In the Shadow of Lakecrest(62)
There was a photograph, one I’d never seen, of Cecily as a young woman. Her hair was tied back loosely with ribbon and swept over one shoulder; her hands held a single rose. It was the kind of sentimental studio portrait that hangs in parlors all over the country, but this one had a charm that set it apart. You could tell Cecily was in on the silliness of it all: the way her mouth tugged just a little wider than a polite smile, eyes that looked amused rather than dreamy. This was Cecily before the breakdowns, before her mysterious decline, before she began muttering to herself behind locked doors. It seemed wrong—cruel—that she should look so fetching in a story about her death.
There was a paragraph about the family’s history, with the usual lurid rumors (“Some spoke of strange doings by moonlight . . .”). But no quotes from people who’d seen anything firsthand. There never were in stories about the Lemonts.
The Lake County coroner has confirmed that Miss Lemont’s body will undergo an autopsy, but the results will not be revealed until the conclusion of the police investigation. Dr. Thomas Melville, chief surgeon of Cook County Hospital, said it is doubtful a cause of death can be determined after such a considerable passage of time.
“A body buried for nearly twenty years suffers extensive decomposition,” he said. “Skeletal remains may be enough to determine foul play if the victim came to a violent end, as the bones may show evidence of a stabbing or crushing blow. A poisoning or suffocation, however, leaves no lasting trace.”
I threw down the paper, feeling queasy. I used to laugh at overwrought stories like this, written to revel in each gruesome detail. This time, it was harder to brush off. I thought about how much Matthew would be hurt by reading it and was furious at Marjorie for bringing the papers into the house. We didn’t need to make ourselves any more miserable.
Edna brought in sandwiches on trays, and we ate in silence. As the minutes dragged on, the day got hotter, and roasting in that room felt like a punishment for sins I didn’t know I’d committed. At some point, Marjorie closed the curtains to block out the glaring sunlight, which only made it worse. Now the sitting room was not only stifling but also gloomy as a tomb. The policeman guarding us pulled off his jacket, and I saw his shirtsleeves were damp with sweat.
Marjorie walked up to him. “I need to make a telephone call, if that’s all right with you?”
The policeman nodded, wilting, as if he could barely muster the energy to stand. Matthew offered him a chair, which he took with a nod of thanks. Marjorie went off to the telephone in the front hall, and Matthew picked up a stack of papers he’d brought back with him from the office.
“Might as well do something to pass the time,” he said to me. “I’ll climb the walls otherwise.”
I couldn’t imagine he’d get much done; it was impossible to concentrate in that still, sticky air. I lay down on the couch, exhausted even though I’d done nothing all day. I thought longingly of the icy lake. I didn’t care how cold it was; as soon as this interrogation was over, I would walk into the water up to my knees—up to my shoulders!—because I didn’t know how much more I could take.
I must have drifted off, because I flinched with surprise when I heard my name. Disoriented, I sat up and looked around. I saw Matthew leaning over me as he shook my shoulder.
“Kate.”
I glanced around and was mortified to see a wet mark where I’d drooled on the collar of my dress. But no one was looking at me. All eyes were on Hannah, who was standing in the center of the room with her usual cool expression. Chief Powell, by contrast, looked as if he had just run a race: his face was flushed pink, and his collar and jacket were rumpled and damp.
“We’re done for today,” he said. “Mrs. Lemont, you said you had the phone number for Dr. McNally?”
Dr. McNally? I flashed a look at Matthew, and he shrugged, looking as mystified as I felt.
“Yes. Give me a minute, would you?”
Matthew and I led Chief Powell to the front hall. Marjorie whispered a few words into the phone and quickly hung up.
“Leaving so soon?” she asked brightly. Nobody smiled.
Matthew leaned in toward the police chief, speaking in a hushed voice. “Have you found out anything on the cause of death?”
Chief Powell shook his head curtly. “Sorry. No word on that yet.”
Hannah’s heels clattered across the marble floor. She handed the policeman a slip of paper and said, “I’m sure you’ll find the doctor’s observations useful. Please let us know if there’s anything else we can do.”
The police chief and his troop left with a quick round of good-byes, leaving the rest of us to stare at each other in uneasy, suspicious silence.
“It’s time we talked,” Hannah said. “About Cecily.”
I sat on the sofa, wedged in the corner, as if I could tuck myself out of sight. Matthew sank down at the other end, one arm outstretched along the back. A pose intended to look casual, but I could tell his body was taut with nerves. Marjorie lit a cigarette and paced. The joking flirtatiousness she’d put on for the policemen was gone, and she glared at her mother with icy distrust.
Hannah lowered herself into an armchair. Slowly, wearily, she took in Marjorie’s restlessness and Matthew’s apprehension. My purposefully blank expression.