She was dead, damn it. His father had never been willing to admit it. Five years ago, Ross had finally petitioned the court to declare Julie legally dead. After his father saw her death announcement in the newspaper, the last of his father’s affection for him seemed to disappear.
Ross rose and went upstairs. As he passed Maisey’s room, he paused to make sure she was snoring, then moved on to his father’s room, stopping at the open door.
His father was sleeping, frail-looking in the enormous four-poster bed.
Ross went to the bed and stared down at his father. For several months now he had known Dad wouldn’t make it much past the New Year. While Maisey was already grieving in her own way, he had felt so little he often wondered what was wrong with him.
I love my father, Sandy.
But he had known since he was about twelve that it wasn’t the kind of love a son should have. It was obligatory, forced, sometimes offered desperately in the hopes of getting a splinter of the affection his father saved for Julie.
As Ross grew older he gave up on love, becoming instead the consummate actor playing the role of a loving son, because that’s what people expected of the Chapmans. And even as his father grew sicker and more distant, even as Ross had his own children and made a name for himself in Lansing, he continued to play the same role.
Decades of pretending.
And now, as he stood there and looked at the old man who had once been the indomitable Edward W. Chapman, he was stunned to feel an ache in his chest. It was the ache of needing love from someone who didn’t love you back, and it was real. He knew because he’d felt it once before.
Ross looked down at the oxygen tank, at the gauge that monitored the flow rate. A tiny red needle quivered over the number two. The voice of Dad’s doctor in Bloomfield Hills drifted to Ross, like a cold breeze from a crack in the window.
It’s important the oxygen flow stay consistent. Too much or too little could be fatal in a matter of minutes.
Ross shut his eyes, trying to erase what he was thinking.
Wouldn’t it be nice if your father just flew away?
It would get him the money he needed to finish his campaign. It would buy the bigger house Karen wanted. It would allow him to set Sandy up in an apartment in D.C. And he could get rid of Maisey.
Slowly Ross reached down and turned the dial on the oxygen tank up to four.
His instinct was to watch his father’s face, but he forced himself not to look, afraid that his father’s eyes would open and he would see his son standing over him.
Ross listened for some indication that death had come, but the seconds passed so slowly he began to count them in his head. Still, he heard nothing but the hiss of the oxygen growing louder and louder and louder.
Shame suddenly engulfed him.
Ross tightened every muscle and closed his eyes.
Fifteen, sixteen . . .
Then, as soft as if it had come from another room, he heard a cough.
Or had he?
Ross forced himself to look down at his father. Nothing about the old man had changed. There was no sudden gray hue to the skin, no flop of his head toward the side, nothing to confirm the horror of what he had just done.
Ross put a finger to his father’s neck, then to his wrist, holding it there for nearly a minute even though there was no pulse.
Ross turned the oxygen dial back to number two. Then he stepped away from the bed, feeling as he had with Sandy that afternoon—suddenly sickened by the thought of being there a moment longer.
He moved to the window.
It was pitch-black but the pale light behind him haloed his reflection in the glass. The image was almost transparent, defined only by patches of frost and slivers of light.
I have killed my father.
How had he become this man? A man who cheats on his wife, who drinks with criminals for donations, who lies to old women for votes.
“You flew away and time grew cold.”
The tears came. He stayed at the window, letting them fall.
His only thoughts were, as always, for himself.
How did I become this monster?
27
The phone jarred him from a deep sleep. Louis knocked the receiver to the floor and lunged for it.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Kincaid?”
He rubbed his eyes. The room was dark and cold. “Who is this?”
“It’s Maisey Barrow.” A long pause. “Mr. Kincaid, I . . . Mr. Edward is dead.”
Her words dissolved into sobs. Louis swung his legs over the bed and fumbled for the light, switching it on.
“Maisey, calm down,” Louis said. “Are you sure?”
Joe touched his arm. “Louis, what is it?”
He held up a hand to silence her.
“He’s cold, Mr. Kincaid,” Maisey said. “I went into his room a few minutes ago, and I found him. I touched him. He’s cold as ice.”
“Okay, okay, listen carefully, Maisey.” Louis rubbed his face. “Is Ross there?”
“I . . . yes, he came back last night. I think he’s asleep.”
“Go wake him up, but it’s important that neither of you touch anything.”
She was sniffling.
“Maisey? Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be there with the police as soon as I can.”
He depressed the receiver and dialed the police station. He directed the dispatcher to call Sergeant Clark and tell him that Edward Chapman was dead. Then he asked the dispatcher to send a car immediately to the Potawatomi Hotel. He hung up and turned to face Joe, who lay propped on one elbow staring at him.
“Edward Chapman is dead,” he said.
“Good Lord,” Joe said softly.
Louis reached for his jeans. “Get dressed. I’ll go wake Rafsky.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Clark was behind the wheel of the police SUV waiting for Louis outside the hotel. Louis climbed in the front, Joe and Rafsky in the back. Clark was wearing a police parka, but Louis saw the striped collar of his pajamas beneath. No one said much as Clark drove through the dark deserted streets.
A pale smudge of pink was coloring the horizon over the lake as they pulled up to the Chapman cottage. The first floor was ablaze with lights, but the second floor was dark. The grass, hardened with frost, cracked under their shoes as they went up the lawn. Louis was surprised when Ross, not Maisey, met them at the door.
“I can’t get her to leave his room,” Ross said, gesturing toward the stairs as they went in.
Ross was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled black sweater. His hair, always so carefully styled, was a wild mess. His eyes were red, and his face was puffy. It was obvious he had been crying, but the faint odor of liquor was also on his breath.
“She won’t leave him,” Ross said. “Please, you have to talk to her.”
Louis glanced at Rafsky and Joe. “Give me a minute with Maisey, okay?”
Rafsky nodded. “We’ll wait down here for the doctor.”
There was no way to get a coroner here quickly from the mainland without chartering an expensive plane, so Clark had called the island doctor who had been caring for Edward Chapman during his stay at the cottage.
Louis went upstairs. The door to the first bedroom was open, and the room was dark except for an orange glow. It took Louis a moment to realize what it was—a space heater positioned near the bed. As he ventured closer, Louis saw Edward Chapman lying in the bed, a small bump amid the snowy white mountains of blankets.
Louis heard a mewing sound and turned. It was Maisey, sitting in the shadows. The chair creaked as she got up and came to him. They stood side by side, staring down at Edward Chapman.
“I couldn’t leave him cold like that,” Maisey whispered. “I put the blankets over him and brought the heater in.”
Her eyes glistened in the orange glow, and her face was streaked with tear tracks. Louis stepped between her and the bed and p
ut his hands on her shoulders.
“You need to go downstairs now, Maisey,” he said. “The doctor’s coming. We’ll take care of Mr. Edward now.”
“I can’t leave him alone,” she whispered.
“It’s all right,” Louis said. “I’ll stay here with him. The best thing you can do for Mr. Edward now is to go downstairs and wait for the doctor. Bring him up when he gets here, okay?”
Maisey was straining to look beyond Louis to the bed, but he tightened his grip on her shoulders. “Maisey, please. You have to do what I say, okay?”
Her body seemed to give suddenly, as if she were exhaling every bit of air from her lungs. Eyes glistening, she turned slowly and left the room. Louis went back to the bed. Except for his mouth hanging slightly open, Edward Chapman looked as if he were asleep. His eyes were closed, and his arms were at his sides under the blankets Maisey had put over him. The plastic tubing was still in his nostrils, and Louis could hear the faint hiss of the oxygen.
A sudden stab of a buried memory came to him—his own mother, Lila, lying motionless in her bed, her body wasted from alcohol poisoning, her skin yellowed with hepatitis, her face frozen in a death grimace. There had been nothing peaceful about her leaving, nothing much peaceful about her life, in fact. At least Edward Chapman looked like he hadn’t suffered, in death or life.
Louis heard a sound and turned to see a short, round man coming into the room. He carried a black doctor’s satchel.
“I’m Dr. Mitchell from the island health center,” he said, nodding to Louis. His glasses caught the glow of the space heater as he looked down at Edward Chapman.
Louis took a step back and watched as the doctor examined Edward Chapman’s eyes, prodded his limbs, and then checked the oxygen tank and every pill vial on the nightstand. With a glance at Louis, the doctor looked up something in a black notebook and then picked up the phone and dialed Chapman’s personal physician in Bloomfield Hills. The conversation was short, and it seemed Mitchell was not alarmed by Chapman’s death.
As Dr. Mitchell hung up, Ross appeared in the doorway.
“It looks like your father died from natural causes,” Dr. Mitchell said to Ross. He glanced at Louis. “Mr. Chapman had an atrioventricular septal defect.” When he saw Louis’s blank expression he added, “It’s a large hole in the middle of the heart. He was born with it.”
“He had surgery when he was just seven,” Ross said. “And open-heart surgery five years ago.”
Dr. Mitchell reached down and turned off the oxygen. “I’m surprised he lasted this long.”
“I’d like to take him home as soon as possible,” Ross said.
Dr. Mitchell nodded. “You can make arrangements. I’ll have a death certificate for you in a couple of days.”
“Thank you,” Ross said quietly.
Dr. Mitchell pulled a card out of his pocket and held it out to Ross. “This is a funeral home in St. Ignace. They can take care of everything for you.”
Ross took the card and pulled the doctor aside to talk privately. Louis used the moment to head back downstairs. Rafsky and Joe were waiting in the parlor. The room was full of bright light, the slanting morning sun falling full and warm through the big windows.
“What’s it look like?” Rafsky asked.
Louis shook his head. “Natural death. He had a hole in his heart.”
Rafsky got up from his chair and picked up his coat. “Then we’re finished here. Where’s Clark?”
“He went outside,” Joe said.
Rafsky left, presumably to find Clark and get a ride back to town. Joe stayed in her chair, looking at Louis.
“I need to get going, too,” she said. “Not just from here but back to Echo Bay.”
Louis was quiet. It had been pulling at him for days now, this feeling that things were coming to an end. The season here on the island, the search for Julie’s killer, his chances to fix things with Joe. If he wasn’t careful, his moment would be lost.
He looked around the room. “Where’s Maisey?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Joe said.
Louis was wondering if she had gone back upstairs when he saw a blur of green move past the window. Maisey was out on the porch. He excused himself from Joe and went outside.
Maisey was standing on the far end of the porch, staring out at the lake. It glistened in the bright morning sun like a broad, flat mirror. Not a wave in sight, not a cloud on the horizon.
Louis moved to her. She didn’t seem to see him. She was wearing a green plaid overcoat but hadn’t even bothered to button it. She had just wrapped herself in it as if she were trying to retreat into a cocoon. He touched her arm.
“I know you cared for him,” Louis said. “I’m sorry.”
Maisey didn’t look at him. “I loved him,” she said. “We loved each other.”
Louis looked out at the lake. He wondered what would happen to her now, if Ross would keep her on. Where did a sixty-something caretaker find a new home? Where did you fit in when your family had broken apart?
“Mr. Kincaid, I’d like you to do something for me,” Maisey said.
“Anything.”
“When they get Mr. Edward back to Bloomfield Hills, I want you to ask his doctor there to make sure he died naturally.”
“What?”
“I need to know.”
“Know what, Maisey?”
She faced him. “I need to know Mr. Ross didn’t do something to him.”
Louis was stunned into silence.
“Before Mr. Ross went back to Lansing, they had words,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Louis asked.
“Mr. Ross and Mr. Edward. They had words about Julie.”
“What did they say exactly?”
“I don’t know for certain because Mr. Ross sent me out of the room, but I know it upset Mr. Edward.”
Her eyes suddenly darted past Louis. He turned to see Ross standing just outside the door.
“Maisey,” Ross said, “I need your help, please.”
With a glance at Louis she went inside. Louis stayed on the porch, thinking about what Maisey had said. Edward Chapman had been near death, so why would Ross take the chance of killing him amid the media glare of Julie’s investigation and his own campaign?
But Maisey, by her own admission, loved Edward. Maybe she just needed someone to blame.
Something caught Louis’s eye and he turned to the window. Ross Chapman was standing inside looking out at him, his figure a rippled blur behind the old glass.
28
The interior of the Mustang Lounge was as dark as a tomb and deserted except for one man sitting at the bar. It took Louis a moment to realize it was Rafsky. He hesitated, thinking he’d go back to the hotel and wait for Joe. But she told him she had at least an hour of phone calls to catch up on and that he should go on without her.
The smell of frying meat drifted over to Louis. Finally hunger overcame any trepidation he had about having to make lunchtime small talk with Rafsky and he went to the bar.
“What’s good today?” Louis said, sliding onto the stool.
“Try the Mustang Burger,” Rafsky said.
The bartender placed a plate of fries and a towering burger in front of Rafsky.
“I’ll have the same, no pickles,” Louis said. “With a Heineken, please.”
The bartender left, and Louis watched Rafsky as he took the top bun off his burger. He dismantled the stack of tomato, bacon, onion slices, pickles, and lettuce and then carefully put the hamburger back together again.
“You always do that?” Louis asked.
“Do what?”
“Restack your burger?”
Rafsky turned to stare at him. “Yes. Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“The tomato should always be on top,” Rafsky said.
Louis nodded as though he understood. The bartender brought his beer, and he took a long draw.
“I need to fill you in on something,” Louis said.
“After you left the Chapman house this morning Maisey took me aside and told me she thought Ross might have done something to the old man.”
Rafsky stopped in midchew. “Done something? She say what he did exactly?”
“No. She says they argued before Ross went to Lansing.”
“About what?”
“Something about Julie. I think she believes Ross killed his father.”
“Why would Ross Chapman do that?”
“She didn’t have a chance to tell me more.”
Rafsky was quiet, eating.
“Maisey’s just really upset.” Louis paused. “I think she and the old guy were lovers.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. I noticed it between them the first day I saw them together.”
“Yeah. She seemed very protective of him.”
Rafsky nodded. “Every time he looked to her through the glass I got the feeling he wanted her in the room with him, holding his hand while he talked about his daughter.”
Louis was quiet. Had Edward asked for Maisey to be in the room they would have let her come in. But he knew a man like Chapman would never ask such a thing. He thought of his own parents in that moment, something he rarely allowed himself to do. His black mother, his white father, coming together in the deep shadows of the South just long enough to give him life. Things might have been easier for Maisey and Edward twenty years ago but he doubted it. And he was sure their relationship had been carried on in secret in what he was beginning to believe was a house full of secrets.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d still like to alert Chapman’s doctor in Bloomfield Hills and ask him to take a look before they bury the old man,” Louis said.
“Be my guest,” Rafsky said. “But I can tell you what he’ll say. I had an uncle who was in bad shape, oxygen tank, heart pills, the whole HMO bonanza. He died in his sleep a day before he was going to take his life savings out of the bank and start a cruise around the world.”
Heart of Ice Page 18