Winter House

by Carol O’Connell

  Charles watched one painted image blend into another. In this new portrait, the red-haired girl wore the uniform of a private school, and she posed with her legs draped over the upholstered arms of a chair. Just a trace of white underpants was showing. Computer clicks and whirs announced the next painting, and this one was memorable. This was the jewel of the Quentin Winter collection, the only major work of art by an otherwise minor painter. This was the artist’s child, and she was naked. There was only a gentle swelling where breasts would be one day. More paintings clicked by in quick succession, and he felt like a voyeur watching Nedda Winter go through all the stages of her prepubescent life, nine feet tall on Mallory’s wall, a young giant.

  „Do you see what I see?“ asked Mallory, without turning around.

  So much for being able to walk up behind her unnoticed. After the next click, Mallory was once again bathed in the light of the famous Red Winter painting. He well understood her question. „Well, the artist wouldn’t be the first to paint his own child au nature!.“

  „That bastard singled her out,“ said Mallory. „Nedda was one of nine kids. He painted a lot of nude women, but she was the only child.“

  „You believe he molested his daughter based on nothing more than a painting?“

  „I’m ninety percent sure.“

  Charles did not care for the sound of that. He would prefer not to go to certain corners of Mallory’s early life, undoubtedly the source of her expertise. Turning to face the projection on the wall, he recalled a wallet photo that his old friend Louis Markowitz had carried, a small portrait of his foster child. At the age of the young girl on the wall, Kathy Mallory had possessed those same wary eyes. Her early days on the streets had been hard and hardening. Nedda Winter, however, had been a child of wealth and luxury. Not at all the same case, and this might argue for a troubled home life in Winter House.

  And molestation?

  His mind now poisoned, he had to wonder, against his will, if the title word red denoted the color of young Nedda’s hair or her rape.

  Mallory switched on the overhead fluorescent tubes, and the room became entirely too bright. Light bounced off glass monitors, gleaming metal furnishings and electronic components. The carpet was an institutional gray, no doubt selected to disguise the wood floors as cement. She crossed the room, heading toward the steel blinds that hid the graceful lines of arched windows. Her computers were dead for the moment. When they were powered up, they hummed in communication with one another, and she with them. When the machines were alive, the psychological temperature of her private office was always ten degrees below a normal person’s comfort zone.

  The viewing screen was raised with the press of a remote-control button and sent rolling back up into its metal cylinder near the ceiling molding. A cork bulletin board that spanned the entire wall was now exposed with all its papers pinned up at perfect right angles, and each sheet was equidistant from the next. Mallory’s pushpin style had machine precision.

  If her lovely face was incongruous in these environs, what lay beneath was not. And what truly moved him, what touched him most, was that she could have no idea that this room exposed her personal quirks, her own clicks and whirs, all the most chilling departures from her fellow creatures. This office was Mallory naked for all to see – so vulnerable.

  And what did she see when she looked at him? Was it something sad and pathetic? Or was he comical in her eyes?

  They could never tell one another the truth. They were friends.

  „All right,“ said Mallory. „Let’s say Quentin Winter molested his daughter. Could you make a case for the girl as a spree killer?“

  „What? Nedda? I was under the impression that an outsider killed all those people.“

  „An ice pick killed them,“ she said. „And that dead burglar the other night? He wasn’t killed with the shears. It was a pick to the heart, same as all the victims in the massacre.“

  „I see the problem.“ He sat down at the edge of Mallory’s desk. „Back in the forties, did anyone suspect the child?“

  „No, but I might.“

  Ah, but then Mallory suspected everyone of something.

  „So I gather,“ said Charles, „that the father had multiple stab wounds?“

  „No. It was a single strike to the heart, all nine victims.“

  Here he might point out that this indicated no rage, zero animosity, but Mallory had not asked him to point out flaws in her logic. And now he had to wonder if she was putting herself in Nedda Winter’s place. Perhaps this was the way Mallory would have done it – as a child – in cold blood, efficient and quick.

  „Revenge,“ he said, mulling over this idea. „So she kills her father for molestation, and then she does in the witnesses – all those people? Nedda was what, twelve years old?“

  „Very tall for twelve.“ Mallory powered up the computer to display the Red Winter painting, and there was the evidence in the child’s proportions relative to her surroundings. „And after the massacre, this girl didn’t wait around for the cops.“

  „I thought the newspapers ran with the theory of a psychotic killer and a kidnapping.“

  „So did the cops,“ said Mallory. „What of it? It’s my case now. This killer was cold and precise. You can’t see it, can you? A very cold little girl working her way through the house, stabbing all those people.“

  He could, but it was a smaller version of Mallory, and he would be a long time getting that picture out of his head.

  She blanked the screen. „The only other option is a professional hitman with a money motive. Nothing personal, just a neat quick job. But there’s a hole in that theory.“

  „All right, I see the stumbling block.“ And this time he found no fault in her logic. „If the children are the only ones who profit from the trust fund, then who paid for the – “

  „No, that’s not it. I could work around that.“

  „All right.“ A moment to regroup, thank you. „Professional killers don’t usually kidnap children.“

  „They never do.“ She inclined her head, prompting him to continue.

  „And it’s probably quite alarming to have one turn up in a house full of people.“ So far so good, no stumbles yet. „Whereas, a member of the family could move through the house at leisure, taking victims by surprise without alerting the entire household.“

  She nodded to say, Now you ‘ve got it.

  „Well, not to be argumentative.“ He held up his hands, even realizing that this was a defensive posture that said, Don’t shoot me, all right? It’s only conjecture. „Here’s another scenario. What if it was a professional assassin. And what if Nedda saw him in time to make a run for it?“ Charles knew he was making a mistake in offering his own theory, but he could not stop himself. „The killer would have to chase her down, wouldn’t he? Suppose he lost her outside, maybe in the park across the street? Then you’d have a little girl who thought she couldn’t go home again. Home was where the monster would be waiting for her. So the theory of a runaway child could – “

  „It works for me.“ Riker stood in the open doorway, wearing a suit and tie of a different color; otherwise, it would not have been apparent that he had changed his clothes from yesterday. „Yeah. A runaway. Good work, Charles.“ The man smiled, and this was tantamount to squaring off against Mallory when he faced her and said, „I don’t think Nedda Winter killed all those people.“

  Mallory’s arms folded across her breast in a warning sign that she was not happy with this division in the ranks.

  Riker shrugged and lit a cigarette to say, Well, that’s just tough.

  And now she turned on innocent Charles, who had only offered the most -

  „So,“ she said. „I’m guessing Nedda didn’t volunteer any details about where she’d been for the past fifty-eight years.“

  „No,“ said Charles. „Sorry. I never thought to ask.“

  „Did you get us anything,“ asked Riker, „anything at all?“

  „May
be,“ he said. „Breakfast, anyone?“

  Long ago, Bitty’s room had belonged to Robert the Reader, eight years old with thick lenses in his spectacles that made his blue eyes larger, more tender. Each time Nedda Winter entered this bedroom, she saw her brother sprawled on the window seat, a book held by small dead hands, a tiny hole in his pajamas and a bit of blood from his young heart.

  Nedda sat down at the edge of the bed and lifted a glass to Bitty’s lips. „Just drink it, dear. You don’t want to know what’s in it.“

  Her niece obediently swallowed a mixture of raw egg, milk and steak sauce.

  „My father favored that hangover remedy,“ said Nedda.

  „Was he a drunk?“

  „Well, yes, dear, but, in those days, who wasn’t?“ She took the emptied glass and set it on the bedside table. „And he only drank after three o’clock. He had rules.“

  „Was my grandfather a violent man?“

  Ah, back to the theory of Edwina Winter’s murder. „No. The only thing that aroused any passion in him was a fight with my stepmother. Sometimes Lionel got a light swat on his backside. He was always getting in between his parents, trying to protect his mother. Not that she needed any help. She always had something heavy in her hand whenever she went after my father.“

  „I can’t imagine Uncle Lionel as a boy.“

  „I think you would’ve liked him then. He was the only one of the children who ever stood up to my father. He was a brave one. I loved him for that.“

  „Did you love your father?“

  „Yes, but Lionel loved him more. Sometimes I think he took those hits just to get Daddy’s attention.“

  Bitty pushed her covers aside, then, after a grimace of pain, thought better of moving so rashly. She lay back on her pillow. „What about the others? Do you remember Sally?“

  „Of course. She was the baby of the family, a newborn. She cried a lot. That’s why the nursery was at the top of the house. And she wasn’t well. I remember a steady stream of doctors marching up the staircase to examine her.“

  „What was my mother like?“

  „She was only five when I – left. A very loving child. Big sunny smile. Poor little Cleo. She must’ve thought that I’d abandoned her. And I suppose I did.“

  „Aunt Nedda, I’m so sorry about last night. That business about your mother – “ She turned her face into the pillow.

  „It’s all right, Bitty. I told you, I never knew my own mother. Your murder theory didn’t upset me at all. I know my father didn’t kill her. His second wife, Alice, was a copy of Edwina. What does that tell you?“

  „He loved her?“

  „Madly. Once, before I was born, they were separated for a week. They wrote to each other every day. Their love letters are in her trunk up in the attic. You should read them. I know all the lines by heart.“

  A small voice screamed, „What?“ It was Rags. The lame cockatiel had left its cage and now worked its way up the bedspread, climbing toward its mistress by beak and claw.

  „Poor thing,“ said Nedda. „What happened to him? Why can’t he fly?“

  „His wing was crushed by the window sash. It just fell on him. No, it slammed on him. I saw it happen. Mother said the house doesn’t like birds.“

  „No, it doesn’t,“ said Nedda. „Every year after the first frost, we’d find a dead bird outside on one of the window ledges. The house doesn’t like flies either.“ She stared at the dead dry insect on Bitty’s sill. „That’s what old Mrs. Tully used to say. She was the housekeeper when I was a little girl. Tully always said, ‘You might see a dead fly every now and then, but you’ll never hear a live one buzz – at least, not for long.’“

  „Was she insane?“ Bitty’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, as if she had just committed a social faux pas, calling attention to an infirmity in front of a cripple. And now, realizing her blunder, she seemed on the verge of tears.

  Nedda gave her niece a smile of reassurance, then dipped one hand into the pocket of her robe. „There’s something else we have to talk about.“ She withdrew a small worn box and held it up for Bitty to see. „Remember this? Last night at dinner?“ The box was heavily lacquered cardboard, not machine made, but one of a kind, handcrafted and painted with the tarot image of the hanged man.

  A memento mod from days in hell.

  Nedda opened the box and pulled out the deck. The card of destruction, an image of a burning tower, was on the top. „Tell me where you found my tarot cards.“

  The bookcases that lined Charles Buder’s library were fifteen feet tall, necessitating a ladder slanting from the top-shelf railing to the floor.

  High in the air, he rolled along on its wheels as he searched for the volume that Mallory wanted. „A friend of my father’s gave it to me. He said my New York History section would be incomplete without it.“

  Though he had never considered reading the book, it had been stored on the upper shelf with similar volumes. After perusing the first page, he had found the writing inferior, but it would have been bad manners and literary heresy to toss the book in die trash. Now where was it?

  Well, this was embarrassing.

  The book was not where it ought to be. A few years might have passed since he had placed it here, but how could it be lost? After generations of librarians had inculcated him with rules, he was virtually incapable of losing a book by placing it on a shelf out of order. Each volume’s spine was tagged with the Library of Congress number to ensure against such losses.

  But now he noticed that none of the books on the top shelf were in their proper places.

  No, this could not happen, not to him.

  He glanced down at Mallory. She was staring at his recently delivered club chairs, six of them arranged in a circle. In their midst one might expect to find – oh, say, a priceless piece of furniture with a provenance dating back to 1846 and great historical significance. However, inside the wide circle of chairs there was nothing but his memory of a page from an antique catalogue.

  She lifted her face to his. „Charles, you’ve been robbed.“

  „No, I gave away my card table after I bought another one. It would’ve been delivered this morning… if not for a warehouse fire last night.“

  He turned back to his problem of the lost book and discovered that the top shelf was free of dust. All was clear to him now. Apparently, his cleaning woman had actually dusted up here, fifteen feet in the air, then rearranged all the books by height so the line of the topmost shelf would not appear so uneven. Mrs. Ortega’s mania for neatness was second only to Mallory’s. Rather than undo all of the woman’s hard work, he politely memorized the new order of his books.

  Mallory called up to him from the foot of the ladder. „So you thought a new table might improve your poker game?“

  „No.“ Well – yes. Charles was not as crippled by magical thinking as some people, but historical memorabilia could be psychologically empowering. And in the game of poker -

  „You know,“ she said, „you’d have to cheat to beat those bastards.“

  He sighed.

  She was right. Psychology would not save him. He had the wrong sort of face for the game, expressions that gave up every thought and emotion. Worse, he had inherited his mother’s deep red blush that made a lie or a bluff nearly impossible to pull off. Regrettably, he had been genetically programmed to be an honest man and a poor poker player.

  The bastards, as Mallory affectionately called them, were the charter members of a very old floating poker game. Upon the death of her foster father, Louis Markowitz, Charles had inherited a seat in the game and three new friends. Next week, the poker game would have been in his apartment, played at an antique table once graced by a famous politician and world-class card player. „The table wasn’t exactly new. President Ulysses S. Grant once sat in on a game at – “

  Oh, what the hell. That bit of history was burned to a crisp.

  He knew that Mallory took a dim view of the weekly poker game. It was entirely
too friendly for her tastes, only penny-ante stakes, or, as she would say, chump change. She also objected to wild cards that changed with the phases of the moon or the dates for recycled trash pickups. Once, she had complained that the game was a close cousin to an old lady’s Bingo night at church.

  „This week,“ said Charles, „the game’s at Robin’s house. If you want to come, I’m sure they’ll all be happy to play by your rules.“

  Apparently, fleecing her father’s old friends in a fast game of cutthroat, rob-and-run poker was hardly tempting. Fat chance, said her eyes. However, she did run one hand over the new chairs, approving the grade of leather.

  He rolled the ladder down to the end of the wall, and his eyes locked onto the title he had been searching for. „Found it. It’s roughly a thousand pages.“

  This news seemed to pain her. „Can you give me the gist of it?“

  „I never read it.“ He looked down at his copy of The Winter House Massacre. „Not my sort of thing.“

  „It’s that bad?“

  „Well, the information should be sound enough. The author’s an accredited historian. Now I wish I had read it. Would’ve saved me some embarrassment last night.“ He climbed down the ladder to stand beside Mallory. „You might’ve warned me that Nedda was Red Winter.“

  „Honest surprise worked better.“ She stared at the dust jacket and its single drop of illustrated blood „But I knew the story of Winter House.“ What New Yorker, born and bred, did not? „Where does the advantage of surprise come in?“

  Mallory patiendy waited him out, and now he must admit that he had not even recognized the address while visiting the crime scene. And, like most people who believe they know all the details of historical events, he had not understood the significance of an ice pick in Winter House of all houses.