“Yes, thank you, Sergeant Trainer.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He closed his notebook and went out.
A shopping mall in Trenton. Rina hurried to the den and pulled out the eastern U.S. map that Clint kept in his drawer. There it was, Trenton, north of Philadelphia where the river bent. She studied the map hopefully, as though the shapes and blotches of color, the lines and tiny printed names, could somehow bring Ginny closer. Clint followed her and looked over her shoulder.
Philadelphia. Trenton. Who could Ginny know there? Neither one of them could think of anyone.
“I’ll call Paul Buchanan before I go to my deacon’s meeting,” Clint said. “He must know about this, although if she’s across the river in Trenton, he won’t have jurisdiction. But he’ll have connections there.”
“I’ll get a sandwich ready,” Rina said. She went into the kitchen and fixed them some tuna salad and a pot of coffee. Clint came in, but before he could speak the telephone rang. Rina answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello. May I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Marshall?”
“This is Mrs. Marshall.”
“Joan Parson,Washington Herald. We understand that Mr. John Spencer was visiting your home shortly before he died. Is that correct?”
Anger surged up in Rina, but she managed to say politely, “I’m sorry, Miss Parson, we have no comment.”
“Can you tell us anything about Mr. Spencer? Friends, hobbies, and so forth?”
“We have no comment for the press. None at all.” She hung up, her hand trembling. For the first time she was almost glad that Ginny was gone, missing all this.
Clint took a sandwich and glanced sourly at the phone. “Damn press. You did the right thing. No comment. We’ll have plenty to straighten out with Ginny without having big exposés complicating her life.”
“I know. We’ve got to protect her.”
“Yeah. I spoke to Paul Buchanan. He’ll call his Trenton contacts.” He chewed on his sandwich. “She really said she wouldn’t call back?”
“She said, not soon.”
“Hell. Well, I have to go to this meeting anyway. They need my report. And it looks like there’s nothing we can do here. But you know where to call me, Rina, if anything does come up.”
“Yes, I know.” He looked so haggard. It was gnawing at him too. “We should both keep busy,” she said, and kissed him good-bye.
A few minutes after he left, the doorbell rang.
“Hello. I’m Michael Slayton, WCBA, Washington. You’re Mrs. Marshall?”
“We have no comment,” she said, and closed the door on the man and his film crew. She turned around to see her mother coming up the stairs.
“Who is it?”
“Newspapers, TV. They want to know about Mr. Spencer being here. Just tell them no comment if they catch you.”
“Ghouls,” said Mamma. She peered out the tall window next to the door, through the sheer curtain. “What are they doing? Are they filming that young man out there?”
“Yes, it’s Michael Slayton.”
“Oh, yes, that one! I’ve seen him!” Mamma looked at Michael Slayton’s back with fascination as he spoke into his microphone, their house the background to whatever he was saying. She glanced back, met Rina’s disgusted glare, and said soothingly, “Don’t get upset,cara. They’ll go away soon.”
They did. Rina used the next half hour to check again in the bathroom, the kitchen, Ginny’s bedroom, even the downstairs laundry, to see if Ginny had left behind any signs that might point to Trenton, to Philadelphia, to blue Toyotas, or to women in trench coats. There was nothing.
Why had she gone? Rina’s faith that her daughter had no guilty knowledge about the murder had been confirmed. Ginny’s obvious surprise at the news of John Spencer’s death proved that.
Well, surely she would be back soon to explain everything. She’d said she wanted to come home. She’d be back by now if it weren’t for Mr. Spencer’s death, if it weren’t for those so-called friends in Philadelphia who wouldn’t help her, that tall, red-scarfed woman with jeans and a trench coat and a blue Toyota.
“What are you looking for?” her mother asked suddenly from behind her as Rina looked through Ginny’s clothes in the laundry basket.
“I don’t know. That friend in Philadelphia—I just don’t understand. Mamma, listen, would you be willing to ask Mrs. Deaver and Mrs. Gallagher over? Just to talk over what happened Thursday, and see if we can figure out what Ginny might have been thinking.”
Her mother patted her on the back. “I’ve got a better idea. I came to tell you that Delores Gallagher already called to ask me over. She was going to get Marie too, to talk over a memorial for John Spencer. He went to Delores’s church, you know. Why don’t you come along too?”
“Yes, that would be perfect! Maybe the four of us can piece things together.”
“She wants us there in about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll just run up to brush my hair.”
“We’ll take my car,” Mamma decided. “I’ll meet you in the garage in a couple of minutes.”
“Fine.” Rina ran upstairs. She took a minute at her mirror, because she hadn’t fixed her hair or make up very carefully that morning. Her face, tired and worried, needed some freshening up. Mamma and her friends would discuss her state at great length if she didn’t look normal. And she wanted so much to talk about Ginny. She managed to brighten herself a bit, then grabbed her coat and hurried toward the door to the garage.
The doorbell rang.
Rina hesitated. What if it was Trainer with more news? About the Toyota, maybe?
She opened the door a few inches.
“Mrs. Marshall?”
“Yes?”
It wasn’t Trainer, it was the press. A tall young woman, stylish in a white rabbit coat, knee pants, dark glasses, a jaunty air. She said, “I’m Aggie Lyons,New York Week.”
“No, no comment. We have no comment for the press.” Rina started to close the door, but the white furry corner of Aggie Lyons’s coat had somehow blown into the opening.
Aggie said, “No comment about Ginny Marshall and her scissors?”
Rina froze. She knew they were Ginny’s! She stared helplessly at the other woman, trying to fathom her intentions. The set of her mouth seemed friendly, sympathetic, but the reflective lenses hid her eyes, so it was hard to tell. Rina asked, “Did the police tell you that?”
“No.” The clear voice was soothing. “I put two and two together. But Ginny has run away, hasn’t she?”
“Did they tell you that?”
“They admitted they were hunting for her. I just wanted to ask you how things really were.”
Rina debated. She didn’t want to tell her anything, of course, but she needed to learn how she had found out.
“Rina?” came Mamma’s voice from the garage door. “Delores will be waiting.”
“I’m sorry,” Rina said firmly to the reporter. “I have to go. We have no comment.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you later, then. Thanks, Mrs. Marshall.” The young woman smiled a friendly smile and turned cheerfully to go down the walk to her black sports car. The white coat, unfastened in front, fanned out behind her, as soft and elegant as egret’s wings. Troubled, Rina closed the door slowly, relocked it, and went to join her mother.
“What’s wrong, Caterina?”
“Oh, just another reporter. That young woman knew about Mr. Spencer and Ginny both.” And the scissors! How had she learned about the scissors?
“I thought the police promised not to link them!”
“That’s what I don’t understand. I don’t think they did. She said she put two and two together.”
Mamma frowned. “That’s too bad. Nosy people.”
“Yes. I hope she doesn’t write about it.”
“Well,” said Mamma, “I found out when your dad died, the press will print anything. But it blows over soon,cara.”
“I hope so.” Rina settled herself into the pas
senger seat. Dad’s death hadn’t been murder, hadn’t been sensational. The errors in the obituary that rankled so in Mamma’s heart had been careless errors. Not errors that could blacken a teenager’s future. Had she been wrong to turn that reporter away? To make no attempt to correct the mistakes?
Her mother opened the automatic garage door, eased out, and paused to make sure that it closed again. Then she drove, sedately and surely, through the suburban streets to Delores Gallagher’s.
The Gallagher apartment was in one of those eight-story brick-and-glass buildings from the sixties, angled among similar buildings in similar landscaped parking lots, among a ring of similar developments that now surrounded Washington. Mamma found a spot under a young tree and positioned the car carefully. She was a very cautious driver. She had never been reckless, but a near accident with a young motorcyclist last year had made her realize that her reflexes were slowing a little. She overcompensated now. “What would I do if they took away my license?” she had asked Rina.
“Oh, Mamma, I’ll take you anywhere you want. You know that.”
“Yes,cara, I know. But you don’t have to rush me into second childhood, just the same.”
They went into the tiled lobby and up to the sixth floor. Delores had sold her house shortly after her husband’s death and invested her money in a bank fund. She had kept up for a while, but inflation was so high these days that she had to cut down on everything, she said. Except rent, which was uncuttable. She worried a lot.
But today her friendly round face, fringed with artificially brown hair, was excited as she opened the door for them. “Oh, Rina, how lovely of you to come too! Leonora, how are you? Marie is here already.”
“Hello, Delores,” said Mamma, removing her coat. The little entry hall was painted a vivid turquoise, checkered with Delores’s bright embroidered canvas squares in white frames.
Mrs. Gallagher took their coats and continued enthusiastically, “We have such an interesting visitor! The nicest young woman, interested in our problems.” Delores opened the closet door, and Rina caught a glimpse of white fur inside. Her heart sank even before she stepped around the short wall that partitioned off the tiny entry from the apple-green living room.
Marie Deaver was sitting on the flowered sofa, her intelligent eyes amused. And sitting next to her was the stylish young woman in tweed knickers and sunglasses. A bright smile lit her face as she waved cheerfully at Rina.
“Hello again, Mrs. Marshall,” caroled Aggie Lyons.
XIII
“Oh, Mrs. Gallagher!” exclaimed Rina in dismay. “She’s a reporter!”
“Yes, I know.” Puzzled at Rina’s distress, Delores Gallagher smoothed down her skirt, a lime-green check that almost matched the walls.
“Well, it’s just that we’ve been sending them away!”
“Yes, but I thought with all the trash they’d be publishing anyway, it would be good to have someone who could treat it more thoughtfully.”
Rina’s fury burst its seams. “What’s so thoughtful about pushing her way in like this?”
“She didn’t!” protested Mrs. Gallagher indignantly, and Mamma seized Rina’s elbow to restrain her. Only Aggie Lyons was nodding sympathetically.
“Mrs. Marshall is right,” the reporter said regretfully. Her clear voice was Middle Western, not New York. “I apologize for my profession. We’re forced to be unmannerly just to get our job done. But Mrs. Gallagher is right too. I try to be fair, to get the whole picture instead of just a small, misleading part of a story.”
“There! See?” Delores Gallagher beamed with satisfaction. “Now do come in and make yourself comfortable, Rina. I’ll just go see if the coffee’s ready.”
Trapped. She mustn’t insult her mother’s friends. She couldn’t even leave, because she’d come in Mamma’s car. Rina sat stiff as starch in a small straight chair across from the sofa, where she could watch Aggie Lyons. The reporter was relaxed but very proper, her knicker-clad legs modestly together, her stylish sunglasses unable to hide her sweetly sympathetic expression. No wonder Delores had been taken in by Aggie, who seemed to combine style and compassion, excitement and comforting safety. Rina realized she’d have to be very alert to head off any indiscretions these women might let slip into this reporter’s supposedly sympathetic ear. Her desire to learn something about Ginny’s departure was shattered, turned inside out; now she desperately hoped Ginny would not even be mentioned.
Mrs. Deaver, with an understanding glance at Rina, said, “Aggie, dear, there seems to be a difference of opinion here. Perhaps you could explain a little more about your work.”
“Yes, of course.” The young woman grinned, that bright engaging smile again. Rina had to steel herself against its haunting appeal. “Our magazine is still a small one, although the circulation is growing. We try to stress quality, you see, not sensationalism. The real stories behind the headlines. Real people. Have any of you seen it?New York Week?” She looked hopefully around the group, but they all shook their heads. “Well, I’d better tell our circulation manager to get more copies to Washington. Anyway, if you find a copy, you’ll see that we try to give a rounded picture. The surface facts of a story seldom tell about the real problems people have, the real context. Reporting can be very unfair without the background.”
A good line, thought Rina, not believing her. An explanation that would get a reporter into Delores Gallagher’s good graces, without restricting the reporter in any way.
“Why aren’t you covering a New York story for your New York magazine?” asked Mrs. Deaver. Rina was pleased. A sharp mind behind the mild tones.
“In a way, I am,” replied Aggie Lyons. “We’re doing a series on problems older people face. Crime is one of them, of course. But we wanted something outside of New York City, so that our readers wouldn’t think that was the only place people have problems. John Spencer’s death bothered us. You’ll have to admit that here in these nice suburbs you wouldn’t expect it.”
“Oh, no, crime is a worry here too,” protested Mrs. Gallagher as she brought in a tray with the coffee. “We worry about muggers a lot!”
“But why didn’t the muggers pick someone richer?” asked Mamma. Did she believe that reporter’s story? Rina looked at her in dismay.
“Nobody’s richer these days!” exclaimed Delores Gallagher. “At least, nobody our age. Of course we keep up appearances if we can. John dressed nicely. And look at us. I’m keeping this little apartment, but I have to cut down on food. And Marie has all the expenses of her son even though she’s doing pretty well. And—”
“Most people eat too much, Delores,” said Mamma uneasily, belatedly realizing what the presence of a reporter might mean.
“Oh, maybe. But I hate having no choice! My little grandson Donnie—well, his other grandmother gave him this wonderful automatic swing set for his birthday, and I—well, I don’t want to spoil him, but there’s no choice! And isn’t it the same with you, Leonora? You might want to live with Rina anyway, but don’t you hate being forced to do it?”
Mamma drew herself up stiffly. “Caterina is wonderful. She and her family are lovely.”
“Oh, I know, dear,” Delores said hastily, with an apologetic glance at Rina. “I don’t mean that at all. I mean not having any choice.”
“I think we all hate that,” said Aggie Lyons thoughtfully. “Even when the results are good, even when we might have chosen it anyway, we still resent not having control.”
“Just what would you know about not having control?” Rina asked, and wondered at her own sharpness.
“Well—” The reporter seemed to debate a moment, then shrugged. “For example, I know about ulcerated cornea.” She gestured at her sunglasses. “If I could control things, I certainly wouldn’t choose that. I wouldn’t have to keep light out of my eyes. I wouldn’t have to worry about maybe going blind.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Rina felt stupid and callous.
“No, don’t be. I’m glad you asked. You understa
nd now, you didn’t before you asked. Probably you thought I was a shallow-minded young twerp who wore sunglasses indoors because she thought it was fashionable, or because she was full of drugs.” She smiled that heart-tugging, faintly familiar smile. “Anyway, I just wanted to explain to Mrs. Gallagher and Mrs. Rossi that I can understand some of the frustration of having no choice, even if I haven’t yet had their particular problems.”
Mrs. Gallagher beamed, pleased with her unexpected guest. “Is that what you mean by getting the real stories behind the headlines?”
“That’s part of it, yes. Making sure I understand a little about the situation in its totality. Now, back to Mr. Spencer. He wasn’t singled out for attack because he was rich, because you say he wasn’t rich. You think it was just random, then? He happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Rina tensed. Aggie Lyons didn’t believe it was random! She knew about Ginny’s scissors! But the glasses hid the subtleties of her expression, and Rina could not tell why she had asked.
“Well, doesn’t it make sense?” said Delores Gallagher. “The police said there was no cash left in his wallet.”
“Did he have friends or family who might inherit something?” Aggie asked.
“Do you mean they might have—oh, my goodness, what a terrible thought!” exclaimed Delores. “But he didn’t have much of an estate. His wife had a lot of medical expenses before she died a few years ago. He had to sell the house. And after her, there was just his cousin in Florida.”
“So Mr. Spencer had more than money problems,” mused Aggie Lyons. “Family and friends dying. More and more alone. Some of my New York interviews said that was worse than money problems.”
“Yes, being rich doesn’t protect you against that,” said Delores. “Or being poor either. You always think of poor people having lots of family, but it isn’t always true. Marie even had to take care of the funeral for her maid a few years ago.”
“Back when I could afford a maid,” said Marie Deaver ruefully. “But you know, it’s possible to make new friends. Look at Leonora, she’s only been here a few years.”
Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Page 15