The Bad Daughter(24)

“Can we just do this?” Melanie said.

“Certainly. You gonna be all right?” he asked Robin.

“She’ll be fine,” Melanie answered for her.

“I just want you to be prepared. There’s a lot of blood.”

Oh, God. “I’ll be okay,” Robin said.

“Good.” He opened the front door. “After you.” He stepped back to allow them entry. “This is Deputy Wilson,” he said, introducing them to the young uniformed officer waiting inside the circular foyer, the floor of which was a sprawling mosaic of tiny white and black tiles. The air-conditioning was on high.

Robin nodded hello, her attention captured by the giant crystal chandelier hanging from the twenty-five-foot ceiling, and behind it two sweeping staircases, one on either side of the center hall, each one leading to a different wing on the second floor. “Holy shit.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Sheriff Prescott said, motioning to his right. “The living room is this way. I have to caution you not to touch anything.”

Robin saw the blood as soon as she crossed the threshold into the large rectangular room. It was everywhere—pools of it soaked into the white-and-silver rug, splatters of it streaked across the floral chintz sofa and the huge expanse of window behind it, more splatters across the white keys of the black grand piano that stood next to a chintz-covered wing chair that had somehow managed to escape the carnage.

“Who plays the piano?” Robin asked.

“Cassidy was going to start taking lessons,” Melanie said.

Robin watched Deputy Wilson jot down this information.

“Do you notice anything missing?” Sheriff Prescott asked after a pause of several seconds.

“Not offhand,” Melanie answered. “But then, they bought almost everything brand-new, so it’s hard to say for sure. You should probably ask their decorator.”

“Who would that be?”

“I don’t remember her name. Sheila or Shelley. Maybe Susan. She was with some hoity-toity design firm in San Francisco. Cassidy might know. She’d drive down with Tara when my dad was too busy to go with her.”

Too busy doing what? Robin wondered.

The living room led into a formal dining room filled with heavy oak furniture, including a long table with more than enough room for the twelve rust-colored leather chairs clustered around it. Next came a huge kitchen full of the latest in stainless-steel appliances. Shiny white cabinets and black granite countertops surrounded an enormous center island with an array of copper pots and pans hanging artfully above it. As with the rest of the house, windows took the place of walls. What walls there were were bare.

Melanie was right. Despite its size and impressive exterior, despite the crystal chandelier and sweeping staircases, despite the grand piano and expensive furniture, despite the stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops—or maybe because of all these things—there was something curiously generic about the house. How had Melanie described it? Grand and bland. It looked more like a hotel than a home.

Of course her father had always been partial to hotels.

But Tara?

Tara had always turned up her nose at gaudy chandeliers. She’d hated chintz. She’d been indifferent to copper pots.

Robin tried picturing Tara tagging along with the decorator—Sheila or Shelley or maybe Susan—to the various designer showrooms, trying to choose among the myriad fabrics and marbles on display. Had she been too overwhelmed to have an opinion? Had she shrugged her lovely broad shoulders and gone along with her husband’s choices? Had she been intimidated by the decorator’s pedigree and expertise?

Except that Tara had never been one to shrug and go along. She wasn’t easily overwhelmed. She was rarely intimidated.

Maybe she’d been distracted. Or she just didn’t care. Maybe decorating bored her. Maybe her heart wasn’t in it.

Maybe her heart was elsewhere.

Were the rumors true?

“This way,” the sheriff said, leading them out of the kitchen through a side door that brought them back to the center hall.

Robin followed Sheriff Prescott into the large empty room on their left. More windows. More blank walls.

“They were having a pool table custom-built. It’s supposed to be ready next month,” Melanie said.

They returned to the hall, proceeding into their father’s home office.

“His computer’s missing,” Melanie said immediately.

“We have it,” the sheriff said. “Our tech guys are going through his files.”

“Can you do that?” Melanie asked. “Without a warrant?”

Sheriff Prescott looked surprised by the question. “Your father’s a victim, Melanie. Not a suspect. We’re trying to find out who’s responsible for what happened. What’s in his computer might be of help.”

“Not if it was a home invasion.”

The sheriff nodded. “We’ll try to have it back to you soon.”

Robin glanced around the wood-paneled den, a pleasant buzz settling comfortably into the nape of her neck. Unlike the other rooms, which appeared to be largely untouched, this one had been ransacked. The drawers of the large walnut desk in the center of the room were open, their contents strewn across the floor. Books that must normally have filled the built-in bookshelves now littered the masculine green-and-brown-checkered carpet that covered the hardwood floor. A large black-and-white photograph of their father, his arms around Tara and Cassidy, stood upended in front of an open and empty wall safe.