"I got that impression when I heard it twice the first day I was in town." He frowned. "Do you believe Hunt would have asked Tamara for a divorce?"
"He could have, but it probably wouldn't have done him much good. Tamara was a devout Catholic. And she was pregnant. She wouldn't have given in without a fight. Hunt could have gotten a divorce eventually, but not without a lot of time and struggle. And scandal. Charlotte 's already been through all that and it's my guess she wouldn't consider Warren Hunt enough of a prize to go through it again."
"So you think Warren Hunt murdered his wife so he could have Charlotte Bishop?"
Hysell looked surprised. "Maybe, but this situation called for immediate, decisive action."
"And you're saying Warren Hunt isn't capable of that?"
"Let's just say I think Charlotte Bishop is." Hysell paused. "You know, I think Charlotte Bishop is capable of just about anything."
8
Alison sat at the piano. She began Debussy's "The Girl with the Flaxen Hair." Viveca walked through the room and paused at the piano, smiling. Alison immediately stopped playing. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, dear," Viveca said carefully. "That's your song, isn't it?"
"What's wrong?"
Viveca's smile locked into place. "Well, you've played it five times in a row. How about something else?"
"All right," Alison said pleasantly and immediately launched into "The Merry Widow Waltz." Viveca's face slackened. Alison paused. "Don't you like that song?"
"Not particularly."
The ghost of a malicious smile capered around Alison's rosebud mouth. "Oh. I forgot. That's what people called you after Papa died. 'The Merry Widow.' "
"They did not, but please play something else."
Alison dropped her hands in her lap. "I'm not in the mood to play anymore. I would like to see Warren."
"I'm sure he's very busy today making arrangements for Tamara."
"I need to see him. He's my doctor."
"You don't have an appointment with him today. Besides, you just saw him yesterday." Viveca nervously touched the topaz pendant hanging from a gold chain at her neck. It had been a gift from Oliver Peyton. "Dear, please play something nice."
Alison raised her long, strong fingers to the piano keys.
They hovered for a moment. Then they crashed down, sending loud, discordant notes jangling around the serenely beautiful room until at last Alison settled into the piano section of Eric Clapton's "Layla." She'd only played for a minute before Viveca shouted, "Stop!"
Alison stopped immediately and Viveca looked contrite. "Darling, I'm sorry, but you know I hate rock music. With your talent it's almost sacrilegious to hear you playing it."
"I like it. Why can't I play what I like?" Alison looked up at her mother with her wide Dresden blue eyes and shouted, "Why can't I ever-play what I like?"
Viveca recoiled. Her face paled. She drew a deep breath. "Forgive me. Of course you may play what you like." She took a step closer and hesitantly, almost fearfully, touched her daughter's cheek. "I only want you to be happy, Alison. It's all I've ever wanted."
But Alison had retreated to her own world. It was seventeen years ago. Alison was five. Mama was going away again. Just for a couple of days. She was what they called an "executive" at a big company called Bishop and she had to go on business trips. "I'm sorry I have to leave, darling," she'd said, clutching Alison to her for a final embrace.
Alison thought her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world. She had long golden hair. She had huge blue eyes. She always wore pretty clothes. She always smelled good. Alison admired Mama. She tried to please Mama. But it was Papa she loved, Papa who didn't care that she was scared of so many things, that she liked to spend lots of time alone talking to herself but couldn't find her tongue in front of strangers, or that she had persistent nightmares, or that doctors said she was something called neurotic. Papa didn't give lectures about how she should act like Mama did. Papa liked her just the way she was.
She'd stood on the porch, her little hand in Papa's, and waved as Mama drove away. Papa had turned to her. "Your mother left us some very healthy food to heat up for dinner. She says you are to eat, practice the piano for an hour, watch one hour of educational television, and be tucked into bed and sound asleep by eight."
"Yes, Papa."
"I, however, am the man of the house in your mother's absence," he had said with a dryness Alison didn't quite catch. "It is Friday night. Therefore, we will order a great big greasy pizza for dinner, play Candy Land, and watch a Disney movie on video." Alison's solemn little face broke into a picture of pure bliss. "We'll have a regular debauch, kiddo. Port Ariel has never seen the like. They'll be talking about this night a hundred years from now!"
Papa let her choose the pizza toppings and it had been the best she ever had. They'd eaten with their fingers! They'd played two games of Candy Land, watched One Hundred and One Dalmatians and part of Lady and the Tramp before she fell asleep. When her father had placed her gently in her bed, her eyes had snapped open. "What time is it?" Her father had grinned. "Magic Midnight, bunny ears." She still called it Magic Midnight.
The next day they'd eaten lunch in an open-air restaurant by the lake. They'd walked along the shore, holding hands and talking about everything that interested her. Then Papa had driven her to a giant old house. She'd been afraid of it at first, but Papa said the house had belonged to a brave and beautiful lady who would protect her when she was inside.
That was when she had first heard the saga of Ariel Saunders. Papa talked about how Ariel had run down to the beach and pulled Captain Winthrop from the freezing water and how later they had married and Zebediah changed the name of the town to Port Ariel in honor of his beloved bride. And best of all, Ariel was Alison's very own great-great grandmother!
Even then Ariel's house was not in good shape, but Papa had carried her through every one of its damaged rooms, talking in his sonorous voice, conjuring up the splendor that had been Saunders House. Mama said he had a way with words because he used to be a novelist. A strange look always came over Papa's face whenever she said "used to be."
Lots of times he got out legal pads and pens and called for quiet in the house, but he usually ended up only with pages of crossed-out words. Then he would listen to sad music and drink brandy and Mama would look disgusted and not speak to him, which made everything worse. But today Papa was happy and Alison was ecstatic. She loved Papa and she loved Ariel Saunders's house, the house overlooking the lake, the house of romance and legend.
By late afternoon Alison was still in a joyful daze, lost in the world of Ariel and Zebediah, posing and preening in front of Mama's full-length mirror, pretending to be Ariel. Papa had passed the doorway, smiling. He carried a laundry basket. "Want to help me do the washing?"
Alison looked at him in surprise. "But Mrs. Krebbs comes and does it every week."
"I'm in the mood. I used to help my mama with the laundry when I was a little boy. Come on, bunny ears, it'll be fun."
So Alison had gone with him to the basement where the washer and dryer sat. Alison rarely visited the basement. She didn't like places full of shadows and she worried about spiders and mice and all kinds of terrors that might be lurking. But she was with Papa and he wouldn't let anything bad happen.
There were windows high in the walls that let in some daylight, but Papa still flipped a switch and a fluorescent bulb hummed to life. Then they descended the steps and he groaned, looking at water flowing across the floor. "Dammit, we just had the washer fixed two weeks ago. I knew that repairman didn't know what he was doing." He sighed. "I'm going to fix this myself."
"Do you know how?" Alison had asked, wanting to run away from the water that looked dark and scary like snakes or alligators might lie in its depths.