Cloudland (27 page)

I glanced at the scattering of people sitting at picnic tables around us and said quietly, “Just between us they
do
have a sample now. Though it’s not public knowledge. So keep it to yourself. They found it in Elena Mayaguez’s car. If it
is
the same guy, and it might not be, this is his first misstep, DNA-wise. Not on her, but they did find identical synthetic fibers on some of the women that would indicate he used gloves. He was wearing gloves when he attacked Angela Parker. Then again, it was the middle of winter.”

“The middle of winter,” Breck repeated dismally as she wiped her mouth. “So glad to be away from that endless Vermont dreariness.”

“New Jersey ain’t exactly the tropics.”

“Well, we don’t get walls of snow in Jersey.… Anyway, so this detective is down with the idea that the murderer is lifting his method from
your
book?”

“Just one of the theories being floated. There may be another copy around. We don’t know.”

Breck put her sandwich down. “Okay, so who else
has
read your book?”

Obviously, I would avoid mentioning Matthew’s having read it. “I had several students who borrowed it. I promised Anthony I’d get him their names, but I haven’t been able to find the right rosters of the classes they were in. Of course I have all the class rosters that I don’t need. I could have sworn I lent it to Wade; though he claims not, I don’t find myself quite believing him.”

Breck’s eyes sparked and she drew in a sharp breath. “Him again?”

“He always acts so innocent and open with me but I can’t help being a little wary.”

Breck added, “Violence toward objects can forewarn violence toward people.”

“The thing is that he knows that, too, and admits it freely.”

We both fell speculatively silent, and then I noticed her eyeing the half-sandwich I’d left on my plate. Pointing to it, she said, “Don’t you like it?”

“I’ve lost my appetite.” It was hardly the thought of Wade possibly being the killer, but rather the idea of broaching Matthew’s visit to Breck, which I knew I had to do. She wrapped the leftover food in my napkin and carefully placed it inside her bag.

When we got home, Breck received a riotous greeting from the animals, particularly Henrietta, who’d always adored her. After slobbering all over her, Virgil and Mrs. Billy eventually went back to their favorite sleeping spots in my office; Henrietta shadowed us to the kitchen.

“Madame, where have you been all my life?” Breck said, scratching our darling behind the ears. Henrietta flopped down on the floor sideways, soliciting more. “You’re shameless,” Breck said, then combing through her purse, brought out my remaining half sandwich. “She knows where her bread is buttered,” she added, leveraging a hunk of tuna and holding her palm out. Henrietta rolled the morsel off with her snout and snorted in momentary pleasure.

“Okay, now go under the table!” Breck ordered her. Henrietta listened, dutifully righted herself, and then muscled her way under. We heard the thudding sound of her collapse.

“You’re the only person she really listens to,” I marveled as Breck began rubbing the pig’s belly with her toes.

“That’s because she wuvs me,” Breck said in a baby voice.

*   *   *

Over the next twenty-four hours I found it impossible to bring up the subject of Matthew’s visit. On the second night of Breck’s stay, I awoke at around three
A.M.
, thinking I heard rustling sounds; the bedroom Breck had lived in throughout her teenaged years, and where she’d gone through her first serious bout with anorexia, was right across the hall from mine. Anticipating her arrival, I’d purposely exhumed her scrapbooks, stuffed animals, board games, and ribbons and costume jewelry. I got up, fully expecting to find her sitting in bed, sifting through her old trinkets and belongings as she had a habit of doing when she visited. Instead, I saw her standing in an expensive blue silk bathrobe (that Violet obviously bought her), scouring the upstairs bookshelves as Matthew had done downstairs two days before. I asked what she was doing.

Breck remained turned away. “Just browsing.”

“At this time of night? What are you looking for?”

“Nothing in particular.” She deliberately picked
Armadale
by Wilkie Collins out of the shelf and showed it to me.

“I just reread it,” I told her. “I need to bring it back downstairs.”

“To your Wilkie Collins shelf?” Breck sounded a bit sarcastic. “Is it any good?”

“Yes, quite.” I told her many people put
Armadale
up there with
The Woman in White, No Name,
and
The Moonstone
. It portrays a very evil, powerful female character who was considered to be quite controversial when the novel first appeared.
Armadale
was also one of the author’s more socially advanced novels.

“For one thing, the protagonist is half black.”

“Oh, like Anthony’s wife.”

“Precisely.”

“How is
she
doing?”

“Did I tell you she was having an affair for a year and a half before he found out?”

“Nope, kept that little tidbit to yourself.”

“She didn’t want me to find out about it for some reason.”

“Maybe because the same thing happened to you. With Dad.” Breck flipped the book over and scanned the back cover and said, “I might borrow this one if that’s okay.”

“You can, but only if you read it this time.”

“I will.” I could see a thought influencing her expression. “Mom,” she said, suddenly plaintive, “I’ve been here nearly two days.”

“Yeah?”

“Isn’t there something rather important that you need to tell me?”

I waited for a moment. “First I’d like to know whether or not it was the reason behind your … impromptu visit.”

“Obviously.”

“How’s
that
supposed to make me feel? You come here not to visit me but to check up on me.”

“How do you think
I
feel when you never ask me how my partner is and refuse to come to New Jersey?”

I started getting irritated. “Okay, pig notwithstanding, I hate traveling.”

“What do you mean, you hate traveling? You and I have gone all over the world.”

“That was then. I wish you wouldn’t take it so personally that I don’t like going too far from home anymore.”

Breck shook her head, exasperated. “Look, I’m really worried about you. God knows you used to worry about me.”

“The
mother
is supposed to worry.”

“It also happens the other way round!”

“Those jokers down the road!” I exclaimed. “I can’t believe they’d have the balls to call you up.”

“Believe it.… Look, Mom, we all want to protect you. You can’t fault us for that. I mean, were you at least going to tell me?”

“Of course. I was working up to it … before you left. I’ve just been afraid of your reaction.”

“So when did he get back from Asia?”

“April.”

“How many times have you seen him, honestly?”

“Once.”

“You know you should not have been alone with him.”

“Bad move, I admit it. But Wade and Paul knew he was here and called during his visit. And it went fine. He behaved like a gentleman.”

“Oh great!” Breck’s tone was deeply sarcastic.

Ignoring her, I said, “We even talked about the incident.”

“How evolved of both of you.”

“I don’t want you worrying about this.”

Breck suddenly fumed, “What do you mean? The guy fucking ruined your life!”

“That’s a bit melodramatic.”

She looked disgusted. “Oh my God! Now you’re downplaying what he
did
. It was directly because of him that you lost your teaching job.”

“No, it was because of some letter-writing lunatic.”

“Did you ever consider that letter-writing lunatic maybe was
him
trying to get you fired?”

I actually
had
considered this. “But the person also wrote to his parents. That was not what he wanted.”

Breck was shaking her head. “Mom, I just … can’t understand how you could have allowed yourself to be alone with him.”

“I know it was wrong. But it’s been a couple of years. I just … I went on instinct.”

Breck looked at me warily. “Did you tell Anthony about this visit?” I merely stared at her. “No, of course you didn’t.”

“Anthony is not my guardian. He doesn’t even know Matthew.”

“But he keeps an eye on you.”

“Wait a minute. How do you think Paul and Wade knew? Because I told them Matthew was coming here.”

“At least you had the presence of mind to do that.”

I leaned against the hallway wall. “You don’t think it matters that Matthew and I have been apart for quite a while, now? Out of touch? Disengaged?”

Breck shook her head and looped a strand of hair behind an ear. Then she said, “Maybe you’re not so involved with
him.
But what about
his
feelings toward you?”

“I think his feelings have changed, Breck. And that’s why it’s less complicated getting together with him.”

Setting the Wilkie Collins novel down on a painted wooden chair standing right next to her, she said, “This is where you go so wrong in your thinking, in your judgment. Matthew will always be in love with you. And
that’s why
 … you’ll never be able to trust him.”

There was truth in what she said, and I didn’t try to refute it.

Fighting to control her voice, Breck said, “You loved him more than you ever loved me.”

“
That
is not true!”

“And you lost so much because of him and now you’re … just going to let him back in again.”

“Letting him visit once is not letting him back in.”

She shook her head. “I know your pattern. You’ve gotten into bad relationships way too easily.”

Despite my resentment at being criticized by my daughter, despite the urge to retort with something caustic, I swallowed the bitter commentary.

*   *   *

I remembered the time she came home one weekend during college without warning and found Matthew and me together. I’d previously mentioned him to her (in an admittedly scant description) in terms of his doing some yard- and housework and that, due to his estrangement from his parents, we’d formed an unusual “friendship.” However, when she walked in the door and found me sitting on his lap, I believe she was flabbergasted, even though she hissed, “Why am I not surprised?” She was carrying an armful of textbooks, presumably to study in the sanctity of her bedroom. Glaring at us, she hurled them down on the floor; some of the spines cracked and perfect-bound pages came loose. She knew how much I revered books and her act of sacrilege was clearly directed at me. Then she cursed us and went upstairs to her bedroom, where Matthew was keeping his weekend bag. By then he and I had extricated ourselves from each other and were standing there waiting for the next bombardment. Finally we heard Breck bounding down the stairs and she burst into the room red-faced.

“Okay,” she said to me. “One of us is leaving. Who is it going to be?”

“I’m leaving,” Matthew said to her.

She refused to speak, not to mention look at him.

“But I’m going to have to go up there and get some of my things.”

She flicked her head as if to say, “Then do it!,” her eyes boring into me.

*   *   *

Now I moved toward Breck, stroking her hair and resting my hand on her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, the visit went fine.”

“It was the first one. His expectations were lower.” An arduous silence followed. “Just one thing I ask of you,” she said at last.

“What’s that?”

“Don’t hide from me the next time he comes. I want to know.”

I found myself hesitating. “Okay.”

“You don’t sound sure, Ma. So is that a promise?”

“Of course it’s a promise,” I told her.

EIGHTEEN

T
HE PHONE RANG SEVERAL TIMES
the morning of Breck’s departure, and not recognizing the numbers, I let all the calls go to voice mail. I found it odd that I had yet to hear from Anthony, who claimed he’d wanted to confer with me—presumably about the investigation. I wondered if he’d somehow missed my phone message. When I finally listened there was just one voice mail, from somebody who spoke without identifying herself. “Hi, Catherine. This is all so very strange.” Then she hesitated. I knew I recognized the voice but couldn’t place it at first, annoyed that the caller didn’t introduce herself. “It’s like your visit did something to break the ice. I mean, not literally.” Then she laughed a throaty laugh.

How could this person assume that I would identify her? But then just before she spoke her next sentence I twigged.

“He—Tim—stopped talking, completely stopped chatting to me not fifteen minutes after you and Anthony left that afternoon. Hasn’t said a word to me in quite a while.” Her voice cracked and when she spoke again, it was quavering. “His aunt called me earlier this morning. To tell me they found him. Under the pile of debris exactly where I said he’d be.” Her voice regained some of its composure and she went on, “Now that my head is clearing, I’m hearing from other people. I have to say it’s somehow meaningful that the woman who disappeared down there was found in the water just a few days before Tim.”

The phone rang again as I was listening to the very last words of the message.

“Hi, Catherine, it’s me, Nan again. I don’t know if you got my first message.”

“Just finished listening to it.” I probably sounded snippy.

“I’m not calling about that anymore. I’m calling about Anthony.”

About Anthony? What could she possibly have to tell me about Anthony?

“My contact in the Burlington police department just overheard a report and got in touch with me. He knows who Anthony is and that the two of you came to see me. Apparently, this morning Anthony had some kind of fall in a men’s room in a rest area on Route 89. It happened twenty miles south of Burlington.”

A fall in a men’s room? Twenty miles south of Burlington? What was he doing up there? “Are you sure?”

“Positive. He—Anthony—has already reported it himself.”