Taking the Cary Street exit; I turned left into my neighborhood and headed for the home of Bruce Carter, a district court judge. He lived on Sulgrave, several blocks from me, and suddenly I was a child in Miami again, staring at what had seemed mansions to me then. I remembered going door-to-door with a wagon full of citrus fruit, knowing that the elegant hands doling out change belonged to unreachable people who felt pity. I remembered returning home with a pocket full of pennies and smelling the sickness in the bedroom where my father lay dying.
Windsor Farms was quietly rich, with Georgian and Tudor houses neatly arranged along streets with English names, and estates shadowed by trees and surrounded by serpentine brick walls. Private security jealously guarded the privileged, for whom burglar alarms were as common as sprinklers. Unspoken covenants were more intimidating than those in print. You did not offend your neighbors by putting up clotheslines or dropping by unannounced. You did not have to drive a Jaguar, but if your means of transportation was a rusting pickup truck or a morgue wagon, you kept it out of sight inside the garage.
At quarter past seven, I parked behind a long line of cars in front of a white-painted brick house with a slate roof. White lights were caught like tiny stars in boxwoods and spruces, and a fragrant fresh wreath hung on the red front door. Nancy Carter embraced my arrival with a gorgeous smile and arms extended to take my coat. She talked nonstop above the indecipherable language of crowds as light winked off the sequins of her long red gown. The judge's wife was a woman in her fifties refined by money into a work of well-bred art. In her youth, I suspected, she had not been pretty.
“Bruce is somewhere…”
She glanced about. “The bar's over there.”
She directed me to the living room, where the bright holiday attire of guests blended wonderfully with a large vibrant Persian rug that I suspected cost more than the house I had just visited on the other side of the river. I spotted the judge talking to a man I did not know. I scanned faces, recognizing several physicians and attorneys, a lobbyist, and the governor's chief of staff. Somehow I ended up with a Scotch and soda, and a man I had never seen before was touching my arm.
“Dr. Scarpetta? Frank Donahue,” he introduced himself loudly. “A Merry Christmas to you.”
“And to you,” I said.
The warden, who allegedly had been ill the day Marino and I had toured the penitentiary, was small, with coarse features and thick graying hair. He was dressed like a parody of an English toastmaster in bright red tails, a ruffled white dress shirt, and a red bow tie twinkling with tiny electric lights. A glass of straight whiskey tilted perilously one hand as he offered me the other.
He leaned close to my ear. “I was disappointed I was unable to show you around the day you came to the pen.”
“One of your officers took good care of us. Thank you.”
“I guess that would have been Roberts.”
“I think that was his name.”
“Well, it's unfortunate that you had to go to the trouble.”
His eyes roamed the room and he winked at someone behind me. “A lot of horse crap was what it was. You know, Waddell'd had a couple of nosebleeds in the past, and high blood pressure. Was always complaining about something. Headaches. Insomnia.”
I bent my head, straining to hear.
“These guys on death row are consummate con artists. And to be honest, Waddell was one of me worst” “I wouldn't know,” I said, looking up at him.
“That's the trouble, nobody knows. No matter what you say, nobody knows except those of us who are around these guys every day.”
“I'm sure.”
“Waddell's so-called reformation, him turning into such a sweetheart. Sometime let me tell you about that, Dr. Scarpetta, about the way he used to brag to other inmates about what he did to that poor Naismith girl. Thought he was a real cock of the walk because he did a celebrity.”
The room was airless and too warm. I could feel his eyes crawl over my body.
“Of course, I don't guess much surprises you, either,” he said.
“No, Mr. Donahue. There isn’t much that surprises me.”
“To be honest, I don't know how you look at what you do every day. Especially this time of year, people killing each other and themselves, like that poor lady who committed suicide in her garage the other night after opening her Christmas presents early.”
His remark caught me like an elbow in the ribs. There had been a brief story in the morning paper about Jennifer's Deighton's death, and a police source had been quoted as saying that it appeared she had opened her Christmas presents early. This might imply she had committed suicide, but there had been no statement to that effect.
“Which lady are you referring to?”
I asked.
“Don't recall the name.”
Donahue sipped his drink, his face flushed, eyes bright and constantly moving. “Sad, real sad. Well, you'll have to visit us at our new digs in Greensville one of these days.”
He smiled broadly, then left me for a bosomy matron in black. He kissed her on the mouth and both of them started laughing.
I went home at the earliest opportunity, to find a fire blazing and my niece stretched out on the couch, reading. I noted several new presents under the tree.
“How was it?” she asked with a yawn.
“You were wise to stay home,” I said. “Has Marino called?”
“Nope.”
I tried him again, and after four rings he answered irritably.
“I hope I didn't get you too late,” I apologized.
“I hope not, either. What's wrong now?”
“A lot of things are wrong. I met your friend Mr. Donahue at a party this evening.”
“What a thrill.”
“I wasn't impressed, and maybe I'm just paranoid, but I thought it odd he brought up Jennifer Deighton's death.”
Silence.
“The other little twist,” I went on, “is it appears Jennifer Deighton faxed a note to Nicholas Grueman less than two days before her murder. In it she sounded upset, and I got the impression he wanted to meet with her. She suggested he come to Richmond.”
Still Marino said nothing.
“Are you there?” I asked.
“I'm thinking”
“Glad to hear it. But maybe we should think together. Sure I can't change your mind about dinner tomorrow?”
He took a deep breath. “I'd like to, Doc. But I… “ A female voice in the background said, “Which drawer's it in?”
Marino evidently placed his hand over the receiver and mumbled something. When he got back to me he cleared his throat.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't know you had company.”
“Yeah.”
He paused.
“I would be delighted if you and your friend would come to dinner tomorrow,” I offered.
“The Sheraton's got this buffet. We was going to go to that.”
“Well, there's something for you under the tree. If you change your mind, give me a call in the morning.”
“I don't believe it. You broke down and got a tree? Bet it's an ugly little sucker.”
“The envy of the neighborhood, thank you very much,” I said.”
Wish your friend a Merry Christmas for me.”
7
I woke up the next morning to church bells chiming and draperies glowing with the sun. Though I'd had very little to drink the night before, I felt hung over. Lingering in bed, I fell back to sleep and saw Mark in my dreams.
When I finally got up, the kitchen was fragrant with vanilla and oranges. Lucy was grinding coffee beans.
“You're going to spoil me, and then what will I do? Merry Christmas.”
I kissed the top of her head, noticing an unusual bag of cereal on the counter. “What's this?”
“Cheshire muesli. A special treat. I brought my own supply. It's best with plain yogurt if you've got it, which you don't. So we'll have to settle for skim milk and bananas. Plus,
we have fresh orange juice and decaffeinated French vanilla coffee. I guess we should call Mom and Grans.”
While I dialed my mother's number from the kitchen, Lucy went into my study to use that extension. My sister was already at my mother's, and soon the four of us were on the line, my mother complaining at great length about the weather. It was storming fiercely in Miami, she said. Torrential rains accompanied by punishing winds had begun late Christmas Eve, the morning celebrated by a grand illumination of lightning.
“You shouldn't be on the phone during an electrical storm,” I said to them. “We'll call back later.”
“You're so paranoid, Kay,” Dorothy chided. “You look at everything in terms of how it might kill somebody.”
“Lucy, tell me about your presents,” my mother interjected.
“Grans, we haven't opened them yet.”
“Wow. That was really close,” Dorothy exclaimed above crackling static. “The lights just flickered.”
“Mom, I hope you don't have a file open on your computer,” Lucy said. “Because if you do, you probably just lost whatever you were working on.”
“Dorothy, did you remember to bring butter?” my mother asked.
“Damn. I knew there was something…”
“I must have reminded you three times last night.”
“I've told you I can't remember things when you call me while I'm writing, Mother.”
“Can you imagine? Christmas Eve and would you go to mass with me? No. You stay home working on that book and then forget to bring the butter.”
“Well go out and get some.”
“And just what do you think will be open on Christmas morning?”
“Something will be.”
I looked up as Lucy walked into the kitchen.
“I don't believe it,” she whispered to me as my mother and sister continued to argue with each other.
After I hung up, Lucy and I went into my living room, where we were returned to a quiet winter morning in Virginia, bare trees still and patches of snow pristine in the shade. I did not think I could ever live in Miami again. The change of seasons was like the phases of the moon, a force that pulled me and shifted my point of view. I needed the full with the new and the nuances in between, days to be short and cold in order to appreciate spring mornings.
Lucy's present from her grandmother was a check for fifty dollars. Dorothy gave money as well, and I felt rather ashamed when Lucy opened the envelope from me and added my check to the others.
“Money seems so impersonal,” I apologized.
“It's not impersonal to me because it's what I want. You just bought another meg of memory for my computer.”
She handed me a small, heavy gift wrapped in red-and-silver paper, and could not suppress her joy when she saw the look on my face as I opened the box and parted layers of tissue paper.
“I thought you could keep your court schedule in it,” she said. “It matches your motorcycle jacket.”
“Lucy, it's gorgeous.”
I touched the black lambskin binding of the appointment book and smoothed open its creamy pages. I thought of the Sunday she had come to town, of how late she had stayed out when I'd let her take my car to the club. I bet the sneak had gone shopping.
“And this other present here is just refills for the address section and the next calendar year.”
She set a smaller gift in my lap as the telephone rang.
Marino wished me a Merry Christmas and said he wanted to drop by with my present.”
“Tell Lucy she'd better dress warmly and not to wear anything tight,” he said irritably.
“What are you talking about?”
I puzzled.
“No tight jeans or she won't be able to get cartridges in and out of her pockets. You said she wanted to learn how to shoot. Lesson one is this morning before lunch. If she misses class, it's her damn problem. What time are we eating?”
“Between one-thirty and two. I thought you were tied up”
“Yeah, well, I untied myself. I'll be over in about twenty minutes. Tell the brat it's cold as hell outside. You want to come with us?”
“Not this time. I'll stay here and cook.”
Marino's disposition was no more pleasant when he arrived at my door, and he made a great production of checking my spare revolver, a Ruger.38 with rubber grips. Depressing the thumb latch, he pushed open the cylinder and slowly spun it around, peering into each chamber. He pulled back the hammer, looked down the barrel, and then tried the trigger. While Lucy watched him in curious silence, he pontificated on the residue buildup left by the solvent I used and informed me that my Ruger probably had “spurs” that needed filing. Then he drove Lucy away in his Ford.
When they returned several hours later, their faces were rosy from the cold and Lucy proudly sported a blood blister on her trigger finger.
“How did she do?”
I asked, drying my hands on my apron.
“Not bad,” Marino said, looking past me. “I smell fried chicken.”
“No, you don't.”
I took their coats. “You smell cotoletta di tacchino alla bolognese.”
“I did better than 'not bad,'“ Lucy said. “I only missed the target twice.”
“Just keep dry firing until you stop slapping the trigger. Remember, crawl the hammer back.”
“I've got more soot on me than Santa after he's come down the chimney,” Lucy said cheerfully. “I'm going to take a shower.”
In the kitchen I poured coffee as Marino inspected a counter crowded with Marsala, fresh-grated Parmesan, prosciutto, white truffles, sauteed turkey fillets, and other assorted ingredients that were going into our meal. We went into the living room, where the fire was blazing.
“What you did was very kind,” I said. “I appreciate it more than you'll ever know.”
“One lesson's not enough. Maybe I can work with her a couple more times before she goes back to Florida.”
“Thank you, Marino. I hope you didn't go to a lot of bother and sacrifice to change your plans.”
“It was no big deal,” he said curtly.
“Apparently, you decided against dinner at the Sheraton,” I probed. “Your friend could have joined us.”
“Something came up.”
“Does she have a name?”
“Tanda.”
“That's an interesting name.”
Marino's face was turning crimson.
“What's Tanda like?”
I asked.
“You want to know the truth, she ain't worth talking about.”
Abruptly, he got up and headed down the hall to the bathroom.
I'd always been careful not to quiz Marino about his personal life unless he invited me to do so. But I could not resist this time.
“How did you and Tanda meet?”
I asked when he returned.
“The FOP dance.”
“I think it's terrific that you're getting out and meeting new people.”
“It sucks, if you really want to know. I haven't dated nobody in more than thirty years. It's like Rip Van Wrinkle waking up in another century. Women are different from what they used to be.”
“How so?”
I tried not to smile. Clearly, Marino did not think any of this was amusing.
“They're not simple anymore.”
“Simple?”
“Yeah, like Doris. What we had wasn't complicated.
Then after thirty years she suddenly splits and I have to start over. I go to this friggin' dance at the FOP because some of the guys talk me into it. I’m minding my own business when Tanda comes up to my table. Two beers later, she asks me for my phone number, if you can believe that.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“I say, 'Hey, if you want to get together, you give me your number. I'll do the calling.'
She asks me which zoo I escaped from, then invites me bowling. That's how it started. How it ended is her telling me she rear-ended somebody a couple
weeks back and was charged with reckless driving. She wanted me to fix it.”
“I'm sorry.”
I fetched his present from under the tree and handed it to him. “I don't know if this will help your social life or not.”
He unwrapped a pair of Christmas-red suspenders and compatible silk tie.
“That's mighty nice, Doc. Geez.”
Getting up, he muttered in disgust, “Damn water pills,” and headed to the bathroom again. Several minutes later, he returned to the hearth.
“When was your last checkup?”
I asked.
“A couple weeks ago.”
“And?”
“And what do you think?” he said.
“You have high blood pressure, that's what I think.”
“No shit.”
“What, specifically, did your doctor tell you?”
I asked.
“It's one-fifty over one-ten, and my damn prostate's enlarged. So I'm taking these water pills. Up and down all the time feeling like I gotta go and half the time I can't. If things don't get better, he says he's gonna turp me.”
A turp was a transurethral resection of the prostate. That wasn't serious, though it wasn't much fun. Marino's blood pressure worried me. He was a prime candidate for a stroke or a heart attack.
“Plus, my ankles swell,” he went on. “My feet hurt and I get these damn headaches. I've gotta quit smoking, give up coffee, lose forty pounds, cut down on stress.”
“Yes, you've got to do all of those things,” I said firmly. “And it doesn't look to me like you're doing any of them.”
“We're only talking about changing my whole life. And you're one to talk.”
“I don't have high blood pressure and I quit smoking exactly two months and five days ago. Not to mention, if I lost forty pounds I wouldn't be here.”
He glared into the fire.
“Listen,” I said. “Why don't we work on this together? We'll both cut back on coffee and get into exercise routines.”
“I can just see you doing aerobics,” he said sourly.
“I'll play tennis. You can do aerobics.”
“If anyone so much as waves a pair of tights near me, they're dead.”
“You're not being very cooperative, Marino.”
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