Puppet (16 page)

“She looks pretty damn good, don’t you think? I mean, considering she’s wearing the ugliest shade of green on the planet and she hasn’t had her hair done in a couple of days. But hey, she’s still slim and attractive and, let’s not forget, she’s
sleeping well.”

“You’d like to see her suffer more?”

“I’d like to see her burn in hell.”

“Because she killed a man or because she said you look beautiful?”

Amanda’s head snaps toward her former husband. “Oh, please.”

“What has you so upset, Amanda?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Could it be because my mother is in jail for murder?”

“Old news,” Ben says dismissively. “Besides, I would have thought you’d relish the idea of your mother locked away in a cell somewhere. It might not be hellfire and brimstone, but it’s pretty damn close.”

“Did she look like she’s suffering to you?” Amanda swipes at her running nose with the back of her hand. “Because she didn’t look like she’s suffering to me. And you know why?” she asks, not waiting for an answer.
“Because she isn’t. She’s not remotely sorry for what she did. You can see it in her eyes, in her posture. Did you notice how still she sits? There’s a calmness about her. A serenity. As if …”

“As if what?”

“I don’t know.” Amanda stares out the front window, following the arc of the windshield wipers as they swoop against the falling snow. “It’s almost as if her demons have finally been stilled.”

Ben glances toward her. “You’re saying John Mallins was a demon?”

“I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“What? You’re kidding, right? No way I’m going back there.” Amanda reaches down to massage her knee.

“Sore?”

“Furious,” she responds, grateful when he laughs. “You’re not really going to let her plead guilty on Tuesday, are you?”

“I’m not sure I can stop her.”

Amanda shakes her head in frustration. “She’s obviously insane.”

“You heard the woman. She knew what she was doing, and she knew it was wrong.”

“Temporary insanity then.”

“Hard to plead temporary insanity when she was waiting for the man all afternoon with a gun. It bespeaks a certain measure of premeditation, don’t you think?”

“Not guilty by reason of mental defect?”

“What defect?”

“That she’s mental?” This time they both laugh. “You think the prosecution might be willing to cut a deal?”

“Why would they? They have an airtight case.”

“They don’t have a motive.”

“They don’t need one,” he reminds her.

“What if I do?”

“Then I guess you’ll just have to stick around a few more days and see what we can come up with.”

“Shit.” Amanda massages the back of her neck. Ben was right—already she’s starting to stiffen up. “What the hell. Let her plead guilty, if that’s what she wants. I don’t care.”

A faint ringing echoes through the car, ricochets off the windows. Ben reaches inside his leather jacket and pulls out his cell phone, answering it in the middle of its second ring. “Hello.” He looks down, listens intently. “When did this happen?”

Amanda observes the intensity of his concentration as he listens, remembering such intensity was always one of his most attractive qualities. He had a way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the room who mattered, she thinks, hearing the faint echo of a woman’s voice in the receiver, and experiencing a sharp stab of jealousy.

This is all her mother’s fault, she decides. Seeing her mother for the first time in all these years, and under such extreme circumstances, has unsettled her, unearthed a veritable powder keg of long-buried memories and emotions.

She takes stock. What is she feeling exactly? Angry, no question. Helpless, definitely. Anxious, certainly. Confused, yes. Irritated, yes. Frustrated, you betcha.

What she isn’t feeling: pity.

What she isn’t feeling: compassion.

What she isn’t feeling: tenderness.

No way.

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

How dare you, Amanda thinks, kneading the muscles in her neck until her fingers start to ache. How dare you say something like that to me now? What are you trying to pull? What are you thinking? That just because I came back here, because I agreed to see you again, that all is forgiven? That I’m supposed to feel sorry for you because you’re locked up in the ugliest damn building I’ve ever seen, wearing the ugliest damn sweat suit I’ve ever seen, and you look so frail inside all that thick cotton, and so, I don’t know, so … human, for want of a better word.

But we all know that’s not true, don’t we, Mother?

Well, with a daughter like you, no wonder your father had a heart attack.

Yes, that’s more like the woman we’ve come to know and loathe.

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

No, you haven’t. “And it’s too goddamn late now.”

“What is?” Ben asks, tucking the phone back inside his jacket.

“What?”

“What’s too late?”

“What?” Amanda asks again, unable to say more.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

He smiles. “Fucking fine or just fine?”

She finds herself smiling in return. “Was that Jennifer who called?”

“It was.”

“Checking on tonight’s dinner plans?”

“She heard about something she thought might interest me.”

“And did it?”

“Apparently another witness has come forward.”

“In my mother’s case?”

“Have you ever heard of a woman named Corinne Nash?”

“Corinne Nash?” Amanda chews the name silently in her mouth, pushing it across her tongue, trying to recognize the flavor. “No, I don’t think so.”

“She claims to be a friend of your mother’s.”

“Impossible. My mother doesn’t have any friends.”

“You’ve been away a long time, Amanda.”

“Some things never change.”

“And some things do. Shall we go talk to her?”

“You know where this woman lives?”

Ben turns the car onto the entrance ramp of the 401, waits for a break in the eastbound traffic. He offers nothing further.

Amanda smiles knowingly. Sometimes it pays to sleep with the enemy, she thinks.

The house on Whitmore Avenue is old and in obvious need of repair. Its mustard-yellow brick could use a good sandblasting, and the concrete stairs leading up to the tiny front porch, although shoveled clean of snow, are noticeably crumbling. A late-model Caprice sits in the driveway, too wide for the narrow garage attached to the house. Wooden shutters, whose white paint is chipping, frame small windows overlooking the street. A bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head sits in the middle of an oak door, both in need of polishing. “Look familiar?” Ben asks, pulling up in front of the house.

“No.”

He turns off the engine. “Let me do most of the talking,” he cautions as Amanda climbs out of the car. “Amanda …,” he warns as she hurries up the steps.

“I won’t say a word.” She begins pounding on the door.

“Oh, that’s good. She’ll think it’s the Gestapo.”

“I’m not saying a thing.”

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice calls from inside the house.

“My name is Ben Myers,” Ben says, his gloved hand reaching out to cover Amanda’s mouth. “I’m representing Gwen Price, and I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

The door opens immediately. Amanda shakes free of Ben’s hand and steps aside, almost afraid to confront the woman face-on.

“You’re Gwen’s attorney?” The woman’s voice is thin, almost girlish, and she’s conservatively dressed in a brown skirt and beige sweater set. On her feet is a pair of fuzzy pink slippers. “Please come in. How is Gwen?”

“She’s doing pretty well.”

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee swirls around their heads as they step inside the small front foyer. Corinne Nash closes the door behind them. “If you wouldn’t mind removing your boots …”

They immediately oblige, and Amanda takes the opportunity to sneak a look at her surroundings. The downstairs rooms are compact and neat—a living room to her left, a dining room to her right, a doorway open to the small kitchen at the back. A wooden staircase, covered by a runner of pale green carpeting, leads from the center hall to the rooms upstairs. Amanda pictures three
bedrooms, the master bedroom only slightly larger than the other two, and probably only one bathroom. The walls throughout are an insipid shade of green that stops just short of institutional, and the carpets covering the wood floors in both the living and dining room are floral in pattern, as are the drapes.

“This is my assistant,” Ben begins as Amanda finishes removing her boots and lifts her head.

“Oh, my God,” Corinne Nash exclaims.

Amanda finds herself backing against the door as the woman walks toward her, one hand extended. Corinne Nash is tall, about five feet eight inches, with a huge bosom and ample hips, which make her little-girl voice all the more out of place, as if the voice were emanating from somewhere else in the room. Her chin-length hair is the same shade of golden brown as her eyes, and her lips are wide beneath a nose that is short and sculpted. In her youth, she was probably a force to be reckoned with, Amanda thinks, feeling the door handle at her back. “You’re Amanda, aren’t you?”

It takes Amanda a second to recover her voice. “You know me?”

“Of course I know you. Please, come in.” Her arm sweeps across Amanda’s shoulders, as she guides her toward a living room bursting with furniture. “Let me take your coat. Please sit down.” Her fingers flutter between the floral-print sofa in front of one window and the two cantaloupe-colored wing chairs in front of the other. An overstuffed, muted orange-and-green-striped armchair and matching ottoman sit in front of a fireplace at the far end of the room, and an antique Queen Anne chair upholstered in dark green needlepoint sits beside an old upright
piano. On the wall above the piano is a painting of a naked woman reclining on a settee, the naked woman bearing an uncomfortable resemblance to the woman of the house. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? It’s already made.”

“Coffee would be great, thank you,” Ben answers for both him and Amanda.

“How do you take it?”

“Cream and sugar,” they answer together.

“Just like your mother,” Corinne Nash says upon her return, depositing a tray with three mugs of steaming coffee and a plate of assorted cookies on the glass coffee table in front of them.

Amanda makes a mental note to start drinking her coffee black. “How do you know me?” she asks as the woman sits down in the closest of the two wing chairs.

“I’ve seen your picture many times.”

“My picture? Which picture?”

Corinne Nash seems slightly taken aback. “Well, let’s see. There’s the one of you when you graduated from high school, and then there’s another one of you just sitting staring out the window. One of those candid shots. Apparently your father took it when you didn’t realize. That’s your mother’s favorite. And of course, all those pictures of you as a baby. It’s amazing—you still have the same face. That’s how I recognized you. Have you seen your mother? She’s so proud of you. She must be so relieved you’re here.”

Amanda grabs her mug of coffee from the tray and raises it to her lips to keep from screaming,
What are you talking about? My mother never kept photographs of me. She was never proud.
She looks to Ben, her eyes appealing for help. But he looks as confused as she is.

“Mrs. Nash,” he begins, “I understand you’ve talked to the police.”

“Yes. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to get your mother in any more trouble, that’s why I waited a few days to come forward, but then I read that she had already confessed, and I wanted to do the right thing. I’m so sorry. I hope I haven’t made things worse for her.”

“What exactly did you tell the police, Mrs. Nash?”

“That I was with Gwen at the Four Seasons when she first saw that man.”

“You were with her when she killed John Mallins?” Ben asks.

“No, not when she shot him. The day before.”

“I don’t understand,” Amanda interrupts. “You’re saying my mother was at the hotel the day before she shot him?”

“Yes. We’d gone to a movie, and then went for tea. They have a lovely bar in the lobby, and we often meet there for tea in the afternoon. They have these lovely biscuits.” She offers the tray of cookies. “These aren’t as good, of course.”

Ben takes one. “Delicious. You made these?”

“Oh, my, no. I can’t bake to save my life. Never could. My grandchildren complain about it whenever they visit. They say grandmothers are supposed to be able to bake cookies.”

“How long have you known my mother?” Amanda asks, trying to give the woman context.

“About five years. We met at the movies. We were both alone, and we just sort of drifted into a conversation. Actually, I think I was the one who started talking to her.
She was shier. At least at first. But I wore her down, I guess. It turned out we had a lot in common. We were both widows and recovering alcoholics. Our children were grown. We both liked movies and the theater. So, we started meeting every couple of weeks, and then once a week, and after the movies, we’d sometimes go for tea.”

“And that’s when you saw John Mallins?” Ben asks, bringing them back to the matter at hand.

“Yes. Actually, we were just leaving the lobby bar when they came through the revolving door, laughing and holding hands on their way to the elevators. And I turned to Gwen and said something like ‘Isn’t that a lovely family?’ Only Gwen looked like she’d just seen a ghost. She was shaking so hard I thought maybe she was having a seizure, so I sat her down and asked her if I should call an ambulance, but she insisted she was okay, even though you could see she wasn’t herself. Then after a few minutes, we left. I called her later to check on how she was feeling, and she said she was fine.”

“That was it?” Ben asks. “She never said anything to you about John Mallins?”

“Never mentioned him at all. In fact, it wasn’t until I read about what happened in the papers and saw Gwen’s picture next to that man’s, that I put two and two together.”