All Fall Down (9 page)

“Why, Mrs. Peyton, you shouldn’t have disturbed your daughter,” she said in the fondly scolding tone she often used with her patient. “You know I’m right in the next room.”

“You didn’t answer when I rang the bell.”

Bernice’s face had the swollen-lidded look it acquired when she was having one of her headaches. A flush of embarrassment spread over her broad features, shiny from a greasy night cream, but Joan had the feeling her mother had never rung the bell for Bernice at all. Her expression was petulant, the way it always was when she thought Joan wasn’t paying enough attention to her.

“I want an afghan,” she whined. “Joan, get me the afghan downstairs in the sitting room. The blue-and-white one I knitted last year.” The blue-and-white afghan had been knitted over twenty years ago, but time no longer had meaning to Edith Peyton.

“I’ll get it,” Bernice said hastily.

Joan shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll get it,” she said with a wink to Bernice, which had become their signal for “Try to calm her down.”

Bernice started to leave for the bathroom, where Edith’s medicine was kept, but the old woman reached out and grabbed her hand. “You stay here till she gets back. I don’t want to be alone. There’s death in the air tonight.”

“Oh, now, Mrs. Peyton,” Bernice said, sounding as if she were talking to a three-year-old as she sat down on the bed. “What a thing to say.”

“Cold-breathed, bone-rattling death!” Edith insisted.

Bernice looked appalled. “She’s always had a flair for the dramatic when she’s annoyed,” Joan said. “I’ll be right back.”

She found the afghan on the living room couch, catching sight of herself in a big, gilt-edged mirror on her way out. Her hair hung, shining and thick, to her shoulders, but her face was the color of eggshells and, without lipstick, her lips looked thin and dry. Five years ago they hadn’t looked that way, even without artificial color. The years and the deaths take their toll, she thought, trudging back up the stairs with the afghan. “Here you go, Mother,” she said, spreading it over the shrunken figure. Even Edith’s head appeared to have shrunk in the past couple of years, as if she’d fallen into the clutches of a headhunter. “Are you comfortable now?” she asked solicitously as Bernice slipped out of the room.

“Talk with me a while, sweetie pie.”

“Okay. I’ll stay until Bernice gets back.”

“No. I want you to sit up with me till morning. I’m afraid of the dark.”

“Mother, I’ve had very little sleep.”

Edith’s sagging eyelids opened wider in anger. “Well, just get the hell out, then! Go on, get out! Forget about your mother! You’ll think twice about being so selfish after I’m gone!”

Joan was used to these sudden transformations. One minute Edith was a sweet, fragile old lady whose failing memory made your heart break. The next she was a sharp-tongued termagant. Joan could hear Bernice moving around in the bathroom, searching through the myriad bottles of pills for something to help her mother sleep. Relief would be coming soon.

Joan sighed and walked to the window, gazing far across the lawn at the converted stables facing the alley that housed the family cars. The hedge along the alley had grown so tall, cars could come and go without ever being seen from downstairs, but from the second floor she watched a cat slink across the asphalt and pounce. It grappled with something for a moment, then ran off into the brush with its prize. “What would you like to talk about, Mother?”

Her mother’s head whipped back toward her. “Where is Charlotte?”

“Charlotte is dead. She’s been dead for a very long time.”

Edith’s right hand, corded with almost grotesquely prominent veins, plucked nervously at the afghan. “No, I didn’t mean Charlotte. That’s not right. The other one. The child.”

“Rosalind.”

“Yes, Rosalind! That’s who I meant. Where’s Rosie?”

What was taking Bernice so long? Joan wondered as she moved away from the window and sat on the bed, taking Edith’s cold, bony hand. “There’s been a tragedy, remember? Rosie is…gone.”

In the moonlight streaming through the open curtains the old woman’s face crumpled. “You mean dead. Rosie killed herself.” Joan looked at her, surprised she remembered what she’d been told about Rosie’s death. “I still can’t believe it. She was so beautiful.”

“Yes, Rosie
was
beautiful,” Joan said softly. “And intelligent. And talented. And young.”

“Beautiful. Beautiful like you. You’re so beautiful. You’ve always been so beautiful, Joan.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“I don’t know where your looks came from. You were the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen. I couldn’t believe two ordinary-looking people like your daddy and me produced something like you.”

“That’s quite a compliment, Mother.”

“Do you think so? Being pretty isn’t so great. It doesn’t mean you’re special in your soul.” She cast a quick, birdlike look at Joan, whose temporary pleasure in the praise died. Her mother always had a talent for building her up only to immediately deflate her. Senility hadn’t dulled the old trick. “Rosie was beautiful like you. But her personality, that was like her mother’s. She had Charlotte’s personality.” Her eyebrows drew together. “Do you think Charlotte’s personality entered Rosalind’s body?”

How many times had she asked this since Charlotte’s death? Joan thought. And how many times had Ned Peyton snapped at his wife to stop spouting a lot of Hindu nonsense? “I’ll always miss Charlotte,” Edith rambled on. “I’ll
always
miss her.”

Joan could hear Bernice rummaging through the bathroom closet, probably searching for a fresh package of Dixie cups. “Everyone who loved Charlotte will always miss her, Mother.”

“Do you think Charlotte and Rosalind are together now?”

“I hope so.”

Edith sighed. “My Charlotte. She had such stinking luck with men. Never knew how to handle them like you did. First that Avery son of a bitch dropped her.” Joan winced. Five years ago Edith wouldn’t let a curse word cross her lips; now she showed an amazing facility with foul language. “Then that unspeakable Van…Van something or other killed her. He killed my baby.”

“Mother, she never dated Martin Avery. She had a schoolgirl crush on him. And Derek Van Zandt didn’t kill Charlotte.”

“She’s dead, isn’t she? And he was driving.”

“They died in a private plane crash, Mother, and Derek
wasn’t
the pilot.”

“I know he was! You all lied to protect Rosie, to keep her from knowing her father killed her mother. But, by God, I know the truth! That low-down bastard, that dirty son of a—”

Joan stood up quickly as Bernice entered the room. “What
took
you so long?” she shrilled.

Bernice tensed, looking as if she thought Joan was going to fly across the room and slap her. “I’m sorry, Miss Peyton. I couldn’t find—”

Joan took a deep breath, regaining control. “Oh, never mind. I’m just tired. You’re here with the pills now. That’s all that matters.”

Edith’s expression changed from rage to suspicion. “What kind of pills?”

“Your Valium,” Bernice said.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a pill to calm you. You take them all the time.”

Edith’s face set. “I have never had radium in all my life,” she said emphatically.

Bernice gave her a placating smile. “It’s Valium, not radium. How about trying one tonight? And look, I’ve brought your water in one of those pretty patterned cups you like.”

“The ones with the pink tulips on the side?”

Dear God, Joan thought. Was this the woman who, even on the sly, had once sipped brandy only from delicate crystal snifters?

“That’s right, Mrs. Peyton. Beautiful pink tulips. And after you take one of your pills, I’ll sit here and hold your hand until you’ve gone to sleep.”

“All right. But I’m telling you, I’ve
never
had one of those pills.” Her scratchy voice went on relentlessly. “I’d remember if I’d had one. I remember everything, although people think I don’t. They love making fun of me. Like to think I’m crazy. Hell, crazy like a fox, that’s what
I
am, and don’t you forget it!”

Bernice practically crammed the pill into Edith’s mouth and watched her gulp water like a drooling baby. “My hip hurts,” Edith whimpered after she’d swallowed the pill.

Bernice shook her head. “Sorry, but you’ve already had your pain medicine. Just relax, and in a little while you’ll feel much better.”

“I want Joan to stay with me.”

“Joan is awfully tired, Mrs. Peyton. Why not let me—”

“I want Joan! Edith shouted with shocking force.

Joan and Bernice both recoiled. “It’s all right,” Joan said tiredly. “I’m not sure I can go back to sleep now anyway.”

For the next fifteen minutes Joan held Edith’s hand while she babbled about a dance she’d attended when she was sixteen. She’d worn pink silk and had pink rosebuds pinned in her hair, and her dance card was full. In fact, men were fighting over dances with her! She was light on her feet, an angel in motion. Everyone said so.

But Joan wasn’t listening to the tale she’d heard hundreds of times throughout her life, a tale that grew more glamorous and romantic with each telling. Instead she was thinking about Rosie. Suicide, they said. As if a girl like Rosie would commit suicide! The idea was preposterous. Joan had pretended to believe it, not saying a word to anyone about murder. At this point people would claim she simply couldn’t accept what Rosie had done to herself. But surely the police couldn’t believe for long that Rosie had taken her own life. The autopsy would show
something
. It had to. Besides, Logan Quint was a smart man. He had to see that something was wrong about Rosalind’s death. She was counting on him. But if no one pursued the matter, she would do it herself. She would fight the verdict of death by suicide for as long as it took, until at last everyone would know that someone had wanted Rosie dead.

1

“Kathy, you were late for class both yesterday and today.” Kathleen Foss, the school’s voluptuous, platinum-blond head cheerleader, snapped her gum and looked at Blaine with maddening impassivity. “Five minutes late yesterday and ten today,” Blaine continued. “I’m supposed to send you to the office for tardiness, but I don’t like treating you like a child. I thought we could work this out together.”

Kathy had always reminded Blaine of a china doll—just as silver-and-white pretty and just as empty-headed. She looked at Blaine with flat eyes turned azure by colored contacts. “Yeah, okay, well, I won’t be late anymore.”

Blaine didn’t know what she’d expected—uneasiness in the face of her displeasure, gratitude for her benevolence in not sending Kathy to the office? She got neither. Kathy was totally indifferent, although she did look paler than usual. Blaine peered at her, noting that her makeup had been applied with the usual precision, but the pink blusher lay on waxy skin.

“Kathy, are you feeling all right?”

The girl looked slightly startled, the first animation she’d shown in two days. “Sure, I’m fine. Why? Do I look bad?”

“A little wan.”

“A little wand?”

“
Wan
. It means pale.”

“Oh. Well, no, I’m okay. Are you done talking to me?”

Annoyed, Blaine flared, “Yes, but you’re not supposed to be chewing gum in school. Spit it out immediately.”

Kathy looked at her as if she were crazy, and she felt ridiculous. Unlike some of the teachers, she couldn’t understand why it was all right for teachers to chew gum and smoke in the building, but not for students. They weren’t young kids. Nevertheless, she said nothing as Kathy raised manicured fingers to her mouth, took out her green gum, and dropped it with elaborate ceremony into the wastebasket. “Okay.
Now
can I go,
Mrs
. Avery?”

Blaine sighed. “Yes. But don’t be late again.”

When Blaine had first started teaching, she imagined herself establishing a good rapport with all her students, motivating even the most apathetic to develop some appreciation, if not love, of literature and composition. But as she watched Kathleen leave, she realized those dreams had been totally unrealistic. Some people could never be reached by a teacher, Kathy Foss being a prime example. For her, school was merely a showcase for her sexy young body and her athletic skills. In twenty years, she would remember being head cheerleader as the high point of her achievements and probably talk about it until her friends and family could recite verbatim all her stories for her.

It was the noon hour, and as she ate another dry sandwich in her classroom, Blaine thought about the night before, about finding Rosie’s suitcase and her secret key to the Avery home.

Logan had studied Blaine, his expression changing. How had he looked? Blaine mused. Earnest? Grim? Accusatory? “Blaine, you haven’t thought Rosie committed suicide since the night we found her, have you?”

Blaine had regarded him steadily. “No. I told you I didn’t think she’d killed herself, and I couldn’t understand why you didn’t see it, too.”

“I did.”

“Then why did you play games with me in the car, acting like you thought it
was
suicide?”

“Because I couldn’t say with certainty it wasn’t, and if it wasn’t, I needed you to tell me everything you could about the girl’s mood without the issue of murder clouding your recollections.” Blaine blushed, realizing he was thinking about her past, when she’d once been suspected of murder.

Obviously noting her discomfort, Logan said briskly, “Why didn’t you believe the suicide theory?”

“The unnecessary depth of the cuts on her wrists, for one thing. Also, I told Robin to think about anything significant Rosie might have said, and I did the same. During the past couple of years, I’ve been around the girl a lot, too. She never mentioned anything that hinted at suicide. But she did talk a lot about the future. She said everything was going to change for her once she got out of this little town. Someone that optimistic about life doesn’t suddenly kill themselves.”

“But you haven’t seen much of her since late in the summer. That’s three months when something
could
have changed drastically for her.”

“I know that, Logan. But I couldn’t get something else off my mind. Rosie had a suitcase with her when she left. Why would she pack a suitcase to lug around with her before she killed herself?”

“She was supposed to be spending the weekend in Charleston with her cousin. She would have taken a suitcase to look convincing.”

“Why bother telling that lie about Charleston? She could have made some excuse about going out just for the evening. By the time she was found on this property, she would already be dead. I know that when Robin and Rosie were kids, they played in the woods, but over the years Rosie had developed an aversion to them. She was always asking me if they didn’t bother me, looming so close to the house. I just can’t believe she would go out in them at night to kill herself.”

“Unless she was messed up on drugs.”

“She wasn’t taking drugs,” Robin said vehemently. “Oh, I know she’d been acting a little strange lately, but believe me, she was afraid of drugs, and she was especially terrified of needles.”

Logan looked at her with interest. “I didn’t know about the fear of needles.”

“I saw her pass out one time just getting a routine blood test,” Robin said.

“You didn’t mention all this when I questioned you this morning.”

Robin shrugged. “I didn’t know she’d been drugged. I never even thought about it.”

“Well, I can tell you one thing, fear of needles aside,” Logan said. “Rosalind Van Zandt did not come to this house, give herself a massive overdose, hide her purse, suitcase, and jacket behind your furnace, lock all the doors, then walk nearly a quarter of a mile to the creek and slash her wrists to the bone. Considering the amount of opiate in her system, she couldn’t have walked far. She might have been carried, but that’s a long way to carry a hundred-and-twenty-pound girl. It’s my bet she was probably lured or coerced out to the woods and drugged near the creek.”

“Then it was her murderer who put those things behind the furnace,” Blaine had said. “But why?”

“Maybe something spooked him. Hell, it could have been you coming into the house that night. He might have been hiding in the basement and managed to get out the back door, locking it behind him, but not wanting to risk lugging Rosie’s stuff out with him.” Blaine pictured Rosie dying in the woods while she was blithely driving around, even coming into the house, so near, and felt sick. “The killer probably thought he could retrieve Rosie’s things the following night. Only you came home the next morning.”

“How could the killer hope to retrieve her things the next night when all the doors were locked?”

Logan looked at her solemnly. “Blaine, if Rosalind was killed by the father of her baby, he might have his own key.” She went cold all over and Logan added, “You’d better get your locks changed tomorrow.”

“Sure. I will,” Blaine said faintly, rubbing a hand across her rigid neck muscles. Her head was beginning to ache, pain pounding through her temples.

“How do you think it happened, Sheriff?” Robin asked. “Do you think Rosie was planning to run off with her lover to get married? Maybe they were supposed to meet out here, but at the last minute he decided not to go through with it. Rosie might have gotten hysterical and he blew up—”

“And proceeded to shoot her up with the opiate he carried around with him just in case he got mad? I’m afraid not, Robin.”

“Then it was premeditated.”

“You’re damned right it was,” Logan had said with quiet fury. “And to top it all off, the bastard had the gall to try to make it look like suicide.”

“Murder made to look like suicide,” Blaine said aloud in the classroom, her stomach tightening. “That’s what the police thought about Martin.”

“If you weren’t being such a recluse since you came back, you wouldn’t
have
to talk to yourself.”

Blaine jerked, startled out of her memories of last night, and looked up to see John Sanders standing in the doorway.

“Hi, John. Why aren’t you eating out with everyone else?”

“I had a few papers I thought I’d catch up on. Mind if I come in for a few minutes?”

Blaine motioned to a chair beside her desk. John sat down and crossed his legs ankle over knee. “You still feeling pretty shook up over Rosie?”

“Yes, of course I am. I’ve been avoiding the lunch crowd because I don’t want to go into the details,” she said pointedly.

“I don’t blame you.” Blaine’s faint hope that her hint had been taken died when he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I heard today that it definitely wasn’t suicide.”

“Who told you that?”

“Arletta Stroud, campus liaison to the county sheriff’s office.”

“That girl! Honestly. She tells everything she knows. But her father shouldn’t have told her to begin with. Not yet.”

“Why not? They’re pretty certain, aren’t they?”

Blaine put aside her peanut butter sandwich, knowing she wouldn’t be able to finish it now. “I don’t know, John. I think the police are just speculating.”

“And Rosie’s suitcase and purse were in your house?”

“Arletta didn’t leave out much, did she?”

“It’s her only way of getting attention. Well, did they? Find those things, I mean.”

“I’m not sure I should be talking about this.”

“Everyone knows, Blaine. Arletta’s been talking her stupid head off all morning.”

“Arletta’s always talking her stupid head off. That’s why she never picks up anything in class.” She sighed, stuffing the remains of her sandwich back in its plastic bag. She didn’t want to talk about the murder anymore, but she had to remember that John had liked Rosie, too. Naturally he was curious. Besides, she trusted him as a confidant. “Yes, the purse and suitcase were hidden in my basement.”

“Strange as hell. Arletta also said Rosie was pregnant.”

“Oh, no. I was hoping no one would find that out.”

“Faint hope. Joan will be even more crushed than she is now when this news gets around.” He shook his head. “Any idea who the father was?”

“No, not a clue.”

“How about Tony Jarvis?”

“Maybe. Robin doesn’t think Rosie’s relationship with Tony was sexual, but who knows? I don’t want to believe Tony had anything to do with this.”

“Don’t forget that the summer before last, Jarvis did a lot of odd jobs around the Peyton home. Mr. Peyton was dying then, and Rosie told me Jarvis even helped the private-duty nurse shift the old man in his bed and do some of the heavier tasks involved with caring for an invalid. Rosie got to know him then and she liked him. I didn’t understand it—he didn’t seem like her type.”

“He’s handsome and sexy and talented.”

“And that makes him every girl’s type?”

Blaine shrugged. “I don’t know. But I certainly can’t imagine. Tony getting a girl pregnant and then murdering her.”

“Oh, I forgot. You’ve always been partial to our rebel without a cause, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Tony’s oldest sister and I were best friends in school. I remember him when he was little.”

“Well, don’t forget he got busted for drugs a couple of years ago.”

“One marijuana cigarette when he was fifteen.”

“Still, considering that Rosie was drugged before she was murdered—”

“Good Lord!” Blaine exploded. “Arletta threw in that detail, too?”

“That and a few she probably made up. But don’t get so mad. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Blaine sighed, thinking someone ought to put a muzzle on Arletta
and
her father.

“God, how awful,” John muttered. “Poor Rosie.”

She reached for her purse and fished inside for the aspirin bottle. “I’ve got a pounding headache.” He looked concerned as she gulped down the pills with some of the coffee she’d brought in a thermos. “It must be tension. The shock of finding Rosie and all. These should fix me up. In the meantime, could we talk about something besides Rosie?”

“I guess dead, pregnant girls aren’t exactly appropriate topics for lunchtime conversation. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“Subject closed, then,” he said, looking at her with those mesmerizing, long-lashed smoky blue eyes. “You get to pick the next subject.”

“Okay. How’s Sam?” she asked, referring to his often-mentioned girlfriend, Samantha.

“Talk about nonsequiturs!” John raised his hands over his head and stretched. “Sam is fine. Talked to her last night, as a matter of fact.”

“Does she have any intention of leaving Columbus and coming here to live?”

“Are you kidding?” John laughed. “No way. She loves her job at the hospital
and
the city. And since, unlike our dear Arletta, you can be discreet, I’ll let you know I’ve applied to some Columbus schools for a job.”

“John, I think that’s great!”

“Well, I’m not expecting much. The job market is tough for English teachers right now, but at least I’m trying. Sam’s happy about that.”

“Are you going to spend Thanksgiving with her?”

“Yes. Leaving next Wednesday right after school. And believe me, after that grilling Quint gave me about Rosie, I wish it were tomorrow.”

“He was really rough on you?”

“It was practically bright-light-and-rubber-hose time.” He smiled. “Well, I do tend to exaggerate. It wasn’t quite that bad, but he seemed unduly suspicious.” He hesitated. “Blaine, I know you don’t want to talk about this, but did you emphasize my friendship with Rosie to him?”

No, she didn’t want to talk about it, but John seemed almost obsessed by the subject. “I hardly mentioned your relationship with Rosie.”

“It wasn’t a
relationship
. It was a
friendship
.”

Blaine looked at him searchingly. “Okay. Your
friendship
. I didn’t say much about it.”

“But you
did
tell him.”

“Tell him what, John? That you seemed to know her better than any of the teachers here except for me? Yes, I did say that much.”