A Chill Rain in January (18 page)

“What are you going to do with him?” he said when she returned.

“I'm going to keep him for a while,” said Zoe.

She smiled at him, and Alberg felt his mouth go dry. She was thinking about him. He knew there was nothing at all on her mind except him. It was like staring into a searchlight.

“He has grandparents,” Zoe went on. “His mother's parents. He'll go to live with them, I expect. After the funeral.”

He nodded, smiling a little, looking into her eyes. He wondered if she could see inside his mind.

“Perhaps you can tell me, Staff Sergeant—when is that doctor going to release the body?”

He felt his smile become fixed and heard himself say, “Soon. I'm sure it'll be soon.” She looked startled, and he realized that he'd stood up. He turned and headed quickly for the front door.

“Aren't you going to have coffee?” she said, following him.

“I'll check back with Dr. Gillingham right away,” he said over his shoulder, “and find out when you can claim the body.”

“But I thought—why did you come here, then?” she said, annoyed.

On her front step he peered worriedly up into the sky. “Still raining. Doesn't look like it's about to quit, either.” He pulled up the collar of his jacket. “I'll be back soon,” he said to her.

He trotted off into the rain, and Zoe, baffled, watched him go. Perhaps he'll get pneumonia, she thought crossly, and cough himself to death.

C
ASSANDRA
sat in her living room watching television, acutely mindful of her mother's supine presence on the white leather sofa. The sound of Mrs. Mitchell's chortling response to Bill Cosby rasped in Cassandra's ears. The sight of her mother pursing her lips to drink tea caused Cassandra to blink rapidly, as though it were a mote in her eye. The fragrance of Helen Mitchell's lavender bath salts, bath powder, and body cream created an unpleasant tickling at the back of Cassandra's nose.

When “The Cosby Show” was over, Mrs. Mitchell switched over to “Matlock.” “I've always liked Andy Griffith,” she said approvingly.

“How come you never got married again?” said Cassandra abruptly.

“You know why,” said her mother comfortably. “I never met a man who could hold a candle to your father.”

Cassandra's father had died when she was eight. When she thought of him, which wasn't often, she recalled a distant benevolence that seemed always to have been attired in a gray suit. He'd died in 1951, and Cassandra's mother had embraced widowhood as if she'd been born to it.

“I know, Mom,” said Cassandra. “But you must have met some who would have made a pretty decent second choice.”

“I had children to bring up,” said Mrs. Mitchell. “You and Graham. You were my first responsibility.”

Cassandra's brother, Graham, was seven years older than she. His memories of their father were sharp and clear and legion. Sometimes when the three of them got together and started reminiscing, Cassandra tried to chime in with some memories of her own. But the other two always corrected her, and added things, and soon whatever it was she'd thought she remembered was unrecognizable. Defunct.

Cassandra stood up. “I'm going to bed,” she said. “Can I get you anything first?”

“It's not even nine o'clock,”' said her mother. “Do you always go to bed so early?”

“No,” said Cassandra. “I'm just tired today, that's all. Can I get you something?”

“Well, it's a bit early, but I suppose I could have my hot milk now, if it's not too much trouble.”

Cassandra slept badly that night.

When she awoke Tuesday morning she heard her mother talking to someone. She dressed hurriedly and found Mrs. Mitchell in the kitchen, sitting at the table talking on the phone to Graham.

Cassandra made her bed, washed, combed her hair, and put on some makeup. Her mother was still talking. She sounded cheerful and happy. When Cassandra went back to the kitchen to start making breakfast, her mother said, “Here, dear, say hello to your brother,” and held out the phone.

“I don't want to say hello to my brother,” said Cassandra, opening a cupboard.

“I'd better go now, Graham,” said Mrs. Mitchell. When she'd hung up she said, “I always call him early in the morning. The rates are cheaper before eight.”

Cassandra, making coffee, didn't reply.

“Make sure you let me know, when the bill comes, how much I owe you for long-distance calls,” said her mother.

The phone rang, and it was Karl. He sounded plaintive and depressed. He invited her out to lunch; Cassandra said no, she'd have to make lunch for her mother.

She got orange juice out of the fridge and poured herself a glass.

“None for me, dear,” said her mother. “It's too acidic for my stomach. I'll just have some milk and cereal. What's more,” she said, standing up, slowly, “I think I can get it for myself this morning.”

“Sit down,” said Cassandra. “I'll get it.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Mitchell, shuffling across the room toward the pantry. “I'm going to do it.”

“Mother. If you're well enough to fix your own breakfast, you're probably well enough to go home. Are you well enough to go home?”

Tears quivered in Mrs. Mitchell's eyes, but Cassandra could tell she was becoming angry. “Why are you being unkind?” said her mother.

Cassandra sat down at the table. “I don't know. I'm sorry.”

Her mother was too short to reach the cereal, which was on the top shelf, so Cassandra got it for her. She sat down again and watched as Mrs. Mitchell carefully poured cereal into a bowl, and added milk, and got a spoon from the silverware drawer.

Her mother had to pass behind Cassandra in order to return to her place at the table, and as she did so, Cassandra automatically flinched.

When he left Zoe Strachan, Alberg went to Cassandra's house; it was Tuesday, and he knew the library didn't open until one o'clock on Tuesdays, so he was pretty sure she'd be home. He drove past the hospital, up the hill, onto the gravel access road that paralleled the highway. Cassandra's garage door was open, and her fourteen-year-old Hornet was parked inside.

He went up the walk and was surprised to hear an argument going on inside. He knocked on the door. After a minute he heard angry whispering, and a door slamming, and quick footsteps approaching. The door opened. Cassandra stood there, looking feverish.

“Do you know,” said Alberg solemnly, “that a domestic dispute is the thing us police dread most?”

Cassandra's face flushed crimson. “Did somebody call you?” she said, appalled.

Alberg laughed. “No. I was just passing by.” He glanced over her shoulder into the house, but he couldn't see Mrs. Mitchell. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine,” said Cassandra. “What do you want?” He watched affectionately as she brushed some stray strands of hair from her forehead. He loved the way it got curlier when it got damp.

“Oh,” he said softly, “I just needed to get my lust in perspective.” Her skin looked very warm; there was a thin blaze of sweat on her face.

“What are you talking about?” she said impatiently.

“Actually, I thought I'd wait while you make lunch for your mom, and then take you to Earl's. So we can plan our trip.”

“Trip? What trip?”

“What do you mean, ‘what trip'?” he said indignantly. “We're going to Victoria. This weekend.”

She shook her head wearily. “I can't go away this weekend, Karl.”

“You mean…your mother?” He lowered his voice. “But I thought you said there wasn't anything wrong with her.”

“Talk to your friend Gillingham,” she snapped. “It was his idea.”

“Shit.”

“Thirteen years this has been going on. For thirteen years I've lived in this godforsaken town, watching over my damn mother, who might or might not have a damn heart condition.”

“Cassandra. Calm down.”

“Oh calm down yourself for God's sake. Why are you standing there; anyway? Go away. Go find somebody else to go to Victoria with.” She slammed the door.

W
HEN
Alberg got to the detachment a few minutes later, Sandy McAllister, the mailman, was there talking to Isabella, and Sid Sokolowski was helping himself over at the coffee machine.

“Look at that rain,” said Isabella. “I think we need a few flowers in here, to brighten the place up.”

“Forget it,” said Alberg.

“I'll get some tomorrow,” said Isabella. “Maybe a pot of hyacinths. Wait a minute before you disappear down your hallway there. You've got another chance to see Bernie Peters. She can squeeze you in tomorrow afternoon.”

“I've changed my mind, Isabella,” said Alberg, with a furtive glance at the reproachful back of Sid Sokolowski, whose wife's cousin Ludmilla he had turned down for the job. “I'm not going to hire anybody after all.” He scurried into his office and shut the door before she could come after him.

Then he called Gillingham. “I need to talk to you,” he said, and they arranged to meet at Earl's for lunch.

Gillingham ordered a spinach salad and some soda water.

Alberg asked for a hamburger platter and coffee.

“I went out to see Zoe Strachan,” Alberg told the doctor. “I didn't tell her she can have the body.”

Gillingham stared at him. “You're kidding.”

“I changed my mind,” said Alberg defensively.

Gillingham held up his hand. “Wait. Let me guess. There's another dead guy in her basement.”

“No. But there's a kid in her spare room.”

“What kind of a kid?”

“Small. Male. In seven weeks he'll be ten years old.”

Earl, the Chinese owner of the cafe, delivered Alberg's coffee in a large mug.

“Jesus, Earl,” said the doctor, “what are you trying to do, kill him?”

“He likes his coffee,” said Earl, setting down Gillingham's soda water. “What can I do? If I don't supply him, somebody else will.”

“It's her brother's kid,” said Alberg, when Earl had retreated.

“The dead guy? I thought you told me he didn't have any kids.”

“Yeah. She says she didn't know about him. He's adopted. Kenny, his name is.”

Gillingham sat back and watched approvingly as Earl put down a large bowl of spinach salad, dressing on the side. “I'm not going to say a word about that crap you're feeding to my overweight friend, there.”

“My burgers are extra-lean ground beef,” said Earl. “My French fries are homemade. That sauce in there, it's a family secret.”

“Don't let him get to you, Earl,” said Alberg, picking up a French fry.

“I make a pretty good spinach salad,” said Earl, “but it's nothing compared to my hamburger.”

“Where the hell did you get that thing you're wearing?” said Gillingham.

Proudly, Earl looked down at himself. He was enveloped in a huge white baker's apron. “Paris. Mrs. Eddersley brought it back for me.” He returned to the kitchen, tenderly smoothing the apron down over his hips.

Alberg cut his hamburger in half and lifted up the bun so he could sprinkle salt inside. “She went to Strachan's house the day after he died. Said she had to pick up some clothes to bury him in. Found the kid there.”

“He'd been there alone all night?”

“I guess so.”

“I wonder why he didn't call anybody.”

“Probably kept thinking his dad would be home any minute.”

“So the next day this aunt shows up and tells him his old man's dead. Must have been a hell of a shock.”

“Yeah,” said Alberg. He took a bite of his hamburger, leaning over so that his plate would catch the drips.

“This is delicious,” said Gillingham, slowly and solemnly, looking into his spinach salad. Then he sighed, and sat back. “Helen Mitchell saw my wife, Marjorie, the other day. My ex-wife, I mean. She says she's lost thirty pounds and dyed her hair. Blond.”