Drawing Conclusions (2 page)

two

The weight on my
back was unbearable. I caught a glimpse of Charlie's hand as it flopped lifelessly on my shoulder. As I pitched forward, floorboards rising to my face, the room came alive and a team of trained professionals scooped me up before impact. At the unexpected announcement, Charlie had passed out on top of me and promptly wet his pants. Within moments, Trina, Jonathan, and Becky swarmed over us like an enormous worn quilt. Charlie lay prone on the floor with a bit of spittle hanging pathetically off his lip. The only thing I could think was that Charlie should have taken the chair.

Trina pulled my face toward hers and mumbled a stream of incoherent condolences. As she spoke, I ran my fingers over my ears in an attempt to fan away the resonating din. Unlike Charlie, I was conscious but barely functioning.

“I'm fine guys,” I heard myself say as I inched my way to a standing position. “Really. Get Charlie some water and a change of clothes.” I felt like I had swallowed a handful of NoDoz and chased it with a Red Bull. I had the sensation that all the light bulbs had been swapped out and replaced with strobe lights. I studied my pulsating hands as I directed the police officer upstairs. The soles of my feet barely skimmed the stair treads; I was transported on an escalator of raw energy.

I flung open the door to my attic art studio, hoping that the comfort of my personal refuge would take me down a notch. I spotted my painting stool and perched atop it. It was like balancing on the head of a pin.

“Ms. Prentice,” said the officer who had followed me upstairs.

“Just call me CeCe,” I replied waving my hand dismissively. “I don't know your name.”

“Detective Frank DeRosa,” he said hunching his back as he looked for a place to stand. The studio attic had a sharply peaked ceiling with slanted walls that effectively skimmed off two or three feet of headroom. Between my painting supplies and canvases, there was little room for Detective DeRosa to conduct his interview. He lifted one leg, placing it on a gallon paint can. I found his gesture offensive, like stepping on pile of books at a library.

“So is this for real?” I asked ignoring his awkward stance.

“I'm afraid so.” Detective DeRosa fired up his iPad, resting it on his knee, and slid his index finger across the screen. “Dr. Theodore Prentice was found at eleven p.m. in his office at the Sound View labs on Friday. Cause undetermined; autopsy ordered.”

“You mean Saturday,” I corrected.

“No, I mean Friday,” he replied, calmly looking up from his notes.

“This happened yesterday?” I said as if I had forgotten how many days there were in a week.

“Technically, the day before yesterday. It's now Sunday. The family asked us to keep the press out until some initial facts could be gathered. We promised twenty-four hours of silence.”

“But I'm not the press. I'm his sister. His only sibling.”

“You'll have to take that up with your father,” Detective DeRosa answered without apology.

I took the detective's comment in stride. What could I expect? I hadn't been on speaking terms with my father since I'd left for college. My rebellion started early, and by high school I was probably unbearable to even a liberal-minded parent. I remember packing my bags stuffed full of thrift shop finds and stomping defiantly past my father on my way to a new life at art school in the city.

I walked over to the window, if only for the chance to turn my back on Detective DeRosa. I hated him for succumbing to my father's omnipotence. I felt an unbridled compulsion to run at the detective headfirst and pummel him with my fists. Why I had stayed in Cold Spring Harbor at all was a mystery to me. I could have lived anywhere in the world, but I remained here, among a town of pod people entranced by a shaman. Dr. William Prentice and his bag of magic potions owned the town. The lab was a major employer in Cold Spring Harbor, a great resource for the school district, and a prominent national institution.

I looked out across the bay at the laboratory complex covering almost the entire twelve-acre peninsula called Cove Neck. At low tide I could literally walk across the inlet and up the hill to my brother's office. Every June on our birthday, I made a barefoot pilgrimage across the spongy bay where Teddy would meet me for a celebratory picnic. The campus, as it was called, was a collegial setting where top scientists shared ideas and innovations leading to groundbreaking discoveries. It was also a spectacular site for an outdoor picnic.

The darker side of the labs was experienced by anyone who dared to cross my father's path. Sound View Laboratories was my father's empire and the training ground for his beloved son to carry on his research. I could visit, but I'd never be part of it. And that was just fine by me.

“Ms. Prentice?”

“I don't answer to Ms. Prentice,” I replied sharply, catching the detective's attention. As he looked up, I surveyed his face. He had shaved this morning but would need another swipe of the razor within a few hours. The heavy growth around the lower half of his face framed his eyes, which were filled with doubt and query. He turned one corner of his mouth downward, rethinking his approach. He wanted answers from me and realized a change of tone
was in order.

“I'm sorry,” he said after some deliberation. To emphasize a truce, he put his iPad aside, giving me his full attention before continuing. “If you wouldn't mind, could you provide me the names of the people who live in this house and their relationship to each other?”

“You didn't come here to tell me about my brother, did you? You came here to ask us questions.”

“The more information, the better.”

We had nothing to hide, so I offered a quick rundown of the residents of Harbor House. “I have four housemates. Trina and Jonathan handle most of the farming. Charlie and I are childhood friends. He's also my brother's best friend. Becky designs clothing from discarded fabrics.”

Detective DeRosa's fingers, which seemed almost too bulky for the slim electronic device, pounded away at the touch pad as if I had just revealed a buried secret.

I spun on my heels, arms folded tightly across my chest. “I still don't understand what happened. Teddy and I aren't even thirty. Was it a heart attack?”

“What if it wasn't a heart attack?” he challenged.

I walked back to the detective. “
What if it wasn't a heart attack?
What the hell does that mean?” It was ever so slight, but I felt the pressure of Detective DeRosa's imposing frame as he leaned into me. Subtle aggression. I took a step forward and lessened the gap. Not so subtle on my part.

“I was hoping you could provide some answers. I understand you were very close to your brother.” The detective handed me his card. “Come by the station at your convenience. Your brother's death has not been classified as a homicide just yet, but on the outside chance it is, I'd like to start investigating before any more time has passed.”

Detective DeRosa glanced around my studio. There were over a hundred half-finished canvases, many of them nearly identical.

“What's with the faces?” he asked, downgrading my artwork to circles with eyes.

“Portraits, not faces.”

“Okay, portraits. Why all the portraits?”

“It's what I do. I'm an artist,” I said as I walked toward the staircase.

I led the detective out of my studio, down the stairs, and directly to the front door of Harbor House.

“Good night.” I opened the front door and stood to the side, a signal that our conversation was over. I flicked on the porch light on the outside chance he did not get the hint. The eco-friendly bulb cast a dull glow, highlighting yet another visitor.

“Dad?” I gasped as my father made his way up the stairs.

three

A batch of gnats
swarmed the porch light and tested my father's patience as he swatted them away with a linen handkerchief. The bags beneath his eyes were swollen with grief and the corners of his mouth were bent so far south I thought he might have lost the ability to smile. We both hesitated, unsure whether or not to embrace. Before I had a chance to react, my father reached out to shake the detective's hand.

“Detective DeRosa, you're on your way out. I see you've already spoken to Constance.”

“Yes, he has,” I said, acknowledging the fact that I was the last to learn of my brother's death.

“I'm sorry about that, I tried to get here earlier,” my father replied, his voice scratchy from overuse. “If you don't mind, I need a minute with the detective and then I was hoping you'd invite me in.”

I left the two men to talk privately on the porch. I used the extra minutes to take stock of the house, assessing where best to receive my father. When one is raised as the child of a wealthy doctor, there are expectations, a certain level of decorum, even in the event of a death. I found myself reacting out of a habit engrained by good upbringing. I chose the room we had designated as the library, a cramped but organized storage room for our collection of eclectic, second-hand books.

I listened as DeRosa's car backed down the driveway and quickly selected a chair for my father. “Dad, this one is more comfortable,” I said pointing to the lesser worn of the chairs. My father seated himself, pulling down slightly on his pressed trousers.

“I have to be honest,” I said swallowing hard. “I don't know if I can do this with you.”

“You need to calm down.” My father started with the words he'd directed at me over and over throughout my childhood, even when I was perfectly calm.

“Teddy is dead,” I said ignoring his patronizing tone. “Am I to assume you think this makes sense? Guess what, it doesn't. This doesn't make sense.”

My father sat with his back straight and his forearms stretched tautly along the sides of the chair, like an airplane passenger preparing for a bumpy landing. “No, it doesn't,” he replied, “but we've lost a lot of time, and I am willing to put our differences aside. I came here to discuss your brother. I was hoping we could be civil.”

“Then why didn't you come to me yesterday and tell me about Teddy? He's my twin, for God's sake,” I said, shoving the small of my back into my chair.

My father's hesitation was interminable. This was not a question he wanted to answer. I lifted my head from my hand and faced him full on.

“Dad,” I pushed, “Why didn't you and Mom come to me sooner?”

My father sighed, and I sensed his growing impatience. This was a man who spoke and others bowed in awe. He did not take kindly to opposition, but my question was fair and I deserved a response.

“Because Theodore was an integral part of the labs and whether he died of natural causes or not, his passing must be presented to the scientific community with care,” my father said in defense of his delay. “Our funding, our partnerships and our relationship with the public are dependent upon our ability to deliver results with absolute consistency. Theodore was involved in a number of high-profile studies, and the board requested a short period of time to review his work and determine the impact of his absence. The police agreed because at this point there is no indication of foul play.”

“But—” I tried to interject, only to be cut off.

“Constance, this is not the time to be naïve,” he said, holding his palm flat as if I were a puppy learning to heel. “The world is significantly bigger and more complex than this idealistic commune you've created here.”

As I suspected, it took all of three minutes for our conversation to dissolve into disrespect.

My father rose from the heavily cushioned chair, and I could see the effort was a strain for his aging body. He walked to the bookshelves, his left hip showing the pull of arthritis. I'd never thought of my father as old until this moment. His frailty made me nervous. My father was a grand man, a pillar of strength. Now, he seemed beaten.

He
ran his finger along a row of books, giving himself time to collect his thoughts. “You must realize that in the last ten years your brother has matured into a prominent and well-respected research doctor. I know that you and Theodore and your childhood friend—” My fat
her pointed into the air to retrieve the name.

“
Charlie
,” I reminded him. “Teddy's best friend is Charlie.”

“Yes, of course,” my father fumbled, trying to cover his oversight. “The three of you have socialized for years. But you must remember that every morning your brother returned to the labs, joining company with some of the medical profession's key figures. You need to give your brother his due. This delay was proportional to his contributions.”

“Just once, could you put the labs aside?” I pleaded, remembering how the missed dinners and business trips ate away at our family's dynamic. I'd never understood how Teddy was able to remain neutral all these years. He loved my parents and he loved me, but he kept his worlds separate. Now I wasn't sure my father saw Teddy in the context of family at all. “He's your son first,” I slurred as despair mangled my words, “and a scientist second.”

My father pulled his chin to the ceiling as if he were using gravity to draw his tears back into their ducts. I sensed a softening.

“In all my years as a doctor, I never thought I would attend the autopsy of my son,” my father began. “I want to assure you that I stood shoulder to shoulder with the medical examiner through the initial work-up.”

“And you found nothing?” I said, dragging my sleeve under my nose.

“On this first round, no,” my father said and then cleared his throat. “A more intrusive examination occurred after I left, and it will take a few weeks to receive the blood and toxicology reports.”

“Don't protect me,” I said, recalling how my parents replaced my pet goldfish a dozen times rather than telling me the fish had died. “I'm okay with the truth.”

“The truth is I have no idea how your brother died, but I have asked the police to open an official investigation. That was my discussion with Detective DeRosa a few minutes ago. I came as soon as I got word from the board to proceed, and I'm here tonight to ask for your full participation. You and your housemates were close to Teddy. It's important you speak freely with the police.”

“That goes without saying,” I answered, now wondering if my father had already tipped Detective DeRosa off to my challenging personality.

My father leaned toward me, and for a second I thought he had lost his footing. I reached out to steady him but was met by a cold, dry kiss on the side of my head. “Thank you, dear,” he said.