Little Girls(54)

“Yes.” She made a distant wheezing sound. “Oh, you mean—no, no, I’m not. My husband and daughter are here with me.”

“Have any of you been up in this room?”

“I have.”

“No one else?”

“No. I’ve kept the door locked.”

“Did you touch this doorknob?”

“Well, yes. To open the door.”

“No, not the outside knob.” He pointed at the knob he was dusting and looked up at her. His eyes were blue flecks of ice. “This one.”

She tried to remember. “No, I don’t think so. I left the door open when I went up. When I came back down, I shut it from out here.”

“Okay. Good.”

“Do you suspect someone murdered my father?”

That roguish smile reappeared. It made him look even younger. She thought of her own husband, the man who never aged.

“Nah,” he said. When he stood, the creases in his dark pants were suddenly very noticeable. He turned and glanced up the tight stairwell. “I’m gonna go on up.”

“Okay. I’ll keep out of your way. Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee would be great,” he said, climbing up the steps to the tiny room.





Twenty minutes later, when Ted returned from next door, he encountered Detective Freeling in the driveway. Through the front windows, Laurie watched the men converse, the driver’s door of Detective Freeling’s sedan standing open. Then they shook hands and Freeling climbed into his car and drove away. Ted came in through the front door and went directly upstairs. A moment later, she heard the shower clank on.

In the parlor, Laurie went to her father’s liquor cabinet and opened it. The bottles seemed to soldier right up to the edge of the shelves. All of them had been opened and many of them were now only half full. Ted had been getting some work done, all right. She was halfway through a glass of sherry when Ted came into the room.

“That guy seemed more like a game show host than a cop,” he commented, folding his arms and leaning against the wall. He had changed into an American Eagle polo shirt, khakis, and thatched loafers without socks. His hair was combed back off his forehead and still damp from the shower. “I don’t buy his peaceable demeanor. Pour me a glass of that, would you, please?”

She poured a second glass as he went to the piano and sat down. He played a soothing melody on the high keys, one-handed. He was a fine pianist.

“Liz and Derrick Rosewood seem nice enough,” he said. When Laurie didn’t answer, he said, “Are you still mad?”

She set his glass of sherry on top of the piano. He still tinkled the high keys playfully.

“Is it such a terrible thing,” he continued, “that we should spend some time together?”

No, it wasn’t such a terrible thing. No, she wasn’t still mad. Even now, she realized her anger had actually been anxiety, had been fear. She didn’t like the noises she had been hearing, and the loose board over the window upstairs troubled her. Even worse, she didn’t like Abigail’s resemblance to Sadie Russ, worsened by the fact that she was staying with her aunt in Sadie’s old house. Of course, she couldn’t quite verbalize this to Ted without sounding like a head case. Since the highway incident, she had become heedful of the things she told her husband.

She bent and kissed the side of Ted’s face. “I’m not mad.”

“Does that mean we can go out and have a nice time?”

Her blood cooled at the idea of leaving the house while Susan was next door. But really, wasn’t she being foolish? Maybe Ted was right after all—maybe it was all just stress and nothing more.

“Yes,” she said. “That sounds nice.”

“Derrick Rosewood told me of a great wine bar downtown. Run upstairs and get dressed?”





Laurie showered and dressed in a pair of sleek black slacks and a beige halter top. They were the best clothes she had packed, since she hadn’t anticipated a night on the town while packing her suitcase back in Hartford. As they climbed into the Volvo, Laurie’s anxiety over leaving Susan with the Rosewoods had subsided to a remote disquiet, like the solitary light shining in the window of a house that was supposed to be vacant.

“Derrick Rosewood says it’s the best spot in town,” Ted said as he backed the car down the winding driveway.

As it turned out, it was a nice spot. They sampled different kinds of wine and instead of ordering meals, they snacked on assorted cheese platters, toasted breads, caviar and crackers, escargot, and plates of Italian olives throughout the evening. Ted talked a lot about the play he was working on. After some wine, his complaints about John Fish transitioned to a more diplomatic opinion of what a successful adaptation of Fish’s work could mean for Ted’s career. “Even if we don’t open on Broadway,” he said through a mouthful of escargot, “Fish’s name will bring A-list talent to the production. It could change things for us, Laurie. It could change a lot of things.”

“What about the outline?”

“I’ve decided not to worry about it until I hear back from Steve. I’m hoping this can get squared away as painlessly as possible. And besides, what Fish is asking for is virtually impossible, so it’s not like they can replace me with some other writer.”