At the Stroke of Madness (29 page)

L
illian did something that she had never done in all the years she had owned the bookstore—she called Rosie and told her she’d be late. Now as she sat in her car looking at the old house where she had grown up she couldn’t help wondering if this was a mistake.

The entire place looked worn and run-down, from the peeling paint on the other buildings to the rusted old cars deserted in the yard like some graveyard for unwanted vehicles. There were a few she didn’t recognize, added since her last visit, alongside the old panel station wagon, the one that had been first to be exiled after their mother’s death. Somehow it had seemed inappropriate for either of them to use it without her permission.

Lillian stared out her own car window, her hands still on the steering wheel as she tried to decide whether to stay or leave. How in the world did her brother, Wally, live out here? Why did it not bother him to do so? That was something she had never understood. All those years growing up here and wanting, needing to escape. She couldn’t imagine staying here, living here and not remembering, not being haunted by those memories. But Wally didn’t seem to mind.

She tried to hold on to the courage, the determination she had started the morning with. She tried to imagine herself as one of the sleuths in the many mysteries she so enjoyed. She tried to go back to last night when she was putting pieces of the puzzle together and coming up with theories and ideas that even Henry admitted were exactly what the FBI profiler had come up with. And if all else failed, she needed to at least put to rest her nagging suspicion that Wally had anything to do with those bodies they were finding stuffed into barrels. If anything, maybe he was covering something up for Vargus. Yes, that would make sense. That was something Wally would do.

By the time she stepped up to the front door, she was having second thoughts. Yet, she reached under the nearby flowerpot for the spare keys. She wasn’t sure why he bothered to lock the door. What could he possibly have that anyone would want? But that was Wally. Always suspicious of others. Always paranoid that someone was out to hurt him.

The house smelled musty, almost as if it had been closed up and unused except for the pungent smell of burnt food, quickly contradicting her initial impression. He had piles everywhere. Piles of newspapers and magazines and videotapes. But the kitchen looked spotless. No dirty dishes in the sink. No crusted pots and pans on the stove. No trash in the corner. She couldn’t believe it.

She should check the refrigerator. She braced herself and opened the refrigerator’s freezer, ready to wince. Henry had mentioned missing body parts but hadn’t elaborated. She wasn’t sure what she might find. But there was nothing unusual. Some frozen pizzas and hamburger patties. What did she expect? What in the world was wrong with her?

She shook her head and glanced into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen. This looked more familiar, piles of dirty clothes on the floor in no order of separation, such as whites from darks or delicates from heavy duty. She turned back to the kitchen when she noticed a white T-shirt crumpled and tossed into the corner on top a black trash bag.

This was silly, she told herself. She needed to get to the bookstore. She was getting carried away, lost in her imagination as usual. But she went to the corner and picked up the T-shirt, gasping as she unfolded it. It was caked and crusted and reddish-brown. And Lillian was convinced that it was blood. Her hands were shaking as her mind tried to reason it away.

Wally got nosebleeds as a child all the time. He probably still got them. He was always complaining about some ache or pain. The man was not healthy. Of course, he probably still got nosebleeds.

“Lillian?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice at the door, dropping the T-shirt and turning to find him scowling at her.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” she lied, immediately recognizing what an awful liar she was. For someone who lived inside her imagination, she should be better at coming up with stories.

“You never come out here.”

“I guess I was feeling nostalgic. Maybe a little lonely for the old place.” The lies only got worse. Even she wouldn’t believe them. “Can I be honest with you, Wally?”

“That would be a good idea.”

“I was looking for…I wanted to see if I could find…that old blue vase Mom had.”

“What?”

“Yes, that blue ceramic one. Do you remember it?” Now, this was good. She could see that she had him trying to remember. “It was the one Aunt Hannah gave her.”

“I don’t know why you want that now.” But the suspicion was gone from his voice. “I think it’s up in the attic. I’ll go see if I can find it.”

He was a good guy. A good brother despite everything their mother had put them through. He couldn’t possibly have done any of the things Lillian had imagined in her overzealous imagination. It simply wasn’t possible. But as she heard him on the stairs, Lillian plucked the bloodied T-shirt up from out of the corner and stuffed it into her handbag.

L
illian did something that she had never done in all the years she had owned the bookstore—she called Rosie and told her she’d be late. Now as she sat in her car looking at the old house where she had grown up she couldn’t help wondering if this was a mistake.

The entire place looked worn and run-down, from the peeling paint on the other buildings to the rusted old cars deserted in the yard like some graveyard for unwanted vehicles. There were a few she didn’t recognize, added since her last visit, alongside the old panel station wagon, the one that had been first to be exiled after their mother’s death. Somehow it had seemed inappropriate for either of them to use it without her permission.

Lillian stared out her own car window, her hands still on the steering wheel as she tried to decide whether to stay or leave. How in the world did her brother, Wally, live out here? Why did it not bother him to do so? That was something she had never understood. All those years growing up here and wanting, needing to escape. She couldn’t imagine staying here, living here and not remembering, not being haunted by those memories. But Wally didn’t seem to mind.

She tried to hold on to the courage, the determination she had started the morning with. She tried to imagine herself as one of the sleuths in the many mysteries she so enjoyed. She tried to go back to last night when she was putting pieces of the puzzle together and coming up with theories and ideas that even Henry admitted were exactly what the FBI profiler had come up with. And if all else failed, she needed to at least put to rest her nagging suspicion that Wally had anything to do with those bodies they were finding stuffed into barrels. If anything, maybe he was covering something up for Vargus. Yes, that would make sense. That was something Wally would do.

By the time she stepped up to the front door, she was having second thoughts. Yet, she reached under the nearby flowerpot for the spare keys. She wasn’t sure why he bothered to lock the door. What could he possibly have that anyone would want? But that was Wally. Always suspicious of others. Always paranoid that someone was out to hurt him.

The house smelled musty, almost as if it had been closed up and unused except for the pungent smell of burnt food, quickly contradicting her initial impression. He had piles everywhere. Piles of newspapers and magazines and videotapes. But the kitchen looked spotless. No dirty dishes in the sink. No crusted pots and pans on the stove. No trash in the corner. She couldn’t believe it.

She should check the refrigerator. She braced herself and opened the refrigerator’s freezer, ready to wince. Henry had mentioned missing body parts but hadn’t elaborated. She wasn’t sure what she might find. But there was nothing unusual. Some frozen pizzas and hamburger patties. What did she expect? What in the world was wrong with her?

She shook her head and glanced into the laundry room off the side of the kitchen. This looked more familiar, piles of dirty clothes on the floor in no order of separation, such as whites from darks or delicates from heavy duty. She turned back to the kitchen when she noticed a white T-shirt crumpled and tossed into the corner on top a black trash bag.

This was silly, she told herself. She needed to get to the bookstore. She was getting carried away, lost in her imagination as usual. But she went to the corner and picked up the T-shirt, gasping as she unfolded it. It was caked and crusted and reddish-brown. And Lillian was convinced that it was blood. Her hands were shaking as her mind tried to reason it away.

Wally got nosebleeds as a child all the time. He probably still got them. He was always complaining about some ache or pain. The man was not healthy. Of course, he probably still got nosebleeds.

“Lillian?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice at the door, dropping the T-shirt and turning to find him scowling at her.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was looking for you,” she lied, immediately recognizing what an awful liar she was. For someone who lived inside her imagination, she should be better at coming up with stories.

“You never come out here.”

“I guess I was feeling nostalgic. Maybe a little lonely for the old place.” The lies only got worse. Even she wouldn’t believe them. “Can I be honest with you, Wally?”

“That would be a good idea.”

“I was looking for…I wanted to see if I could find…that old blue vase Mom had.”

“What?”

“Yes, that blue ceramic one. Do you remember it?” Now, this was good. She could see that she had him trying to remember. “It was the one Aunt Hannah gave her.”

“I don’t know why you want that now.” But the suspicion was gone from his voice. “I think it’s up in the attic. I’ll go see if I can find it.”

He was a good guy. A good brother despite everything their mother had put them through. He couldn’t possibly have done any of the things Lillian had imagined in her overzealous imagination. It simply wasn’t possible. But as she heard him on the stairs, Lillian plucked the bloodied T-shirt up from out of the corner and stuffed it into her handbag.

Washington, D.C.

R. J.
Tully paced in front of the brick apartment building, his hands in his pocket jingling change. He made himself stop. Leaned against the handrail and glanced up at the dark clouds. Any minute now they would surely burst open. Why didn’t he own an umbrella?

In his younger days it had been a macho thing. Men didn’t use umbrellas. Now as the breeze turned chilly and he lifted his jacket collar, he decided staying dry was more important than being macho. He remembered Emma telling him once that there was a fine line between being macho and being a dweeb. When had his fifteen-year-old daughter become so wise?

Tully checked his wristwatch and searched the sidewalks and street. She was late. She was always late. Maybe she’d decided she didn’t want to be alone with him. After all, they had done a good job avoiding that since Boston.

Boston…that seemed like ages ago. Then he saw her, walking a half block up the street, black trench coat, black heels, black umbrella and that silky strawberry-blond hair, and suddenly Boston didn’t seem so long ago.

He waved when she finally looked his way. One of those wide, open-palmed, counterclockwise waves, like some idiot directing traffic. Something like a total dweeb might do. What was wrong with him? Why did he get all nervous around her? But she waved back. There was even a smile. And he tried to remember why they had decided to forget Boston.

“Sorry I’m late,” Dr. Gwen Patterson said. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not at all.” Suddenly he easily discounted the twenty minutes of pacing.

The building superintendent had given him the security code and key to Apartment 502, but he failed to mention the open freight elevator they needed to take up to the loft. Tully hated these things, metal gates instead of doors and nothing to hide the cables or muffle the groan of the ancient hydraulic system. None of it seemed to faze Dr. Patterson.

“Have you ever been to her apartment before?” he asked, offering chitchat to fill the silence and take his mind off the screech of a pulley in need of a good oiling.

“She had a show about six months ago. I was here then. But that was the only time.”

“A show?”

“Yes. Her loft is also her studio.”

“Her studio?”

“She is an artist.”

“Oh, okay. Sure, that makes sense.”

“I’m surprised Maggie didn’t tell you that.”

Tully thought she sounded almost pissed at O’Dell. He had to be mistaken, and he studied her profile as she watched the number at the top, indicating each floor as they ground past the levels. He decided to leave it alone.

He would have known soon enough about Joan Begley’s profession. The loft looked more like a studio than living quarters, with track lighting focused on pedestals of sculptures and walls of framed paintings. In the corner, piles of canvases leaned against easels and more pedestals. Some of the canvases were filled with bright colors, others were whitewashed, waiting their turn. Chrome shelves held clusters of supplies, brushes still in jars of purple-green solution, paint tubes with missing caps, soldering tools and what looked like drill bits, alongside pieces of twisted metal and pipe. Interspersed among this mess were miniature clay figurines, thumbnail models of their larger finished counterparts. The only signs of living were an overstuffed sofa with matching pillows that tumbled onto the hardwood floor and in the distant corner a kitchen separated by a counter with empty take-out containers, discarded bottles of water, dirty tumblers and a stack of paper plates.

“Looks like she may have left in a hurry,” Tully said, but was wondering how someone could live in the middle of her work space. He knew he couldn’t.

“You might be right. She seemed very upset about her grandmother’s death.”

“So you spoke to her before she left.”

“Just briefly.”

Tully ignored the art stuff, a challenge in itself, and began searching for a desk and computer. O’Dell had given him a list of things she needed him to check out.

“Where the heck did she keep a computer?” He glanced back at Dr. Patterson, who stayed at the wall of paintings, looking with a tilted head as if she could see something in the random splashes of paint. Tully could never figure out art, despite his ex-wife Caroline having dragged him to gallery after gallery, pointing out social injustices and brilliant interpretations of individual pain and struggle where Tully could see only blobs of black paint with a mishap of purple splattered through the center.

“Do you have any idea where she may have kept her computer?” he asked again.

“Check the armoire.”

“The armoire? Oh, okay.” The cherry wood monstrosity took up almost one wall, and when Tully began opening doors and drawers it grew, spreading out into the room with swiveling shelves and sliding hideaways and, yes, a small laptop computer that seemed to be swallowed up inside.

“Do you know if this was her only one?”

Dr. Patterson came over and ran her fingertips over the armoire’s surface, almost a caress.

“No, I think she had a couple of them. She liked the mobility of laptops. Said she could go to the park or coffee shop.”

“So she may have had one with her in Connecticut?”

“Yes, I’m sure she did. She e-mailed me from Connecticut.”

He opened its lid, carefully, touching it on the sides with the palms of his hands, purposely not disturbing fingerprints or adding his own. Then he used a pen to press the on key.

“I should be able to get into her e-mail with a few tricks. It may take a while,” he said, as he brought up her AOL program. He hesitated when the screen asked for a password. “I don’t suppose you could save me some time. Any idea what she may have used as a password?”

“She wouldn’t have used her name or any derivative of it.” She stared at the screen and Tully thought he had lost her attention again when she added, “Try Picasso. I believe it’s one ‘c’ and two ‘s’s. He was her favorite. She used to say she was a whore to Picasso and his work. You may have noticed some of his blue-period influence in her paintings and the cubism influence in her sculptures. Especially her metal sculptures.”

Tully nodded, though he wouldn’t know cubism from ice cubes, and keyed in P-I-C-A-S-S-O, again using the tip of his pen. “No go.”

“Hmm…maybe his first name, then.”

Tully waited, then realized she thought he knew this. Geez! He should know this. If ever there was a time to impress her, this would be it. What the hell was it? She wasn’t helping. Was it a test? He stole a glance her way only to discover that her eyes had been distracted again, her face with the expression of someone lost in thought and trying to find the answers in the wall of paintings. And so even Tully’s flash of brilliance was lost on her when he finally keyed in “Pablo.”

“Nope. Pablo doesn’t work, either,” he announced, perhaps a bit too proud for someone who had just keyed in the wrong password. He waited. He glanced up at her again and waited some more. Finally he stood up, stretching his back, towering over her.

“I know what it is,” she said suddenly, without turning her eyes from what looked like an anorexic, pasty self-portrait, a nude with the metal frame cutting her below the emaciated breasts. “Try Dora Maar,” she told him, spelling it slowly while he keyed in the letters.

“Bingo.” Tully watched AOL come to life, announcing, “You’ve got mail. ” “How did you know that?”

“Joan started signing some of her paintings as Dora Maar. It’s complicated. She was complicated. That one,” Patterson pointed out, “reminded me.”

“Why Dora Maar?”

“Dora Maar was Picasso’s mistress.”

Tully shook his head and muttered, “Artists.” He clicked on the New Mail. Nothing had been opened since Saturday, the day Joan Begley supposedly disappeared. He clicked on Old Mail. One e-mail address stood out from the rest because there were so many, appearing every day, sometimes twice a day, but stopping the day she disappeared.

“This could be helpful,” he said as he opened one of the e-mails from the Old Mail queue. “She has quite a few from someone with an e-mail address of [email protected]. Any idea who that might be?”

“That’s what Maggie and I are hoping you’ll be able to find out.”