See Also Deception (14 page)

Helen flicked a quick smile at me. I shivered. “He's been called out on business,” she said. There was no hint of emotion on her face. Just matter of fact, even though Pete's business was death. I suppose she was accustomed to it. Someone's bad news was good news for their coffers. I didn't know how a person managed such a life, but it was not my place to consider it anything other than it was. I was only speculating anyway. I had no idea what Helen meant by “business,” and truth be told, I didn't want to know.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Helen asked, at the same time glancing out the door, calculating, I was sure, how soon to open the door for a small crowd of incoming mourners.

“It's just that . . . no, I suppose not. I'll wait until I see Pete and ask him.”

“He's a busy man. There's nothing he knows that I don't. We share everything.” Another quick smile, another quick shiver.

“No, that's all right, I'll wait, thank you.” And with that I moved toward the door.

Helen didn't object or try to convince me any further. “Thank you for coming,” she said, as I was halfway out the door.

I hurried away from the funeral home as quickly as I could, ignoring the mourners walking up to the door. They could have been my best friends in the world and I wouldn't have noticed. I wanted to get as far away from there as possible. I wanted the world to be right again, but I knew that wasn't going to be possible, no matter how much I desired it. I was just going to have to figure out how to live in it, and with this new truth I thought I had discovered. If that were possible. How did you live with murder?

CHAPTER 22

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. The foreign sound echoed down the hall like a siren out of place on a cloudless day. Hank's laugh was as distinct and unmistakable as a returning meadowlark's trill, celebrating spring, happy to be alive, relieved to be home on the breeding ground it had known and loved all of its life. I would have known that laugh anywhere, even though it had been ages—another lifetime—since I'd heard it.

The laugh nearly crumpled me to my knees. It was the most unexpected sound in the world. One I thought I would never ever hear again, and for a moment the joyousness of the sound lifted my spirits, made me forget the discovery that I'd made and the dire implications that came with it—if I was right.

I hurried down the long sterile hospital hall, propelled by curiosity and hope—but any of that gleeful emotion I felt disappeared the second I walked into the hospital room. Betty Walsh stood next to Hank's bed, holding his hand, laughing just like he was.

“And then, Mrs. Gordon got all flustered when she realized that she'd picked up Lloyd Kramer's pack of Trojans instead of her breath mints, which she was in serious need of. Heavens, you shoulda seen the look on her face. It was like she was going to go straight to hell right then and there,” Betty said, without detecting my entrance into the room.

They both laughed like eighth graders who had shared a private joke at someone else's expense. In this case I assumed that someone had to be Charlotte Gordon, one of the most pious, persistently religious women I had ever met in my life. I would have given anything to have seen her mistakenly pick up a pack of prophylactics instead of breath mints.

I stood solemn as a flagpole, as quiet as possible. As surprised and annoyed as I was to find Betty Walsh in the hospital room sharing infantile gossip, I didn't want to ruin Hank's laugh.

Hank cleared his throat and nodded in my direction. He must have smelled me or heard me with his sharp as a tack sense of hearing—all of his senses had improved since the loss of his sight. It was no consolation.

Betty followed Hank's lead and turned in my direction. The blood ran from her face as soon as she realized it was me she was looking at. “Oh, Mrs. Trumaine, I wasn't expecting you to be back so soon.”

“I can see that.” I walked to the opposite side of the bed. My nose was pointed straight up at the ceiling as pious as Charlotte Gordon, but I didn't care. Something about Betty Walsh set me on edge, and I couldn't find it in myself to overcome whatever that something was.

Betty was stuffed into her candy striper uniform, dressed red and white like a Christmas candy cane from head to toe, every perfect curve of her young body noticeable and demanding attention. Even her little nurse's cap was striped and cocked a little to the side rebelliously. The truth was, Betty looked cute as a button, like the dress and its colors had been designed just for her. And maybe it had been, maybe her mother was an expert seamstress. Somebody was—though for some reason, I doubted it was Betty herself. I could see Jaeger's attraction to her, and for a brief second I was relieved that Hank was blind. Even when Betty was being catty, she was delightful about it, not mean-spirited. Somehow she had got to know Hank quick enough to figure out that he liked to hear tales about people getting their comeuppances. It had been a long time since I'd been jealous of a woman around Hank. . . . There was that
something
. I was jealous of Betty Walsh, as silly as that is.

“Really, Mrs. Trumaine, I was just here spending time with Hank, checking on him and all. I've just been worried sick about him since me and Jaeger brought him in.”

“Relax, Betty,” I said. “I'm glad you're here, and I'm not mad at you at all. Jaeger said you thought I was.” I looked down to Hank, who was watching me as intently as Shep ever did—even though he couldn't see me, at least with his eyes. I was sure he saw me plain and clear in his mind, though. I could tell he was trying to gauge my mood, my reaction to Betty being in the room with him, but I couldn't tell him why I was unsettled and out of sorts, at least not until we were alone. The last thing I wanted to do was tell him my theory about Calla in front of Betty. Lord, before sunset the whole town would think I'd gone off my rocker.

“Thank you, I'm glad to hear that Mrs. Trumaine.” Betty deflated, believing me, which I was glad of, mostly. I was still a little perturbed that
she
had been able to make Hank laugh and not me. The jealousy had not subsided. But I guess I hadn't given Hank much to laugh at recently. I'd been stuck in the doldrums, and Calla's death hadn't helped me out of them one bit. If anything, I was worse off now than I had been in months.

“Are you all right?” Hank said, attempting to change the subject. He knew better than anyone that I wouldn't say a word about what was troubling me until we were alone.

“I'm fine.”

“McClandon's must have been packed,” Hank said.

Betty stepped away from the hospital bed, but she didn't take her eyes off me.

“There was hardly anyone there.” I lowered my head, then turned my attention to Betty. “Did people talk about Calla, Betty?”

“I beg your pardon?” The question obviously took her by surprise. She stepped back and almost plastered herself against the wall.

Hank exhaled and turned his head from me, annoyed.

“Did people talk about her? You know, in a bad way, or a good way as far as that goes?”

“She
was
the librarian, Mrs. Trumaine,” Betty said.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“She could be terse, shush you if you talked just a little loud, or be snobby about the books that you checked out, even though it wasn't any of her business. You could tell if she liked you, and you sure knew it if she didn't. Everybody knew that. But it was just the way of things. She was what she was supposed to be, I guess, just like we all are.”

I sighed. Betty was right on the money about Calla. I couldn't dispute a word she said. “Is that what people said about her?” I persisted.

Betty shook her head. “People didn't talk much about her at all, Mrs. Trumaine. There was really nothing to talk about. She was the same, day in and day out, for years. I mean, I always wondered if she ever changed clothes because they all looked alike every time I went in the library,” Betty said.

I wondered how often Betty actually visited the library, then batted the thought away and focused on what she'd said. Calla
did
always look the same. She would have been mortified if she'd known she was going to be buried in a pink sweater—that I was sure hadn't belonged to her in the first place. That was a small tragedy in itself.

“I better go, Mrs. Trumaine,” Betty said, stepping forward.

I nodded and watched her move to the side of Hank's bed. “You stay out of trouble now, Hank. I'll check on you before I leave.”

Hank smiled. “I'll look forward to it,” he said, his voice as strong as ever. That jealous streak shot down my back like a miniature bolt of lightning had exploded out of my cloudy, conflicted brain.

Betty walked away, but I stopped her as she met the door. “Betty,” I said.

She turned and faced me. “Yes, Mrs. Trumaine?”

“Thank you,” I offered.

“You're welcome.” A slight smile flickered across Betty's young face, then she disappeared out the door and down the hall. She didn't bother to ask me what I meant, and to be honest, I was glad of that.

I turned back to Hank, and I could tell straight away that he wasn't pleased with me. “You should take it easier on that girl.”

“I thanked her for looking after you, what else do you want?”

“I want you to be nice to her.”

“I'll try.”

Hank rolled his head back on the pillow like he was looking up at the sky, then he guffawed. “Good Lord, Marjorie Trumaine, you're jealous.”

“I am not.”

He laughed harder, and it only took me a long second to see how ridiculous I had been acting, and I joined in with him.

It was a moment I knew I'd treasure for the rest of my life.

CHAPTER 23

I closed the door to the hospital room so Hank and I could have some privacy. He watched me walk toward him with his blank eyes—his head was tilted more to the floor than directed at my face. I knew he was listening to my feet. I was almost glad he couldn't see my face. What little makeup I'd brushed on wore through the moment I'd stared down at Calla. My hair was a rat's nest that needed a good brushing and a professional set. I just hadn't had the time or the emotion to be any more concerned than I'd ever been, if the truth be told.

“What's wrong, Marjorie?” Hank said, with an easy, knowing tone. The distance in his voice had returned, and I realized at that moment that he had been exerting himself with Betty, that he was showing his best side. I wanted to be angry with him for it, but I couldn't be. What I really wanted to do was climb into the bed with him, push away the intravenous tubes and cords attached to the monitor next to the bed, snuggle into his arms, and feel safe and normal. But the monitor beeped every time Hank's heart took a beat. It was a constant reminder that he was still fragile, that we both were, and that I could wish as much as I wanted to and nothing would ever change the circumstance I stood in at that moment—or the one earlier, at McClandon's Funeral Home.

I sighed and bit my lip. “I don't think Calla killed herself, Hank. I don't think she committed suicide at all. I've been right all along.”

“Oh, Marjorie, you've just got to let go of that notion.” Hank was exasperated without the energy to fully show it. His throat tensed up, and I was sure in his mind he clenched his fists in frustration. Sadly, I saw no movement from the neck down.

“No, you don't understand,” I said. “Calla was right-handed, and the bullet wound was at her left temple. Why would she cross her hand over to the other side of her head? You've handled guns all of your life, Hank, and you're right-handed, too. Think about it, picture it. If you were going to raise a pistol to your temple, it'd be to your right temple, not to your left one. You know I'm right about that. It would take a fool not to see it.” I almost regretted saying those words as soon as they left my mouth, but Hank and I had agreed a long time ago not to restrain ourselves, not to dance tepidly around the fact that he was blind, an invalid. Still, I tried not to remind him of it any more than necessary.

Hank said nothing. He just stared upward, but I knew he could still see, still imagine, actions and images. His blindness was recent, not a malady he had been born with, his darkness was still alive with dancing memories.
He could still imagine
 . . . 
he could still see
.

“Did you talk to Pete at the funeral home?” he finally said.

“He was called away on business. I didn't want to discuss this with Helen.”

“What about the sheriff, the police? Don't you think they could figure out the same thing as you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don't know. It seems like they've accepted her death as a suicide and don't want to stir up any trouble. Guy said the investigation was still open, that I should let it alone and accept that Calla was dead. He never came right out and said it was
officially
a suicide.”

Hank's throat tensed up even more. “When did you talk to Guy?” I had to strain my ears to hear him clearly, his voice had faded drastically.

“He was here, a few days ago.”

“Oh.”

More silence. The consistent beat of the monitor and the rumble of a distant boiler coming to life worked their way between us. Hank was as jealous of Guy Reinhardt as I was of Betty Walsh, and his fears were just as unfounded and ridiculous as my own, but far more serious. Hank couldn't take any kind of action with his impulses, if they existed, but I could. He had always trusted me, and I'd never given him reason not to, but it was easy to see in his darkness where his mind and fear might take him if he allowed himself to question me, to question my love and devotion to him. I hoped he'd never taken that journey, but I couldn't be sure. He had a lot of idle time on his hands.

I remained quiet, let him consider that I was standing next to him, that I was there. No sense throwing a match on dried grass with words I might regret later.