Gaits of Heaven by Susan Conant Page B

that lay straight ahead. The room was almost totally dark; the only light came from the hall. The stench was nauseating. Despite my sudden realization that something might actually be wrong, I now had the sense that my presence was genuinely inappropriate. Still, I ran my hand over the wall near the door frame, found a light switch, and flipped it. Two lamps with low-watt bulbs came on, one on a dresser and one on a small desk. Ahead of me was a king-size bed with a duvet so heavy and rumpled that it was at first hard to see that the bed was occupied at all. Fighting the awkward sense of being an intruder, I spoke Eumie’s name as I moved toward the left-hand side of the bed, where masses of streaked blond-brown hair were almost camouflaged by the multicolored duvet cover and matching pillows. “Eumie!” I said loudly. “Eumie, wake up!”
    My first physical effort to rouse her was tentative: I lowered one hand to what I guessed was the vicinity of her shoulders and patted gently. Nothing whatever happened: there was not the slightest sign of movement, not the faintest sound of breath. After that, I was all action, ripping the comforter off, rolling Eumie onto her back, pushing up one sleeve of her pink silk pajamas to check for a pulse, feeling the cold of her skin, observing the rigidity of wrist and elbow, and yanking the cell phone out of my pocket, pushing the button that brought it to life, and punching the emergency number. Struggling to speak clearly, I gave the Greens’ address and had just finished saying that Eumie was dead when a young woman burst into the room and came to an abrupt halt.
    I recognized Caprice Brainard immediately. My cousin Leah had said that Caprice had a major weight problem. The problem, as I now saw, consisted of distribution as well as of simple obesity. Bad genetic luck or some vicious force of nature had forced excess pounds upward to her face and neck. What looked like separate pockets of fat seemed to have been cruelly inserted on the upper and lower lids of her blue eyes, on either side of her mouth, on her cheeks, and even on her forehead; and distinct rolls encircled her neck. Her body was heavy, but her torso was mercifully rounded, and she wore a long denim skirt that hid her legs and feet. Her beautiful hair seemed to mock the disfigurement of her face. She had the blond ringlets of a cherub.
    Still holding the cell phone to my ear, I used my other hand to gesture to Caprice to stop where she was. Simultaneously, I shook my head. “Wait outside,” I told her.
    Unfortunately, I was too late. Caprice’s eyes were fixed on her mother’s body. Frozen in place, she began to scream. Having finished reporting the essentials of the emergency, I gave up on the 911 call, put the phone back in my pocket, and was moving toward Caprice when Ted appeared. Instead of checking on his wife or attending to his stepdaughter, he rushed past Caprice and through the open door of what proved to be a large and luxurious bathroom. When he put the lights on, I could see tile, marble, and mirrors. Noticing my gaze, Ted hastily shut the door.
    The bang of the door silenced Caprice, but before I had the chance to lead her out of the room, a teenage boy staggered in and began shouting, “Caprice, for Christ’s sake, shut up! All I’m trying to do is get some sleep. Now shut your fat mouth!”
    His eyes were heavy, and he was naked except for a white towel wrapped around his waist. His sandy hair formed a thick mat of wiry curls, his face was pale and blotched, and his body was so pitifully lacking in muscle tone that he was at once thin and flabby. The combination of visible ribs and a swollen belly suggested some form of malnutrition more prevalent in Third World countries than on Avon Hill.
    “Wyeth, get out of here!” Caprice told him. “My mother is dead. Now, leave!”
    Simultaneously, Ted emerged from the bathroom, and Dolfo rushed into the room and leaped onto the bed.
    “It stinks of shit