“You know, it’s been a month since I’ve seen her,” Mrs. Porter said. She was wearing a floral dress with a lot of purple in it. She raised her hand to her chest and said, “I had to read about this in the paper.”
“Thanks for coming.”
“Had she said anything to you about her health?” Mrs. Porter asked.
“No,” I said. “But she liked to play things close to the vest, as I’m sure you know.”
“The last time she came into the library she came alone,” Mrs. Porter said. “That was unusual. She always brought Ronnie with her. I asked about it because I thought maybe Ronnie was sick.” She lowered her voice. “I know his disability can cause other complications. But she said he was fine. She said she had an appointment downtown.” Mrs. Porter nodded her head to emphasize the last point. “She seemed to be in a hurry.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked.
“I said a month,” Mrs. Porter replied.
A month. Shortly after our fight. “And you didn’t know where she was going?”
“I didn’t ask,” she said. “I’m a live-and-let-live kind of person. I figure most things are none of my business.”
“Of course.”
“This whole thing is terrible. Just terrible.”
Yet neither of us had any idea how much worse it would become.
Chapter Eight
After an hour, the guests started to leave. They made their excuses and offered their final condolences. A couple of the ladies, including Mrs. Porter, began to clean up the kitchen. I offered a mild protest, but they ignored me and went about wrapping the remaining food and putting it away. I decided to accept their help and went off in search of Ronnie.
He was sitting on his bed, still wearing his coat and tie. He held an object in his hand, a picture frame or something, but when he saw me coming into his room, he slid the object beneath his pillow.
“Hi, Ronnie,” I said.
He didn’t answer me, but folded his hands and remained still, staring at the floor. I came into the room the rest of the way and sat on the bed next to him. He had stayed out of the way during the little gathering at the house. I wasn’t even sure he had eaten anything.
“What did you have there?” I asked.
No response.
“Was it a picture of Mom?”
“Maybe,” he said.
Maybe? Clearly he wasn’t up for interrogation, and I couldn’t blame him.
“People are starting to leave,” I said. “I just wanted to see if you were okay. Do you need anything?”
He shook his head.
“I know you’re sad about Mom,” I said. “I am too. I know I haven’t been around much lately.”
“It’s because you had that fight with her,” he said.
This surprised me, although it shouldn’t have. Ronnie knew everything that went on in the house, and even though he was at work when Mom and I had had it out the last time, he would have picked up on Mom’s mood and behavior. He would have known something was wrong.
“We did have a fight,” I said. “Did she say anything about it?”
He shook his head. “I could tell she was mad.”
“Yes, she was. But I don’t want you to be scared by any of this. Paul and I are going to figure out where you’re going to live now. We were thinking you could either move in with Paul, at his house, or he could move in here and live with you. Paul’s okay with either of those.”
Ronnie remained silent for a few moments, then asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I’ll still live in my apartment,” I said. “It’s close to school, and all my things are there. But I’ll come stay here sometimes.” His face showed nothing, so I upped the ante. “In fact, I promise I’ll come around more. It won’t be like the last six weeks or even the last year when you didn’t see as much of me. I promise.”
His facial muscles relaxed a little. He almost smiled, and I took that as a moral victory.
“Promise?” he said.
Before I could repeat the word, Paul appeared in the doorway, his face still drawn and tired looking. “There are people here who want to see you,” he said. “You should come talk to them.”
The little crowd in Mom’s house had moved beyond hushed to dead silent. The appearance of two police detectives at the front door tended to have that effect. And make no mistake—even though Richland and Post wore plain clothes, their badges and guns hidden, everyone there knew they were cops. And if the guests weren’t fascinated by the fact that they were police, they could have just as easily been entranced by the physical differences between the odd couple at the door.
Richland spoke first when he saw me. “Ms. Hampton. Sorry to intrude, but we have some matters to follow up on.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Is there someplace we could speak?” Richland asked. He waved his hand at the perimeter of the room, a gesture that made sense for a change.
I looked around. Everyone except Paul pretended they weren’t eavesdropping. Even Mrs. Porter busied herself with wrapping a pie in cellophane. I lowered my voice. “Couldn’t this wait?” I asked. “I can come talk to you later this afternoon.”
“I’m not sure it can wait,” Richland said.
“Maybe you’d like to step onto the porch with us?” Detective Post said, nodding toward the door. Before I answered, she opened it and started to go outside. I felt I had no choice but to follow.
On the front porch, Richland stood to my left and Post to my right, leaving me in between them like a child. My eyes were level with the pocket protector Richland wore on his shirt. I noticed that, in addition to the dark sedan that I assumed belonged to the detectives, a Dover police cruiser was parked on the street. Two uniformed officers sat inside it with the windows rolled down, their faces obscured by the shade of the trees.
Richland said, “We wanted to let you know that the medical examiner’s office has reached a preliminary conclusion concerning your mother’s death. It looks as though our initial concerns were correct—your mother died as the result of manual strangulation.”
At first the words didn’t make sense to me. Richland might as well have been speaking to me in another language, and those two words—“manual strangulation”—were some kind of incantation I simply couldn’t understand. But they rattled around in my brain and finally came to rest someplace where I could understand them. Reflexively, I lifted my right hand to my own throat.
“Someone killed her,” I said. “Mom.”
“We’re sorry to have to bring you this kind of news,” Richland said. “We were hoping to move ahead with some things relating to the case.”
“Did someone rob her?” I asked. My mind drifted away from the reality of what they had told me to speculation about why it had happened. “The house didn’t look like it had been broken into. She didn’t have anything worth stealing really.” I tried to think of another explanation besides robbery, but I couldn’t. Mom didn’t do anything. She didn’t know anyone. She didn’t owe money or deal drugs. Why would someone come into her house and kill her?
“We were hoping we could spend a little more time speaking to your brother,” Richland said.
His words brought me back to the present. And to the conversation from the other night when Richland seemed to be dancing around the edges of accusing Ronnie. No more dancing.
“He wouldn’t hurt Mom,” I said. “She was practically his whole life.”
Post spoke up. “We don’t want you to think we’re going to be interrogating your brother. We really can’t do that if someone has any kind of disability. What we want to do is have him examined by a psychologist, someone who understands these issues.”