"Katie, where are you? I've been trying you at home all day."
"I'm on the road," I said.
"Well, a lot that says. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff you do. But you would think you could tell your mother."
I could see her in my mind puffing a cigarette and holding the phone. My mother liked big earrings and bright makeup, and she did not look northern Italian like I did. She was not fair.
"Mother, how is Lucy? What has Dorothy said?"
"She says Lucy's queer, for one thing, and she blames it on you. I told her that was ridiculous. I told her just because you're never with men and probably don't like sex doesn't mean you're a homo. It's the same thing with nuns. Though I've heard the rumors" - "Mother," I interrupted, "is Lucy okay? How was the trip to Edgehill? What was her demeanor? "
"What? She's a witness now? Her demeanor? The way you talk to your simple mother and don't even realize. She got drunk on the way up, if you want to know."
"I don't believe it!" I said, furious with Dorothy yet again.
"I thought the point of Lucy being with her mother was so something like that wouldn't happen. "
"Dorothy says that unless Lucy was drunk when they put her in detox, insurance won't pay. So Lucy drank screwdrivers on the plane the entire trip."
"I don't give a damn if insurance pays. And Dorothy isn't exactly poor."
"You know how she is about money."
"I will pay for anything Lucy needs. You know that, Mother."
"You talk as if you're Ross Perot."
"What else did Dorothy say?"
"All I know, in summary, is Lucy was in one of her moods and upset with you because you couldn't be bothered to take her to Edgehill. Especially since you picked it out and are a doctor and all. "
I groaned, and it was like arguing with the wind.
"Dorothy didn't want me to go."
"As usual, it's your word against hers. When are you coming home for Thanksgiving?" Needless to say, when our conversation was ended, which simply meant I could take no more and got off the phone, my bath had been undone. I started to pour more Scotch, but stopped, because there was not enough alcohol in the world when my family made me angry. And I thought of Lucy. I put away the bottle and not many minutes later there was a knock on my door.
"It's Benton," his voice said. We hugged for a long time, and he could feel my desperation in the way I clung to him. He led me over to the bed and sat beside me.
"Start from the beginning," he said, holding both my hands.
I did. When I was finished, his face held that impervious look I knew from work, and I was unnerved by it. I did not want that look in this room when we were alone.
"Kay, I want you to slow down. Do you realize the magnitude of our going forward with an accusation like that? We can't just close our minds off to the possibility that Denesa Steiner is innocent. We just don't know.
"And what happened on the plane should tell you that you're not being a hundred percent analytical. I mean, this really disturbs me. Some bozo on the ground crew's just being a hero, and you immediately think the Steiner woman's behind that, too; that she's screwing with your mind again."
"It isn't just my mind she's screwing with," I said, removing one of my hands from his.
"She tried to kill me."
"Again, that's speculative."
"Not according to what I was told after making several phone calls."
"You can't prove it. I doubt you'll ever be able to prove it."
"We've got to find her car."
"Do you want to drive by her house tonight?"
"Yes. But I don't have a car yet," I said.
"I have one."
"Did you get the printout of the image enhancement?"
"It's in my briefcase. I looked at it." He got up and shrugged.
"It meant nothing to me. Just a hazy blob that's been washed with a zillion shades of gray until it's now a denser, more detailed blob."
"Benton, we've got to do something." He looked a long time at me and pressed his lips together the way he did when he was determined but skeptical.
"That's why we're here, Kay. We're here to do something. " He had rented a dark red Maxima, and when we went outside, I realized that winter was not far off, especially here in the mountains. I was shivering by the time I got into the car, and I knew this was partially due to stress.
"How are your hand and leg, by the way?" I asked.
"Pretty much good as new."
"Well, that's rather miraculous, since they weren't new when you cut them." He laughed, more out of surprise than anything else. At the moment, Wesley wasn't expecting humor.
"I've got one piece of information about the duct tape," he then said.
"We've been looking into who from this area might have worked at Shuford Mills during the time the tape was manufactured."
"A very good idea," I said.
"There was a guy named Rob Kelsey who was a foreman there. He lived in the Hickory area during the time the tape was made, but he retired to Black Mountain five years ago."
"Does he live here now?"
"He is deceased, I'm afraid." Damn, I thought.
"What do you know about him?"
"White male, died at age sixty-eight of a stroke. Had a son in Black Mountain, which was why Kelsey wanted to retire here, I guess. The son's still here."
"Do you have his address?"
"} can get it." He looked over at me.
"What about the son's first name?"
"Same as his father's. Her house is right around this bend. Look how dark the lake is. It's like a tar pit."
"That's right. And you know Emily wouldn't have followed its shore at night. Creed's story verifies that."
"I'm not arguing. I wouldn't take that route."
"Benton, I don't see her car."
"She could be out."
"Marino's car is there."
"That doesn't mean they aren't out."
"It doesn't mean they are." He said nothing. The windows were lit up, and I felt as if she were home. I had no proof, no indication, really, but I sensed her sensing me, even if she was not conscious of it.
"What do you think they're doing in there?" I asked.
"Now, what do you think?" he said, and his meaning was clear.
"That's cheap. It's so easy to assume people are having sex."
"It's so easy to assume because it's so easy to do."
I was quite offended because I wanted Wesley to be deeper.
"That surprises me, coming from you."
"It should not surprise you coming from them. That was my point." Still, I was not sure.
"Kay, we're not talking about our relationship here," he added.
"I certainly didn't think we were." He knew I wasn't telling the whole truth. Never had I been so clear on why it is ill-advised for colleagues to have affairs.
"We should go back. There's nothing more we can do right now," he said.
"How will we find out about her car?"
"We will find out in the morning. But we've already found out something now. It's not there right this minute looking like it hasn't been in an accident."
The next morning was Sunday, and I woke up to bells tolling and wondered if I was hearing the small Presbyterian church where Emily was buried. I squinted at my watch and decided probably not, since it was only a few minutes past nine. I assumed their service would start at eleven, but then, I knew so little about what Presbyterians did.
Wesley was asleep on what I considered my side of the bed. That was perhaps our only incompatibility as lovers. We both were accustomed to the side of the bed farthest from the window or door an intruder was most likely to come in, as if the space of several feet of mattress would make all the difference in grabbing for your gun. His pistol was on his bedside table and my revolver was on mine. Odds were, if an intruder did come in, Wesley and I would shoot each other.
Curtains glowed like lamp shades, announcing a sunny day. I got up
and ordered coffee sent to the room, then inquired about my rental car, which the clerk promised was on its way. I sat in a chair with my back to the bed so I would not be distracted by Wesley's naked shoulders and arms outside the tangled covers. I fetched the printout of the image enhancement, several coins, and a lens, and went to work. Wesley had been right when he'd said the enhancement seemed to do nothing but add more shades of gray to an indistinguishable blob. But the longer I looked at what had been left on the little girl's buttock, the more I began to see shapes.
The density of grayness was greatest in an off-center part of the incomplete circular mark. I could not say where the density would be in terms of the hours on a clock, because I did not know which way was up or down or sideways for the object that had begun to oxidize beneath her body. The shape that interested me was reminiscent of the head of a duck or some other bird. I saw a dome, then a protrusion that looked like a thick beak or bill, yet this could not be the eagle on the back of a quarter because it was much too big.
The shape I was studying filled a good fourth of the mark, and there was what appeared to be a slight dent in what would be the back of the bird's neck. I picked up the quarter I was using and turned it over. I rotated it slowly as I stared, and suddenly the answer was there. It was so simple, so exact in its match, and I was startled and thrilled. The object that had begun to oxidize beneath Emily Steiner's dead body was indeed a quarter. But it had been face up, and the birdlike shape was the indentation of George Washington's eyes, and the bird's head and bill were our first president's proud pate and curl at the back of his powdered wig. This only worked, of course, if I turned the quarter so Washington was staring at the tabletop, his aristocratic nose pointed at my knee.
Where, I wondered, might Emily's body have been lying? I supposed any place might inadvertently have a quarter on the floor. But there had been traces of paint and pith wood too. Where might one find pith wood and a quarter? Well, a basement, of course-a basement where something once had gone on that involved pith wood paints, other woods like walnut and mahogany.
Perhaps the basement had been used for someone's hobby. Cleaning jewelry? No, that didn't seem to make sense. Someone who fixed watches? That didn't seem right, either. Then I thought of the clocks in Denesa Steiner's house and my pulse picked up some more. I wondered if her late husband had repaired clocks on the side. I wondered if he might have used the basement for that, and if he might have used pith wood to hold and clean small gears.
Wesley was breathing the deep, slow breaths of sleep. He brushed his cheek as if something had alighted there, then pulled the sheet up to his ears. I got out the phone book and looked for the son of the man who had worked at Shuford Mills. There were two Robert Kelseys, a junior and a Kelsey the third. I picked up the phone.
"Hello?" a woman asked.
"Is this Mrs. Kelsey?" I asked.
"Depends on whether you're looking for Myrtle or me."
"I'm looking for Rob Kelsey, Junior." «"Oh." She laughed, and I could tell she was a sweet, friendly woman.
"Then you're not looking for me to begin with. But Rob's not here. He's gone on to the church. You know, some Sundays he helps with communion, so he has to head on early. "
I was amazed as she divulged this information without asking who I was, and I was touched again that there were still places in the world where people were trusting.
"Which church might that be?" I asked Mrs. Kelsey.
"Third Presbyterian."
"And their service starts at eleven?"
"Just like it always has. Reverend Crow is mighty good, by the way, if you've never heard him. May I give Rob a message?"
"I'll try him later."
I thanked her for her help and hung up. When I turned around, Wesley was sitting straight up in bed staring sleepily at me. His eyes roamed around, stopping at the printout, coins, and lens on the table by my chair. He started laughing as he stretched.
"What?" I asked rather indignantly. He just shook his head.
"It's ten-fifteen," I said.
"If you're going to church with me you'd better hurry."
"Church?" He frowned.
"Yes. A place where people worship God."
"They have a Catholic church around here?"
"I have no idea." He was very puzzled now.
"I'm going to a Presbyterian service this morning," I said.
"And if you have other things to do, I might need a lift. As of an hour ago, my rental car still wasn't here."
"If I give you a lift, how will you get back here?"
"I'm not going to worry about that." In this town where people helped strangers on the phone, I suddenly felt like having few plans. I felt like seeing what might happen.
"Well, I've got my pager," Wesley said as he placed his feet on the floor and I got an extra battery from the charger plugged in near the TV.
"That's fine." I tucked my portable phone into my handbag.
20
Wesley dropped me off at the front steps of the field stone church a little early, but people were already arriving. I watched them get out of their cars and squint in the sun as they accounted for their children and doors thudded shut up and down the narrow street. I felt curious eyes on my back as I followed the stone walkway, veering off to the left toward the cemetery.
The morning was very cold, and though the sunlight was blinding, it felt thin, like a cool bed sheet against my skin. I pushed open the rusting wrought-iron gate that served no purpose, really, except to be respectful and ornamental. It would keep no one out and certainly there was no need to keep anybody in.
New markers of polished granite shone coldly, and very old ones tilted different ways like bloodless tongues speaking from the mouths of graves. The dead talked here, too. They spoke every time we remembered them. Frost crunched softly beneath my shoes as I walked to the corner where she was. Her grave was a raw, red clay scar from having been reopened and reclosed, and tears came to my eyes as I looked again at the monument with its sweet angel and sad epitaph.
There is no other in the World-
Mine was the only one.
But the line from Emily Dickinson held a different meaning for me now.
I read it with a new mind and a totally different awareness of the woman who had selected it. It was the word mine that jumped out at me. Mine. Emily had had no life of her own but had been an extension of a narcissistic, demented woman with an insatiable appetite for ego gratification.
To her mother, Emily was a pawn as all of us were pawns. We were Denesa's dolls to dress and undress, hug and rip apart, and I recalled the inside of her house, its fluffs and frills and little girl designs on fabric. Denesa was a little girl craving attention who had grown up knowing how to get it. She had destroyed every life she had ever touched, and each time wept in the warm bosom of a compassionate world. Poor, poor Denesa, everyone said of this murderous maternal creature with blood on her teeth.
Ice rose in slender columns from the red day on Emily's grave. I did not know the physics for a fact but concluded that when the moisture in the nonporous clay froze, it expanded as ice does and had nowhere to go but up. It was as if her spirit had gotten caught in the cold as it tried to rise from the ground, and she sparkled in the sun as pure crystal and water do. I realized with a wave of grief that I loved this little girl I knew only in death. She could have been Lucy, or Lucy could have been her. Both were not mothered well, and one had been sent back home, so far the other spared. I knelt and said a prayer, and with a deep breath turned back toward the church.
The organ was playing "Rock of Ages" as I walked in, because by now I was late and the congregation was singing the first hymn. I sat as inconspicuously in the back as I could but still caused glances and heads to turn. This was a church that would spot a stranger because it most likely had so few. The service moved on, and I blessed myself after prayer as a little boy in my pew stared while his sister drew on the bulletin.
Reverend Crow, with h
is sharp nose and black robe, looked like his name. His arms were wings as he gestured while he preached, and during more dramatic moments it almost seemed he might fly away. Stained-glass windows depicting the miracles of Jesus glowed like jewels, and field stone flecked with mica seemed dusted with gold.
We sang "Just As I Am" when it was time for communion, and I watched those around me to follow their lead. They did not file up to the front for the wafer and wine. Instead, ushers silently came down aisles with thimbles full of grape juice and small crusts of dry bread. I took what was passed to me, and everyone sang the doxology and benediction, and suddenly they were leaving. I took my time. I waited until the preacher was at the door alone, having greeted every parishioner; then I called him by name.
"Thank you for your meaningful sermon. Reverend Crow," I said.
"I have always loved the story of the importunate neighbor."
"There is so much we can learn from it. I tell it to my children a lot." He smiled as he gripped my hand.
"It's good for all of us to hear," I agreed.
"We're so glad to have you with us today. I believe you must be the FBI doctor I've been hearing about. Saw you the other day on the news, too."
"I'm Dr. Scarpetta," I said.
"And I'm wondering if you might point out Rob Kelsey? I hope he hasn't already left."
"Oh, no," the reverend said, as I had expected.
"Rob helped with communion. He's probably putting things away." He looked toward the sanctuary.
"Would you mind if I tried to find him?" I asked.
"Not a bit. And by the way" -his face got sad"-we sure do appreciate what you're trying to do around here. Not a one of us will ever be the same." He shook his head.
"Her poor, poor mother. Some folks would turn on God after all she's been through. But no ma'am. Not Denesa. She's here every Sunday, one of the finest Christians I've ever known. "
"She was here this morning?" I asked as a creepy feeling crawled up my spine.
"Singing in the choir like she always does."
I had not seen her. But there were at least two hundred people present and the choir had been in the balcony behind me. Rob Kelsey, Jr. " was in his fifties, a wiry man in a cheap blue pin-sthped suit collecting communion glasses from holders in the pews.
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