Mallory’s arms folded across her breast in a warning sign that she was not happy with this division in the ranks.
Riker shrugged and lit a cigarette to say, Well, that’s just tough.
And now she turned on innocent Charles, who had only offered the most -
„So,“ she said. „I’m guessing Nedda didn’t volunteer any details about where she’d been for the past fifty-eight years.“
„No,“ said Charles. „Sorry. I never thought to ask.“
„Did you get us anything,“ asked Riker, „anything at all?“
„Maybe,“ he said. „Breakfast, anyone?“
Long ago, Bitty’s room had belonged to Robert the Reader, eight years old with thick lenses in his spectacles that made his blue eyes larger, more tender. Each time Nedda Winter entered this bedroom, she saw her brother sprawled on the window seat, a book held by small dead hands, a tiny hole in his pajamas and a bit of blood from his young heart.
Nedda sat down at the edge of the bed and lifted a glass to Bitty’s lips. „Just drink it, dear. You don’t want to know what’s in it.“
Her niece obediently swallowed a mixture of raw egg, milk and steak sauce.
„My father favored that hangover remedy,“ said Nedda.
„Was he a drunk?“
„Well, yes, dear, but, in those days, who wasn’t?“ She took the emptied glass and set it on the bedside table. „And he only drank after three o’clock. He had rules.“
„Was my grandfather a violent man?“
Ah, back to the theory of Edwina Winter’s murder. „No. The only thing that aroused any passion in him was a fight with my stepmother. Sometimes Lionel got a light swat on his backside. He was always getting in between his parents, trying to protect his mother. Not that she needed any help. She always had something heavy in her hand whenever she went after my father.“
„I can’t imagine Uncle Lionel as a boy.“
„I think you would’ve liked him then. He was the only one of the children who ever stood up to my father. He was a brave one. I loved him for that.“
„Did you love your father?“
„Yes, but Lionel loved him more. Sometimes I think he took those hits just to get Daddy’s attention.“
Bitty pushed her covers aside, then, after a grimace of pain, thought better of moving so rashly. She lay back on her pillow. „What about the others? Do you remember Sally?“
„Of course. She was the baby of the family, a newborn. She cried a lot. That’s why the nursery was at the top of the house. And she wasn’t well. I remember a steady stream of doctors marching up the staircase to examine her.“
„What was my mother like?“
„She was only five when I – left. A very loving child. Big sunny smile. Poor little Cleo. She must’ve thought that I’d abandoned her. And I suppose I did.“
„Aunt Nedda, I’m so sorry about last night. That business about your mother – “ She turned her face into the pillow.
„It’s all right, Bitty. I told you, I never knew my own mother. Your murder theory didn’t upset me at all. I know my father didn’t kill her. His second wife, Alice, was a copy of Edwina. What does that tell you?“
„He loved her?“
„Madly. Once, before I was born, they were separated for a week. They wrote to each other every day. Their love letters are in her trunk up in the attic. You should read them. I know all the lines by heart.“
A small voice screamed, „What?“ It was Rags. The lame cockatiel had left its cage and now worked its way up the bedspread, climbing toward its mistress by beak and claw.
„Poor thing,“ said Nedda. „What happened to him? Why can’t he fly?“
„His wing was crushed by the window sash. It just fell on him. No, it slammed on him. I saw it happen. Mother said the house doesn’t like birds.“
„No, it doesn’t,“ said Nedda. „Every year after the first frost, we’d find a dead bird outside on one of the window ledges. The house doesn’t like flies either.“ She stared at the dead dry insect on Bitty’s sill. „That’s what old Mrs. Tully used to say. She was the housekeeper when I was a little girl. Tully always said, ‘You might see a dead fly every now and then, but you’ll never hear a live one buzz – at least, not for long.’“
„Was she insane?“ Bitty’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, as if she had just committed a social faux pas, calling attention to an infirmity in front of a cripple. And now, realizing her blunder, she seemed on the verge of tears.
Nedda gave her niece a smile of reassurance, then dipped one hand into the pocket of her robe. „There’s something else we have to talk about.“ She withdrew a small worn box and held it up for Bitty to see. „Remember this? Last night at dinner?“ The box was heavily lacquered cardboard, not machine made, but one of a kind, handcrafted and painted with the tarot image of the hanged man.
A memento mod from days in hell.
Nedda opened the box and pulled out the deck. The card of destruction, an image of a burning tower, was on the top. „Tell me where you found my tarot cards.“
The bookcases that lined Charles Buder’s library were fifteen feet tall, necessitating a ladder slanting from the top-shelf railing to the floor.
High in the air, he rolled along on its wheels as he searched for the volume that Mallory wanted. „A friend of my father’s gave it to me. He said my New York History section would be incomplete without it.“
Though he had never considered reading the book, it had been stored on the upper shelf with similar volumes. After perusing the first page, he had found the writing inferior, but it would have been bad manners and literary heresy to toss the book in die trash. Now where was it?
Well, this was embarrassing.
The book was not where it ought to be. A few years might have passed since he had placed it here, but how could it be lost? After generations of librarians had inculcated him with rules, he was virtually incapable of losing a book by placing it on a shelf out of order. Each volume’s spine was tagged with the Library of Congress number to ensure against such losses.
But now he noticed that none of the books on the top shelf were in their proper places.
No, this could not happen, not to him.
He glanced down at Mallory. She was staring at his recently delivered club chairs, six of them arranged in a circle. In their midst one might expect to find – oh, say, a priceless piece of furniture with a provenance dating back to 1846 and great historical significance. However, inside the wide circle of chairs there was nothing but his memory of a page from an antique catalogue.
She lifted her face to his. „Charles, you’ve been robbed.“
„No, I gave away my card table after I bought another one. It would’ve been delivered this morning… if not for a warehouse fire last night.“
He turned back to his problem of the lost book and discovered that the top shelf was free of dust. All was clear to him now. Apparently, his cleaning woman had actually dusted up here, fifteen feet in the air, then rearranged all the books by height so the line of the topmost shelf would not appear so uneven. Mrs. Ortega’s mania for neatness was second only to Mallory’s. Rather than undo all of the woman’s hard work, he politely memorized the new order of his books.
Mallory called up to him from the foot of the ladder. „So you thought a new table might improve your poker game?“
„No.“ Well – yes. Charles was not as crippled by magical thinking as some people, but historical memorabilia could be psychologically empowering. And in the game of poker -
„You know,“ she said, „you’d have to cheat to beat those bastards.“
He sighed.
She was right. Psychology would not save him. He had the wrong sort of face for the game, expressions that gave up every thought and emotion. Worse, he had inherited his mother’s deep red blush that made a lie or a bluff nearly impossible to pull off. Regrettably, he had been genetically programmed to be an honest man and a poor poker player.