"Stop it, Patrick!"
A second pile was thrown to the floor.
"You can forget about skating," I said angrily.
"I hate it! I hate you!" he cried.
Leaning over to pick up the books before he damaged them further, I noticed a pair of black shoes in the doorway. Perfect timing. I straightened up.
"Hello, Mrs. Hopewell."
She nodded stiffly.
"Is there something I can do for you?"
"You can control him," she said. "And if you can't, you should resign."
Patrick gazed up at her wonderingly. For a moment I was speechless. "Well, thank you for clarifying the situation."
Mrs. Hopewell stepped into the room and gazed down at the music sheets, her face grim. Patrick backed against me-I was his best friend again.
"Pick them up," she ordered.
He jutted out his jaw, trying to look defiant, but I could see his little hands shaking. "I will if Kate tells me," he said.
I almost laughed. Just as she followed Robyn's orders over Emily's, he followed mine over hers. It angered her. A vein on the side of her head, a small blue one close to her hairline, pulsed.
"Let's do it together, Patrick," I suggested.
"He'll do it himself," Mrs. Hopewell said. "You and I have something to talk about."
"I can talk and pick up at the same time."
"You were at the auction house with Joseph Oakley." She spoke it like a challenge.
"Yes, this morning," I replied. "Here, Patrick, I think this page goes with the book you're holding."
I am telling you for your own good, you cannot trust that man."
"Thank you for the advice, Mrs. Hopewell, but I learned not to trust people a long time ago."
"It would be foolish to make any deals with him regarding your father's paintings."
I glanced up from my handful of sheets, surprised. Why would she care? What was it that really vexed her?
She walked over to the window and looked out, her chin raised, surveying the property. "To Joseph Oakley, a fair deal is anything that works out well for himself." That's not unusual in business." She faced me. "Joseph hasn't the brains to be a businessman. His only skill is whining. He sees himself as a victim of circumstances who deserves whatever he can get his hands on. I hope his view of the Westbrooks will not pervert yours."
I make my own judgments of people," I said, then turned to Patrick. "Let's put these on top of the piano and order them later. Why don't you finish up your math problems, so we can get to the skating rink by five thirty?"
He set aside the papers and dutifully sat down at his worktable.
"Five thirty. . today?" Mrs. Hopewell asked. "He is scheduled for dinner."
"I spoke with Emily. She gave me permission to take him skating from five thirty to seven."
"But you must clear it with me," the woman insisted. "Everything that goes on in this house is cleared through me."
"It is? How long has that been the rule?"
"Since Mr. Westbrook divorced his first wife."
"I see. Then perhaps you can help me."
The firm line of her mouth told me that she had no intention of helping, but I gestured toward the hall, counting on her desire to know what everyone was doing. After a moment she followed me, and I closed the door behind us.
"Mrs. Hopewell, what do you remember about the day Ashley died?"
Her short eyelashes flicked. "Good employees do not gossip about their employers' personal business."
"It's my business too," I pointed out, "since my mother was investigated for the death."
"This sounds like Joseph's nonsense. You're a fool to believe him."
"Adrian confirmed it."
Not a muscle moved in her face, but her hands tensed.
"Where were you that day, when we were looking for Ashley's rabbit?"
"What an absurd question to ask! How would I remember?"
"How could you forget?" I replied. "It was a rather dramatic day. Where was Robyn?"
The woman's thick fingers curled into her palms. "There is no reason I would know that."
"You just told me everything is cleared through you. Even if you didn't know beforehand, I am sure you pursued the details afterward."
The blue vein again, pulsing like a warning light before a structure blows.
"That's why you came here, isn't it," she said, "to stir up the past, to pry into matters that were settled long ago. I knew you meant trouble."
"Then you're prophetic, Mrs. Hopewell, for I came simply to return a ring to Adrian."
"What ring?"
"But you gave me such a difficult time," I continued, I had to devise an excuse to get inside the house and see him. I decided I liked my excuse-it would be interesting to work here. Since then, I have discovered some unsettling things about the time when Ashley was alive. I have remembered a few things as well."
"Things such as what?"
"You didn't like Ashley," I went on. "Why? Were you jealous, as Robyn was? Perhaps it bothered you that you couldn't control Ashley."
"I controlled that child better than anyone," she said between her teeth.
"You tried," I replied, "but she wasn't afraid of you. She wasn't afraid of anyone or anything."
Mrs. Hopewell's flat voice chilled. "Only the foolish and the dead have no fear."
"As proven by Ashley, who ended up dead," I replied.
I knew she was warning me, hoping that fear would keep me from prying into family secrets. Unfortunately for Mrs. Hopewell, when I become afraid I find it unbearable to pull the covers over my head. No, I am the kind who, when frightened, must open the closet door.
My rental skates had blades as blunt as butter knives. Not that it mattered-Patrick and I weren't going to be ice dancing anytime soon. He had been given a beautiful pair of skates at Christmas, but the time to take him skating was something no one in the family could seem to afford. He had never been on the ice, and his legs went every which way but forward.
After ten minutes of brave effort he hung on to the side of the rink like an exhausted swimmer hanging on to a pool wall. "This is kind of hard, Kate."
"I know. Everything is at first. Rest a moment and, when you're ready, we'll try again."
I needed the break as much as he. I had made Patrick wear thick pants, knee pads, and a padded snow jacket, which had protected him from the tumbles we had taken. But I, dressed in thin, stretchy pants and a sweater, was starting to feel like a mashed frozen vegetable.
Fortunately, there were few people using the rink that evening. The guy who had stamped our hands had said the college was on spring break. The high school team moved off the ice at 5:30, and the college team didn't practice until 7:15. I had dawdled a bit, reading athletic plaques aloud to Patrick, to make sure we didn't run into Sam. My anger had faded with the phone call this morning. Having learned since then that Mr. Koscinski had had a legitimate reason to suspect my mother, I was embarrassed.
"Ready," Patrick announced.
"Take my hand," I said. "Remember, push, glide, push, glide."
He faltered, then surprised me, all at once figuring it out. He had his balance, and we were moving steadily forward.
"I'm doing it!" he shouted.
"Good! Keep it going. Push, glide. Easy now. Easy!" I warned.
With a burst of confidence, Patrick took off, dragging me by the hand. Suddenly, he discovered his feet weren't under him. His arms rotated like propellers. I reached forward to steady him, and we went down in a heap.
"Are you all right?"
He nodded. "I guess I went too fast."
"You guess right."
He scrambled halfway up on his feet, then fell back down. "The wall's too far away," he complained. We had been using it to pull ourselves up.