Winter House (20 page)

„That’s way before Mallory’s time,“ said Riker. „Mine, too.“ He had returned from his deli run. After settling into the backseat, he handed Mrs. Ortega her requested bagel and coffee. „Now here’s our problem.“ He held out a sheet of paper with the letterhead of Crime Scene Unit. „A rookie investigator has a note here. Suspicious hole in shallow closet.“

„Crime scene, huh? Another murder. Do you know how many – “

„Don’t get excited,“ said Riker. „It was a robbery.“

„Oh, sure,“ said Mrs. Ortega. „You two turned out for a robbery.“

„That’s right,“ said Mallory, pressing another large bill into the woman’s hand. „Is there a problem here?“

„Absolutely not.“ Mrs. Ortega pocketed the bill. „So this rookie – did he mention the seam around the closet hole?“ Well, that got their attention. „The backing on that closet is old and rotted. But the hole and the seam? Not so old. Somebody cut out a section and then put it back in place. There’s a ridge of glue around the seam for the patch. And there’s dust on that ridge.“

„Well, that tears it,“ said Riker. „Whatever got walled up in the closet, it’s long gone now.“

„Tell me about Nedda Winter,“ said Mallory.

„Real jumpy. Followed me everywhere, and it wasn’t like she thought I was gonna rob her blind. She just wanted the company. Didn’t wanna be alone. Thai, was my take. 1 cieaned her room. Hardly needed it. Very neat. No personal items. There’s a metal suitcase stashed under the bed. I thought that was her house, but she acts like a real polite guest who isn’t sure how long she wants to stay. So then the little one comes home.“

„Bitty Smyth.“

„Right. Soon as I saw her, I knew which room was hers. Never had to ask. It had to be the one with all the stuffed toys on the bed. Like a kid’s room. Now that’s because she’s so small. I bet people still pat her on the head. She ‘11 have teddy bears on the bed when she’s ninety years old. Well, as soon as she showed up, I left.“

„Good job.“ Mallory nodded to the police cruiser behind her car. „That officer will drive you anywhere you want to go.“

Mrs. Ortega looked back over her shoulder to the rear window and its view of a policeman in uniform, the same cop who had wrestled her for the cleaning cart. „Good. A rematch.“ As she closed the door of the car, she leaned down to the open passenger window. „Just one more thing, you guys. Instead of asking yourselves
what
was walled up in that closet, you might be wondering
who.
It was a damned big patch.“

N
o intruder could hide in the dark of an old house. Every creak of a timber and each footfall on the stair was kettledrum and timpani; moments of silence were suspect and fraught with tension – waiting, waiting.

Nedda rose from her bed and walked to the window. Evidently, Officer Brill had not been impressed by the most recent breakin. There were no police cars parked out front. She held the opera glasses borrowed from her mother’s old trunk in the attic. Raising the lenses to her eyes, she looked out over the park, bringing leaves into sharp focus and searching for a sign of movement among the branches.

Her brother and sister had not returned. They had been absent for yet another breakin, and she wondered what the police would make of that coincidence.

Cleo and Lionel spent so much of their time at the summer house, and Nedda blamed herself for making the town house unbearable. Ritty had offered another theory: they simply liked to drive; it was nothing for them to make the round trip in a day, only spending a few hours in one place or the other. Her niece believed that they used the summer house as an excuse, needing some destination for their drives, else they would drive in circles. The pair had longtime acquaintances, but no real friends to visit in the Hamptons.

But they had each other. And what of Bitty? She had no one but a lame cockatiel.

Nedda refocused the opera glasses and strained to see a man in the mesh of leaves. No, there was no one there, but she imagined him behind each tree. The wind was rising, and the branches lost more of their cover with every gust.

Waiting, waiting, anticipating.

She closed the drape and lit the lamp. Next, she sat down at the writing desk and picked up her pen. Nedda meant to explain her actions to her family, or that was her intention, but she could think of no way to begin her letter. Instead, she wrote the same line, over and over, filling both sides of a paper, then reaching for another sheet. If things should go wrong tonight, this might be the most eloquent explanation she could leave behind. Or was it a confession of sorts? Pages covered with her handwriting drifted to the floor as the hour grew late. Over and over again, she wrote the same line:
Cra^y people make sane people cra^y.

Rising from the desk, she switched off the lamp and returned to the window. There were no pedestrians in sight, and the traffic was light to nonexistent. She focused the opera glasses. There, a face moving behind the trees near the stone wall, that low barrier between the sidewalk and the park. Nedda looked back at the clock on her bedside table. Officer Brill would have gone off duty hours ago. What would she say if she called the police station?

I see a pale face in the woods?

No, they would not send anyone to search Central Park for suspicious persons, not on her account. They would write her off as a crazy old woman, and perhaps this was true. She watched the wood across the way and saw him more clearly now, but just the back of him moving deeper into the foliage.

Nedda disrobed to stand naked before her closet, moving hangers hunting for something night black. When she was dressed, she reached beneath her pillow to grab up the wooden handle of the ice pick. With great stealth she slipped down the hall to the stairs, finding her way in the dark, descending slowly, minding the steps that made noise. The alarm light was on in the foyer. She tapped in the number code to disarm it, then found the switch to turn off the light above the outside stairs.

C
harles Butler returned home from a charity auction, his wallet lightened by a donation, but no purchases had been made aside from cocktails at the bar. None of the antique furniture had remotely resembled the gaming table of his dreams. And now he had less than a week to replace the one that had been destroyed. Before he could insert the key into the lock for his apartment, he saw the lighted glass of the door to Butler and Company.

Mallory? She liked the late hours.

He entered the reception area and saw a light at the end of the hallway, but it was his own office and not hers. Charles found his cleaning woman fast asleep and slumped over a book in her lap. Now that was odd. Oh, wait – not odd at all. She had been reading the book on Winter House, and that would put anyone to sleep.

He put one hand on her shoulder. „Mrs. Ortega?“ When her eyes opened, he said, „I’ve never known you to work so late.“ He glanced at his watch. „It’s after midnight.“

This took some convincing. She had to look first at his watch then her own. „I’ll be damned. I couldn’t clean your office this afternoon,“ she said. „I had to do an errand for Mallory. I didn’t think you’d mind if – “

„Oh, but I
don’t
mind. So what sort of errand did you do for Mallory?“

„I can’t tell you.“

„Ah, sworn to secrecy. I understand.“ He walked to the credenza behind his desk and returned to join her on the couch, holding a bottle of sherry and two glasses. „However, it wouldn’t count if I guessed, would it?“

Undecided, she accepted a glass and allowed him to fill it – several times in quick succession.

He pointed to the book in her lap. „I’m guessing it’s something to do with Winter House.“

„Maybe,“ she said, and then she smiled. „Are you a betting man?“

„You know I am.“ Indeed, he never tired of losing at poker. „What’s the wager?“

She held up the thick volume. „I know what happened to Red Winter.“

„Fascinating.“ Charles dipped the decanter to refresh her glass. „Twenty dollars and a limo ride home to Brooklyn?“

„It’s a bet. I say Red Winter was never lost. That kid never even left her own house. The body was walled up in the foyer closet. That’s
my
theory.“

„Really.“ He filled her glass again. Mrs. Ortega had a high tolerance for alcohol, and it might take awhile to get the entire story.

N
edda stood on the sidewalk in a long black leather jacket and slacks.

She felt cold – exposed. A single car rolled by, and she turned away from the headlights, hiding the ice pick in her side pocket. She ran full out to cross the boulevard. When had she last run for her life or any other reason? It made her young again. The wind hit her face and picked at the loose weave of her braid. She approached the low stone wall as a twelve-year-old girl and easily scaled it, her feet hitting the broken branches and cracking dead leaves on the other side. And now she played the child’s game of statue, quieting her heart the better to hear a stranger’s footfall.

She was terrified, exhilarated –
alive.

This was a better plan than waiting for him to come for her. They were old friends now, she and Death. It got easier each time they met. And this time, she had selected the meeting place. Her head snapped right with a sound of a dry stick broken underfoot, and she walked that way, pushing branches to one side, going deeper and deeper into the wood and losing the light of the path lamps.

„Red Winter,“ said a man’s voice just behind her back.

Her hand closed around the ice pick in her pocket. She turned around to face him, but there was no one there.

„My God, it’s really you.“ A tall figure stepped out of the foliage. Only a shadow and only his voice discerned his sex. „Red Winter. You don’t remember me, do you?“ He clicked on a flashlight and shined it on his own face, making it ghoulish with sharp shadows riding the planes of his cheeks and the deep eye sockets. Yes, he was a tall one, and, just as Officer Brill had predicted, he wore a bandage high on his scalp where the lightbulb’s broken glass had scratched him.

„We met when you were very sick,“ he said, in a surprisingly normal voice, hardly threatening. „You made a nice recovery, didn’t you?“

She had not expected this – a civilized conversation replete with polite inquires on the state of her health. Had they met in a hospital? There had been so many of them over the years. And then there had been the nursing homes and finally the hospice. Her grip on the ice pick remained very tight.

„No,“ he said, lowering the flashlight. „You wouldn’t remember, would you? You were really out of it then.“

And now she must pin that down to one of three places. They might have met in the last hospital where her health had severely declined, or the nursing home where her life would have ended if not for Bitty. Or was it the hospice?

The man was coming closer, his white hands dangling from the arms of a loose flannel jacket that might conceal any number of weapons.

„Were you a patient, too?“ she asked, as if this might be a normal chat with some acquaintance who had slipped her memory.

„Me? In a nursing home?“ He actually smiled. „Not likely.“

No, he was only thirty years old at the outside. So he had met her in the Maine nursing home.

He placed his flashlight in the crook of his arm, shining its light on the trees behind him, and freeing both hands to open the buttons of his jacket. Did he have a gun? An ice pick could not beat a bullet. He was one step closer, his right hand still concealed.

His backward-shining beam spotlighted another figure in the wood, a lovely face with the luminous skin of a haunt.

Mallory.

The young detective was only a few yards away. Holding a very large gun in one hand, she crept closer with no clumsy breaks of twigs underfoot, but padding like a cat, taking her own time in Nedda’s elongated sense of seconds expanding in slow motion.

The man was pulling his hand from the folds of his jacket. What was that dark object in his hand?

Mallory was smiling as her gun hand was rising. The young policewoman was enjoying this moment, and a moment was all it was before Nedda heard the connection of heavy metal on bone. The man made less noise when he dropped to the ground.

A uniformed policeman stepped out of the woods in the company of Detective Riker, who hailed her with a broad smile and, „Hey, Nedda. How’s it going?“

Mallory waved one hand toward the younger of the two men. „You remember Officer Brill.“

„Yes, of course,“ said Nedda. „He comes to all of our crime scenes.“ She smiled at the patrolman. „How nice to see you again.“

„Evening, ma’am.“ Officer Brill tipped his cap, then turned to the chore of helping Riker pick up the fallen man. They carried the unconscious body up the path that would lead them back to the stone wall. A police car was waiting for them, its red lights spinning through breaks in the trees.

Nedda was left alone with Mallory, who was slow to holster her gun. „What brings you out so late, Miss Winter?“ The young detective circled around Nedda, then dropped her voice to a whisper behind the older woman’s back. „Hunting?“ Louder, Mallory said, „Not enough action back at your house?“

All Nedda saw was the flash of one white hand before she felt a light tug on her jacket. The movement was so quick, there was hardly time to be startled before she realized that the detective had just robbed her pocket of the ice pick.

„Brill was so worried about you,“ said Mallory. „And he even knows how good you are at taking down violent criminals.“ She glanced back over one shoulder, perhaps wanting the assurance they were alone – without witnesses. „Incidentally, that man had a gun, but it was still holstered behind his back.“ The detective held up a small camera. „This is what he had in his hand. So it’s lucky I interrupted you before you killed
another
unarmed citizen.“