Emma’s mouth dropped open. “What are you saying…?”
“I’m just telling you what the police are saying,” said Rory.
“How dare you?” said Emma. “You, of all people.”
Rory stared at her without flinching. Kay did not seem to notice. She reached for Emma’s wrist. Emma made a fist. “Come home with us, Em,” Kay crooned. “Stay with us until…they’ve made an arrest. It will give me a chance to fuss over you. You’re in no condition to work. It won’t be for that long. We’ll take good care of you. It’ll be fun. Like old times.”
Emma stared at her mother in disbelief. “I’m not going anywhere. This is insulting. I don’t need to go anywhere. This is my house.”
“We just want to protect you, Emma,” Rory insisted.
“I don’t need your protection.”
“Sweetheart,” Kay protested. “Look at yourself. You certainly do need protection. You were nearly killed.”
“By some maniac in the Pinelands,” Emma cried. “Not by my husband.”
Kay’s eyes glistened. “Oh please, honey. Let me help you.”
David came down the stairs and into the living room. He glared at Kay and Rory. “We don’t need your help. Pardon me for eavesdropping, but I don’t appreciate being slandered in my own home. This is my house, and you two should be leaving.”
“David,” said Emma. “My mother didn’t mean any harm.”
“Do you agree with them? Do you want to go with them?” he cried. “I mean, if you think they’re right, then go ahead.”
Rory stood up stiffly. “Kay,” he said, “I think we should be going.”
“Sweetie, please,” Kay pleaded.
Emma looked down at her hands in her lap and shook her head.
“At least hire a nurse who can take proper care of you.”
“I can take of her,” David insisted.
“That’s right, Mom,” said Emma. “I have David. I don’t need anyone else.”
Kay’s eyes welled with tears, and she reached out to touch Emma, but Emma stiffened. “I’ll be worrying about you night and day. Please, just call me, darling. Let me help,” Kay pleaded.
“I’ll be fine,” Emma whispered. “Go on.”
Emma did not watch them leave. She couldn’t bear to see the anguish in her mother’s eyes.
David followed them to the door, closed and locked it behind them. He came back into the living room. “Where are the sheets?” he asked, avoiding her worried gaze. “I’m going to make the bed down here.”
“I’m sorry about that, David. My mother…she’s…just…so afraid for me.”
“Upstairs linen closet?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” he barked. Then his face softened. “No. You rest,” he said more gently.
Emma leaned back against the sofa. David was right. Even if they were worried about her, her mother and Rory had no business coming in here and virtually accusing him. Especially Rory. The thought of his self-righteousness, considering what she knew about him, made Emma furious. She was clenching her fists so tight that her fingernails were gouging her palms. Stop ruminating about this. Think about something else, she told herself.
She turned her head and looked at the mountain of wedding gifts. There were boxes of all sizes. She knew she should be thrilled at the thoughtfulness of all the people who had given her and David these gifts, but at the moment all she felt was overwhelmed at the prospect of writing all those thank-you notes. Don’t be like that, she chided herself. These are the people who care about you the most. This pile of presents is a sign of their love for you.
That thought made her feel better. It wasn’t as if she had felt alone in the last couple of days. David had been in the hospital room and had answered most of her calls to keep her from getting exhausted, but she was aware of the support of the people in her life. The flowers, the cards, the brief visits. She reached for the nearest, smallest box and began to untie the ribbon. There was no card on the outside of the gift wrap, and she hoped that the sender had had the good sense to put it inside the package. She didn’t want to end up with a bunch of presents with the giver’s name missing. The ribbon fell away and she unfolded the distinctive gold and white paper and saw that the box came from Kellerman’s, an upscale housewares and jewelry store on Main Street that had lost much of its distinguished trade to the Internet and expensive catalogs. The box wasn’t large or heavy. A silver-plated egg timer she thought, with a hint of amusement. She lifted the lid, and as she did, an odd, unpleasant smell reached her nostrils. As she was pulling out the paper shavings, she realized that she was making a mistake. But it was too late. The packing was removed and she was gasping.
Nestled on a cushion of paper shavings was a silver dish in the shape of a scallop shell. Resting in the dish was the matted fur and stiffened body of a mouse, now dead, its tail curved to fit in the box, its beady eyes still open.
T
HE SOUND
of a piano being expertly, but intermittently, played drifted through an open window of the white, Gothic-style Victorian cottage, which looked more like a small church than a house. A Mazda convertible sat in the driveway behind a minivan. Lieutenant Joan Atkins knocked on the arched front door and waited with Trey Marbery by her side. In a moment a large, blond woman opened the door. Her heavily mascaraed eyes were a dazzling blue and her lips were full. Her hair was arranged in an upswept, tousled style that made her look as if she had simply put a clip in it when she rolled out of bed. She was wearing a nearly sheer voile blouse that revealed an impressive décolletage, and tight blue jeans that were unflattering to her spreading figure. She looked from Joan to Trey and gave them a vague, sleepy smile. She had dimples in both cheeks.
“Morning,” she said in a sweet, high voice.
“Mrs. Devlin?” Lieutenant Atkins asked.
“That’s me,” she said. Her voice was slightly slurred, but she did not smell of alcohol. And her eyes were unfocused, but not bloodshot. Tranquilizers or sleeping pills, Joan thought, not unkindly. A bereaved mother might well need some pharmaceuticals to get through the day.
“I’m Lieutenant Joan Atkins of the state police. This is Detective Marbery of the Clarenceville police force. We’re looking for your husband.”
Immediately the woman’s sleepy eyes widened in alarm. “Why? What’s the matter? Is Alida all right?”
“Who’s Alida?”
“My daughter.”
“This isn’t about Alida. We have a few routine questions,” Joan said. “Is your husband here?”
“Yes, he’s working in his study. He’s writing music.”
“Before I speak to him, can you tell me, Mrs. Devlin, where your husband was Saturday night.”
The woman looked confused. “What?”
“It’s a simple question,” said Joan.
“Saturday night? I don’t remember,” she said. Joan could see that she was earnestly searching her mind. “My memory,” she apologized.
The piano music stopped and the dark figure of a man appeared in the corridor behind her. “Risa, who’s at the door?” he demanded.
The woman frowned. “Two policemen. Well, a policeman and a policewoman.”
The man walked up behind her. He was in his forties with stubbly black hair sprinkled with gray, and wire-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a black leather vest and a black turtleneck.
“They want to know where you were Saturday night,” said the woman, backing up against her husband’s chest.
“I hope you told them I was right here.”
“I couldn’t remember Saturday,” she said apologetically.
“We rented that Italian movie, remember?”
She squinted. “That’s right. You were here. He was,” she said, nodding.
“What’s this about?” Devlin asked.
Joan gazed at him. “Professor Devlin?” she said. “I’m Lieutenant Atkins of the state police. This is Detective Marbery. May we talk to you?”
Lyle Devlin pushed the glasses up on his nose. His facial expression did not change. “All right,” he said. “Follow me. Excuse us, Risa.”
Joan edged past the blousy woman in the doorway. She could smell heavy, cloying perfume.
“Come on into the conservatory,” said Devlin. “I’m composing on the piano.”
Joan and Trey followed the man down the dim hallway to a chilly, glassed-in room with shabby wicker furniture, shelves of books and sheet music, and a large piano, which dominated the space. “No classes today?” Joan asked.
“I have some flexibility in my schedule,” said Devlin with a thin smile. “The university understands that I need time for my own work. Have a seat,” said Devlin, indicating a chair and a window seat. Joan sat down in the wicker chair. Trey perched on the window seat. Devlin sat facing them on the piano bench.
“Now, what can I do for you?” Devlin asked evenly. “Why in the world would you be concerned about my whereabouts last Saturday?”
“Mr. Devlin, you had a daughter named Ivy who died recently?” Joan asked.
Devlin, who had been slouched on the flat bench, straightened and stared at Joan. “Why are you asking me about Ivy?”
“I’m sorry to bring up a painful subject, but apparently you felt that Ivy’s psychologist may have been partly to blame for her death. Dr. Webster.”
Devlin stared at her for a moment. “I don’t know any Dr. Webster,” he said.
“She used to be called Dr. Hollis,” Trey said. “Before her marriage.”
“Oh, right,” said Devlin, as if it had just dawned on him. “She was the one who was attacked in the Pine Barrens.”
Joan studied Devlin. The man was acting as if this was the first time he’d made the connection. Considering all the press coverage, Joan didn’t buy that. “There was an attempt on Dr. Webster’s life,” Joan said. “She narrowly escaped death.”
“What has this got to do with Ivy?” Devlin asked.
“We have information that you were very angry at Dr. Webster after your daughter’s death. Threats were made.”
The man’s expression became stony. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
Lyle Devlin looked away from the detective. “I may have…vented my anger,” he said at last. “I was out of my mind with grief at the time. And I acted like a man who was out of his mind.”
“Why did you blame Dr. Webster?” Joan asked.
Devlin turned his head and stared out at the bare trees in the backyard. Then he looked back at Joan. “Detective, do you have any children?”
Joan pursed her lips. She did not like Lyle Devlin. It wasn’t rational; it was visceral. But this question, which she had heard many times before, was one that really peeved Joan Atkins. Suspects who overestimated their own cunning, and underestimated hers, always tried to get her on their side with some variation of this question.
You and me, Detective, aren’t we both…fill in the blank…parents, working people, dog lovers?
“Why did you blame her, Mr. Devlin?”
Arms crossed over his chest, Devlin sighed. Joan noted that he was wearing scuffed engineer’s boots and a Mexican silver and leather bracelet. Like a student. “How can I explain this, Lieutenant? My daughter had anorexia. This is a special kind of hell for a parent. A child who refuses to eat. Can you imagine it? My wife cooked every kind of treat for her, coaxed and cajoled her. Tried everything. We brought her to the Wrightsman Youth Center out of desperation. We put our faith in Dr. Hollis. But she was, alas, only human. It’s true that I did blame her, but it was simply because I needed someone to blame.”
“But your daughter must have been ill for quite some time. Surely she saw other doctors besides Dr…. Webster,” Trey interjected. Joan glanced at the younger detective and then back at Devlin.
Devlin took a deep breath. “You’re right. She was far from the first. But Dr. Webster was the last doctor whom Ivy saw. We took Ivy out of the center because we found Dr. Webster’s methods…unacceptable. Shortly after Ivy came home from the center, her condition worsened. She was admitted to the hospital, but it was too late.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Trey sincerely.
“At the time I felt,” said Devlin slowly, “that Dr…. Webster drove us away with her…intrusive and…unproven form of treatment. I suppose I believed that if Ivy had been…cared for differently, she might have…been able to recover.”
Joan could see the anger that still lingered behind Lyle Devlin’s carefully worded explanation. “So you’re saying that you no longer hold Dr. Webster responsible,” said Joan.
Devlin looked at her directly. “My daughter died of anorexia, Detective Atkins, and I was not able to prevent it. I blame myself for that.”
Joan understood that Devlin had suffered the most grievous loss a parent could suffer. But something about the professor’s mea culpa sounded…unconvincing to Joan’s ears. Clearly, Devlin had been forced to reconsider his own behavior, to come to terms with why he had behaved as he did. He’d figured it out, and he could explain it in a most cogent fashion. But that resentment of Emma Webster was still there, not too far below the surface. Joan would bet her badge on it.
“So you maintain that you were home here Saturday night between the hours of, say, six and ten o’clock?”
Devlin glowered at her. “I don’t
maintain
it,” he said in an insulted tone. “I was at home with my family. My wife told you that as well.”
After you told her what to say, Joan thought. In truth, his wife hadn’t really seemed to remember. Joan stood up, and Trey followed suit. “All right, well, thank you for your time, sir.”
Devlin rose stiffly from the piano bench and indicated that the two officers should precede him through the door. But, as Joan started to leave, Devlin suddenly touched the sleeve of Joan’s jacket. “My wife takes tranquilizers to help her get through the day. Ivy’s death was…it nearly destroyed her. Sometimes, because of the medication, she forgets things. I’m begging you, Lieutenant,” he whispered, “not to bring up Ivy’s death to my wife. It’s an understatement to say that it is a painful subject for her.”
“There’s no need for that,” said Joan, looking down at the hand on her sleeve.
Devlin quickly removed his hand. “Thank you,” he said.
Joan could feel the professor watching her as she and Trey walked down the hallway toward the front door. Risa Devlin emerged from one of the rooms and rushed to open the front door for them.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
Joan nodded, starting out the door. “Sorry to bother you.”
“It’s no bother,” she assured her. “As long as everything’s all right.”
Trey saw the anguish in her anxious eyes and wanted to reassure her. “Just fine, ma’am,” he said. Trey followed Joan out the door and fell into step with her as they crossed the road. “What a horrible fate, to have a kid die like that. Talk about feeling helpless.”
Joan did not reply.
“What did you think?” Trey asked the senior officer as he aimed the remote to unlock the doors of his car.
Joan gazed back at the little chapel-like house and noted that the sound of piano chords had not resumed. “I think he’s hiding something,” she said.
T
HE CHIME
of the doorbell awoke Emma from a dream that she was being chased. She groaned as consciousness brought the awareness of her injuries back to her. She had slept little and badly during the night, but at least, while she was asleep, she did not feel physical pain. The bed quivered as David got up from the cot he had set up beside her bed. She reached out a hand to touch him, but he was already out of the room. Emma closed her eyes again, feeling the throbbing ache of her wounds in her side and her thigh. She needed to get up and take something for the pain, but it would require mustering all her will to get out of the bed. As she lay there, she couldn’t help thinking of the box she had opened last night with its repulsive contents. David had nearly fallen down the stairs rushing to reach her when she’d cried out for him. Grimacing with distaste, he had taken the box, carried the dead creature outside and thrown it away in the woods behind the house. He had tossed the box and the silver dish into the outdoor garbage can. Don’t think about it, he told her, when he came back into the house. Easier said than done.
David reappeared in the doorway of their makeshift bedroom. He was barefoot, wearing only his pajama pants, and frowning.
“Who was it?” Emma asked.
“Your nurse,” he said. “She’s waiting in the foyer.”
“My nurse? What nurse?”
David glanced behind him. “The private duty nurse your mother and stepfather hired to take care of you. She’s got an I.D. badge and all her paperwork, including written orders from Rory for her to show up here and only talk to you.”
Emma pulled her wrapper from the end of the bed and tied it around her. “Let me speak to her.”
David turned and gestured to the nurse to join them. “I’m going upstairs to throw on some clothes,” he said. “Send her on her way. We don’t need some stranger hanging around here, Emma. I can take care of you.”
He stepped out of the doorway, and a small, fortyish woman with short, graying hair and silvery eyes took his place. She was wearing sneakers, jeans, and a gray sweatshirt, and had a backpack slung over her shoulder. “Good morning, Mrs. Webster,” she said, unsmiling. “I’m Lizette Slocum.”
“Nice to meet you. But I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” said Emma. “I mean, I didn’t know you were coming.”
The older woman had a cool, steady gaze. “I’m a private duty nurse. Your parents hired me to stay with you.”
“Well, I’m not really sick,” said Emma. “I just have to take it easy. So I don’t actually need the services of a nurse.”
“I also have a black belt in tae kwon do,” said Lizette. “Your stepfather was very specific. He wanted someone here for your protection as well.”
“Protection? My husband is here!”
“That’s what he wanted,” Lizette insisted.
David returned to the small room, buttoning up his shirt. “Have we straightened this out?” he asked.
“Mrs. Slocum…,” said Emma.
“It’s Lizette. Call me Lizette.”
“Lizette, could you wait in the other room for a minute. I need to talk to my husband.”
Lizette obediently withdrew, but before they could confer, the telephone on the desk rang. David picked it up and barked an irritable “Hello.” Then his whole demeanor seemed to change as he recognized the voice of the caller.
“Nevin, how’s it hanging?” David joked in the false tone of voice he always used when he spoke to Nevin McGoldrick, the editor of
Slicker.
“The wedding. Yeah, it was fine. Everything’s fine,” David said. “What’s up?”
Fine? Emma thought.
David hesitated a fraction of a second. “Oh damn. Right. I’m sorry. I was…distracted by all the…excitement here. Then he said, “Sure. Let me get a piece of paper.” He flipped the switch on the desk lamp.
Emma stared at her husband as he rummaged on the desktop. He located a piece of paper and a pen and began to write on it. “Uh-huh. Okay. Sure. Right. Great. I’ll be there. Sure. Bye.”
David punched the off button and brought the phone back to where she was sitting up on the bed. He kneeled down carefully beside her so as not to jar her. “That was Nevin. Giving me the details about my interview with Bob Cheatham, that producer from L.A. Do you remember I told you about it?” he said.