The Summer Bones (25 page)

No.

“I'm sorry,” he said. Then, in awful echo, he added, “So sorry. Can we go inside for a minute?”

* * * *

It had been bad enough—the whole weekend, starting with the ritual family supper with all assorted relatives, and ending with the bizarre discovery of Emily Sims' body. Michael Roberts fingered his glass of scotch, thinking himself lucky to have found the bottle in the bottom of a cupboard holding mostly cooking wine and generic port. Obviously, the Paulsen clan didn't believe much in heavy drinking.

Too bad
. He needed a drink, or two. Never mind the drive back to Chicago. He was still undecided about what to do. He couldn't postpone court in the morning. It was out of the question. A client, important and influential, was expecting him and no one else. He'd prepared the case, knew the strategy that he was sure would win it. However, he could hardly walk away now, not while Victoria was so stricken and her family life in utter chaos.

Her sister was dead. The body, or at least a body—it seemed incredible it would be anyone else—had been discovered, sunk to the bottom of the farm pond on their property.

Deliberately sunk in a roll of fencing wire and bricks. Michael didn't need someone to tell him that the whole thing was worse than macabre, it was incriminating. It didn't look good for the family, and that was that. Facts were indisputable. Location wasn't just pertinent in real estate

The fair-haired police officer, local from the way he acted and was treated, sat at the table. He wearily was asking questions, looking as if he hated every moment of it. He'd interviewed each family member, one by one. Damon Paulsen had been there a long time, sitting at one end of the table while his grandfather sat at the opposite end. A dark-haired Hispanic man stood nearby, taking notes and interjecting the occasional sharp query.

Glancing at the clock, Michael saw the hands were crawling toward five o'clock. He moved to refill his glass, splashing liquor with liberality, and then went back to the television room.

Victoria sat as he'd left her, hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the wall. Jim Paulsen hovered close by, apparently not certain whether to pace or sit, and his wife sat next to her niece, concern and sorrow drawing her features into flat lines and sharp angles. She looked ten years older than she had that morning. Victoria's grandmother had fallen asleep in her favorite chair, nodding off like a tired child. Unfortunately, she hadn't lapsed into one of the little spells of confusion. Her damp handkerchief was still clutched in her hand and her face was reddened from weeping.

Richard Paulsen had left about fifteen minutes before, informing everyone in his understated way that he intended to break the news to his ex-wife in person. He had looked acutely ill at the thought. His daughter—his r
emaining
daughter—hadn't even acknowledged his departure. Not that she had exactly turned to Michael for comfort either, he mused bleakly into his glass. He would never forget the scene that afternoon. No matter what happened in the future, he would remember it. The image of Victoria flying across the driveway and lawn, of her frozen expression, her frantic plunge toward the one man, among all the men there who might mean comfort to her—grandfather, father, uncle, fiancé—the one man that she turned to in horrific need, Damon Paulsen.

Oh, there were ways to rationalize it. To put it into a perspective where Michael could understand and forgive. Childhood bonds—a sense of trust that was years in the making, saying that Paulsen was like the big brother she never had, part of the accepting family that she so craved, that they were adult friends, thrown together on every holiday, every visit home—all the things that he dismissed last night and still couldn't quite accept.

That picture burned deeply in his conscious mind, of her face and body pressed against another man. Paulsen's dark head bent over her and his hands in her hair. Wandering toward the window, Michael wondered if the weekend could have been a worse disaster.

“Are you still thinking of going back to Chicago?” Jim Paulsen spoke quietly. He moved to stand next to Michael at the window, hands thrust into the pockets of his now-rumpled suit.

“I don't know,” Michael answered truthfully enough and gave the other man a brief sideways look. “I have obligations in the morning. A court case that's important, both to me and the firm. But …”

No need to state what his reservations were. Victoria still sat like a stone image on the couch. Kate asked a question now and then, getting one-word responses but no other conversation.

Jim gazed out the window. “You should go, I think. Victoria's in shock, we all are. I can't even imagine what Richard is dealing with. Jane is emotional to begin with and I know her. She'll insist on coming here. After all these years, she thinks of this farm as her home, too, divorce or no. Things are only going to get worse. And of course, there's Ronald.”

“The husband?” Michael frowned. The ice in his glass was beginning to disappear, diluting the scotch to pale gold. He was perspiring in his suit, but it didn't seem the time to go and change.

“Yes.” It was said grimly. Jim rocked back on his heels slightly, his ruddy face showing disapproval.

Michael lifted his brows, remembering quite clearly his own remarks about whether or not Ronald Sims knew about his wife's pregnancy. It made a sound basis for a murder motive. “Do you think he had something to do with this?” He lifted his glass toward the pond, like an ill-chosen toast.

“I know the man and I think that's the only possible explanation for this whole terrible, awful mess.”

There was a short silence. They both looked out over the sunny lawn.

Michael spoke finally. “I don't want to abandon Victoria. Not at a time like this. She's going to be my wife.” He said the last bit firmly. Looking up, he realized with a small start that Jim Paulsen was regarding him gravely with sympathetic eyes.

“She'll understand,” Jim advised in the same low voice. “After all, in your profession, a court date is a date, is it not? Besides, I'm going to give her something here in a little bit—just a small sedative to help her sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a tough one, but we'll deal with it as it comes. Kate and I will stay over. I've already let the doctor on call know he'll be covering my patients.”

Outside, the lane was slowly clearing of vehicles. The ambulance had left sometime ago, bearing away the grim cargo with no sirens or fanfare. Michael watched the deepening shadows creep across the lawn. The crickets were beginning to rasp loudly, filling the evening. The message had been made clear enough. His presence would be a burden on a family already weighed to the breaking point. For all he knew, maybe Jim was even right; maybe it would easier on everyone if they didn't have to be polite to a virtual stranger at a time like this.

“I might go then,” he said heavily. “It sounds like Victoria will be in good hands.”
Damn Damon Paulsen to hell
, he added silently and finished his scotch.

* * * *

She didn't want the pill. She didn't want to go to bed either. But her body felt leaden, her chest constricted, and everyone seemed to expect her to swallow the little blue tablet that Uncle Jim had pressed into her hand. Swallow it and go docilely upstairs. So she did. An argument was the last thing she wanted.

Up the stairs, one step at a time, she climbed. The third step always creaked; it had for years. The comforting sound brought reality just a little bit closer. So did the long familiar hallway. She went into the bathroom and ran the water to warm, taking a washcloth and scrubbing her face, moving as if in a dream. She brushed her teeth, not once looking in the mirror. More than anything, she did not want to see her face—her sister's face.

With drooping shoulders, she carried her fatigue down the hall and into the bedroom—her room, Emily's room.

She stopped short on the threshold and felt the rush of ghosts, the crowding of a hundred memories. The spindle beds, the folded quilts, the small dresser with the oak leaf handles, the smell of lemon furniture polish and fresh-cut flowers.

Her hand crept up to her throat. Her eyes stung. This room, she knew suddenly with an awful onslaught of grief, belonged to them, to the green-eyed little girls with the same faces and the long brown curls—those girls of the past, who would never be together again. Her gaze wildly sought the big window by Emily's bed. In the distance, framed by dying shards of reddish sunlight, you could see the halo of trees around the pond and the quiver of moving water.

Moving frantically, she flipped open her suitcase and grabbed for a clean nightgown, pulling it out in haste and spilling clothing out onto the floor. Turning blindly away, she closed the door behind her, trying to create a vacuum for her discomfort. Stumbling down the hall, it seemed natural to select the first door on the left, to open it and go inside.

She fumbled at the lamp.

His bed was neatly made. A pile of clean jeans and shirts sat on the marble-topped dresser. There was a small television in the corner on top of the bookcase and a muted patterned rug on the polished wooden floor. The evening was growing soft now, and his window showed a view of the fields. The pond was not visible from this side of the house.

Thank God. Damon won't mind,
Victoria told herself wearily as she sat down on the side of the bed. He could sleep in her room tonight. She pulled tiredly at her dress, lifting it over her head. Shoe, tattered hose, slip, she tossed it all haphazardly on the floor and pulled on her nightdress.
Tomorrow,
she thought in despair as she lay down and put her head on Damon's pillow,
will I be able to bear tomorrow?

* * * *

The light was on. Puzzled, Damon Paulsen stopped in the doorway of his bedroom and pushed open the half-closed door. Victoria lay on his bed, one arm extended, palm upward, the other limply at her side. She was wearing a blue nightgown made of some sort of thin material. Her cheek was a pale curve against the pillowslip.

He glanced down the hallway and saw the door to her room was closed. The story was clear enough. Not wanting to sleep in that room was understandable, at least to him, because he knew her.

Her dress lay on the floor in a heap. One shoe lay just inside the doorway. Her slip was tossed into the corner. Coming into the room, he shut the door and wearily ran his hand through his hair. His head still spun from the events of the day. His whole body seemed to pulse with the beat of his heart.

For over an hour he'd talked to Danny Haase. Carefully, they'd reconstructed the Monday that Emily had last been seen. Had he or anyone else seen her at the farm? Had his grandmother mentioned Emily stopping by? Had anyone seen her car? Could Jim Baily confirm that they'd been out working on fences all day? Could he vouch for Jim Baily as well? How long exactly had his grandfather been at the house when he went in for lunch? Did he know of any reason why anyone would want to harm his cousin? Were the rolls of fencing wire easily accessible to anyone, even an outsider? What about the bricks? What about her husband, would he have known where to find them?

He'd stuck on that question, not willing to let his personal distaste of Ronald shine through but knowing full well that Ronald was going to voice his own suspicions loudly and emotionally. That realization made him slightly sick. The wire and the bricks had been right inside the old barn, he'd said truthfully. Anyone who stepped inside would see them.

The pond. He had to banish that image from his mind. The pond and the thing that they pulled out of there that bore little resemblance, after two weeks of decomposition, to the girl lying on his bed.

Victoria stirred, turning over and sighing. Her lashes lifted. She stared at him with vacant eyes, confusion crossing her features.

“Go back to sleep,” he said quietly.
A mild sleeping pill,
his father had said,
just a nudge. For her own good.

She sat up, her hair tumbling in disorder. Her head turned side to side, as if seeking confirmation of her whereabouts. Then, she collapsed back onto the pillows. “Oh,” she said, painfully closing her eyes.

So much contained in a little word.
Oh. Oh, I remember. Oh, I know what's going on. Oh, I know about Emily. A
muscle twitched at the corner of her mouth. She whispered, “I couldn't face it—the room, Damon. I couldn't sleep in that room. I'm sorry.”

“It's fine.”

“And last night,” she spoke, as if she hadn't heard a thing, abstractly, to the ceiling, “I'm sorry about last night, too. I was nasty to you. I guess I still don't know why.”

“Tori … honey.”

In a rush, she went on, “I keep trying to sort all of this out and my head is spinning. I keep thinking over and over that I wish it were yesterday. I want to do it over; I want it to be that day and not this one. I want to go to dinner and enjoy myself. I want to … want to not know what I know.” She looked up, tears beginning to gather on her lashes, to spill over on her cheeks. “I don't want to know she's dead, Damon. That's what I want.”

It wasn't a decision. He moved, of course he did. Sat down on the edge of the bed and touched her hair, at first, only that—just her hair, brushed her face with his fingers, feeling the wetness of healthy release, of weeping that needed to be done.

Then he lay down next to her and took her in his arms.

It was so natural—to kiss her temples, to let her press her face into the hollow of his throat, buffeting the worst of her sobs—to gradually press his mouth to her eyebrows, her eyelashes, her wet cheeks, and finally, her mouth.

Lightly, at first.

But she didn't push him away. Instead, she put her arms around his neck and clung to him like a lifeline, like a savior, kissing him back passionately. He felt his body tighten in instant arousal, every muscle going taut and rigid.