by Joy Fielding
“Dad’s still hanging in there, I take it?”
“He’s a tough old dog,” Robin said.
“So Tara dies and he survives. Figures.”
“Come home, Alec,” Robin urged. “I could really use the support.”
“Where’s Blake? Isn’t that his job?”
Robin had been wondering the same thing. “He’s pretty busy these days. He just can’t pick up and leave whenever—”
“Whenever his fiancée’s family gets slaughtered?”
“Nice talk,” Robin said.
“I should go.”
“You should come home.”
“Talk soon,” Alec said, then disconnected the call.
Robin tossed her phone on the bed, picturing her brother’s handsome face—their mother’s soft gray eyes, their father’s sturdy jaw, the light brown hair that was a mixture of both, the sardonic sense of humor that was entirely his own. How many times had he reduced Robin and Tara to a puddle of helpless tears with one of his wry observations? “Oh, God,” she remembered Tara squealing at the conclusion of one of Alec’s spontaneous comic riffs. “I think I just peed my pants!”
“How could she do this?” Alec had asked Robin after Tara had eloped with their father. “I mean, it’s bad enough leaving me for a man almost twice her age. My father, no less. My father no more,” he’d proclaimed with a sad shake of his head. “But how could a woman who loves to laugh marry a man without a single funny bone in his entire body? Shit, the man wouldn’t know irony if it bit him in the ass. You know what he is, don’t you?” he’d asked, pausing before adding the killer punch line. “He’s irony deficient!”
Robin still chuckled over that one.
It was true. Greg Davis had absolutely no sense of humor. His relentless pursuit of success and the almighty dollar had left little time or room for anything else. Oh, he could be charming. He knew the right things to say. He could even tell a pretty good joke. But there was something hollow behind his easy laugh and seductive manner. Not that it mattered. He’d learned that money went a long way toward filling pesky hollows.
And it seemed that Tara had loved money even more than she loved to laugh.
“She’ll be sorry,” she heard Alec say, trying to block out the words that had followed. “Karma, baby. What goes around comes around. Sooner or later, she’ll pay for this. They both will.”
Of course her younger brother was just being overly dramatic. He’d been justifiably hurt and angry. “It would be way easier if she were dead,” he’d said.
But that was almost six years ago, Robin told herself now. He didn’t mean…There was no way…Besides, he’d been hundreds of miles away at the time of the shootings.
She took a deep breath, determined not to let unwarranted suspicions hijack the rest of the night. She wouldn’t allow such inane conjecture to keep her from getting a good night’s sleep. She needed her rest for what was promising to be an exceedingly trying day tomorrow. So where was Blake? she wondered, transferring her anxiety about Alec to her fiancé. Why hadn’t he called? “Goddamn it. Where are you?” Are you alone? Who are you with? She grabbed her purse from the floor and removed the small bottle of Ativan. Only eight left, she thought, counting them out and shaking two into the palm of her hand.
Her cell phone rang as she was lifting them to her mouth. Caller ID identified Blake as the caller.
Finally. “Hey,” she said, folding her fingers over the pills, as if trying to hide them from Blake’s sight, knowing he would disapprove.
“How are you?”
“Okay. Getting ready for bed.”
“It’s seven-thirty,” he said.
Robin pictured his eyebrows inching together at the bridge of his patrician nose. His worried face, she called it. Oddly enough, it made him even better-looking than he already was.
“You haven’t taken any more Valium, have you?”
“No,” she said, which technically was not a lie. “I’m just tired, that’s all. Apparently murder takes a lot out of you.”
“I’m so sorry. How’s your dad?”
“The same.”
“Do they have any idea who did it?”
Robin shook her head.
“Robin? Are you there?”
“Sorry. No, they don’t know who did it. They’re thinking home invasion, but…”
“But?”
“They don’t know.” She didn’t have the energy to recount her earlier discussion with Melanie. Were the rumors true? Had her father been cheating on Tara? Had Tara been cheating on her father? And ultimately, did it make any difference? Would they still be alive if the rumors proved to be unfounded?
“Have you been cheating on me?” she wanted to ask. “How are you?” she asked instead.
“Me? I’m fine. What about your sister?”
“Hard to say. One minute we seem to be doing all right; the next, not so much.”
“And her son? Sorry, I forget his name.”
“Landon.”
“Oh, yeah. He was named after that actor…”
“Michael Landon.” Robin pictured the long-dead star of Bonanza, a popular western that Melanie used to watch in reruns on TV. Who names their son after an actor she’s only seen in reruns? “He keeps pretty much to himself. I haven’t actually talked to him.” I can hear him, though, she thought, glancing at the wall separating their two rooms. He’d resumed his incessant rocking as soon as his friend, Kenny, left.
“Must feel weird to be back there,” Blake said.
“It does.”
“How’s the weather?”
Really? “Hot.” We’re actually talking about the weather?
“Do you have any idea when you’ll be home?”
“Probably not for a few days at least. The sheriff wants us to go through my father’s new house with him tomorrow, see if we can figure out what’s missing.” Why? Are you concerned about being caught off guard? Is someone there with you?
“How do you feel about that?”
Robin chuckled. “That’s supposed to be my question. I’m the therapist, remember?”
Not a very good one.
“It won’t be easy,” Blake said.
“True. But when has anything about my family ever been easy?”
“Do you want me to come up there?” he asked.
Please say no, Robin heard him add silently.
“Not necessary,” she obliged him by saying. “You’re busy.”
“I can manage a few days off.”
“I’m fine. Really.”
“You do sound pretty good.”
“Do I?” I guess we hear what we want to hear.
“Yeah. Tired, but okay.”
“I am tired.”
“Guess I should let you go and get some sleep.”
“Yeah. Probably a good idea.” Although a better idea would be for you to drop everything and get your ass up here. An even better idea would be for you to stop asking what I want and figure out what I need.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay.”
“You’ll call me as soon as you know anything?”
“I’ll call you.”
“I love you,” he said, so softly that Robin wasn’t sure he’d said anything at all. Another case of hearing what we want to hear?
“Love you, too,” she whispered. She tossed the phone back to the bed and deposited the two pills she was holding on the tip of her tongue, then swallowed both at once. One of them stuck in her throat, and she tried clearing it, but that seemed only to make things worse. She opened her door and stepped into the hall, crossing to the washroom and leaning over the sink to drink the cold water directly from the tap. It dribbled down her chin and neck and disappeared inside the front of her nightgown.
She washed her face and brushed her teeth, then spent a few minutes pulling on her hair before recognizing it as a lost cause and leaving the bathroom. She could hear the TV on in Melanie’s bedroom at the end of the hall. Her sister hadn’t wa
sted any time in taking over the master bedroom, with its convenient en suite bathroom, after their father and Tara had moved out. Robin wasn’t sure exactly when that had been, and she hadn’t thought to ask, but Sheriff Prescott had mentioned something about a recent house-warming party and that workers were still going in and out of the house on a regular basis. So, probably sometime in the last month, Robin surmised, returning to her room.
He was standing beside her bed, his back to her. He was tall and barefooted, with impressive biceps straining against the sleeves of his checkered shirt, which hung loosely over a pair of baggy blue jeans. Thick brown hair fell toward his slumped shoulders, and his body rocked back and forth as if he were praying.
“Landon?”
The boy spun around, dark eyes darting from Robin’s face to her breasts.
Robin raised her hand to her chest, aware that her nipples were clearly visible beneath the thin white cotton of her nightgown. “It’s so nice to finally see you,” she said, wondering what he was doing in her room. “We missed you at dinner.”
Landon said nothing, his gaze shifting to the floor.
“Did you eat anything? There’s lots left, if you haven’t. It’s really good. Your mother makes excellent chili.”
Again, no response.
“She said it’s one of your favorites. Although she told me you don’t like salads. I don’t like broccoli.” Really? Since when didn’t she like broccoli? Why had she said that? “I can’t believe how tall you are. The last time I saw you, you were still a little kid. Well, you weren’t even a teenager. And now look at you. You’re a man.” A great big silent man with bulging muscles who was in my room doing God only knows what. “Did you come to say hello?”
Landon shifted his weight from one foot to the other, refusing to make eye contact.
“Would you like to sit down?” She inched forward. “We could talk, get reacquainted.”
He took a step back, stopping only when his leg came in contact with the bed.
Robin heard footsteps behind her.
“What’s going on here?” Melanie said. “Landon, what are you doing in Robin’s room?”
Landon shot past both Robin and his mother with neither a word nor a glance in their direction.
“It’s all right,” Robin called after him. “You can stay.”
Seconds later, his bedroom door slammed shut.
“He wasn’t doing any…”
“Can you please refrain from entertaining my teenage son in your nightgown?” Melanie interrupted. “You can see right through that thing, you know.”
“I wasn’t entertain— I went to the bathroom. He was here when I came back.”
“Whatever. I’d just like you to be a little more discreet instead of parading around the halls half-naked.”
“I’m hardly half-naked.”
“I can see your pubes,” came Melanie’s stinging retort.
Robin glanced toward her groin, her cheeks growing warm, as if Melanie had slapped her. She heard her sister’s footsteps receding down the hall, and didn’t look up again until she heard Melanie’s bedroom door close. Then she crawled into bed, pulling the pink-flowered bedspread up over her head in an effort to keep unwanted ghosts at bay.
CHAPTER NINE
“You ready?” Melanie asked from the doorway. It was just past nine A.M.
Robin took a final sip of her coffee, followed by a deep inhalation, then used her exhale to push away from the kitchen table. She wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her jeans and walked to the sink.
“Uh-uh,” Melanie cautioned as Robin was about to rinse out her mug. “Dishwasher.”
“Sorry. I forgot.”
“Let’s go,” Melanie instructed. “Mustn’t keep the sheriff waiting.”
Robin put the mug in the dishwasher, anxiety driving invisible nails through the soles of her sandaled feet, rooting her to the spot.
“Are you all right?” Melanie asked.
“Do you really need me? I mean, I’ve never even been inside the house. I wouldn’t have a clue what’s missing.”
“You want me to go alone?”
Yes. “No.” Yes. “I’m just not sure I can do this.”
“Look, I know it won’t be easy,” Melanie said. “But the faster we get over there, the faster we can get back.”
Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of.
“Maybe you should take another pill. Don’t want you passing out on us again.”
“I already took one.” Two, actually. Unfortunately, they have yet to take effect.
“Then let’s go,” Melanie said, hanging on to the word “go” until Robin was forced to comply.
One foot in front of the other. One step at a time.
“I’m trying to understand why you’re so upset,” Melanie was saying. “These were people you hadn’t spoken to in more than five years. People you’d all but disowned. You don’t see me falling apart, do you? And I’m the one who was here every fucking day—”
“I’m coming, for God’s sake.”
“Good. Maybe you could walk a little faster. Landon!” Melanie called up the stairs as they moved through the hall toward the front door. “We’re leaving now. Be back in about an hour. In the meantime, don’t answer the phone. Don’t let anyone in. Do you hear me?”
“Did he hear you?” Robin asked as her sister opened the door without waiting for a reply.
“He hears everything.” They stepped into the bright sunshine, Melanie walking briskly despite the already intense heat, Robin struggling to catch up.
She glanced over her shoulder at the house, saw Landon watching them from his bedroom window.
“What now?” Melanie asked as Robin came to an abrupt halt.
“You just said he hears everything,” Robin said, seeing Landon disappear behind the curtains. “Did he hear anything that night?”
“Like what?”
“Like gunfire. Dad and Tara were shot multiple times. Did Landon hear gunshots?” Robin released a long, deep breath, feeling it slam against the heavy outside air, as if into a brick wall. “Did you?”
“It was after midnight. I was sound asleep.” Melanie dug her hands into the pockets of her denim skirt and resumed her former pace.
“But maybe Landon wasn’t.” Once again, Robin struggled to catch up. “The house is right next door. Maybe he heard shots and went to the window. He’s always standing there. Maybe he saw something. Maybe he saw the person who—”
“He didn’t.”
“How do you know? Did you ask him?”
“Sheriff Prescott asked him. Landon didn’t hear anything. He didn’t see anything. Are you done with the questions? I have no wish to get into this in front of everyone.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Let’s just get this over with, okay?”
Robin felt a trickle of perspiration make its way between her breasts and cling to the underside of her white shirt. She followed Melanie in silence as they cut across the wide expanse of dry grass toward the mini-mansion next door. Two police cruisers were already parked in the long driveway, one so close behind the other that they were almost touching, leaving plenty of room for more cars, more prying eyes. The sheriff was standing at the front door, his wide-brimmed cowboy hat protecting his bald pate from the sun.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, tipping his hat in greeting.
“Sheriff,” Melanie said.
“Good morning,” Robin whispered, her voice barely audible.
“All settled in?” he asked her.
Robin managed a weak smile as she felt the Ativan kick in. Thank you, God. “All settled in,” she repeated, her shoulders inching slowly away from her ears. “Is that a camera?” She pointed with her chin toward a security camera positioned above the front door. Surely if there were cameras, there would be footage…
“Unfortunately none of the cameras have been connected yet,” the sheriff said. “Apparently the electricians were scheduled to come this week to fini
sh installing the security system, which I understand is state of the art. If they had…” The sentence hung unfinished in the space between them.
“Can we just do this?” Melanie said.
“Certainly. You gonna be all right?” he asked Robin.
“She’ll be fine,” Melanie answered for her.
“I just want you to be prepared. There’s a lot of blood.”
Oh, God. “I’ll be okay,” Robin said.
“Good.” He opened the front door. “After you.” He stepped back to allow them entry. “This is Deputy Wilson,” he said, introducing them to the young uniformed officer waiting inside the circular foyer, the floor of which was a sprawling mosaic of tiny white and black tiles. The air-conditioning was on high.
Robin nodded hello, her attention captured by the giant crystal chandelier hanging from the twenty-five-foot ceiling, and behind it two sweeping staircases, one on either side of the center hall, each one leading to a different wing on the second floor. “Holy shit.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Sheriff Prescott said, motioning to his right. “The living room is this way. I have to caution you not to touch anything.”
Robin saw the blood as soon as she crossed the threshold into the large rectangular room. It was everywhere—pools of it soaked into the white-and-silver rug, splatters of it streaked across the floral chintz sofa and the huge expanse of window behind it, more splatters across the white keys of the black grand piano that stood next to a chintz-covered wing chair that had somehow managed to escape the carnage.
“Who plays the piano?” Robin asked.
“Cassidy was going to start taking lessons,” Melanie said.
Robin watched Deputy Wilson jot down this information.
“Do you notice anything missing?” Sheriff Prescott asked after a pause of several seconds.
“Not offhand,” Melanie answered. “But then, they bought almost everything brand-new, so it’s hard to say for sure. You should probably ask their decorator.”
“Who would that be?”
“I don’t remember her name. Sheila or Shelley. Maybe Susan. She was with some hoity-toity design firm in San Francisco. Cassidy might know. She’d drive down with Tara when my dad was too busy to go with her.”