Blindfold (15 page)

It was a strange evening. Not what she'd imagined at all.

Picadilly was as gorgeous on the inside as the outside. Maggie wasn't disappointed about that. Everyone was nice to her, including Whit's very good-looking parents. Whit looked movie-actor handsome in a black blazer over a white turtleneck, and once, when they were dancing, Maggie overheard two women sitting along a wall comment, "Don't they make a striking couple?" and knew exactly who they meant.

But she found it impossible to relax. She had been in Scout's home many times. It was a lavish, sprawling, brick ranch big enough to lose a herd of cattle in. Though that home, too, was filled with expensive furnishings, paintings, and carpet, she had never felt uncomfortable there, not even during the divorce when Scout's mother had stormed through the house angrily slamming every door she could get her hands on. The house had always felt warm and lived-in and welcoming.

Picadilly wasn't like that. Maggie wasn't sure why. It was as beautiful inside as anything she had ever seen in any magazine or movie. Everything matched perfectly, down to the tiniest figurine on the mantel in the ballroom. Too perfectly, maybe. There was so much gloss on the hardwood floors, she was nearly blinded when she walked into the dining room. Every doorknob shone like pure gold. As far as she could tell, there wasn't a single sofa cushion that needed adjusting, not a picture hanging crooked anywhere, no sign of dog hair or newspapers or magazines, and she was reluctant to use any of the hand towels in the guest bathroom because they were folded so precisely in thirds on the brass racks. The monograms were perfectly centered. Might ruin the whole look if I use one, she thought glumly, and wiped her hands on tissue instead.

The very instant that someone set a glass down on any flat surface it was immediately whisked away by a waiter before defacing beads of moisture could even think of marring the highly polished mahogany or glass.

It was all just a tiny bit too perfect.

Maggie thought of her own chaotic household, her parents rushing in and out, Dog-face drinking out of the milk carton, the floor of her own room carpeted with discarded clothing and books and shoes and purses. And she wondered what it would be like to grow up in a place as perfect as Picadilly.

Wouldn't you be expected to be perfect, too?

Whit's parents were really nice, but how did Mrs. Whittier keep every single strand of her upswept platinum blonde hair so perfectly in place while she made the rounds in all of the first floor's nine rooms? If that were Sheila Keene, there'd be naughty little tendrils of coppery hair trailing along the back of her neck, over her ears, and down her forehead.

What am I doing here? Maggie asked herself. And then Whit led her back out onto the dance floor in the ballroom, and she remembered what she was doing there.

"I know what you're thinking," he said when they took their buffet plates out onto one of several stone terraces abutting the house. "It's too perfect, right? I can see it in your eyes, which, by the way, look as terrific as the rest of you. The dress is great."

"I'm glad you approve," she said lightly, moving to the heavy stone railing to set her plate down. "And yeah, you're right. I feel kind of like we're on a movie set. Like it's not real. I mean, where did you put your muddy shoes after you and that friend of yours ... Dante Guardino ... unloaded the hay?" She smiled at Whit. "Or were muddy shoes just not allowed?"

He returned the smile. "There's a mud room. Back near the kitchen."

Of course. With eighteen rooms, there almost certainly would be a mud room.

"It's my mother's doing," he said, forking a baby carrot on his plate. "She's got a great eye for perfection. And just as good an eye for what she calls 'disharmony.'"

"The trouble is, I don't have her eye. Neither does my dad. And I can tell you right now, when I build my own house someday, I'm building it for fun and comfort. Maybe a log cabin. You can do some really great things with logs these days."

As they ate, she insisted that he describe his ideal house to her, and he did. It sounded wonderful, and she was happy to hear that he didn't intend to stay in Felicity. "I was thinking California, maybe Marin County. Work in San Francisco, law

or architecture, I haven't decided yet, and live in the country, in a nice, big, sloppy old log cabin."

He was still talking when other voices emerged from the French doors open to the ballroom. Maggie didn't turn around, and wouldn't have listened at all if she hadn't heard the name, "Christy Miller." She knew who that was. The girl who had been killed, allegedly by Dante Guardino, Whit's friend.

The name caught Whit's attention, too. He had stopped talking, stopped eating, and was listening as intently as she was, though they both kept their backs to the ongoing conversation behind them.

"... a brutal crime," one woman was saying. "Such a young girl, no more than a child, really."

Another woman's voice, which Maggie recognized as belonging to Whit's mother, commented, "That may be, but she certainly didn't act like a child. She was a terrible flirt, you know. Nearly drove the boyfriend mad." Her voice lowered slightly, but Maggie could still hear her clearly, and knew that Whit could, too. "You know, I worried about Thomas when that girl was around. He was only thirteen then, and so impressionable. And I admit it, she was a pretty little thing. In a common sort of way. Tons of blonde hair, far too much makeup, that sort of thing."

Thomas? Maggie glanced up at Whit. If she'd been uncertain that he was the Thomas in question, she knew it was a fact when she saw the way his mouth had tightened. He wasn't looking at her, but out over the enormous, well-lighted, smooth green lawn and flower beds.

The terrace was huge, and there were other people sitting on benches and standing at the railing. Whit's mother hadn't noticed that her son was one of those people.

"I tried to warn him about her," her voice went on. "He seemed to be listening, but later I suspected that he was running off somewhere to meet the two of them, the girl and her boyfriend, away from the house. At least, I hoped it was the two of them. Fd have been sick if Fd suspected he was meeting just the girl. I wasn't happy about his association with the boy, either, mind you. His father was a farmer. He delivered our hay! But Thomas

had made no other friends out here " Her voice

trailed off, as if she'd been suddenly distracted.

"Your boy must have been very upset when the girl was killed."

Maggie couldn't look at Whit. Half of her wanted the discussion to end, while the other half wanted to hear the rest. Whit had said he knew Dante Guardino and the girl. But he had never said he knew them as well as his mother was implying.

"Oh, he was very upset. But that's understandable, don't you think? Thomas had never encountered violence of any sort before, not even in the city, and he's always been very sensitive. But," Mrs. Whittier added hastily, "he got over it, of course. He's made of strong stuff, my son, and it would take more than the death of a girl he hardly knew to throw him off course."

Well, which is it? Maggie thought irritably. He knew Christy well enough to worry you, or he

hardly knew her at all? Make up your mind!

Whit remained motionless and silent.

His mother's companion sighed. "Well, George said he could have got that Guardino boy off. Insanity plea, or diminished capacity, something like that, because of the girPs reputation and the boy's age. Of course," she added with a small laugh, "my George always thinks he can get someone else's client off. Humility is not one of George's problems. But," she sighed, "once the boy escaped, there was no hope of clearing him. One can't very well defend a client in absentia, can one?"

"I've often wondered," Whit's mother mused aloud, "if that boy might not someday make his way back here. His mother still lives here, you know. And you do read about criminals returning to the scene of the crime." She paused for a moment, then added, "I've wondered, too, if someone like that might ever kill again?"

"Well, as long as he doesn't do it around here," her companion said in a bored voice. "Let's go see what our husbands are up to. I wouldn't mind another dance. It's so hard to get George to bring me to these things. I don't want to waste a moment of it."

When the voices had ceased, Maggie looked up at Whit again. She sensed that he had completely withdrawn from her, and sensed, too, that it might be a really terrific idea not to pursue the matter.

But that just wasn't possible. It wasn't as if the two women had been talking about the merit badges Whit had earned in scouting when he was

thirteen, or the number of times he'd fallen off his bicycle, or what he liked to eat at Sunday brunch. They had just told her, unwittingly, that Whit had lied about his relationship with a dead girl and her murderer. Or, at the very least, not told the whole truth.

Maggie took a deep breath, let it out. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but determined. "Whit? Why didn't you tell us you knew Christy Miller and Dante Guardino so well?"

"Did you sneak out?"

"Yeah, I did. But not for the reasons she thinks. I did it to cover for Dante. His folks didn't want him seeing Christy at all. They couldn't stand her. So Fd bike over, meet him at his house, put my bike in the back of his father's truck, and we'd drive off together. As soon as we were out of the sight of the house, Fd hop out, grab my bike, and go on home by myself. And Dante would go meet Christy. If I wasn't available to cover for him, one of his other friends would."

Maggie said nothing. She didn't know what to think.

"So I didn't have to do it that often," Whit continued. "If it seemed more often than that to my mother, it's because she didn't want me having anything to do, ever, with either one of them." Whit laughed harshly. "Like I said, it was 'disharmonious.'"

Instead of feeling that he had explained, Maggie felt that there was more he wasn't telling her. "You could have told us that," she said quietly. "My Mends wouldn't have thought it was so awful. We would have thought you were just doing a favor for a friend."

"The girl was murdered, Maggie. And a friend of mine was convicted of committing that murder. That's not exactly a great subject for conversation."

Ordinarily, Maggie would have agreed. "But that was the subject. That's what we were talking about. And you brought it up. You said you knew

them. It just seems weird that you didn't say how well." Then she got it. It hit her as if someone had just written it on an invisible blackboard in front of her. It was the only reason for Whit's lack of honesty that made any sense. "Oh, god, you had a crush on her, didn't you? On that girl?" Of course. What had his mother said? That he'd been "upset" when the girl was killed. "That's why you lied. Or . . . didn't tell the whole truth."

He turned his head even farther away from her, to the left. She couldn't even see his profile, couldn't read any part of his expression. "I don't think I did lie. I just didn't elaborate. As for having a crush on her, I told you I didn't like her. And, god, Maggie, I was only thirteen."

"When I was thirteen, I thought I would die if Scout didn't ask me to go to the county fair with him." She hadn't known Scout that well. But all she'd required then was that a boy be gorgeous, and Scout was that. Now, she asked for more from a relationship. Like total honesty.

But she wasn't about to get it from Thomas Aquinas Whittier, not tonight. He let out a sound that spelled impatience, even annoyance. Maybe anger?

Maggie knew she had a choice. She could drop the subject and enjoy the rest of the evening ... or not, and ruin everything. Like he said, he hadn't really lied to them. Not exactly. He'd just left out a lot. And what did it matter? It had all happened a long time ago. Silly to make an issue of it now.

Still . . . something just didn't feel right. If

m

his mother hadn't come out on the terrace, if they hadn't overheard the conversation, she still wouldn't know that Whit had been Mends with two principals in a murder case. "Would you ever have told me?" she asked.

He was silent for a very long moment. Then he finally turned toward her and, his face expressionless, said, "Frankly, I didn't think it was any of your business."

So. She had ruined the evening, after all. Or he had. Or his mother had, without knowing it. Whatever. It was ruined.

"I think I'd like to go home now," she said carefully.

He nodded and said, "I think that's a good idea."

She was very gracious in her thank-you to the Whittiers. As they left, Whit's mother said warmly, "Do come again, Maggie," completely unaware that she had been instrumental in the ruination of Maggie's first, and no doubt last, evening at Picadilly.

Come again? Not likely. But, Maggie thought, blinking back tears of disappointment and anger as she climbed into Whit's black Lexus, I guess that means she thinks we make a "harmonious" couple. If she only knew...

The drive back into Felicity was painfully long and silent. Maggie sat as close to the passenger's door as possible. Whit insisted on walking her to the door, though she didn't want him to. But once there, standing at the door, he didn't attempt to kiss her good night. She wasn't sure what she would have done if he had. After that long drive

home, she felt as if they were occupying separate planets. Kissing him now would feel like kissing a stranger.

"Well," he said, standing at least a foot away from her on the porch, "I guess Fll see you at the courthouse tomorrow. When they take the statue down. You're still going, right?"

Her lips seemed unwilling to move. She forced them to say, "Right."

Nodding, he turned to leave. He was at the edge of the porch when he turned around to say, "I was only thirteen, Maggie. Didn't you do anything at thirteen that you'd like to forget? That you don't want to talk about now because that brings it all back, and you don't want it back?"

She didn't even have to think about it. "Yes," she said without hesitation. "But I would have told you." And she turned around, yanked the door open, and went inside.