Family Practice (24 page)

Nobody's face lit up in neon, flashing guilt. Stupid to think she could spot the guilty. They just looked like they looked.

“You don't even know a painting has been stolen,” Willis said.

“One is gone.” The one she'd added a butterfly to, a dreepy attempt to make Daddy feel better after his stroke. Her daubs probably meant the painting wasn't worth a dime. Would the cops tack on fraud to a murder charge? It was her painting, the one she'd chosen when Mother said they could each have one, the one she'd fought with Dorothy about.

Did whoever took it know it was worthless? Carl would, for sure, the only one besides herself who'd ever cared about them. Willis or Vicky? She couldn't even guess. The same for Marlitta and Brent. Taylor might know. She didn't think he had any interest in them, except they were valuable. Dorothy probably never looked at them. If it hadn't been for the bit in the paper, the painting might not have been missed for years.

Willis got up, splashed more soda in his glass, and stood in front of the tall windows. If Dorothy had done that, everybody would have watched her, waiting for a pronouncement. Willis barely got a flicker.

“Taylor.” He turned to Dorothy's husband. “You know anything about this?”

Taylor shot to his feet. “What did you do, take a vote and decide on me? Why me? Because I'm only an in-law, not a Barrington?”

They were a lot alike, Willis and Taylor, Ellen thought. Except Willis was fair and Taylor dark. Both in suit and tie, both concerned about the impression they made, both lacking a sense of humor, both slightly stuffy.

“Opportunity,” Carl said softly. “You were on site.”

Hairs stirred along Ellen's arms. She'd never heard Carl sound like that, didn't know he could.

“Opportunity.” Taylor snorted, paced to the fireplace, and stood with his back to it.

Back to the wall, Ellen thought.

“You're all in and out of here all the time. What about Vicky?” Taylor pointed at her. “She's not a Barrington.”

“Now, just a minute,” Willis sputtered.

“She was here the day before Dorothy was killed.”

“I didn't take anything,” Vicky whispered.

We're like a pack of wolves, ready to turn on the weak.

“Why were you here?” Taylor demanded.

“I came to see Dorothy.”

“She wasn't home.”

“I didn't know that, did I?” Vicky stuck out her chin. “I know you all think I'm stupid. I'm not so stupid I don't see things. I know you wear a raincoat when it rains.” She changed from scared rabbit to spitting cat. “I know when people meet other people by the side of a country road they aren't picking wildflowers. I've heard of core samples. I know money can buy things.”

“Nobody thinks you're stupid.” Willis crossed to the sofa, sat down, and picked up Vicky's hand. She didn't look comforted. “I won't have accusations tossed around,” he said to Taylor.

“Unless they're tossed at me? What about Brent? Let's toss a few his way.”

Marlitta hauled in air with a hiss.

Brent touched her with one finger. “Careful, Taylor, you're about to take on more than you can handle.”

Brent had a great voice, Ellen had to admit. Deep, rich, with a sensual undercurrent, a hypnotic hum. Didn't matter what he said, you wanted to listen. Then you wanted to applaud. He probably practiced with a tape recorder.

“You think I can't handle you?” Taylor's glance swept over them. “Any of you?”

“I suggest it would be unwise to try.” Brent leaned back and put his fingertips together across his manly chest.

Ellen wondered what script he got his dialogue from.

“You are aware we live in an insular community?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Brent smiled.

What was he reaching for here? Menace? Irony? Whatever, it came through as the same old bullshitting Brent.

“It means, my dear Taylor, it doesn't take long for word to get around.”

Oh, my, Ellen thought. Probably the only person in the world who hears things. Yep. I'll betcha he knows all these things 'cause he's just got so much more brain power than the rest of us folks.

Taylor didn't seem to take it as bullshit; it made him draw in his horns right quick. Though he did try one more jab, he'd lost the note of righteous indignation. “You threatening me?”

“Interpret it any way you wish.” Brent stood up to get himself another drink. On the way he winked at Ellen.

What did that mean? She stared stonily back and was aware that Vicky was watching. Uneasily, Ellen wondered if they were wrong about Vicky. Maybe she wasn't as dim as they thought.

Taylor slid a glance at Vicky that seemed to mean something. Wouldn't it be funny if they were having an affair, Taylor and Vicky? No. Not funny. Anyway, Vicky was devoted to Willis. Brent was the one who had affairs. Ellen figured that's what all the swimming was about.

The telephone rang. Both Willis and Marlitta started to get up. Extensions were all over the house, but there was none in the music room.

“Since I live here,” Taylor said, “maybe I should be allowed to answer my own phone.”

Neither Willis nor Marlitta acknowledged his sarcastic tone. He returned in a moment to say the call was for Willis.

When Willis went out to take it, Vicky got up, went to the cart with the liquor bottles, and poured soda in her glass. There was a deliberateness and defiance in her actions that made Ellen feel she was missing something.

Brent tilted his glass, emptied it, and got up for a refill. He said something to Vicky in a soft voice that Ellen couldn't hear. Vicky turned her back on him and went to sit down on the sofa.

Willis returned, fishing keys from his pocket. “That was the service. A patient fell against a window. A long cut on his leg needs stitching. We weren't accomplishing anything here anyway. I don't like all these suggestions that one of us had anything to do with Dorothy's death. The painting may have been gone for years. I suggest we all get back to our lives as best we can with Dorothy gone and stop making trouble for ourselves.”

He gave Vicky a brief kiss on the cheek and took off. Vicky stood up and took a step after him. “Willis—”

She stopped, got a look of irritation on her face, and then shrugged.

“I'll run you home,” Carl said.

“I can walk. I like to walk. I do a lot of it.”

Hidden meaning in Vicky's words? Stop it, Ellen told herself. Overworked imagination. If Vicky knew anything, she'd come right out and spill it to the cops. Except, she might protect Willis. He wouldn't have killed Dorothy. Of all of them, he was the most devastated.

Ellen felt suddenly boneless-tired. Her world had turned upside down. One member in this family of loved ones was trying to frame her for murder. She knew it, and she didn't want it to be. Not Willis. Not Carl. Not Marlitta. Ellen glanced at Marlitta. She looked lost and bewildered. Maybe that's how I look too. We're all lost and bewildered without Dorothy here to tell us what to do.

“We might as well go home,” Carl said. “The gathering of the family is now over.”

Marlitta got to her feet and plodded to the door like an old woman. Brent finished his drink and followed. Carl offered again to give Vicky a ride. She hesitated. Vicky afraid of Carl? No. Nobody could be afraid of Carl. Then she smiled prettily and accepted.

After everybody left, Ellen put the liquor away in the cabinet and stashed the cart in the closet. She was gathering up dirty glasses to bring to the kitchen when she heard the back door close.

Dashing to the window, she was just in time to see Taylor drive off. Where was he going? Why hadn't he told her he was leaving? Don't be stupid. No reason he had to tell her anything. And even though it felt like midnight, it was only nine o'clock.

Overly neurotic. Take a nice long shower and get yourself to bed. She stashed glasses in the dishwasher, trudged up to her bedroom, sat on the window seat, looked out at the garden, and listened to the locusts. Hey, could be worse, right? At least it's stopped raining. Was Vicky trying to say something tonight? Bloody hell. I don't know. I don't know anything.

She got in the shower and stood under hot water hoping the steam would boil up a useful thought.

The phone rang. She started to jump out, then decided to ignore it. It rang and rang and rang. Grumbling, she turned off the water, grabbed a towel, and blotted at her legs as she hurried to answer. Whoever it was would probably hang up before she got there. The nearest phone was Dorothy's office.

She snatched the receiver, slightly breathless, slightly irritated, “Hello.”

“It's Vicky.”

Loud music in the background. Ellen couldn't hear.

“Can you come over?”

“Now? I was just getting ready for bed.” A click and the dial tone. Ellen grimaced and started to call back. Whatever it was could wait until tomorrow. She stood there a tick, dripping water on Dorothy's Persian carpet. Something odd about the phone call, but she couldn't figure what.

She tugged on a clean pair of jeans and a blue tank top and peered around for her beige sandals. One was at the foot of the bed, the other beneath the rocker. She slid her feet into them and ran the brush through her wet hair. From her purse, she dug out car keys.

Six blocks away, she pulled into the driveway, then realized the garage door was open and one of the cars was gone. Willis wasn't home yet. She backed out, so he could get in the garage when he got here, and parked in front. Crickets sang in the shrubbery, the air was warm and velvet-soft against her bare arms, billions of stars glittered in a black sky.

She trotted up the steps and rapped on the door. Music blared at high volume inside. She rapped harder.

How could anybody hear anything? She slapped down the steps and around to the rear. Vicky had called. The least she could do was answer a knock. Light from the kitchen window spilled a large rectangle on the lawn.

She pounded on the door, waited a few seconds, and tried the knob. It turned under her hand. She pushed it open and stepped in. “Vicky?” She squinted in the light.

Jesus, why did she have the music so loud?

“Vicky? Where are you?”

She went through the dining room and peered into the dim living room. Vicky was slumped on the couch. She wasn't moving. She didn't look so good.

20

“V
ICKY
? W
HAT'S WRONG
? Why are you sitting in the dark?” Beethoven blared in her ears. Bad smell. She groped along the wall for the switch that turned on the recessed ceiling lights.

“Vicky, for heaven's sake, what's so important it couldn't wait till morning?”

She hit the switch and got more light. “Oh, my God.” Her heart crashed around in her throat. The light lit up Vicky's face. It was blue. Blue isn't a good color for a face. Clashed horribly with her blue dress. She'd vomited. On the floor. On the couch. All down her dress.

Ellen gagged and clapped a hand to her mouth. Do something. She couldn't make her legs work, couldn't take her eyes from that ugly blue face, eyes half-open, staring. Vicky was beautiful. She couldn't look like this.

Beethoven swelled. Music to die by. A high, keening wail forced its way through her throat. She clamped her teeth and backed away. Abruptly, she turned, moved numbly to the stereo, and snapped it off. The silence was heavy, thick. Then little sounds came creeping in: the hum of the refrigerator, the ponderous tick of the mantel clock, a car driving by. Her ears made tick-tick-tick sounds like cooling metal.

I have to call— Ambulance. Police. Carl. I'll call Carl. He'll know what to do. Phone. In the kitchen. If she concentrated very hard, she could make her feet move. Yes, she could. Oh, God, Vicky. Poor Vicky.

Hauling in quick gulps of air, she made it to the kitchen and reached for the phone. She couldn't dredge up Carl's number. Fingers icy cold, she punched 911.

“Vicky— She's—”

“Can you tell me what the problem is?”

“I'm afraid she's— She doesn't seem to be breathing.”

Despite the calm voice telling her to stay on the line, she hung up and called Carl. This time his number came out with no difficulty.

“Carl, Vicky's dead. On the couch. I just came over—and found her—all slumped—and her face—” She slid to the floor, back against the cabinet, and clasped her hands around her legs.

*   *   *

At eleven-thirty at night, the streets were bare of traffic, the houses dark. A soft wind trailed gauzy wisps of clouds across an almost full moon and plucked at Susan's hair through the open window of the pickup. She made a quick left onto Longhorn Drive and pulled up beside a squad car, overheads still flashing. An ambulance was parked next to it, empty and waiting. A handful of neighbors, in pajamas and robes, stood watching from front yards and open doorways.

Susan slid from the pickup, tucked her gray blouse more tightly into her gray pants, and nodded to Officer Yancy, standing at the door. In the entryway, two paramedics lounged against the wall waiting to be summoned. She went through into the living room and paused to take in a sense of the scene.

Dr. Fisher stood by the body while Osey took photographs. They both looked up at her and then went on with their business. Vicky's immaculate living room seemed defiled by the presence of the body and the pools of vomit on the Oriental rug and the pearl-gray couch.

Vicky had slumped over onto her left shoulder, left side of her face resting on the couch, left arm beneath her, right arm dangling to the floor, fingers loosely curled. She wore a simple blue cotton dress with a flared skirt and high-heeled sandals. Her perfect oval face was a cyanotic blue. Her shiny chestnut hair picked up highlights from the recessed ceiling fixtures. A mug of what looked like hot chocolate sat on the glass-topped table by the couch.