by Susan Slater
She carried the box of contents from her safe through the rows of dresses and stacks of sweaters in her dressing room and dumped everything on her bed; then, pushing things into a pile, climbed into bed to begin the sorting. She was out of breath. The least exertion left her gasping. She knew her lungs were filling with fluid. Slowly. The insidious illness was claiming her body in small increments, but steadily, and not letting go of its small victories. Today her lungs ached and breathing was becoming difficult. Tomorrow it would be swollen ankles, fluid retention that would puff her up like a balloon. But enough of that. She had work to do.
She had changed her mind. She didn’t want anyone knowing how she’d found Robby. If he wanted to talk about it, fine. She didn’t. She didn’t want any more links to one Stan Devon. Not under the circumstances. She did not need to be tied to Art’s murder. She thought she could lie her way out of the package of money even though she knew they’d find her prints. Her prints and no one else’s. Stan was smart enough to see to that.
She pulled the large envelope from the stack. Robby’s yearbook, the pages describing his adoptive family, Stan’s conclusions. Everything needed to be destroyed including the little black book she’d found in his safe. She couldn’t change her son’s background, but she could make it harder for someone to find out. She was sure Byron or Jonathan or Cherie would do just that. Dig everything up, try to discredit him. But the money was Robby’s. Her will was ironclad—not open to interpretation. One half of Skip’s estate—her half—would go to Robbie. They would contest it but to no avail. Robbie would get millions.
Should she mention his father? She’d told Robbie the story—the truth. Yes, there needed to be a record. She had his birth certificate—the papers from the hospital in Spain. She’d write an explanation, get everything out of the safe and put into envelopes. She almost chuckled out loud imagining the shock, the outrage. If she were the vindictive type, what a nice little payback for the pain their father had caused, the pain they had caused. She was tolerated, barely. She’d always felt the outsider. Skip’s squaw. Well, it was nice to get the last laugh.
She slid feet first from the high four-poster, turned back and gathered up the yearbook and envelope. The fire in the banco-height fireplace was just taking off. She paused. What mother would burn her child’s yearbook? Especially when she had nothing that was his. Then she smiled. These weren’t exactly “usual” circumstances. She had the memories of the fire dancer. Maybe that’s what kept her going. In the face of his rejection, she knew he showed his caring for her in the traditional way. Deep within, he connected with her and made the offer to heal her—in his way—and hers. He truly was her son.
Ah, but this wasn’t getting her anywhere. She quickly bent down and stuffed the envelope between the logs, the yearbook on top. Digging into the pocket of her robe, the little black book was next. She watched for a minute then walked back to the bed and climbed on top of the covers. Fluffing the pillows, she pulled the stack of papers toward her.
The first envelope contained her will. Not one drawn up by Wayne but one done last month by a firm in Denver. The will which left so much to Robbie. She leaned back and reached for a cigarette, flipping open the lid of the lighter and holding the flame to its tip. The first spasm of coughing left her clutching the quilt with both hands. The first drag was always the worst—maybe she wouldn’t be able to continue her habit much longer. She sank back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Better. She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray.
Would she let the will stand? Yes. She wasn’t angry about his reaction. His rejection of her. She could understand. She wouldn’t be punitive. She’d add a handwritten page to cover some things she’d forgotten, and she’d add a page of explanation about Robby. Not necessarily all the particulars but enough—times and places and the names of the Merritts. She leaned over to retrieve a pen from the nightstand.
She’d been toying with telling Julie about her illness, and set her up as executor along with Ben. There weren’t many people she could trust, but Julie and Ben were the right choices. It was time. She’d tell her in the morning.
The knock interrupted her reverie, soft, tentative, as if the person didn’t want to intrude. The door at the far end of her sitting area opened out to Koi ponds and a rock garden with private prayer areas. Her own space unlike almost any other surrounding the house, this was private. But how fitting that he would come to her to share his decision. Face-to-face. She admired that. He was as forthright as his father. She couldn’t keep the smile from spreading across her face. Her son. Her hope. She slipped from the bed, lifted up the edge of the gold brocade comforter and stuffed the packet of papers underneath. There, safe for now. She padded quickly across the tiles to open the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Ben was on the road by five-thirty, but Julie didn’t go back to sleep. The wind had come up around daybreak, pushing a cholla cactus against the window, batting it back and forth to screech its disapproval against the glass. She double-checked the side door, stoked the fire and headed to the shower. But the screaming stopped her.
Connie? Was there a problem with Wayne? She presumed that he was still in the house. She pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans and ran barefoot into the hall. The screaming was coming from the west wing. Connie’s bedroom. Julie ran across the kitchen, the dining room, a sitting room, the atrium. The house was cavernous. The light of a pale gray dawn stretched the shadows of furniture into grotesque humped pachyderms. Suddenly the screaming stopped and only the muffled slap of her bare feet against Italian marble broke the silence.
Rounding the corner, she almost fell over Rosa keening on her knees, rocking silently so out of breath there was no longer sound, merely tears.
“Missy,” she whispered. “Missy gone.” She crossed herself.
Julie didn’t wait to hear more but ran toward Connie’s bedroom. The door was open.
“Connie? Connie?”
The form on the bed didn’t move. The room was lighted by a roaring fire and it was hot. Far too hot for Connie to be under the huge satin-covered comforter. Julie shivered but not from cold. The fire was casting dancing shadows up the wall. Eerie. She called out louder, “Connie?” No answer. Now the eeriness turned to dread.
How could Connie move, weighted down under such a mountain of satin? And all that net. Julie moved to the bedside and gaped. Connie was not under a satin comforter but pinioned by the billowing skirt of a wedding gown. Her hair was beautifully braided and shimmered in the light from the fire. Pearl studs outlined each twist as it wound to her waist. Her veil floated around her head, covered her face, and reached past her shoulders. The generous circle of stiff net was gathered and tucked into the narrow band of a crown that perched on top of her head. Encrusted with diamonds and pearls, the headpiece caught the firelight and sparked with color.
The ankle length gown showed off her shoes—even in repose. They were something Italian, two straps that wound their way across the instep to end in bows at the ankle. Very expensive pale cream satin to match the gown. But it was the buttons that made Julie stare. At least a hundred tiny pearls—real ones, Julie thought—lined up like sentinels down the entire length of the dress from high collar to the hem, each nestled in its loop fastener.
Another thing gnawed at her consciousness—Connie looked beautiful, vibrant, but somehow at peace. She seldom wore makeup, but what she had on was perfect in its understatement. Julie shook herself out of this reverie, stepped up to the bed, and felt for a pulse. None. Connie felt warm and not just from the fire. She hadn’t been dead long. Julie reached for the bedside phone. She needed to call someone. Police. Ambulance.
“Miss Connie was very sick.”
“Sick?” Julie turned to look at Rosa who was now standing behind her. “She couldn’t have been.”
“I think she wanted to be with the angels.”
“Suicide?”
Rosa nodded solemnly. “I think she knew it was time.”
&n
bsp; “No. I can’t believe that. How do you know?”
“A nice lady doctor calls almost everyday. She says I am to see that Missy Connie take her pills and don’t get too tired. She tells me that Missy Connie will need me. I must make time to be here.”
“Who is this doctor?”
“Doctor Bancroft. Her number is by the phone in the office.”
“What was making her sick?”
A shrug. “I don’t know.”
Julie could see that Rosa had exhausted her fund of knowledge. But a doctor. Julie checked her watch. Almost seven. She was fighting back the sadness that threatened to overtake her. But if she gave into tears now …
“Rosa, bring me the number.”
Julie waited, trying to sort through the tangle of thoughts. If Connie had been so ill, why hadn’t she said something? And the wedding gown … was this some statement of going to be with Skip? Some crossing over in the same gown she wore in her youth? Some forty years ago? No. This one looked new. But could she be sure? Probably not. The only sure thing was the premeditation. Her death had been planned to the last detail.
Julie quickly looked around the room. Nothing was out of place. There had not been a visible struggle against death—just some sort of quiet giving in. If there had been a life-threatening illness, this would be just like Connie to take control. Do it her way, in her time. Would there be an empty pill container in the bathroom?
“Here is the number.”
Rosa held out an open planner. There were two numbers—one appeared to be Dr. Bancroft’s home if she could trust the H in parentheses after it. Julie walked to the phone on the nightstand. She picked up the receiver and quickly dialed that one first.
“Dr. Bancroft?”
“Yes.” The woman sounded sleepy and a little out of sorts.
Julie explained the urgency.
“Oh no. I sensed this when she was in Monday. I insisted that she begin oxygen, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was so proud. This was so difficult for her but she had planned everything. She was ready; that’s the only consolation, the only solace I can give you.”
Julie listened numbly to an explanation of leukemia. How Connie had known for a couple months—at most had two or three months left. No, it wasn’t unusual for someone to succumb in a shorter amount of time. But the wedding gown, Julie thought to herself. What a bizarre twist. But wasn’t it more proof of Connie’s being prepared? The impact of what was happening began to sink in, and she felt the tears well up to spill over and run down her cheek.
“I, of course, will order an autopsy.”
“Is that necessary?” They always seemed like a terrible invasion of privacy, of person.
“There are a number of questions that need to be answered. Did she, as I suspect, take her own life? Did she succumb to the combination of medicines she started two days ago? We were trying something new—perhaps, she had a reaction. She was very fragile.”
If suicide was suspected, an autopsy was mandatory. That, Julie knew. Another body for the OMI. Another suspicious death. Or death of unknown origins. Doctor Bancroft said she would make all the arrangements. Julie was relieved. Suddenly she was drained and it was becoming an effort to think clearly. She thanked Dr. Bancroft and hung up just as Rosa thrust a cup of coffee toward her.
“You need.”
“Rosa, this could save a life.” Julie felt guilty at her choice of words and looked away. Suddenly, she needed to get out of the room. And where was Wayne? Could he have slept through all the screaming?
She headed into the hall toward yet another wing of the sprawling house. The nearest guest room door was open and the room was very empty. Bedclothes were piled on the bed and half on the floor. But, no Wayne. Had he left in the middle of the night? She hadn’t heard anything, but that was not surprising. A few thousand square feet separated her room from this area.
She’d see if his car was still in the circle drive.
It also was gone. She closed the heavy front door but not before she marveled at the streaks of rose that stretched across the eastern sky. No more pale grayness. The sun was now above the mountains and streamed into the foyer from domed panels of stained glass which cast an artist’s palette of color across the floor. How could so much beauty exist side by side with death? How could this house, a tribute to so much Connie had done in life, go on without her? Without its inspiration? But hadn’t she planned for that? Hadn’t she given away this house hoping the pueblo would use it as a museum? A monument that would go on without her.
Suddenly, suicide made perfect sense. Hadn’t Connie been planning all along how to get rid of the property? Giving the land back to Sandia Pueblo was her legacy. Julie stood sipping her coffee and watching the sky deepen in color. The rose was now palest peach with pink outlines to every cloud and the sky itself a wonderful, clear deep azure.
And then the thought that had been hovering at the periphery slipped into focus—if Connie had taken her own life, there would be a note or something—some indication she knew the end was near. Julie set the cup on an end table and walked, then almost ran, back to Connie’s bedroom.
The fire was barely a pile of embers. Thank God. The heat had been stifling. Quickly, Julie looked at the nightstand, then the desk. She opened a drawer, then another. Nothing. But would a note be tucked away? She didn’t think so. She needed to look for something obvious—out in the open.
The fire popped, sending sparks far out into the room. She needed to put the screen up before a fire started that she didn’t want. She looked at the Navajo rugs that dotted the room. Tens of thousands of dollars as floor covering—not something she’d want to go up in flame. As she neared the fireplace, a speck of white caught her eye. Quickly reaching for a poker, she pulled a small leather-covered book from under a burning log. It appeared to be an address book of sorts. She turned it over, back cover and spine were charred but otherwise intact. She’d give this some time later; she slipped it into the pocket of her sweatpants.
What she was looking for wasn’t trash to be burned. If Rosa was right and Connie had wanted to be with the angels, there would be some sort of note. Something she’d want others to find. It didn’t take her long. Julie reached across the bed to run a hand under the pillows stacked against the headboard, and she stepped on papers under the bed. She bent down and pulled out a bundle of official-looking documents rubber-banded together. The envelope on top had the return address of a law firm in Denver, a large manila envelope and three fat letter-sized ones were underneath it. But it was the handwritten note tucked under the band that caught her attention. Dated yesterday, it began, “When you read this, I will be gone …” Julie couldn’t go on. So, it was true. She knew and had planned her leaving—possibly instigated her own death.
“The hospital men are here.” Rosa’s voice prodded Julie into action. Quickly she stuffed the bundle under her sweatshirt. Surprised at herself, she started to remove it as she heard voices coming down the hall. But something more than curiosity made her cinch the drawstring on her sweats and secure the papers at her waist. She was the administrative assistant, wasn’t she? And she needed a quiet time and place to go over these. Even in death Connie would want some respect and would want the right person looking at her personal papers. Of this she felt certain.
“Ma’am?”
“In here.” Three young paramedics came into the room. One gave a low whistle.
“Did you dress her?”
“No. We found her this way.”
The young man stood to one side as his two companions flanked him. But not one of them could take his eyes off of Connie.
“She was very ill. Her personal physician is Dr. Margaret Bancroft. I talked to her a half hour ago. She spoke of an autopsy due to her suspicion of suicide.”
“Bancroft is Chief of Oncology at UNMH. A good doc. She had the best.” He nodded toward Connie.
“When did you find Ms. CdeBaca?”
“Actually, Rosa found her.”
> “I come at six o’clock on Sundays.” Rosa stood by the door and looked lost. Julie motioned her forward. She had no idea how long Rosa had worked for Connie, but it was probably quite some time.
“You came at six this morning?” The young paramedic noted her nod by scratching a quick note on a pad of paper. “What’s the first thing that you did?”
“Always, always check on Missy first. She like her coffee very early.”
“Were you supposed to wake her?”
“No. Lately, she no sleep and is awake already when I come.”
“And this is how you found her?”
Rosa nodded.
“I pushed her veil back. I was just checking for signs of life,” Julie added.
The young man nodded. “I’m going to check in with Dr. Bancroft. And then we’ll get going. I’ll let you know where Ms. CdeBaca will be.”
Julie left the room. She needed another cup of coffee so she followed Rosa to the kitchen. She filled a cup and added half-and-half.
“I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me. I need to start letting people know what’s happened.”
“Mr. Byron, he’s going to be happy. He never like Missy. And that Cherie …” Words seemed to fail Rosa, but the meaning wasn’t lost. Yes, Julie thought, there would be rejoicing in some camps.
The minute she got to her room, Julie undid her sweats and pulled up her sweatshirt. Maybe creased in a couple new places, but otherwise, the documents were intact. She took the address book out of her pocket and put it in her purse. She carried her cup of coffee to the desk, adjusted the blinds and spread the envelopes out in front of her with Connie’s handwritten note on top.
Dated yesterday. Julie couldn’t stop staring. What had made last night the right time to take her life? Ben would worry he’d upset her by decking Wayne. But that wasn’t it. She’d taken the episode in stride. So, what? What turning point? Did she suddenly get sick in the night? Realize what she was facing? That the time was near?
