Tribute

by Nora Roberts

  Cilla walked Lori to the door, then went back and sat on the stepladder. She considered the cleanest, most direct way to get out a statement. She still had contacts, and even if tapping any of them was dicey, the Hardy name would ring the bell. She needed something brief and concise, carefully written. She’d been taught not to duck a story but to confront it, spin it and ride it out with class.

  She pulled her phone off her belt when it rang, then closed her eyes as she answered. “Hello, Mom.”

  “Cilla, for God’s sake, what’s going on out there?”

  “I had some trouble. I’m handling it. Listen, could you contact your publicist? You’re still using Kim Cohen?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Please, contact her and give her this number. Ask her to call me as soon as she can.”

  “I don’t see why I should do you any favors after the way you treated—”

  “Mom. Please. I could use some help.”

  There was a beat of silence. “All right. I’ll call her right now. Were you in an accident? Are you in the hospital? Are you hurt? I heard some crazy man thought you were Mama’s ghost and tried to run you over with his car. I heard—”

  “No, it’s not like that. I’m not hurt. I need Kim to help me straighten it out, get out a statement.”

  “I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m still mad at you,” Dilly said with a sniff that made Cilla smile. “But I don’t want you to be hurt.”

  “I know, and I’m not. Thanks for calling Kim.”

  “At least I know how to do a favor,” Dilly said, and hung up.

  Cilla couldn’t deny it as the publicist called within twenty minutes. In another twenty, they’d refined a statement between them. By the time Cilla hung up, she knew she’d done the best she could.

  “I’M NOT MAJOR JUICE,” Cilla said to Ford as they drove from the doctor’s office to the appointment with the Realtor. “But there’s always some ripples when there’s any sort of violence or scandal. And the Hardy connection may give it a little more play. But the statement should cover most of it. There won’t be much interest.”

  “There will be locally. It’ll be big news around here, at least for a few days. And if it goes to trial. Did you get in touch with the cops?”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t—and yes. I know Wilson thought I was the crazy one for asking if they’d consider Hennessy’s emotional and mental state.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Psych evals are already in the works. One from the defense, one from the prosecution.”

  “Dueling shrinks.”

  “It sounds like it.”

  “I’d say it’s going to be pretty clear to both that Hennessy downed a big bowl of crazy.”

  “Yeah. I guess the upshot depends on what the prosecution’s guy has to say as to whether or not the DA holds on the charges, makes a deal or recommends a psychiatric facility and treatment. The house is coming up on the left. The little Cape Cod there.”

  “Huh?”

  “Red compact out front. She’s already here. Vicky Fowley. It’s a rental—empty—the owner wants to unload. And Vicky’s anxious to get it off her list.”

  Ford looked at the overgrown, weedy front yard and the small brown box of a house sitting on it. “I can’t imagine why. Could it be the extreme uglies?”

  “Perfect attitude. Keep that up, seriously.” She gave his hand a bolstering pat. “And let me do the talking.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ford knew he had a strong imagination. He considered himself to be a man of some vision. As far as Cilla’s “little Cape Cod” went, he couldn’t imagine how anyone could define it, however loosely, as a house, and could only visualize it being mercifully razed.

  Stains of a suspicious and undoubtedly unpleasant nature stamped and streaked the carpet in the pint-sized living room. He could only be grateful he’d let Spock play job dog again, otherwise Spock would’ve been honor bound to re-mark all the previously marked areas.

  Either an animal or an army of rodents had gnawed on the baseboard. The ceiling, also unpleasantly stained in one corner, was bumpy with what Cilla called popcorn.

  The kitchen was a truly ugly hodgepodge of mismatched appliances, torn linoleum and a rusted sink. The stingy counters carried the round burn marks of pans carelessly set on blue-speckled white Formica. Grime, and God knew what else, lived in the corners.

  In his mind’s eye he imagined cockroaches flooding out of that rusted sink, armed with automatic weapons, driving tanks and armored vehicles to wage war against spiders in combat gear firing bazookas.

  He found it easy to let Cilla do the talking. He was speechless.

  The second floor consisted of two bedrooms scattered with the debris of former tenants and a bathroom he wouldn’t have entered while wearing a hazmat suit.

  “As you can see, there’s work to be done!” Vicky showed white, white teeth in what could only be a pained, somewhat desperate smile. “But with some elbow grease and sweat equity, it could be a little dollhouse! Such a cute starter home for a young couple like yourselves.”

  “A couple of what?” Ford said and got the fish eye from Cilla.

  “Vicky, would you mind if we just looked around on our own for a few minutes? Talked about it?”

  “Of course not! Take all the time you want. I’ll just step outside and make some calls. Don’t rush on my account!”

  “Why does she say everything in exclamation points?” Ford asked when Vicky was out of earshot. “Is it fear? Excitement? Does she have multiple, spontaneous orgasms?”

  “Cute.”

  “Cilla, I think that pile of what may have once been clothing in that corner just moved. There may be a body in there. Possibly an army of cockroaches waiting to ambush. We should leave. And never come back.”

  “If there was a body, it would smell a lot worse than it does in here.”

  “How much worse?” he muttered. “And have you ever actually smelled a body?”

  She gave him the fish eye again. “Cockroaches may be a factor, however. If the seller had any brains, he’d have cleaned this place out, ripped up this incredibly smelly carpet. But his loss could be our gain.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. The only thing we could gain from this place is a rampant case of typhoid. Or bubonic plague.” He kept a wary eye on the pile of rags. He wasn’t entirely sure it hadn’t moved. “Cilla, this place has no possible redeeming value.”

  “Because you don’t know where to look. Deal was, you don’t want to risk it, you don’t. But let me give you the idea first. There’s hardwood under this carpet. I checked when I went through before.”

  She walked over, crouched to pull up a loose corner. “Random-length oak, and in surprisingly good shape.”

  “Okay, it’s got a floor.”

  “And a good foundation, a nice-sized lot.”

  “That looks like a minefield. Probably booby-trapped by the atomic spiders.”

  “New sod,” she continued, undaunted, “some plantings, a pretty little deck on the back. Gut the bathroom.”

  “Wouldn’t it be more humane to bomb it?”

  “New tub, new sink, a nice ceramic tile. For a room that size, I could probably find enough of a discontinued style, neutral color. All the carpet goes. Replace the closet doors, add shelves. Redo the ceilings, paint. You’ve got a couple of nice kids’ rooms.”

  “And where would the parents sleep?” He slid his hands into his pockets rather than risk accidentally touching something. “In a hotel if they have any sense.”

  She crooked her finger. “This wall moves out fifteen feet.”

  “It does?”

  “It will and, running the width of the house, will hold the master suite, overlooking the backyard. Walk-in closet, attached bath with soaking tub and separate shower. Double sinks, granite countertop. Maybe slate tile. Have to price that out.”

  “What holds it up? Hopes and dreams?”

  “The new kitchen/great room.” />
  “Oh, that.” But oddly enough, he began to see it as she did.

  Or as he thought she did.

  “Horrible carpet treads out, oak treads in,” she said as she started down the steps. “Replace skinny banister. Carpet goes, ceilings redone, new trim, some crown molding. New windows throughout. Gut kitchen.”

  “Thank the Lord.”

  “Half bath and laundry room here. Kitchen, dining area and family room, open floor plan, breakfast bar for the casual, family meal, all leading out through atrium doors to the nice little deck. Exterior paint in a cheerful color, replace the cracked concrete walkway with pavers, plug in some plants, a little dogwood tree. And that’s about it.”

  “Oh, well, that’s hardly anything.”

  She laughed. “It’s a lot, but it’ll be a lot. Poor, sad thing. Sixteen weeks. It could be done in twelve, but not with juggling, so I’d say sixteen. With the top offer I’d make and materials and labor, mortgage payments for, we’ll say, five months, and the market value after improvements in this neighborhood, you could see between forty and forty-five K in profit.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yeah. Depending on the market when it’s done, that could be closer to sixty thousand. The neighborhood’s on an upswing.” She began ticking items off on her fingers. “Younger couples, small families moving in, prettying things up. It’s in a good school district, only about ten minutes from a shopping center. Master suites, kitchens and baths—that’s where the sales are made and you get your biggest return on your investment.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, you have to be sure. Take a little time to think about it. I’ll draw up some floor plans.”

  “No, I’m sold. Let’s go make Vicky’s day.” And get the hell out while the cockroaches and spiders have their moratorium.

  “Wait, wait. We need to let her suffer more. You’re going to steal this place, Ford.” He found the sly delight on her face infectious. “It deserves to be stolen because the seller couldn’t even be bothered to make an attempt. We’re going to tell her, very unconvincingly, that we’ll think about it. Then we’re going to walk away. In a week, ten days, I’ll call her back.”

  “If somebody buys it in the meantime?”

  “When it’s been sitting here for over four months, even with two price reductions? I don’t think so. We’re going to go give Vicky the disappointment she’s expecting. Then I want to go home, soak in your hot tub and relax.”

  RELAXING PROVED PROBLEMATIC because of the half-dozen reporters camped at her wall.

  “Not much interest, you said?”

  “This is nothing.” And hardly more than she’d expected. “Just a spillover from the statement. They’ll mostly be local, or out of D.C., maybe. We’re close enough for that. You go inside. I’ll handle it.”

  “You’re going to give them interviews?”

  “Not exactly. A few crumbs. They’ll take the crumbs and fly away. There’s no reason for you to be involved in this. And you’ll just give them another angle.”

  But the minute they stepped out of the car, cameras lifted. Like one entity, reporters surged across the road, shouting Cilla’s name, calling out questions. As it struck Ford as a kind of attack, he moved instinctively to Cilla’s side.

  “Georgia Vassar, WMWA-TV. Can you tell us your thoughts on the altercation yesterday with James Robert Hennessy?”

  “How serious are your injuries?”

  “Is it true Hennessy believes you’re the reincarnation of Janet Hardy?”

  “I’ve already issued a statement about the incident,” Cilla said coolly. “I don’t have any more to say.”

  “Isn’t it true that Hennessy threatened you previously? And, in fact, assaulted Steve Chensky, your ex-husband, while Chensky lived with you? Was that assault the reason for your failed reconciliation?”

  “To my knowledge, Mr. Hennessy hasn’t been charged with the assault on Steve, who was visiting me for a short time this spring. We’ve been friends before, during and after our marriage. There was no reconciliation.”

  “Is that due to your relationship with Ford Sawyer? Mr. Sawyer, how do you feel about the attack on Ms. McGowan?”

  “There’s speculation that you and Steve fought over Cilla, and he was injured. How do you answer that?”

  “No comment. Gosh, you guys seem to be on my property. We’re pretty friendly around here, but you’re going to want to step off.”

  “I won’t be as friendly if any of you trespass on mine,” Cilla warned.

  “Is it true that you came here in an attempt to commune with the spirit of your grandmother?” someone shouted as she turned with Ford toward the house.

  “Tabloid crap,” Cilla stated. “I’m sorry. Most of that was tabloid crap.”

  “No problem.” Ford shut the door behind them, locked it. “I’ve always wanted the opportunity to say ‘No comment’ in a stern voice.”

  “They’ll give up. It won’t play more than a day or two, and most of that’ll be in the supermarket sheets alongside stories of alien babies being homeschooled in Utah.”

  “I knew it!” He shot a finger in the air. “I knew that was the reason for Utah. How about a glass of wine with that soak, while I figure out how to get my dog back?”

  “Not a good idea. The wine, yeah, and Spock, but you’ve got a lot of glass in your gym.” She offered an apologetic look, the best she could give him. “Glass, telephoto lenses. No point in handing it to them. They’ve got your name. You’re going to find yourself alongside the alien babies, too.”

  “Finally, a lifelong dream fulfilled.” He reached for glasses, glanced down at his answering machine. “Aren’t I the popular guy today? Forty-eight messages.” Even as he spoke, the phone rang.

  “You should screen, Ford. I really thought by issuing a short, clear statement I’d head this off. Kim, the publicist, agreed with me. But for whatever reason, some of the media wants to run with it, and turn down cockeyed angles.”

  “Let’s do this.” He lifted the phone, switched off the ringer. “I’ll do the same with the others. My family, my friends have my cell number if they need to reach me. I’ll call Brian, see if he’ll take Spock home with him tonight. We’ll take some wine, cook up a frozen pizza and camp upstairs in the bedroom behind the curtains. At last, the opportunity to expose you to a marathon running of Battlestar Galactica.”

  She leaned back on the counter as the tension in her shoulders dissolved. Not angry, she realized. Not upset. Not even especially irked. How had she ever managed to connect with someone so blessedly stable?

  “You really know how to keep it simple.”

  “Unless the Cylons are bent on destroying your entire species, it usually is simple. You get the pizza, I’ll get the wine.”

  CILLA WOKE at five A.M. to the beep of the internal clock she’d set in the middle of the night after the alarms had sounded at the Little Farm. Something else she should have expected, she thought as she went to shower. There were some members of some media who routinely ignored the law in pursuit of a story. So she’d spent an hour with the police and Ford across the road.

  And she had a lock set on her back door bearing the scratches of a botched jimmy attempt.

  She dressed, left a note for Ford. The radio car remained in her drive, where it had been posted after the attempted break-in. Birds chirped, and she caught sight of a trio of deer at her pond. But no reporters camped outside her walls.

  Maybe she’d gotten lucky, she thought, and that was that. Using Ford’s car, she drove into town. She was back by six-thirty, and carried a box of doughnuts and two large coffees down her drive.

  The cop behind the wheel rolled down his window.

  “I know it’s a cliché,” she said, “but.”