Still Life (18 page)

That was the man who visited you at the hospital, wasn’t it? The man you hired to kill me. You’re not going to waste any time, are you? You’re going to finish the job as soon as possible.

She listened to Warren pace back and forth in front of the bed, understanding her time was almost up.

Somebody help me. Get me out of here. Janine, Gail, Drew! Somebody, please. Don’t let him get away with this. Because he will, you know. He’s smarter than Detective Spinetti, smarter than the whole damn police force.

Smarter than God, Willy Billy had proclaimed.

“Her blood pressure’s spiking again,” Casey heard Patsy say.

What? When had Patsy come back?

“How high is it?” Warren asked.

“One-seventy over a hundred.”

“Is she running a fever?”

“No.”

“Should we call the doctor?”

“I don’t think that’s necessary. Dr. Keith said this was to be expected. I’ll check her pressure again in a little while. If it goes any higher, I’ll call the hospital. But I’m sure this is just a temporary blip. It should sort itself out by morning.”

“I feel so useless,” Warren said.

“You’re doing everything humanly possible to help Casey. No one could be more supportive.”

“I really thought that by moving her back home, it would help her get better.”

“It will.”

“You honestly believe that?”

“You just have to give it time.”

I don’t
have
time.

“Thank you. You’re very sweet.”

“No thanks necessary.”

The phone rang.

“Let voice mail take it,” Warren said wearily. “It’s probably Drew again. Must be that time of the month. Her allowance,” he qualified. The phone stopped after three rings.

“Why don’t you get something to eat,” Patsy said. “I’ll stay here with Casey.”

Casey felt Warren’s hesitation. “That’s probably a good idea. I’ll be back soon, sweetheart,” he said reassuringly. A pause, then, “Do you think she has any idea how much I love her?”

“I’m sure she knows,” came Patsy’s unequivocal response.

NINETEEN

“G
od, more flowers,” Patsy said, sweeping into the room.

What day is it? Casey wondered, snapping awake. Where am I?

“It’s like a funeral parlor in here.” The sound of a heavy vase being deposited on a table. “Which I guess it is, in a way,” Patsy continued cheerily. “Don’t tell your husband I said that.” She giggled. “Anyway, this latest batch is from the good doctors and nurses at Pennsylvania Hospital. I guess they miss you.”

So she was home, Casey realized. She hadn’t dreamed the move. She was really here.

“That was very thoughtful of them to send you flowers, if you ask me. Not that anybody ever does. You notice there was no mention of nurse’s aides on the card. Nobody ever thinks to include us. Guess I should have stayed in school, gotten my nurse’s diploma, but I thought … Hell, who knows what I was thinking? Probably wasn’t thinking at all. That’s what my mother would say. That’s what she says about everything where I’m concerned.” The sound of drapes being pulled back. “Let’s say we get some light in here. There. That’s much better. Such a pretty view you’ve got.”

Casey agreed. She’d always loved the view from this window. It was the reason she’d selected this bedroom over any of the seven others. Drew had wanted this room, too, but Casey had gotten here first. She always did, Casey recognized, feeling the sharp stab of guilt she always experienced when she thought of her younger sister.

“I guess I can’t really fault her,” Patsy continued, obviously quite content with the one-sided conversation. “My mom, I mean. I’ve made some pretty stupid decisions in my time. Losing my virginity at thirteen to that creep, Marty Price. Dropping out of school at sixteen. Marrying Jeff at eighteen. Not getting my nursing diploma. Wasting two whole years waiting for Johnny Tuttle to leave his wife, which, of course, he never intended to do. And in case we forget—and believe me, my mother’s never gonna let me forget this one—turning down a date with David Frey, who was this nerd with acne and bad teeth who lived at the end of our street, and who invented some stupid board game that—wouldn’t you know it?—became this monster success and made him a gazillion dollars. And of course, his skin cleared up, and he had veneers put on all his teeth, and he actually looks pretty damn hot. Of course, now he only dates starlets and heiresses. He was actually in
Us Weekly
a couple of weeks ago, on the arm of that bimbo from that TV show where they’re all shipwrecked off the coast of Africa. My mother was thoughtful enough to send me a copy.” Patsy laughed. “Mothers—there ain’t nothing like them.”

You’ll get no argument from me there.

Visions of Alana Lerner circled her head like buzzing flies: Alana with a crystal champagne glass in her hand; Alana absently running a brush through her long, blond hair; Alana impatiently pushing Casey aside when she tried to snuggle up against her; Alana all dolled up and ready to go out; Alana’s bloated corpse when they pulled her from the waters of Chesapeake Bay.

Casey had wanted to love her mother; she’d tried repeatedly, only to be repeatedly rebuffed. Still, she’d cried when she’d been called on to identify her mother’s body.

Unlike Drew.

“Oh, come on, Casey. You expect me to be a hypocrite?” Drew had said.

“I expect you to show a little respect.”

“Then you expect too much.”

Had she? Casey wondered now. Had she expected too much of Drew? Was she still expecting too much? Or maybe the opposite was true. Maybe she didn’t expect enough. Maybe she never had.

“Your mother was quite the beauty,” Patsy was saying, roughly lifting Casey’s head in order to fluff out her pillow, then letting it drop. “Warren showed me some old pictures of her. There’s this one photo where she’s wearing a long, beaded gown, with a diamond tiara on her head. A tiara, for Pete’s sake. Like she’s the goddamn queen of England.” She laughed again. “A drama queen is more like it, from what I understand.”

Another image suddenly flashed across the dark screen of Casey’s eyes: Alana Lerner, her long, beaded gown stained with spilled champagne, her tiara slightly askew, tilted toward her right ear, streaks of blue-black mascara wobbling across her cheeks as she stumbled toward her bed, Ronald Lerner behind her, the child Casey following only steps behind them, silent and unnoticed.

“For God’s sake, would you just listen to yourself?” her father was saying.

“Don’t you dare try to tell me I’m imagining things. Don’t you dare. I did not imagine seeing you with your tongue halfway down Sheryl Weston’s ear. The whole goddamn room saw it.”

“There was no tongue, for Christ’s sake. I was telling her a joke.”

“Yeah? Well, I guess the joke’s on me, then.” Alana laughed, a sharp cackle that caused Casey to clutch at her ears. “Damn you, anyway. Do you have to be so obvious? Does everyone in Rosemont have to know about your latest conquest? Do you always have to humiliate me in front of all my friends?”

“There’s no need,” Ronald Lerner said evenly. “You do a good job of that all by yourself.”

“You’re so damn smug.”

“You’re so damn drunk.”

“Miserable bastard.”

“Pathetic bitch.”

Casey watched her mother lurch toward the night table beside her bed, tripping over her silver stilettos and banging her hip as she struggled to open the top drawer.

“What the hell are you doing now?” her father demanded.

“So I’m pathetic, am I?” her mother countered, finally succeeding in opening the drawer, her right hand rifling blindly through its contents. “I’m pathetic? How pathetic is this?”

What was her mother holding? Casey wondered, inching closer. It looked like the water pistol that Kenny Yaeger had brought to school last week for show-and-tell.

“For God’s sake, Alana. Put that damn thing away before you hurt someone.”

“I’ll show you who’s pathetic.”

“Put the gun away, Alana.”

A gun? Her mother had a gun?

“I’ll kill us. I’ll kill us both.”

What? No!

“You’ll do no such thing.”

And suddenly Casey’s father was knocking the gun from her mother’s hand with the back of his own, and then slapping her, slapping her hard across the face. And then again, and again.

“Pathetic bitch,” he kept saying, kicking the gun toward the window and pushing Alana toward the bed. And then he was on top of her and they were wrestling, her mother punching at the sides of his head with her fists as he fought to secure her hands above her head. And then he was fumbling with her gown, and she was tugging on his jacket, and soon their angry shouts had turned to grunts and squeals, and even laughter.

“Bastard,” her mother purred, as Casey backed slowly out of the room.

When she woke up the next morning, Casey passed by her parents’ bedroom and saw them having breakfast together in bed. Her father waved with his free arm, his other arm draped across her mother’s shoulder, falling toward her breast. They were smiling and whispering. A quick scan of the floor revealed no weapon. Casey concluded the entire episode had been a bad dream and erased it from her mind.

Until now.

How much of her life had she spent denying what was right before her eyes? Casey wondered.

“ ‘I thought it right to tell you, because you went on as you always do, never looking just where you are, and treading in the wrong place,’”
she heard Janine read.
“ ‘You always see what nobody else sees; it is impossible to satisfy you; yet you never see what is quite plain.’ ”

Had she really seen a gun in her mother’s hand? Casey wondered.

And if she had, where was that gun now? Had they taken it with them when they moved? Was it possible the gun was here, in this house?

“Not that I’m not a bit of a drama queen myself,” Patsy was saying. “I have my moments, that’s for sure. Just not the wardrobe.” She made an exaggerated sigh. “Bet you have a pretty nice wardrobe, don’t you? Bet your closet is just stuffed with expensive designer clothes, like the kind your friend—What’s her name? The bitchy one … Janine? I don’t think she likes me—anyway, like the clothes she always wears. Can I have a peek?”

Casey heard Patsy clomp toward the large walk-in closet to the right of her bed.

“You don’t mind, do you? I’ve been wanting to have a look in here since I arrived, but I didn’t want Warren to think I was being presumptuous. You don’t mind me calling your husband Warren, do you? Not that it matters what you mind.”

Casey heard the closet door open, followed by the flip of a light switch.

“Well, isn’t this a major disappointment. You’re not exactly a clotheshorse, are you, Casey? I mean, what’s here is all very nice, if a little conservative for my taste, but it’s not exactly what I was expecting. I mean, this is a nice little Armani jacket over here, and these are nice enough pants—Prada, okay, that’s a pretty good label—but honestly, Casey, what on earth are these? The Gap? What are you doing shopping at the Gap, for heaven’s sake? And does everything have to be black or brown? I thought you were this big-shot designer. Don’t you know that color is all the rage for spring and summer? Although I guess you missed the change in the seasons this year, didn’t you? Didn’t have time to switch your closet around before getting mowed down. You probably keep all your summer clothes in one of the other three thousand bedrooms, don’t you? I’ll just have to do some major exploring next time Warren goes to the gym. That’s where he is now, incidentally. At the gym. Said he was restless, and feeling all flabby ’cause he hasn’t worked out in months. Not that he looks even remotely flabby. He’s in great shape, and I told him so, but I also encouraged him to go work out. I told him that he couldn’t stay glued to your side twenty-four hours a day, that it wasn’t healthy, that you’d want him to go out and live his life.

“He’s thinking of taking a leave of absence from his job, did you know that? He says he can’t concentrate, that his heart just isn’t in it. I told him that I understand.” She sighed. “Yes, that’s me—I’m very understanding. Oh, this is nice,” she said in the next breath. “A Hermès scarf. Is it real? Of course it is. You’d never buy one of those awful knockoffs, would you? No, you wouldn’t have to. Not when you can afford the real thing. How much are these things anyway? Three hundred dollars? More? For a lousy piece of silk. You don’t mind if I wear it for a while, do you? Yellow and black aren’t exactly my colors, but hey, it doesn’t look half bad. What do you think? Oh, sorry. You can’t think, can you? But don’t you worry your empty little head. I’m thinking enough for both of us. Yes, I am. And I’m thinking I’m making a little bit of headway every day, as far as your husband is concerned.

“I mean, he’s always spouting off about how much he loves you and everything, but personally, I think he’s just trying to convince himself. I’m not blind. I see the way he looks at me. A girl always knows when a guy thinks she’s attractive, and I can tell he’s interested. And he’s a man, for heaven’s sake. He can only go so long without a little … comfort. Yeah, that’s a good word. He needs comforting, our Warren does. And since you’re in no shape to provide it, I’ll just have to step in and fill your shoes.

“Speaking of which, you have awfully big feet. What are these—size nine? Way too big for me. I’m a seven, which is very unfortunate because, I have to admit, you have great taste in shoes. Although you have way too many flats in here for my liking. I mean, I know they’re comfortable and practical and better for your feet and all that, but don’t you know that men prefer high heels? Honestly, how’d you ever snag a man like Warren wearing all these flat shoes? Oh, I forgot—you’re rich.”

Patsy pulled a chair up close to the bed and sat down, her mouth close to Casey’s ear. “Do you think it’s true what they say about the size of men’s feet corresponding to the size of their … you know, more interesting parts? Do you think that’s true? Your husband’s a what—an eleven? Maybe even a twelve?” She chuckled. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m sure he’s more than adequate in that department. Just like I’m sure I’m gonna find out firsthand in the not-too-distant future. Do you understand anything I’m saying?” She chuckled again, this time louder. “I kind of hope you do.”

The sound of the front door opening and closing.

Thank God, Casey thought. An end to this torture.

“Guess I better put these shoes back where they belong,” Patsy said quickly, scurrying back to the closet and closing its door as the sound of angry voices reached Casey’s ears.

“What were you doing? Hiding in the bushes all morning, waiting to ambush me?” Warren demanded from downstairs.

“You don’t take my phone calls. You won’t answer the door.”

Who’s that? Is that Drew?

“Sounds like your sister’s here,” Patsy said.

“I told you your check’s in the mail.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one.”

“If you’d prefer to pick up the checks in person, I can easily arrange that with my office, starting next month.”

“That’s very generous of you, Warren. Just how long are you going to drag this out?”

“Oh, the shit is hitting the fan,” Patsy whispered, a smile in her voice. “Here, I’ll open the door wider so we can hear better.”

“Okay, Drew. I think we’ve more than covered this ground already,” Warren was saying. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go upstairs and say hello to my wife.”

“Which, strangely enough, happens to be why
I’m
here.”

“You’re here to see Casey?”

“She’s my sister. I didn’t even know she was out of the hospital, for God’s sake.”

“Maybe because you haven’t visited her in over a month.”

“I still have a right to see her. I have a right to be kept informed.”

“She’s the same as the last time you saw her, Drew. Nothing’s changed.”

“I’d like to check that out for myself, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind. Go home, Drew.”

“This
is
my home,” Drew told him, standing her ground. “At least half of it.”

“Not until your thirtieth birthday.”

“Which, in case you’ve forgotten, isn’t that far off. Fourteen months, by my calculations.”