Puppet (18 page)

“I was just playing,” the child Amanda stammers, wiggling out of her mother’s reach. “I’m sorry.”

“Get out of here. Get out of here right now.”

Amanda hurries out of the room, stops in the middle of the tiny hallway, tears filling her eyes and clinging to her mascara. “No,” she says, resolutely patting the tears away. “You are through making me cry, Mother.”

I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are.

“Fuck you.”

“Did you say something?” Ben calls from two flights down.

The dull gray of the sky is slowly turning to slate as Amanda steps into her mother’s bedroom. Soon it will be dark, she thinks, flipping on the overhead light and glancing toward her mother’s queen-size bed. The floral bedspread that Amanda remembers from her youth has been replaced by a simple white duvet, not unlike the one in her own Florida bedroom, Amanda realizes with a shudder, but other than that, the room is essentially the same as it always was: the ubiquitous pink walls and gray broadloom, the assorted crystal knickknacks that are displayed in two raised alcoves on either side of the bed. Several photographs of Amanda’s father sit on the dresser in front of the large side window, his forced smile at odds with the obvious worry in his eyes. Amanda lifts one of the pictures into her hands, runs a delicate finger across her father’s handsome face, then returns the photograph to the dresser, placing it between two baby pictures of herself. On the nightstand beside her mother’s bed, she sees the other photos Corinne Nash mentioned: her high school graduation picture, and a lovely candid shot of her staring out the living room window. When was that taken? she wonders, her body swaying toward it.

“What are you doing in here?” her father asks suddenly. “You know you shouldn’t be in here.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” Amanda apologizes to his photograph. “I’ll try to make this quick.”

She rifles quickly through the drawers of her mother’s dresser, her fingers floating across the assortment of bras and camisoles, nightgowns and pajamas. “Okay, don’t go in there,” she warns the little girl standing at the closet door. “You know what happened the last time you opened that door.” She rushes over to stop her, but the child has already succeeded in pulling open the door. Amanda stares openmouthed at the shoe box sitting on the top shelf of her mother’s closet.

She wonders whether to call for Ben. Don’t be silly, she assures herself. There’s no gun there. “She already used it,” Amanda says out loud, and almost laughs.

Amanda leans against her mother’s clothes—a blue wool dress, tailored slacks in navy, black, and brown, a couple of pastel silk shirts, several A-line skirts, a brown corduroy jacket—as she stretches on her toes to reach the shoe box. The box feels empty as she brings it to her chest. Even still, Amanda hesitates to open it. “You’re being really silly,” she castigates herself, tearing off the top of the box and throwing it to the floor, peering inside.

She sees nothing in the box except a passbook for a long-standing savings account at the Toronto Dominion Bank. The remaining balance is an unimpressive $7.75. Clearly, not a bank her mother frequents often, Amanda thinks, hearing something drop from the box onto the floor. Her eyes scan the carpet, finally alighting on a small key. “Looks like a key to a safety-deposit box,” she says, hearing Ben’s footsteps on the stairs. Without further thought, she pockets both the passbook and the key.

“Find anything?” Ben asks, coming into the room.

Amanda displays the empty shoe box, says nothing.

“There’s nothing downstairs either.”

Amanda nods. “Oh, well. Can’t say we didn’t try.”

They stare through the growing darkness at one another, her words bouncing off the walls and echoing in the still air of the late afternoon.

T
AKE
a hot bath, order room service, and get some sleep,” Ben instructs as they pull into the driveway of the Four Seasons hotel. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

Amanda forces her lips into a smile. She’d been just about to suggest they go somewhere nice for dinner. Her treat, she was about to say, when he beat her to the punch. So instead she flashes a knowing grin, says, “Say hi to Jennifer,” then climbs out of the car, pushing against the revolving door into the lobby without so much as a backward glance. Seconds later, standing just inside the doors, pretending to be searching for her room key, her eyes drift sideways toward the glass door, and she sees that the white Corvette is already gone.

“A hot bath, room service, and a good night’s sleep,” she repeats with mounting irritation, stepping inside an empty elevator. “Good idea.” Her fingers hover over the button for the sixteenth floor for several seconds before pressing the one for the twenty-fourth floor instead.

This, on the other hand, is probably
not
such a good idea, she thinks as she exits the elevator, following the corridor as it winds around to the south side of the
building. “Now what?” She walks slowly down the long hall, stopping briefly in front of each set of doors, hoping to hear something from inside one of the rooms that might indicate which suite to choose. “Are you behind door number one or door number two?” she whispers at the cream-colored walls, but no answer is forthcoming.

Amanda knows she’s being silly, that she has no business being up here, that Ben will be more than pissed when he finds out what she’s done. It’s not too late. She can still do as he instructed: go back to her room, order room service, take a hot bath, and get a good night’s sleep. She could even treat herself to a massage, she decides, about to turn around, do exactly that, when she sees the door to the room at the far end of the corridor open, and a man and a woman step into the hall, their arms around each other’s waists.

She scratches suite 2420 from her invisible list and smiles at the couple as they pass by. Which only leaves five more rooms to choose from. All she has to do is start knocking on doors. “You’re out of your mind,” she tells herself, but such admonishments come too late. Already she is standing in front of suite 2410; already her fist is raised and poised to strike.
Hello
, she hears herself say to the suite’s curious occupant.
We don’t know each other, but it seems my mother killed your husband, and I thought you might like to talk about it.

No one answers her knock.

It’s unlikely Mrs. Mallins and the kids are out sightseeing. “Another one down,” Amanda mutters, moving on to the next room. Although she might have taken them out for dinner and a much needed change of scenery. “Doubtful,” Amanda decides, knocking on the door to suite 2412.

“Who is it?” a woman calls from inside as Amanda holds her breath.

“Amanda Travis,” Amanda answers truthfully, not sure how else to respond.

“Who?” the occupant of the room asks, but she opens the door anyway. Just a crack, but it’s enough for Amanda to see that she’s at least seventy years old and therefore not the woman she’s looking for.

“Who is it, Bessie?” a gray-haired gentleman asks, coming up behind his wife.

“I’m sorry,” Amanda apologizes. “I must have the wrong room.”

The man shuts the door in Amanda’s face. “What are you doing opening the door to strangers?” she hears the man lecturing his wife.

Amanda continues down the hall, gets no response from room 2414, and proceeds to room 2416, about to knock when she hears the high-pitched British accent of a young boy. “Mom, I think someone’s knocking at the bedroom door.”

The door to room 2416 opens before Amanda can decide what to do next. An attractive woman with dark, chin-length hair and piercing hazel eyes stands before her. She is several inches shorter than Amanda and wears no makeup save for a hint of lipstick. Her pale skin is noticeably splotchy from crying. Amanda quickly estimates the woman’s age at around forty. She is wearing a black sweater and pants, much the same as what Amanda has on beneath her coat.

“Mrs. Mallins?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Amanda Travis.”

“Are you with the police?” the woman asks in the same soft lilt as her son.

“No. I’m a lawyer,” Amanda stammers. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

Mrs. Mallins steps back to allow her entry. Amanda finds herself in the middle of the suite’s spacious living area, beautifully appointed in shades of beige, red, and gold.

“Who is it, Mom?” A young girl enters the room from one of the bedrooms. She is in her early teens, tall and slender, with her mother’s dark hair and piercing eyes.

“This is Amanda Travis,” Mrs. Mallins says, introducing Amanda. “She’s a lawyer with the Crown Attorney’s Office.”

Amanda is about to correct her when a boy of about ten or eleven comes bounding into the room. “What’s going on?” he asks, eyeing Amanda suspiciously.

“Amanda Travis, these are my children, Hope and Spenser.”

“Hello,” Amanda says simply, almost afraid to say more.

“Can we go back to England now?” the boy asks. Long brown bangs fall into eyes that are lighter than either his mother’s or his sister’s, though no less intense.

“I’m afraid not just yet,” Amanda tells him, watching the boy’s round face cloud over with disappointment. She turns back to Mrs. Mallins, lowers her voice. “Do you think we might talk in private?”

“Of course.”

“What about dinner?” Spenser demands.

“Your sister can take care of that,” Mrs. Mallins says. “Can’t you, love?”

“Of course,” Hope replies in the same measured tones of her mother. She takes her brother’s hand, leads him from the room. In the doorway, he pauses to look back, scowls at Amanda from over his shoulder.

Mrs. Mallins closes the door after them. “Can I take your coat?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine. Mrs. Mallins …”

“Please call me Hayley.”

“Mrs. Mallins …,” Amanda repeats.

“Has there been any news? Do you have the results of the autopsy?” Mrs. Mallins grips the side of one of two red-and-gold wing chairs for support.

“No, I don’t. Mrs. Mallins … Hayley … Listen, I’m really sorry. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“What sort of misunderstanding?”

Amanda takes a deep breath, pushes the reluctant words from her mouth. “I’m not with the Crown Attorney’s Office.”

“You’re not a lawyer?”

“I
am
a lawyer,” Amanda corrects, silently debating how much information to divulge. “Just not with the Crown Attorney’s Office.” She pauses, waits for Hayley Mallins to demand just who the hell she
is
working for and what she’s doing in her hotel room, but no such questions are forthcoming. “I’m working with Ben Myers.”

“Ben Myers?”

“The lawyer representing Gwen Price.”

The color drains from Hayley Mallins’s face in one quick whoosh. She sinks into the chair she’s been leaning against, her mouth opening and closing, although no words emerge. Probably not a good time to tell her I’m also the woman’s daughter, Amanda decides, half-expecting
Mrs. Mallins to jump up and order her from the room, as she perches on the end of the gold velvet sofa between the two wing chairs and waits for Mrs. Mallins to regain her voice.

“I don’t see how I can help you,” Hayley Mallins says after a long silence.

Amanda takes another deep breath. “We’re trying to piece together exactly what happened that afternoon. If you have any information that might shed some light …”

“I don’t see how I can help you,” the woman repeats.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Amanda persists.

“I don’t know what happened. Other than the obvious—my husband was shot and killed in the lobby of this hotel.”

“You weren’t with him at the time?”

She shakes her head. “The children and I were up here, waiting for him to come back.”

“Come back from where?”

“What?”

“You said you were waiting for your husband to come back. I was wondering where he’d gone.”

“Why? How is that relevant?”

“I’m just trying to get some background, Mrs. Mallins. I was wondering if it was something special that brought you to Toronto.”

“We were here on holiday.”

“What made you pick Toronto?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Seems like an odd choice at this time of year, that’s all. Do you have friends here?”

“No.” She hesitates. “My husband had some business to attend to.”

“Really? What kind of business?”

“What difference does it make? Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I recognize you’ve been through a horrible ordeal, Mrs. Mallins. Hayley,” Amanda corrects. “But I’m just trying to understand how this could have happened, if there was any connection at all between your husband and my … client.” Amanda pushes her hair behind her ear, coughs into her hand.

“There was no connection,” Hayley Mallins states emphatically.

“What sort of business was your husband in?”

“He ran a small shop. Cigarettes, candy, magazines. That sort of thing.”

“In London?”

“No. In Sutton.”

“Sutton?” Amanda tries hard to place it on the map of the British Isles currently unfolding in her mind. She silently curses herself for skipping all those geography classes in high school.

“It’s a tiny little town north of Nottingham. North of London,” Hayley continues, probably catching the blank look in Amanda’s eyes.

“And this is the business that brought your husband to Toronto?”

“No,” Hayley admits after a pause. “It was personal.”

“Personal?”

“Family.”

“He has family here?”

“Had,”
Hayley amends. “His mother. She died recently, and John came to settle her estate.”

“His mother was Canadian?”

Hayley looks confused by the question. “I suppose.”

“You don’t know?”

“We’d never actually met.”

“How long were you married?” Amanda asks, trying to keep the surprise out of her face and voice.

“Twenty-two years.”

“You married very young.”

“I suppose.”

“So, your husband came to settle his mother’s estate, and he brought his family with him,” Amanda says.

“He didn’t like leaving us.”