Trophies (8 page)

"You ate at that dive?"

"I loved that dive. I hate this number five
pin. It's being a pain." There was nothing for it. I loosened the
pressure on the tension tool, hoping the pins wouldn't slide out of
place, and raked again. Nothing. I tightened the tension tool and
tried again. Still nothing. I jiggled the rake in the keyway. More
nothing.

This was the part of raking I hated: that
last ruddy pin. I almost wished I'd tried reverse-picking the lock
but came to my senses reasonably quickly. Oh, that would have
impressed Caren no end, watching me re-pick the same pins over and
over as they determinedly slid out of their little chambers with
the shifting tension. I gritted my teeth and kept raking. It took
almost a full minute more, passing the rake along that last pin
while varying the pressure on the tension tool.

But suddenly it began to turn. I applied more
pressure; the plug rotated. A good push, and the door swung
open.

My usual victorious elation swept through me.
I glanced at Caren. Her eyes brightened and my head swelled.

"A determined man."

Yes indeed, I liked this. "I generally get my
way."

"Oh, Charles."

Neither of us said that. We glanced down the
staircase. Patricia stood at the bottom. Her feline face was stiff
and her arms were crossed; she must have been there a long time,
watching my all-too-professional demonstration.

"Patty—"

"No." She turned her back and walked away.
The look she threw Caren in passing was frankly accusatory, as if
blaming her for my bad behavior.

I made certain the door was open — Patty's
feelings hurt or not, I had no intention of raking that bloody lock
again — then scrambled down the stairs in her wake, back across
Aunt Edith's bedroom, and out into the upper hall. I caught up with
her in time for her bedroom door to close in my face.

"Patty!"

She opened the door but didn't wait to see me
in. An overnight case yawned open on the floral-patterned spread of
her double bed. As I entered, she yanked out a dresser drawer,
grabbed a package of stockings, and hurled them across the room
into the case.

I knew as well as anyone it was too late to
apologize. "Good aim."

"Look, Charles, I'm not going to ask
questions because I know I won't like the answers." A bra and slip,
both white lacy innocence, followed the hose, then a cartoon sleep
shirt. She intended an overnight stay somewhere else and my pulse
picked up speed at the thought. "There's too much else going on for
me to deal with this, too." She crossed the room to her dressing
table, brushing past without looking, and began shoving little
bottles into her makeup bag.

"Patty, I don't see why you're making such a
big deal—"

"—because you lied to me!" She slammed the
last bottle into the bag, leaned both fists on the table, and
glared.

This was unlike the mousy Patricia I knew and
adored. "I never—"

"There is such a thing as a lie of omission."
The windows behind her outlined her head and now-fluffy bun in a
hydra-like silhouette, but I didn't need to see her face to know
she was angrier than I'd ever seen her before. "Your brother called
you a thief for years, did you know that? Of course you know it.
There's a reason you two don't speak. But it's not the reason you
led me to believe. Is it, Charles?"

The emotional chasm yawned before me again,
even deeper and broader than before. Now it represented not only
life without Aunt Edith, but also life without Patricia. I couldn't
possibly face it. I listened to my heart pound for the umpteenth
time that day and tried to whip my numbed brain into action. There
had to be something I could say that would register through her
anger.

"I wanted you to think well of me." Honesty
was the best I could come up with. "Not many people did."

She looked down at her hands on the table.
Then she zipped her makeup bag and tossed it, more gently, into the
case, adding her brush and curling iron. "For years I wondered what
was behind William's attitude toward you. He's too intelligent to
hold such a grudge for no reason. But whenever I asked my parents,
they always shushed me. And I never worked up the nerve to ask your
father."

The numbness had infected my hands and feet
and it crawled deeper into my body like something terminal. I could
think of nothing to say.

She closed the case and hefted it off the
bed. "I called Dad a few minutes ago; that's why I was looking for
you. Trés is out of surgery and doing better. The family's at the
hospital and I'm going to join them. And my sister Miriam wants me
to stay with her tonight at the bed and breakfast." She snagged a
garment bag from behind the door, then led the way out of her
bedroom and down the stairs. "I said no at first, I wanted to stay
here and make certain you would be all right, but that's changed.
Caren seems to be doing just fine." Her voice when she added that
comment was spiteful. "All right?"

No, it wasn't all right. My protectiveness
raced into high gear at the thought of Patricia out alone with Aunt
Edith's killer on the loose. But nothing I said would have any
effect. I followed her tamely and wondered if this was what
marriage felt like. "Patty, for pity's sake, you asked me to stay
here with you and it's the only reason I came. And none of this is
Caren's fault."

She didn't pause. "I know. But I'm at the end
of my rope."

I sighed and gave up, which hurt almost as
much as the accusation. "Then just be careful, won't you?"

"I promise." Her reply was automatic. "Oh,
and I put a casserole in the oven. It should be ready in ten
minutes. Don't forget it."

"Won't you stay long enough for lunch?" I
could attempt an explanation and apology during the meal. I hadn't
realized how much time I'd spent in examining the house and dealing
with various locks, but more light streamed through the western
windows than the eastern ones.

"No." She flipped the lever on the deadbolt
and walked onto the porch, then spun back around as if remembering
something important. "You are coming to the gallery party tonight,
aren't you?"

It was an emotionally loaded request and for
her to make it at that argumentative moment was the dirtiest of
foul play. She knew I hated fighting with her. On the other hand,
our entire family would be at the gallery, including my brother
William, and he held the same attraction for me as a flea
infestation. Besides, Aunt Edith died there. Just being near the
place would hurt. And if Patricia was at the end of her rope, she
had to know I was approaching my own terminus at Grand Prix
speed.

"I don't want to." It was an
understatement.

"As if I didn't know that." She had the nerve
to say it.

We shared an ugly stare. Her gaze dropped
first. "Promise me you'll come."

"Give me one good reason why I should."

Patty lifted her chin and resumed the glare.
"Because I want you to."

During our final, unfriendly dinner, Aunt
Edith asked me to attend the gallery party. She died disappointed
in me. In that moment, I realized I couldn't bear to disappoint
Patty any further.

"Will this serve as an apology?"

She thought about it. "Perhaps."

Suddenly furious, I shoved my hands in my
pockets. "I hate losing."

"I know that, too. So thank you." She paused
and I thought she was going to kiss my cheek. But she turned away
and walked to the Taurus, leaving me standing.

Caren awaited me at the top of the garret
stairs. The door yawned open behind her.

"Where were we?" I asked as I climbed.

"Charles, do you really want to do this right
now?"

That didn't sound good. I'd spent a minute
with my back to the front door, counting to ten and breathing
deeply as the Army shrink had taught me, then relaxing the muscles
in my body from top to bottom. But the bloody exercises never
seemed to work. "What's in there? Skeletons?"

Her smile was brief. "Nothing, actually, from
what little I can see. It's you I'm concerned about. Are you too
stressed for this?"

"No, I'm all right." After all that work and
the slap of Patty's rejection, nothing was going to keep me out of
the garret, not even my own squirming conscience. "Well, you might
want to keep that skillet handy."

I took one last deep breath. It seemed to
shudder going in. Then I stepped into the unrelieved dark beyond
the garret door.

A wall was directly ahead, a few feet away.
The garret itself opened to the right, above Aunt Edith's bedroom
suite, and it was cloaked in a blackness broken only by the little
light filtering up the dim stairwell. I fumbled on the near walls,
felt rough boards but couldn't locate a switch, so I turned to
fetch the penlight and Caren slapped it into my palm. Of course;
she couldn't have seen to glance around without it. By its narrow
cone I located a string dangling from the ceiling. A tug, and a
high-watt naked bulb lit overhead.

Caren was right. It was a utilitarian,
working office beneath the roof, sloping toward the rear of the
house, walls of unfinished pine on the other three sides. The air
conditioning system hummed behind the interior wall, so I supposed
that one was merely a partition. Pushed up against it were a large
armoire and an ancient steamer trunk. In the room's center, with
its back to the slant of the roof and facing the other furniture,
was a rolltop desk. It looked very old in the unflattering light of
that naked bulb, and the cracked leather of the rolling chair
seemed no younger.

"Patty said lunch is in the oven and it's
almost ready." My voice sounded monotone, drained and flat. "You
know, I almost did expect skeletons, or something."

"If you've been having nightmares about this
room since you were thirteen," Caren said, "I can only
imagine."

The rolltop was not locked. Inside were the
usual nooks and cubby holes, pencils and Aunt Edith's embossed
stationery, even an old ink well and fountain pen, both dried.
Nothing looked as if it required a six-pin tumbler with serrated
top pins and the anticlimax flattened me. It was so uninspiring, I
didn't bother looking in the drawers.

Caren opened the creaking door of the carved
armoire and light spilled over a line of clothing on hangers. I
admit the Lewisian possibilities of a wardrobe transfixed me and I
reached through the clothing to touch the back panel. But it was
solid, neither snow nor pine needles within arm's length, so,
feeling foolish and disappointed, I turned my attention to the
contents. Among the out-of-date silks and brocades, glittery bolero
jackets and shirts with removable collars, I found a garment bag
and when I unzipped it I finally saw Aunt Edith's wedding dress:
cathedral-length white silk, still pure, with purple-slashed
princess sleeves and tiny, glistening seed pearls hand-sewn
everywhere.

"Charles, this is priceless."

"In her will, Aunt Edith leaves it to
Patricia."

Caren caressed the bodice. "As soon as she
sees this, she'll find a man to marry and abandon you to your
fate."

I scoffed. "Not Patty." Although there were
days.

"I guarantee it." She tugged at the garment
bag. Something within the armoire shifted. "What's that?"

I crouched down and felt through the dazzling
materials. "Shoes." I set them out, matching the pairs of dyed
satin and cracked leather.

"What are they, a size two? I couldn't fit my
big toe in there."

"Tiny, tiny woman. Have you ever noticed, she
always seems larger than she really is?"

There was something else behind the shoes, in
the armoire's deepest shadows, a box of some sort. Whatever was in
it rattled at my touch.

"Something else?" she asked.

I got a grip on it and pulled it out. It was
an old pasteboard hat box.

"Charles, I smell something burning." Caren
ran.

Ladies' hats, to the best of my knowledge,
don't rattle. I flipped the lid off. Then I stared.

I carried the hat box downstairs and set it
on the butcher block table in the kitchen, reveling in the light,
cheerful yellow expanse. I hadn't realized the dingy garret was
depressing me until I left it behind. "You have to see this."

Caren had rescued the casserole and it didn't
look burnt to me as she ladled chicken lasagna onto plates. "Show
me, then."

At the sight of food, my stomach reminded me
in no uncertain terms I hadn't eaten all day. I settled on a stool,
dumped the box's contents onto the table, and grabbed a knife and
fork.

"Careful, it's really hot." Caren fingered
the jumbled items, one vertical line between her puzzled eyes. "I
thought you said Edith never wore jewelry."

"That's why I can't believe she has this
stuff. Tasteless, isn't it?"

The metals hadn't tarnished, but the
necklaces, earrings, and bracelets seemed dull and lifeless. The
paste gems adorning them were huge, conspicuous, embarrassing — the
polar opposite of Aunt Edith. Dropped in amongst them were an
old-fashioned masculine scent flask, emptied long since, a tiny
lace handkerchief, and a carved meerschaum pipe.

"More love gifts, perhaps?" I asked. "And
perhaps mementos of Uncle Hubert? I never saw him light up, but
it's possible he quit so as not to show me such an example, or only
smoked upstairs out of my sight."

"Well. . . ." Caren lifted the largest
necklace, blue graduated teardrops culminating in a real
cleavage-dangler. "This has dried mud on it."

I tested the lasagna, but it was still too
hot to eat. I'd have to disappoint my stomach for a bit longer.

Together Caren and I sorted out the stuff.
The well-smoked meerschaum, in shades of yellow and orange, was
carved into the head of Jupiter, a copy of the Pheidias statue. It
was easily the most valuable piece there, although the scent
container was elaborate and could be reworked into a hip flask. The
delicate lace hanky was in good shape although the embroidered
pansies had faded, several strands of green and purple silk
dangling.