Murder in the Mansion (5 page)

“What's
happened? My family,” she was unable to finish the sentence.

“We're
not sure what's happened,” Delaney replied frankly. “I'm going to tell you what
I know and then maybe you can help me fill in the blanks.”

“Okay,”
Nadia stared at him.

“We
received a call that two shots had been fired. A neighbor called it in. A few
moments later a guest at the party that was going on here also called it in.”

“Shots?”
Nadia asked blankly. “Like gunshots?”

“Yes,
gunshots,” Delaney told her, his voice deliberately softening. “Nadia when we
arrived at the scene we found both of your parents. They were dead.”

“Dead,”
Nadia repeated.

“Yes,
both of them.”

“Dead,”
Nadia repeated again. She was unable to process the rest.

“Yes,”
Delaney confirmed. “Can I get you something? Call anyone to be with you?”

“There's
no one,” Nadia continued to stare at him blankly. “My brothers and sisters left
years ago. It's just me. I stayed.”

“I'll
have to get their names from you and ask you some questions. I'll give you a
few minutes first, to digest what I've told you.”

“It
will take more than a few minutes for me to do that,” Nadia told him slowly.
Her brain felt as if it were about to overheat it was working so hard, so fast,
to absorb this information.

My
parents are dead. That must have ruined the party.

She
didn't know where it came from. It was a morbid, horrible thought, and so
unlike her that she flinched, worried someone had heard her. But nobody around
her looked horrified. Everyone looked like they were waiting for something, a
task to do maybe, or some kind of direction.

Dad
turned sixty today. He died on his birthday.

She
put her head between her knees and tried to breathe slowly. She could hear the
detective speaking to her but she wasn’t paying attention to what he was
saying. Her thoughts were louder, faster, and drowned the rest out.

The
neighbor across the street had crossed to talk to the ones who lived next door
to Nadia's family. Nadia watched them gossip, share information, and gesture as
they stood in the middle of the street. She could feel their stares as if their
eyes burned holes into her head. They always gossiped at the times when you
needed them most. Instead of coming over, asking if maybe they could help her,
they would stand there and speculate. People didn't change. People didn't care.

I
need someone to tell me what to do. What would Mom and Dad do?

And
she knew. She knew what she had to do and how it needed to be done. She had to
get through this, now, and on her own. She could think about the rest, the
details, later. But right now she had to be stoic and strong like her mother,
and practical and smart like her father. There was no one to hold her hand.
Nadia had only herself.

“How
did they die?” Nadia stood needing to be on her feet to hear the answer.

“Your
mother was shot twice. Your father appears to have died from natural causes.
We'll need to do autopsies to be sure.”

“Natural
causes?” Nadia asked wanting clarification.

“Possibly
a heart attack or a stroke.”

“He
wasn't shot?”

“No.”

“Where
were they?” Nadia made herself ask the question. Once she had the answer she
knew she would be able to visualize their deaths. She didn't want to do that
but she had to know.

“In
the library. There were about two hundred people in the back garden.”

“It
was my father's birthday party,” Nadia replied distantly. “He turned sixty
today.”

“Were
your siblings at the party?” Delaney asked her.

“No,
they're estranged,” Nadia told him. “We haven't heard from them in years.”

“Are
you sure?” Delaney pressed.

“Yes.
Why?” Nadia made herself look him in the eye.

“Nadia,
this is a homicide. It might be a murder-suicide. We can't rule anything or
anyone out.”

“Oh,”
Nadia didn't know what else to say. The noises seemed to get louder and louder
in her ears. The streetlights got brighter. The neighbors all seemed to be
watching her, waiting to see what she would do.

It's
like Dani's murder. It's happening again.

She
walked away from Delaney, up the driveway, and onto the lawn, hidden from the
neighbors. She heard him follow her and knew he wasn't far behind.

“It's
a crime scene, Nadia,” Delaney told her gently. “You can't go inside.”

“I
know,” she fought to regain her composure. This couldn't be happening to her.
This was all wrong. She turned to face the house, the home she had loved, with
all its memories, good and bad.

It's
a crime scene.

“I'd
like to bring you to the station so I can ask you a few questions,” Delaney told
her. “We have coffee there. Soft drinks. I can help you book a hotel for the
night. I can get someone to take you there.”

Nadia
only nodded. She continued to stare at the house in front of her. Everything
seemed different now. She wasn't sure how she was going to get through this.

“Are
they still in there?” she whispered.

“Yes,”
Delaney put a bracing hand on her arm. “They were identified at the party by
guests. Now we're just waiting on the coroner.”

“Why?”

“To
place the time of death,” Delaney explained calmly. “And to take them away.”

“Take
them where?” she looked at him now, panicked, and stepped away.

“To
the morgue, Nadia,” Delaney told her. “Then we'll do the autopsy.”

“And
then?”

“Then
they'll be released to you. You and your family will make their arrangements.”

Nadia
blinked back the tears and fought hard against the emotion rising in her
throat. She wanted to throw herself on the ground, clawing and screaming, but
knew that she couldn't. She wanted to wail that they couldn't really be dead,
that her mother couldn't possibly have been shot, but she couldn't allow
herself to truly think about it. She knew if she did, then any shred of
control, of dignity or pride, would be sacrificed. It would have to wait.

“Ready
to go, Nadia?” Delaney took a step in her direction.

“Yes,
let's go,” Nadia told him briskly. Then she turned and sunk to her hands and
knees. The grass was damp from the sprinkler system. It smeared onto her hands
and knees as she held herself upright, fighting against the nausea. None of it
mattered.

Maybe
nothing would ever matter again.

The
house was finally quiet and Dylan could sit and think. He and his wife hadn't
spoken any more about having another child, which was just as well, because Dylan
didn't know what he would have said. After dinner, Meg had cleaned up the
kitchen while Dylan watered the garden. She had gone to bed early to read, and
by the time Dylan joined her, she was asleep. He had stripped down to his
boxers and crawled into bed, hoping the exhaustion of another busy day would
knock him out. But his mind wouldn't shut off. The past kept pushing to the
front of his consciousness, demanding that he go back to that time. To that
night.

When
everything changed. When she died.

Dylan
couldn't ignore it. The more he tried, the guiltier he felt for not letting
himself go back there. He finally got up, knowing there was no point in trying
to sleep. He had too much on his mind and knew that he had to acknowledge it,
consider it, before he could move beyond it. That was the type of person he
was. He was sensitive, analytical, and slightly obsessive. He couldn't just
focus on the big picture, that had never worked for him.

Meg
had picked a hell of a time to tell him that she wanted to have a baby, he
thought. Of course, she didn't know enough of the facts to know otherwise.
Which was his fault, Dylan reminded himself. If he'd been honest with her from
the beginning then none of this would be an issue. Or at the very least he
could have talked it over with her. He had lied to her about his family. He had
told her he didn't have one. Now, because he had done so, he couldn't use them
as an excuse not to have a child.

Was
it normal, he wondered, to be this restless five years later? If his family had
remained intact, if he hadn't lied about it, if his sister hadn't died, would
any of that make the memory hurt less? If there were fewer factors and less
damage would this be just another day?

In
the kitchen he lit a candle and sat in the dark. He didn't dare turn on the
lights in case he woke Meg.

He
got up, agitated, and retrieved his bottle of whiskey from the top of the
cabinet. The moon, huge and bright, caught his attention through the kitchen
window. He remembered sitting out by the pool at night, watching it, studying
it, marveling that everyone else all over the world was looking at the very
same moon. It used to bring him comfort when things at home were bad. Now it
made him sad and old and alone.

He
had never told Meg the truth about his dysfunctional family. At the beginning
of their relationship he had reasoned that the truth would ruin what they had.
She was a family-oriented person. She never would have been able to accept that
he had no desire to make things work with his own family. She would never have
understood that there are things in life a family cannot survive.

He
didn't blame her for it. Her upbringing had been remarkably different from his
own. Her family had supported and nurtured her. The lifestyle she was born into
had affected her personality. There was nothing wrong with it. Like his
analytical and obsessive traits, her views on family were simply who she was.

He
poured the whiskey over ice and sipped it, hoping to calm his nerves. The
problem with keeping information from someone in the early stages of a
relationship was that if you played your cards right, and things worked out,
you'd lied. You could never go back and amend that mistake without admitting
you'd lied. And in most cases, like this one, Dylan thought, the lie became
bigger and worse than the truth.

And
the truth was pretty fucking bad.

The
phone rang then, suddenly, jarring Dylan from his thoughts. He grabbed for it,
afraid it would wake Meg, but also afraid something might be wrong. It was
nearly midnight.

“Hello?”
His voice sounded anxious even to him.

“Dylan?”

“Yes,
who is this?” Dylan stood from his chair and began to pace the worn kitchen
tiles.

“It's
Nadia,” her voice became shrill. “Dylan, please don't hang up!”

“I
won't,” he didn't know what to say.

“I'm
sorry to call so late but I had to. Something's happened.”

“I
was awake,” Dylan said after a pause. “My wife is asleep. I don't think you
woke her.”

“Good,”
Nadia took a deep breath. Dylan could hear it through the phone. “You know I
wouldn't bother you if it wasn't important.”

“I
didn't even know you had this number,” Dylan replied. He ran a hand through his
hair.

“The
police helped find it,” Nadia explained. “You're not unlisted.”

“Oh,”
Dylan didn't know what to say to that.

“It
was hard for me to call you. I know we've been estranged and I know you said
you never wanted anything to do with the family again but there's something I
need to tell you,” her voice faltered, “and I need some help.”

“And
you chose to call me? Why now after all of these years?” The past was still too
fresh in his mind.

“I've
been calling everyone tonight,” Nadia sighed. “You're the first one I've
reached. I'm dreading calling Marianne because I really don't know how she's
going to react to what I have to say and I'm stalling.”

“So
stop stalling.” he was curious now. “What is so important that you need to call
everyone in the middle of the night?” As soon as he said it, he knew. “Dad's
heart?”

“Something
like that,” Nadia sniffled. “Is your wife there with you? You know, for moral
support, just in case?”

“My
wife is asleep,” Dylan turned to look out the window. “I never told her about
our family.”

“You
probably should have,” Nadia said quietly.

“Either
way, Dad dying isn't that big of a deal to me, Nadia. We aren't close. We don't
get along. And I haven't spoken to him since I left.”

“I
know all of that,” Nadia inhaled sharply. “But Mom was killed as well. I'm
calling from a hotel.”

“Wait
a minute,” Dylan cut her off.

“What?”
Nadia asked him. “I don't expect you to care about either of them but I still
thought you should know. I even thought you might want to come to the funeral.
Most importantly though I thought you should know in case the police contact
you, which they said they will.”

“The
police,” Dylan felt his skin go cold.

“They're
suggesting that Dad shot Mom and then had a heart attack. Or that it was a
murder-suicide. Either way, they want to ask all of their children a few
questions.”

“Oh
shit,” Dylan swore. He reached for his glass, and downed the rest. “When did
this happen?”

“Tonight.
Mom threw Dad a sixtieth birthday party. There were two hundred and fifty
guests. So now there are two hundred and fifty suspects.”

“And
their children are suspects too.”

“Exactly.”

Dylan
hesitated. “Did the police mention Dani?”

“What?”

“It's
been five years today since they found her body.”

“I
know what day it is,” Nadia shot back. “No, I don't think they believe it's
connected. Why, do you?”

“I
have no idea,” Dylan sighed. “It was just a thought.”

“Well,
let's not get ahead of ourselves. Dani's murder is unsolved. It's probably just
a coincidence.”

“You're
right, they're probably not connected,” Dylan sighed and wished he hadn't
asked. “There were enough people there with possible motives, right?”

“I
guess so.”

“Or
Mom and Dad had a fight.”

“He
wouldn't have killed her,” Nadia's voice rose. “He never would have done that.”

Dylan
didn't want to argue. How could anyone possibly know what another was capable
of?

“Will
you come?” Nadia asked after a moment. “I mean, the police have questions.”

“I
think I'd better,” Dylan told her. “I'll get myself organized.”

“Okay,”
her voice sounded small and relieved.

“Nadia,”
he didn't want to ask her but didn't feel right not saying anything. “Are you okay?
I mean, they were more your parents than they were mine.”

“I'm
trying to be,” she replied. “I'm just trying to take things one step at a
time.”

“Is
there anything I can do?” he asked her awkwardly. They weren't close. What did
you offer to someone at a time like this who was little more than a stranger?

“I
don't know,” she sighed. He waited patiently while she considered. “Do you have
Marianne's phone number, by any chance? Troy's was easy to find. He married the
Carlton heiress – hotels – so I was able to get an urgent message through
them.”

“I
didn't know any of that.”

“They
run in similar – if different – social circles. We have mutual friends with the
Carltons, so we heard about it when he was married.”

By
“we” Dylan knew she meant their parents. “That must have pleased Dad.”

“I
think he was proud,” Nadia agreed. “You know, in his own way. Of course he
never said as much.”

“Of
course,” Dylan agreed. He knew only too well that prying a compliment out of
William Halingsford required a crowbar. But then Nadia had been his favorite.
She had never experienced the magnitude of his criticism. “I have Marianne's
number here somewhere,” he told her as he searched for it. He read it out to
her, listening when she repeated it back to him.

“Thanks.”

“I'll
be there as soon as I can,” he told her and hung up.

Turning,
he laid the cordless phone down on the counter, then blinked as the kitchen
light flashed on. Looking at his wife standing in the doorway, arms crossed, he
knew she'd heard everything.

****

Troy
listened carefully as his youngest sister broke the news to him. She had begun
calmly, almost clinically, until she'd realized he wasn't going to hang up on
her. Then, her emotions had taken over and she'd spoken rapidly, stumbling over
the details, her voice trembling through her tears.

Troy
paced the sitting room of his condo, not saying anything, letting her talk, and
trying to rationalize everything she was saying. It was late and it had been a
long day. The hotel party had gone until midnight and he'd enjoyed several
glasses of champagne. He and Phoebe had only just gotten home, and had opened
the door to the phone ringing.

“Let
me stop you,” Troy said finally. “The police are suggesting that Dad killed
Mom, then either took a substance that caused a heart attack, or had a heart
attack after he shot her?”

“They
aren't saying much of anything,” Nadia's voice was so quiet he had to strain to
hear her. “I overheard two police officers talking. They aren't ruling anything
out. It's too early in the investigation. The only thing they know for sure is
that Mom was shot. It's a homicide. They have a lot of questions.”

“And
Dylan is coming for the funeral?”

“That's
what he said. I mentioned that there will be an investigation and he could come
home or the police could come to him. He said something about his wife not
knowing his past. I guess he didn't want her to find out from the cops.”

“That
makes sense,” Troy mused. “He's diffusing the situation as best as he can.”

“Something
like that,” Nadia's tone was disinterested. “What are your feelings about
this?”

“About
what?” Troy glanced over as Phoebe came in. She still wore her evening gown and
diamond jewelry. Barefoot, she curled onto the armchair next to him and
listened.

“About
everything,” Nadia specified. “Mom being killed, Dad dying, the police. I just
wondered if you planned on attending the funeral. You haven't been here in
years and I wasn't sure if this changes things.”

“There's
no need to get aggressive,” Troy's voice remained calm and controlled. “Dylan
is trying to face the police on their own turf so I will too. I'd rather not
have people asking questions about me in LA.”

“And
about Mom and Dad?” Nadia seemed to shrink into herself. Her voice became
smaller, weaker, over the telephone line.

“They
were your parents, not mine,” Troy became dismissive. “He disowned me when I
left. He said I would be cut from the will and disinherited. My father-in-law
has been the only inspiration I've had, the only one who has helped me become
who I wanted to be. Dad was as much of a disappointment to me as I was to him.
As for Mom,” he trailed off considering. “She wasn't strong enough to keep us
together as a family. So we aren't one.”

“It's
that simple for you?” Nadia asked him. “It's that straight forward?”

“For
me it is. We aren't a family. They aren't my parents any longer, but if the
police have questions, I'll co-operate.”

“Then
I've done my job in notifying you,” Nadia replied briskly.

“You
have,” Troy told her. “Thank you for that.”

“I
stayed. I stayed so I have a responsibility to those of you who didn't.”

“You've
never forgiven us for leaving, have you?” Troy asked her. “Dad never did.”

“Mom
never got over it,” Nadia replied. “It ruined her.”

“They
brought it on themselves,” Troy answered. “Of course you only heard their side
of it. You were too young to remember what it was like.”

“That's
easy to say, isn't it?” Nadia retorted. “It's easy to say that I was too young
and I don't understand. Where were any of you to help me understand? You were
all too selfish, too busy leaving to have your own lives to remember your baby
sister.”

“That's
one way of looking at it,” Troy told her. “I'd love to be in the room when you
accuse Marianne of that.”

“Marianne
is different,” Nadia began but was cut off.

“Why?
Because Dani was her twin? That's bullshit. She was our sister too.”

“But
Marianne loved her more!”

“You
can tell yourself that,” Troy told her quietly. “But you're lying to yourself
or you've blocked it out. Dani's death destroyed us all.”