The Chalk Girl (52 page)

The older woman resumed her reading of the warrant. ‘The Driscol Institute owns this house – furnishings, paintings, even the silverware. My lawyers won’t have a problem extending that ownership to cover money, too.’

As they passed the first door on the next landing, Mallory looked into a room outfitted like a small clinic. ‘You do plan ahead.’ A pantry stood open to reveal an impressive larder of medical supplies. Detective Janos was pointing to shelves of pharmacy bottles as he questioned Hoffman.

‘What’s up?’ Riker turned to his partner. ‘She’s got a phobia about hospitals?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ said Mallory. ‘If Grace has another stroke, she can’t afford a long hospital stay. There’s a residence clause in the charter – her great-grandfather’s idea to force every heir into keeping his family name. If there isn’t a Driscol in residence for a continuous year, the board of trustees has to sell the mansion.’

‘But she’s got a kid,’ said Riker.

‘Phoebe’s only a Bledsoe. Blood doesn’t count. Neither one of Grace’s kids had a claim on family income or property. Their mother neglected to add a hyphenated Driscol to their birth certificates. That’s all they needed. It’s spelled out on page five of the charter. I’m sure the family lawyers reminded Grace before the first child was born. I guess she just
forgot
.’

‘Twice.’ Riker turned on the last Driscol. ‘Lady, you’re a piece of work.’

‘Grace was only thinking ahead. Strokes run in the family. She wanted to give her kids a reason to keep Mom alive – but not in a nursing home.’ Mallory faced the society matron. ‘And you thought of that when they were only babies – a true long-range planner.’

‘You think I’m a—’

‘The first time we met,’ said Mallory, ‘you told me what you were. You said monsters are begot by monsters.’

Bravado held sway. The lady smiled. ‘Will a jury believe that I strung up three people to cover the murder of my own son? Or will they find a grieving mother sympathetic? Seriously, Mallory, monster to monster, what do you think of my chances?’

Mallory was not listening. Detective Janos was coming toward her, carrying a bottle of chloroform. It should not be here –
still
here – but there it was.

‘This is comfier than a police lockup.’ Riker opened the door and stepped back. ‘Ladies first.’

His prisoner entered the chicken-wire cage at the end of a long row of such enclosures. She stared at the furniture and tall stacks of cartons. ‘You’re planning to keep me in a warehouse?’

‘Oh, not just any warehouse, Grace. When people die intestate, all their stuff comes here – just till the city can legally steal all the money they leave behind. These things belonged to Ernest Nadler’s parents.’ But now, with the discovery of the will, it might only take another fifteen years to release the little family’s personal effects. The detective opened the small Gladstone bag that Grace had taken from Hoffman on the way out the door. Now he was staring at a pharmacy bottle of liquid and its companion syringe. ‘So you
are
shooting up.’

‘Give that back! If I have a stroke, there’s only a small window
of time to take that shot. It prevents permanent damage.’ One hand closed around her medic-alert medallion, though it was useless in this place so far out of signal range.

‘No problem. When I go, there’ll be a cop posted right here. I’ll leave the needle with him, okay?’ No, he could see that was not okay with her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of begging. Riker rested one hand on the back of an overstuffed armchair. ‘Mallory says this is the best seat.’ He clicked on a floor lamp. ‘A reading light – you’ll need it. My partner spent a lot of time down here, reading Ernie Nadler’s diary. She made a copy just for you.’ He pointed to a stack of Xeroxes on the floor. ‘You’ll wanna get a jump on the evidence before the arrest.’

‘
Before
the arrest? I’m already—’

‘No, you’re being detained as a person of interest. Until we charge you, there won’t be any phone calls to the lawyers. Not what you expected, huh? Let’s see if I can guess the plan. Halfway through your trial, your lawyer lets it slip that Phoebe’s nuts – hears voices – maybe kills people.’ And now he echoed the words of Aggy Sutton’s brother. ‘Crazy is good. That’s reasonable doubt for a jury.’ He hunkered down to open a carton of Ernie Nadler’s favorite things, his comics – and a nest of baby mice.

Grace Driscol-Bledsoe stared at the mewling, pink vermin with a moue of distaste. ‘Where’s your partner? Why didn’t she come with us?’

‘Mallory thinks I’m wrong.’ Riker pulled out a slightly chewed comic book and leafed through the pages. ‘She bet me twenty bucks you’d never drag your kid into this mess. She says you’ve got other plans for Phoebe. If you have another stroke, you won’t wanna spend the next thirty years in a state nursing home.’

‘You forget. I inherited millions from my son. More than enough to—’

‘Naw, that’ll stay frozen in probate.’ He set down the comic book
and pulled out another one. ‘And the cash we found in your house was impounded. If Phoebe’s in jail when you stroke out, the trustees will get you certified incompetent. They’ll dump you in a cheap nursing home and sell the house out from under you. What’s that place worth? Maybe ten million? I bet the trustees sell it for twenty. They’re a greedy bunch, really ruthless. Even Mallory was impressed.’

He laid down the comic book to answer his cell phone. ‘Yeah? . . . It’s a done deal? . . . Good.’ He ended the call and smiled at his prisoner. ‘That was Walt Hamlin, the DA. He says you just lost your job, lady.’

And now he explained what had been going on elsewhere during the long ride to this warehouse. The district attorney had convened a meeting of the Driscol Institute’s board of trustees. All the bags of cash taken from the mansion had been laid out on the boardroom table.

‘I collected that money as cash donations to charity.’

‘Yeah, sure you did. It was the landscaping that nailed you. The DA showed them pictures of your private park on the roof.’ With only these visual suggestions of criminal acts, the trustees had unanimously elected not to go to jail with Grace. ‘It took them six minutes to enforce a morals clause. They voted you out of the director’s chair.’

‘My compliments,’ she said. ‘However, you must know I’ll never do a day in prison.’

‘Maybe not.’ Riker held up the Gladstone bag. ‘But you’ll have a problem paying Hoffman’s salary.’ He opened the bag and took out the syringe. ‘What if she’s not around when you really need this shot?’

‘Where
is
your partner?’

‘I guess Mallory’s right. You’d never let Phoebe take the fall for you. You need a relative to keep you out of nursing-home hell. You
need somebody who gives a crap if your adult diapers get changed now and then. And Phoebe can never leave you. She’s too damaged to make it on her own . . . thanks to good old Mom. That’s the payoff for years of standing by, doing nothing, just watching your kid go nuts.’

‘My daughter’s not insane. She’s a school nurse, a functional, productive—’

‘Crazy Phoebe won’t keep that job much longer. She’s getting wiggier by the day. But she’s still functional enough to spoon-feed you when you can’t even remember her name anymore . . . But what if she finds out why you paid Willy Fallon all that cash?’

Now
she was frightened. And so half the job was done. The detective stepped outside the cage and locked the door. As he walked down the corridor, the woman found her voice, and he heard her call out to him.

‘Riker, where is Mallory? What is she doing right now?’

When Phoebe Bledsoe had read this bookmarked passage, she closed the diary and pushed it back across the table. ‘Thank you. Yes, my mother was listening. That was the last time I ever spoke to Ernie.’

Under the fluorescent lights of the interrogation room, Mallory opened the small volume to an entry that followed the assault on a wino. ‘After that man was murdered, your parents kept you home from school?’

‘My mother’s idea. Daddy had nothing to do with it. She was better at cleaning up Humphrey’s messes. That’s what my father said to her –
yelled
at her.’

‘You were there when your parents had that fight?’

‘No, I was locked in my bedroom, but I could hear their voices – the slam of the front door. After my father left the house, my mother screamed at Humphrey. She told him he’d better get on Daddy’s good side or else. Aggy Sutton was there that day. Willy Fallon, too. When they were all yelling all at once, I could barely understand the words. But I heard Ernie’s name, over and over. That was before he went missing.’

‘And
after
Ernie disappeared?’

‘His parents came to the house with the police. I heard Mrs Nadler crying, Mr Nadler hollering. They wanted to talk to me. I banged on the door of my room. I screamed, I
howled
until my mother let me out. I told the Nadlers that Ernie was scared, and he might be hiding out in the Ramble. Detective Mann didn’t believe me. Mr Nadler said he’d search the whole park by himself. Then the detective agreed to do it, and that was the night they found Ernie hanging in a tree. Later . . . when Ernie died . . . I fell apart. That’s when Daddy took me to the first psychiatrist. My mother didn’t like any of them. She was always pulling me out of therapy.’

Of course. Better to let a little girl suffer in silence than risk her giving up family secrets to a therapist. The detective looked down at her notebook of empty lines. ‘Did your father ever talk to you about what Humphrey did?’

‘No, not in those days. Later he did – the year my brother turned sixteen. When Humphrey was in prep school, he was accused of raping a six-year-old girl. She wasn’t the first one. But Daddy told me she’d be the last. That’s when he dissolved his company and set up Humphrey’s trust. It drove my mother crazy. She was so angry with my father. Daddy lived in hotels all the time after that.’

‘Your mother told us Humphrey was your father’s favorite.’ Mallory laid down two circles of canvas cut from a portrait of father and son.

Phoebe smiled. ‘That painting was my mother’s idea when Humphrey was ten years old. She thought spending time together would bring them closer. But Daddy never loved him. No one could.’

Well, Grace must have loved him – when he was ten.

‘He was a monster,’ said Phoebe.

Like mother, like son.

‘I’m not sorry my brother’s dead.’

Of course not.

And Mallory’s only regret was that Phoebe had no witness potential to hang her mother.

After dismissing the officer on guard duty, Mallory entered the chicken-wire cage that held the Nadlers’ household goods and one prisoner. Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had finished reading the copied diary pages. The loose papers were neatly stacked in her lap.

‘I know you have questions,’ said Mallory. ‘You’re wondering if I told Phoebe why you gave Willy Fallon bags full of cash.’

‘I can only imagine what you’ve been telling my daughter – not that she’d believe you.’

‘I could show her Willy’s statement.’ The detective circled around to the back of the woman’s chair. ‘Willy says you paid her to terrorize your own daughter.’ Mallory leaned down close to Grace’s ear. ‘You wanted Phoebe scared out of her mind. You thought she’d come back home . . . to you.’

‘So you haven’t told her anything. I smell a negotiation. You don’t even have enough to charge me.’ Grace had the smile of a true carnivore. ‘Weakness, my dear, I can smell that, too.’

Mallory could only smell the pollution of mice and roaches. She sank down on the bare mattress of the Nadler boy’s bed. ‘You know what happened to Ernie’s parents?’

‘A double suicide, I’m told.’

‘No, the way I see it,
you
killed them. When you sent Rolland Mann to murder their son, you might as well have pushed those people off that ledge.’

‘Old history.’ Grace waved one hand to dismiss these insignificant deaths.

Mallory absently stroked the mattress. ‘Phoebe really upstaged you.’ In sidelong vision, she saw the other woman’s head slowly turning. ‘Your daughter went out and did her own damn killing. Hands-on – no hit-man cop, no gang of twisted kids.’

‘What did you—’ The Xeroxed diary pages cascaded from Grace’s hands in a slow slide and wafted to the floor.

‘You knew she was the Hunger Artist. You knew it the minute we told you about the landscaper’s dolly. Poor Phoebe,’ Mallory shook her head. ‘She was a wreck when I brought her in. Nerves all shot to hell. But after she put her confession in writing . . . she stopped biting her fingernails.’

‘That confession is worthless!’ Grace’s voice carried a single note of hysteria, but it was gone all too quickly. ‘My daughter is easily intimidated. Obviously, she wasn’t in a rational state of mind when—’