And crying.
No sobs. Her shoulders remained still. But the tears dampened her cheeks unashamedly, and Ed stayed to one side, counting leaves in the gutter.
When she was done she blew her nose noisily, shook her head once and stepped quickly to the bank where she dropped the sack into the night-deposit slot.
From somewhere in the distance, the sound of a carol to remind her of the season.
"You need a ride?"
She looked up the street as if it were the first time she'd seen it. "As a matter of fact, Rob was supposed to pick me up half an hour ago. I guess he forgot."
Ed's car was still parked by his office, and they walked there slowly, as slowly as they could, and by the time they reached the corner his arm was around her waist. There was nothing to be said, and nothing needed to be said. It was a moment Cyd knew was all too rare: when friends not necessarily lovers conversed with their silence.
They rode almost as slowly, almost as quietly, Cyd only once making a joke about the car phone and Ed not responding. And when she asked to be let off at the front of the drive he made a swift U-turn and reached across her to open the door. Kissed her lightly, with a grin for congratulations.
"Have a good rest," he whispered as she slid out, and she stood there watching the taillights wink and disappear as they took the gentle curve back to the Station. Then she launched her shoulders against the night breeze and kicked at a twig. If you're not more careful, my dear, she told herself as she walked, that kind of man could get to be a habit.
She grinned, lifted her face to the air and whistled; a medley of tunes only a few bars each. And here, in the dark of the lane with the spiderleg trees waiting overhead, even the idea of the fire seemed somehow too distant. There was still the conviction that it had been deliberately set, but she refused to allow the thought to dispel her current mood. There were any number of possible explanations for it—from the innocent to the macabre—but they could wait until tomorrow, when she talked with Abe Stockton. She blinked. Until the moment the name popped into her head she had had no thought at all of seeing the chief of police. But it had to be done. No doubt it was too late to do anything about the fire now, but at least her complaint would have been noted in case it happened again.
The trees parted, the house loomed, and she saw the shades drawn in the living room, figures moving behind them sporadically and— she frowned—apparently angry. She hurried to the front door and listened a moment before letting herself in.
"I don't care what you say, damnit! I want the thing found, and I want it found now!"
Her brother's voice filled the house with thunder, sparked the lamps with lightning. She had not heard such a temper in over a decade, not since the year a California conglomerate had tried to buy the family out with an offer each one of them had considered insulting.
"Now Robert—"
"Now nothing, Mother." His voice was lower now, and more dangerous. Cyd moved to the doorway and looked in, half expecting to see Rob wearing full armor. Her parents were sitting in armchairs that faced the fireplace television. Evan was standing at the far, darker side of the room studying intently the portraits on the wall. Rob was on the hearth, blocking the screen. When he saw her, he worked at a smile, and Barton rose as soon as she entered, extending a hand that she took firmly to push him back down.
"I don't know what you're all yelling about," she said, glaring at Rob until he moved several paces away, "but you, dear old Dad, are not supposed to be out of bed."
Barton scowled, pushing himself deeper into the cushions like a scolded child. "Fools for children, fools for partners," he muttered with a jerk of his thumb toward his eldest son. "Fifteen years he works for me, I taught him everything I know, and he dares blame me for misplacing a contract. One lousy contract," he said, louder.
"It is important," Rob said, watching his brother approach them almost cautiously.
"Damnit—"
"Enough, the both of you!" Cyd said. "You're both being silly."
"Your father's upset, dear," Myrtle said, a glass in her hand. "He wouldn't stay in bed, so I let him come down to watch the basketball game. Just for a minute. I didn't think it would do any harm. Then your brother came home, and he and your father . . ." She spread her hands as though the rest were obvious.
"You have a television in your bedroom," Cyd reminded him with a poke to his shoulder.
"Screen's bigger down here," Barton muttered.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Father, do you want to kill yourself?"
She started to laugh, cut herself off when she saw the look on her mother's face—shock, disbelief; and for one curious moment she thought she had seen that expression before. She shook it off quickly with a false, high cough, and wondered aloud if anyone cared how her first day had gone. Immediately, gratefully, she was surrounded, inundated with questions she tried to answer as best she could. In the middle of the storm Rob vanished for several minutes, returned with a pewter tray, glasses of champagne, and a wedge of Barton's favorite Dutch cheese. Cyd laughed, felt the tears again, but this time wiped at them quickly with the backs of her hands. Then they toasted her boisterously, and Barton launched into a history of his own commercial start, the competitors he faced and defeated, the competitors he faced and absorbed. Myrtle corrected him on several occasions, but did it so gently that no one paid her any mind.
The cheese was consumed. Another wedge. More wine, until Rob sliced through the heel of his thumb and the sight of the blood on the cutting board quieted them, eventually sent them all to bed.
Midnight, and Cyd sat on the edge of her mattress, sorry she had drunk so much, reminding herself mock-sternly that she was a working woman now and needed to keep reasonably decent hours.
But it had been glorious, the only word for it.
All the panic, the upset, the fears and the errors had all been worth it because it did not matter now whether she made it or not. For once in her life she had taken a major step without Barton's tall shadow covering hers, and the money ready to cushion her fall, and the excuses ready for the press if they were needed. She had done it. On her own. She had survived the first day without falling apart.
She applauded herself and giggled, hiccoughed, giggled again and decided it was time to revive an old custom. Before she lost her nerve she slipped into a robe and hurried out of her rooms. Stumbled over her shadow and covered her mouth with one hand. You're drunk, my dear, she told herself as she collided with the wall; you're drunk and you don't care, do you?
By the time she had worked her way around the staircase to the front, she thought she had made enough noise to wake the whole house, but there were no lights glowing, no sounds beyond the doors when she pressed an ear to them.
Something.
She grabbed hold of the railing around the stairwell and stared into the dark.
Something.
She closed her eyes, hoping to clear her head, succeeding only in making herself dizzy. Her legs trembled, her arms quivered, and she swallowed in a panic to keep herself from vomiting.
But there was something in the house, something in the hallway that alerted her to a sensation quite close to danger.
She wanted to call out, changed her mind and hand over hand pulled herself to the rear of the house where she stopped in the center of the corridor and looked ahead, looked behind, half expecting one of her brothers to come lurching out of his room, as drunk as she and twice as full of mischief.
She hiccoughed. Belched. Felt acid rise in her throat, and a feeling of disgust that made her grimace.
There was no danger. There was no something. There was only the wine and the bubbles and the emotional letdown from the high of the shop's opening day. She sagged. Slumped. Looked over her shoulder quickly, just to be sure, then used the wall for a brace and pulled herself to her feet.
"F-fool," she muttered as she nearly fell into her parlor, tripped over a chair leg and slammed her shoulder against the jamb. "Idiot," she snapped,
wandered into the bathroom where she splashed cold water on her face, the back of her neck, until the shivering cleared her mind somewhat and she stumbled into bed.
***
Dreaming of bloodred cheese and bloodred smiles.
Dreaming of shadows against shadows that prowled the hallways, sniffing, searching, prodding, poking, until they burst into her family's rooms and smothered them screaming.
Dreaming of cash registers overflowing with money, rooms filled with dimes and nickels and quarters, stores like her own bulging at the seams with grey canvas sacks that held millions of dollars. While Iris and Paul helped her in the counting, and Sandy and Ed danced with her till dawn.
Dreaming.
And waking.
Tuesday, the second day.
Thursday morning she was anxious to get started early. Iris had begun the day before to complain of an impending cold, and she did not want to force the old woman into work if she could help it. At Iris' age, she thought as she rushed through a breakfast of coffee and tepid toast, the slightest lung problems could mean potential disaster. Better she be first for a change, call Paul and see if she could persuade him to leave his wife home.
When she was done and the dishes piled in the sink, she darted into the hallway struggling into her coat. It was a green cloth affair she had found in her wardrobe, one she had forgotten but one she had decided was much better than the camel's hair; less pretentious, less blatant, certainly more fitting. She grinned as she shook her head at herself, stopped when her casual glance swept past the library door, reversed itself and made contact.
The door was open. She frowned, wondering if her father had renewed an old habit and had fallen asleep in one of his chairs while reading. She had a feeling that, despite his attack and Kraylin's orders, no one could keep him still for more than a few days. With a stern expression, then, she stepped into the vast room, a command on her lips that soon died. The French doors to the veranda were open all the way, the morning breeze teasing the white curtains. And on the left-hand wall the six-foot portrait of her paternal grandfather had been shoved to one side on its top-frame hinges, and the wall safe gaped in the first glow of morning.
For several moments she was unable to speak, to breathe, to do more than stare. Then she screamed for her father. For Evan. For Rob. Screamed louder, and was bracing to race upstairs when her parents in their bathrobes met her at the threshold. Cyd babbled hysterically, then pointed while Barton looked inside, returned grim-faced and was reaching for the wall phone extension by the kitchen door when Rob joined them.
"Rob—"
He pushed through them and stood on the edge of the oriental carpet. Nodded. Walked over to the doors and closed them, opened them, nodded once again. Then he crossed to the safe and peered in.
"Well, isn't anyone going to say anything?" Cyd demanded, everything inside her telling her to start yelling again. "For God's sake, do you want me to call the police?"
"No," Barton said.
Cyd thought she heard him incorrectly. "Father, listen to me: There's been a robbery. Mother's jewels," and she turned to her mother who only took her arm and held on.
"Darling," she said, "there's no sense, really. They're not marked or anything like that, they're diamonds for the most part." She nodded toward the doors. "Isn't it obvious? The thief knew what he was doing. Probably one of my dear friends' friends we had over the other night. He took a walk around, saw what he wanted and came back while we were sleeping. He's long gone now. He'll never be caught."
"They cut the diamonds and things out of the settings, Cyd," Evan said, still in his pajamas and coming up behind her. "Then they can sell them and no one knows the difference."
Cyd yanked her arm free, looked from one face to another. "I don't believe this," she said. "I don't know how many thousands of dollars' worth of stuff has been taken from your very own house, and all you people can do is tell me that you're not going to report it." She glanced into the corridor, turned back and nearly shouted, "Well, if you don't call Stockton, damnit, then I will!"
Everyone tried speaking at once, no voice dominating until Cyd clamped her hands over her ears, waited until Rob took hold of his mother's arm as she had her daughter's. "Cyd's right, you know," he said, so quietly they all had to stop in order to hear him. "As usual, she's right." He smiled down at his mother. "You're forgetting something, aren't you? The insurance. There's no way we can collect a dime unless it's reported to Abe."
Thank God, there's someone still sane around here, she thought; and leave it to Rob to know what to do.
Barton seemed as if he were going to argue on, then sagged as though he were a deflated balloon. "You're right, son," he said, almost sighing. He looked then to Cyd, a weak smile at his lips. "I'm sorry, dear, but . . . well, this has never happened to us before. It's just a reflex, I suppose. You know what I mean—keep it in the family, we can handle it ourselves. Legacy of your grandfather I suspect it is."
"Pride is what you're talking about," she said, more angrily than she had intended, but not sorry for it. "But for God's sake, Father, pride or not this is a crime you're talking about here, not some damned company trying to take you over. And if you've got money problems—"
"Who told you that?" Evan demanded.
She looked at him in disgust, turned back to her parents. "I'm not stupid, you know. I really do have a brain, though sometimes it seems that people around here don't like to give me credit for it."
"Now, Cyd," Rob began, but she silenced him with a glare.
"As I said, I'm not stupid. You get rid of the Lennons and old Wallace, you cut down on the parties, on the food, on . . ." She waved her arms wide. "On everything! At first I thought you didn't offer to help me buy the store because you wanted me to work on my own. Wrong, right? You didn't have the money, right? And all those jewels you kept saying were missing . . . I'll bet you a hundred dollars you were selling them in the city. Am I right again?"
No one said anything. They only stared blankly, and she hugged herself suddenly as though she were chilled.
Barton cleared his throat. "Robert, please call Abe and tell him what we've found here. Evan, call the office and tell them we won't be in today. For obvious reasons. And Cynthia—" she looked up and saw him smiling—"I think you'd better get your tail into work before you're late and Iris fires you."
The tension passed then and, after watching Rob dial the police number, she kissed her mother's cheek and ran out of the house.
Insane, she thought as she drove into the village. I swear they're all going to need keepers before very long. My God, how stupid can you get, not wanting to call the police? Melancholy swept over her almost as soon as the thought was done; an almost wrenching sadness that in her anger and frustration she had forced them to be truthful to her for once in their lifes.
The money was going, going faster than they could make it; and on top of it a robbery to take the last of . . . what would she call it? Their legacy? Their stake?
Nevertheless, she reveled in a swell of pride at the ranks that had closed during the crisis, knowing that right at this moment her mother would be primping for the news photographers Marc Clayton was sure to send around from the paper, while Evan wrote a quick statement to be handed to the reporters. A laugh then as she parked in front of the store, louder when she saw Iris and Paul impatiently waiting.
"Boy," she said as she unlocked the door, "have I got news for you guys today."
And half an hour later Abe Stockton walked in.
"Hey," Cyd said from behind the counter, "you come for my statement or whatever you do?"
Abe Stockton could have been Paul's twin for the lines and the wattles, the New England stern that stamped his expression. He was wearing an ill-fitting dark suit and an out-of-fashion thin tie, his white shirt bunching at his waist when he opened his jacket to hitch at his trousers. He wore no overcoat though the day was chilled, a trademark he tried to foster until January brought the real season.
/> "Hey, Abe, you hear me?"
Stockton frowned and scratched at his head, the wisps of faintly red hair that clustered about his ears. "Statement? I came in here to see how you're doing, maybe pick up one of them new cop books you got there in the window. Then I got to go over to the bank to see about a loan. Why do you think I'm dressed like a damned fool instead of a chief? Statement? What do I want a statement for? You bash your brother or what?"
Cyd almost told him, then grinned stupidly and tried to pass her question off as a joke as she showed him around, only half-listening to his comments both sour and complimentary. And when he had gone, she called Ed from the back office.
"Listen," she said when Iris took the hint of her look and wandered out toward her husband, "you'd better get over here as soon as you're done work."
She paused, heard no comment, and said as softly as she could, "Ed, please say you'll come. I think I'm getting frightened."
9
After sunset, paradoxically, the temperature rose to an unseasonable warmth and December seemed May despite the signs of Christmas. Low banks of fog billowed over the road partially obscuring it, freeing it as though a curtain had been raised, obscuring it again in a disturbing dead white that reflected the headlights back into her eyes. Cyd squinted, clicked the beams to low and slowed the car to a crawl a full hundred yards before she reached the entrance to the drive. Behind her she heard Ed's car grind loudly to a lower gear and she winced, yet she did not want to move any faster. Not because she might hit something or run off the Pike during those disconcertingly brief moments of temporary blindness, but because she was beginning to feel somewhat foolish about her panic-driven call. Fear was something she equated with a fast car on a sharp mountain curve in the middle of a storm, or leaning over a hundred-foot drop with little more protection than a flimsy wooden railing This sensation was something new, something unusual. It had, for one thing, a direct connection with the confusion she had been experiencing since Thanksgiving, the unsettling notion that there was something wrong with her world and she was helpless to define it.
[Oxrun Station] The Last Call of Mourning Page 10
