In the Blink of an Eye

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Who?

  Who would want her dead?

  Julia turns her head, not wanting to stare anymore at the urn containing Iris’s ashes.

  That’s when she glimpses Andy sitting on the opposite end of the room.

  How nice that he came.

  Then it hits her—

  Oh, no. I told Paine that I’d watch Dulcie tonight, but Andy is supposed to take me out on the lake to scatter Iris’s ashes.

  She’ll have to catch up with him after the service and ask him if they can do it on a different night. She wants to spend these last few hours with Dulcie.

  Finally, the service is almost over. The congregation chimes in singing one of Iris’s favorite songs: “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” Surprised that the song has been included, Julia glances at Paine.

  He smiles at her over Dulcie’s bowed head. Leaning toward Julia, he whispers, “I remembered that Kristin once told me her mother loved the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s recording of this song.”

  “That’s right. She did.” Touched, Julia fights back a fresh swell of tears. Paine is a sweet man. A far better man than she ever suspected.

  Dulcie sniffles loudly between them, her little body quivering with quiet sobs.

  Julia presses a tissue into the little girl’s hand. “It’s okay, Dulcie,” she whispers. “Your grandmother is still with you. She’ll always be with you.”

  “I know she will, Julia,” Dulcie says, wiping tears from her sightless eyes. “But you won’t be.”

  Julia says nothing, just puts her arm around Kristin’s daughter and holds her close.

  RUPERT CLINGS TO the telephone receiver, pacing across the kitchen floor to the back door that looks out on the sunny yard, and back again to the counter, where an untouched container of yogurt and a full cup of now-cold tea still sit on a tray.

  An instrumental rendition of “Moon River” plays on the line, to his irritation. If he has to be on hold for this goddamn long, he’d rather listen to silence.

  Outside, he can hear the usual afternoon sounds: cars rolling through the streets, birds chirping, dogs barking, the distant ripple of children’s laughter. The sounds are as garish to Rupert’s ears as the Muzak, both of which indicate that beyond this room, this house, everything is status quo. The world is spinning along as usual.

  Remarkable.

  “Moon River” gives way to “The Girl From Ipanema.”

  Rupert clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw hurts. He barely notices.

  His thoughts drift back to another sunny afternoon, much hotter than this one . . .

  The Bronx was in the throes of a terrible heat wave; open windows and electric fans did little to cool the tiny fourth-floor walk-up. Then, as now, Nan lay in bed in the next room, in agony, as Rupert, beside himself with worry, frantically tried to reach an elusive physician.

  But back then, phones didn’t have hold buttons.

  There was no Muzak. He heard every word the nurse spoke on the other end of the line.

  “Oh, good, there you are, Doctor Hayden . . . I have Rupert Biddle on the line. His fiancée is in labor.”

  Back then, doctors made house calls. Dr. Hayden arrived just in time to usher Rupert and Nan’s daughter into the world, place her in Nan’s weary grasp, and announce that it was a girl. The baby was whisked from Nan’s arms moments later—

  “The Girl From Ipanema” is interrupted by an abrupt click in Rupert’s ear, followed by the welcome sound of Dr. Klauber’s voice. “Rupert, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. What can I do for you?”

  Rupert forces his thoughts back to the present. “Nan seems to be growing much worse, Doctor. She’s been asleep since last night, but it isn’t a peaceful sleep. She seems to be struggling to catch her breath, even with the oxygen. I . . . I don’t know how to help her. You have to come here, Doctor. You have to do something, and I can’t possibly get her to your office.”

  The doctor is silent for a long moment. Then he says grimly, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for her now, Rupert. I’m so sorry. I’m going to give you the phone number of somebody who can help. Call it. Someone will come immediately.”

  The bottom has fallen out of Rupert’s world. “Who will come?” he asks bleakly, trying to focus on the conversation.

  There’s nothing I can do for her now, Rupert. I’m so sorry.

  “A hospice care worker. Do you have a pen and something to write on?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. The number is 555-3323. Did you get that?”

  “I got it,” he lies, nothing in his trembling hand but the telephone.

  “I wish you well, Rupert,” the doctor says with finality.

  Rupert hangs up, numb.

  His feet carry him back to the bedroom, where Nan’s harsh, shallow breaths are coming rapidly. Her eyes are open, but unfocused.

  He read somewhere, once, that the hearing is the last sense to fade. That people have awakened from comas to give verbatim accounts of conversations that took place at their bedsides while they were unconscious.

  Rupert clears his throat, swallowing hard over the tight lump that has risen there.

  “Nan, darling, can you hear me? I love you. I’m here with you. I won’t leave, Nan. I’ll be with you. And, Nan, you’ll always be with me. Even if you have to go . . .”

  A choked sob escapes him. He inhales shakily, holds his breath, exhales with a shudder. He can do this. He can do whatever needs to be done.

  “You can go, darling. Whenever you’re ready.”

  Suddenly, her expression is lucid. Her eyes seem to focus on his.

  He gazes down at her, whispering, “I know you’ve been hanging on, fighting it so hard, but, Nan . . . it’s time to rest. Stop fighting.”

  She turns her head fitfully on the pillow, her mouth working, as though trying to muster the strength to speak.

  “Shh,” he says, taking her clammy hand, squeezing her limp fingers. “It’s okay. Don’t say it. I know what’s holding you back. But, Nan, it’s okay. You can go. It’s okay to go.”

  Her breath makes a horrible gasping sound in her throat.

  Rupert steels himself against the flood of tears that threaten to sweep him into hysteria.

  A single word spills from Nan’s cracked hps. “Can’t . . .”

  “Yes, Nan. You can. You can let go. Please, darling, I can’t bear to see you this way. Everything is all right. Everything has always been all right. I love you.”

  “Can’t . . .”

  “Shhh.”

  “Kath . . .”

  “Katherine. No, Nan. Don’t think about Katherine. It’s too late now. Just rest,” he croons, stroking her cheek, tears spilling down his own. “Just rest.”

  “DADDY? IS THAT you?”

  His arms laden, Paine peeks into his daughter’s room. “I’m just bringing some boxes downstairs, Dulcie.”

  “Oh.” She sighs. “I wish we didn’t have to leave tomorrow morning.”

  Paine says nothing. He wishes they could have left this morning, right after Julia told him about the nightmarish vision she’d had in the bathroom last night.

  If there’s anything to it, then Iris was murdered.

  But who the hell could possibly have wanted an eccentric old woman dead?

  Hey, bub, who are you calling old?

  Paine has to grin. That’s exactly what Iris would have said. She clung fiercely to her youth, keeping her hair long and straight, and cramming her oversize figure into tie dye long before—and after—the retro look was in fashion again. She was nothing but an overgrown flower child who still listened to the Nitty Gritty Dirt band and the Grateful Dead, and whose VW remains covered with two eras’ worth of bumper stickers for a variety of causes.

  Well, at least the memorial service did her justice, Paine thinks. Iris would have been pleased at the turnout, and at the beautiful eulogy that captured her in all her quirky glory.

  “What time is Julia coming back, Daddy?” Dulcie calls after P
aine as he heads down the hall toward the stairway with the boxes.

  “Not until later, sweetie. After supper.”

  “Can she come earlier?”

  Paine musters as much patience as possible to reply, “No, she’s busy this afternoon.”

  They’ve been over this several times already in the past few hours since they returned from Assembly Hall. He certainly has his work cut out for him after they leave here. Dulcie won’t soon get over missing Julia.

  Paine descends the stairs gingerly, unable to see his feet on the treads in front of him. The boxes are heavy, filled with old family photo albums he discovered in the attic. Dulcie might never be able to see them for herself, but he can’t leave behind the pictures of Kristin’s birth, and her childhood, even a couple of faded snapshots of Iris and Anson’s wedding day.

  Paine recalls Kristin once telling him that her parents were married barefoot on the shore of Lake Erie by some kind of hippie holy man. Now he has evidence. The happy bride wore a headband across her forehead, a psychedelic-print minidress, and strands of beads. The groom wore vertically striped purple and orange bell-bottoms and sideburns that reached his chin.

  As Paine sets the box carefully beside the front door next to the one containing Kristin’s baby clothes, he wonders whether he should load the stuff into the car tonight before his meeting, or come back and do it afterward.

  He wants to get an early start in the morning and put as much distance between Dulcie and Lily Dale as possible.

  One thing is certain: no matter what happens at that meeting with the lawyers later, they’re leaving here in less than twenty-four hours, and they’re never coming back.

  Even Julia agrees that is the safest thing to do.

  If it’s true that somebody killed Iris—and Kristin—nobody is safe in Lily Dale. Especially not in this house.

  Which is why Julia is picking up Dulcie later and bringing her over to Julia’s place until Paine gets home. She called a little while ago from a pay phone at the hospital to report that the exterminator caught the bat, and the roofers have sealed the gaps in the tarp. She invited Paine and Dulcie to sleep at her place tonight, just to be safe.

  So this is it. In a few hours, he’ll be done packing, and Julia will be here. The last day here, in this house, will draw to an end.

  If I leave now, I’ll probably never know what really happened to Kristin and Iris, Paine realizes.

  But if he doesn’t leave now . . .

  He shakes his head, thinking of Dulcie.

  All that really matters is keeping her safe.

  AT LAST, MIRANDA spots Andy hurrying toward the auditorium, where he’s scheduled to begin a lecture in five minutes. He’s not alone. Nor is he with Julia.

  At his side is a pretty brunette with a spectacular figure. She’s wearing strappy sandals and a black tank top tucked into white shorts.

  Miranda, clad in sneakers and an untucked polo shirt over longish khaki walking shorts meant to hide her lumpy thighs, hesitates. Yes, she’s been trying to track down Andy all day. But does she really want him to see her in such an unflattering getup, especially when he’s with a woman who could have stepped out of J. Crew’s summer catalogue?

  What does it matter?

  She’s leaving Lily Dale. If she’d been able to get a flight first thing as planned, she’d already be gone. Good thing she thought to call the airline before leaving here earlier. It turned out the flight she planned on taking was canceled. She was able to go back to bed and get a few more hours of much-needed sleep. The emotional turmoil of the last few days has finally caught up with her.

  Well, soon enough, she’ll be back home with nothing to do but rest. A cab will be here within the hour to take her and her luggage to the Buffalo airport for a six o’clock flight back to Boston.

  But she couldn’t leave without seeing Andy one last time. Taking a deep breath, she calls his name.

  He looks up, startled, glancing around.

  “Andy!” She waves at him.

  Is he frowning, or just squinting into the sun despite his ever-present sunglasses?

  It’s hard to tell from here. Miranda walks toward him, watching him say something in the brunette’s ear. She looks disappointed, but heads into the auditorium, casting a look over her shoulder.

  Miranda ignores her.

  “Hi, Mandy. What are you doing here?” Andy is clearly surprised, but perhaps not pleasantly so. “I got your voice mail message last night.”

  “You didn’t call me back,” she says, hating the accusing tone in her voice but unable to extinguish her emotions.

  “I had a memorial service to go to.”

  “Last night?” She wonders who died. He doesn’t look very broken up about it.

  “This morning. And you said you were leaving first thing.”

  “I was supposed to. I couldn’t get a flight. I’m going in a little while.”

  “You’re flying? Weren’t you supposed to be driving cross-country with your partner?”

  “We had a falling-out last night”

  Andy looks impatient. “Why?”

  Irritated by the sense that he’s not the least bit interested, Miranda gives him a detailed reply. She tells him about the investigation at Ten Summer Street last night and the owner coming home, and Kent being angry that she lied about the release form.

  “The thing is, if he weren’t so uptight about formalities, he would have been interested to hear what I got on the tape I made last night before we were interrupted.”

  Andy asks, “What did you get?” She can’t see his eyes behind the opaque black lenses but she’s willing to bet that he’s bored stiff with this conversation. After all, it isn’t about him.

  She decides to prolong it, telling him about the music she heard on the tape, and about the shoveling sounds at the end.

  “What do you make of that?” she asks him.

  He checks his watch. “I have no idea. But I’m going to be late for my lecture, Mandy. I’d better run.”

  “Yeah, you’d better.”

  He reaches out and gives her a quick squeeze that’s utterly devoid of affection.

  “Good luck,” Andy calls over his shoulder as he heads to the auditorium. “I hope I’ll see you again sometime.”

  “No, you don’t,” she mutters when he’s out of earshot. “Good riddance to you, Andy Doyle. You’re nothing but a phony loser.”

  DULCIE STANDS IN the doorway of her room, listening for Daddy’s footsteps below. He said he was carrying a few boxes out to the car and he’d be right back, but he hasn’t yet.

  “Daddy?” she calls, loudly enough to carry through the open second-floor windows.

  “What’s wrong, Dulc? Are you okay?” His voice, concerned, floats back up.

  “I’m fine. I just have to go to the bathroom!”

  “I’ll be right there to help you down the hall. Don’t move.”

  Dulcie sighs, crossing her legs. She really has to go.

  Putting a hand on the wall just outside her door, she takes a cautious step down the hall. And then another.

  She can do this. The bathroom isn’t far from her room. She’s made the trip often enough with Daddy or Julia to know how many steps it takes.

  She feels her way along the corridor, counting steps.

  She’s almost there when she hears it.

  The music.

  The scream.

  “No,” Dulcie whispers, her eyes squeezed shut.

  She doesn’t want to hear it.

  She doesn’t want to see it

  But it’s there all around her, and then in front of her: the lady’s face.

  This time, it’s much clearer than before.

  And she isn’t looking at Dulcie. She’s looking past Dulcie, over her head, as if someone tall is standing behind her. Her blue eyes are full of tears, and she looks furious.

  “You can’t do this to me!” she screams, taking a step backward. “I’m leaving!”

  At first, Du
lcie, bewildered, thinks the lady is talking to her.

  Then she hears a roar in response—an angry burst of sound that Dulcie doesn’t recognize, at first, as words. But she quickly realizes that it’s a man’s voice, yelling. Yelling so loud the lady keeps flinching, and backing away. Her left hand is clasped in a fist against her neck, her right hand covering it.

  “Be careful!” Dulcie calls, as the lady edges close to the top of the stairs. “What are you doing? You’re going to fall!”

  The lady takes another step backward.

  The roar grows louder.

  Another step . . .

  “Look out!” Dulcie shrieks.

  Too late.

  The lady plunges backward, down the steps. There’s an awful commotion—screams, and thuds. And then nothing. Just . . . an awful silence.

  Dulcie realizes she’s been holding her breath.

  She lets it out slowly, trembling as she leans against the wall for support.

  Suddenly a face pops up in front of her.

  Dulcie cries out.

  It’s the lady’s face. Now one side of her head is cracked open. Her hair is caked with blood.

  “What do you want?” Dulcie whimpers, her eyes shut tightly in vain. There’s no escaping the gory image there, in front of her.

  Leave . . .

  “What?” Her jaw is quivering so that she can barely speak.

  Leave . . . Don’t let him—

  “Dulcie?” That’s Daddy’s voice calling up to her, Daddy’s footsteps pounding up the stairs.

  “Don’t let him what?” Dulcie echoes desperately, but then Daddy is here, and the lady is gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  LUGGING HER CARRY-ON bag toward the security checkpoint, Miranda wonders yet again about the cassette tapes and film she packed in her other bag, the one that she checked. Do airports X-ray all luggage, or just the carry-on? If they X-ray the bag holding the tapes and film, will the data be destroyed?

  There’s a long line at the security checkpoint. Miranda takes her place at the end, checking her watch. She was hoping to get here soon enough to grab something to eat, but there was an accident on the thruway and it delayed her arrival by more than half an hour.

  Oh, well. Maybe they’ll hand out peanuts on the plane. Do airlines still do that?