She stumbled and would have tumbled back, but Nedda was behind her to break the fall. A gray cloud was forming below and billowing toward them, obscuring the stairs.

  “Bitty, we have to go back through the smoke. Hold your breath.”

  “No! No!”

  Nedda warded off the swats from her niece’s flailing hands. Below her, she heard the bedroom door being opened. “No!” she screamed. “Close that door! I’ve got Bitty. I’ll get her out. Save yourselves.” The smoke was spreading and thickening, blotting out the landing below. She dragged her niece down into the smoke, the only way out. It cost her precious air to scream, “Cleo, Lionel! Get out! Get out of the house!”

  Beloved faces were emerging from the black cloud, coughing, choking, hands reaching out. Bitty was loose again, running upstairs to where the air was still breathable.

  Fire!” The homeless man banged on the glass door of the apartment building. He was in tears. “Fire! People are dying! Don’t you believe me?”

  No, probably not. It was one of those upscale places where tenants walked toy dogs that ran on batteries for all he knew. The rich were a different species, and he had never suspected them of sanity or humanity. The doorman, with his white gloves and fake gold buttons, had been among these people too long. When he turned to the glass, he did not see the shabby madman crying outside in the cold, banging the door in frustration, trying to save a few lives. No, this man looked right through the bum, then turned his back, well insulated from the sounds of the street, the chill of the night air—the smell of derelicts and smoke.