Fatality (3 page)

“I apologize, Rose. I won’t say it again.”

“Rose, we have to charge you with stealing a vehicle,” said Megan Moran, “and driving without a license. But you’re a juvenile, the circumstances are unusual, and you probably won’t get a severe punishment. If you’ll help us with this, Rose, we’ll help you with the judge when you talk to him.”

Rose planned to be silent with the judge as well.

Into the room came the two policemen from whose squad car she had taken the diary and in whose squad car she had left home.

Stealing, it was called. She decided not to look at them.

“Rose,” said Megan Moran, “you do know that a woman died. I want you to think about her, instead of yourself. She was thirty-nine. She didn’t die of old age. She didn’t die of natural causes. She died in fear and pain. You are allowing the murderer to get away with it.”

“I am not!” said Rose fiercely. “You don’t understand! You—” She caught herself.

The police were softly waiting, like bunnies in the garden, but they would turn into foxes if she kept talking.

I cannot justify myself! I’m giving little pieces of myself away. Silence is the only weapon I have. In other words, Rose, she said to herself, shut up.

“Rose, we understand that you want to protect people. But if those people are murderers, it’s wrong of you. An innocent woman is dead. We know you can tell us what happened.”

Rose held herself very still. They would get no body language from her. No verbal language, either.

“Would you like a Coke, Rose? We don’t want you getting woozy again.”

Fainting might be good after all. With any luck she could tip over, hit her head, and be hospitalized. That would spare her dealing with her parents and a judge. Nurses were bound to be kinder.

She wondered how she was going to deal with her mother and father. They had had their hands full on several occasions with Tabor, but Rose as a rule came through for them. In part, she was naturally easier than her brother and in part, she enjoyed being the nice one, but also she wasn’t attracted to the edgy activities that drew Tabor.

She missed her brother suddenly and painfully. His departure for college had left a great hole in the family and they had not entirely gotten over it. Dutiful Rose was not a substitute for star-material Tabor.

“You’ve gone pretty far just to hide a few lines scribbled in a kid’s diary,” said Megan Moran. “I’m beginning to wonder, Rose, if you yourself had something to do with the murder.”

Rose was so astonished she almost forgot her vow of silence and began to explain. You
don’t understand. It didn’t happen that way. I wasn’t part of anything.

But the police would say, How
did
it happen? What
was
it part of?

Her parents walked in, and it was not Kate Bering they had brought. It was Mr. Travis, the criminal lawyer they had used that time they were here with Tabor.

They think I need a major league lawyer, thought Rose, her heart sinking.

Mom had been crying. Dad was red and puffy with fury, which was good, because if he’d been weepy, she would have wept with him and been weakened.

Neither of them knew how to greet her. Do you hug and kiss a daughter you’re meeting in the police station because she stole a car?

“Rose,” said her father, gripping both her shoulders, “you’d better have one good reason for doing this.”

Since she did of course have one good reason, his anger only strengthened her resolve. “I’m sorry, Daddy, but that was my diary, and nobody has a right to read it, and nobody had a right to take it. Including Mom. So I took it back.”

“And a police car with it! Are you proud of what you’ve done for some lousy paragraph in some childish old journal?”

Rose thought this kind of conversation could probably go on for a while, and she was right. Rose returned to silence. Time passed unpleasantly.

“Do you think this is a film set?” shouted her mother. “Cut the drama!”

Rose remained silent.

“Rose,” said Craig Gretzak finally.

Everybody must be getting pretty sick of her name. One syllable, over and over. Rose, Rose, Rose.

“Let’s review that time span,” said the policeman. “Anjelica Lofft invited you to spend the weekend at her father’s retreat.”

Rose had never imagined herself being friends with Anjelica. Even in seventh grade, Rose was academic, a trait that separated her from Anjelica’s crowd. The invitation had been astonishing and wonderful. Rose was filled with excitement and pride that Anjelica had chosen her, instead of interesting and worthy girls like Chrissie or Jill or Halsey, who were quick to pooh-pooh the coming weekend. They pointed out that Anjelica used up friends quickly; that perhaps it would be more truthful to say Anjelica had no friends, merely acquaintances she adopted and discarded in the course of a week or a month. In a dark seventh-grade corner of her heart, Rose thoroughly enjoyed their jealousy.

“You were thrilled, Rose,” said Megan Moran. “Anyone would be. The Loffts are a big deal. You told all your friends about it. Mr. Lofft and Anjelica planned to pick you up late Friday afternoon and drive to their lake house.”

The Loffts owned the whole lake and the mountain behind it. They owned every one of the cars in their sixteen-car garage. The girls were only twelve, but Mr. Lofft had promised they could drive any of the cars as long as they stayed in the compound. Maybe go up in his private plane. Preview a movie that had not yet hit the theaters. Ride horses from his stable.

“That Friday,” said the policeman, “when you left school, you walked two blocks to the Y for swim class.”

It startled Rose that he knew about swim class.

Actually, she had skipped swimming that Friday because Aunt Sheila had been visiting. Rose’s family lived on the East Coast, and Aunt Sheila on the West, so they did not see a lot of each other. Aunt Sheila and Mom were on the phone a lot and e-mailed almost every day, but years could go by without a real visit. Rose used to wonder how Aunt Sheila could stand to be alone for Thanksgiving and Christmas. But Aunt Sheila did not seem to notice family holidays, either as family or as holidays. Sometimes she sent Rose and Tabor fabulous presents, and sometimes she forgot entirely.

Aunt Sheila had been hurt that Rose had better things to do for the weekend than stay home and visit. If seventh grade taught Rose nothing else, it made clear the agony of being set aside for somebody better. She had decided to spend the hour of swim class with Aunt Sheila instead, to make up for deserting her.

Rose walked home, thinking what to pack her clothes in. She had an adorable little suitcase of fake leather, covered with fake travel stickers of the kind used a century ago by ladies going to Cairo or Vienna. But Anjelica had probably
really
gone to Cairo or Vienna and her suitcases were probably real leather. She might laugh at Rose.

In seventh grade, the very worst thing was to be laughed at.

That left a backpack bought new for seventh grade, stunning, vivid purple, with a dozen zippered pockets and compartments. But lockers were back in style and nobody was using backpacks anymore. Rose carried it to school only once.

Was a purple backpack a good choice? If you actually were a cool person, like Anjelica, as opposed to Rose, who hadn’t figured it out yet (and as it turned out, never did), would you think the backpack was cool? Rose dawdled on the road, recognizing that she had not the slightest desire to talk to Aunt Sheila. She wanted to be alone with her packing and her excitement.

The voice of the policeman penetrated her mind once more. “Milton Lofft came for you about four-thirty, didn’t he, Rose?”

Four years ago, when the police asked her about Milton Lofft, Rose hadn’t even known that was his first name. She told them she didn’t know anybody named Milton.

“In a Lincoln Navigator, wasn’t it?” said the current policeman, just like the policeman of four years ago.

Typical luxury SUV brute. It hadn’t even been a decent color. It was just brown. It lumbered over the road like a bear from the forest.

Inside, the Navigator was huge, with a custom interior. Behind the driver were two swivel seats facing a VCR that was flanked by containers of movies, books, board games with magnetic playing pieces, and handheld computer games. Mr. Lofft listened to a book on tape while Anjelica had put a movie in the VCR. There were headphones, so they didn’t have to listen to each other’s choices, but they didn’t bother. Mr. Lofft smoked cigars, a habit Rose knew only from cartoons. The smoke had a sweet, woodsy scent, as if they were camping and somebody would soon bring out the marshmallows. Anjelica had a special blanket, pillow, and stuffed bear. She tucked up and fell asleep without once chatting with Rose.

High above traffic in the bulky Navigator, Rose had stared out the window at the darkening shadows of early autumn. Ninety miles of driving ahead of them. The voices and plots of book and movie spun through Rose, all these dialogues later to mix crazily with the first round of police questioning. And now, sitting dizzily amid the clamor and anger of parents and police, Rose could hardly tell whether the police voice speaking so sharply was the one she remembered from four years ago or a voice in the present.

But Mr. Lofft stopped on the way to the lake to talk to somebody, didn’t he, Rose? He went through a stone gate and up a private cobblestone drive. Tell us about the house on the hill, Rose.

The house, imitating its site, had been steeply slanted, surrounded by rock cuts, twisted trees, and a real waterfall from a real brook. “Does the house span the brook?” Rose had asked Mr. Lofft, astonished. It was the only thing she had said to him so far.

“Yup. Glass floor in the living room looks down on the waterfall. It’s a famous house. I’ll be right back. Gotta yell at Frannie.” He slammed his car door and strode toward the house. The landscaping and shadows closed in on him.

Anjelica lifted her head briefly.

“Who is Frannie?” asked Rose.

“Business partner. They’ve been together ten years and they’ve never had a nice conversation. All they do is yell. We can probably hear from here. Want something to eat? There’s lots of food.”

The girls knelt on the floor to look in a tiny fridge where there were cold soft drinks and some grapes. A wicker basket lined with checked red cotton held fat bakery cookies and triangular pastries. A grocery bag overflowed with chip selections.

Pipe smoke had settled toward the floor and Rose coughed. “I’m not hungry,” she said, returning to her seat.

Anjelica, still kneeling, tore open a bag of blue corn chips.

Rose, did Mr. Lofft go inside the house?

I don’t know.

Did you go inside the house?

No.

Rose, did you hear the argument between Mr. Lofft and Ms. Bailey?

I can’t remember.

Rose, it’s important. Try to remember.

I think Anjelica and I were having a snack. I think she opened blue corn chips.

What time did you arrive at the lake estate?

After dark.

Did Mr. Lofft stop for any other errands or any other reason?

Traffic, I think. There was a lot of traffic.

Did you have dinner with Mr. Lofft?

I don’t remember.

It was this answer that made the police so unwilling to believe Rose. The police said that a twelve-year-old could have been so busy giggling with her girlfriend that she paid no attention to the ride; okay, they could live with that. But dinner at so impressive an estate as Milton Lofft’s? It must have been exciting and memorable. She could not have forgotten her welcome dinner at a mansion literally five times the size of her own home.

But in fact there had been no dinner, just a lot of food laid out on a long counter that gleamed like a waxed car. Cold salads with bright, unusual greens; a leg of lamb, sliced and steaming; beautifully garnished unknown hot dishes; a cold chicken surrounded by lemon slices; hot breads in twists and braids; cheese and fruit in artistic arrangements.

“Eat whenever you want,” said Anjelica. “Like on a cruise ship.”

“Don’t you sit down together?” asked Rose.

“Only if we have guests.” Anjelica apparently did not think of Rose as a guest, just a person who was there. Never glancing at the nutritional food, Anjelica helped herself to a slice of the richest, most lavishly iced and decorated chocolate cake Rose had ever seen, and wandered off with her plate.

And like a cruise ship, the place featured lots of activities. Rose discovered in the course of the weekend that she could watch a movie in the entertainment room, swim in the heated indoor pool, swim in the heated outdoor pool. Enjoy the game room, the craft room, the book room. Sit in the solarium, visit the orchid greenhouse, ride horses, play with the new litter of puppies in the kennels.

There weren’t, however, lots of people. Half the time, she couldn’t even find Anjelica or Mr. Lofft. Rose kept feeling that if she just went around one more corner, she would find the party, but she never did.

Now the cop’s voice tightened. His brittle anger yanked Rose into the present. “Rose, a good kid with an outstanding academic record doesn’t lightly steal a police car. In fact, darn few people, no matter what their grades in school, have ever committed that particular crime. And darn few people actually stay silent, Rose. People love to be at the center of things, talking away, being important. You can’t come up with a single detail about two and a half days at a billionaire’s lake estate? Rose, I have some photographs I want you to see. I want you to see the dead woman’s body. It wasn’t found for several days, you know. I want you to see it swollen and grotesque and covered with maggots and know that you are protecting the person who did this to her.”

“No!” cried her father, voice strangled in his throat. He backed himself and Rose against the wall to prevent his daughter from having to look at such photographs. He was trembling. “But Rose, honey,” he said, and the whole room had to stop breathing in order to hear him talk, because his voice was so papery thin, “if you saw a murder, how could you go on to play games, and drive antique cars, and laugh with another little girl? I can’t believe you’re so callous and yet I don’t know how to believe anything else. I have to agree with the police. You must have witnessed something you are refusing to tell us. Or why destroy what you wrote about
that
weekend, and
only
that weekend?”