The Plot (2 page)

Everything was under control.

As the limousine driver guided the car up the long driveway, Cassie gazed through the windshield toward the stately red brick house on the hill. Someone should have been on the wide front porch watching her approach, ready to welcome her home. But only memories lingered there to greet her. She looked at the white cardboard box on her lap marked simply, “Hart.” The funeral director had offered to handle it for her, to bury the ashes next to her mother, but she thought Daddy would want to come home one last time.

The limousine eased to a stop, and Cassie allowed the driver to open the door and help her out. She thanked him and asked him to thank Hamilton Bates again for all he'd done. When the car whispered away, she turned toward the house. The lightless windows stared at her vacantly as she trudged up the steps carrying her father's ashes. Nothing had ever felt so heavy.

"You're home, Daddy,” she murmured. Turning the key in the lock, she stepped from the stifling August heat into the cool semi-darkness of the foyer. The echo of her high heels against the hardwood floor made the house seem even emptier. She slipped her shoes off and set them beside the blue suitcase she'd brought from her apartment this morning, then turned toward the living room on the right, where her parents smiled down at her from their wedding portrait above the fireplace. Her own portrait hung on the wall above the piano. The curios from around the world that Mother had collected were still in the corner display case, and the overstuffed rose-and-green flowered couch rested invitingly beneath the wide front window. The comfortable green chairs-where Mother and Daddy had spent their evenings reading and talking-waited in front of the cold hearth. Funny how things could be so different and yet seem so much the same.

She glanced over her shoulder at the blue suitcase in the foyer. It would feel good to change her clothes. But a cup of coffee would be even better. The plush gray living room carpet cushioned her steps as she crossed to the dining room and entered the kitchen, which seemed strangely foreign without May Lee there cooking or cleaning or eager to share her latest recipe. Setting the small cardboard box on the round oak table, Cassie reached for the can of Folgers, measured enough for a potful, and added water.

While the coffee brewed, she looked out the window above the sink at the croquet course in the broad backyard. She could almost hear her father teasing Mother when she missed the easiest shots, and Mother's dismay when he knocked her ball far out of the way. Croquet had been a favorite pastime of theirs, but Daddy quit playing after Mother died.

The comforting smell of the steaming coffee drew her attention from the window, and she reached into the cabinet for her father's favorite mug. He had given her one just like it when she got her first job as a reporter, and the familiar inscription on its side-
No news is
bad
news
-made her smile a little. He'd been so proud that she had chosen to follow in his footsteps. She poured the coffee and, with mug in hand, walked over to stand in the doorway of the sitting room that adjoined the kitchen.

This had been Mother's favorite place in the whole house. Her “retreat,” as she put it. The painting she was working on until she became too ill was still propped against the easel in the corner. Her sewing machine and yellow sewing basket rested against the far wall. The book about flower arranging lay unopened on the lamp table. The only thing missing was Mother.

The scent of cigarette smoke filtering through the door of her father's study to the left of the sitting room interrupted Cassie's thoughts. No one in the household smoked except the handyman, Jonathon. Daddy had quit when the government raised taxes to three dollars a pack, but Jonathon bought his on the black market. He said there were two things in this world he wouldn't give up willingly-his family and his cigarettes. She smiled. Jonathon was a nice old guy, funny, and he liked coffee almost as much as she did. She'd fix him a cup, and they could “visit for a spell,” like he always said. Maybe she'd even light up with him-if he'd let her bum one of his precious “cigs,” she thought, crossing the room and turning the doorknob.

"Hi, Jon-
son of a bitch
!"

The room was in shambles. File drawers hung open. Her father's framed certificates and photographs had been ripped from the walls. Papers were strewn everywhere, and a thin spiral of gray smoke rose from the floor. Scowling, Cassie stepped into the room and crushed the smoldering butt beneath her shoe. A flicker of light drew her attention to the right, where the ever-changing shapes of the screen saver meandered across her father's computer monitor. The disk storage box lay upside down amid a clutter of pens and pencils on the desk. The drawers had been removed and smashed into splinters.

Cassie's mind raced. Neither the living room nor dining room, where the sterling silver was kept, had been disturbed. The sitting room or kitchen, either. She shook her head sharply.
Focus, dammit.
There was nothing in here but Daddy's mementoes and his work. Why would anyone ...
His work ... “rock the foundations ... Pulitzer
.” Her scalp prickled. If someone did
this
... if they were this determined ... would they have gone so far as to ...
what if I'm not alone?
She dashed from the study, through the sitting room and into the kitchen, where she grabbed the telephone and punched 9-1-1.

A husky female voice answered on the first ring. Cassie cupped her hand around the phone and spoke as softly as she could, then listened to the dispatcher contacting a patrol car. She heard the garbled radio response of a policeman and held her breath until she was told that units were on the way.

"Stay where you are,” instructed the operator, “and remain on the phone with me until our officers arrive. If you see or hear anything unusual, tell me immediately. Understand?"

"Yes,” she replied, almost whispering. God, how she hated the fear that threatened her ability to think.

Although she had been aware of every creak in the old house, every rustle of the wind and leaves against its walls, the first she knew of the policemen's arrival was from the emergency operator.

"Miss Hart, the perimeter is secured, and some officers will be coming to the kitchen door. Once you've let them in, put one of them on the telephone. Okay?"

"Yes. And thank you for everything.” She'd seldom said thank you with such sincerity. “I see them now."

"Miss Hart? I'm Officer Gatlin,” said the tall, squarely built black man as she opened the door. Three other officers followed him inside. “Is that your burgundy Mercedes parked in front?"

She nodded and handed him the telephone. Her legs went weak, and she sank onto the nearest chair. Two of the policemen positioned themselves by the dining room door. A short, wiry officer squatted beside her.

"Are you all right? You look kind of pale,” he asked, studying her face.

"Yes, I guess so. It's just, well, I've never stumbled upon a burglary before,” Cassie responded,
or seen my father dead or sat in the kitchen with his ashes
. She brushed her black hair from her forehead with trembling hands.

The officer nodded, gave her an encouraging pat on the arm, then stood and walked to the corner of the room to huddle with the others. She caught only bits and pieces of their conversation. “...two sets of footprints ... no vehicles ... probably gone."

"Miss Hart, you said that the only room you found disturbed was your father's study? Where is that?” It was Gatlin. Obviously, he was in charge.

"Yes, that's right, but I didn't check the rest of the house. As soon as I saw the study, I called 9-1-1. It's through that door and to the left,” she responded, waving toward the sitting room.

"Is there an attic? A basement?"

"An attic, yes, but not a basement really. Just a small cellar that opens from the outside. You probably passed the entrance on your way around the house. The door to the attic is at the far end of the upstairs hall.”
The attic.
“Uh, but there's nothing up there but junk. I don't think you need to waste your time."

Gatlin ignored her. “I'll start in the study. Davies, you and Rodriguez check upstairs. Williams, stay here with Miss Hart and radio a couple of the guys outside to check the cellar."

The one who had shown such concern for her spoke briefly into his shoulder-mounted radio, then stood by the back door with his arms folded while the other officers spread out through the house.

Several minutes passed with Officer Williams standing alert and silent. Cassie closed her eyes and prayed that they wouldn't search the attic
too
well, as she listened to the soft sound of footsteps traversing the house, doors opening and shutting, muffled voices checking in with one another. She leaned her elbows on the table, cradling her forehead in her hands. The image of her father lying in the morgue waiting for the coroner to dissect him merged with the image of his defiled study. The words of this morning's eulogies mingled in her imagination with the sound of breaking glass, splintering wood. She clenched her teeth and opened her eyes.

The small, plain box holding her father's remains lay mute just a few inches away, and Cassie wrapped her hands around it. There was nothing warm or human in the feel of the thick, white cardboard against her fingertips, but it was all she had to hold onto.
It was a beautiful service, Daddy. Everyone was there. They sang your favorite songs, and ...
She paused. No, that wasn't true. Everyone
had not been there. Someone had been here instead. Someone who probably knew-or wanted to know-what you were writing about. But who? You hadn't even confided in me yet.

"Miss Hart?"

"Yes?” She blinked and raised her eyes toward the voice. A tall, lanky man with short, chestnut colored hair and a scar across the bridge of his nose stood beside Officer Gatlin a few feet away.

"I'm Chief Investigator Max Henshaw, Miss Hart. You may remember that I spoke with you after your father's ... accident."

She nodded.
Oh, yeah. I remember. You're the one who told me there'd be an autopsy. Tell me, Officer-It's-Only-Routine, did the coroner find Daddy's sense of humor? His talent? His courage, maybe? I could use a little of that right now.

"It looks like the burglars left just moments before you got home,” he continued. There was a trace of the south in his speech. “And it appears that your father's study was their prime target. As far as we can tell, the rest of the house is undisturbed, but while I'm tied up with the Crime Scene folks, I'd like you to personally check through the house to see if any valuables are missing. Williams, go with her."

What's the point? She felt like asking.
What could be more valuable than his life?
But as Henshaw and Gatlin disappeared back into the study, Cassie forced herself to stand and walk to the dining room with Officer Williams close at her heels.

The policeman gave her a pair of opaque, one-size-fits-all latex gloves that were too large for her small hands. She put them on anyway, feeling like a bad actor in some made-for-television cop movie. The silver was still in its drawer; the china her mother had received as a gift from the governor of Hong Kong was still arranged carefully on the shelves. If I were a burglar, these are the things I'd be after, she thought, closing the doors of the big mahogany cabinet to see her frowning reflection in its glass panes. There wasn't a journalist in the world who didn't covet the Pulitzer Prize.
But who knows anything about the story Daddy was working on? Or that it could be Pulitzer material?
She chewed on her lower lip.
Someone does. Someone who might be concerned about more than just the Pulitzer.
Suddenly aware of Williams’ eyes on her, she forced herself to smile. “Sorry-just wool-gathering-been doing that a lot these past few days."

He returned her smile. “Ready to check upstairs?” he asked, leading the way toward the foyer and up the tall staircase.

Except for the chair and reading lamp that had been moved away from the corner and placed by the window to make room for the new bookcase, her parents’ bedroom looked like it always had. The “wedding ring” quilt, a wedding gift from Grandma Hart, still covered the large four-poster bed where Mother had finally surrendered to cancer. The blue drapes hung open, letting the sunlight fall onto the cologne bottles standing like expectant little dancers next to Mother's jewelry box atop the cherry dresser. Her father's suitcase and the large manila envelope filled with the contents of his pockets lay on the floor beside the closet where she had left them. Funny. She'd made such a big deal about getting Daddy's things from the police, but as soon as she had them back, she'd forgotten all about them.

Cassie crossed the room and stood in front of the dresser for a long moment. She had given her mother the ornate jewelry box for Christmas many years ago. “It's just what I've always wanted,” Mother had said. Cassie couldn't help smiling a little.
She always said that. Even when I brought her those nondescript clay sculptures I made in kindergarten.
As gently as if she were touching something sacred, she raised the lid and sifted through the trinkets. Other than the ruby tie clasp and cuff links Mother had given Daddy on their last anniversary and Mother's charm bracelet, there was little here to entice a burglar. Daddy had given Cassie all of her mother's other jewelry. He'd kept only the charm bracelet, because it commemorated so much of their lives together. She held the bracelet up to the sunlight filtering through the window and studied the glittering silver shapes: the “#1” for their first anniversary, the replica of the White House for the Inaugural they'd attended, the small key for-
wait
. This was no charm...

"Is anything missing?” Williams’ voice interrupted the silence. She had forgotten he was there.

"Uh, no. Everything's here,” she said, quickly placing the bracelet back into the jewelry box and closing the lid. “We may as well go back downstairs."

He frowned. “Don't you want to check the other rooms?"