The Cinderella Hour (25 page)

“His ring was a reminder of what?” Lieutenant Patrick Cole
asked.

“His brilliance. And how foolish—and fatal—it was for his
sister to go against his wishes.”

“What did she do?”

“To cause her own murder? She had the audacity,” Ellen said softly,
“to want to be a June bride.”

“Blaine opposed her marriage. Why?”

“Nothing as perverted as your tone is suggesting. He wasn’t
in love with his sister. He’s incapable of love. It wasn’t even the marriage he
objected to. His problem was the timing. He wanted to be in Chicago the first
weekend in June, attending another wedding, instead of giving his sister away
at her wedding in Boston.”

“So he murdered her?”

“And his mother. It would have been a bother, he said, having
to comfort her in her grief after her daughter’s death. He had better things to
do. Besides, he was tired of living on campus and hadn’t found anywhere else in
Boston he liked as much as his family home. With both of them dead, he’d have
the Beacon Hill mansion all to himself. He’s evil. He
defines
evil.”

“Yes,” Patrick agreed quietly. “He does.”

“He’s a sociopath who hasn’t been spotted by any of his
psychiatric colleagues.”

“In fairness to those colleagues, successful sociopaths blend
in seamlessly. And charmingly. They’re also capable of making professional
contributions despite their personal psychopathology. Significant
contributions, Ellen, as Blaine has.”

“You’re
not
defending him.”

“The murderer? Never. I’m just telling you that—as with many
sociopaths—Blaine’s professional life seems to be distinct from his personal
one. By all accounts, he’s an excellent psychiatrist. Believe me, I’ve checked.
And he’s drawn national attention to important women’s health issues, such as
postpartum depression, that have been largely overlooked.”

“That was tonight’s topic. The phone lines were flooded with
grateful patients calling in. I’m
glad
they’ve benefited from Blaine’s medical expertise. I even hope the good he’s accomplished won’t be undermined
when he’s exposed as a cold-blooded killer who holds women in great disdain.
They’re tolerable,
we’re
tolerable, as long as he’s in control. But the
minute we dare to depart from his plans, like getting married on a day he would
rather be elsewhere—or informing him we have no intention of resuming a relationship
with him—he lashes out.”

“Is that what happened sixteen years ago?”

“Yes. He wasn’t happy when I told him I wasn’t interested in
seeing him, as if I had no choice in the matter, no right to say no. Wasn’t
happy is an understatement. He was furious.”

“But he’s left you alone?” Patrick asked.

“Only because I’ve been in my own witness protection program.”

“Until tonight.”

“He doesn’t know me as Ellen O’Neil. I am a witness, though,
aren’t I? A witness against him in the murder of his family.”

“Not
a
witness, Ellen.
The
witness . . . who’s unwilling
to testify?”

“Why do you say that?”

“I thought I heard a heavy sigh.”

“You did, but not because I’m unwilling to tell my story.
Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better—literally
nothing
—than
knowing Blaine Prescott was behind bars for the rest of his life. But guess who’d
win a he-said she-said battle in court? And that’s what it would be. My word
against his.”

“There might be forensic evidence.”

“Really?”

“The medical examiner agreed to Blaine’s request not to
perform full autopsies. But unbeknownst to Blaine, and completely within his
lawful discretion, the M.E. biopsied vital organs. To the best of my knowledge
he didn’t look for ethylene glycol, the ingredient in antifreeze. It’s been
implicated in recent homicides, but three decades ago antifreeze was primarily
recognized as a cause of accidental death in pets.”

“Blaine bragged about choosing a poison that the idiot
cops—his words—would never suspect. Let’s hope the medical examiner hasn’t
misplaced the samples.”

“He hasn’t.”

“You’ve made sure.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve believed Blaine was responsible for a while, haven’t
you? The first officer I spoke with said you had a special interest in the
case.”

“I’ve believed in Blaine’s guilt for thirty-two years, since
the Monday morning he called to tell me Julie was dead.”

The loss in Patrick’s voice was unmistakable. So was the
love.

“You were the rookie cop,” Ellen whispered. “Julie was your fiancée.”

“Yes,” he said softly, “she was.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So am I. For Julie. She deserved a long happy life.”

“She would have had that with you.”

“We would have had it together . . . if only I hadn’t worked
every weekend in May so I’d have that June weekend off. I had no idea Blaine had conflicting plans. I doubt he even told Julie.”

Ellen wondered, in the ensuing silence, if she and Patrick
were sharing a similar thought. When Julie had unwittingly gotten in Blaine’s way, he hadn’t given her so much as a chance to make things right. He had simply
killed her. “We’re going to get him, Patrick. We’re going to get the son of a
bitch tomorrow.”

“Whoa.”

“What?”

“I’m having a little trouble with we and tomorrow.”

“Fine.
I’m
going to get him.
Tomorrow
.”

Ellen imagined a long-distance smile. But she heard no traces
of it when he replied.

“Even if the M.E. finds ethylene glycol—”

“He will.”

“—we may not have a prosecutable case. Between the time Blaine told you about the murders and when you saw him sixteen years later did you tell
anyone what he’d told you?”

“No. Now
you’re
sighing. Why?”

“Because it was only twelve years after Julie and Margaret
died that Blaine started telling the story he told tonight. That makes it easy
for him to come up with a plausible defense against your accusation.”

“Which is what?”

“That you have your dates and facts confused. It’s understandable,
he would say. Memory can play tricks, especially when drugs are involved. He
would readily admit to your encounter thirty-two years ago. But he’d claim that
the details were vague for him, because of the passage of time and the degree
of his intoxication. He wouldn’t doubt, however, that he’d talked to you about
the deaths. It had only been three weeks since his family died. He would have
been distraught, grieving, needing to talk. Then, he’d say, when he ran into
you sixteen years later, he shared his theory with you that Julie, in the
throes of psychotic mania, poisoned the meal, possibly with ethylene glycol. He
would have recalled how sweet the food tasted and, by then, antifreeze as a
murder weapon would have been coming into vogue. Were drugs involved the second
time you saw him?”

“Not by me. Not drugs. Not alcohol.”

“So you say.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“Julie’s.”

“So am I.”
Julie’s and Snow’s
. “We’re on the same
side, Patrick.”

“And the law is on his.”

“You don’t know that!”

“Actually, I do. Even if the M.E. documents ethylene glycol,
your testimony wouldn’t be enough to overcome Blaine’s presumption of
innocence. The prosecutors couldn’t get an indictment, much less a conviction.”

“And you’re certain of this why?”

“I’ve prosecuted my share of homicides in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

“You’re a lawyer turned cop.”

“I was a cop first. After Julie died, I needed a break from
the violence—and sadness—I saw on the streets. Law school seemed a good choice.
I spent eight years as a prosecutor before rejoining the force.”

“So you really know whereof you speak,” Ellen said. “My
testimony’s not going to send him to prison.”

“I’m afraid not. But I’m interested in why there’s nothing
you’d like better than putting him there.”

“He’s a murderer. What other reason do you need?”

“Tell me about your relationship to Snow Gable.”

I have no relationship. Merely years of regret
. “Where’s that question coming
from?”

“I’m wondering why you were listening to an online broadcast
of a Chicago-based radio show.”

“For the past seven years, it’s been based in Atlanta.”

“So you’re a fan.”

“Yes.”

“I’m looking at Snow Gable’s photograph on
The Cinderella
Hour
website,” Patrick said. “She’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Does she look like you?”

“Not at all.”

“But you’re her mother.”

“You heard her voice, didn’t you?”

“No. Is it the same as yours?”

“Pretty close.”

“Does she look like her father?”

“No. She doesn’t look like anyone I know.”

“But she looks like someone I knew, Ellen. Your beautiful
daughter, Blaine’s beautiful daughter, looks exactly like Julie.”

“I should get a coat,” Snow said when Bea and Thomas had gone
inside Thomas’s condo and she and Luke were alone in the hall. “It will only
take a moment.”

“There’s no rush. It’s not my investigation. I shouldn’t be
the first to walk the scene. Besides, I have a feeling that whoever set the
fire will have left only the clues he wanted us to find.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It just has that feel. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Snow opened the door and led the way into her
condo. “Please excuse the mess. I haven’t made much headway settling in.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Luke said. But she
was
worried. Anxious. It wasn’t the clutter that made her nervous. It was him. “Snow?”

She was weaving her way between cardboard boxes as gracefully
as she had dodged fallen branches when she had run to their clearing in the
ravine . . . and when she had woven through a hostile crowd to get to a
glass-filled pool.

“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.”

“Something else, then? Not that I have much else. But I can
order room service from the hotel. It’s one of the perks of living in the
Towers.”

The woman who was winding a path across her living room
toward the kitchen was as determined as the girl he had known. But there was a
difference. Her purpose now was to put distance between them, not to narrow, as
swiftly as she possibly could, even the smallest gap.

“
Snow
.”

She stopped. Turned. “What, Luke?”

“I need to tell you where I went after I left your house on
the night of the ball.”

She took a step back and found the support of a wall. “It’s
not necessary. It was so long ago.”

“And you think you already know.”

“I
do
know.”

“No,” he said softly. “You don’t. Everything Vivian told you
was a lie.”

Her hands flattened against the smooth plaster. “A lie?”

“Every word. I was never in love with Vivian. Not even close.”

“Why would she lie about that?”

“Because she’s a despicable human being.”

As Snow saw his contempt for Vivian, she recalled Vivian’s
expression when she spoke of him that Sunday morning. “She was in love with
you.”

“She may have thought she was. In her warped self-indulgent
way. Or maybe she was simply annoyed that I hadn’t fawned over her like
everyone else she knew. Maybe she decided to punish me, to hurt me by hurting
you.”

“I don’t think her motives were that cruel.”

“You’re defending her?”

“No. I’m just remembering. She really cared about you, Luke.
She honestly believed you were too young and had such a promising future that
you shouldn’t be burdened with the responsibilities of a wife and baby.”

“To be burdened, Snow, with the only future I ever wanted.”

Snow was standing far away. But she was listening.

“That night, after I left you, I was halfway to Noah’s when I
began to feel . . . precarious, I suppose. As if it all—you, us, the dream—might
disappear.”

“That’s how I felt in the morning. The dread of losing
everything. You felt it that night?”

Luke nodded. “I worried that I hadn’t told you I loved you.
Hadn’t said the words. It hadn’t felt like an omission at the time. It seemed
obvious. Unnecessary. I had always loved you. And,” he told her, looking at
her, “I was pretty sure you loved me, too.”

“I did love you. The words hadn’t seemed like an omission to
me, either. Not then. What did you do?”

“Turned the car around and headed back toward your house. I
thought if I told you I loved you and put my hand on your stomach until I felt
Wendy move, the fear would go away.”

“I was awake. I didn’t hear you come to the door.”

“I decided not to. I knew you would sense my fear. I didn’t
want to worry you. It was my uncertainty to deal with. And I believed I had found
a way. Instead of stopping at your house, I went to the ravine and took the
money from the jar.”

“Why?”

“To buy our wedding rings while Noah and I were in L.A.”

“Oh, Luke.”

“I thought if I had something tangible, some proof that our
plans were real . . . You went to the ravine, didn’t you, after you and Vivian
met? And when you discovered the money was gone, you believed I’d given it to
Vivian to give to you.”

“I
didn’t
believe it at first. I wasn’t going to
believe anything until I heard it from you. But I couldn’t hold on to that
decision any more than I could hold on to Wendy. By the time I began to bleed,
my thinking was impaired. When I lost her, I lost what little remained of my
hope.”

“I shouldn’t have gone to L.A.” Luke clenched his fists. “I
almost didn’t. By morning, the precarious feeling had become dread for me, too.
But I fought it. I told myself it was a symptom of wanting something more than
I had ever wanted anything in my life and being afraid of losing it. I
convinced myself that my best chance of ensuring our dream was to do everything
that was expected of me—and then some. That Sunday afternoon I swam the fastest
four-hundred butterfly of my career. I rewarded myself by breaking one tiny
rule—the agreement we had made—and calling you that evening instead of waiting
until Tuesday. The storm had already knocked out the phone lines. And O’Hare
was closed. I kept telling myself it was going to be okay. Swimming even faster.
Dialing your number a million times. I was so relieved when I heard your voice.
Relieved,” he repeated. “Then terribly sad because of Wendy . . . and terribly
worried about you.”

“You heard my depression.”

“I didn’t know what I was hearing. I only knew I had to get
to you as soon as I could. It wasn’t soon enough.”

“I couldn’t see you, Luke. I had to leave Quail Ridge before
you returned.”

“Because by then you believed Vivian’s lies.”

“By then I believed a lot more than that. I’d failed you,
Luke. You and Wendy. I knew, my depression made me know, that you would be
better off without me.”

“Do you have any idea what I was like without you?”

“No.”

But she was still listening. And she had moved, ever so
slightly, away from the wall. And her eyes had not left his.

“I was barely alive,” he said, moving too, ever so slightly,
toward her. “Barely living, Snow, without you.”

“I felt the same way . . . even after the postpartum
depression had run its course.”

“You’ve accomplished so much.”

“I just did what had worked for me the last time I was
without you. Barely living. After the fire, I escaped into my studies and
eventually into debate. This time, when I discovered things in books—and the
news—that I wanted to talk about, I was lucky enough to find forums in which I
could. My first midnight show was on WREK, the campus radio station at Georgia
Tech.”

“Was it
The Cinderella Hour
?”

“It didn’t have a name. I was just Snow on WREK from midnight
till two.
The Cinderella Hour
evolved after I realized it was time to
begin reflecting on my life in Quail Ridge. I’d been running away, just like
Cinderella did, from the truth of who I was.”

“And from believing in that true self.”

“Yes,” Snow said. “That, too.”

“You used to believe in who you were.”

“I did. Once upon a time.”

“Until postpartum depression made you become a disbelieving
Cinderella.”

Snow smiled a little. “Postpartum depression, the cruel
stepsister.”

“You were also fearless in showing yourself to the world.”

“Not the world, Luke. You.”

“Cinderella didn’t have a great deal of faith in her prince,
did she? She didn’t trust him to know all there was to know about her and love
her as much as ever.”

“I suppose she didn’t. But she should have. That’s what she
learns. That’s the fairytale ending.”

“It’s a good ending.”

Luke was moving now.

They both were.

Toward each other.

“Yes, it is.”

“I love you, Snow.”

“Oh, Luke.”

“I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“And I’ve never stopped loving
you.
”

The love had never stopped.

But the lovers had.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

“Yes. Please.”

“And hold you?”
And love you, my Snow. Love you forever
.

“Oh, no,” Ellen whispered when
Patrick revealed that Snow, who bore no physical resemblance to either parent,
looked exactly like the sister Blaine had murdered.

“I gather Snow doesn’t know Blaine’s her father?”

“No, she doesn’t. And I thought she was safe from Blaine ever realizing she was his. But if she looks like Julie, he knows. I have to go,”
Ellen said abruptly.

“Where?”

“Chicago.”

“To do what?”

“This doesn’t really concern you.”

“What happened to ‘We’re going to get him, Patrick. We’re
going to get the son of a bitch tomorrow’?”

“If you’ll recall, you had trouble with we and tomorrow. And,
to top it off, you’ve just finished telling me that what Blaine bragged about
thirty-two years ago really did happen. He got away with murder.”

“So you’re going to mete out justice?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do. But it’s not going to be
nothing
.”

“Like me, you mean?”

The danger in Patrick’s voice came from its quiet control.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Ellen said.

“But?”

“Well, now that you’ve brought it up, haven’t you ever been
tempted to just, oh, I don’t know, inflict the kind of injury on Blaine that would prevent him from hurting anyone else?”

“Like a hit-and-run accident.”

“Such things do happen, his father being a case in—oh.” She
paused, drew a breath. “It wasn’t an accident, was it? Blaine murdered his
father.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No. But he did, didn’t he?”

“I think so.”

“Did Julie suspect?”

“No. Neither did I until after she and Margaret died and I
was sure he’d killed them. That was around the time I started thinking about
taking matters—taking justice—into my own hands.”

“So you have been tempted.”

“All day, every day.”

“But you’d never do it.”

“If I did, I’d no longer be the man Julie loved. You’re
sighing again. Disappointed?”

“That you’re such a law-abiding goody two-shoes?”
That
I’ve never known such an honorable man?

“And you’re not?”

“No.”

“Then I’m afraid I’m not letting you go to Chicago on your
own.”

“We’re back to we and tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are. You’re not going to kill him, Ellen. You’re
better than that. But I have an uneasy feeling you’re going to talk to him.”

“It wouldn’t be such an uneasy feeling if I got a recorded
confession.”

“Admissibility issues aside, Blaine won’t confess.”

“He did before.”

“He’s a lot more controlled now than he was thirty-two years
ago.”

“But if I caught him off-guard—”

“You won’t,” Patrick broke in. “He’ll be expecting you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re Snow’s mother. You listen to her show, talk to her
about her guests. Blaine knows that
you
know he and Snow have met.”

“Snow and I don’t talk about her guests.”

“Oh?”

“We haven’t spoken in sixteen years.”

“But you’re her mother. You listen to her show.”

“I’m not much of a mother.”

“You just want to kill the guy who might cause her harm.”
Patrick paused and heard only silence. “Blaine’s not going to do anything to
Snow.”

“You sound so certain.”

“I am. For the same reason I know Blaine would never do
anything to me. Like all sociopaths, he uses people, manipulates people, for
his own entertainment. He enjoys playing games with me and obviously wants to
play with you. Snow’s his link to you. As such, she’s safe. Blaine is expecting
you, Ellen. But he’s not expecting me. When he sees us together, he’ll realize
you’ve remembered what he told you. It’s not going to get us any closer to an
indictment, but I would like to see his reaction.”

“So we’re dropping in on him tomorrow.”

“We are. We’ll catch
6
:
00
a.m. flights and meet at United Airlines
baggage claim at O’Hare. Tell me how I’ll recognize you.”