To Connie Sykes, everything was about control. That’s why she’d tried to confiscate her sister’s child in the first place.
To Connie Sykes, winning meant someone had to lose.
Dr. Zero-Sum. I decided the best response to her stunt was none at all. Give her time to cool down.
Even if she forgot about me, she was likely to regroup for Connie v. Ree, Chapter II. Because she had the means and the opportunity and the system was receptive to second, third, fourth, millionth chances.
So forget about telling Milo, keep the bear in his den. But I’d let Robin know because the invaded territory was as much hers as mine.
Steeling myself for the walk through the garden to the studio, I poured coffee in the kitchen, drank some but found it bitter, organized my desk, checked files that didn’t require inspection, ran out of delay tactics.
Just as I was about to leave the office, I thought of someone else who needed to know.
If Connie Sykes could muster that level of rage against me, what was she feeling about the judge?
I phoned Nancy Maestro. A hard, wary male voice answered, “Chambers.”
Familiar voice; the deputy I’d met with the bronze-lensed eyeglasses. H. Nebe.
I said, “Hi, it’s Dr. Delaware.”
“Her Honor’s unavailable. You have a message you want to leave?”
More of the protective attitude I’d seen in court. Not a bad idea, as it turned out. I told him about Connie Sykes.
He said, “Well, that’s pretty insane. She do anything else crazy?”
“No.”
“Not going to shoot you, huh?” said H. Nebe. “Sounds like she got you pretty scared.”
“No, just wary.”
“Meaning?”
“Watchful. I figured the judge should know.”
“Okay, Doc. I’ll handle it from this end.”
“Meaning?”
“That nutcase shows up again, lock your door and call 911.”
I filled a second mug with coffee, carried it down the back stairs to the garden, paused by the pond to listen to the waterfall and feed the koi, continued up the stone path to Robin’s studio.
Quiet day, no machine noise. I found her standing over her workbench, face-masked, auburn curls topknotted, wearing red overalls over a black T-shirt and looking sexy. Vials of varnish and oil and stain flanked her. A HEPA filter whirred at high speed.
Her hand gripped a soft wad of cotton, moved in small, concentric circles. French-polishing the quilted maple back of a seventeenth-century French guitar. One of those petite parlor instruments, high on decoration but low on sound. What used to be called women’s guitars, back when women were deemed incapable of making serious music. This one was owned by a man, a collector who couldn’t play a note but demanded that everything in his world — including his third wife — be pretty and shiny.
Robin continued working as Blanche, our little blond French bulldog, snored at her feet.
I cleared my throat. Removing the mask and putting down her polishing cloth, Robin smiled and Blanche’s eyes began fluttering open.
“The prince brings caffeine. Perfect timing, how’d you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
By the time she kissed me and took the mug, Blanche had padded over. Robin retrieved a stick of beef jerky from a jar on a shelf, kneeled to Blanche’s level. Blanche took the treat with a soft mouth and held it there until Robin said, “Nosh-time.”
Waddling to a corner, Blanche settled and chomped with delicate lust.
I felt a gentle tug. Robin’s finger under my collar. “What’s wrong?”
No sense asking how she knew anything was wrong, she always did. I told her.
She said, “What a nasty, vindictive person. Obviously, you were right to keep the kid out of her grasp.”
“Anyone would’ve made the call.”
“You’re the one who did.”
We moved to a couch against the wall, sat with our thighs touching.
“So,” she said, “you think she might actually do something?”
“Doubt it,” I said. “I just thought you should know.”
“Appreciate it. So what’s the plan? We batten down the hatches and go on red alert?”
“Maybe orange.”
She squeezed my hand. “Don’t mean to be flip. So you think she was just posturing.”
“She’s narcissistic and asocial but nothing in her past says she’d ever be violent.”
“You going to let Milo know?”
I explained why I wasn’t.
She said, “You’re making a good point. Okay, for the next week or so — or longer, whatever you think — we’ll lock the gate at the bottom of the road, anyone wants to intrude they’ll have to do it on foot. And we’ll make sure the night-lights are on down there. Be more careful about bolting the doors to the house and when we leave, we’ll be extra-watchful.”
“Sounds good,” I said. My tone said “good” was a foreign word.
Her fingers left my collar, traveled to my cheek.
“What a pain,” she said. “You do your job and get this. I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone needed a scapegoat.”
“My court work bother you?”
“Of course not. You’re doing good deeds. Crappy system needs you.”
She rested her head on my shoulder. “It’s never about the kids, right? Just screwed-up adults going to war. I remember the times I thought my parents were definitely getting divorced.”
“That happen often?”
“Two, three times a year. They were always sniping at each other but sometimes the fights got really bad and you could smell how much they hated each other. I mean literally, Alex. The house would fill with this feral odor. Then they’d retrench and each of them would try to get me on their side. Dad always paid attention to me so it felt more natural when he got all chummy. But you know Mom. Parenthood didn’t exactly rank high on her to-do list so when she started going on about all the things we should do together, just us two girls …”
She shuddered. “I didn’t argue but ugh.”
Untying her hair, she set loose a torrent of curls, brushed tendrils away from her face.
“Eventually, they’d make up and have disturbingly noisy sex and I’d go outside and pretend I was living on Mars. Then he’d be back to showing me how to use a hand plane and she’d revert to her usual icy, selfish self. Terrible thing to say about the person who gave you life, huh? But you know Mom.”
My mother had possessed the capacity for tenderness but for the most part she’d been passive, depressed, and unable — or unwilling — to shield me from my father’s alcoholic rages.
I said, “We don’t pick our relatives.”
She laughed. “That crazy woman’s sister sure knows that.”
CHAPTER
9
For the next week and a half, life went on as usual except for the locked gate and the lights. And the part I didn’t tell Robin about: during my morning runs, looking for tree-shrouded spots where someone with a firearm could hide.
To relax myself, I imagined Connie Sykes in combat fatigues and a mud-smeared face jumping out and playing Rambette. The image was ludicrous and my jaws eventually unclenched. By day seven, I didn’t need that bit of cognitive behavior therapy. By day ten, I was certain there was nothing to worry about and we could unlatch the gate.
I was about to broach the topic with Robin when the buzzer to that very barrier sounded.
Milo said, “Alex, it’s me.”
I beeped him in.
He’s always hounding me about being lax with security. No comment, now, about the extra precaution.
Preoccupied? Probably a new whodunit.