Sleep Like a Baby

by Charlaine Harris

  Robin and I sat side by side on the couch, glancing at each other from time to time. Though I was holding my book and he was fiddling with his phone, we were both more interested in what the coroner/security expert was doing. I don’t know what Robin was thinking about, but I was hoping that I felt safer after Arnie had done his magic. I was also hoping that Robin wouldn’t waste any more time feeling guilty. That was nonsensical.

  Arnie carried a clipboard with a form on it, and from time to time he made notations. He also tested the lock on one of the windows, and I was dismayed to see that the actual lock mechanism was loose. I could only be surprised intruders hadn’t been strolling in and out.

  Arnie hummed while he worked, a tune I couldn’t identify. It wasn’t irritating; in fact, it was pleasant.

  He made a circuit, ending up in the living room again. He walked into the kitchen and went to the door. “The garage door, right?” he said, as he opened it. I dug my elbow into Robin’s ribs. Robin glared at me. I mouthed, How did he know that?

  Startled, Robin looked at Arnie, who’d opened the door to step into the garage.

  It could be he’s a master of floor plans, I thought. Or it could be that somehow he’d noticed that detail when he’d been here after Tracy was murdered. But I couldn’t recall that door being called to his attention in any way. Wait, he’d said something about knowing the previous owners.

  After a few minutes, Arnie was seated opposite us, ready to get down to business. I had made the ritual offer of a glass of water, or a cup of coffee, and just as politely he had turned those down. Arnie began explaining all the security options—motion-sensor cameras outside, alarms on the windows and on the doors—and if we wanted, we could opt to look on our computers to see who was at the door. Robin brightened, since any new gadget was shiny to him, but I gave him a dampening look. Did we really need that?

  I wanted the entire yard, front and back, lit up, after my experience of the week before. But lights that would stay on all night were out of the question, since they’d be a pain for our neighbors and for ourselves. Instead, we got motion-sensor lights.

  “Could our cat set them off?” I asked. Sometimes, when I was up with Sophie, I heard the sound of the cat passing through its little door at very odd hours. Arnie assured me he could set the sensitivity of the lights to go off only if the moving object was larger than Moosie.

  “How long have you had a security company?” Robin asked. I recognized an indirect approach when I heard one.

  “Must be ten years now.” Arnie’s head was bent over the form while he figured out our cost, and I saw that his intensely black hair was threaded with some silver.

  “Did you know the previous owners of this house? Laurie and David Martinez?”

  Arnie looked up, his pen poised above the form. “He worked at Pan-Am Agra. Laurie was a nurse at Dr. Graham’s office.” He looked down again. “When my wife got sick, Dr. Graham was her doctor. We saw Laurie all the time. After Halina passed, we got to be friends.”

  Did Arnie mean he and David and Laurie were friends? Or was his friendship strictly confined to Laurie? At least such a friendship explained why Arnie knew the layout of the house so well.

  After some more discussion about our options, Robin signed a contract with our coroner/Spartan Shield Security expert. We were excited about the transformation of our home into an impregnable fortress.

  “I’ll be over tomorrow with my assistant, and we’ll get you all fixed up,” Arnie said, standing. “I think I have all the components I’ll need, but I’ll check as soon as I get home.”

  When Phillip breezed in, I told him about the Spartan Shield security system. “They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “With all their stuff.”

  “That’s great! I want to watch them install the sensors.” Phillip tossed his head to throw back his hair. (It looked uneven and messy to me, but Phillip could wear his hair like he wanted. I pick my battles.)

  “They’re supposed to get here at two thirty, but I’m sure you’ll be home in time to watch at least part of the work. Oh, by the way…” I warned Phillip that our security expert was none other than the coroner.

  He was indignant. “How can he have two jobs?”

  “The coroner is elected, and the job doesn’t pay enough for anyone to live on,” I said. “Most coroners have another full-time job. Like funeral director. But the job can be anything, like a salesperson at Lowe’s or a beauty parlor operator.”

  “That’s just not right,” Phillip said.

  “I agree, but that’s the way it works in Georgia. And a lot of states.”

  Phillip shook his head. “People,” he said, disillusioned.

  At least he hadn’t said, “Grown-ups.”

  When my brother had gone to his room, presumably starting his homework, I admitted to myself that this was only one of many things about the adult world that Phillip would think were “not right.”

  The next day, I took advantage of Sophie’s naptime to visit John at home. His doctor had let him go the day before, in the afternoon. On the way, I stopped off at Mother’s favorite deli/bakery and bought assorted salads, some containers of soup, and some rye bread, John’s favorite.

  Mother was pleased. Though she scolded me, I could tell she was relieved to have some ready-to-eat food in the refrigerator. I hugged her because she looked depressed and ill, as if she was the one who’d been stricken. Mother held me for a moment without speaking, and I knew she was struggling not to cry.

  I can’t tell you how unusual that was.

  “John’s in the den,” she said, and stepped back, her weak moment over. I followed her into the den to find John lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling: the television wasn’t on, and he didn’t have a book nearby. This was as unusual for John as depression and emotional displays were for my mother.

  This was not the joyful celebration of homecoming that I had expected. I perched on the ottoman, midway between them.

  Mother resumed her seat in her favorite armchair and picked up some needlework. Mother hadn’t done needlework since—well, since forever. Though I was looking at it upside down, the piece appeared to be an alphabet sampler. Obviously, she was employing it as an excuse to sit and watch John.

  I could understand why.

  John looked bad. His complexion was pasty, his face slack, and he was not lying there like someone who was going to jump up eventually. He seemed to be on the couch to stay.

  “Hi, Stepdad,” I said, doing my best to sound cheerful. “I know you’re glad to be out of that hospital.”

  “I have to go back to the doctor tomorrow,” he said listlessly.

  To mask my anxiety, I rattled on about the baby and her magnificence and quitting my job and getting the security system. Anything to fill in the awful silence. Mother gave up any pretense of working on the square, and dropped it in her lap. She tried to respond, but couldn’t muster much energy. Since she thought Sophie was the world’s most important citizen, this was really a bad sign.

  I had a brainstorm. I knew what would really interest John! I gave my mother a narrow-eyed look to indicate I was about to do something she wasn’t going to like.

  “John, you were at your family reunion when Phillip and I found the body in our backyard,” I said.

  “What?” John looked startled, and I realized he didn’t know anything about events on McBride Street. “Whose body?”

  I told John the entire story of the night Tracy had been killed: the inexplicable absence of Virginia Mitchell, my illness, Phillip’s steadfast help, the horror of the body, the threatening storm. The shooting, and my subsequent discovery of Virginia’s cell phone.

  John did look much better when I’d finished, and it wasn’t my imagination. He was engaged and his mind was working. “So I was lying there in the hospital while people were getting shot outside,” he said. “I’m having a hard time believing that happened here in Lawrenceton. What’s happened to the boy? Duncan?”

 
“I don’t know. I assume he’s in the hospital—probably not ours—under police guard. Susan got him in the abdomen.”

  “Hmmm. Have the police told you anything about Virginia’s phone records?”

  “No, and I don’t think they’re likely to.” I’d tried to come up with some reason I simply had to know who Virginia had been talking to, but there was no argument that would persuade Levon I had any right to have that information. I did tell John my theory of how the phone had come to be in my purse. “What do you think?” I asked.

  John said, “Aida, can you put another pillow under my head? I’m having a hard time seeing Roe.”

  Mother shot from her chair and got a larger pillow. John eased himself up while she positioned the pillow so he could look at me directly. Mother sat down again, hiding a smile.

  “Either she wanted it to be found, or she put it in your purse by accident,” John said. “Of course, the man who took your diaper bag thought it was your purse, and he was sure the phone was in it, not yet discovered. So his name is in that telephone.”

  “I never put that all together,” I said. “Motherhood’s made me stupid. I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “After all, how many purse thefts do we have in Lawrenceton in a year?” John continued.

  “Not many,” my mother said. “I’d know.”

  Mother has close ties to the Chamber of Commerce, and she’d be among the first to hear about any negative statistics.

  We discussed the crimes—the murder, the disappearance, the shootings—for another thirty minutes. Then John said, “Looks like I’d better come to your house to see the scene.”

  “Whenever you feel you’re up to it.” I glanced at Mother, who was giving me a very significant look. “If the doctor says it’s okay,” I added hastily. “By the way, I brought you something to read.” I reached into the reusable grocery bag to retrieve New Developments, Old Crimes: How Today’s Forensics Can Shed Light on Murders of the Past.

  “Haven’t read that one,” John said, sounding very pleased.

  I knew he hadn’t been reading much of the literature that interested us both, since my mother took a very dim view of our mutual interest in crimes of the past. And since Sophie’s birth, I’d stuck to conventional mysteries. But I’d figured John needed a solid distraction. I was delighted at his pleasure.

  My job here is done, I thought, and I rose to say good-bye. I’d had the vague conviction that if John didn’t react to my stories, I would have been sure he wasn’t going to recover.

  Robin was glad I’d returned, because he was trying to keep a plot twist for the new book fixed in his head. The second I took Sophie from her bouncer seat, he made a beeline for his office.

  For about half a minute, I wondered why I’d been so determined to stay home with Sophie. I had a moment of wishing I had hours free from the necessity of being tethered to my baby’s needs. But I reminded myself that (a) this was only one phase of Sophie’s life, that (b) we would all feel better when our sleep was regular (I’d gotten up with her twice the night before, though that was getting increasingly rare), and that (c) someday Sophie would accept another food source.

  I bundled her into the stroller and set out for a walk. It was a mild day, sunny and clear, but there was a tang in the air that warned me we’d all have to bundle up soon. The nights were already cooler. I felt dismayed at the prospect of maneuvering Sophie into still more layers of clothing—but that was in the future, and I was going to enjoy our excursion.

  I talked to Peggy Herman (and Chaka, who sniffed Sophie again, with interest). From his yard, Jonathan called hello. Lulu was with him. She barked at me so vigorously I thought she might have a fit.

  Sophie seemed to enjoy the change of scenery. When we got home, she fell fast asleep. Robin didn’t emerge from his office for lunch, which sometimes happened. So I ate all by myself, with a book propped up in front of me, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Robin was fast enough to abandon his work when the Spartan Shield team—consisting of Arnie Petrosian and an assistant—arrived with several boxes and bags and tools. Robin was ready for some stimulation outside of his own head.

  I had very little interest in the physical process of making our house secure. As long as the result worked, that was good enough for me. I played with Sophie when she got up, fed her out on the patio discreetly draped, and went in to greet Phillip when he came home from school. He brought Sarah, Joss, and Josh with him.

  After they’d all said hello and admired Sophie, Phillip ushered them outside to see the site of the murder. This was not my favorite choice for an activity, but I knew it was only natural, so I didn’t comment. They were back within ten minutes—because after all, what was there to see but a yard? No clues, no bloodstains, no corpse, only a (possibly deaf) cat up in the mimosa tree.

  Phillip poured drinks and actually prepared a snack for his guests. I tried to (very casually) glance sideways as he put items on a tray on the island, but I was very interested to see what he’d served.

  I identified Triscuits, Ritz crackers, and a block of sharp cheddar on a cutting board with a couple of knives. He added the bowl of grapes I’d washed earlier. As a final flourish he put a stack of napkins beside the bowl. Not bad.

  I sat on the floor with the baby, singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” and other babyhood hits. No singer me, but Sophie had never seemed to care, and I kept my voice very low. I didn’t want to embarrass my brother.

  The kids observed the security-installation team with great interest. Josh and Joss remembered that Spartan Shield had installed their own security measures, and they said hello and had a bit of conversation with Arnie.

  Neither twin seemed to know the assistant, who wore an ill-fitting khaki shirt matching his boss’s.

  “You didn’t come to our house when we got our system,” Joss said, when the assistant was within talking distance. “You new with the company?”

  He gave her a fleeting smile before he turned away. Over his shoulder, he said, “No, just back at work.”

  Phillip and his friends lost interest when it became clear the installation would take more than an hour or two. They all decided to go to Sarah’s house to play Ping-Pong. When Phillip was on his way out, he said, “Not a school night, Roe.”

  “Got you. Eleven thirty, please.” I stood in loco parentis to my brother, and sometimes that was an uneasy position.

  It’s probably good training for when Sophie is a teen, I thought, though I could not imagine such a thing just now.

  The next time the assistant walked through the living room, I said, “Are you all through in the baby’s room? I’d like to put her down for a nap.”

  “I’ll ask,” he said, in a friendly way. He went out to the truck to retrieve something. When he came back in, I could hear him asking Arnie my question.

  Arnie popped out from Sophie’s bedroom to tell me he was through with her windows. I was glad to stow my sleeping daughter. I wandered back to the living room aimlessly. It was hard to settle down to anything while the two men were in the house. Even Robin had gotten bored and returned to his office.

  I sifted through the mail that had accumulated over the past week, and pitched most of it. I took care of a couple of bills.

  I checked my calendar (I entered appointments on my phone, but Robin and I kept an actual physical calendar on the wall). I was glad I had when I saw that the Women of the Church were meeting in two days to plan the annual holiday bake and handcraft sale. This was our big charity fund-raiser, and it was an all-hands-on-deck event.

  I decided to take Sophie to the meeting in her carrier. Robin had missed enough work. I was looking forward to getting out of the house again, seeing fresh faces. I felt my smile fade when I had a very unpleasant thought. What if people were creepy to me? Surely, at a church gathering, people would be reminded of their Christian duty to love their neighbors? No matter how unsettling that neighbor’s circumstances?

/>   By golly, I was for sure going, now.

  I immediately began to second-guess myself. But my mother would have gone, if this had all happened to her. And maybe, if John was a lot better, Mother even might come tomorrow. My mother would singe the ladies’ eyebrows with one glance, if they didn’t make me feel welcome. I smiled, just thinking about it.

  Not that I needed, at my age, to hide behind my mother.

  At that moment I heard Lulu start yapping hysterically, followed by a deep “Woof!” Someone in the Hermans’ yard was shouting. I was out the patio door before I was conscious of moving.

  Chaka had jumped the fence and was in our backyard. He was at the foot of the mimosa tree looking up with fierce intensity. Lulu, deciding Chaka should not be even closer to Lulu’s sacred territory, was giving it all she had by way of negative reinforcement.

  I was surprised—shocked—to see Chaka in our yard. With some vague idea of rescuing Moosie, I started across the yard. I wasn’t running, but I was certainly walking very briskly.

  “Roe!” Peggy called. “Slow down! Be calm!” I resented this until I understood she was warning me Chaka might become more agitated. I froze. I admit, I was scared. The dog had never been anything but quiet, well-behaved, and friendly.

  I heard our patio door opening behind me. Robin appeared at my side. (I assumed he had walked slowly, because I wasn’t going to look away from the large dog to verify that.)

  “Hey, boy,” Robin said, in an easy voice. “What you got up in the tree?” Chaka turned his head to look at Robin. He wasn’t growling (Chaka, not Robin), and I thought that was a good sign.

  “Moosie,” I said, very quietly.

  “I’m coming around to your yard,” Peggy said, and I wondered why she didn’t jump the fence like Chaka must have done. From our bedroom window, I’d watched Peggy vault over once when Chaka’s ball had landed in our yard. She’d retrieved it handily.