Trophies (26 page)

"Did you have any financial dealings with
Aunt Edith?" I remembered to lower my voice below the level that
felt appropriate; there'd been too much trouble lately from being
overheard. And I didn't want to alienate Jacob, even if the twins
were proven right and he had been found in a gully behind the
house.

He drew back slightly, eyes widening and
sharpening. I hurried to explain.

"I'm sorry. I know it's an indiscreet
question. But I am her heir and I've been going through her old
records—"

Jacob started nodding before I finished.
"Twice, yes. She made me two loans, the first to purchase my flat
and the second to start my business. Both have been paid and we're
square now. Don't bother looking for a contract; she was so
trustworthy we did business on a handshake. But I've kept records
if you want to see them."

That had been Caren's first guess when we
found those papers in the garret and I should have believed it at
once: it was by far the most logical of all the insane
possibilities we'd thrown about. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd
tell Patty and she could relax, too.

"Thanks, Jacob. I was fairly certain it was
something like that. But without a contract, well, I felt I should
ask."

"Not a problem. Get your world back together
and we'll do the pub sometime, all right?"

It was a handsome offer and at that insecure
moment much appreciated. I clasped his hand again and watched as he
joined the ladies and Sherlock. I couldn't help but notice Patty's
hesitant smile and again I felt a bit sorry for Jacob; it wasn't
his fault he'd been left behind by aliens or something.

Prissy reappeared beside me. She took my arm
and turned me toward Sidnë's big canvas,
We Could Have Danced
All Night.
When she spoke, her voice was pitched so low I could
barely hear her. "What do you think of those faces?"

"I'd take any of them home." So long as Caren
wasn't there. Hey, I hadn't made any commitment yet. "If she used
her girlfriends as models, I'll pay for numbers."

"Yes, you beast, but what do you
think
of them?"

I paused. Again, Prissy wasn't smiling. "It's
outstanding work. Am I missing something? Art isn't my
specialty."

She sighed and stepped away. "No, you're
right. It is outstanding work. Now, come on. I want you to meet
Sidnë."

Behind the panel and across the room, the
front door closed. Prissy circled me and stepped out into the entry
area. I followed her. But all we saw was the security officer
locking the bolt on the new door.

"Jaime, who was that?" Prissy called.

"Sidnë, Miss Carr."

I ran for the door; the security guard, even
if he was a temporary replacement for the one who'd been shot, had
the sense to open it before I got there. But a cab flashed past
before I quite made it and neither the driver nor the female
passenger in the back glanced in my direction.

fifteen years earlier

When I first arrived in Cambridge, Uncle
Hubert showed me all around the house, or so I thought. Because I
never saw anything like a ladder or trapdoor leading up, it took me
two years to realize there might be some secret place — an attic or
garret — beneath those seemingly innocent eaves. But as soon as the
thought struck me, the need for exploration took over. Whatever was
up there, I wanted to see it.

I made a hunt of it, surreptitiously
searching the two spare bedrooms on the upper level for some means
of ascent. But several days of dodging Aunt Edith and Uncle Hubert
while examining the walls and ceilings throughout the house gave me
no clues, and discouragement began raising its ugly mug.

There was only one place left to look. Just
the thought of sneaking into their suite and searching it made me
squirm deep inside. After all, they had never invited me in there.
It seemed a violation of our treaty for me to invade their privacy;
never by word or glance had they attempted to invade mine. Neither
would enter my room without knocking and receiving express
permission, and I could leave anything — corpses, stolen bullion,
State secrets — lying around the house and be certain it wouldn't
be touched.

But at that age, my curiosity was stronger
than my morality. When the opportunity arose, I snatched it.

Said opportunity was an award ceremony among
the history staff at the college, with accompanying whispers that
Uncle Hubert was on the receiving end thereof. I despised dress-up
events at that age — they reminded me too much of tedious dinners
and teas in Wiltshire, where I must be present or shame the family
despite the ennui — so I received permission to remain at home and
finish schoolwork. Needless to say, that task wasn't at the head of
my to-do list.

The crowd returned at eleven, minus Uncle
Hubert.

"Where is he?" I asked. I did want to see the
award.

Aunt Edith shrugged off her emerald-green
silk cape and left it on the hook in the hall, her smile and
brilliant eyes brightening the vestibule more than the overhead
bulb. "Still celebrating. He'll join us later."

She swept into the parlor, Aunt Viola behind
her. Uncle Preston clapped my shoulder in passing. I held the door
open for Jacob as well, although at that point in time I wasn't
certain I liked him all that much. He gave me his dark-eyed glance
but said nothing. I closed the front door and bolted it, wishing
again that my summer buddy, Patricia, had come in Jacob's stead. If
she had, she might have stayed in with me and we would have found
something to giggle over, and then I wouldn't have spent two hours
sweating over that garret door's bloody lock. But Patricia and the
twins were visiting my family in Wiltshire for some reason I could
not comprehend, I was stuck with Jacob, and we hadn't yet
discovered anything we both found entertaining.

I joined the others in the parlor as Aunt
Edith kicked off her high-heels and curled her legs about her on
the sofa. Instead of her usual practical clothing, she wore black
silk with green trimming the same shade as her cape, and it draped
off her shoulders and spilled about her on the white sofa just as
the scent of the blood-red roses in the silver vase spilled about
the room. Aunt Viola, in a tweed suit cut city style rather than
country, looked dowdy beside her, and Jacob faded right into the
background; I hadn't even noticed what he wore. I could hear
clinking and rattling in the kitchen; Uncle Preston made a mean cup
of tea, and I felt myself smile.

"Now, Charles," Aunt Edith said, "your
lessons are done?"

"Yes, Aunt Edith."

Her smile matched mine. "So why do you look
guilty?"

Of course, my all-too-readable face gave me
dead away. I took a moment to think and inhaled the roses'
intoxicating scent for inspiration.

I wasn't about to tell her I'd rummaged their
private suite, that I saw the slinky nightgown draped across their
bed, the bottle of champagne in the small fridge, the fluted
glasses and corkscrew on their bedside table. Nor was I willing to
mention that I discovered the hidden nook where a flight of stairs
led up to the secret door. And I would have taken a bullet before I
admitted I hadn't been able to pick that lock despite a two-hour,
determined onslaught that nearly reduced me to a tantrum of
frustration. After Aunt Edith's lessons with my little toolkit,
this was the first lock I'd come across that stopped me. The front
door's bolt, the local tea shoppe, the businesses around Harvard
Square, even the electronic security system on the local library
hadn't slowed me much. I never stole anything with Uncle Hubert's
honest example always before me, and I was never caught, but I
learned a lot about being a sneak.

Before I could dredge up an answer, the
telephone rang. Aunt Edith leaned forward in a swirl of black silk
and snatched up the cordless from beneath the roses. "Hunter
residence."

The call, of course, brought the bantering to
a halt, and I was grateful for the additional time to think. But
all color drained from Aunt Edith's face like blood from a stone
until even her green eyes seemed colorless. She stared into space
as if the room no longer existed and her fingers squeezed the
receiver.

Aunt Viola reached across and laid a hand on
her arm. "Edith?"

Aunt Edith handed her the telephone without a
sideward glance. I didn't look, either. I couldn't look away. The
shock spread from Aunt Edith in waves and washed over me where I
stood. Even the cut roses seemed to tremble. My fingers tingled
with the sudden cold and I could feel my heart beating like a drum
throughout my body.

Aunt Viola hung up the receiver and yelled
toward the kitchen. "Preston!" Her hand ran up Aunt Edith's arm and
rested on her shoulder. Aunt Edith, as before, seemed
oblivious.

"My dear?"

I sensed Uncle Preston enter the parlor but
didn't look at him, either. I stared at Aunt Edith and waited for
the blow to fall. Somehow, I
knew
what was coming before
Aunt Viola spoke.

"That was the dean. Hubert's dead."

Aunt Edith moved, only her head and eyes,
very slowly. She looked about the forgotten parlor until our gazes
crossed. Then she froze again. That wild, uncanny something rose
into her expression as she uncoiled from the sofa. Without needing
to speak, we met halfway. Her arms wrapped about me, pulled me
close, held my head against her own. Her hands were cold, too, and
our thudding heartbeats meshed into a jungle rhythm that engulfed
the civilized parlor.

In the background, like a singer who can't
quite be heard over the music, Aunt Viola's voice droned on. "The
dean wanted to call for a cab, but he insisted on walking. When he
crossed Craigie Street, he was struck by a hit-and-run driver. He
was dead before the ambulance arrived."

I felt Uncle Preston's hand on my shoulder
and knew his other hand rested on hers. It was like trying to
comfort two statues.

Her arms tightened around me and her entire
body trembled. I'm certain my own reciprocated. At the time I
thought it was grief, because that was what I felt. But the guilt
that accompanied my grief was almost as overwhelming.

I avoided the garret from that day forth. It
finally left my thoughts alone, but when it vanished from my waking
moments it invaded my nights. Sometimes the dream centered on
someone — I never could see who through deep dreamy shadows —
picking that damned lock, entering the garret, and finding me
inside with all my belongings and family and especially Uncle
Hubert. Said someone would then take whoever and whatever he wanted
while I, screaming, was helpless to stop him.

At other times it was I who picked the lock
and swung the door open, only to find Aunt Edith in the empty
garret alone, staring at me with the cold and calculating eyes of
my father or, later, the contemptuous open stare of the spotter.
That dream bothered me more than the other and left me shivering
and wide awake, staring into the grey morning and afraid to sleep
again.

Many evenings, my last action before retiring
was to stare at the Langstrom family portrait. I could look at that
photograph by the hour, and every time I examined it I found
something I hadn't noticed before, such as the jaunty angle at
which Langstrom's father held his egghead, or the tiny pearl
brooches the girls wore, just like their mother's. But it wasn't
more than two years after Uncle Hubert's death that I began to feel
shame over the theft of that photo and hid it away in my sock
drawer.

So as a teenager I stared at that photo and
dreamed those dreams, attempting to lock away and protect myself
from external onslaughts.

And still, I didn't cry.

current time

On the steps of the gallery, Sherlock stopped
me with a touch. He waited, eyes hooded, until the door closed and
the bolt clicked behind us. "We should do a re-enactment while
we're here and make sure we understand what happened. Can you
handle that?"

I huffed. I'd handled everything so far.
"Don't see why not."

He considered that, and I could see he didn't
quite believe me. But before I got my dander up, he nodded.
"Ooo-kay." He nodded down and right, toward the little hidden
corner between the stairs and the plate glass window. "She was
found there, huh?"

I pointed. "Right there, with her head toward
the wall and her feet slanting out toward the street. Her legs were
bent, her eyes were open, her hair was coming loose, and one shoe
had fallen off. It lay there."

"Do you know where her car was parked?"

"No, I don't. Patty?"

Patty and Lindsay had reached the Camaro and
stood watching us. Lindsay already leaned against the fender.
Patty's expression was wary, so I knew she'd heard us. Perhaps she
didn't want to think about it, but I needed answers and didn't
trust Brother Perfect Wingate to find them. I tilted my head and
raised my eyebrows, daring her to be difficult. Reluctantly, she
jerked a thumb at the Toyota in the next spot. I'd walked past Aunt
Edith's BMW that morning without even seeing it.

"There. Okay." Sherlock clattered down the
stairs and strode to the Toyota, just beyond the plate glass
window. The line of parallel-parked cars echoed the flow of
traffic, with the passenger's side toward the gallery, the driver's
to the street. He peered both ways along the block, then up. The
streetlight that had been shot out was only two cars away. Its
absence would cloak the sidewalk in darkness.

"The outer light of the gallery would have
been on," I said.

He stared at it. The fixture was above my
head, on the side of the stairs away from the window, its
blue-white halogen bulb intended to light the wheelchair ramp and
steps rather than the sidewalk so near a streetlamp.