All Fall Down (24 page)

“Blaine, I’ve known you since you were in the first grade and you toppled off the jungle gym and landed right on top of me.”

She smiled. “And you’re still trying to break my fall, aren’t you?”

Their faces were so close Blaine could feel Logan’s breath on her cheek. His dark eyes, which for the past six months had looked so remote, were now warm, almost caressing. He took her hand and squeezed it. His wedding band, cold from the brisk air, pressed into her skin. She stiffened, drawing her hand away, when what she really wanted to do was fling herself into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said softly. “Sometimes I forget we’re not still in high school.”

“A lot of time has passed since then.”

“And a lot of circumstances have changed. Not feelings, just circumstances.”

Blaine felt her heart beating harder, her face growing warm with color, and she was glad Logan gazed off at the strong, old trees raising denuded limbs to the cobalt-blue sky.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” he said quietly. “You know, North American Indians were very religious, and they believed in a pervasive supernatural essence. The Iroquois called it
orenda
. It was personified as gods, demons, and creatures that sprang from natural features.”

“Natural features like these trees?”

Logan nodded. “Right now I can’t imagine anything but a benevolent creature springing from them. Then I think of Rosalind Van Zandt being killed out here…”

“And the trees seem full of demonic creatures.”

He grinned. “Sounds nuts, doesn’t it?”

“Actually, it sounds poetic. It also sounds frightening, because sometimes I get the same feeling here in the woods. I always have, but especially since Rosie’s death. It’s as if the trees possess some kind of intelligence, an almost human perception.” She sighed. “I only wish they could tell us what really happened the night Rosie was murdered.”

Logan looked down, twisting his wedding ring. “Blaine, none of this is what I came out here to say.”

Blaine felt a chill run down her back. The warmth in his voice was gone. He raised his eyes and looked slightly past her, sitting a bit straighter on the log. “I’m turning this case over to the state police.”

After the death of Kathy, she’d wondered why he wasn’t asking for their assistance. But now, after being let go at the school, after finding out about the Dilaudid, after the episode with Bernice, she knew the danger she’d been in after Martin’s death was only growing greater. Suddenly she felt forsaken, like someone trapped in a deep hole whose only hope has lain in a familiar if often distant and suspicious voice, a voice of authority, a familiar voice of someone she knew cared about her in spite of everything. A voice that would no longer be there.

“Why did you make this decision
now?
” she asked.

“Pressure from the public, pressure from the mayor.” He shifted slightly, his dark eyes returning to hers. “And because I’m too close to the number one suspect.”

“But we’ve hardly even seemed like friends anymore,” she said faintly.

“I had a job to do, Blaine. I’ve tried to do it to the best of my ability. I
was
doing it to the best of my ability back when your husband died. But I’m not doing a good job anymore. I’m bending over backward to give you the benefit of the doubt, and it isn’t helping you, it’s hurting you. People say I’m shielding you because I’m still in love with you.”

“But you’re not in love with me,” she said miserably. “Can’t people see that?”

“Sometimes outsiders see things more clearly than the people involved.”

“Then you
are
still in love with me?”

“I never stopped loving you, Blaine. But I’m married. And you’re not over Martin. Besides, you don’t need to be thinking about love affairs right now. You’re in one hell of a mess.”

“And you’re abandoning me.”

Logan pulled her closer to him, holding her while her sudden tears poured out on his wool jacket. “I’m not
abandoning
you, Blaine. Not in spirit, anyway. But this situation is out of my hands now.”

“Because you want it to be.”

“Because, unless I want people to be even more suspicious of you than they already are, I have to let go. I’ve done all I could, but you
won’t
tell me the truth.”

“So you think I’m a killer?”

“No. But you don’t trust me enough to be honest. You’re hiding things.”

Blaine couldn’t deny it. She’d lied about why she’d left the house the afternoon of Martin’s death, and she wasn’t telling him how worried she was about Robin’s part in this whole mess. She bent her head, swallowing to stop the tears that didn’t want to stop. He kissed the top of her head. “Maybe it’s going to be all right, Blaine.”

But she knew him too well not to hear the insincerity in his voice. He didn’t think it was going to be all right, and neither did she.

2

The snow started around two o’clock. Blaine and Ashley stood at the French doors, staring at the lacy flakes falling with increasing speed. Within fifteen minutes she could no longer see the woods, and the ground was solid white.

Blaine turned away from the windows and wandered through the house, touching things, feeling an ache of tenderness for the home where she had once been so happy. Now Martin was gone, Robin was gone, and soon she would probably be gone, too.

She went into the little spare bedroom she used as a study. Her word processor had gathered dust in the past few weeks, and absently she traced her initials on the clouded monitor screen.
B.O.A
. She felt like a child and quickly wiped the initials away, turning to her filing cabinet, where a stack of student folders lay. Flipping through them idly, she remembered they were from the last class she had taught before she collapsed with pneumonia. Through the years, after arguing with students over grades they claimed she had recorded wrong in her grade book (always to their detriment), she had insisted students keep all their papers in a folder so they could be reviewed at the end of the year. This particular class had turned in its first assignment that unfortunate Thursday when Blaine had gotten sick, and she’d never had a chance to look at the folders. Robin had brought them home from her classroom and stacked them on her filing cabinet, where they’d lain untouched for weeks.

Rosie had been in that class, Blaine thought. Morbid curiosity made her sift through the pile until she found Rosie’s folder with its reproduction of Whistler’s
The White Girl
on the front. There she stood, in her long white dress, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders, her eyes both vulnerable and unfathomable. Had Rosie seen herself as the White Girl? Her resemblance to the portrait of Whistler’s mistress, Joanna Heffernan, was remarkable. And Rosie, too, had been a mistress. The girl had always been intrigued with mysteries and cryptic messages. Was her selection of this folder for Blaine’s class an irresistible urge to let someone know she was having an affair?

Blaine opened the folder, looking at Rosie’s in-class essay on “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” It was mostly fluff, but then, what could be said about the story except for its technical expertise? Blaine wasn’t sure now why she had even made the assignment. Maybe just to make sure they’d read the story.

She was about to close the folder when a creased paper fell out of the side pocket. She picked it up, looking at it in confusion:

The partial letter had been typed on a dated, battered typewriter like the ones they had at school. Even the paper looked like the cheap copier paper provided in the typing rooms. Suddenly Blaine remembered Robin mentioning coming upon Rosie typing a letter, which she’d torn out of the typewriter and stuffed in a folder. This had to be that unfinished letter. But why would Rosie have been requesting a copy of her father’s birth certificate?

3

Tim sat in front of the television, lackadaisically doing his arithmetic. “Don’t you think you could concentrate on your work better without the TV?” Allie asked.

“Nope. I hate arithmetic. It doesn’t matter whether I’m watchin’
Magnum
or not when I’m doin’ it. I’ll still get a bad grade.”

Allie bent over him, looking at the scrawled numbers on his notebook page. “Tim, I don’t believe that. You aren’t even trying. Look how messy this page is—you’re certainly not going to turn it in to your teacher!”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s neat or not—I’ll still get all the answers wrong.”

His grandmother went over and shut off the television. “That is a rerun you’ve seen ten times.”

“I still like it!”

“I know, but you have something more important to do. You should have done your arithmetic yesterday, not waited until this evening. Take out a fresh sheet of paper. You’re going to start over and you’re going to be neat.
And
you will get the right answers.”

“Oh, Grandma!” Tim protested.

“You want to be a sheriff like your father, don’t you?”

“Well, sure. That or a veternamariam.”

“Vet-er-i-nar-i-an. But you must be good in math to do either.”

Tim looked disbelieving. “What’s arithetic got to do with arresting people or giving dogs shots?”

“There is more to both jobs than you think. Now I must insist. I want you to start over. Then, when your father comes home, you can show him what a good job you’ve done.
He
was always good in math.”

“He was?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, okay,” Tim said, reluctantly taking out a fresh page of notebook paper. “Maybe if my pencil was sharper I’d do better.”

“I’ll sharpen it,” Allie said, reaching for the pencil, which showed teeth marks on the end. “Tim, when are you going to stop gnawing on your pencils? You aren’t a puppy, you know.”

Tim giggled. “When will Daddy be home?” he asked as his grandmother walked toward the kitchen door leading into the garage, where a pencil sharpener was nailed to the wall. She glanced at the kitchen wall clock. “It’s ten till five. He promised to be home by six.”

“You mean I’ve got to work on my arithemetic
that
long?”

Allie Quint made a sound of exasperation before she went out into the garage. Tim thought about turning the television on again, then changed his mind. Maybe if he acted like he was really trying with those subtraction problems, Grandma wouldn’t make him work such a
long
time.

The phone rang and Tim ran to pick it up. “Sheriff Quint’s house,” he said importantly.

His mother laughed on the other end. “Timmy? My goodness, that was a formal greeting!”

“Mommy!”

“Did your father teach you to say that?”

“No, I made it up. Grandma and Daddy won’t let me say it when they’re around, but Daddy’s workin’ and Grandma’s out in the garage.”

“Daddy’s working, huh?” Dory said, some of the lilting charm leaving her voice. “Some things never change.”

“There’s been a whole bunch of
murders
, Mommy. Daddy and Grandma think I don’t know anything about it, but I do. We’re havin’ a
crime wave!
”

“Murders? Of whom?”

“Oh, just some girls. Older girls, not ones I go to school with. Mommy, are you comin’ home soon?”

Dory hesitated. “Actually, that’s what I called about.”

Tim’s smile faded. “You’re gonna be here for Thanksgiving, aren’t you?”

“No, honey, I don’t think I can make it. You see, I’m very involved with my work.”

Tim paled. “When
will
you be home, then?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

“But Christmas is only a few weeks away. You’re not gonna miss
Christmas!
”

“I’ll try not to, but I’m just so
swamped
with things to do.”

Tim heard a man in the background ask, “Who are you talking to, sweetheart?”

He could hear his mother put a hand over the phone and mumble something to someone. When she came back on the line, he demanded, “Who’s that guy?”

“Someone who’s going to help Mommy get her stories published. A very
nice
man, Timmy.”

“He called you
sweetheart
.”

“Well, it’s just an expression. Anyway, I wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving. I might be taking a trip over the holidays, so I can’t call for a while…”

“You said you had too much work to do to go anywhere!”

“This is only a short trip, not like coming all the way back to West Virginia.”

“You’re not comin’ home at all, are you?” Tim asked stonily. “Not for Thanksgiving, not for Christmas.”

“This is just such a bad time for me. Honey, try to understand…”

“Who are you talking to?”

Tim turned to face his grandmother. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he thrust the receiver into her hand. “It’s Mommy.”

Allie took the receiver and immediately said, “Dory? What did you say to Tim?”

Tim could hear his grandmother’s voice rising in the living room as he went into the front hall and opened the closet door. He could still hear her, now close to shouting, when he stepped out into the swirling snow.

4

The phone rang and Blaine tensed. What if she heard music? What if the killer had struck again? And here she’d been, alone all afternoon, with no alibi except for the police cruiser that came by every half hour.

Answer it, she thought. This call is coming to your home. You have Call Trace. Don’t let nerves get the best of you and blow this opportunity to see who’s calling. She picked up the receiver and uttered a careful “Hello.”

“Blaine, this is Allie Quint.”

“Mrs. Quint,” she said with a mixture of relief and puzzlement. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s Tim. He seems to have run away.”

“Run away? In this awful weather?”