When I reached the first-floor hall, I heard voices in the library-more fighting. I walked quietly toward it, trying to decipher Robyn's words. Trent cut her off, then Emily's high-pitched voice interjected something. Patrick caught up with me just as the library door opened. At the sound of their angry voices, he cringed.
"It's okay," I whispered.
Brook emerged. Seeing Patrick and me, he grinned as if he knew a secret. "The cat's away," he told us, "and you know what happens then." He pointed to the library.
"My cat is dead," Patrick replied solemnly.
"Oh yeah, I forgot about that old thing."
"Close the door, Brook," I said.
He reached back and pulled it shut, muffling the sound of the raised voices, then walked toward us. "Do you think your cat ate some raspberry pie?"
I glared at him. "Sometimes, Brook, I can't tell if you are exceptionally mean-spirited or simply stupid."
"I've never been exceptional at anything," he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets, "so I must be stupid. Grandfather thinks so." He shrugged, as if it were unimportant, but there was an edge in his voice. "He has gone into town to see his attorney. Grandfather's personal attorney always comes here, of course. I guess the old man wants some privacy while deciding how to divide up his loot. Anyway, when the cat's away-" "The mice will play," I finished for him. "It's just a saying, Patrick."
"Oh, it's more than that," Brook said. "It's advice. Be on your guard. The mice can play rough, especially when the cat frustrates them."
The library door opened again. Trent emerged, his face the color of vanilla ice cream, his brow pinched. With barely a glance in our direction, he headed toward his wing. Robyn came out and stared straight at us, but I wasn't certain she saw us. Her cheeks flamed with anger. Emily was still in the library, her fists clenched, tears running silently down her face. Hoping Patrick didn't see his mother, I quickly turned him in the direction of the kitchen, where we kept our boots, and gave him a little push.
"So where are you going, Patrick?" Brook asked.
Patrick didn't reply.
"To the pond," Brook guessed, noting the skates. "What a great idea, ice skating on a nice warm day like this!"
I told him the pond was too soft. He wants to see for himself. Excuse me."
Patrick was halfway down the hall and I took long strides to catch up with him. In the kitchen, we pulled on our boots, then exited out the back of the house.. Patrick walked swiftly, wordlessly toward the snowman we had built two days ago. Our hockey player had shrunk into a troll.
"He's melted," I observed.
Without replying, Patrick picked up the snowman's hockey stick and circled the house to the front. I could have stopped him there and given him the choice of dropping the skates and stick or going to his room, but going back inside that angry house was too stiff a penalty for any child to pay. We'd settle the matter when he could see the ice for himself.
We walked silently down the main road, then cut across a garden and orchard, Patrick leading the way, making a wide circle to skirt the horse bam. The stand of trees around the pond looked eerie in the fading afternoon light, like an island floating in the snow and mist. We entered the ring of cedar and pine, following the short trail through dripping branches. Fog darkened the wood and hung over the pond, turning the straggly trees near the shore into ghostly figures. The ice was leaden gray. Off-center, larger than before, was the circle of black water.
Patrick picked up a stick and threw it on the ice. "See? It's frozen."
"Patrick, sticks float on water."
"But it's not floating," he replied. "It's just sitting there."
"The point is that sticks are so light, they can float on water. You are much heavier."
"I float," he argued. "I float on my back."
Struggling to keep my temper, I took the skates and hockey stick from him. "You can't go on the ice. I don't want to hear any more about it."
I put his things at the entrance to the path, then dragged two heavy limbs to the narrow margin between pond and trees, and pushed them together.
"Do you want to sit on my new bench?" I asked, taking out the bag of crackers. I had brought the buttery ones, his favorite. "You may open them if you like."
The sulk could be sustained for only so long. Patrick sat down next to me. After a moment, he tore open the crackers and gobbled up several of them. As he did, I thought about how to facilitate his contact with Ashley's thoughts the day she died. I knew the first part of the story; perhaps all I had to do was get it started, and let Ashley finish it.
I never mentioned this, Patrick," I said, "but I used to play with Ashley-" My cell phone rang, startling both of us. I reached in my pocket to turn it off, but before I could, the three-note ring sounded again.
"It's your phone," Patrick said.
I sighed and pulled it out. "Hello."
"Miss Kate?"
"Yes."
"It's Jack, one of Mrs. Caulfield's grooms."
"I'm sorry?" The voice sounded low and raspy, the connection unclear.
"Jack, from the bam. We got a kind of problem here. I found some painting on the bam, spray paint, low down on the west side. Don't know how long it's been there-no one goes around that way. I had to call Mrs. Caulfield about it. She's mad and coming down to see herself."
He paused.
"So?" I asked, but I could guess what was coming.
"She said you should be here waiting to explain."
"Did she now."
I reminded myself that it wasn't the groom's fault that Robyn had leaped to this conclusion. And, to be fair to Robyn, Patrick had earned her suspicion.
"Would you hold for a moment, please?" I pressed the mute button. "Patrick, did you spray paint the outside of the horse barn?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
His face grew anxious, his mouth moving silently before he spoke. "I don't have any spray paint."
I mentally ran through the forty-eight hours since he had dropped the manure through the hay chute. He had slipped off that afternoon when I had found him on the diving board, and had slipped away again at dawn when I had found him here at the pond, but I doubted he had gone anywhere other than the pool and pond. Of course, the vandalism might have been done before that and not noticed till now. "Have you had any dares from Ashley that I don't know about?"
"No. Am I in trouble?" He had taken off his mittens to eat the crackers, I saw the tense way he curled his hands, leaving his knuckles bony white.
"Not if you didn't paint the barn." Someone else could have, I thought, someone hoping the blame would fall on Patrick.
I released the mute button and spoke into the phone again. "Please tell Mrs. Caulfield that I have questioned Patrick, and that it would make more sense if the person who did it was there to explain."
"Uh, yeah, I know what you mean. But she's my boss and told me to get you, so I have to do it. Maybe you, uh, want to leave young Mr. Westbrook behind and talk to her yourself first, just until she cools down. She's a little-you know. You know how she is."
I know very well. Neither Patrick nor I will be there." I clicked off and slipped the phone in my pocket.
"I don't go too close to the barn now," Patrick said to me. "Really, I don't."
I heard the tremor in his voice.
"I believe you."
"Do you think Ashley did it?" he asked.
"No. I think someone else in the house is playing pranks."
"They don't like me."
It was pointless to deny it. "It's their problem, Patrick, not yours. I want you to remember that I like you very much. So does Sam. Tim did-he was your good friend, and I bet the boy at school who knows about hockey likes you."
"Ashley, too," he suggested softly. "She doesn't say it, but I think she does."