Not a Creature Was Stirring

by Jane Haddam

  “Six.”

  “Try to get them both up to see her before she comes down. Try. I don’t want either one of them making a scene while that man’s here. And your mother probably wants to see them anyway. She always does.”

  “Yes,” Anne Marie said, “she does.”

  “Then go look for them. What are you hanging around here for?”

  Anne Marie seemed about to say something, but thought better of it. She always did. Robert watched her get the doorknob turned and the door opened, every movement an agony of clumsiness. Fat stupid cunt. At least the rest of them looked all right.

  “Fat stupid cunt,” Robert Hannaford said aloud.

  Anne Marie turned to look at him, her eyes flat. Then she walked into the hall and closed the door behind her.

  Robert Hannaford wheeled himself back to the window to keep watch on the drive, burning money by the second in an orgy of electrical heat.

  2

  At 5:17:09, only seconds after Anne Marie entered Robert Hannaford’s study, Christopher Hannaford lit the fourth of six joints he had brought out to the stables after lunch, took a monumentally huge drag on the slick end of it, and passed it to Teddy. Like the three joints that had come before it, and the two still resting in the breast pocket of Chris’s blue cotton workshirt, it was as big as a cigar, and safe. Its safety resided in the fact that Chris had grown the marijuana himself. That was a necessity. Out in California, marijuana dealers tended to deal in other things as well, and because of that they also tended to spray their grass with substances no sane person would want. Heroin. Crack. If you couldn’t get your clients hyped by fair means, use foul. It was for that reason—and not just because he liked the stuff so damned much himself—that Chris was in favor of legalizing grass.

  Maybe.

  At the moment, he was in favor of it because grass had turned out to be the only not-immediately-lethal substance in the known universe capable of calming him down after his interview with his father. He was surprised as hell that it had worked. Actually, he would have been surprised if death had worked. He had this feeling he was going to go into eternity with that scene imprinted on his soul: Daddy in the wheelchair, the papers spread out on the desk, the tapping of the grandfather clock that stood against the west wall and hadn’t kept decent time since 1966. It could have been a tableau from a situation comedy about the joys of family life, except that Daddy had seemed so pleased with himself. And Daddy pleased with himself was never an appetizing sight.

  “These,” Daddy had said, waving his hands over the papers on the desk, “are a communication from a man named Anthony Giacometto. He says you owe him $77,451.22. As of this morning.”

  On the other side of the loft, Teddy was flailing in the straw, looking happy. On that score, too, this experiment had been a success. Chris had been surprised to find that Teddy had never tried marijuana. He had been delighted that Teddy had taken to it so well. Besides, the dope had made Teddy so spacey, he hadn’t been able to continue the conversation he’d started back at the house, which was all about how awful Chris looked. Chris thought he had every right to look awful. The last thing Daddy had said to him, before throwing him out of the study, was:

  “Don’t forget. Anyone can get through that gate if I want to let them through. Anyone.”

  Right.

  They’d brought a brown paper grocery bag full of goodies from the kitchen when they’d come out. Chris reached into it, found a chocolate chip cookie, and ate the thing whole. Teddy saw him and came scuttling over, looking for dope.

  “The thing is,” Teddy said, “I thought everybody in California screwed like rabbits. All the time.”

  Chris took the joint back, inhaled, and blew a cloud of smoke into his nose. “Nobody screws like rabbits any more,” he said. “There’s AIDS.”

  “When you came down to lunch today, I thought you had AIDS,” Teddy said.

  “Jesus Christ,” Chris said.

  “You look like you haven’t eaten for a year.”

  “I’ve got an ulcer, Teddy. In fact, I think I’ve got two.”

  Teddy nodded sagely and hit on the joint again. Chris had to take it out of his hands to get it back. He did it without rancor. He was by nature a good-hearted man. He hated Daddy, yes—and at the moment, he was scared to death of him—but the way Daddy was, he was practically required to. As for Teddy, Chris had never gotten along with him before and he was getting along with him now—and he thought that was nice.

  Or something. He lay back against the hard slat of a broken feed crib and said, “So what do you think? Is Daddy finally going completely around the bend, or what?”

  “Daddy?” Teddy jumped.

  “Yeah. Daddy. Morgan came and picked me up in Newark, we drive through the gate, there’s a guy out there with a Uzi, man.”

  “It’s not a Uzi,” Teddy said. “It’s a Springfield twenty-two. Anne Marie says she doesn’t even think it’s loaded.”

  “If Daddy has some guy out there freezing his nuts doing sentry duty, the gun is loaded. Trust me.”

  “Well, I don’t think that’s necessarily crazy. You’ve got to think about terrorists.”

  “Terrorists.” Chris laughed. “Oh, hell, Teddy. If somebody’s going to kill the old goat, it’s going to be one of us.”

  Teddy stiffened. “What for? What would we want to kill him for?”

  “Why not? Don’t you ever think about it? Just walking into that room of his one day and sticking his penknife in his jugular vein?”

  “I wouldn’t use a penknife,” Teddy said. “I’d use something I could break his legs with. Like a cane.”

  “Oh,” Chris said. His mind skittered to thoughts of thumbs and then away again. “I’m not much for broken bones, to tell you the truth.”

  “I’m not much for killing Daddy,” Teddy said.

  Chris looked up at his brother, curious. Teddy hadn’t sounded convincing, but Chris hadn’t expected him to. What Chris didn’t understand was why Teddy wanted to deny what was perfectly clear to—and about—every one of them.

  Chris nipped over on his stomach and propped his chin on his hand. In this position, he could see the kitchen yard and windows and one wall of the garages that had once housed Daddy’s collection of cars. It was dark, but the overhead safety lights were on. He could see the thick snow slanting in the wind and the gold and silver traces of outdoor decorations. Then the kitchen door opened and a slight figure came onto the porch, looking ridiculous in an overfilled down coat.

  “Here comes Bennis,” Chris said.

  “Bennis?” Teddy sat up straight. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. God, she grew up beautiful, didn’t she?”

  “Mmm,” Teddy said.

  “Anne Marie’s probably looking for us. That’s what it’s about.”

  “What time is it?” Teddy said.

  Chris looked over his shoulder, confused to find Teddy up and moving around. “You’re the one with the watch,” he said. “I never wear a watch.”

  Teddy checked his watch. “Quarter to six. How did it get to be quarter to six?”

  “Dope is like that,” Chris said.

  Teddy brushed away the offered joint. “I’ve got to get out of here. I had no idea it was this late. I’ve got to get dressed for dinner. I’ve got to—”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” Teddy said. “I’m just in a hurry.”

  “Why? Stay around and talk to Bennis. She—”

  Teddy shook him off. “No. The one thing I don’t want to do is stay around and talk to Bennis.” He found the boot he had lost and got it on. A moment later, he had swung out of sight down the ladder. Chris sat up and stared after him, amazed. Teddy was hopping down to the stable floor. His brace clattered once or twice against the ladder rungs, then landed with a thump in the hay at the bottom.

  “Will you just cool out?” Chris said.

  Thump. Thump. Drag. Thump. Thump. Drag. Teddy didn’t stop moving un
til he got to the stable door—the back stable door, so he wouldn’t even run into Bennis coming in—and then he turned around and said,

  “Screw you.”

  Chris blinked. Teddy was gone. Bennis hadn’t arrived. He was alone. He suddenly felt as if he’d been on one of those acid trips he never actually took.

  He was beginning to think he ought to give up dope.

  3

  At 5:59 Bennis Hannaford, fresh from a two-way trek through the wilds of the kitchen yard and an even stranger trek through the wilds of her brother Christopher’s mind, came in out of the wind to the warmth and humidity of the kitchen. Mrs. Washington was at the stove, pulling a tray of hot cheese canapés out of the lower oven. Bennis popped off her boots—nobody in their right mind made a mess of Mrs. Washington’s daily-waxed floors—and went over and stole one. She had to snake her thin white hand under Mrs. Washington’s broader black one, but this was a game they had been playing since Bennis was three. If Mrs. Washington ever started making it easier for her, Bennis would be wrecked.

  Mrs. Washington decided to make it harder by putting the canapé tray on top of the refrigerator. “That man isn’t here yet,” she said. “Stuck in the snow out there, I guess.”

  “The snow is awful,” Bennis said. “The canapés are good.”

  Mrs. Washington didn’t respond to that one. Her canapés were always good. “Did you find those two?”

  “I found Chris. Stoned.”

  Mrs. Washington took another tray of canapés, ham and cheese this time, and shoved them into the lower oven. “That boy always did have money where he should have had brains. What happened to the other one?”

  “I don’t know. According to Chris, they were both out there all afternoon, and then just before I came Teddy took off. Actually, what Chris said was that Teddy took off because I came, but that doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  “Nobody makes any sense,” Mrs. Washington said. “Maybe he went up to see your mother.”

  “Did he come through here?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet.”

  “I saw him at lunch. God, but it’s tense around here. I don’t know how you stand it.”

  Mrs. Washington smiled. “Forty-five thousand a year and a ride to Mass every Sunday. And it’s not so tense when the whole pack of you aren’t here at once. He’s always a nuisance, but your mother and Anne Marie aren’t bad.”

  “I’d rather live with him than Anne Marie,” Bennis said. “At least I know what’s going on with him.”

  “There’s your brother Teddy now.” Mrs. Washington waved her spatula at the wall. “He’s going down the east hall. You can hear the brace.”

  Bennis could quite definitely hear the brace. She’d forgotten what a distinctive sound it made. “I wonder what he’s doing over there,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s going to pay a visit to Daddy.”

  “If he does, your father will beat him to a pulp,” Mrs. Washington said. “My, the energy you people waste on hating each other, it’s amazing. Myra came through here a little while ago—”

  “To give you a lecture on nouvelle cuisine?”

  “Wanted to know if I knew where Bobby was. Looked right through the pantry, like he was going to be hiding in the potato bin. Came out and called him an ugly name. Things are tense around here when she shows up.”

  “Has she been showing up a lot?”

  “Once a week or so since your mother got out of the hospital. I’d put it down to worry about Mrs. Hannaford, but she never goes up to see Mrs. Hannaford. Nobody does. Even he waits for her to come down.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to impose on her,” Bennis said.

  Mrs. Washington snorted. “Take one of these ham and cheese things,” she said. “Then get out of my kitchen. With all the coming and going around here today, I’m half an hour late.”

  4

  Bennis wandered into the back hall, and then into the foyer, and then—for no reason in particular—into the east wing corridor. She was bone tired. She’d spent most of the day with her muscles tight and her breath coming in hitches, wondering when one or the other of them was going to go too far. It was one thing to moan and wail about your family to strangers, or even nonstrangers, like Michael, who didn’t know them. When you did that you just came off like somebody in a sitcom and gave the impression you were Just Too Hip not to be alienated. The truth was, there was nothing sitcom-ish about this place, and never had been. Too much had happened. Too much had gone unresolved and unforgiven. Even elementary conversations about the weather generated currents of history and hate.

  There was a door open near the other end of the corridor, a light spilling out into the amber discretion of the hall. Bennis went toward that, unthinking. She wished she knew where Emma was. Bennis had gone looking for her half an hour ago, but Emma hadn’t been in her room or the library or Mother’s sitting room, her usual places. Then Anne Marie had come roaring out of nowhere, absolutely insisting on having help finding Teddy and Chris. Anne Marie had been looking for those two all day, making everyone’s life hell. She would go on making everyone’s life hell until she found them. So Bennis, who had seen them slip out the east wing rear door just after lunch, went to collect them.

  The open door at the end of the corridor was the door to Daddy’s study. Bennis was sure of it. She stopped, confused. From what she remembered, that door was never left open unless Daddy was out and about in the house, and he wouldn’t be now. He’d left instructions with everyone on earth, through Anne Marie, that he wanted that Mr. Demarkian person brought directly to the east wing as soon as he arrived, and that he intended to be there. Bennis thought of the bathroom and rejected it. The study had a bathroom en suite. She advanced down the corridor and stared at the light on the floor.

  If she barged in there and there was nothing wrong, he’d have her head. He’d been looking for an excuse to have it, anyway.

  On the other hand, he was an old man, and old men had strokes.

  Crap.

  Bennis Hannaford had never been a ditherer. She had never liked ditherers. She couldn’t understand what she was doing here, shifting back and forth on her feet like a grade-school child who needed, but was too embarrassed to ask, to go to the toilet.

  Making up her mind, she went down the hall to the door, pushed it open wide, and stepped into the study.

  Her father was lying halfway across the room from his wheelchair, sprawled out on the fieldstone overlap of the fireplace base.

  Her mother was sitting on the raised hearth, the broad skirt of her blue silk dress wet and heavy with very fresh blood.

  Robert Hannaford’s head had been crushed into pulp.

  SIX

  1

  AT TWENTY-TWO MINUTES PAST six, Gregor Demarkian, sitting in the back of Robert Hannaford’s custom stretch Cadillac limousine, passed through the front gates of Engine House. The main house was so far from the road, he couldn’t see it at first. The landscape around him reminded him of stories of the forest primeval. Every once in a while, a hailstone came down in the muck of thick snow falling from the sky. It struck the windshield or the roof of the car and disappeared into the surrounding white.

  “This driveway’s heated,” the driver said, producing the observation in the smooth upbeat rhythm of a tour guide. “That’s why we haven’t been skidding since we got through the gate.”

  Gregor said, “Mmmmm.” He hadn’t noticed they hadn’t been skidding since they got through the gate. He hadn’t even noticed they had been before they got through it. His mind was on a number of things, all of them anchored back on Cavanaugh Street. Donna. Lida. Those telephone calls. He sat a little forward, trying to see where they were going.

  The drive was long and winding, twisting through a stand of trees as dense as a forest. The car did a dip and a turn and another dip and came out at the start of a broad lawn. In the distance, Engine House itself rose like the castle the society writers insisted it was, its stone-facaded wings stretching a
cross the horizon like petrified snakes.

  Haunted house, Gregor thought automatically. Just as automatically, he amended it. No house could be haunted when it was so dramatically lit up.

  Lit up.

  Gregor felt the breath go out of him before his mind had a chance to recognize what it was seeing.

  It wasn’t Engine House that was lit up. There were lights on the terrace and other lights over the door and one more coming from one of the rooms on the house’s east side, but that was all. What was lit up was the ambulance, and the four police cars keeping it company.

  He switched into the rumble seat, to be closer to the partition and therefore to the windshield. What he was seeing he had seen many times before. He knew it the way a classical dancer knew the choreography of a ballet. When they got up close enough, there would be a young patrolman guarding the door and a pair of medics waiting with a body bag. Inside the house, there would be a dozen men with nothing to do and one in an ordinary brown suit with a notebook. Somebody would be asking a lot of questions.

  At the moment, Gregor Demarkian had only one question he wanted to ask: had old Robert Hannaford finally let loose and killed someone, or had someone decided to kill him?

  PART TWO

  SATURDAY, DECEMBER 24–TUESDAY, DECEMBER 27

  THE SECOND MURDER

  ONE

  1

  IT WAS SOMETHING HE would never have done, if he had still been with the Bureau. In fact, it was something he instinctively knew was wrong. If there was one thing he had learned in twenty years of federal police work, it was how to respect jurisdiction. He had no jurisdiction here. He didn’t even know if he had a technical right to be on the property. If it was Robert Hannaford who was dead, then the invitation to Gregor Demarkian had died with him.

  On the other hand, there was no uniformed patrolman at the door, as there should have been. The door was wide open and the foyer was lit—and empty. The place looked deserted, as if a passel of guests had arrived and then gone underground.