„No, Bitty, don’t do that.“ Cleo had the tone of one reprimanding a four-year-old as she came up behind her daughter and bent low to collect the fallen haberdashery. But now the hats dropped to the floor as her hands flew up to cover her face. „My God. It’s a mouse hole. But the house hates mice. How could this – “
„No, Mother. I drilled that hole myself. See how shallow the closet is? And the back wall isn’t cedar. All the other closets in the house – “
„Well, of course it’s shallow. It’s a hat closet. It’s always been a hat closet.“
„There’s no such thing. Aunt Nedda said this was a normal closet when she was a little girl. She said coats were kept in here.“
„Well, the house was rented out when we were children. One of the tenants must have changed it into a hat closet.“
„No, it’s a normal closet with a false wall. If you look through the hole – “
„Not a mouse hole,“ said Cleo. „Well, that’s a relief.“ Her eyes traveled over the exposed section of the wall. „You’re right. It’s not cedar. Looks cheap. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed that before. But then, it’s always been full of hats. There was a time when everyone wore them. So it made sense, you see, to have a place to – “
„It’s not a hat closet!“ This was Bitty’s attempt at yelling, but it came out as an impatient squeak. „It’s a hiding place.“ She hunkered down in front of the drilled hole. With more composure, she said, „If you shine a light in there, you can see a trunk. It’s just like the trunks in the attic. Did you ever count them, Mother? One for every dead Winter – except for Sally. Didn’t you ever wonder about Sally’s trunk?“
„The south attic? We never go up there. Why would we? Why would you? I don’t think I want to – Oh, no. Bitty, I asked yon not to do that.“
Hats were in flight once more as Bitty cleared one shelf and then another. Cleo ran about the foyer rescuing hats on the fly and yelling, „Bitty, stop! Stop it this instant!“ She reached high in the air to catch one with a wide brim sailing by like a Frisbee.
Bitty lifted one board from its moorings and then the next. She never heard the door open, but now Uncle Lionel was behind her asking, „What’s going on? Bitty, have you lost your mind?“
Bitty was laughing, though not hysterically. This was genuinely funny. She might be the only one in the house who could pass a psychological evaluation.
Cleo’s arms were wrapping round her daughter as she yelled, „You’re not well! You don’t know what you’re doing! This has to stop!“
Oh, yes – the terrible insanity of skimming hats across the foyer. Bitty wrestled free. She ran through the doorway and across the front room, aiming herself at the kitchen like a missile. She collided with her father. A glass of water fell from his hand and crashed to the floor. She circled round him, ducking his hand and almost slipping in the wide puddle. Upon entering the kitchen, she pulled open the glass cabinet that housed the fire extinguisher and the ax.
Bitty returned to the front room to enjoy one shining moment as the center of attention. The three of them were agape and staring at the fire ax in her hand. Her father was shaking his head, trying to make sense of this sight – his daughter armed with a lethal weapon. Ah, and now she discovered a new side effect as she walked toward them and they moved back.
Power.
She entered the foyer to stand before the closet. It was now bare of every shelf within her reach. She took one mighty swing of the ax to crack open the brittle plaster wall. Her second swing was too high, slicing through one of her mother’s hats and trapping the blade in the cut of high shelf.
Braver now, the trio entered the foyer, hands reaching out.
„Don’t you dare!“ Bitty pulled the ax free and turned on them.
Her mother held up her hands like a mugging victim. „It’s all right, dear. Everything is going to be all right.“
Bitty swung the ax again, putting another hole in the thin board of the closet’s back wall and raising a small cloud of white plaster dust.
„That’s enough,“ said her mother, sternly now, as if her forty-year-old child were merely acting up in front of company.
Bitty made another swing, wielding the ax with all her might. The wall cracked inward. She used the ax as a hammer to drive the shards of the wall back into a hollow space.
„That’s enough!“ said Cleo. „Stop it!“
Completing her very first act of open rebellion, Bitty pulled loose other sections of the ruined wall, working like a dervish to expose the small trunk on the floor behind it. As she gripped a brass handle and dragged it out, it became wedged in the opening. With one hard tug, the trunk came loose and flew backward with Bitty into the room, landing on its side and falling open to spill its contents at her mother’s feet.
A rotted nightgown, a yellow braid – a tiny skeleton.
If a doll had bones.
Lieutenant Coffey had been almost flattered – almost – when District Attorney Buchanan deigned to visit Special Crimes Unit at this late hour, having left a dinner party and one royally pissed-off campaign contributor during an election year. The dapper little weasel had come accompanied by an honor guard of five minions, all of them dressed in tuxedos and shiny shoes. There were rarely any of the female assistant DAs in his traveling entourage; they were much too tall in high heels. Buchanan liked to surround himself with small men, following the principle that no head should be higher than the king’s.
For the past ten minutes, the lieutenant had endured the protocol of ascending and descending speech. He was always called Jack, and Buchanan was addressed as sir or Mister District Attorney. And now Buchanan had run out of breath in a rather one-sided argument, or perhaps he had simply exhausted his store of insults.
The lieutenant picked his next words with care. „Well, sir, it’s the kind of case that comes along once in a career.“
„That’s no excuse. I told your detectives to stay clear of that law firm. They completely disregarded my direct order. And now I understand that they’re harassing one of Sheldon Smyth’s clients – a seventy-year-old woman, for God’s sake. She’s being watched around the clock.“
„Yes, sir. We have a plainclothes detail guarding Nedda Winter.“ Coffey sat down behind his desk and picked up a pen.
„Well, Jack, you can forget that court order for protective custody. I blocked it.“
„Yes, I know.“ Jack Coffey’s grin was wide and impolitic as he finished scribbling his note, and now he passed it to the district attorney, who read’ the single line.
„Oh, Jesus Christ.“ The note dropped to the floor as Buchanan stood up and cleared the room, waving his ADAs out the door, yelling, „Move – now!“ When his entourage had fled the office, the district attorney lowered his voice to a conspirator’s whisper. „Red Winter? You plan to implicate the Smyths in the Winter House Massacre? Do you want me to have a heart attack, right here, right now?“
Oh, yes, and if there was a God -
„No fucking way, Jack. The lawsuit potential is staggering. Now listen carefully. This is another direct order from me to Mallory and Riker. From now on, your detectives stay away from the Smyth firm and Nedda Winter.“