by Isabel Wroth
The sky was crystal clear, bluer than blue, and I felt better than I had in a long time. The burden of secrets I hadn't known I'd carried had finally lifted.
Elliot's murder was still unsolved, and I wouldn't sell the mansion until it was, but after today, I was never coming back here again.
I had so many wonderful memories of Katya, of my birth-mother, but I would never be able to look outside and not see her skeletal hand reaching up out of the dirt toward me, or the way the crime scene techs had pulled her remains out of the earth on a garish yellow tarp and transferred into a thick black bag.
Callum was right about Katya not blaming me for her death. From the first day she'd come into my life, she'd done nothing except protect and care for me. Love me.
Janet and Aaron were to blame, and they would spend the rest of their lives in jail.
With her murder solved, Katya could rest in peace.
Huddling in the fluffiness of my bathrobe, I took one more deep breath of the damp, chilly air and went back inside.
My clothes were still too wet to put on, and the dryer would destroy the seriously expensive material, so Callum had put on his slightly drier suit and driven into town to get me something else to wear home and some breakfast.
My man is the absolute best.
With him gone for a little while, I could do a few things without him hovering over my shoulder like a bodyguard.
I tidied up the Green Room first, using the dumbwaiter system to bring the dishes and the dirty linens downstairs without having to make five trips, put the laundry in the wash, did the dishes and put them away, and then I went back up to the third floor to Katya's room.
It was a closet compared to the lavish space of my room and Elliot's nursery.
A twin bed sat shoved up against one wall, a small dresser, a desk, some shelves for personal items, and a bathroom with a basic shower stall.
No windows, no luxuries, just an efficiency room to sleep and bathe in.
I remembered coming in here after I'd been released from the asylum, looking for Katya, but like now, nothing of hers had been left behind.
None of her clothes, none of her school books, none of her toiletries or any evidence to say she'd ever been here at all.
Katya always exclaimed proudly when I presented her with a new sketch, and unlike Janet, who couldn't sell my paintings fast enough, Katya promised never to part with the pictures.
I reached out to touch the little pinholes sprinkled across the drab, taupe-colored walls from where she'd pinned up my drawings.
“Like a proud mother,” I murmured with a sad smile.
She told how proud she was all the time, never stingy with her approval or praise for any success I achieved, no matter how small.
I looked around this plain, drab room, and I couldn't help but wonder what her life must have been like before she'd come here.
Katya rarely ever left the house except on the third Thursday of every month—her day off to go into town and shop for herself or run her own errands.
Maybe that one time Janet and I went to pick Katya up from her day trip, and Janet teased Katya about having a new boyfriend, the man I'd seen her having coffee with had been the Marshal responsible for watching over Katya.
It was a fanciful notion, but anything was possible at this point.
Actually, I knew someone who had far more time on his hands to hunt down information, who had just recently been overheard bitching about being rusty and needing more practice.
I pulled my phone free from my robe pocket and found the number I needed.
“What's up, Dame Death?” John Graham greeted.
In the background, I heard Marcy swear. “God damnit, John! I hate it when you call her that!”
JOHN HUNG UP WITH PROMISES to get to work on finding out more about the trafficking ring and what role Katya might have played in bringing it down.
He knew everything about what had gone down yesterday because Callum had called him sometime last night.
Probably while I'd been soaking in the bathtub or passed out from sexual and emotional exhaustion.
Callum's father was amazing. Gruff but gentle. Blunt but kind. He and I talked in detail about what might scuttle out from under the rocks we turned over.
I didn't care so long as I knew the truth. John understood, but he did his duty and gave me all the warnings in preparation for the worst.
Still, I felt optimistic, so I was smiling when I heard the doorbell send a sonorous peal throughout the house.
I thought about not answering, I was alone and still wearing nothing but a bathrobe, and I felt silly for getting my stun gun out of my purse to put in my robe pocket, especially when I saw the outline of a woman through the front door.
I sure wasn't feeling silly when I opened it and found myself staring down the business end of a gun.
SHE LOOKED EXACTLY the same as she did in my recently uncovered memories. Her gray hair twisted in a no-nonsense knot at the back of her head, her left eyelid drooped lower than the right, making it seem as though her entire face leaned on a downward slope in the same direction.
Her blue eyes were frigid, burning with hatred as she stared back at me, her thin lips pinched together, her mauve lipstick smeared into the wrinkles.
She wore a gray pantsuit with a white blouse, one string of pearls around her neck, and a pair of pearl earrings, which looked dangerously close to falling out of her sagging lobes.
All these years, she hadn’t been able to let go of the housekeeper’s uniform, but the snub-nose revolver was a new addition.
“Mrs. Decker, this is a surprise.”
She must have been expecting me to scream and try to run, because for a second, it looked like she didn’t know what to say.
“After all this time, I suppose it is. Inside!”
The former housekeeper waved the gun at me, and I stepped back slowly.
Evelyn Decker never took her eyes off me as she closed the door behind her and flipped the locks.
“Let’s go into the living room, Josephine. Go on, hands where I can see them.”
I obeyed, keeping her in my peripheral until I found my way into the formal living room to sit in the same chair I’d been in last weekend.
The blood thundered in my veins, my body trembled with adrenaline and fear, but I felt perfectly calm and distant from the anxiety.
Mrs. Decker took the same seat as Helena Markowitz, as though it was hurt turn to interview me.
I folded my hands slowly in my lap and crossed my ankles, getting something resembling snooty approval from Mrs. Decker.
“You didn’t have to come here with a gun, Mrs. Decker. I would have gladly invited you inside.”
The woman across from me snorted derisively, still aiming the revolver at my chest.
“You always did have much better manners than your parents.”
“Thank you, but we both know Janet and Aaron Beauchene aren’t my parents.”
Her thin eyebrows climbed up into her wrinkled forehead, and I was morbidly fascinated by her appearance. She hadn’t aged a single day, even though she had to be in her seventies by now.
“Yes, that ruse is well and truly up, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I agreed, my belly churning when I felt my phone buzz softly in my pocket.
Callum always texted to say he was on his way back to me, and I knew if I could hold out long enough, he’d be here to save me from Mrs. Decker.
Or maybe I could save myself. I had the stun gun; I just needed a chance to get to it and shoot her before she could shoot me.
I should have been terrified, but I wasn’t even panicking. Guns were heavy, and Mrs. Decker’s hand was already trembling slightly.
She would lose her grip eventually, and if I could be quicker, I could survive this. I just had to keep her talking.
She wanted to talk, otherwise, she’d have shot me as soon as I opened the door.
I had actually picked up some pointers from bo
th John and Callum Graham. The last time I’d sat across from a crazy person, they’d coached me in what to say and do, and the experience was unforgettable.
Is this my life now? Being confronted by murderers and crazy people? I think I’ll end up owning Cal an apology for all those times I rolled my eyes when he said he didn’t want me to know what shit like this felt like.
“You always knew everything that was going on around here, Mrs. Decker. How long after they hired you, did you realize I wasn't theirs?”
Mrs. Decker's chin went up ever so slightly, a smug little smirk canting her lips. “Not long. Mr. Beauchene was quite careless with his phone conversations.”
“He was. Why are you here with a gun, Mrs. Decker?” The little old lady shifted to sit farther back in her armchair, laying her wrist on the armrest to keep the gun pointed my way while taking the stress off her muscles.
Well, damn. She won't get tired of holding the gun if she's doing that. Shit.
“You hired a private detective to look into your brother's closed case,” she told me slowly, anger further pinching her fingers, making the droopiness of her eyelid much more pronounced.
“He called me five times a day, demanding to see the police report and making all sorts of lewd, inappropriate comments when I refused.”
“Mrs. Melman,” I murmured as the dots finally connected.
This bitch is working in the damn Sheriff's Office? The dragon at the gates who Sheriff Davidson said kept them all in line? Go figure.
“I went back to my maiden name after the case was closed.”
I can't believe someone actually married this woman. “I see. Well, I'm very sorry Mr. Graham upset you, Mrs ... would you prefer I call you by your maiden name?”
She made a wry face. “It makes no never mind to me.”
“I apologize for his rudeness, Mrs. Decker. He's a retired homicide detective and not known for his decorum or manners, but he gets the job done.”
“Does he? Well, that's not very good for you, now is it, Josephine?” She didn't give me time to answer the rhetorical question. “I saw your interview on television last Monday, and I have to say, I was less than displeased with your version of events.”
My version of events? What the hell does that mean? Come on, Callum, where are you?
“Janet and Aaron forced my hand with their ludicrous lies about me. If they hadn't given so many interviews and fuel for tabloid stories, I wouldn't have had to speak to Helena Markowitz. I wouldn't have come back here at all.”
“I've already dealt with those two.” Mrs. Decker huffed.
I couldn't imagine she would have been so insane as to shoot Janet and Aaron in the middle of a police station.
Injecting a false note of sympathetic understanding into my voice, curious as to how ‘those two’ had been dealt with, I tipped my head to the side and gave my old housekeeper every opportunity to say what she’d come here to say.
Keep her talking. Be sympathetic. Just breathe.
“I would be very interested to hear your version of events, Mrs. Decker. I was a child, so it’s very likely my memories aren’t as accurate as yours.”
“I detest children!”
That ... is a surprising opening statement.
“I made that extremely clear when your mother hired me, but she assured me I would have no cause to deal with you directly.
“You and I had an understanding from very early on: you were not to step foot in my kitchen, or my laundry room, and if you made a mess outside that atrociously chaotic bedroom of yours, there would be hell to pay.”
The 'understanding' between Mrs. Decker and I had involved a wooden spoon being smacked against my backside the first time I'd come into the kitchen for a snack.
'Young lady! This is MY kitchen, and you will not touch a single thing in here without my express permission! If I ever catch you in here again, you won't sit right for a month, do you hear me!?'
I could practically feel the sting of the spanking I'd been given that day.
Mrs. Decker hadn't held back, and I was quick to always make sure I stayed out of her way after that.
God forbid I ever got paint stains on my clothes, the tongue lashing I'd receive when Janet wasn't around ... that’s why I'd picked one pair of overalls exclusively to paint in and kept them out of the laundry basket.
I finally pulled up the memory of the day Rebecca and I made cookies in Mrs. Decker’s sparkling kitchen.
I thought for sure when Rebecca dusted the marble counter with flour to roll out the dough, Mrs. Decker would magically appear and come after both of us with her wooden spoon and scary drooping eye.
It’s really starting to damage my calm, remembering all this shit I shouldn’t have forgotten. Decker would have had a cow to know we even managed to get flour on the ceiling.
“I told Mrs. Beauchene I would have nothing to do with a baby, and that nanny she hired was almost as bad.
“Incompetent, impetuous, forever attempting to ruin my extremely well-organized household, letting you children run wild and make such incredible messes!”
Spittle frothed at the corners of Mrs. Decker's lips as her fanatical ranting grew in intensity, and I worried she was going to squeeze the trigger accidentally.
As I stared at her, I still had no idea why, after twenty years of wracking my brain, asking myself why and who a thousand times, I had never suspected her. But now ... it just ... clicked.
“I don't imagine you were very happy when Janet and Aaron tracked blood and mud into the house and expected you to wash it out of their clothes.” My voice came out in a dull drone, completely devoid of emotion as I went numb inside, and it seemed to help Mrs. Decker disembark from her runaway crazy train.
She gave me a sly look as though she were sizing me up and deciding whether or not I was worth the explanation.
“I was appalled,” she finally answered, “but I knew I had all the ammunition I needed to secure the raise I deserved. Or I thought I did until it became clear whose body they'd buried in the yard, and what that meant for me.”
I bit down on my cheek until I tasted blood. I barely felt the second buzz of my cell phone against my thigh.
“Without Katya around, the burden of caring for Elliot fell on you.”
“Disgusting child,” Mrs. Decker declared with a curl of her lip. “Mess after mess, day after day! Mrs. Beauchene couldn't be bothered to lift a finger to keep that foul creature clean, and if I walked away for even a moment to attend to the other necessary chores to meet her demanding expectations, I came back to absolute filth!”
“Is that why you killed him?” I asked hoarsely, tears burning their way up the back of my throat as I imagined my sweet brother having to spend so much as a second alone with this witch.
Elliot loved people, and what I’d told Helena was true—he would have crawled to Mrs. Decker if he’d truly escaped his playpen, but looking at her now, remembering her cruelty to me, I could imagine she would have sooner kicked Elliot away from her than pick him up.
“I didn't intend to kill him!” She sighed in exasperation, waving her free hand dismissively. “That night, he just would not. Stop. Crying! I tried to feed him, thinking surely, with his mouth otherwise occupied, he wouldn't be so inclined to make a fuss.
“But that little bastard spit green peas in my face and on my uniform. Then slapped the bowl out of my hands and all over my clean floor. Ugh!” She gave a frustrated screech, slamming her fist on her thigh.
“I cleaned up that mess, but he was covered in his food, so I had no other option than to bathe him, again, and he was still crying.
“Crying, screaming, splashing. I pushed him under the water to get him clean and held him under until he just ... stopped.”
The agitation bled out of Mrs. Decker on a sigh, and she gave an unconcerned little shrug, as if to say, 'oops.'
“Of course, I had to explain what happened to Mrs. Beauchene. She was horrified. However, Mr. Beauchene seemed somew
hat relieved.
“They were going to call the sheriff and blame the whole thing on me, but we came to an arrangement.
“I would keep my mouth shut about the body in the back yard, and after telling the police Elliot's death was an accident, they would give me the allowance I deserved, and we'd all go our separate ways.
“We got our story straight, I dressed Elliot and put him in the fountain, cleaned up my mess, and everything worked out just fine.
“After a few months of much-deserved rest, some man claiming to be a US Marshal came around, asking about you, the Beauchenes, and about that ridiculous Russian girl.
“Truth be told, I got a little spooked, so I got a job at the Sheriff's Department to ensure I had control of the reports and to keep my ear to the ground in case I needed to get out of town quick.
“It became readily apparent, in no time at all, that the boys at the station needed me to take care of them. To make their coffee, to correctly press and starch their uniforms, organize their files, mop and polish the floors, and—what is that sound?!”
Mrs. Decker was pissed off to be interrupted mid-rant by the louder buzzing of my cell phone, so much so, I thought she was going to get up to go investigate the noise.
“I saw that man you're spreading your legs for pass me on my way here ... Is there someone else in the house?”
“No, ma'am. It's my cell phone. I have it here in my pocket.” It's probably that man I'm spreading my legs for calling to tell me he's on his way, you unimaginable bitch.
“He's a cop too, you know? He'll be suspicious if I don't answer.”
Mrs. Decker hissed in annoyance, wiggling the gun at me. “Do it. Put it on speaker. Ah- ah! Slowly. And don't try to warn him or say anything about me being here.”
I used two fingers to pull the phone free of my pocket, glad she still hadn't noticed the bulge from my stun gun.
The second I slid my thumb across the screen and hit the speaker button, Callum's irate voice filled the space between me and Mrs. Decker.
“Damnit, woman! Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
I wondered if the face Mrs. Decker made was in response to the way Callum talked to me or because it reminded her of how John Graham had spoken to her.