“Open our own firm?” I joked. “And no, I’m not seriously suggesting that, at least not at this point in my career, but we do need to do something about Ryan. Starting with warning any new hires, and looking for every opportunity to humiliate him. If there’s one thing I know about vampires, they’re all about pride. They hate to lose face.”
“Well, you went a long way toward doing that yesterday. I expect it will blow back on you,” she said coolly.
“Hasn’t yet,” I answered with a bravado I didn’t really feel.
* * *
I spent the afternoon placing every bit of paper on the Abercrombie case in chronological order. That meant I had seventeen discrete (but huge) piles, and I wasn’t just pawing aimlessly through paper. I concentrated my search on the past year, assuming that whatever happened to get Chip killed must have occurred recently. I tried not to remind myself of that overused and really irritating saying that pompous and annoying people just loved to throw at you: When you assume you make an ASS of U and ME.
I looked up when there was a soft knock on the door. “What? Yeah. Come in.”
It wasn’t who I expected. David Sullivan stood in the office door. He had his usual sour and supercilious expression firmly in place. I braced myself.
“You just love hopeless fights with impossible odds, don’t you?”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“Figure it out.” He walked into my office, and eyed the leaning towers of Abercrombie. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for a motive,” I said.
“So you think Abercrombie is the reason for the murder?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Want some help?”
“And why would you help me?” Suspicion sharpened the words.
“Because it will royally piss off their highnesses upstairs, who sent me down here and let a jackass like Winchester stay up there.” He jerked his chin toward the ceiling.
“Okay, that’s a good reason and one I can buy,” I said.
“You don’t think I’d offer to help you just because I wanted to help you?” he asked.
“No.”
For a moment he looked taken aback, then he nodded. I handed him a stack of papers.
10
The clackity-clack of the wheels on the tracks was nicely hypnotic. I dropped my iPad onto my lap, half-closed my eyes, and just let the sway of the subway take control of my body. I felt guilty for taking the weekend to visit my two homes, but Mother and Charlie had returned from Europe, and both my real and my foster dads had indicated a visit to both homes would be appreciated.
Since I didn’t have a car in New York, I was taking the Long Island Rail Road to Sag Harbor. I would spend Friday night at the Bainbridge house. On Saturday, mid-morning, I would take the Long Island Ferry to Newport, Rhode Island, where someone in my human family would be meeting me. Then back to NYC on Sunday afternoon. Just thinking about it made me tired.
I had loaded a number of mystery novels onto my iPad, hoping that the brilliance of fictional detectives would help me in my efforts to untangle Chip’s death and the reputed existence of the missing third will. But my brain was tired, and I didn’t want to think about knotty puzzles. I had dipped into a science fiction novel and a fantasy, but I had the same problem. I kept having to do mental work to envision the planets and aliens, or the mythical kingdoms and elves—
Well, actually, I wasn’t having a hard time picturing elves. One in particular kept floating to the front of my mind. I hadn’t heard from John since his report about Elizabeth May’s werewolf husband, and since I presently hated and was eschewing all men of any type and description, I hadn’t called him—though I wanted to.
I picked up the iPad and brought up a Georgette Heyer novel. The problems of a Regency heroine—how to make an impression during the season, how to capture and marry the man of one’s dreams—seemed quaint and charming, and I felt a certain nostalgia for the era. Life was simpler for women back then.
It was also confining, difficult, incredibly dangerous—death during childbirth was common, and women were the property of their spouses, the sensible part of my brain reminded me.
“Yeah, those were the days,” I muttered to myself.
Georgette did her magic, and I soon forgot about work as I lost myself in the problems of a young lady who had, scandalously, driven her phaeton down a public street, past gawking gentlemen in their clubs.
One chapter later, we pulled into the Bridgehampton station. I grabbed my overnight bag and hopped off the train. Douglas was waiting. I noticed he was grayer and a bit more stooped, but he still touched the brim of his cap, then gave me a wink and a grin before taking my bag and laptop. He was still driving the same old black Lincoln Town Car that had picked up a terrified eight-year-old seventeen years before. I knew it was the same car, because the initials that brat Stanley Delvechio had carved in the wood around the door handle were still there.
A lump in my throat threatened to choke me, and my vision was blurry with tears as a memory swept across me, ash gray and cold.
I remembered the grilled cheese sandwich and ice cream cone Daddy had bought me in Newport, Rhode Island, before we’d boarded the ferry for Long Island. It had seemed like a good day because I had him all to myself. No Mommy and no squalling baby brother. We had stood on the deck of the ferry as it chugged its way across the sound. I knew intellectually that I was being taken away to live in another place, but like most children I had the capacity to think the moment would last forever, and that Daddy would never leave me behind.
When we reached Long Island, Daddy had knelt down in front of me with his hands on my shoulders. He had been very serious as he said, “Lennie, you must be very, very good and make Mr. Bainbridge very happy. Don’t do anything that might upset him and make him send you back. This is very important. But I know you won’t disappoint me. You’re my good girl, Lennie. You’ll make me proud.”
It had been a summer day, and the air reeked of diesel, fish, and rank water. Daddy stood up and Douglas took my suitcase. His hand replaced my father’s on my shoulder. Daddy turned and walked back onto the ferry. I started to scream, the sound mingling with the harsh cries of the gulls.
Daddy had turned back and called, “You’re not making me proud.”
I had swallowed the tears, but what I had learned on that day was that ferry rides end and people leave you behind all the time.
“We read about those terrible events in the city. The entire household is very relieved that you weren’t hurt, Miss Linnet,” Douglas said with quiet formality.
“Thank you, Douglas, I appreciate that.” I paused and added, “And I’m very glad to be home, even if only for a night.”
Inside there were more greetings. Susan, Meredith’s hostess, looked very chic in a lemon yellow dress and low heels, her perfect pageboy dyed to a rich chestnut. She hugged me tight. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she whispered. “I’ve put Jessica in with Amy tonight so you can have your old room back.”
“Can I still escape out the window using the tree?”
“No, Meredith had it moved after a fosterling less agile than you took a tumble and broke his arm.”
“How many fosterlings do you have right now?” I asked as we walked up the grand staircase and Douglas followed behind with my case.
“The usual five, but when they’re released in three years we’re only going to take two. I’m slowing down, and Meredith agreed not to burden me with too many youngsters. This bunch will probably be the last fosterlings I see to adulthood.”
I gave her a hug. “Don’t say that. You’re still young.”
“That’s sweet, Linnet, but no, I’m not. And it’s all the more apparent when you live in a vampire household.”
Mine had been the last room on the left. As we walked down a long hall, we heard screams of female terror from one room, and a boy’s voice cried out, “Oh gross, how cool.” It had the tremor and crack of a boy in the throes of
adolescence.
Beneath the shrill cries of fright, there was the eerie thrumming sound of a Hunter. Susan stormed over to the door of the room. I couldn’t resist. I followed her.
Seated on the bed and on pillows on the floor were five teenagers, two girls and three boys, in front of a TV. The girls sported the latest fashion affectations, and the boys slouched as if they’d suddenly become too tall and they didn’t know when or how it had happened. There was the usual spray of acne across their faces, which were turned to us as we entered. My skin wanted to break out in sympathy.
On the screen a Hunter shambled after a teen couple. Its face was a pale oval, and its only definable feature was a strange, red mouth. How it breathed or saw was a mystery. The worm-like digits that passed for fingers stiffened into claws and thrust into the boy’s chest. Then Susan snapped off the television.
“Justin, you know better than to show a Hunter movie in a vampire’s household.”
“Ah, Susan,” came multiple cries in tones of consternation.
“It’s just a movie,” Justin said, but he climbed to his feet and ejected the DVD. It was one of Roger Corman’s low budget efforts from the early seventies. The lurid title HUNTER HORROR splashed across the front of the case.
It was an interesting irony that while vampires had bred or created Hunters to do God knows what, even vampires couldn’t stand to have them around. According to various sources, they stank like rotting meat, and their blind gaze was disturbing even to their makers. It turned out they were the source of all the walking-dead legends that permeated human cultures. Only vampires with their mesmerizing powers could fully control Hunters, and a special class of vampire enforcers handled the creatures.
Of course, I’d never actually seen one except in the movies—and there were a lot of movies. Once the Powers went public, Hollywood had dumped zombies and taken up Hunters, because there was a great story associated with them. Supposedly they were bred to smell and kill an unknown predator that had the ability to destroy the Powers. All of them.
Susan confiscated the DVD, and we continued down the hall to my old bedroom. It offered a view across the manicured and colorful garden, past the hedge, and off toward the small barn. For a moment I remembered the horses that had filled my ten years with Meredith—Suncloud, Delila, and Miss Patti.
A new girl’s treasurers had replaced mine on top of the bookcases. In place of my giant collection of Breyer plastic horses, the new occupant had dainty china and inlaid boxes. On the walls were posters of the latest crop of teen heartthrobs, none of whom I recognized, and I suddenly felt very old. But it was still my room, and the memories hung in it like cobwebs.
“Dinner is at seven thirty, and Meredith would like to have sherry with you in the library at seven.”
“I’ll get changed.” Because of course you dressed for dinner in a vampire’s house.
Meredith was flipping through the Wall Street Journal when I entered. He held a glass whose contents were too red and too viscous to be anything but blood. I wondered if he was still buying from a local cuppery, or if he had decided to use his meal hosts for cocktails as well.
I braced myself for the inevitable conversation about IMG. Instead he asked, “What do you think of the Santa Fe Opera? Worth a trip all that way?”
I had to reset my brain. “Uh … yes. It’s a beautiful setting with world-class singers. They always do very innovative stagings at Santa Fe,” I offered, and Meredith made a face. Clearly not a selling point. “And Santa Fe is a cool little town. It feels … European.”
“Ah, interesting.”
“But why Santa Fe in August?” I asked.
“Steven Ogden is reprising his role as Tonio in The Daughter of the Regiment, and I’d like to hear him sing again.”
“Are you going all star-struck opera groupie again?” I asked.
He pretended to bristle. “Show some respect, young lady. And yes, I am. Ogden is a sensation. The finest voice I’ve heard in many lifetimes. I’ve been following him from opera house to opera house for the past year.”
“Are you going to Make him?”
“It would be a shame for the world to lose that voice. Breath is the essence of singing. We have to force ourselves to emulate breathing. His voice would never be the same. Maybe I’ll wait until he makes a lot more recordings.…”
IMG never came up once during the evening, and for the first time in a long time I slept without nightmares.
* * *
The next morning I stood on the deck of the ferry. There was only the tiniest amount of roll, and I caught it in my knees and swayed softly with the motion. I sniffed the salt air, watched the gulls swooping like feathered sky writers, and ignored the people jabbering on their cell phones.
Up ahead, the buildings in Newport looked like LEGO toys. I wondered which member of my family would meet me. I prayed it wasn’t going to be my mother. Eventually the buildings stopped looking like sets in Munchkinland, the big diesel engines roared and strained, and the ferry bumped to rest against the pier.
I grabbed up my overnight bag and computer case then headed down the gangplank and into the building. None of my family was there. I wove past the Starbucks and the sandwich shop, and my stomach gave a growl. I hoped dinner wasn’t going to be late.
Out in the parking lot the door on a Corvette Stingray flew open, and Charlie waved at me. It looked like my brother had received the obligatory going-off-to-college car gift.
My dad was a mass of contradictions. He was a fifty-something, sober businessman who loved to gamble—never for large amounts, but all games of chance fascinated him. And he loved fast cars. They were always American fast cars, and he told his fellow members in the Chamber of Commerce and at the country club that he was buying them for his children. The statement was always followed with an eye roll that said how silly he found the whole thing. Maybe his colleagues were fooled and never knew how much he enjoyed test driving sports cars before making his recommendations. I was pretty sure he drove my car when I wasn’t around. He was getting a lot of use out of it now.
I got my first car when I returned home from Meredith’s, and I still had it. Daddy had offered me a choice between a Ford Mustang and a Corvette Stingray. I’d opted for the Mustang because of the whole horsey thing. I also thought the Stingray was very much a “boy’s car,” and back then I was in my girly phase.
It looked like Charlie had opted for the “boy’s car.” It worked for him because he took after our tall mother, being damn near six feet tall. I took after Dad, who lied and said he was five foot eight. I put him closer to five-six on a tall day. I also lied, saying I was five foot two. Charlie took after Mom in other ways too. While I had inherited dad’s blue-black hair, Charlie’s was a dark brown thanks to the mixture with my mom’s red hair.
Charlie grabbed my case, dumped it into the trunk, held the passenger door for me, and then took us out of the parking lot like we were starting at the Indianapolis 500.
“You are so going to get a ticket,” I said as we hit the Centerdale Bypass doing about sixty.
“Am I making you nervous?”
“No. I just think you’re stupid to speed while you’re still in town.”
“Oh, okay.” He lifted his foot off the gas, and we slowed to within five miles of the actual speed limit as we turned onto Highway 44. Charlie glanced over at me. “You look okay.”
“Meaning what?”
“You were kind of a basket case when we talked,” he said.
“It’s been a few weeks, and I’ve had other things to occupy my mind,” I said. “How did you like Europe?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
“I loved it. I want to go to school over there.”
That surprised me. “Oh. Where would you go, and what would you study?”
“I don’t really care where. Maybe not Germany. I didn’t like Germany all that much. Switzerland, France, Italy.” He gulped in a breath, and his hands convulsed briefly on the steering wheel. �
�I’d like to study architecture. The buildings were just amazing. And not just the old stuff. In Paris they’ve done an amazing job of placing modern buildings next to eighteenth-century chateaus, and it works. The modern buildings sort of suggest some of the old styles, and—” He broke off as if embarrassed by his passion. “Well, blah blah.” He fell silent.
“Wow. I did not see that coming.” He gave me a pained and worried look. “What? You know Mom thinks you walk on water, and Daddy always supports any educational goal.”
“I also know he really wants me to take over the business,” Charlie said.
“True, but he’s always supported us,” I repeated in my most reassuring tone.
“Yeah, but you did what he wanted. You always have.”
You’re my good girl, Lennie. You’ll make me proud. Spoken to an eight-year-old. Repeated over and over through the years. Most recently a few weeks ago. Had it all been about him? About making me a mirror for his ambitions? It was a horrible, grating thought that left me feeling like my skin had been peeled away.
Had I picked this life because I wanted it, or because Daddy had pushed me into it? Had there been other dreams? Yes. To ride professionally. Go to the Olympics. But those other goals had been dismissed with a smile. I was an Ellery. An Ellery had been one of the first Federal Court judges. He had signed the Declaration of Independence. Being a mere horse trainer was the equivalent of failure. I felt like a pawn. My father had sent me away because it helped his business. He insisted I aim for a White-Fang firm. Why? For access? The thoughts were so devastating that I didn’t hear another word Charlie said to me. I just kept worrying at this revelation, trying to find some other interpretation of my father’s behavior.
We turned off the highway and headed for the family home on the western edge of the Pascoag Reservoir. It was the usual New England affair: two stories, white siding, blue shutters, pitched shingle roof. Our dad’s Lincoln Continental was parked in the driveway behind our mother’s Volt.
It was time. I had to prepare myself to face my father. Charlie pulled up next to the other cars and hit the garage door opener. I forced a smile. “The Corvette rates the garage?”
This Case Is Gonna Kill Me Page 13