Since You've Been Gone (32 page)

Matilda's cup rattled in her saucer. “I did not see a face. Just a person in a hurry. Someone in a windbreaker with the hood up. The wind was getting bad. I didn't see a face.”

“Man or woman?”

“I couldn't tell.”

She was lying. Bill knew and she knew Bill knew, but she stared at him stubbornly. “Didn't you get the slightest impression about the person's sex?” he asked kindly.

“Absolutely not. Shapeless clothes everyone wears these days. And I didn't see a face. I
didn't.”

“The person didn't even grunt when they bumped into you?”

Color rose and fell in Matilda's face. “No.”

“Because you can get an idea of sex just from a grunt. You know—high-pitched or low.”

“No grunting. No.”

Another lie. “All right. But why were you so frightened about it at the cemetery?”

Matilda sloshed tea and finally set down the cup and saucer. “I think dear Rebecca misunderstood what I was saying.
I
just wanted to express sympathy for what happened to her at the library. And I was upset over Skeeter. It meant nothing except that I was upset over all that's happening. I chatter when I get upset. I'm calmer now and I feel silly for making such a fuss, especially because I don't know if the person in the alley was a man or a woman or even if that person had a thing in the world to do with what happened to Rebecca and the Ellis girl.”

“And you didn't see anyone around the chapel at the cemetery? Someone who frightened you?”

Matilda gave him a ghastly smile. “Did Rebecca tell you that, too? Really, she's a dear child but her imagination is running wild. I didn't see
anyone
at the chapel. I simply got a bit overheated in the sun.”

“Well, now, Rebecca thinks she saw a blur of movement, like someone darting behind the chapel.”

“Really?” Matilda squeaked. “Her wonderful writer's imagination, as I said. I read her book. Scared me silly late at night. But of course it was fiction. I know the difference. And I wasn't frightened at the cemetery. I was just overheated and upset and wanted to get home.”

“Not back to the store?”

Matilda batted her eyes at him. Getting back to the store would be characteristic behavior. “Not returning to the store was showing respect for Skeeter. I've known him since he was a child. He was quite salvageable, in my opinion. It
was that awful father of his who ruined him. Most people don't understand. They don't know Skeeter's history. These days people just don't get to know each other like they used to. Hurry, hurry. Everyone's in a hurry Such a fast-paced world. Give drugs instead of working with people and learning their strengths and weaknesses. Of course drugs are my business—I shouldn't complain.”

She'd managed to skillfully and completely sidestep the subject of her fear at the cemetery. Bill realized getting information from Matilda Vinson was hopeless. All he could do was try to keep an eye on her, although under the circumstances he could do only a poor job of it. There would be no help from Sheriff Martin Lutz, either. He had dismissed her as easily as Bill's young, chastised deputy had done. Lutz was another one who thought no one over 60 had any sense. It was one of the things that made him an idiot in Bill's book.

Bill stood. “Sure I can't talk you into leaving town just for a few days?”

“I couldn't leave my father.”

“He's in a fine nursing home.”

“But he expects to see me every Sunday. He gets very upset when he doesn't. And then there's the store. It won't run itself.”

“You have Lynn Hardison.”

“Lynn is not a pharmacist, and I couldn't get a replacement so soon. No, Chief, I appreciate your concern, but I can't leave. And there's no reason to leave. I'm perfectly fine. I didn't see anything. You be sure people know. That I didn't see
anything”
She clearly caught the anxiety in her voice and added lamely. “So they won't worry.”

No, so the killer will hear it and not see you as a threat, Bill thought, but he merely nodded agreeably. “I'll spread the word, Miss Vinson, you be sure of that. And you take care now.”

“Oh, I certainly will.”

“Thank you for the tea.”

“It's Earl Grey, my favorite. I'm glad you liked it.”

As he stepped out the door, Bill added impulsively, “And that's one fine recliner of your dad's. Beautifully constructed and worn in just right. Wish I had one.”

Matilda beamed. Later Bill was glad he'd given her that compliment, even if it was insincere. It was the last time he ever saw her smile.

Frank spent the rest of the afternoon in bed. Rebecca could not remember a time when he'd retired with even a headache. At three o'clock she tapped on the door to the guest room where he was staying. After a moment he'd called, “Come in,” in a tired voice.

“I hope I didn't wake you,” Rebecca said, noting the closed draperies and the soft light coming from a lamp halfway across the room. Frank seemed lost in shadows and she paused in surprise.

“Come nearer the bed, dear. I don't think I'm contagious.” Frank's voice held a hint of humor, but it was forced. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm
fine. You know bullets bounce off me. I'm concerned about you.”

He smiled. “You're twenty-six. I'm in my fifties. Unfortunately bullets no longer bounce off me, but it's not the end of the world. I'm just tired. My heart's running a little fast and I have a damnable headache.”

“Your
heart?”

“It's called tachycardia. I've had it all my life. Hits me when I've been under tension, and there's been a bit too much of that this week.”

These last few years, Rebecca thought with guilt. Everyone had depended too much on Frank. No one had been concerned enough about
his
welfare.

“No, I'm not the selfless, suffering martyr you're turning me into in your mind right now,” Frank said, grinning. “See, you're not the only one with ESP. But it
has
been a
tough week and I'm not as young as I used to be. That's all that's wrong with me, honey. Things just look worse because I'm in a separate bedroom like an invalid, but you understand the situation.”

“All too well. In between sips of wine, Mother's been crooning her heart out to old tapes all afternoon.”

Frank nodded solemnly. “You know, your father was my dearest friend, but there is one thing I absolutely can never forgive him for.” He paused and Rebecca looked at him, shocked. He never criticized Patrick. “He told your mother she had a lovely voice and encouraged her singing.”

She burst into giggles. “Oh God, he did! And he hated her voice as much as everyone else, but he didn't want to hurt her feelings because she so loved to sing. But you know who
didn't
mind hurting her feelings? The Irish Setter Rusty. He threw back his head and howled down the roof whenever she sang ‘Blue Bayou.' She never got the hint.”

“She probably thought he was howling because he was so moved by her heartfelt rendition.”

They were both laughing now—snickering, really, like guilty children, and Rebecca felt better. Seeing Frank ill had frightened her more than she would have believed. She hadn't quite realized what a rock he'd been in her world for so many years.

As soon as they'd recovered, Frank put his hand on Rebecca's. “Dear, I've made a decision. As soon as this mess is cleared up, I'm putting your mother in rehab. She'll hate me for it.”

“Oh Frank, she won't hate you when she's well. And you have to do it.”

“Then you won't be upset if there's a minor scandal here in Sinclair?”

“After all this family has been through, Mother going into rehab would hardly cause a ripple. And I don't even live here anymore. Certainly I won't mind. I'd just like for her to be well again. And as happy as she's capable of being.”

“Good. That's settled then.” Frank smiled. “Now on to
our more immediate problems. I talked to Bill, they haven't tracked down Jean Wright. She's not with her brother or sister.”

“No. She just vanished. Maybe she did take Todd. She certainly needed the money, but something tells me this crime isn't really about ransom.”

Frank raised his eyebrows. “Not about ransom? How do you know?”

“One of my spooky feelings. It's about something else. Perhaps revenge. The problem is, I think it's revenge against me for something I did with my ESP. But as much as I love Todd, it's Molly who'll suffer the most if that's the motive. Then again, it could be someone who desperately wants a child.” She shook her head. “No, no one who wanted a child to cherish would treat him as Todd's being treated.” She frowned. “It's about something else, Frank. Something I can't quite get a bead on. But I will. I swear on my brother's memory I will.”

Frank looked taken aback by her ferocity. Then he clutched her hand. “God, honey, I hope so. For your sake as well as Todd's and everyone else's.” He kissed the back of her hand, then released it. “We were speaking of the less-than-charming Jean Wright. I'm not sorry she's gone. However, her absence leaves Molly alone. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“You want me to move in with Molly.”

“No. I don't think that would be best for either of you. You need time to concentrate on yourself, to heal and to … well, to clear your mind for visions. Yes, I believe in them now. And having Molly making constant demands on you for information wouldn't help. I'd like you to ask Aunt Esther to stay with Molly. She adores Molly and Todd.”

“But she's sick.”

“She's functioning like a well woman. And she needs to feel like a well woman, which to her means being needed. However, I'm afraid she'll keep overdoing it at the nursery. Having her stay with Molly is the perfect solution for both of them.”

“Frank, you're brilliant, but why do you want me to ask her instead of you?”

“Because she always puts up a fuss with me out of sheer stubbornness and I'm tired. She'll fuss with you, too, but not as much. She's never been able to say no to you.”

“How Machiavellian of you!”

“Oh, I have depths and depths! You couldn't even guess.”

“Now you sound like Clay Bellamy.”

Frank smiled. “Kind of like that young man, don't you?”

“He's nice.”

“Nice?·
Such a bland word from a writer! How about good looking, smart, man with a future?”

“Frank Hardison, are you trying to marry me off?”

“I'd like to see you be happy, Rebecca,” he said seriously, then added with a grin, “and think of all the free medical care we'd get.”

“You need to get some sleep. You're delirious.”

But she was smiling as she left the room.

Frank was right. When Rebecca called Esther from Frank's study and approached her with the idea of staying with Molly, she had been resistant. “Honey, I'd do anything to help that poor girl, but this nursery needs my full-time attention until I leave for the hospital. People are still planting—”

“And you have two full-time helpers. Don't tell me you hired people who know nothing about plants or who are incapable of going out and digging holes.”

“Rebecca, there's more to nursery work than digging holes,” Esther said, sounding a bit offended. “If that were so, I'd just hire a couple of dogs.”

“Dogs dig where they want. They won't take directions. It would never work.” She could feel Esther smile on the other end of the line. “Look, this would mean so much to
Molly. She's always loved you. And believe me, I'd do it myself, but I'm afraid devoting my energies to trying to keep Molly from being depressed might interfere with any visions I might have. Oh, gosh, that sounded pretentious. What I mean is—”

“I know what you mean,” Esther said gently. “You've already had visions of Todd. Because of you we knew he was in that attic. And we now know he's been moved to a different kind of place and he's still alive. You might not be quite pleased with your contribution, but it's been a great one. And I'm being silly. I'll gather up some clothes and come to Molly's tonight.”

“Good. I'm going to visit her, so I should still be there when you arrive. I'll see you then. And thank you, Aunt Esther,” Rebecca said as she hung up.

“What good works is Esther doing now?”

Rebecca looked up to see her mother standing in the doorway. Her hair hung messily around her shoulders. She wore a white robe and held a cigarette in a shaking hand. Her face was drawn and pale, the eyes huge. “Mother. I was talking to Aunt Esther.”

“Yes, I gathered that much when you called her ‘Esther.' I wanted to know what you were thanking her for.”

“She's going to stay with Molly tonight and tomorrow. Jean Wright has taken an unannounced vacation and Molly is all alone.”

“Oh.” Suzanne took a deep drag off her cigarette. “I suppose everyone is angry because
I'm
not staying with her.”

Suzanne was swaying slightly. Rebecca imagined she could smell the wine seeping from her mother's pores. “I don't think anyone expects
you
to stay with Molly.”

“Why?” Suzanne asked aggressively. “Because I'm a drunk?”

“As a matter of fact,
yes”

Suzanne glared at her with hostile blue eyes. Then, abruptly, she began to cry, not the pitiful weeping of someone trying to elicit sympathy, but deep, heartfelt sobs. “Oh God. I know. And I hate myself.”

She sat down on a chair and held her head in her hands. Rebecca hesitated, then kneeled beside her and draped her arm around her mother's surprisingly thin, shaking shoulders. “Mother, crying isn't going to help anything.”

“It's a release. Oh I know what you're thinking. She's been releasing all day—drinking, smoking, singing. But those releases don't help. They do for some people, but not for me.”