But now they were coming home. Uncle Patrick had told them at dinner he’d called Aunt Alejandra about what had happened to Grace, and that Alejandra was really sorry, and she would book the earliest flight home. Zoe could see that, although he was very sad about Grace’s death, Uncle Patrick was happy about his family coming home. He really loved them—everyone could see that—and regretted the angry words he had said. Aunt Alejandra was probably also sorry for what she had said about Grace, but now it was too late to apologize. Some words you just could not take back.
Zoe dropped her backpack on the floor beside Kayla Marie’s bed. A large poster of a skeleton hung on the back of the bedroom door. Zoe opened her backpack and pulled out her pink fleece pajamas. From under the door she could hear Mom and Dad and Uncle Patrick talking softly in the living room. Pulling back the covers, Zoe slumped down on the colorful Care Bear sheets and buried her face in the pillow. Why was there so much misery in the world? Why couldn’t people just be nice to each other instead of having to wait until someone died to be nice? Zoe had no answers for these questions.
Reaching over the side of the bed, Zoe pulled the Harry Potter book from her backpack and tried reading, but she just could not stop thinking about Grace and the journal and what it all meant. Then she got to thinking about what if the police—that detective—had snuck into her bedroom at home after she and her parents had left and found the journal under her pillow.
Zoe lay awake for hours tossing and turning, even after the lights in the living room had gone out and everyone else was in bed. But the harder she tried to sleep, the faster her mind raced and the more horrible the scenarios it concocted until she was certain she was going to jail for life. From outside she could hear an owl calling who-who-whoo. She rolled over and looked toward the window. The bright moonlight streamed in, creating a pattern like prison bars on the pale rug. Zoe shuddered and pulled the covers up over her head.
****
When Zoe awoke, the sun was already high in the sky. She found Mom out on the back porch in a wicker rocking chair drinking coffee and watching the Channel 10 news on a small portable television set. The air was warm and humid, and smelled like dry leaves. The weatherman was saying something about a late hurricane off the coast of South Carolina that was supposed to bring heavy rains and high winds to Southern New England later in the evening. Zoe frowned and plopped herself down in a chair beside Mom.
Mom switched off the television. “Good morning, sweetie. How did you sleep?” she said, trying to sound cheerful as though nothing unusual had happened yesterday.
“What time is it?” asked Zoe.
“Almost noon. I didn’t want to wake you up. I called your school and told them you wouldn’t be in today.”
Zoe looked around. “Where are Uncle Patrick and Dad?”
“The police and medical examiner had a few questions for them. They should be home soon.”
Zoe felt the muscles in her neck and shoulders tense up. “Questions?” she asked. “About what?”
“Some of the autopsy findings I suppose.”
“But, I mean, like exactly what kind of questions?”
“I really don’t know. Look, why don’t we go out to get something for you to eat at the Newport Creamery?”
Zoe shook her head. She wanted to stay and hear what Dad and Uncle Patrick had to say.
****
Zoe was just finishing a raspberry Danish and glass of fresh lemonade when she heard the crunch of gravel on the long driveway. Uncle Patrick’s Jeep pulled alongside the cabin and Patrick and Dad got out.
Mom stood as they came up the stairs to join her on the porch. “What did the police and medical examiner have to say?” she asked.
“I think you should sit down,” Dad replied. He gave Zoe that sideways look like he did when they were going to talk about something grown-up.
“Zoe, why don’t you go for a nice walk,” Mom said. “Uncle Patrick says there are some mallard ducks down by the river.”
“But…” Zoe protested.
“Just do as your mother says,” Dad said, crossing his arms.
Zoe scowled and snatched up her glass of lemonade and stomped down the steps and around the corner of the house. She hated the way her parents still treated her like a kid. Once she was out of hearing range, she quietly doubled back and sat down on a large granite boulder, protected from view by a bunch of fading black-eyed Susans and Queen Anne’s lace. From there she could just see the adults and make out what they were saying.
“It appears she died from a head injury—a traumatic brain injury,” she could hear Dad saying.
Zoe leaned closer. Had her aunt been murdered, as she suspected?
“A head injury?” Mom asked. “But how…?”
“They think it was probably an old head injury. But police are investigating, just in case. They also ran toxicology tests, because of the bottle of aspirin on the floor. It was just a routine procedure to rule out poisoning or suicide.”
“But what about the bruises—the cuts—on her face?” Mom asked.
“We asked about that,” Uncle Patrick replied. “According to the medical examiner, they were most likely from a seizure. Sometimes hemorrhaging—bleeding—in the brain can bring one on.”
“That’s probably what Zoe heard yesterday morning,” Dad said in a subdued voice.
Mom shook her head. “How horrible—for both of them.”
“The medical examiner said it was probably quick, that Grace didn’t suffer. At least we have that to be thankful for,” Dad added.
They sat in silence for a few moments.
Dad shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They say it is possible—though unlikely—that someone else was in the room. That’s why the police were called in.”
“But why would anyone want to hurt Grace?” Mom asked.
Zoe swallowed and stared at the ducks standing on the riverbank. The bright red reflection of the maple leaves in the water swirled past them in little whirlpools.
The loud, clear whistle of a cardinal filled the air.
Uncle Patrick took a deep breath. “The police asked if we remembered any accidents Grace may have had in the recent past like an automobile accident or a fall where she might have hit her head,” he said, “or if she had been complaining of headaches or acting strangely.”
“Acting strangely?” Mom said. “Like what?”
Zoe thought back to the time this past summer at the fourth of July family picnic at their house when Grace had taken her out to a spot in the woods beyond the yard to show her the gory remains of a bird whose head had been bitten clear off. Zoe had been grossed out at the sight and had tried to turn away. But Grace had just laughed. “Probably a cat got it,” she had said, squatting down and examining the tiny corpse with fascination. She had taken Zoe’s hand and pulled it closer, trying to touch her hand to the bloody stump. Zoe had pulled away and almost puked. “Why, it’s nothing to be afraid of, Zoe,” Grace had said. “It’s just the natural cycle of life and death—that’s all, honey bunny. It’s God’s way. You’ll understand someday.”
Zoe shuddered and hugged her arms to her body. She still got the heebie-jeebies whenever she thought about that poor bird.
Dad shook his head. “I don’t know. We didn’t ask them what the police meant.”
“She had been complaining of headaches,” Mom said. “But I didn’t think anything of it. She seemed to have it under control. As for accidents, I can’t think of any.” She stood and walked over to the glass-top wicker table.
Zoe could hear the clinking of ice as Mom refilled their glasses with lemonade.
“The medical examiner went through all of Grace’s medical records from the past several years—including those from a visit to the emergency room at Rhode Island Hospital,” Uncle Patrick said, holding out his glass. “Do you remember last winter—or was it this past spring—when she witnessed that thug who’d assaulted some guy in the alley near her apartment in Providence?”
<
br /> “Yes,” Mom replied, sitting down again. “But I don’t remember her saying anything about a head injury.”
“Me neither,” said Dad. “But apparently the assailant shoved Grace when he tried to escape and she fell back and hit her head.”
“What does that have to do with what happened yesterday?” Mom asked.
“According to the autopsy,” Uncle Patrick said, “it appears that from the blow she sustained a concussion—a bruise on her brain that eventually bled out—and apparently killed her.”
Zoe flinched once more, remembering those images of autopsies with the skulls being sawn open that she had seen on TV. She shifted her weight, trying to get comfortable on the cold, jagged rock.
“What did they mean by it ‘appears she sustained a concussion’?” Mom asked.
“They checked her medical records,” Dad replied, “and apparently she didn’t go back for a follow-up appointment like the neurologist suggested. When she started getting headaches, she went to her family physician. I guess he didn’t associate the headaches with the fall. Her doctor, it appears, told her the headaches were probably just from stress and advised her to take Tylenol or aspirin for them.”
Uncle Patrick snorted. “Any medical professional knows aspirin thins the blood and can actually bring on internal bleeding. Her doctor should have done a more thorough job—asked about any recent head injuries instead of just passing the headaches off as nothing serious.” He sat forward in his seat and clenched his fists. “We should sue him for malpractice.”
Dad said nothing.
Mom rubbed the back of her neck. “I should have seen that something was wrong,” she said. “Maybe we could have done something to save Grace.”
“I feel the same way,” Dad said, his voice cracking. “But the medical examiner said we shouldn’t blame ourselves—there was no way of predicting this.”
They sat in silence, each trying to make sense out of what seemed to be a senseless tragedy.
From far off, Zoe heard the rumble of thunder. She felt a chilly gust of air on her bare arms.
Dad glanced up at the dark clouds gathering in the sky. He took a deep breath. “There’s more,” he said. “Turns out the assailant who shoved Grace was a mobster with alleged connections to City Hall. Detective Tasca said she’ll probably want to talk to us again—see if we can think of anything else that might help them in their investigation.”
“Didn’t Grace keep a journal?” Mom asked. “Maybe they can learn something from that.”
Zoe gasped and dropped her glass. It hit the edge of the flagstone path and shattered, the remaining juice spreading out across the path like fingers of pale-yellow blood.
Chapter Six
Zoe waited in the car while her parents went into the kennel to pick up Yoda. She needed time alone to think of a way to get the journal back into Grace’s room without arousing suspicion. She thought so hard it felt like her brain was going to explode. She rolled down her window to get some fresh air. The air was thick with the smell of damp dust and the sound of barking dogs in the kennels behind the large wooden building. Paper pumpkins and black cats hung from the windows in preparation for Halloween. Overhead the sky was growing darker and small drops of rain were beginning to fall.
A woman came lurching out of the building, a fleece dog bed under one arm and a lively golden lab dragging her toward a dark blue SUV. She threw the dog bed in the back of the SUV on top of a pile of magazines and hoisted the dog into the back seat.
Zoe sat up. That’s it! She could hide the journal between the mattresses in Grace’s room. A lot of people hid their journals and other private things under their mattresses. Then Mrs. Worthen would find it when she came to clean and change the sheets. Zoe managed a smile. It was a brilliant idea, if she didn’t mind saying so.
****
By the time they got home, the police were gone. Yoda jumped out of the car and dashed across the wet lawn, his tail swishing. Zoe followed her parents into the dimly lit house. The yellow tape had been removed from the back door and hallway. As they approached Grace’s room, Mom stopped short. Her mouth dropped open.
Alarmed, Zoe pushed her way past her parents and peeked into the room. It was a mess. There were smudges of black fingerprint powder on the doorframe and the walls near Grace’s bed. The closet door stood open and Grace’s clothes were pushed to one side, their pockets hanging inside out. The drawers of the desk hung open and the news articles were gone from the top of the desk. The bedding had been stripped from the bed and the mattress pushed to one side. Grace’s cello case, now dusty from disuse, lay open beside the bed.
“What’s this all about?” Mom asked. “I thought the police were just checking to see if there had been an intruder in the room.”
Dad shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe they were just trying to be thorough.”
Mom rubbed the back of her neck. “This is terrible. Poor Grace.” She paused. “Did they ever tell you what happened to the man who shoved her—who caused all this? Is he in jail?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Dad replied. “Apparently, they didn’t have enough to convict him. He said the man in the alley was already dead when he got there, so he is out on bail. Or, at least he was—he jumped bail. They’re looking for him right now.”
Mom frowned. She reached out and touched an inky fingerprint on the doorframe. “Well, at least now he can be charged with felony murder if he is the one who did this to her. That should put him away for a while.”
Murder. Zoe flinched at the very sound of the word. The very thought of that creepy man somewhere out there on the loose sent prickles up her spine. She leaned down to pick up an empty Crabtree and Evelyn box from the floor. There was a picture of a lily of the valley on the front. Her lower lip quivered as she thought of her beloved Aunt Grace. Then she remembered Uncle Patrick telling her that lilies of the valley were poisonous—beautiful yet poisonous to their very core. He’d had a dog—a three-legged beagle—who had almost died from eating them. Zoe swallowed hard, fighting a feeling of impending doom.
“Well, I hope they at least found Grace’s journal,” Mom said. “I gave Detective Tasca a call about it from Patrick’s house. I must say, she seemed very interested in it.”
Zoe paled. She glanced over her shoulder toward her bedroom door. Had the police been in her room and found the journal under her pillow? She suddenly felt woozy like she was going to throw up.
Mom took her arm. “Zoe, are you okay?” she asked, putting her free hand on Zoe’s forehead.
Dad gave Zoe a searching look. “Zoe? Is there something we should know about—something you need to tell us?”
She looked down at her hands but said nothing.
“Zoe, look at me,” he said sternly. “Do you know anything about where Grace might have kept her journal?”
Tears welled up in Zoe’s eyes. “I…”
Mom shot him a look. “Don’t be so hard on her,” she said, drawing Zoe closer. “She’s upset. That’s all. Confused. Grieving. She just needs some time.”
Zoe leaned into her mom’s protective embrace. She suspected Dad was already angry with her for eavesdropping on their conversation at Uncle Patrick’s and breaking one of his glasses. She felt like she just could not get anything right lately.
Dad sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry, Tinkerbelle. I don’t mean to be hard on you. It’s just that—”
“It’s okay,” Zoe said, avoiding his eyes. “I…I’m not feeling very well. I think I’ll go in my room and lie down for a while.”
“Can I get you something to eat?” Mom asked. “Maybe a glass of warm milk?”
Zoe shook her head. “No—I just want to be alone.”
****
Zoe curled up on her bed and waited until she heard her parents’ footsteps disappear down the stairs. Outside the rain and wind were picking up. The rain beat against the windows.
Af
ter a few moments, Zoe turned on the lamp beside her bed and pulled the journal out from under her pillow. She skimmed through the entries for the rest of February and March looking for one about the man in the alley or something more about Jamal or Mike.
Then she found it.
March 6th
What a horrible day—one of those late winter storms left the sidewalks and trees slick with a thin coating of ice. Even so, Yoda needs his evening walk and so there I was passing by the entrance to this narrow alley—more of a walkway really—next to Casa Grande Restaurant—when suddenly Yoda’s hackles go up and he starts growling and tugging at the leash dragging me into the alley. That’s when I saw it—a body lying sprawled out behind a pile of plastic garbage bags face down in a puddle of slimy, putrid-smelling water. Yoda was going ballistic by now and barking like crazy. That’s when I heard it—another noise—like the scuffing of feet—at the far end of the dark alley. Then I saw him in the glare of the headlights of a passing car. He had stringy blond hair, a narrow, mean face, and creepy blue eyes. And he was coming straight toward me—running toward the entrance of the alley—right where I was standing too scared to move out of his way.
A crack of lightning shook the house, followed by a deafening roar of thunder. Zoe jumped, her heart in her throat. She dropped the journal. Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky. Zoe froze, half expecting to see the man who had murdered her aunt staring at her through the window.
She took a deep breath. When she was small and afraid of thunderstorms Aunt Grace would tell her the thunder was just the sound of the little bearded men from the story Rip Van Winkle, bowling ninepins in the Catskills and it was nothing to be afraid of. Except now, Zoe did have something to be afraid of—something real, not just one of her aunt’s bedtime stories.
Fall From Grace Page 4