“You really think that’s necessary?”
“I’m her mother. I’ll sign.”
Jack deferred. The doctor handed a pen and clipboard to Evelyn. She looked over the form, then took the pen. Jack watched her sign.
He tried not to show it, but it was as if he’d been hit by lightning.
“There you go,” she said.
The doctor thanked her and tucked the executed form under her arm. “I should have an update for you later this evening. I’ll phone you.”
“Thank you, doctor.”
She turned and headed for the elevator. Jack checked his watch and said, “I have to go, too.”
“Fine. You’re not needed.”
“I’d like to stay, but the homicide detectives are already breathing down my neck.”
“What’s that all about?”
“Something to do with knives. Whoever killed Jessie also slashed up some pictures of me and Cindy from our wedding album. With everything that’s happened now, they want to check out our collection of knives, see if the slashes in the wedding photographs came from any we own.”
“They think Cindy slashed her own wedding photos?”
“If she killed Jessie out of jealousy, that would fit, wouldn’t it?”
Evelyn mulled it over, then shook her head. “Just go, please. Can’t you ever bring anyone good news?”
“I’ll be sure to work on that.” He walked away but took the long route back to the elevators, making a point of passing by Cindy’s sister.
“How about a cup of coffee?” he said.
“Sure.”
He led her to the elevator and punched the down button. The doors opened, and they got inside. “There’s something I have to talk to you about,” he said.
“What?”
“Dreams.”
She rocked on her heels. “What kind of dreams?”
“For a few months now, Cindy’s been having this same nightmare about your father coming to her. And when he leaves, he wants to take me with him. Do you have any idea what that might be all about?”
She didn’t answer.
From inside the elevator, he took one last look at his mother-in-law seated on the other side of the waiting room. Then the doors closed, and the car began its descent.
The color had drained from Celeste’s face.
“I thought you might,” said Jack.
“I guess maybe it’s time you learned our dirty little family secret.”
“I’m all ears,” he said as the elevator doors parted.
68
•
Jack waited in the dark with the window shades shut. He was in the TV room, though he hadn’t so much as switched on a light bulb, let alone the set. For almost two hours, he sat alone, familiarizing himself with every sound of the empty house. The air conditioner kicking on, then off. The hum of the refrigerator. The Westminster chime of the grandfather clock.
Celeste had given him plenty to think about. She told him how her accusations had torn the family apart. Cindy had so fervently believed that her lies had driven their father to suicide that she’d even told Celeste of her fantasies about poisoning her older sister or causing her other bodily harm. Their mother had also turned against Celeste, but there was one major difference. Cindy had eventually made peace with Celeste and came to believe that the accusations were true.
Their mother had never made peace, and she’d known the truth from the beginning.
The clock chimed. It was quarter past two. Jack started to rise, then stopped. He heard something. He listened, then settled back into his chair. It was the sound he’d been waiting for. At last, a key turned in the lock on Evelyn’s front door.
•
Evelyn hooked her umbrella on the hall tree and switched on the light. It had been raining off and on since lunchtime, and, as usual, the gods had really turned on the faucets the moment she’d decided to sprint from her car to the front door. Even a hurricane, however, would not have kept her from coming home.
She walked down the hall and headed straight for the kitchen. There was an urgency to her step. She’d played it cool for over an hour at the hospital, fighting the impulse to rush home, which would have only raised suspicions. She’d used the time wisely, considering the things Jack had told her, weighing her options. This was no time for knee-jerk reactions, but now her mission was clear. She had to get home and secure one last loose end.
She flipped on the kitchen light. Her eyes fixed on an empty space on the countertop, which puzzled her. Her heart began to race. She canvassed the entire counter, one end to the other, then back again.
How can it not be here?
She went to the cabinet, opened it. Bowls, mixer, can opener-everything was in its place, except the one thing she was looking for.
Her hands began to shake. It had to be there. She tried the cabinet under the sink, but there was only a dish rack, detergents, and some paper towels. She went down the entire row of cabinets, flinging one door open after another. She found plates, her bread maker, pots and pans. Still, no luck.
A thought came to her, and she raced to the pantry, threw open the door, then gasped.
Jack was standing inside.
“What-” she started to say, then stopped. She saw it. He was holding it, protecting it the way a running back guards a football at the goal line. Only this pigskin was made of butcher block, and it came with an assortment of handles that protruded from the slots on the top. Knife handles. He had her collection of kitchen knives.
“Looking for this, Evelyn?” he asked.
•
Jack stepped out of the pantry. Evelyn slowly backed into the kitchen. He said nothing, waiting for her to speak. She continued stepping backward until she bumped against the sink.
“What are you doing here? I thought you had a meeting with the police.”
He stopped at the kitchen table and placed the knives on top of it. “There is no meeting. I lied.”
“Wha-a-a-at?” she said, a nervous cackle.
“I made it up.”
“Why?”
“It’s the strangest thing. I was watching my grandmother slicing sheets of dough the other day. She’s left-handed, so she typically cuts from the top right to the bottom left. To make a long story short, it helped me figure out that Jessie Merrill was probably killed by someone who is left-handed. It all has to do with the angle of the slash on her wrist.”
“And to think you were ready to convict your wife, and she’s right-handed. Shame on you.”
“No, shame on you. It didn’t occur to me until you and I met with the psychiatrist at the hospital. You so graciously took it upon yourself to sign the forms for Cindy’s treatment. And that’s when it hit me: You’re left-handed.”
“How dare you!”
He glanced at the cutlery on the table. “Which knife did you use, Evelyn?”
“This is ridiculous. The police have the knife. It was from your own kitchen. It was found floating in the bathtub with Jessie’s body, exactly where you’d expect to find it with a suicide.”
“I don’t mean the knife you used to slash Jessie’s wrist. I mean the knife you used to slash up our wedding album.”
Her mouth opened, but she didn’t speak.
“That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it? I bluffed you into thinking that the police were looking for a match between our knives and the slashes in the wedding album. It got you to thinking: Maybe they’ll come looking in your house, too.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“When Cindy and I moved in with you, we took just a few personal things with us. The wedding album was one of them. Funny, but it wasn’t until after we’d spent some time with you that Cindy noticed it had been mutilated. Someone had taken a knife to it.”