morning doses down the toilet. The medication had been prescribed for an illness that she had never had, and now she watched the tablets swirling around the toilet bowl. What luxury this was after all the years of picking up the pills that other patients had spit out, then ingesting them, tasting other people’s bile and inheriting their diseases and sundry germs. How difficult it would be to make anyone understand that this slow attempt at suicide had been the act of a sane woman. Now, in the absence of any medication, she was getting stronger every day, disappointing her brother and sister.
Barefoot, she left her room. On the other side of the door, she met her dead stepmother on the day of the massacre. In the manner of a puppeteer, memory worked Alice Winter’s limbs, and the pretty woman crossed the threshold of the bedroom to rouse another version of Nedda – -young Nedda with the long red hair. The house itself had been drowsing, running off the low batteries of nine sleepy children on a Sunday morning.
As Nedda started down the staircase, her father, with only a few more hours to live, was climbing toward her. Fifty-eight years ago, she had stood on tiptoe to kiss him in passing. Now she simply watched him go by in his silk pajamas and dressing gown. What a beautiful man he was, long fair hair like a prince from another age. He was holding a glass with the foul-smelling ingredients of his hangover cure. The disembodied voice of Billie Holiday wafted up the stairs behind him, dogging him from the phonograph below and moaning the blues to Daddy.
In the next century, Nedda completed her descent to the parlor floor, where Bitty was a child-size lump beneath the afghan on the sofa. She sat down in a chair beside her sleeping niece and waited. A few minutes passed before the younger woman sensed another presence in the room. Small hands gripped the afghan, and her eyes opened, cagey at first, only looking through slits for signs of danger. „Aunt Nedda?“
Was there just a touch of fear in Bitty’s voice? Yes, and Nedda winced.
„Good morning, dear. I was just curious. What did you do with the tape from the security camera? The police were asking about it.“
„I put it where they’d never want to look.“ Bitty fumbled with the afghan then produced her Bible from the folds of wool and opened it.
Oh, not a book at all.
The Bible was a clever box, and nestled inside a rectangular compartment was the videotape.
T he morgue attendant from the graveyard shift was not at his desk. The chief medical examiner was about to ask Kathy Mallory what she had done with the poor man’s body, but then the double doors swung open and Ray Fallon appeared, alive if not well. He was nervous – Kathy had that effect on him – and sweating from recent exertion.
After handing a deli bag to the detective, the attendant was tipped lavishly but not thanked, not that Fallon cared, so eager was he to get away from her. „Men’s room,“ he said to his boss.
And Slope knew that the man would not be back again until Kathy had left the premises. „You sent him out for your breakfast?“ The doctor affected the lecture mode that he used when he suspected her of cheating at cards. „If you think I’m going to tolerate – “
„I had to get rid of him.“ She dug into the brown paper bag and pulled out a bagel. „I can’t afford any leaks on this case, and he’s the worst. You know you should’ve fired that weasel years ago.“
This was her very best trick – reversal of guilt, and he should have seen it coming because she was right.
Kathy Mallory bit into her bagel. With her free hand, she pulled out the metal drawer where she kept her own personal corpse. The victim was still encased in the body bag, and there was no attendant paperwork attached. None of her crime-scene photos had included any body parts above or below the torso, and now she pulled back the zipper to give the pathologist his first look at the face.
Barefoot, she left her room. On the other side of the door, she met her dead stepmother on the day of the massacre. In the manner of a puppeteer, memory worked Alice Winter’s limbs, and the pretty woman crossed the threshold of the bedroom to rouse another version of Nedda – -young Nedda with the long red hair. The house itself had been drowsing, running off the low batteries of nine sleepy children on a Sunday morning.
As Nedda started down the staircase, her father, with only a few more hours to live, was climbing toward her. Fifty-eight years ago, she had stood on tiptoe to kiss him in passing. Now she simply watched him go by in his silk pajamas and dressing gown. What a beautiful man he was, long fair hair like a prince from another age. He was holding a glass with the foul-smelling ingredients of his hangover cure. The disembodied voice of Billie Holiday wafted up the stairs behind him, dogging him from the phonograph below and moaning the blues to Daddy.
In the next century, Nedda completed her descent to the parlor floor, where Bitty was a child-size lump beneath the afghan on the sofa. She sat down in a chair beside her sleeping niece and waited. A few minutes passed before the younger woman sensed another presence in the room. Small hands gripped the afghan, and her eyes opened, cagey at first, only looking through slits for signs of danger. „Aunt Nedda?“
Was there just a touch of fear in Bitty’s voice? Yes, and Nedda winced.
„Good morning, dear. I was just curious. What did you do with the tape from the security camera? The police were asking about it.“
„I put it where they’d never want to look.“ Bitty fumbled with the afghan then produced her Bible from the folds of wool and opened it.
Oh, not a book at all.
The Bible was a clever box, and nestled inside a rectangular compartment was the videotape.
T he morgue attendant from the graveyard shift was not at his desk. The chief medical examiner was about to ask Kathy Mallory what she had done with the poor man’s body, but then the double doors swung open and Ray Fallon appeared, alive if not well. He was nervous – Kathy had that effect on him – and sweating from recent exertion.
After handing a deli bag to the detective, the attendant was tipped lavishly but not thanked, not that Fallon cared, so eager was he to get away from her. „Men’s room,“ he said to his boss.
And Slope knew that the man would not be back again until Kathy had left the premises. „You sent him out for your breakfast?“ The doctor affected the lecture mode that he used when he suspected her of cheating at cards. „If you think I’m going to tolerate – “
„I had to get rid of him.“ She dug into the brown paper bag and pulled out a bagel. „I can’t afford any leaks on this case, and he’s the worst. You know you should’ve fired that weasel years ago.“
This was her very best trick – reversal of guilt, and he should have seen it coming because she was right.
Kathy Mallory bit into her bagel. With her free hand, she pulled out the metal drawer where she kept her own personal corpse. The victim was still encased in the body bag, and there was no attendant paperwork attached. None of her crime-scene photos had included any body parts above or below the torso, and now she pulled back the zipper to give the pathologist his first look at the face.
Similar Books
