Suspicious Origin

by MacDonald, Patricia

  Britt swung her legs out of bed and pulled on a pair of socks, and a sweatshirt over the pajamas she wore. She’d go read, or watch TV in the living room. Quietly, she got out of bed and tiptoed out the door. The house was silent. She padded down the chilly staircase to the living room. The room was dark, except for some glowing embers that were left from the fire she’d made for them in the fireplace. Britt walked over to a table behind the sofa and fumbled in the dark for the switch on a ceramic lamp she’d noticed there earlier.

  “Hey. What are you doing…” said a warning voice.

  Startled, Britt cried out and swung around. She saw a tiny red ember floating in the dark in the moment before her fingers turned the switch and a dim light filled the room. Alec Lynch stood by the window, a cigarette burning in his hand. He was no longer wearing the suit he had worn to the funeral. He had on a sweater and heavy boots.

  “Dammit,” said Britt. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry. I live here,” he said sarcastically.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she muttered.

  Alec sighed, and sat down in a chair, taking another drag on his cigarette. “Just sitting in the dark, having a smoke. I gave this up a few years ago,” he said, gazing at the glowing cigarette between his fingers. “But my nerves are shot…”

  He stood up and walked over to the fireplace, tossing the butt into the embers. It flared up for a moment and then seemed to vanish.

  Britt thought about turning right around and going back upstairs, but she didn’t want to give Alec the impression that she needed to avoid him. She walked around the sofa and sat down, pulling the blanket off the arm and arranging it over her pajamas. She reached over to the table and picked up a news magazine. She opened it and began to thumb through it, pretending to read.

  Alec, still standing in front of the fire screen, cleared his throat, but Britt did not look up.

  “How’s Zoe feeling?” he asked.

  His question made Britt’s blood boil. “She’s asleep,” she said curtly.

  “Was she feeling better by bedtime?” he asked.

  Britt stared, unseeing, at the magazine page. “Physically?” she asked.

  “Well, she said she felt sick to her stomach,” he said.

  “Physically, she was better,” said Britt. “Emotionally…well, why would she be feeling better?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “My poor little girl. This is a day we’d all just as soon put behind us.”

  Britt was silent, fuming.

  “Well, I know I’ve had enough. I’m going to go to bed,” he said.

  He was acting as if he wasn’t expected to explain his disappearance today. Suddenly Britt felt as if she couldn’t just let him off the hook. “I thought you might like to know. I spoke to the fire marshal after the funeral today,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know whether you’ve heard this or not. He told me the fire was deliberately set. It was arson.”

  They stared at one another in the dimly lit room. Alec began to shake his head as if he didn’t understand.

  “No, it… it was an accident,” he said. “The candles…”

  “It was set deliberately,” said Britt, “so that Greta would be trapped in there. So that she would be killed. The batteries were removed from the smoke alarms.”

  Alec’s face turned white, and he began to shake.

  Britt’s icy demeanor thawed somewhat at the sight of his obvious distress.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered. He swayed as if this news had struck him like a blow, and staggered to the nearest armchair, landing with a thud. “That’s not possible,” he said. He looked up at Britt. “The paint thinner. I thought…”

  Britt smoothed the folds of the blanket over her lap. “The paint thinner was used as an accelerant. Whoever set the fire threw it all over the walls and the curtains and the floor.”

  Alec shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Ray Stern said nothing…”

  Britt felt a little bit guilty, because he looked like he was going to collapse at this news. “I didn’t mention it to Zoe,” she said.

  “No,” he said absently, shaking his head. “No, don’t…How long have they known this?”

  “I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Zoe. I figured she had enough on her plate,” Britt continued. “It was a terrible day for her as it was. Her mother’s funeral and then you…not coming home.”

  It didn’t seem to register. He seemed totally absorbed in her news about the fire.

  “She wanted to wait up for you,” Britt persisted. “She was watching at the window.”

  “I lost track of time,” he muttered.

  “I’m sure you did,” she said, disapproval ringing in her voice.

  He looked up at her angrily. “I didn’t mean to make her day worse. I would never hurt Zoe on purpose. She knows that.”

  “Well, somebody wanted to hurt her,” said Britt. “Who would want to kill them? Do you have any idea…?”

  “No,” he snapped. “No, of course not.”

  “Aren’t you…curious?” she asked.

  “Curious? Am I curious? What do you think? What kind of a stupid question is that?”

  “Don’t shout at me,” she said, stiffening.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m feeling very…edgy.” Alec sat tensely in the armchair, glaring at the embers in the fireplace. Then, as Britt watched him, the anger and indignation seemed to drain away and he suddenly looked almost…frightened. “I can’t believe it. It’s hard to take it all in. You know something? In the last few days, my whole life has been turned upside down. My whole world. Everything that was important… except for Zoe…gone up in smoke. Today I had to get away and just be alone. I mean, when the person you love dies suddenly like that… your wife. And you’ve never had a chance to say all the things you wanted to say…”

  You were arguing with her that night, Britt thought, as she listened to him. She was sleeping in the guest room. And then she reminded herself that she had let her argument with Greta come between them for years. People argued. It was a fact of life. If they were lucky, they had a chance to make up.

  “I had to get away today. I took one of the snowmobiles up on the mountain, to a place where Greta used to love to go for picnics when we were first married. There’s a lake. It’s got a layer of ice on it now but in the springtime there are wildflowers all around it. And there’s a little shelter up there. I’m thinking of scattering Greta’s ashes up there. With Zoe, of course. In the spring. I sat there in that shelter and I tried to figure out… a lot of things.” He shook his head slowly. “But I don’t understand. I don’t understand…”

  From the moment they’d met, Britt had had difficulty imagining what it was that her sister had found to love about this overbearing man. But now, as he tried to absorb the news she had delivered, she felt some compassion for his helpless bewilderment.

  As if to deflect her sympathy, Alec rose abruptly from the chair, walked over to the fire screen and jiggled it, making sure all the embers were well inside the hearth. “The funeral is over,” he said. “You’ve done your bit. You don’t have to stay any longer.”

  His words struck her like a bucket of cold water, but she refused to flinch.

  “I’m not quite ready to leave,” she said. “But, obviously we’re crowded here. If you prefer, I’ll go to a hotel.”

  Alec shook his head. Then he sighed. “You may as well forget the hotel. Zoe wouldn’t stand for it.”

  Britt did not reply.

  “Look,” said Alec, and his tone was suddenly conciliatory. “Everybody’s on edge. About today. I know I should have come back earlier, but I was… a zombie, I guess you’d say. I wouldn’t have been any good to Zoe. Besides, I thought she might like to be with you today. To remind her of her mother. There are ways you are like her, you know.”

  “Dr. Farrar said that today,” Britt admitted with a wry smile. And then she reme
mbered the rest of what Dr. Farrar had said. She hesitated to ask. He was looking at her curiously.

  ‘What?” he asked.

  “Alec, was Greta sick or something?”

  Alec frowned. “No,” he said angrily. “She was fine. Why would you say that?”

  “Dr. Farrar said she had been suffering,” said Britt.

  “Dr. Farrar,” he snorted. “Dr. Farrar thought Greta was suffering from being married to me. Because I have a snowmobile dealership and Dr. Farrar is one of those bleeding-heart, do-gooder preservationists.”

  “Never mind,” said Britt crossly. “Sorry I mentioned it.” She thought about the autopsy results. Surely they would reveal any illness, even if Greta had kept it from her husband. I’ll know tomorrow, she thought. I can wait until then.

  “Look, Zoe wants to go to school tomorrow, and I said she could,” Alec said abruptly.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Britt asked, alarmed. “She’s kind of weak.”

  “It’s what she wants to do,” he said. “I talked to Peg Slavin, the counselor at the school. She told me to let Zoe set her own pace with this. Mrs. Slavin is going to meet with her during the school day.”

  “The school counselor? Don’t you think you should take her to a real professional? Someone with a psychiatric practice?” said Britt.

  “She is a professional,” Alec bristled. “Besides, she cares about Zoe and she’s right there on the spot. Zoe likes her. I trusted her. You know, sometimes how many degrees you have doesn’t say a damn thing about how smart you are.”

  Britt shrugged and gave him a withering glance. “She’s your daughter.”

  “That’s right. She is. And she needs to keep busy. Besides, she sort of has celebrity status as a result of this. She might enjoy the attention.”

  Britt wrinkled her nose. “Celebrity status? That’s disgusting. You make it sound like she won a beauty contest.”

  “It’s reality,” he said bluntly. “Kids are like that. If it makes her feel better, it’s all right with me.”

  “If you say so,” Britt replied coldly.

  “Since you’re planning to stay around, could you go get her when she’s done? It would help me out. I’m backed up at work. I’ll let them know you’re coming to pick her up. You have to have permission,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Britt. Wouldn’t want you to lose any customers? she thought irritably. “I’ll pick her up.”

  “Great,” he said in a flat tone. “Thanks.” He walked past her without looking at her. “Good night,” he said abruptly.

  “Good night,” said Britt. She sat up for a while after he went to bed, shivering, even under the blanket. She gazed out the window at the moon, visible behind the bare branches of the trees. Oh Greta, she thought. What was your life really like? If you weren’t sick, then why were you suffering? Britt certainly didn’t intend to ask Zoe. Children were rarely aware of their parents’ feelings, anyway.

  Greta always told Britt, when they were young, how she’d never realized their own mother was unhappy until the day she disappeared, leaving only a note behind. Greta had thought of it a million times, wondering if she might have prevented her mother leaving, if she’d only been aware…Britt never really understood what she meant. She didn’t even remember that day. She was only four when their mother left. But now she understood. It was pointless to ask Zoe about her mother’s state of mind. Zoe wouldn’t know.

  A spark in the fireplace popped, sounding like a shot, and Britt jumped. Take it easy, she thought. Part of her wanted to pack up her things and go back to Boston with the morning light. But she wasn’t going to leave yet, and she knew it. Greta had been murdered. She couldn’t just walk away from that fact. She needed some answers for her own peace of mind. And for Zoe’s sake she had to stay around for a little while. It was all there was left that she could do.

  Chapter Ten

  The gray light of dawn was filtering through the blinds when Britt finally dropped off to sleep. Later, she was dimly aware of Zoe getting up, getting ready for school, and tiptoeing out of the room. It seemed only moments later when Britt looked at her watch and saw that it was nearly eight-thirty. Oh damn, she thought. She’d wanted to get up early. She sat up on the edge of the bed and tried to shake out the cobwebs as she pulled on a pair of socks. I’ll take a quick shower, she thought, just to wake me up. But when she opened the door to the room, she heard the water running in the bathroom sink and she could see the bar of light under the door.

  Damn, she thought. He’s still here. She was about to disappear back inside the room, like a turtle withdrawing into a shell, when she heard a knock at the front door.

  It’s not for me, Britt thought, hesitating in the hallway. I’m not answering it. But the knock persisted as did the water, running in the bathroom. Maybe it’s the police, she thought. All right. I’m coming. She pulled on a sweater over her pajamas, and stumbled down the stairs to the front door of the house.

  The knocking had ceased and, when Britt opened the door, the mailman was heading back down the walkway.

  “Yes?” Britt called after him.

  The mailman turned around and looked at Britt, and then at the bunch of mail in his hand. “I’ve got a registered letter for Mrs. Greta Lynch,” he said. “You’ll have to sign for it.”

  “Okay,” said Britt. “I’ll sign for it.”

  The postman remounted the front step and held out the letter and a pen. “This has been forwarded here,” he said.

  “The family had to move suddenly,” said Britt. “A fire.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” said the postman, looking at Britt’s illegible scrawl on the green postcard she had signed. “Okay, well, have a good day,” he said.

  Britt thanked him and closed the door behind him, looking curiously at the envelope. The return address read: GARDNER INVESTIGATIONS, MATRIMONIAL SURVEILLANCE, SECURITY SERVICE AND ASSET TRACING. Britt stared at the return address. Matrimonial Surveillance? That was a fancy way of saying that this detective spied on cheating husbands.

  “Hey. What’s this?”

  Britt jumped as Alec walked up to her, adjusting his tie at his collar.

  Britt looked at him guiltily. “Registered letter.”

  “Let me see that,” he said, extending his hand.

  Britt glanced back at the letter, wanting the address, but before she could see any more than the town and state, he snatched the letter out of her hand.

  “Do you mind?” he said. “It’s my mail.”

  “It’s Greta’s mail,” she said.

  “That makes it mine, now.” He glanced at the return address and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

  Britt stared at him.

  “So, I’m gonna go,” he said. “What are you gonna do all day?”

  Britt blushed, thinking about her planned visit to Chief Stern. I’m going to look into the facts surrounding my sister’s murder, she thought. Strange, that her husband wouldn’t be obsessed with doing that same thing, the very day after he found out that his wife was killed. “Not much,” she said. “Nothing.”

  “Why don’t you stop at the dealership? I’ll take you out on a snowmobile. Have you ever been on one?”

  “No,” said Britt.

  “It’s beautiful on the mountain. You really should see it. Do you know where my place is?” he asked.

  “I can find it,” she said. But don’t hold your breath, she thought.

  The main street of Coleville was decorated for Christmas. White fairy lights were hung on every tree and wound around the gaslights that lined the street. Wreaths adorned the doors of every prosperous-looking shop and each window display revolved around a snowy theme, even though the day was gray and icy.

  Britt’s leather ankle boots were the wrong footgear for the slick, sloping sidewalk, and, when she caught sight of her reflection in a gourmet food shop window, she couldn’t help noticing how out of place she looked, her fists jammed in the pockets of her long tweed
coat. Everyone else on the street was wearing some sort of parka or ski jacket and heavy boots with treads on the soles. Conversations burbled cheerfully among window shoppers she passed. There was a holiday feeling in the air which only served to make Britt feel cranky.

  Making her way down the sidewalk, she noticed a white TV news-van parked near the town hall. The doors were open and an overweight, middle-aged man with a videocam on his lap sat eating an overstuffed bagel. She smiled at him but he stared back at her blankly.

  The town hall and the police station were side by side, in two severe-looking, old clapboard-side buildings. At some point before preservationists had come to the fore, the original door of the police station’s building had been replaced with a swinging glass door that looked distinctly anachronistic. The words “Coleville Police” had been stenciled on it in gold capital letters. Britt pushed the door open and entered the old building. Inside, the building had been similarly compromised, with walls knocked down and replaced by wide fluorescent-lit areas with desks and files on either side of the room. The only remaining traces of the meeting house this must once have been was a loft balcony, and the wide wooden planks of the floorboards, which had not been carpeted or tiled over in the renovation. The atmosphere in the station was relaxed. A uniformed patrolman was chatting with a female sergeant at a desk near the front. Britt approached the desk, her boots squeaking on the shiny wooden floor. “Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for Chief Stern.”

  “He’s talking to someone,” said the sergeant. “Do you want to wait?”

  “I don’t know,” said Britt. “Do you know how long he’ll be?”

  “It’s just a reporter from WGLC,” said the patrolman helpfully.

  Immediately, Britt thought of the guy from the funeral. Dean Webster. The guy who looked like he ought to be on a poster for the Winter Olympics, with that tan and the gold-tipped hair.

  “I think he’s expecting me,” said Britt.

  “I’ll ring him,” said the sergeant. She spoke quietly into the phone and then looked up at Britt. “Okay, you can go back.”