Just finding the right street was difficult. She thought she was on Willow, but the sign said Fernway, with Willow running into it. She got out of her car to see if the sign could have been turned-a popular sport among kids in town. Then she heard a loud motor making the bend on the hill above her. She stepped out into the street to wave down the motorcyclist. For a moment, the Harley slowed, then the engine was gunned and the cyclist flew past her.
Well, she'd have to go with her instincts. The lawns were steep there, and Lillian had said that Mrs. Abromaitis lived on a hill, a flight of stone steps lined with flowerpots leading up to her house.
Ivy drove around the bend. She could feel the rising wind rocking her car. Overhead the pale sky was being swallowed up by inky clouds.
Ivy screeched to a halt in front of two houses and pulled the box out of the car, struggling with it against the wind. Both houses had stone steps that ran up side by side. Both had flowerpots. She chose one set of steps, and just as she cleared the first flowerpot it blew over and crashed behind her. Ivy screamed, then laughed at herself.
At the top of the steps she looked at one house, then the other, 528 and 530, hoping for some kind of clue. A car was pulled around the back of 528, hidden by bushes, so someone was probably home. Then she saw a figure in the large window of 528-someone looking out for her, she thought, though she couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, or if the person actually beckoned to her. All she could see was a vague shape of a person as part of the window's reflected collage of thrashing trees backlit by flashes of lightning. She started toward the house.
The figure disappeared. At the same time, the front porch light went on at 530. The screen door banged back in the wind.
"Ivy? Ivy?" A woman called to her from the lit porch.
"Whew!" She made a run for it, handed off the package, and raced for her car. The skies opened, throwing down ropes of rain. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Tristan had seen her looking like a drowned rat.
Ivy, Gregory, and Andrew arrived home late, and Maggie looked miffed. Philip, of course, didn't care. He, Tristan, and his new school pal, Sammy, were playing a video game, one of the many gifts Andrew had bought for his birthday.
Tristan grinned up at the drenched Ivy. "I'm glad I taught you to swim," he said, then got up to kiss her.
She was dripping all over the hardwood floor. "I'll soak you," she warned.
He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. "I'll dry," he whispered. "Besides, it's fun to gross out Philip."
"Ew," said Philip, as if on cue.
"Mush," agreed Sammy.
Ivy and Tristan held on to each other and laughed. Then Ivy ran upstairs to change her clothes and wring out her hair. She put on lipstick, no other makeup-her eyes were already bright and her cheeks full of color. She scrounged around in her jewelry box for a pair of earrings, then hurried downstairs just in time to see Philip finish opening his presents.
"She's wearing her peacock ears tonight," Philip told Tristan as Ivy sat down to dinner across from the two of them.
"Darn," said Tristan, "I forgot to put in my carrot sticks."
"And your shrimp tails." Philip snickered.
Ivy wondered who was happier at that moment, Philip or her. She knew that life did not seem so good to Gregory. It had been a rough week for him; he had confided in her that he was still very worried about his mother, though he wouldn't tell her why. Lately his father and he had had little to say to each other. Maggie struggled to converse with him but usually gave up.
Ivy turned to him now. "The tickets to the Yankee game were a terrific idea. Philip was thrilled with the present."
"He had a funny way of showing it."
It was true. Philip had thanked him very politely, then leaped up with excitement when he saw the old Sports Illustrated spread on Don Mattingly that Tristan had dug up.
During dinner Ivy made an effort to keep Gregory in the conversation. Tristan tried to talk to him about sports and cars but received mostly one-word replies. Andrew looked irritated, though Tristan didn't seem to take offense.
Andrew's cook, Henry-who'd been let go after the wedding, but reinstated after six weeks of Maggie's cooking-had made them a delicious dinner. Maggie, however, had insisted on baking her son's birthday cake. Henry carried in the heavy, lopsided thing, his eyes averted.
Philip's face lit up. "It's Mistake Cake!"
The rich and lumpy chocolate frosting supported nine candles at various angles. Lights were quickly extinguished and everyone sang to Philip. With the last measure, the doorbell chimed.
Andrew frowned and rose to answer it.
From her seat, Ivy could see into the hall. Two police officers, a man and a woman, talked with Andrew. Gregory leaned into Ivy to see what was going on.
"What do you think it's about?" Ivy whispered.
"Something at the college," he guessed.
Tristan looked across the table questioningly and Ivy shrugged her shoulders. Her mother, unaware that there might be something wrong, kept cutting the cake.
Then Andrew stepped back into the room.
"Maggie." She must have read something in his eyes. She dropped the knife immediately and went to Andrew's side. He took her hand.
"Gregory and Ivy, would you join us in the library, please? Tristan, could you stay with the boys?" he asked.
The officers were still waiting in the hall. Andrew led the way to the library. If there were a problem at the college, we wouldn't be gathering like this, thought Ivy.
When everyone was seated, Andrew said, "There's no easy way to begin. Gregory, your mother has died."
"Oh, no," Maggie said softly.
Ivy turned quickly to Gregory. He sat stiffly, his eyes on his father, and said nothing.
"The police received an anonymous call about five-thirty P.M. that someone at her address needed help. When they arrived, they found her dead, a gunshot wound to her head."
Gregory didn't blink. Ivy reached out for his hand. It was cold as ice.
"The police have asked- They need- As a matter of normal procedure-" Andrew's voice wavered. He turned to face the police officers. "Perhaps one of you can take over from here?"
"As a matter of procedure," the woman officer said, "we need to ask a few questions. We are still searching the house for any information that might be relevant to the case, though it seems fairly conclusive that her death was a suicide."
"Oh, God!" said Maggie.
"What evidence do you have for that?" Gregory asked. "While it's true my mother was depressed, she has been since the beginning of April-" "Oh, God!" Maggie said again. Andrew reached out for her, but she moved away from him.
Ivy knew what her mother was thinking. She remembered the scene a week earlier, when a picture of Caroline and Andrew had somehow turned up in the hall desk. Andrew had told Maggie to throw it in the trash. Maggie could not. She didn't want to think that she was the one who had "thrown Caroline out" of her home-years earlier, or now. Ivy guessed that her mother felt responsible for Caroline's un-happiness, and now her death.
"I'd still like to know," Gregory continued, "what makes you think that she killed herself. That doesn't seem like her. It doesn't seem like her at all. She was too strong a woman."
Ivy could hardly believe how clearly and steadily Gregory could speak.
"First, there is circumstantial evidence," said the policeman. "No actual note, but photographs that were torn and scattered around the body." He glanced toward Maggie.
"Photographs of…?" Gregory asked.
Andrew sucked in his breath.
"Mr. and Mrs. Baines," said the officer. "Newspaper photos from their wedding."