“Under normal circumstances I’d say yes, but given we’ve got two dead bodies that are most likely the homeowners, I seriously doubt it. The house and art collection were insured for over twenty million dollars. According to Cornelia Hart, a collection of foundations stood to benefit in the event of their deaths. If there was an individual benefactor I’d be far more suspicious.”
Ryan Marshall poked his head in the door. “It’s pretty Spartan in here.”
“Should make your job easier,” said Macy.
“This isn’t even a crime scene, why are you bothering?” asked Alisa.
Ryan tilted his head in Macy’s direction. “Between me and you, Special Investigator Greeley is a bit of a taskmaster. If she says jump, I generally say after you dear.”
Macy looked up from the file she was reading. “Alisa, ignore him. He’s bored because he’s on hold until they give him access to the house. He begged me to give him something to do.”
“The temperature is dropping outside. At least it’s warm in here,” said Ryan.
“Any news at the house?” asked Alisa.
“I need to be back there in a couple of hours to oversee the removal of the bodies. Thankfully, going over this office shouldn’t take long.” He pulled out a pair of latex gloves. “I see you are both appropriately gloved and booted. Where would you like me to start?”
“There’s a stain on the carpet that may be worth looking at.”
Ryan got on his hands and knees so he could have a better look at the Persian carpet. “You mean this one between the sofa and the coffee table?” he asked.
“Yep,” said Macy. “I didn’t look too carefully, so there may be more.”
“Are you going to check if it’s blood?” asked Alisa.
“Among other things,” said Ryan.
Ryan told Alisa to close the blinds and shut off the lights. He sprayed the sofa and carpet with Luminal and checked with a UV light. A bright patch of blue fluoresced on the carpet. A couple of drops showed up on the sofa as well.
Alisa’s voice went up an octave. “It’s blood?”
Ryan lowered his voice so only Macy could hear him. “Where’d you find this girl? It’s like working a crime scene with a cheerleader.”
“Play nice, Ryan,” said Macy. She asked Alisa to switch on the lights when Ryan was finished taking photos.
“I’m not sure this is significant. It’s not a large quantity.” He took out a flashlight and examined the stain more closely. “I would also say it’s been there for a while. Hopefully it’s not degraded. I’ll take samples and send it off for analysis. Anything else you want me to look at?”
“Could you check his desk chair?” asked Macy. “It smells of urine and there’s some sticky residue on one of the arm rests.”
Ryan smiled. “Macy, are you suggesting that Peter Granger was incontinent?”
“When you alert the press leave my name out of it,” said Macy. “The chair looks relatively new. The sticky residue could be from packing tape.”
Ryan had a sniff. “You may be right on both counts. I’ll take a swab but I’d say it’s definitely urine.”
Macy peeled off her gloves and set the office keys down on the desk. “We’re going to leave you to it. We need to go back to the office and arrange some interviews.”
Ryan pulled his camera out of one of his cases. “No worries. I’ll let you know what I find.”
7
Wednesday
Grace’s uncle wasn’t the first person to say, “a man without guts lives on his knees,” but Grace was pretty sure he’d said it with a frequency and volume that left all pretenders in the dust. Not that it mattered. He was dead and so was her aunt, two people Grace couldn’t help but love despite their transgressions. Over the years Grace had learned to live with what she called relative degrees of disappointment. She had to balance all that they’d done for her with all that they’d done wrong. Grace’s childhood wasn’t easy. Her mother was prone to drink and when she drank she was prone to forget she was a mother. Following years of neglect she abandoned Grace at the age of seven, leaving her locked in their mobile home for three days straight in the middle of a heat wave. If not for her aunt and uncle, Grace would have been put into foster care. Under their roof she’d felt safe for the first time in her life. Grace focused on that single factor when she looked back on the time she’d spent living with them. If she dwelled too long on the horror that came before and after she probably would have jumped off a bridge long ago.
Grace’s aunt also peppered everyday conversation with her favorite sayings. Often lifted straight from the scriptures, her aunt’s words were more than just lessons. She used them as a reminder of the great burden she carried in saving all of their souls. The woman prayed daily, attended church several times a week, and went to great lengths to help the less fortunate but, try as she might, it just wasn’t possible for her to compensate for her husband’s crimes. If there was a hell, Grace knew that both her aunt and uncle were there. That didn’t stop Grace from loving them, and if loving them destined Grace to hell, so be it. If she wanted to be reunited with any of her family members in the afterlife it seemed that was the place she needed to be.
Grace pulled the art studio door shut behind her and switched on the lights. It was only a little after nine in the evening so she’d expected to run into some other students, but the room was empty. She unbuttoned her woolen coat and pulled off her red hat and mittens as she made her way to her work space. It was cold in the studio so she’d be leaving her scarf on. She removed her sketchbook from her shoulder bag and shut off her phone.
Several of Grace’s drawings were tacked to the corkboard above the worktable alongside random images plucked from magazines, postcard racks, and Internet searches. There was also a growing list of her aunt and uncle’s favorite sayings. Whenever she remembered a new one she’d write it down. She pulled off the sheet and quickly scanned it before making an addition.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
The best offense is a good defense.
Whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue keeps himself out of trouble.
Even a fish wouldn’t get caught if he kept his mouth shut.
Owe nothing to anyone except to love one another.
It’s easy to be generous with another man’s money.
The name of the LORD is a fortified tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.
A man without guts lives on his knees.
Grace opened the locked cabinet where she stored her work and set a small canvas measuring 11 by 13 inches on an easel. She’d always been good at drawing, but it wasn’t until she’d enrolled in school that she’d realized art could help her make sense of her past. It wasn’t her fault that her past was a scary place.
The outline of four young women huddled in the back of an eighteen-wheeler’s cavernous cargo bay was slowly emerging from the canvas. A single shaft of light cut through a thin gap in the container’s metal siding. Only one of the girls directly engaged the viewer. The others were slumped together in a tangle of bare limbs that were so lifeless they could have been body parts. It was one of twelve paintings Grace was working on for a student show that was taking place the following week. The other paintings were already finished and stored safely in the cupboard. Together they formed a visual narrative of her past. If Grace was going to be forced to tell her story, she was going to do it on her terms. She’d already decided to sign the paintings with her real name. Peter Granger had been right about one thing—hiding wasn’t a workable solution.
After Grace was invited to join Peter’s writing workshop, he arranged to meet with her privately in his office a couple times a week. She’d thought it was for extra tuition but he had other ideas. It turned out that Peter wasn’t just gifted at telling stories; he was also good at getting other people to tell theirs. He seemed to understand that Grace craved two things in life. She needed to feel safe and she needed to talk to someone ab
out what had happened in Collier. Going to his office felt a bit like going to confession. She sensed they were growing closer. It was a bit like falling in love. For a few glorious weeks she felt loved.
Grace pried the lid from a plastic container and mixed the dark slurry with the butt end of a paintbrush, occasionally smearing a bit on a scrap piece of paper to see whether the tone and texture were right for what she wanted to achieve. She set it aside and opened a drawer containing dozens of jam jars. She picked out two. One was labeled red dust and the other, medium gray ash. She added a bit of each to the mixture and stirred it well. She checked the color again before adding a bit more red dust. It took several tries to get the shade she was after. This was her thing. She painted with dust and ash.
She dipped a thin brush in the paint and set to work. As the scene grew darker and gathered detail, everything aside from the canvas faded into the distance. Sometimes Grace was so focused she forgot to breathe. Numbness would creep into her bones. In winter it was always worse. Her fingertips would go lily white. If you broke the skin there would be no blood.
Grace had tried to find out more about the four girls in the painting but the newspaper articles only said they were young, Polish, and trafficked for the sex trade. After they died of heat exhaustion their bodies were dumped behind a toilet block at a popular picnic area along Route 93. Grace’s only personal contact had been a whispering voice through a small air vent in the container. Grace had been seven years old but she still remembered the roughness of the girl’s lips. They’d cracked like ice. She’d been too dehydrated to cry. Grace touched the paintbrush against the face of the girl who’d begged for help. Her name was Katya and she was just shy of sixteen when she died.
The studio’s windows rattled as wind whipped around the building. Overhead the lights flickered. Flecks of fresh snow stuck to the glass and the ground glowed white under the glare of the lamps that dotted the campus pathways. It was half past two in the morning. Grace sat back in her chair and appraised the canvas in front of her. The image was certainly haunting. The girl’s mouth was open wide and screaming. This time Grace wanted to make sure Katya was heard.
Grace reached over and opened the cabinet door. She needed to line up the paintings so she could look at them as a group. She placed the twelve canvases in a row along the base of a wall where the class gathered to critique each other’s artwork. She was setting the last painting down at the end of the row when she heard someone shouting.
The door to the studio was still shut and as far as she could tell she was alone.
“Hello,” she called. “Is anyone there?”
Receiving no answer, Grace went to the door. The hallway was also empty. She stood for a few minutes, listening, but aside from the wind gusting outside and the click and tick of the building’s heating system it was silent. Grace headed toward the front entrance. Sometimes one of the security guards would hang out in a little seating area near the elevators. One of them often had homemade cookies and was always willing to share. Halfway along the corridor, Grace noticed the light was on in the staff break room. She stood outside the door for a few seconds and listened. Someone was crying. Grace knocked lightly and waited for a reply. The door swung open just as she was about to knock again.
Jessica Reynolds’s face was flushed to the point of looking feverish. Her hair was a wild mass of dark curls. She tucked it behind her ears and seconds later it escaped again. Her eyes were raw from crying. She sniffed into a tissue.
“Grace, you’re here late.”
Grace tilted her head toward the studio. “I’ve been preparing for the student show.” She hesitated. “Are you okay, Ms. Reynolds? I thought I heard someone shouting.”
Jessica held open the door and indicated that Grace was to follow her inside.
“That was the sound of me being frustrated. It turns out paperwork doesn’t respond well to neglect.” Jessica waved a hand at several folders that sat open on a round table. A bottle of white wine stood among them, also open. “I thought it would help to get on top of things. There’s all the scheduling for next term, new applicants. I’ll have to find someone to cover Hannah’s classes…” Jessica picked up the bottle and checked how much was left. “I’d offer you a glass, but it seems I’ve already finished most of it.”
“That’s okay,” said Grace.
Jessica half smiled. “Another time then.”
Everyone in the art department knew Jessica and Hannah were close. There had been rumors going around that they’d been having an affair for quite some time. Grace was hoping it was true—anything to put a giant female-size hole in Peter Granger’s ego.
“Have you heard anything from the police?” asked Grace.
“Nothing definite, but every hour that goes by without any word from Hannah and Peter makes it more likely they were in the house.”
“I am sorry. I know you and Hannah were close.”
Jessica raised an eyebrow. “We were more than that.”
“I know.”
Jessica leaned against the counter.
“I was hoping she’d leave Peter.” Her voice faded. “But it didn’t seem to be in the cards.”
“She would have been better off without him.”
“I thought you were a fan.”
Grace shrugged. “Apparently, I was a disappointment.”
“Hannah was convinced you were sleeping with him.”
“That didn’t happen.”
“I told Hannah that she was being a hypocrite. If she was having an affair there was no reason Peter shouldn’t have his fun, regardless of how inappropriate it was.”
“What made her think I was doing something inappropriate?”
“Hannah knew all about you girls. God knows how many of you slept with him.”
“I never…”
Jessica poured the remaining drops of wine into a plastic cup. “Even I saw how you girls were with him. You’d hang on his every word. Personally, I don’t understand what you could have seen in him. You’re less than half his age.”
Grace stammered. “This isn’t right. I never did anything like that.”
“Peter said that you were so obsessed with him that he had to cut you out of the writing group.”
Grace felt the color rising in her cheeks. Her mouth was dry. She went to the sink and filled a glass she found in the drainer with tap water.
Jessica turned away. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re both dead.”
“It matters to me,” said Grace. “I don’t want to be accused of something I didn’t do. Peter was angry because I wouldn’t give him permission to use what I’d told him about my past in a book he was writing. He tried to get me to sign a release form but I wouldn’t do it.” She paused. “You work in the administration office so you must know my real name.…”
Jessica’s voice caught. She seemed to want to say one thing but then said another.
“Grace, for what it’s worth, I believe you. Hannah told me things about Peter. The man was a pig.”
Jessica nearly tripped on a table leg as she turned back toward the table. She was crying. She snatched a tissue from a box and pressed it to her face.
“I’ll give you a ride home,” said Grace. “Just give me a few minutes to put my stuff away.”
Jessica closed her eyes for a few seconds. “This is so humiliating.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone.”
Jessica took a deep breath.
“Thank you, Grace. You’re being very kind.”
Grace resisted the urge to give Jessica a hug.
“Come find me in the studio when you’re ready to go,” said Grace.
* * *
Grace reshuffled the order of the finished canvases several times until she was satisfied. Two needed more work and one wasn’t going to make the cut. She’d already decided to paint something else. She just wasn’t sure what that would be. She was starting to put the paintings away when Jessica came in the studio.
> Jessica looked far less vulnerable bundled up in her heavy coat and scarf.
“Grace, these look amazing. Are you pleased?” she asked.
“Two need some retouching and that one on the end isn’t working at all. I’m going to trash it and try something else.”
Grace was suddenly conscious that no one aside from her advisor had seen any of her work for quite some time. Part of her wanted to step between Jessica and the canvases, but she stood her ground. She needed someone to tell her that the work was good and Jessica seemed a safe bet. Jessica stopped in front of each painting for a few moments before moving on. For a long time she stared at the image of the man crucified in the limbs of a tree. At the bottom, Genesis 3:19 was scribbled in pencil next to Grace’s very faint signature. That was something else that needed retouching. If Grace Adams was going to out herself she would have to be bold about it.
“What is Genesis 3:19?” asked Jessica.
“For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”
“My parents were lapsed Catholics so it’s all lost on me. Were you raised in the church?”
“My aunt wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
“And your mother?”
Grace could only guess. “I’m pretty sure she was an atheist.”
Jessica’s voice was so soft Grace barely heard her. “Where does that phrase ‘ashes to ashes, dust to dust’ come from?”
“Funeral rites. ‘We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’”
Jessica smiled but she didn’t look happy. “‘Ashes to ashes, funk to funky. We know Major Tom’s a junkie.’” She turned her back on the paintings. “I’m afraid that’s the extent of my biblical knowledge.”
“We should get going,” said Grace. “Give me a few minutes to put these away.”
Jessica’s offer of help was declined. “I’m sorry about earlier,” said Jessica. “I shouldn’t have said that stuff to you. I don’t want Hannah to be remembered as someone who was vindictive.”
Grace carried the canvases back to the cupboard and locked them inside. She didn’t think she could respond to Jessica’s comment without sounding bitter, so she kept her mouth shut. Grace had lost all respect for Hannah. She couldn’t understand how a woman she so admired could be married to a man who had absolutely zero integrity. Hannah wasn’t liberated. She was weak. All Grace had ever been to Hannah was a potential threat to a marriage that was, for all intents and purposes, a complete sham. Hannah had no right to judge Grace or anyone else’s behavior.
Silent Rain Page 10
