An Accidental Woman (26 page)

* * *

“Come to bed,” he said.

She smiled. “Soon.”

“You said that an hour ago.” He paused, took his hand away, and straightened. “This is not getting better.”

No. It wasn't, and it was her fault. The deal that they'd agreed to in couples therapy was that they would go to bed together, at the same time, several times a week, whether it was to talk, to make love, or just to lie close. They hadn't done it now in days.

She pushed a hand through her hair. The blond curls were totally unruly—more
so than usual, surely reflecting her own lack of control. “I'm sorry. I just . . . need this thinking time.”

He leaned over her shoulder to peer at the papers spread on the desk. “Is this Committee stuff?”

“Some of it is. We really do have to safeguard the lake. We drink that water.”

“I thought you finished the cost work on Friday.”

“I did. Three police officers, one for each eight-hour shift, plus a cruiser, plus testing equipment—it's not that expensive. It could be covered by a nominal increase in property taxes. I'd say that's a small price to pay for peace of mind.”

“Who's saying no?”

“The usual suspects. Alf Buzzell and the lived-here-all-my-life camp say we're imagining a threat, that Lake Henry is as safe as it's ever been. Nathaniel Roy and the live-free-or-die camp say we don't want a police presence. Willie Jake and
his
camp say that they know what it takes to guard this town, and if we
really
want to prevent someone from dumping lethal stuff in the lake, we'd have to hire
nine
guys, so that three can patrol at any given time. That camp says one guy at a time would be so ineffective that it'd be a pure waste of money. And they don't want the property tax going up.”

“How does the Town Meeting vote line up?”

“In our favor, I think. But it'll be close, so either way there will be unhappy people.”

“You need to do a PR campaign. You need to educate those people about the dangers.”

“We are,” she said, gesturing toward the papers that a friend in Concord had put together. “Unfortunately, some people are happy burying their heads in the sand. They don't want to know the risks. They like their lives as they are, right now, today.”

Mark pulled at the corner of a paper that lay at the bottom of the pile. Not a paper, actually. A photograph. Cassie stared at it right along with him. Even after hours of studying it, she was startled.

“This is either Lisa Matlock or Heather Malone,” he said. “Trick question?”

“No trick. It's Lisa.”

“Oooh. You have a problem.”

“Correct, and Heather isn't helping. So there's the possibility that she's unable to help. I've spoken with two psychiatrists who say she may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. But if we don't know what the trauma is, we haven't a leg to stand on. Either she doesn't understand the risk of silence, or she is so guilty of this and more, that anything she says will condemn her.”

Mark drew back to study her. “You're her champion. You're not supposed to think that.”

“Maybe not,” Cassie said ruefully, “but I don't know how else to think. I've gotten some preliminary stuff from California, and it describes a woman who could easily, easily, easily be Heather. This picture sends the same message as the ones in the newspaper clippings I've seen. Okay, so I have expert witnesses prepared to testify that handwriting analysis can be unreliable. But I have nothing else. Nothing. Heather is a dear friend of mine, but I can't mount a defense.” She could feel herself getting worked up. Again. “She won't give me anything to work with.
What
am I supposed to do?”

“Get information on Lisa.”

“That won't help Heather.”

“It will if she's Lisa. If she's Lisa, and she's also the woman we know, there has to be a good reason why she ran that guy down. The woman we know isn't a murderer. She isn't prone to hysteria or to mad fits of anger. She isn't manic-depressive, and she isn't insane. So there's a reason. Up until now you've been obsessed with proving she's Heather—”

“Not obsessed,” Cassie cut in.

“Yes, obsessed, and that's okay, Cass, because you're a loyal friend. But maybe now you need to come at it from a different angle.”

Cassie turned to look at him. “And how am I supposed to do that,” she said. It was more a statement of frustration than a question. “What funds do I have? None. Micah's up to his ears in loans for his new equipment, and even then he offered to take out another—at least, he offered that at the start, but he's so angry at Heather right now that I'm not sure the offer still stands. So how do I get information on Lisa?”

“Griffin.”

“Griffin's an outsider and a journalist.”

“He got you this photograph.”

“He got it for Poppy. No, Mark. I need an independent person working for Heather, but that means paying costs for transportation, room and board, time by the hour, plus fees for getting the information, because there are always those. I'd use our reserve, but you say it's too low. What am I supposed to do?”

“Use Griffin.”

“I can't trust Griffin.”

“Is it that? Or is it pride?”

Cassie was stung. “That's not fair.”

“You're a prideful person. You admitted it last week.”

In therapy. She had. Now she felt defensive. “I said I took pride in what I did and, because of that, I sometimes had trouble letting go of an issue. But that's different from refusing help out of pride.”

“How?”

“Taking pride in my work is positive. You can find fault with me when I spend too much time on a case, but that's a good thing for my clients, just like it is for your students. Refusing help out of pride is negative. It suggests that I don't go all-out for my clients. I'm a better lawyer than that.”

“Forget lawyer. Think person. Think
woman.
You do take pride in doing things yourself.”

“I like getting things done.”

“By
you,
and I understand that, Cass,” he argued. “You left town after high school when you should have stayed, so you need to make up for the time you were gone.”

It had only been eight years, through college and law school. But during that time, her father had died of cancer, her sister of drugs, and her mother of loneliness. Cassie hadn't truly understood what she should have done until she'd married and become a mother herself—and having children had been crucial to her. Creating a family, and doing it right, was one hope for a second chance. Working her tail off as a lawyer was another. And even in spite of these two things, she would live
the rest of her life wishing she had been there for her parents and her sister.

Mark went on. “You don't need to prove yourself all the time. Do you honestly think that anyone holds the past against you, after what you've done for the people of this town in the nine years you've been back?”

“Yes,” Cassie said. “I do think so. My parents' friends remember what I did. There's always a little dig when Alf makes his lived-here-all-my-life argument to me. Same with Nathaniel Roy. On the surface, he's pleasant enough. But the truth is, he resents what I did those years away, and resents that I came back and took control. If I call in Griffin Hughes, the old guard will have more to resent.”

“Do you care?”

“No. Yes.” Sighing, she admitted the quandary. “I do care. I want the respect of those people. But then there's Heather. What do I do about Heather? I've never felt so stymied in a case.”

“Call Griffin,” Mark suggested again and stood. “I'm going to bed.”

* * *

Now she was thinking about Perry Walker. He had been a handsome guy—six feet tall, sandy hair that flowed to his shoulders, laughing eyes and a wide smile—the life of the party until the very moment of his death. He'd been telling her a joke, shouting over the growl of the snowmobile. The joke had likely been either off-color or politically incorrect, because Perry delighted in being irreverent. She couldn't remember the words, though. They had been lost in the horror of what had followed.

Moaning at the memory, she threw an arm over her eyes, then quickly lifted it off when she felt a movement at her side. It was the cat. She had been curled up near Poppy. Now she sat, her head aimed at nothing in particular.

“Why are you awake?” Poppy asked softly.

Victoria yawned. She lifted a paw, licked it, ran it over her eyes.

Poppy wondered what she felt behind those lids, whether there was the same lack of sensation Poppy had in her legs. She wondered whether Victoria remembered seeing things and, if so, whether that helped her function without sight.

Memory didn't help Poppy. It hurt. She started by picturing Perry as he had been those weeks before he'd died, and the next thing she knew, she was trying to picture what he would be like if he had lived. She figured he would have had a whole slew of kids, not because of any major plan or religious conviction, but out of sheer carelessness. He was a randy guy. He had enjoyed sex the way he enjoyed hockey, hunting, and beer. He would no more have considered using a condom than he would have loaded his rifle with blanks.

Poppy had been six weeks late once. To this day, she was sure she'd been pregnant. She had never had it confirmed—was too afraid—hadn't been able to
begin
to consider the ramifications—and then it was a moot point. Her period had come in a rush of blood and cramps.

At the time, she had simply thanked her lucky stars and gone on the pill. After the accident, during those weeks in the hospital when she had nothing to do but think, she decided that divine design was behind the loss. She wouldn't have been able to mother a child. She had no
right
to mother a child.

It was just punishment.

Like being confined to a wheelchair.

Like never skiing again.

Like doing nothing so much as even
kissing
a man.

Then she had a thought. She wondered what it would have been like if the tables had been turned. Wondered what Perry would have done if she had been the one to die. Wondered whether he would have been the one to reform.

Victoria walked to the edge of the bed and, lowering her front paws down the comforter, slipped to the floor. Poppy watched her walk toward the window and sit squarely in a patch of moonshine. There she groomed herself, looking confident and content. At one point, she raised her face
toward the window. It was open a notch, as was Poppy's habit. She liked to hear what was happening outside. It made her feel less at a disadvantage.