The Dark House (37 page)

T
he stately Maple Hill retirement center glowed yellow amid its ring of security lights when Rollins and Marj finally pulled up the winding drive a little past four
A.M
. The plan had been to charge right in, wake Rollins' mother up, and start firing questions at her. But now that they were stopped, and everything seemed so quiet all around them, Rollins could see that such a plan had been born of anxiety and exhaustion.

“Can't we rest a little?” Marj asked, as if she'd read his mind.

Rollins thought that they might sleep in his car, but he didn't see a good place to park there in the maple-lined visitors' lot. Even though he'd seen the Audi smash into the side of the overpass, Rollins still couldn't shake the idea that there was someone shadowing him. He feared he never would.

“They've probably got a ton of security,” Rollins told Marj after he took a turn about the parking lot. “I'm going to try someplace else.” He drove back out onto the main road and took a right into a shopping mall.

Rollins parked the car under a street light, lowered his backrest almost level, and showed Marj which lever to pull so she could do the same. He eased himself back and closed his eyes. For a long time, the sight of that great fireball filled his mind, but he must have slept, because he was surprised to see blue sky up over the roofline of the mall, and cars driving by on all sides. He straightened up and looked over at Marj. Her face was angled toward his, looking almost unbearably calm and lovely. She still wore her seat belt.

She stirred, stretched, groaned. “You might want to think about a midsize, Rolo,” she said. “God, my back.”

Marj spotted a Denny's in the mall, and they climbed out of the car to use its bathroom. Rollins hated to be apart from her while she went into the women's room. In the men's, Rollins almost didn't recognize the shadowy, unkempt, bleary-eyed figure staring back at him in the mirror over the sink. His clothes seemed encrusted on him. He used the toilet, splashed some water on his face, tucked in his shirt, and then joined Marj at a table for a breakfast that neither one had much stomach for.

“You okay?” Rollins asked Marj as he watched her pick at her eggs.

“I'm not sure I can do this, Rolo.”

“It's only my mother.”

“Oh, right. Only.”

Afterward, they returned to the car and drove back to Maple Hill, and parked in the visitors' lot. He switched off the engine, but she didn't move.

“I'm just going to
talk
to her,” he said. “There are things we need to find out.”

“Be careful, okay?”

Rollins came around to open the car door for her, but Marj had already stepped out by the time he reached her. The two made their way through the big glass door to the reception desk. Unshaven and filthy in his California clothes, Rollins felt like an impostor, but the
woman at the desk merely asked him to sign in while she telephoned up to his mother to say her son was here. She put down the receiver. “Should she have been expecting you?”

“No. Tell her I was in the area.”

The receptionist passed that along.

“Okay,” she told him. “You know where it is?”

His mother's apartment was on the third floor, at the end of a long hall that was broken up by loveseat-and-table clusters that looked like they'd never been sat in. A few of the doors they passed were adorned with sprigs of plastic flowers. But his mother's door bore only a metal nameplate with
JANE ROLLINS
on it.

Rollins straightened his shirt collar and gave Marj's hand a squeeze. Then he knocked. After an agonizing delay, his mother swung the door open. She was dressed informally—for her—in a white blouse and blue skirt. Her thin lips were brightened by lipstick, and she'd rouged her cheeks. Hastily, it seemed.

“Oh, my heavens,” his mother declared as she took in Rollins' attire. “
Look
at you.”

Rollins braced himself for questions, but none came. Neither did a kiss, a handshake, an embrace. There was nothing between them.

His mother turned to Marj in her running clothes. “And
what
do we have here?”

“This is my friend Marj Simmons, Mother.”

“My my,” Mrs. Rollins said, looking Marj up and down.

Inside, Rollins recognized some of the artwork—a Flemish landscape, a craggy mountain scene done by a lesser member of the Hudson River School—from the library of the Brookline house. The striped chair by the window had come from his mother's bedroom: she'd always sat in it to brush her hair while she listened to the evening symphony on the radio. But these familiar items were intermixed with some newer, too-bright watercolors and blond-wood Danish furniture that didn't seem to go. Perhaps he and Marj didn't belong here, either.

“I used to know an Alexandra Simmons in Brookline,” his mother was telling Marj. “Married a Princeton man, Connie Baxter. Is she one of yours, do you suppose?”

“I don't think so,” Marj replied, coloring a little. “I'm from the Midwest.”

“No Eastern relations?” His mother sounded disappointed.

“None that I know of. My parents are from Chicago.”

“No matter.” Mrs. Rollins clasped her hands together, as if to dismiss a subject that had proved unpromising. She sat Rollins and Marj down on the green velvet couch, which Rollins realized had come from his father's dressing room. It was soft and wide, and Rollins suddenly had a hideous vision of his father reclining on it with Neely. Mrs. Rollins plucked the tea cozy off the engraved silver teapot on the low table between them. “It should have steeped by now. I've got some toast here, too.” She pointed to a plate with a short stack of sliced toast, and butter and jam beside it. “I didn't know what you'd want.”

“Actually, we've eaten,” Rollins said.

“Have some tea, anyway,” his mother insisted. “Formosa oolong—very healthful.” She poured out cups for her guests. They chattered in her hand as she passed them. She followed each cup with a tiny urn of sugar cubes (complete with a tiny pair of tongs) and a small, silver milk pitcher. “Now tell me, Marjorie, are you one of Edward's friends from Williams?” she asked Marj.

Rollins heard the coolly gracious tone of a church social.

“I went to Lesley,” Marj replied.

“Oh, yes, of course. Now I remember. You're with him at Johnson.” Mrs. Rollins seemed to regain her balance a little, now that she had placed Marj in an acceptable part of the universe.

“That's right,” Marj said uneasily, with a glance at Rollins. “We've been working in the same department.”

Mrs. Rollins raised an eyebrow. “That's permitted, Edward? Dating a colleague?”

“It doesn't really matter,” Rollins said. “We've quit.”

Mrs. Rollins pulled her head back as if she had encountered an unpleasant smell. “Well! You
are
full of surprises this morning.”

“What, your spies haven't told you?” Rollins asked.

His mother's face was like an arrowhead—nose, eyes, and mouth narrowed toward him. “What on earth—?”

“Oh, Mother. For God's sake—let's quit this.” Rollins set his teacup down with a clatter. “I need some answers from you.”

“My goodness, you sound like some sort of prosecutor.” Mrs. Rollins turned to Marj as if trying to win an ally against a monster that had loomed up in their midst. To Rollins' relief, Marj turned her gaze away.

“Am I on trial on here?” Mrs. Rollins asked. She sounded amused, as if her son's behavior had to be a joke.

“What do you know about Jerry Sloane, Mother?”

“Why, I don't believe I know anyone by that name,” she replied airily.

“He's a realtor,” Rollins pressed.

Mrs. Rollins still looked blank; she was the picture of innocence. “Sorry.”

“You recommended him to your sister when she was selling Cornelia's house.”

Finally, a slight glimmer. “Did I?”

“Aunt Eleanor told me you did.”

“Well, perhaps I did then.” She picked some lint off her skirt, giving it far more attention than she did her visitors. “You'll find when you get to my age, you forget so many things. I'm lucky if I can remember my own name some days.” She turned to Marj. “You sure you wouldn't like some toast?”

Rollins raised his voice slightly—enough to lower the temperature in the room noticeably. “He stands to inherit Cornelia's estate.”

“Who does, dear?” she asked idly.

“Jerry Sloane.”

“Well, isn't that interesting.”

“Through Cornelia's friend Elizabeth Payzen,” he said, eyeing his mother's response. “She's Cornelia's sole beneficiary. And Jerry Sloane is hers.”

His mother said nothing, but her eyes did not leave his.

“Elizabeth died yesterday,” Rollins went on.

“I'm sorry,” his mother said.

“Of course you are, Mother. Jerry comes in to the money next
month.” He explained about the seven-year rule, which appeared to be a revelation to her. “Perhaps as much as ten million—isn't that what you told me?”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” His mother turned her head away, as if the news possibly weighed more heavily on her than her words would indicate. “How lucky for him.”

“And for Father,” Rollins said evenly.

Mrs. Rollins turned back to him—the quick, sharp movement, Rollins thought, of a frightened animal.

“They're friends, too,” Rollins went on. “Small world—isn't it, Mother? They met under rather scandalous circumstances, at a house in North Reading. Perhaps you've heard of it? A ranch house on Elmhurst Drive. Number twenty-nine? Neely went there, too. I've seen photographs. They'd shock you, Mother. They shocked me.”

“Well, thank you for the information.” It was the tone she used with salesmen.

“It's nothing you don't know.”

Mrs. Rollins turned to Marj, whose glance had been shifting uneasily from mother to son. “You must forgive him. There has always been some strain between us.”

“That's family for you,” Marj said. “I've got one of my own.”

“You're in on this, aren't you, Mother?” Rollins shot out the words like bullets.

“My dear boy, I have hardly understood a thing you've said from the moment you arrived. In on what?”

“Neely's murder!” Rollins thundered.

Hearing those words spring from his lips must have been like seeing the world crack apart. Marj's eyes widened, and Rollins felt himself quaking in unusual parts of his body, like his wrists and the underside of his knees.

But his mother merely shook her head. Rollins had seen that expression before: years ago, when she spoke to his psychiatrist, Dr. Ransome, after his sessions. Bafflement and self-pity that a son of hers should have such regrettable problems; that's what her look said.

Rollins' irritation mounted—a lifetime of slights, indignities, and
willful misunderstandings on the part of his mother now rose in his chest. He tried to pierce her with his eyes, to strip away that protective veneer and engage with the soul underneath—a soul, he thought bitterly, he had only inferred. But she looked away.

“He's a real bastard, Mother, and you've been working with him,” Rollins seethed.

“That is quite enough.”

Rollins leaped up. “My God! I can't
believe
it! You!” The words flew out of his mouth, high-pitched and breathless. He was barely aware of what he was saying. “You! You had Neely killed!”

His mother tensed; her gaze tightened on him. “Would you please talk sense.”

“We've seen the letter, Mrs. Rollins,” Marj told her.

Mrs. Rollins turned to Marj. “Don't you start.”

Rollins came to Marj's aid. “The one that Cornelia wrote to you, telling you of her affair with your husband.”

“You couldn't have,” Mrs. Rollins snapped.

“And why's that?”

“Because I burned it.”

That brought silence for a moment. Rollins could hear some people slowly make their way down the corridor outside her door. “We saw a copy, Mother. A carbon copy from her typewriter. She kept it.”

Mrs. Rollins picked up her napkin and then set it down again. “I see.” She looked at Rollins, who was standing up just to her left. “Oh, sit
down,
would you?” she commanded. “I think we've had enough histrionics for one morning.”

With some irritation, Rollins returned to the sofa.

“All right,” Mrs. Rollins continued. “I will tell you about that letter. It's time you knew. It's past time. Hand me that cane, would you?” She directed Marj to the walking stick propped against the end of the sofa. “Excuse me, but I must rise. I find that my hip bothers me if I sit too long.” She took the cane from Marj, stood up, and went to the window. It bothered Rollins that his mother should range freely while he was confined to the couch.

“Yes, I received Cornelia's letter.” It had not come in a conventional
envelope, Mrs. Rollins explained, but in a puffy brown mailer. It arrived in late December 1969 with the words
Do Not Open Until Christmas
on the front, along with the initials
C. B.
Mrs. Rollins didn't recognize the initials or the handwriting. She figured it was a box of chocolates from somebody at the club and set it under the tree without thinking. On Christmas Day, however, she couldn't find the package. Increasingly puzzled, she searched everywhere for it. She finally found it late that night; it was out in the trash barrels behind the house. “Of course, it didn't contain chocolates at all.”

Besides Cornelia's letter, the package contained photocopies of twenty or thirty of Henry's love letters to her. Jane Rollins read them all right there in the driveway in the light from the windows, even though it was snowing, and she was standing there just in her slippers. “They were very passionate letters. Rather graphic.”