Mr. McGruder scratched his forearm and allowed that it was right.
Lucy said, “I’m very pleased you came by, since I wanted to speak to you both. Thank you for filling the fridge, Mrs. McGruder, but I can do my own shopping now. But perhaps you could come by once a week and straighten up for me, do some general cleaning?”
“Well, naturally, but I can come every single day, if you would like, Lucy.”
But Lucy didn’t want anyone around. She wanted to be alone to search this barn of a house. No, she told Mrs. McGruder, that wasn’t necessary. Before Mrs. McGruder could try to talk her around, Lucy turned to Mr. McGruder, complimented him on the nicely raked front lawn, done, he told her, that morning.
She didn’t want to ask them in; she had too much to accomplish. But neither of the McGruders appeared to want to come in. Mrs. McGruder said, “How we miss Mr. Joshua. It was a lovely service, Lucy. Ah, and how we miss your grandmother. Such a gracious lady, she was, so interested in everything, and always seeing to her charities, always on the go, always reading and studying. A very sharp lady, she was. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”
Mr. McGruder nodded, walked over to pick up a stray yellow oak leaf on the flagstone sidewalk.
Lucy said, “Do you remember my grandfather, Mrs. McGruder?”
“Well, that is a question for Mr. McGruder. He and Mr. Milton were great friends, weren’t you, Mr. McGruder?”
“That we were,” Mr. McGruder said, straightening, still holding that lone oak leaf in his hand. “A fine man; missed him sorely when he left. One day to the next, he was gone. I never could understand that.” He shook his head. His gray hair didn’t move, and Lucy realized he’d pomaded it down flat to his scalp.
“Did he seem unhappy before he left?”
“Mr. Milton? Oh, goodness, no,” said Mrs. McGruder.
“Aye, he did,” Mr. McGruder said right over her. “Maybe not exactly unhappy, but I remember he was all jumpy and distracted, I guess the word is, but when I asked him, I remember he wouldn’t tell me what bothered him. And then he was gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then shook his head sadly. “So much trouble, so much death; it’s enough to make a man wonder how much more time he’s got left.”
That was a cheery observation, Lucy thought, thanking the McGruders again and sending them on their way.
Not five minutes later, Lucy was zipping up her ancient jeans, then pulled a dark blue FBI sweatshirt over her turtleneck sweater and slipped sneakers over her thick socks. Out of habit she clipped her SIG to her jeans. She was hurrying because she didn’t want to be searching the attic after dark—it was that simple. She didn’t know why, but there was something about attics and basements after dark, when everything was quiet, that gave her the willies.
She needed to get a move on. The narrow door at the end of the corridor on the second floor had always been locked when she was a child, the attic out-of-bounds to her, and it still sported a Yale lock. She’d been in the attic only once, to see if she wanted any discarded furniture for her condo—three years ago, right after her grandmother had died. She pulled out her SIG and smacked the butt to the lock, once, twice, and it opened. She climbed the steps into the immense, shadowy attic. It seemed to Lucy that with every step she took, the air got colder and clammier. There was no heat up here, but why should it feel clammy? There’d been no rain for a while. She noticed the bare attic beams weren’t insulated. It had to be roasting hot in the summer up here, and now in the late fall, it was as cold as the outside air.
She flipped the switch, and the long shadows of the huge open area gave way to a burst of light, not from a naked one-hundred-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling but from a bank of fluorescent lights. She immediately felt better, and wasn’t that stupid and childish of her? Stop it, get a grip. It’s a ridiculous attic, and Ted Bundy doesn’t live here.
Lucy looked around and lost every drop of optimism she’d had about how easy looking through the attic might be. She’d forgotten how immense it was, overflowing with old furniture, a zillion taped boxes, and ancient luggage. She wondered if some of the stuff dated back even before her grandparents had bought the house fifty years ago. Well, it didn’t matter. She’d have to dig in.
Yeah, but dig in to find what, exactly?
She didn’t have a clue. Still, Lucy hoped to her sneakered feet that when she found it, she’d know instantly.
Lucky her—all the boxes were beautifully labeled as everything from kitchenwares to master-bedroom linens to books.
She found a box labeled LUCY—TEENAGER and dug into it, unable to help herself. She’d pulled out her sophomore yearbook when her cell rang. “Yes?”
“Lucy, my angel, it’s Uncle Alan. I’m downstairs, sitting on your doorbell, but you don’t answer. Where are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m up in the attic, Uncle Alan. I’ll be right down. Is Aunt Jennifer with you? Court and Miranda?”
“Nope, only me. Your Aunt Jennifer sends her love. Court and Miranda—well, it seems the less I know about what they’re doing, the better. Your Aunt Jennifer, ah, hopes you’re all right.”
All right? How could she be all right? “I’ll be right down, Uncle Alan.”
Alan Silverman, her grandmother’s youngest brother, was actually her great-uncle. He’d been in her life from her earliest memories. He was in his seventies now, having retired hurriedly after the bankers screwed the world, and she wondered cynically how many shaky derivatives and fancy bond packages he himself had conjured up. He’d married late, produced two children, Court and Miranda, who were, actually, her first cousins once removed, many years older than Lucy. Neither of them had ever married, and that seemed a bit odd to Lucy, both of them, well into their thirties and still out dating. Court was a gym rat and liked to think of himself as a stud, and maybe that explained it—he was too focused on himself to consider letting another person in. He was a successful retailer, owner of three vitamin stores in the D.C. area—LIFE MAX Natural Supplements—that were doing very well.
As for Miranda, she was a wannabe hippie, something of a resurrected flower child but without the usual freshness or color. Her clothes were all long and too loose, too depressing, really, all browns and grays and blacks. She always wore her hair straight, parted in the middle, and Lucy wished she’d wash her hair a bit more often. She played the French horn quite beautifully, though as far as Lucy could tell, that was the only thing on which she expended much effort. Once, she remembered, Miranda invited her to a séance in her condo before she’d moved back to her parents’ house some months before, after breaking it off with a guy her Aunt Jennifer had called The Louse. Lucy had politely declined the invitation.
She opened the door and was immediately pulled into Uncle Alan’s arms. He held her close and patted her back. “How are you, kiddo?”
She leaned back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I’m okay—well, as okay as can be expected. I miss Dad all the time, of course. But they’ve made me one of the leads on this whole deal with Ted Bundy’s daughter; talk about a major-league distraction.”
“But you’re not in any danger from her, are you? I know, I saw you and Agent McKnight on TV at the news conference with your boss, Agent Savich. It’s quite an accomplishment that they’ve made you such a big part of that, Lucy. If she was watching it, she knows who you are. You’ve got to promise me to be careful, sweetheart.”
“That’s a very easy promise to keep, Uncle Alan. Come in, come in.”
She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”
Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the int
imidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.
She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”
“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”
She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.
He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,” he said. “It’s so damned uncertain, you know?”
She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew, knew too well. And so did Mr. McGruder.
“Why did you move back in here, Lucy?”
Because of what my father yelled out right before he died. But she didn’t say that; she couldn’t; it wasn’t fair to anyone if there was no proof, no reason for it. She said, “I always loved this house. I didn’t want to see it go to strangers. At least not yet.”
“Talk about rattling around. Your Aunt Jennifer doesn’t think it’s healthy for you, Lucy. She says too many ghosts live in the corners.”
“Ghosts?” She smiled. “I haven’t bumped shoulders with a single ghost yet. Listen, I’m fine. Do you know my old bedroom still looks like a teenage girl just walked out of it? Grandmother didn’t change a thing, not that she’d need to, since there are—what? Ten bedrooms in this place?
“Everything’s okay, Uncle Alan. Tell Aunt Jennifer not to worry. If a ghost turns up, why, then we’ll have a nice chat and I’ll offer it coffee with lots of Splenda. As for Bundy’s daughter, I don’t even live here officially, so she can’t know my address, and don’t forget, I’m always armed and dangerous.”
“Even Court says he’s impressed with what you can do in the gym. He still spends much of his time there, you know.”
Lucy thought again about her dashing, beautifully dressed cousin once removed, and that smirk he always wore. From their youngest years, Court had known he was hot. He’d hated his sister, Miranda, enough to make her hate him as much as she loved him. Lucy once saw Miranda haul off and punch him in the nose. He’d been so shocked, he hadn’t retaliated. Lucy laughed. It felt good. She hadn’t laughed since Coop had come to her hotel room in San Francisco. No, she’d also laughed when he’d patted her hand as they left Lansford’s suite at the Willard early that afternoon, and Coop had remarked to no one in particular that anyone who told his lawyer to shut up without even sparing him a glance couldn’t be all bad, and he’d given Lucy a blazing smile.
Uncle Alan drank more coffee, though it had to be lukewarm by now, with all the milk he’d added, and then drummed his fingertips on the table. There was something on his mind, Lucy realized, and he didn’t know how to bring it up. So she patted his hand just as Coop had patted hers, and said, “Spill it, Uncle Alan. I can take it. What do you want to say?”
He took another sip of his coffee, carefully and studiously returned the mug to the middle of a napkin, then finally looked at her. “Your Aunt Jennifer and I want you to come stay with us for a while, Lucy. We’re worried.”
Worried? Why, for heaven’s sake? She was shaking her head as she said, “I really appreciate your offer, but I need to stay here.” She realized she might have sounded a bit cool, and added, “I can’t, Uncle Alan. I’ve got so much on my plate right now, and I’ve got so much to do here—” She broke off, wondering how in the world she could be an FBI agent when things she wanted to keep buried insisted on popping right out of her mouth.
“Of course you’ve got lots to do. This is a very big house, too big for one single girl.”
She ignored that. “I’ve got help. Mrs. McGruder cooked for me and stocked the whole kitchen, and Mr. McGruder takes care of the yard, of course. They were here a while ago. They’ll continue coming. Everything will be fine.”
“She’s a lousy cook.”
“Maybe not as good a cook as Aunt Jennifer, but I don’t mind cooking for myself. I’ve done it for years now. Don’t worry, Uncle Alan, everything’s okay, I promise. Thank you both for inviting me. But I’ll be fine.” And Lucy rose. There wasn’t much daylight left. She had no intention of spending a single minute in the attic after dark, and she had to get back to it.
He didn’t want to leave, she could see it on his face, a face that reminded her of his older sister, her grandmother, Helen. He was a lot younger than her grandmother—she could never remember how many years exactly. They hadn’t been very warm toward each other much, she remembered, but Uncle Alan had loved his nephew—her father, Josh—very much. After her mother’s death, when Lucy and her father had moved in, he used to visit them in the evenings several times a week. She stood there over him, smiling.
He rose slowly to his feet. He was taller than her father had been, and very proud of how fit he was. He worked hard on it with a program Court had designed for him. As far as she knew, Uncle Alan had only to deal with high cholesterol, and a bit of arthritis, nothing else—amazing, really, for someone in their seventies. Actually, she realized, he was on the thin side, even for him. Grief? She understood that; she’d dropped five pounds herself.
“Thanks for coming to see me, Uncle Alan,” she said, and walked with him to the front door. “Do give my love to Aunt Jennifer and to Court and Miranda. How is Miranda, by the way?”
He harrumphed. “The girl has taken to playing her French horn in her room at all hours. Drives me nuts. When she’s not playing that blasted instrument, she’s still hanging out at coffeehouses, probably meeting another loser like that last one who sent her running back home again.”
Lucy had to laugh. “Ah, Uncle Alan, I meant to ask you: did you know Grandmother did a lot of reading about ESP, mystics, psychics, time travels, strange things like that?”
He stilled, never took his eyes from her face. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, there was a time years ago when Helen was obsessed with odd things. The odder the better. She bought into all of it. What makes you ask, Lucy?”
“I was reading through some of the files in her desk. There’s lots and lots about all of it. She never mentioned it to me, so I was surprised. I wondered if she talked with you about it.”
“I didn’t have much interest,” he said. “Why should I? I was in the most mundane of fields, Lucy, banking, like your father. That’s as far away from magic as it gets. What do you think about it?”
Lucy shrugged. “Everyone’s into something, I suppose. I have a friend who is perfectly nice but is up to his ears in astrology, won’t begin his day unless he knows if Mercury is in retrograde, or whatever.”
“She was your grandmother, not a friend. I’m not surprised she never spoke to you about any of the ESP stuff. Your father would not have approved.” He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “Lucy, does this have anything to do with why you’re living here in your grandmother’s house? I mean, you have your own condo; you also have your father’s house. Why this huge house?”
Did he have any idea? No, he couldn’t.
She channeled herself back into a calm, reasoned FBI agent, who could always avoid being pinned down. “Why would you ask that, Uncle Alan?”
“You seem, well, preoccupied, I guess, like you’d really like to see me out of your hair.”
“No, never that. Don’t forget Kirsten Bolger. She’s alive and well, and very likely regrouping as we speak. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“I wonder what your father would have thought about your moving in here.”
“Dad knew I loved this house. It’s why he didn’t sell after Grandmother died
.” Now, that’s a big whopping lie. The reason he hadn’t sold the house was because he was saving it for her; he probably believed it would be worth three fortunes in another ten years or so.
“It surprised me when he didn’t sell it,” Uncle Alan said. “You said you were looking through your grandmother’s files? Have you found anything interesting?”
She shrugged, shook her head. “Perhaps in the future, when I’ve got some extra time, I’ll go through her papers more thoroughly. Like I said, I read through some of her files because they were a surprise, but to be honest here, Uncle Alan, I’m really not all that interested in speaking to dead people or aliens right now. Do you know of something that’s particularly interesting I should look at?”
“Well, I’m thinking lately that knowing more about those vampires on TV might put a spark in my marriage. What do you think?”
Lucy was smiling after she closed the front door until she walked back up the stairs to the attic. She’d give it maybe twenty more minutes of searching before she headed back down into the light.
CHAPTER 24
Lucy eyed the stacks of luggage in the far corner. Suitcases of all sizes and more than a dozen carry-ons, most of them older, without wheels, were all piled on top of one another in the front, the oversized luggage and duffel bags behind. Against the wall were a half dozen old-fashioned steamer trunks, all quite large, with an Art Deco feel of the twenties and thirties, looking like aging sentinels guarding all the assorted smaller pieces piled in front of them. She wasn’t all that hopeful about finding anything that would shed light on her grandfather’s death, but it sure beat going through boxes labeled OLD SILVERWARE, and besides, people always left stuff in suitcases. There was only one way to find out.
She lifted the first carry-on off the top of the pile, unzipped it, and found one stray safety pin, nothing else. The second carry-on was black, part of a set of luggage. She found an ancient toothbrush in a side pocket, and an old quarter. She flipped the quarter in the air and stuck it in her jeans pocket. She opened a dozen more of the small pieces and found nothing more than a dried-up bottle of red nail polish, an ancient hairnet that looked like a decaying spiderweb, some more change, and two old Sidney Sheldon novels from the seventies. She still had hope when she moved to the larger luggage, the great bulk of it black. The first of the larger suitcases held nothing more than a single pair of women’s cotton panties, a man’s black sock, and a stick of old deodorant. Her hope was nearly gone when she reached the third suitcase from the bottom of the pile and nearly dropped it, it was so heavy. Her heart began to pound. She unzipped it, threw back the top, and stared down at neatly folded men’s clothes—pants, shirts, suits, underwear, shoes, handkerchiefs, socks, belts. She picked up the handkerchief on top. It wasn’t monogrammed. Lucy looked over at the long clothes pole at the opposite end of the attic crammed with clothing in plastic bags. Why not hang these clothes as well? Why fold them in a suitcase? She’d seen a good half dozen boxes labeled MEN’S CLOTHES. Why were these clothes folded in a suitcase?
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