An Illustrated Death (16 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
S
EV
EN

C
LAUDE CAUGHT UP
with us on the front steps. I expected him to order Rosa back inside, but he said to me, “You’ll tell the police what Mama saw?”

“I said I would.”

“How much longer for the books?”

“Only a few days.” Was I glad or sorry? I’d gotten used to driving out to Springs every morning and not having to worry about money. On the other hand, negotiating my way through this family had been an emotional obstacle course.

“Are the books worth anything?”

I hated hearing him refer to them as commodities, but I said, “Of course. It’s a good thing you didn’t put them out when you had that book sale.”

He chuckled. “That was an audition—to find the right appraiser. We didn’t want anyone who looked too professional, who would raise Mama’s suspicions. We needed someone competent, but who looked like she could be Bianca’s collaborator.”

One mystery solved.

He kept pace with me. Rosa did too on the other side, eager for what I had promised her. “What do we owe you? I know it’s been a while since I wrote you a check.”

It had been less than a week, but I wasn’t going to refuse the money. “I’m not sure.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure the total out. Stop by the house on your way home.” He gave my arm a pat, then turned back to the house.

I racked my brain for something I could offer Rosa. “I have some Beanie Babies at home. I’ll bring them tomorrow.”

“I love those!”

“In the meantime, don’t tell anyone about anything Gretchen gave you. That was right that you didn’t.” I thought of something else. “There used to be a girl who came here with hair like mine.”

“Sonia?”

“Do you know her last name?”

“No one said her name. She loved my father too, but she went away.”

I realized I was holding my breath. “Do you know why?”

“She got hurt.”

We had started down the hill in the direction of where Marselli was working. I breathed out. “How did she get hurt?”

But Rosa saw her cottage. “I have to make more plates now,” she said urgently, and broke into a clumsy run.

If it had been someone else, I might have been startled. But I was beginning to understand how Rosa’s mind worked.

I was relieved to see that the area around the pool was deserted. It would give me more time to think before I told Marselli anything. I hated to give him more damning information about Bessie. Although she seemed devoted to Eve Erikson, I sensed that she had deeper loyalties, claims of family and community, and that in the end her connection to the Eriksons was as a job. I doubted she would let herself be drawn so deeply into a family drama not her own.

Yet that was only my sense. Eve’s claim to have seen Bessie carrying something heavy down the stairs was particularly damning because of the affection between them. Yet how reliable was Eve
? She
hadn’t said it was Gretchen. If it was before the memorial, Bessie was probably on her way home, carrying her own things. A body might be Claude’s wishful thinking. Eve might have mentioned seeing Bessie leaving that night, and he had jumped on it like powdered sugar on donuts.

A
T FIVE-THIRTY
I
walked over to Claude and Lynn’s. Although their house had been built to resemble a one-room schoolhouse, complete with a brass bell in a cupola, there were two stories and obviously more rooms.

I was expecting him to appear at the door, checkbook in hand, but Lynn was the one who opened it. “Delhi! Is everything okay?”

“Claude asked me to stop by for a check.”

“Oh—come in.” She pulled back the door.

The house had the charm that comes from the simplicity of colonial antiques and bare wooden floors. A well-placed stoneware pitcher, white ruffled curtains, apples and oranges in bowls. Rocking chairs by the fireplace and a basket of wood. The black wrought-iron candlesticks were a reminder that there had not always been electricity.

A perfect period piece.

I noticed a large quilt hanging on the wall, vibrant in reds and greens.

“That’s gorgeous!”

“Thank you. It’s a Double Wedding Ring. I made all the quilts in the house.”

“Wow.
Everyone
in this family is creative.”

She brushed back a wing of blond hair. “Creative? Not in Nate and Eve’s book. They thought they were the opposite of ‘creative.’ My sin was to use traditional patterns instead of making up my own.”

“But the colors are wonderful.”

“They are, but you know what? They were right. A few years ago I saw an exhibit of quilts from Gee’s Bend, this very poor black community in Alabama. They used whatever old cloth they could spare and made up their own patterns. I was blown away. Now I make my own designs too, reflecting the seasons and the sea. Slow, but I’m getting there.”

“Good for you. By the way, I liked your toast to Gretchen. I was glad someone remembered her.”

“Poor Gretchen. I hope they don’t put
her
in the urn, too. That whole thing creeps me out. People belong in cemeteries, not on the dining room table.”

“It is unusual.”

“Nate would have thought it was ridiculous. Everything made more sense when he was alive. Without him you can see the cracks.”

“What cracks? Where?” Claude appeared from the hall. To my surprise, he was cradling a small black puppy. “Meet Jellybean.” He planted a soft kiss on the dog’s fuzzy head. “She keeps us hopping.”

“Not a Shakespearean name.”

“No, she’s a little devil.”

“I didn’t know anyone had pets here.”

“Nate wouldn’t allow animals,” Lynn explained. “He had a bad experience growing up. But now we have this little cutie.” She reached over and nuzzled the dog too.

Jellybean squirmed as if trying to reach Lynn, and Claude handed her to his wife. Then he reached into a maroon dressing gown pocket and handed me an envelope. “I made it for the same amount as last time. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine, but—”

“What did the police say?”

“The police? Oh—they’d already left. I’ll call Detective Marselli as soon as I get home.”

He looked as disappointed as if I had muffed a save for his favorite team.

“You know,” I said to Lynn, “you mentioned that Gretchen was taking care of Morgan that morning. Where was the au pair, Sonia?”

Claude’s face told me I was off the team completely. Lynn looked defensive. “It was only for that week, after Sonia was . . .” Her voice trailed away.

“Your biggest mistake was bringing her here,” Claude snapped at her.

“
My
biggest mistake? Your family was the one who ground her up in little pieces.”

“No, she was the one who—” He remembered I was still there. “We’ll see you Monday.” He opened the door and waited for me to leave.

I lingered on the porch for a minute but I couldn’t hear anything. Sonia had gotten hurt at the compound and no one wanted to talk about it. Where was she now? Had she
died
?

I started up the hill toward my van. Getting tangled up with this family was not healthy. Not for Gretchen, not for Bessie, and evidently not for Sonia. Would I be their next casualty?

C
HAPTER
T
HIRT
Y-
E
IGHT

I
PULLED OV
ER
on Montauk Highway to phone Marselli and reached him at his desk in Hauppauge.

“I have a message for you from the family.”

“Let me guess. They’re best friends with the governor, and I’ll be hearing from their attorney.”

“They know about Bessie’s past.”

“Damn Internet.”

“That’s not what they want me to tell you. Eve says she saw Bessie going down the stairs Saturday night, carrying something. Presumably someone.”

“Eve is the mother?”

“Uh-huh. Bessie’s her personal attendant. The family wanted me to pass the information on to you so you don’t question Mama and upset her.”

“What’s wrong with her, anyway?”

“Nothing physical that I can see. Sometimes she doesn’t seem to be quite with it, she drifts into other time periods. But
I
think she’s pretty sharp. My feeling is, she’s always been a little eccentric and her husband’s death only made it worse. He took their way of life with him to the grave.”

“How poetic. But she knows who Bessie is?”

“Of course she knows who Bessie is! She knows who I am. I think the family sees it as worse than it is, but it gets her a lot of attention. Everyone’s afraid of crossing her. Anyway, what’s Bessie’s motive? I can’t think of any motive.”

“You’ve been reading too many mystery novels, Ms. Laine.”

And he clicked off.

I put my phone away and drove home. As soon as I walked through the kitchen door, I was overtaken by the past. I didn’t have many memories of Caitlin here, but this was the home we had come back to without her. Going over to the harvest gold electric range, I heated up a can of chili, then sprinkled low-fat cheddar over it and spooned sour cream on top. Since it was red meat, I poured a glass of Cabernet. Then I carried everything out to the computer in the barn.

Once there, I didn’t know how to start searching. Even if Caitlin hadn’t drowned, even if someone had taken her, how would we ever find her? What if it had been a spontaneous act, someone who saw me pregnant and struggling with three little children, and decided that one of them deserved a better life? If her abductors had never told her she was adopted . . . why would they? When you kidnapped a toddler you probably didn’t bother with the niceties. Would she remember anything about her first family at all?

Her first family.
Not only me, but an identical twin, a father, a brother, another sister. Five of us, yet her father seemed to have laid her to rest emotionally and the other children couldn’t remember her. How much would Caitlin and Hannah still look alike? How long would it take to look at every picture posted on Facebook, even if that were allowed? The Internet had its limitations. I couldn’t think of a way to search for someone without a name or correct date of birth, someone living in another country. We could perhaps post a photo of Hannah and ask anyone who knew someone who looked like her to get in touch with us.
The Hannah Fitzhugh Look-Alike Contest.

But to do that I would have to tell Hannah that she had a twin and deal with the fallout. I would have to discuss what we should do with the whole family. Was it fair to rip away the scab that had formed over the past, and expose something that might not even be true?

Sleep on it
, my father had always counseled. But I would need more than one night to decide something this important.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
N
INE

W
HEN
I
WOKE
up the next morning, I didn’t feel like driving out to Springs. I was tired of the Eriksons and their on-again-off-again treatment of me. As long as you said what they wanted to hear, you were their friend. If you didn’t, you were as welcome as a plate of cold French fries. It was hard to believe that only two weeks ago I had been thrilled about seeing Nate Erikson’s library and meeting his family.

On the other hand, if I could finish up the association copies and any other books I had overlooked, I would never have to set foot on Cooper’s Farm Lane again. Even if I had to work through lunch and stay late tonight, it would be worth it to get on with my life.

Nate Erikson was still my hero but, as Lynn had pointed out, paradise had a few cracks.

Remembering my promise to Rosa, I went into the eaves of the house and picked out a handful of Beanie Babies that I was sure the girls would never miss. Then at Qwikjava I bought a tuna salad wrap and a bottle of water.

The most detailed plans are the ones that get ripped up first.

As soon as I pulled onto the gravel driveway, and saw two blue-and-white police cars and a red fire chief’s sedan, my discontent flamed into dread. What had happened
now
? This time I didn’t think about the books. Two police cars wouldn’t be here for a fire in an empty studio. When I opened the van door and stepped down there was a smell of cinders in the air, an eerie reminder of the incinerated photograph.

As I started down the hill, I saw that Bianca’s cottage, at least, had been spared. Then I was distracted by motion to my left. I turned and stared at the blackened hulk of what had once been Rosa’s chalet. My first thought,
She won’t be able to survive losing her stuff
, was replaced by
My God, I hope
she
wasn’t inside!
And then the odd idea:
What if it had been a mass cremation—the only way Rosa could make herself part with her things?

Frank Marselli’s car hadn’t been parked in the circle, so I wasn’t going to venture over to the fire scene and draw attention to myself. Instead, I went to Bianca’s chalet. The yellow rockers, still standing at attention on the tiny porch, had been joined by two pots of orange chrysanthemums and several pumpkins. It made the kind of pretty picture you would see on a New England calendar.

I knocked on the black door. No one answered and I could not hear Bianca moving around inside.

She must be up at the main house. I knew she ate breakfast there with the family, but she was usually done by the time I arrived.

Did I have the nerve to go up to the house, especially if the news was grim? Was it less daunting to throw myself into a nest of unfamiliar policemen? I
had
to know what had happened to Rosa.

I chose the policemen.

When I was nearly at the remains of the cottage, the odor of ashes already stinging my nostrils, Marselli stepped around the side of the house.

“I was wondering when you’d get here.” It was not a complaint, not exactly, but more than a statement of fact.

“I didn’t see your car.”

But I was too caught up in what I was seeing to hear what he answered. The fire had blackened the pink-cheeked faces of Snow White and her entourage, and the metal of the outdoor grills and lawn furniture been twisted into strange shapes. Saddest of all, the stack of hopeful Easter baskets had completely disappeared. “It must have burned hot.”

He nodded. “Chemical fire. The worst.”

“Well, she had a lot of solvents.”

“Where’d she keep them?”

“In the back of the cottage. In the kitchen area.”

He looked moody. “That’s not where the fire started. Not the only place. Someone made sure it would go up all at once.”

Though I’d known it was possible, I felt sucker-punched. “Rosa was inside?”

“Oh, yeah. Four in the morning?” He watched my reaction, then said, “But someone dragged her out to the grass.”

“Is she
okay
? How do you know she didn’t stagger out herself?”

“They found her unconscious, but not from smoke inhalation. Either someone hit her on the back of the head or banged it getting her outside. Don’t worry, we’re keeping a watch in the hospital.”

“Could she have started the fire herself?”

He cocked his head. “Why would you say that?”

Because part of me wondered if Rosa was the one who had attacked and drowned Nate and Morgan. Maybe Gretchen had seen something, but was keeping quiet until she could announce what it was at the memorial. So Rosa had had to smother her, and was overcome by remorse. She couldn’t leave her things behind at the mercy of her family.

“Why would you say that?” he repeated. “Was she depressed?”

“No. But she always seemed—I don’t know—off-balance. Every time she said something people jumped all over her. It’s probably why she never said much. She’d suffered some brain damage from an accident as a child.”

Marselli’s hazel eyes flicked back to the hulking ruin. “Gives new meaning to the word ‘firetrap.’ The firemen couldn’t even get inside.”

“Someone called the fire department?”

“A woman. I don’t know who yet.”

“Maybe it was the person who set the fire and left Rosa outside. They wouldn’t have wanted the fire to spread to the other buildings.”

He looked thoughtful at that. “You going to be around?”

“In the studio. Today was supposed to be my last day.” It came out sounding plaintive. It was hard to imagine concentrating on the books now enough to finish up.

And then I thought of the thing that should have leapt to mind immediately.