In the Blink of an Eye (37 page)

“Yes! The hospital ball. It was a black tie affair . . .”

“You're wearing some kind of heirloom piece of jewelry . . .”

She gasps, clutching her hands to her breast “Yes! Yes, I know what he's talking about. My grandmother's diamond brooch.”

“Yes, he says that's it. And he sees you flirting.”

“Flirting? I wouldn't call it—”

“Harrison says you were flirting with several gentlemen.”

“
Several?
Are you sure?”

“One in particular. Harrison says he was dapper.”

“Oh, Harrison, he meant nothing to me!” Mrs. Wainwright exclaims. “It was just a harmless flirtation. We didn't even kiss.”

“No . . .” Rupert sighs. “But Harrison tells me the idea entered your head.”

“Yes. Yes, it did. But then I pushed it right back out again. I'm so sorry, Harrison.”

“He's saying that he understands. He's telling me that he knows you've been lonely. And he says . . .” Rupert puckers his brows, as though trying to discern the spirit's message more clearly. “He says that the nights are the hardest for you. That's when you miss him most.”

Mrs. Wainwright sniffles. “That's right. I can't bear the nights. Even after so many years . . .”

“Harrison says not to forget that he's always with you. He was there in Florida with you when you received that disturbing phone call a few months ago . . .”

“Disturbing phone call?” She frowns.

Rupert's eyes are open now, surreptitiously watching her ponder his words. “Yes, he's saying you were very aggravated by something the caller told you, and that he was by your side.”

“I don't—”

“He says it was long distance,” Rupert prods. “I'm not getting the origin very clearly but I feel that it was from somewhere north . . .”

“The pushy telemarketer! That's it! Yes, my dear Harrison, I was so very disturbed by that call. The man was selling magazine subscriptions and he had that awful New York accent. He simply wouldn't take no for an answer.”

Rupert smiles, triumph momentarily obliterating everything else.

Tonight it's almost too easy.

“
M
OM, PLEASE PROMISE
me that you're not going to check your answering machine back home every single day we're away,” Christina says in the passageway outside the dining room. “Ship-to-shore calls cost a fortune.”

“So? It's my nickel.” Pilar is already hurrying toward the sign marked
BUSINESS CENTER.
She calls back to her family, “I promise I'll meet you at the table in a few minutes. Go ahead and start if you want to.”

As she makes her way to the public telephones, she wonders why she hasn't been able to relax all day. She can't seem to let go of her worries about the Biddles.

After dialing her home telephone number and the password to access her voice mail, Pilar hears a mechanical voice announce in its unique staccato cadence, “You have one new message. Please press
one
to hear your message.”

It's got to be about the Biddles,
Pilar thinks, pressing 1. She wonders, with a sinking heart, whether she's about to hear that Nan has passed away. It's what she's expecting.

“Hello . . . this is Katherine Jergins. I'm just calling because . . . well, because I realized that I was pretty rude to you earlier. I thought maybe we should talk.”

“
T
HIS IS INCREDIBLE,”
Paine tells Howard Menkin as the two of them descend the wide cement steps leading away from the law offices of Anderson and Ogden. “How is it that this never popped up until now?”

Swinging his briefcase in one hand and rubbing his mustache thoughtfully with the other, Howard agrees, “The timing
is
pretty fortuitous. And I find it interesting that Ogden failed to tell us exactly where his client got this so-called evidence.”

They've reached the sidewalk of one of Jamestown's busiest streets—which, in a city this size, on a Thursday evening, is fairly deserted. Paine finds the ghost-town aura almost as depressing as the news Tom Ogden just delivered.

“Where are you parked, Paine?” Howard asks.

“Just down the block.”

“I'll walk you to your car.”

“Thanks.”

They walk in silence. Paine is still reeling from Ogden's bombshell.

Apparently, Iris and Anson Shuttleworth were never legally married.

According to the newly produced evidence—a marriage license bearing the name of the officiant—the Jerry Garcia look-alike who presided over their barefoot nuptials was a fraud. In flagrant violation with Section 11 of the New York State Domestic Relations Law, the so-called Reverend Toby Bombeck was never ordained as a minister of any sort. In fact, he spent the better part of the last three decades in prison on various drug and criminal charges.

Ogden, infuriatingly closemouthed when pressed for further details, did reveal how Edward Shuttleworth happened to run into Bombeck, a complete stranger, after all these years. It happened in some dive bar one fateful night not long after Iris died. They got to talking, Bombeck recognized Edward's last name, and connected it with Iris, whose obituary had just appeared in the local paper. At some point that evening, Bombeck drunkenly confided that when he married Edward's father and stepmother, he wasn't legally qualified to perform weddings. He found it hilarious that the unsuspecting bride and groom never realized they weren't really married.

Clearly, Edward found it more intriguing than hilarious.

“Let me ask you something,” Paine says suddenly to Howard, brooding beside him as they walk along.

“What's that?”

“How
do
you think Edward got his hands on that marriage license? Assuming his father didn't just hand him a copy sometime in his childhood—”

“Which is certainly a far-fetched scenario.” The lawyer shrugs. “Anyone other than the bride or groom can write to Vital Records in Albany and request a copy, but they need to include a letter from an office or agency that is requiring the document.”

“In other words, some joe off the street can't just get a copy of somebody else's marriage license.”

“Right. And anyway, that was no recent copy, Paine. That was an original document The paper was yellowed.”

“That's what I thought. So how did Edward get it?”

“He's a shady character. My guess is as good as yours, but—”

“Do you think he could have broken into Iris's house to find it?”

Howard shrugs. “I wouldn't put it past him. Why?”

Paine falls silent, musing. What if Edward was Dulcie's prowler?

The only thing is . . .

Last night? That doesn't make sense. Ogden called a couple of days ago to call this meeting. He must have had the marriage license in his possession before today . . .

But not necessarily, Paine thinks. Maybe Edward told the lawyer that he could produce it before their meeting tonight?

“What's the matter?” Howard asks, watching him. “Think that creep has been snooping around your place when you weren't home?”

“Or maybe when I was home. Dulcie thought she heard someone creeping around the house a couple of times.”

“My God, Paine . . .”

“I know. But it doesn't matter at this point. I'm leaving in the morning with Dulcie, Howard. It doesn't make sense for us to stay, especially now. This is one big tangled legal mess. It's going to take months to sort it all out. Whether there's a chance that it can somehow come out in our favor, or not, I'll handle everything from California.”

“I don't blame you,” Howard says as they come to a stop in front of Paine's rental car. “You know that I'll keep you apprised of the developments, but if that license proves to be legitimate, I think we both know the implications are clear.”

“Absolutely.”

Anson died without a will. Under New York State law, his estate went to Iris under the presumption that she was his wife. If, however, Anson and Iris weren't legally wed, she wouldn't have a legal claim to his inheritance and the estate should have been divided between Anson's children.

Kristin's death—assuming she was actually fathered by Anson, for which, as Ogden ominously pointed out, there is no proof—leaves Edward as Anson's sole surviving child and primary heir.

“Look, Paine, I'm not going to give up on this without a fight. We have a good case. You know that I'm prepared to argue that your daughter is entitled to at least half of her grandfather's estate—”

“I know you are,” Paine says. “But . . .”

“But what?”

Something snaps inside Paine as he stands there, his car keys poised in front of the lock. He's had it. It's too much. All of it.

“Look, I'm grateful, Howard—”

“Well, it's my job, Paine, to see that—”

“I know, but this is really about the house, isn't it?”

“The house?”

“Ten Summer Street. I mean, that's all we're talking about here, right? It's all there is to Iris's estate. And at this point, as far as I'm concerned, Edward Shuttleworth can freaking have the place with my blessings.”

“
W
HAT DO YOU
see, Julia? Tell me,” Dulcie says breathlessly above the steady hum of the outboard motor.

Seated beside her on the narrow bench at the back of the boat, Julia wonders if she can possibly capture the surrounding beauty in mere words.

“The sun is sinking low in the west,” she begins, “and it's streaking the sky with pink and orange, and it's reflected in the lake. Andy was right—the water is so calm that it's like glass. I can see lots of trees, and the silhouettes of the cottages at Lily Dale on one side of the lake, and some of them have lights on inside now. Oh, and there are two swans floating over by the shore. They're so pretty, Dulcie. Their bills are touching, as though they're kissing.”

“Do swans fall in love with each other like people do?”

Julia smiles, glancing at Andy. But he doesn't seem to have heard Dulcie's question. He's intent on steering the boat, looking straight out over the water.

Somewhere in the back of Julia's mind, a shred of anxiety takes hold. All day—no, she realizes, for
days
—she's been trying to keep certain thoughts at bay. Thoughts about Andy. Now they rush at her, bringing a tide of fear.

Andy was here the summer Kristin died.

Andy is here again . . . and now Iris is dead.

Andy was there yesterday, when Dulcie was out on the roof.

“Julia? Do swans fall in love?”

“Maybe they do, Dulcie.” There is a wave of tension in Julia's voice.

“I wish you would fall in love with my dad,” Dulcie says.

Out of the comer of her eye, Julia sees Andy stiffen. So he is listening.

Caught off guard by the little girl's words, she doesn't know what to say. She can't even think clearly.

“Dulcie . . .” Julia begins, trailing off, her mind whirling.

Oh, Christ. Andy? Could Andy possibly be the one who killed Kristin and Iris? It doesn't make sense, but . . .

“
If you fell in love with my dad and he fell in love with you, we wouldn't have to leave Lily Dale,” Dulcie is saying. “Or else you could come with us, back to California. Then I would have a mommy.”

“You had a mommy who loved you very much, Dulcie,” Julia tells her softly, keeping a wary eye on the man steering the boat.

“But my mommy is dead,” Dulcie says. “And now my gram is dead, too.”

Julia's grasp tightens on the handles of the urn in her lap. She doesn't know what to say.

“I don't want me and Daddy to be alone anymore.” There is a sob in Dulcie's voice now. “I want you to be with us, Julia. Please. Please love my daddy.”

“Dulcie, I—”

“Please love me.”

“I do love you, Dulcie,” Julia says helplessly. “I
do
love you.”

Her words seem to echo off the water.

Noticing the sudden silence, Julia realizes that they've reached the middle of the lake, and Andy has cut the motor.

R
UPERT TUCKS
M
RS.
Wainwright's substantial check into the appropriate slot on his rolltop desk, then closes the top. As an afterthought, he locks it. There's no telling how long it will be before he can get down to Lakeshore Savings and Loan in Fredonia to deposit the money.

Still clutching the receiver for the baby monitor, he hurries back to the bedroom. There, he finds Nan still unconscious. She seems to be gasping for breath now, her parched lips parted slightly, fluid rattling ominously in her throat.

Rupert sinks to the mattress beside her, clutching both her hands in his as guilt overtakes him. He shouldn't have left her. Why did he leave her alone? He promised he wouldn't.

“Nan,” he says softly, a sob in his voice. “Nan, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—oh, Nan. Why is this happening to us?”

The only reply is the harsh sound of her respiration as she drags oxygen into her tortured lungs. Rupert leans his head against her ribs where her breasts used to be, before the cancer began its slow, lethal raid on her body.

Cancer.

Nan.

Mama.

The dam bursts.

A flood of repressed memories rushes toward him.

“All I ever wanted was to be with you. Don't leave me.” His plea is hollow in the silent room; it's not his voice at all, but that of the little boy left behind in a dingy Bronx apartment a lifetime ago.

“Please don't leave me. Please, Mama . . .”

His tears are soaking the blanket; the blanket is muffling the sound of her heartbeat but he knows it's still there, can feel her chest rising and falling beneath his cheek. He tries to memorize everything about her, so that after she's gone, and he's alone, he can remember what it was like, being with her. Not being alone.