“I’d say the question of standards is a relevant one.” Mitchell sipped his coffee with a light slurp. “You have a PhD in transpersonal psychology, Doctor?”
“That’s one of my doctorates.”
“Wait, pull up.” Becca set her cup down with a clatter. “Mitchell, how did you know what degree Jo has? I didn’t say anything about her degree on the phone this morning. I just told you her name.”
Mitchell shrugged, an almost boyish gesture of modesty. “Pardon me, Becca, but that’s why God invented search engines. I think you can understand why Pat and I would be curious about the mysterious dinner guest you invited to join us tonight. Apparently, this isn’t a romantic relationship?”
“No.” Becca tried to control her voice. “And curiosity doesn’t give you the right to treat—”
Mitchell cut in again. “I’m just pointing out that it seems a rather idiosyncratic doctorate for a scientist who—”
“Mitch, dear.” Rachel’s tone was mild, but Mitchell quieted at once. “You know I’m your oldest friend. That’s why I can get away with asking you to please stop interrupting your guests. You’ve done it three times tonight, twice to me, heaven forefend, and we haven’t even made it to dessert yet.”
“Devil’s food cake.” Patricia sighed. “Ironically, as it turns out.”
Becca had to smile at her.
Mitchell stared at Rachel for a long moment, one thin eyebrow arched, and that rare flicker passed over his face that made Becca remember, reluctantly, that a decent enough man resided beneath his often grating exterior. He smiled at Rachel, not a courtroom smile but a genuine one, and offered an amused nod of contrition. Mitchell and Rachel had known each other since elementary school, and they shared a bond of real affection. Not even Patricia could coax out his humanity as reliably as Rachel.
“I do apologize if I was rude, Dr. Perry. To both doctors. You too, Joanne.”
Becca was the one he had interrupted, but she could be gracious about this if it meant restoring peace. Jo looked less mollified than bored, but at least she took a crunching bite of her garlic bread.
“I guess reminders of Scott tend to bring out my confrontational side.” Mitchell dropped his napkin on the table. “Not pleasant memories for any of us.”
“Well, remembering his death is certainly painful.” Patricia rested her manicured hand on Mitchell’s forearm. “But we both have good memories of Scottie too, dear. You didn’t always get along, but what brothers do? The two of you were a lot alike, I always thought. I was very fond of him, and Maddie as well. She was a fine artist, and such a lovely woman, Becca.”
Becca knew Patricia was right. Several pictures of her mother survived, and a framed photo of her parents still stood on her dresser at home. Madelyn Healy had the kind of shy blond beauty one associated with reticence and reserve, an understated delicacy that was unthreatening to other women and aroused protectiveness in men. From her own memory, Becca could picture her hands most clearly, her long, tapered fingers the incarnation of gentleness. Then she remembered the harrowing scream from the radio and shuddered. She felt Rachel watching her.
“Are you all right with this, friend?” Rachel leaned closer and lowered her voice. “We don’t have to discuss anything that upsets you. I can always bring up Michelle Obama.”
Becca suppressed a bubble of laughter. “How can I be upset? There’s devil’s food cake in the kitchen.”
Rachel winked at her, but sobered as Jo spoke.
“Actually, your insights into the dynamics between Becca’s parents might be helpful to us.” Jo reached into the breast pocket of her white shirt. She withdrew the small silver device she’d had at the Rose and laid it on the table. “Does anyone object if I record this?”
“It’s not really my habit to allow—” Mitchell broke off and looked at Becca.
“Good,” Jo said shortly. “Becca, I can promise you I’m not going to make any direct references to the death scene.”
“Good,” Becca repeated. She couldn’t tell yet if she’d have to plunge her fork into Jo’s jugular before she made this charming dinner any worse.
“Becca and I are working from the theory that the accepted explanation of her parents’ deaths isn’t true.” Jo studied Mitchell and Patricia. “Have either of you ever had any suspicions along those lines?”
“There’s never been any reason to question what the police told us,” Mitchell answered. “Becca, are you sure you want us to delve into all this personal business?”
“Well, this family doesn’t have a big history of delving.” Becca was not loving this conversation, but she’d told Jo she would cooperate in learning more about her parents. She looked at Rachel for reassurance and found it in her kind eyes. “You guys have never told me that much about my mom and dad.”
“Oh, Rebecca. I’m not sure that’s fair.” Patricia sounded pained. “It seems to me we’ve spoken about them quite often over the years. At least when you were younger.”
“I don’t mean you didn’t mention them. You just never really answered my questions. Some of my questions, when I was younger.” Becca hesitated. That fogginess was tickling the back of her brainpan again, the mild disorientation that was becoming her natural state these days.
“Before we’re all too much older, Becca.” Jo drummed her blunt nails on the tablecloth. “What questions would you like to ask?”
Becca threw Jo an exasperated glance while she tried to gather her thoughts, aware the other three were exchanging looks. This gathering had brought out the worst in Jo, the near failure of her meager social skills. At least the other night, with Marty and Khadijah, some actual warmth had developed around that table. The sharp edges of Jo’s brusqueness had softened eventually, in the company of her friends. Becca saw none of that gentling in her now. She felt an unexpected pang of wistfulness, missing the friendlier bond she’d shared with Jo in the cemetery, at the feet of the Lady.
A friendliness that had begun to change, Becca remembered. She had tried hard to hold back from touching Jo in that moment; she wasn’t given to throwing herself in the arms of people who avoided physical contact. But Becca’s sudden weariness had been so complete, her loneliness so stark, she desperately needed some kind of human connection. Leaning into Jo had felt surprisingly natural, even welcome. And the sensation of touching her had deepened, become richer and undeniably sensual. Becca shook her head and tried to clear her mind.
“I guess I’ve only heard the good stories about my parents. I remember those.” Becca granted Patricia that much. “But I know they didn’t have a perfect marriage, and neither of you have said much about that.”
Patricia started to speak, but Mitchell beat her to it, which was not technically interrupting, it was just Mitchell. “I’d say you’ve summed it up plainly enough, Becca, and I’m not sure what more we can add. Pat and I weren’t privy to the intimate details of Scott’s marriage. You’re right. It wasn’t a perfect union. I haven’t known many of those, however, except my own.” He lifted his coffee cup to Patricia. Becca noted Mitchell’s definition of a perfect union involved Patricia’s lifelong willingness to overlook his roving eye, but he was right; their marriage had always been solid.
“But there was no abuse in their relationship, Becca.” Patricia spoke with the authority of the director of a women’s shelter. “We would have been aware of that, certainly. Scott and Maddie may have argued, but we would have stepped in if we thought there was violence.”