Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(104)
"Don't leave," Albert begs Scarpetta. "I hate you," he says to Mrs. Guidon.
She ignores him, obviously having heard this before. "Such a funny little boy who is very tired and cranky because it is very late. Now say good-bye. I'm afraid you won't see this nice lady again."
Scarpetta is kind to him as she says good-bye.
He trudges angrily up the stairs, looking back at her several times, his face painfully touching her heart. When she hears his footsteps on the wooden floor upstairs, she looks hard at her unpleasant and peculiar hostess.
"How cold you are to a little boy, Mrs. Guidon," she says. "What kind of people are you and his father, that you would hope a stranger would bring him home?"
"I am disappointed." Her imperious demeanor doesn't waver. "I thought a scientist of your renown would investigate before making assumptions."
108
LUCY AND MARINO connect by cell phone.
"Where's she staying?" she asks from her parked black Lincoln Navigator SUV.
She and Rudy figured out that the best way to be inconspicuous was to pull into the Radisson parking lot and sit with the engine and lights off.
"The coroner. I'm glad she ain't by herself in no hotel."
"None of us need to be in a hotel," Lucy says. "Damn, could you drive a louder truck?"
"If I had one."
"How does he check out? What's his name?"
"Sam Lanier. His background's clean as a whistle. When he called to check out the Doc, I got the impression he's an okay guy."
"Well, if he isn't, she'll be all right. Because he's about to have three other houseguests," Lucy says.
109
A FRAGILE WEDGEWOOD TEACUP lightly clinks against a saucer.
Mrs. Guidon and Scarpetta sit at a kitchen table made of a centuries-old butcher block that Scarpetta finds repulsive. She can't help but imagine how many chickens and other animals were slaughtered and chopped up on the worn, sloping wood with its hack marks, cracks and discoloration. It is an unpleasant by-product of her profession that she knows too much, and it is almost impossible to kill bacteria on porous materials such as wood.
"How many times must I demand to know why I'm here and how you managed to get me here?" Scarpetta's eyes are intense.
"I find it charming that Albert seems to have decided you are his friend," Mrs. Guidon remarks. "I try very hard to encourage him. He wants nothing to do with school sports or any other activities that might expose him to children his own age. He thinks he belongs right here at this table"-she taps the butcher block with her small, milky white knuckles-"talking to you and me as if he is our peer."
After years of dealing with people who refuse to answer questions or can't or are in denial, Scarpetta is skilled at catching truths as they subtly show themselves. "Why doesn't he associate with children his own age?" she inquires.
"Who knows? It is a mystery. He has always been odd, really, preferring to stay home and do homework, entertaining himself with those peculiar games children play these days. Cards with those awful creatures on them. Cards and computers, cards and more cards." Her gestures are dramatic, her French accent heavy, her English stilted and faltering. "He has been more this way as he gets older. Isolated and playing the card games. Often, he is home, stays in his room with the door shut and will not come out." Suddenly, she softens and seems caring.
Every detail Scarpetta observes is conflicting and disturbing, the kitchen an argument of anachronisms that seem a metaphor for this house and the people who live in it. Behind her is a cavernous fireplace, with formidable hand-forged andirons capable of bearing a load of wood large enough to heat up a room three times this size. A door leads outside, and next to it is a complicated alarm system keypad and an Aiphone with a video screen for the cameras that no doubt guard every entrance. Another keypad, this one much larger, indicates the old mansion is a smart house with multiple modems that allow the occupants to remotely control heating, cooling, lights, entertainment centers and gas fireplaces, and even turn appliances off and on. Yet the appliances and thermostats Scarpetta has seen so far have not been upgraded for what she estimates is at least thirty years.
A knife holder on the granite countertop is empty, and there are no knives in the porcelain sink, not a knife anywhere in sight. Yet hanging over the fireplace is a rack of nineteenth-century swords, and on the heavy chestnut mantel is a revolver with rubber grips, most likely a.38, in a black leather holster.
Mrs. Guidon follows Scarpetta's eyes, and for an instant, her face registers anger. She has made an oversight, a telling mistake. Leaving the revolver in plain view was not intentional. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that Mr. Dard is very security-conscious." She sighs, shrugging, as if taking her guest into her confidence and hinting that Mr. Dard is ridiculously cautious and paranoid. "Baton Rouge is high-crime. I'm sure you know that. Living in a house like this and having wealth causes concerns, although I'm not the type to be looking over my shoulder all the time."
Scarpetta hides how much she dislikes Mrs. Guidon and is infuriated about what Albert's life must be like. She wonders how far she can go to pry loose the secrets that haunt this very old estate.
"Albert seems very unhappy and misses his dog," she says. "Perhaps you should get him another one. Especially if he's lonely and has no friends."