“Oh for the love of God,” Louisa says, closing her eyes against the sight. “Get that animal out of here.”
“I’ll take care of it,” the beatnik volunteers at once. He rests a hand on Louisa’s forearm, as if that might make her feel better. Louisa glares at his hand as if it’s a branding iron, but the boyfriend doesn’t notice; he’s looking at the creature in the corner. “Lucifer,” he singsongs, “bad, bad dog.”
Bad, bad dog yawns and lies down on his stomach, his front paws stretched out toward us. He plans to stay awhile.
Louisa shuts her eyes again and the ponytailed boyfriend hustles to the opposite side of the kitchen. Without hesitating, he opens an end closet and finds a spray bottle of disinfectant and a roll of paper towels. It seems he’s done this before.
Anastasia laughs, unties her long cape with a flourish and tosses it on the counter, next to the toaster, as if it belongs there. She’s dressed entirely in black, from the high collar of her calf-length dress to the tips of her thick-soled, ankle-high boots. She settles on the edge of a stool across the counter from mine and begins removing her elbow-length gloves, one finger at a time, all the while examining the Kydd and me as if we’re for sale.
“Marty Nickerson and Kevin Kydd,” Louisa says. “This is Herb’s daughter, Anastasia.”
Anastasia has lost interest in our faces by the time the brief introductions are made. She’s pulling her long gloves across her palm, looking into our open briefcases instead, as if something of hers might be in one of them.
“And that,” Louisa continues, extending a hand toward the hat rack, “is Lance Phillips. Same as the screwdriver,” she adds, “but no relation.”
Lance waves at us, still on his knees wiping up the mess. “Pleasure,” he mumbles.
Not so, apparently, for Anastasia. Her upper lip curls back when she looks at us again. “You’re lawyers?” she asks. Her tone suggests the word is synonymous with shysters.
We both nod, guilty as charged.
She turns accusing eyes on Louisa and drops her gloves into her lap. She’s quiet for a moment, pulling her lustrous locks over one shoulder, utter contempt displayed on her face. “My father is dead,” she spits, “lost at sea. And his merry widow is talking to lawyers.”
“Don’t sputter, dear,” Louisa answers. “It doesn’t become you.”
“Why are you talking to lawyers?” Anastasia continues. “Are you worried about money? Afraid there won’t be enough to keep you in style, Mrs. Rawlings?”
“No one’s worried about money, dear.” Louisa’s voice is even, her words measured, as if she’s coaxing a toddler out of a tantrum. “There’s plenty to go around.”
Another set of tires crunches in the driveway and Louisa turns to lift the muslin curtain from the window above the sink once more. She smiles through the glass and then faces us again, but doesn’t tell us who’s here.
Anastasia gets up to see for herself. “Oh my!” she exclaims, pressing her fingertips to her cheeks in mock shock. She turns toward Louisa and glares. “What a surprise. The indelible husband.”
Louisa laughs, seemingly oblivious to her stepdaughter’s malignant stare. “Glen Powers is here,” she says to the Kydd and me. “He’s my ex-husband.”
“Ex-husband?” Anastasia shouts the word, though she’s standing almost on top of Louisa and only a few feet from the Kydd and me. Her hair billows around her like a shroud. “Ex-husbands disappear, don’t they? Or at least take a little time off?”
Louisa doesn’t react, so Anastasia tries her luck with the Kydd and me. “Not this guy,” she tells us. “Not for a goddamned minute. She divorced this guy so she could marry my father…”
Anastasia points at us for emphasis, and I notice for the first time that her fingernails are extraordinarily long, painted the color of bruised plums.
“…and what does Powers do?” she continues. “He takes her out to dinner.” She pauses for a moment and leans on the counter, winded. “And we’re not talking about a onetime event here,” she adds. “He does it every month.”
“Anastasia, you mustn’t talk out of turn,” Louisa says calmly. “It isn’t ladylike.”
“Every month,” Anastasia repeats.
“The third Thursday of each month,” Louisa says, dismissing Anastasia with a wave of her hand, “Glen and I get together for a bite to eat. Herb’s partners hold a dinner meeting on that night each month, so he never minded. In fact, Herb rather liked Glen. They were both big on the boating scene. They got on quite well.” She tosses her head toward Anastasia. “His prim and proper daughter, though, finds the whole thing scandalous.”
“It’s unnatural,” Anastasia says. “It’s sick.”
“So Glen Powers never remarried?” I ask Louisa. These are the first words I’ve squeezed in since Anastasia arrived.
“He did,” Louisa says, “a year or so after we divorced. But it didn’t last.”
Anastasia throws her arms in the air. “What a surprise! The pitiful man’s still stuck on his first wife, the one who ditched him for the rich guy. The pitiful man takes her out to dinner whenever she’ll allow it. And the pitiful man’s second marriage didn’t last.” She sends an exaggerated shrug to the Kydd and me. “Go figure.”
The doorbell rings and the sounds of the front door opening and closing tell us the caller is letting himself in. Anastasia shakes her long locks. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” she yells out.
Louisa closes her eyes and looks like she’s praying for patience. She leaves her post at the sink and heads toward the living room, apparently eager to greet this particular guest. Glen Powers reaches the kitchen doorway before she does, though. “Louisa,” he says, taking her hands in both of his, “I just heard. Good God, are you all right?”
Anastasia snorts and looks up at the ceiling. “All right?” she repeats, shaking her heavy tresses again. “Look at her. Does she seem broken up to you?”
Glen Powers doesn’t let on he hears. Louisa leads him into the kitchen and introduces him to the Kydd and me. He offers each of us a firm handshake and then turns to the surly stepdaughter. “Anastasia,” he says, “it’s so nice to see you—as always.”
She growls at him. It’s a real one—guttural, menacing—but Powers seems unfazed; he doesn’t even look at her. He scans the room instead, as if he expects to find someone else here. His eyes alight on the boyfriend, who’s now holding Lucifer near the scene of the crime. “Lance,” he says, giving him a short wave, “I knew you’d be in the neighborhood.”
Lance returns the wave by lifting the dainty dog and it emits another yip-yip-wail.
Glen Powers turns back to Louisa. He’s handsome, fifty-something, blue-eyed and sandy-haired, with a well-toned body that suggests it sees the inside of a gym a few times a week. “Let me help,” he says. “I’m here for as long as it takes, staying at the Carriage House.”
The Carriage House is an antique bed-and-breakfast near the center of Chatham and it’s the ultimate in casual elegance. Even now, in mid-October, Glen Powers is lucky to get a room there. If it were July, he’d have had to book a year in advance.
“Let me help,” he repeats. “What arrangements have been made so far?”
“Arrangements?” Louisa looks blank.
Anastasia smacks her maroon lips and steps closer to Glen. He backs up. “Hello-o-o?” she chants, her baritone down to a bass and her face too close to Louisa’s. “When people die, it’s customary in civilized societies to make arrangements. A wake? A memorial service?”
Louisa shakes her head. “But we haven’t found Herb yet,” she says. “We don’t have his body.”