Gone With the Woof (26 page)

“Julia, of course. Her situation was shameful.”

“It was the same situation you'd found yourself in twenty-some years earlier. Was that why you were upset?”

Maribeth's eyes narrowed. “India shouldn't have talked to you behind my back.”

“But she told me the truth, didn't she?”

“Yes,” she admitted quietly. “Edward is Charlotte's father.”

“Why did you never tell her that?”

“How could I?” Maribeth demanded. She paused for a minute, then asked, “Do you have children?”

“Yes, two.”

“Then you know that you'd do anything in the world to keep them from being hurt.”

I nodded in agreement.

“How could I tell my little girl that her father was alive and well, and living nearby—and that the only reason that we had no contact with him was because he had no interest in her?” Maribeth's expression was pained. “Edward didn't want anything to do with my baby when I was pregnant, and nothing changed after she was born. What purpose would it have served for Charlotte to know that her own father would have been happier if she'd never existed?”

I'm not in the habit of agreeing with murderers. But put that way, I could see her point. “So what did you say to Andrew?”

“Almost nothing,” Maribeth replied grimly. “I had a speech all worked out in my mind, but he didn't want to hear any of it. Maybe I was naive. I thought I could make Andrew understand that his decisions impacted others besides himself and Julia—that there was a child's life at stake, as well. When I saw him on the road, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked him to get in the car so we could talk.”

“I take it he didn't do that?”

“He barely even paused. Even when he spoke to me, he was still jogging up and down in place. Like I wasn't even important enough for him to interrupt his run.”

“He had just had another fight with Julia,” I told her. “Andrew was already angry before you even got there.”

“That's not my fault,” Maribeth replied sharply. “He asked what I wanted to talk to him about, and when I started to tell him, he just smirked and ran away. I couldn't believe Andrew would turn his back on me like that. So I drove after him. I never meant to hurt him. I only wanted to get his attention.”

“But you hit him with your car,” I said.

“That was an accident. I only meant to tap him, just something hard enough to make him turn around. But then the car skidded on the snow, and I lost control.”

I didn't know if Maribeth's story was the truth or whether it was a more palatable version of events that she'd concocted after the fact. Or maybe it was simply what she wanted to believe.

In any case, the supposedly innocent tap Maribeth had intended to deliver had resulted in serious injury. And rather than seeking help, she had left Andrew bleeding and unconscious by the side of the road. Maribeth was going to have a difficult time explaining all of that away as an unfortunate accident.

“Then what happened?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I'm not really sure. I must have been in shock. I got out of the car to see if Andrew was all right.”

“But he wasn't.”

“No. He was unconscious and . . .” She spread her hands helplessly, unable to convey the horror of what she'd seen.

“Why didn't you call for help?”

“I was going to. . . .”

I waited a few seconds for her to continue. When she remained silent, I said, “But you didn't.”

“No,” Maribeth said softly. “I looked down at Andrew, and my vision blurred for a few seconds. Suddenly, instead of Andrew's face, all I could see was Charlotte. In that moment, the two of them seemed so very much alike. Except that Andrew was the sibling who had been given everything, while my little girl had nothing. Andrew was running his father's company. Charlotte was nothing more than his glorified gofer.”

A position that she herself had placed her daughter in, I thought. It didn't seem like the right time to remind Maribeth of that.

“All at once I realized that if Andrew was gone, Charlotte would be the only child. She would be all that Edward had left. Even
he
couldn't continue to turn his back on her then.”

“So you took Andrew's phone and left him lying there.”

“The sins of the father . . . ,” Maribeth said softly. Her voice trailed away. Then she gave her head a sharp, angry shake and added firmly, “He got what he deserved.”

W
as she talking about the father or the son? I wondered. Or maybe it didn't matter which one. Both had suffered from Maribeth's revenge.

I looked at her across the expanse of the table between us. “You must know we can't fix this. You're going to have to tell the police what happened.”

“No,” she replied calmly. “I'm not.”

Later I thought about that: how composed she had sounded, when I might have expected a display of anger or fear. But Maribeth was a better actress than I gave her credit for. Or maybe my instincts were rusty. Because the fact that she remained so unruffled meant that I wasn't nearly as apprehensive about the situation as I should have been.

Since I was sitting across from someone who'd done what she had, my reflexes should have been on high alert. Instead, in the midst of this oddly civilized conversation, they were a beat slow.

“It would be better if you told them,” I said. “But if you don't, I will.”

We were finished here, I thought. I glanced down to check the position of the coffee table, braced my hands on my knees, and started to rise. Unbalanced for only a few seconds, I saw a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye and felt a whisper's breath of air brush against my cheek.

And suddenly realized the magnitude of my mistake.

Maribeth hadn't relaxed in the far corner of the love seat to be comfortable. She'd done it because that gave the hand she'd hung so casually over the side of the sofa access to the supply of dried wood stacked beside the fireplace.

Now she capitalized on my brief moment of inattention and came up swinging. Maribeth's crimson-tipped fingers looked incongruous wrapped around a thick, bark-covered log. Momentum carried the sturdy piece of wood toward my head with bruising force.

I ducked quickly to one side, tangled a leg in the table, and stumbled sideways. Reflexively, I threw up an arm. It was too late and not enough. The blow landed just behind my ear. I felt it as both a lacerating source of pain and also a heavy weight that sent me sprawling.

My knees began to crumple, as if my bones had melted away and there was nothing left to support my weight. Spots danced before my eyes. I wanted to brush them away. I wanted the searing pain to stop. I wanted to kick myself for allowing this to happen.

Then none of that mattered. Everything went black.

 

Cold. So cold.

I think it was the shivering that woke me up. My teeth were chattering so hard that my jaw hurt. My body was shaking in place. The force of that involuntary movement was bouncing my head on the hardwood floor.

If I hadn't felt like I was going to throw up, I might have smiled at the irony. One blow to the head had knocked me out. Another brought me back.

Damn, it was freezing. Gingerly, I rolled onto my side. The small rotation was enough to make bile rise in my throat. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I retched on the floor, then wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my sweater.

Sweater?
I thought, my brain processing information sluggishly as the rough wool scraped at my lips. That wasn't right. Where was my parka?

With effort, I tried to remember. It had been cold in the house when I arrived. Almost as cold inside as out. I knew I hadn't taken my jacket off. I hadn't even unzipped it. Now it was gone.

How long had I been unconscious? I wondered. Slowly, I tipped my head to one side and looked up at a window. It wasn't dark yet. That was good. Dusk arrived early in January, which meant that it must still be afternoon.

I settled back on the floor with an involuntary groan. I had a vague memory of piercing pain. Now my head just throbbed.

Cautiously, I reached a hand upward. My fingertips probed the spot on the side of my head where the blow had landed. My hair was sticky and matted together. My fingers came away stained with blood.

Oddly, that discovery was almost a relief. At least it explained why I was having so much trouble putting two coherent thoughts together.

Where was Maribeth? Gone, I hoped. Gone for good . . .

I closed my eyes just for a minute.

Once again, the cold woke me up. It had seeped into every corner of my body now, its progress as relentless as it was ominous. My fingers had stiffened, even my bones shook from the icy chill. It wasn't just my head anymore: now my whole body hurt.

I was still lying on the floor.

I had to get up, I realized. I had to move.

If I didn't, I would die right there where Maribeth had left me.

Just as she must have intended, I thought. That was why she'd had Charlotte lure me to this isolated cabin. Here it was possible that my death could be explained away as an accident.

Maribeth didn't have to kill me. The cold would do that. She only had to leave me. Just like she'd done with Andrew.

Idiot,
I told myself.
You used to be smarter than this
.

That galvanizing thought helped me push myself up into a sitting position. Back braced against the table, I took several deep breaths, concentrating hard until the nausea passed. Now that I was upright, I hoped I'd be able to think better. Surprisingly, I actually could.

Phone! There was a cell phone in my purse. I just had to find it.

The light around me was growing dimmer. Outside, the winter sun was setting. There wasn't much time before I'd be left in total darkness.

Marshaling every bit of energy I could muster, I leaned heavily against the love seat and used the table to lever myself to my feet. For a minute I simply stood and swayed in place. The room swam wildly around me, colors and objects blurring together as they looped and whirled. I closed my eyes to blot out the sight and tried to find a centered spot.

When I opened them again, I was still dizzy but feeling slightly steadier. Slowly, I turned from side to side and looked around the room. My purse, with cell phone and car keys, was nowhere to be seen. Like my parka, it had disappeared.

Well, damn.

There was a light switch on the wall near the dining area. Bracing my hands on passing furniture to maintain my balance, I shuffled across the room and flipped it up. Nothing happened. As I'd suspected, the utilities that powered the cabin had been turned off.

I peered out a nearby window and saw my car, still parked in the driveway. But without my keys, the Volvo might as well have been missing, too. It was of no more use to me than the powerless light switch.

Think!
I told myself.
Think of something. Anything.
There had to be a way out of this predicament. If I could get my brain to work, I could find it.

I had begun to shiver again. The vibrations shuddered through my body in relentless waves. I wondered how much time I had before the bitter cold succeeded in completely draining my ability to respond.

Already I could feel myself starting to grow numb. I knew I needed to fight back, but the loss of sensation offered its own comfort, tempting me to give in. My addled brain felt lethargic, indifferent. It would be just that easy to lie down and go to sleep again.

I gazed out the window once more. In the fading light, the accumulation of snow looked like a calm, unbroken sea. I could chart a course, I thought fancifully. I could leave the cottage and walk to the main house. There would be people there . . . and warmth.

But even as I formulated the plan, I knew I'd never be able to make the trek. The cold, the dark, the distance, and my lack of adequate attire would all work against me. Add to that a bitch of a headache, which would muddle my sense of direction as surely as it was muddling my thoughts. If I left the dubious shelter of the cottage, who knew where I might end up?

I turned away from the window and faced the room again. My eyes went immediately to the fireplace. Where there was one piece of firewood, there ought to be more, right? I knew how to build a fire. I lived in Connecticut. I'd done it all my life.

Equilibrium slowly beginning to stabilize, I staggered back across the cottage. Skirting carefully around the love seats, I saw a small pile of firewood banked beside the hearth. Perfect. Now all I had to do was find a lighter.

Ten frustrating minutes later, I was forced to concede that Maribeth had left nothing to chance. If the small abode had harbored a supply of matches or a fire starter, she must have taken them with her when she left.

The disappointment felt like another blow. It sapped what little drive I had left. My head was still throbbing. My lips felt cracked and swollen. And I was quickly running out of options. Soon it would no longer matter if I came up with a good idea. I would simply be too cold to implement it.

My gaze flickered in the direction of the narrow staircase that led to the second floor. Considering my precarious balance, I wasn't at all sure I could navigate the steep steps without falling. But Andrew's bedroom was up there. Surely, a bed would have a comforter or a blanket. Something I could wrap around me to ward off the biting cold a little longer . . .

I should have been moving toward the stairway. Instead, my legs wobbled under me, then gave out. I sank downward and sat unsteadily on the floor. The hardwood seemed to tilt beneath me, and I closed my eyes. A pervasive feeling of weariness overtook me; I just didn't want to struggle anymore.

And then I heard it.

Somewhere nearby a dog was barking. It was the joyous, deep-throated cry of a big dog on the run. I smiled faintly at the sound, my thoughts drifting contentedly with no particular ambition or purpose. Dogs always make me happy.

Then slowly my eyelids fluttered open. The dog's voice was carried clearly by the crisp, cold air outside. And suddenly I realized that it sounded familiar. It sounded like March's Irish Setter, Robin.

Surely, I had to be imagining things, I thought. Maybe I was dreaming.

The dog barked again. Before the sound had even faded, I was already moving. With effort, I pushed myself up off the floor. Once more, the room spun. I swallowed heavily and kept going. Stumbling on feet I couldn't feel, I crossed the cottage to the front door.

My hand reached out and clasped the icy metal doorknob. My fingers, stiff and aching, wrapped around it. I took a breath, drew the door open, and stepped out onto the stoop.

The frigid cold outside hit me like a shock wave. The biting wind I'd felt earlier was still careening through the trees. It swirled down into the hollow and slammed right into me. I hadn't thought it was possible to be any colder, but I was wrong. The powerful gust knifed through my clothing like it wasn't even there. My skin felt like it was on fire.

I stumbled back in surprise, lost my balance, and ended up crumpled on the front step. Now that I was outside, the dog I'd heard only moments before had quieted. All around me was only silence.

I stared hard into the murky darkness. A pale moon had begun to rise, and the winter night looked oddly peaceful. The only illumination was provided by the soft sheen of moonlight reflecting on the snow.

Then, at the top of the rise, a movement caught my eye. It took me a few seconds to figure out what I was seeing. The shadowy motion resolved itself into a figure—a person approaching the crest of the incline from the opposite side. A moment later, a dog bounded up alongside.

I saw her only in silhouette, but the outline of Robin's elegant frame was unmistakable. The Irish Setter lifted her nose to the wind and gave a small woof.

“Down here!” I yelled. “Help!”

The slender figure turned to look toward the cottage, and I saw that it was Charlotte. She lifted her arm and trained the beam of a powerful flashlight in my direction.

“Oh my God, Melanie!” she cried. “What happened to you?”

Together, she and Robin half ran, half skidded down the icy slope. The setter reached the bottom first. She raced across the driveway and bounded right into me. Another day I'd have had the strength to meet her charge. That night, she simply bowled me over.

The greeting was all I could have asked for. Robin felt warm and vibrant and everything I was not. She felt wonderful. Charlotte came running close behind.

“Robin, get down!” She grabbed the setter's collar and pulled her off. “Melanie, why are you still here? Aren't you cold? What are you doing on the ground?”

The barrage of questions was entirely too much for my muddled brain to process. I tried to speak, but it was difficult to push the words out.

“We have . . . to talk,” I managed to say finally. “But first . . . but first . . . I'm freezing. I need . . . to get warm.”

“Of course.” Charlotte sounded perplexed. “How long have you been out here? Where's your coat? Where are your gloves? Why are you sitting in the snow?”

“A long . . . story,” I said. “Help me . . . get up.”

Charlotte extended a hand downward. It wasn't nearly enough. I still couldn't find the strength to propel myself to my feet. Beginning to look alarmed, she hunkered down beside me.

“What's the matter? Are you hurt?”

“Yes.” My hand rose to touch the spot behind my ear. “Bleeding.”

“Stay right there,” said Charlotte. As if I had a choice. She whipped out a cell phone and began to dial.

“Call Detective Wygod,” I told her.

“You need a doctor.”

“That too. Wygod first . . . It's important.”

Charlotte didn't look convinced, but she dialed the Westport Police Department. As she spoke, Robin returned to my side. The setter pushed her nose into my face and blew out a heated breath.

I tunneled my hands in her coat and pulled her close. Robin climbed into my lap and pressed her body against mine. I had my arms around a big warm dog. Everything was going to be all right now.