He could, but it was a smaller version of Mallory, and he would be a long time getting that picture out of his head.
She blanked the screen. „The only other option is a professional hitman with a money motive. Nothing personal, just a neat quick job. But there’s a hole in that theory.“
„All right, I see the stumbling block.“ And this time he found no fault in her logic. „If the children are the only ones who profit from the trust fund, then who paid for the – “
„No, that’s not it. I could work around that.“
„All right.“ A moment to regroup, thank you. „Professional killers don’t usually kidnap children.“
„They never do.“ She inclined her head, prompting him to continue.
„And it’s probably quite alarming to have one turn up in a house full of people.“ So far so good, no stumbles yet. „Whereas, a member of the family could move through the house at leisure, taking victims by surprise without alerting the entire household.“
She nodded to say, Now you ‘ve got it.
„Well, not to be argumentative.“ He held up his hands, even realizing that this was a defensive posture that said, Don’t shoot me, all right? It’s only conjecture. „Here’s another scenario. What if it was a professional assassin. And what if Nedda saw him in time to make a run for it?“ Charles knew he was making a mistake in offering his own theory, but he could not stop himself. „The killer would have to chase her down, wouldn’t he? Suppose he lost her outside, maybe in the park across the street? Then you’d have a little girl who thought she couldn’t go home again. Home was where the monster would be waiting for her. So the theory of a runaway child could – “
„It works for me.“ Riker stood in the open doorway, wearing a suit and tie of a different color; otherwise, it would not have been apparent that he had changed his clothes from yesterday. „Yeah. A runaway. Good work, Charles.“ The man smiled, and this was tantamount to squaring off against Mallory when he faced her and said, „I don’t think Nedda Winter killed all those people.“
Mallory’s arms folded across her breast in a warning sign that she was not happy with this division in the ranks.
Riker shrugged and lit a cigarette to say, Well, that’s just tough.
And now she turned on innocent Charles, who had only offered the most -
„So,“ she said. „I’m guessing Nedda didn’t volunteer any details about where she’d been for the past fifty-eight years.“
„No,“ said Charles. „Sorry. I never thought to ask.“
„Did you get us anything,“ asked Riker, „anything at all?“
„Maybe,“ he said. „Breakfast, anyone?“
Long ago, Bitty’s room had belonged to Robert the Reader, eight years old with thick lenses in his spectacles that made his blue eyes larger, more tender. Each time Nedda Winter entered this bedroom, she saw her brother sprawled on the window seat, a book held by small dead hands, a tiny hole in his pajamas and a bit of blood from his young heart.
Nedda sat down at the edge of the bed and lifted a glass to Bitty’s lips. „Just drink it, dear. You don’t want to know what’s in it.“
Her niece obediently swallowed a mixture of raw egg, milk and steak sauce.
„My father favored that hangover remedy,“ said Nedda.
„Was he a drunk?“
„Well, yes, dear, but, in those days, who wasn’t?“ She took the emptied glass and set it on the bedside table. „And he only drank after three o’clock. He had rules.“
„Was my grandfather a violent man?“
Ah, back to the theory of Edwina Winter’s murder. „No. The only thing that aroused any passion in him was a fight with my stepmother. Sometimes Lionel got a light swat on his backside. He was always getting in between his parents, trying to protect his mother. Not that she needed any help. She always had something heavy in her hand whenever she went after my father.“
„I can’t imagine Uncle Lionel as a boy.“
„I think you would’ve liked him then. He was the only one of the children who ever stood up to my father. He was a brave one. I loved him for that.“
„Did you love your father?“
„Yes, but Lionel loved him more. Sometimes I think he took those hits just to get Daddy’s attention.“
Bitty pushed her covers aside, then, after a grimace of pain, thought better of moving so rashly. She lay back on her pillow. „What about the others? Do you remember Sally?“
„Of course. She was the baby of the family, a newborn. She cried a lot. That’s why the nursery was at the top of the house. And she wasn’t well. I remember a steady stream of doctors marching up the staircase to examine her.“
„What was my mother like?“
„She was only five when I – left. A very loving child. Big sunny smile. Poor little Cleo. She must’ve thought that I’d abandoned her. And I suppose I did.“
„Aunt Nedda, I’m so sorry about last night. That business about your mother – “ She turned her face into the pillow.
„It’s all right, Bitty. I told you, I never knew my own mother. Your murder theory didn’t upset me at all. I know my father didn’t kill her. His second wife, Alice, was a copy of Edwina. What does that tell you?“
„He loved her?“
„Madly. Once, before I was born, they were separated for a week. They wrote to each other every day. Their love letters are in her trunk up in the attic. You should read them. I know all the lines by heart.“
A small voice screamed, „What?“ It was Rags. The lame cockatiel had left its cage and now worked its way up the bedspread, climbing toward its mistress by beak and claw.
„Poor thing,“ said Nedda. „What happened to him? Why can’t he fly?“
„His wing was crushed by the window sash. It just fell on him. No, it slammed on him. I saw it happen. Mother said the house doesn’t like birds.“
„No, it doesn’t,“ said Nedda. „Every year after the first frost, we’d find a dead bird outside on one of the window ledges. The house doesn’t like flies either.“ She stared at the dead dry insect on Bitty’s sill. „That’s what old Mrs. Tully used to say. She was the housekeeper when I was a little girl. Tully always said, ‘You might see a dead fly every now and then, but you’ll never hear a live one buzz – at least, not for long.’“
„Was she insane?“ Bitty’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, as if she had just committed a social faux pas, calling attention to an infirmity in front of a cripple. And now, realizing her blunder, she seemed on the verge of tears.
Nedda gave her niece a smile of reassurance, then dipped one hand into the pocket of her robe. „There’s something else we have to talk about.“ She withdrew a small worn box and held it up for Bitty to see. „Remember this? Last night at dinner?“ The box was heavily lacquered cardboard, not machine made, but one of a kind, handcrafted and painted with the tarot image of the hanged man.
A memento mod from days in hell.
Nedda opened the box and pulled out the deck. The card of destruction, an image of a burning tower, was on the top. „Tell me where you found my tarot cards.“
The bookcases that lined Charles Buder’s library were fifteen feet tall, necessitating a ladder slanting from the top-shelf railing to the floor.
High in the air, he rolled along on its wheels as he searched for the volume that Mallory wanted. „A friend of my father’s gave it to me. He said my New York History section would be incomplete without it.“
Though he had never considered reading the book, it had been stored on the upper shelf with similar volumes. After perusing the first page, he had found the writing inferior, but it would have been bad manners and literary heresy to toss the book in die trash. Now where was it?