Family Practice (30 page)

“I'm inclined to think she didn't know who took it and called them all together to find out.”

“Then Taylor offed her before she could.”

Susan could see he wasn't anywhere near sold on the idea. Neither was she, but she was convinced—almost convinced—that Taylor had snatched the painting and Holly had peddled it.

A man built like a tank rolled over to the jukebox and thumbed in coins. Music blared out; a nasal voice wailed in despair, “We only have to figure out where to go from here.”

She couldn't have put it better herself.

25

F
IVE O'CLOCK IN
the afternoon, clouds moving in like a war party, the air hot enough to steam clams, and Nadine was adamant about going to the park.

Ellen pulled on the bottom of her T-shirt and flapped it back and forth. “Heatstroke,” she said.

Nadine, looking wilted in white shorts and loose white blouse, ignored her and pushed on around the corner. She stopped and frowned at the lake that was Bobcat Canyon Park. A kid in a kayak was paddling across it. “Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.”

“Why do you say that?” Ellen waved her arm. “We could swim out to that bench and huddle on it while we eat sandwiches. Pretend it's a raft.”

“Don't be difficult.” Nadine wrestled the stroller with a sleeping Bobby into a U-turn, bumped it over squishy ground to the sidewalk, and made off down Ninth Street. “Let's see about Broken Arrow Park. Maybe it's okay.”

“Why do we have to have a picnic? It's going to rain any minute. We could eat at the house.”

“Bobby needs fresh air.”

“He could get fresh air on the way to the Coffee Cup. It's cool in there, and they have booths. That makes it real nice. When the rain comes, you don't get wet.”

“I told you to bring your raincoat.” Nadine's own raincoat with the gourd appliqué, identical to Ellen's except a bright blue instead of black, hung over the handle of the stroller.

“I can't find it.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don't know. Nadine, what are you up to?”

“I told you. I want to talk to you.”

“Bobby'll get wet.”

Nadine strode firmly on with that bossy attitude she always got when she'd done something she knew Ellen would get pissed about.

Broken Arrow Park had a tree down at the entrance blocking the way. Undeterred, Nadine maneuvered the stroller around fallen branches and wheeled over to a bench. It wasn't exactly wet, but it wasn't dry either. Ellen could feel damp boards through the seat of her jeans.

“Nadine, this is stupid.”

“Get up a minute.” Nadine spread her raincoat over the bench and then busied herself getting sandwiches and cookies from a bag in the stroller. She handed a sandwich to Ellen.

Ellen unwrapped ham and cheese and tore off a corner. She chewed and swallowed. “All right. What is it?”

Nadine fussed over Bobby, poking and tucking.

“Nadine—”

Nadine peered studiously into the small bag. “I have chicken salad too, if you'd rather.”

“Knock it off. Or I'm going to hit you.”

“Well.” Nadine carefully peeled plastic wrap from a sandwich and examined it. “I saw Adam.”

“So?” Ellen chomped down on another corner.

“I mean I talked to him.”

“Yesss?” Ellen said darkly.

“I just happened to run into him at the service station. You know, Pickett's, over on—”

“I know where Pickett's service station is.”

“Right. Well, he was getting gas and I pulled in right behind him. I needed gas. And I could hardly not say anything. I mean, he spoke to me and said how cute Bobby was, and asked how I was doing, and how Bob was.” Nadine nudged the stroller to and fro. “And anyway, I asked him.”

“Asked him what?”

Nadine aimed a sideways glance at her. “Why he left.”

“You did what! My God, Nadine, I may hit you just on general principles.”

“Well, I kind of knew you'd feel that way. That's why I thought it'd be better if we were somewhere nobody'd hear when you yelled at me. He didn't do it, Ellen.”

Ellen glowered. “Do what?”

“Take money from Dorothy.”

Fizz started to bubble up in her chest. She slammed a lid on it. “How do you know?”

“I asked him.”

“You
what?
”

“Dorothy offered. If he'd leave. He turned her down.”

All of a sudden Ellen found it hard to breathe. Things inside seemed to be fighting with other things. “Dorothy didn't lie,” she said when she could grab hold of words.

“I know, but—” Nadine twisted the cap from a thermos and handed her something red. “What exactly did Dorothy say?”

“Lots. And at the end she said she—” Ellen drank whatever was in the cup and grimaced. “What is this?”

“Kool-Aid. You see, she
offered
him money. She didn't say he took it.”

Ellen was so flat-out steam-rollered, she couldn't remember what Dorothy had said. Nadine had really done it this time. She had no right. Always sticking her nose in.

Nadine eyed her warily. “Dorothy tried to do what she thought was best for you. That's what happens when you have too much control. You start thinking you know what's best. Then you start manipulating to get what you know is best to come about.”

Ducks from the swollen pond waddled up, quacking and grumbling. Ellen crumbled bread and tossed it to them. They squabbled and darted.

“So anyway, I just thought you should know.” She looked at Ellen, waited, and finally asked, “So you going to yell?”

“Damn right, I'm going to yell. Just as soon as I—” She burst into tears.

“Hey now, Ellen—”

“I'm going to be arrested.”

“Of course you're not. Why would you?” Nadine rooted around in the diaper bag and came up with Kleenex.

“I found Vicky's— I found Vicky. The cops think I killed her. And stole a painting. And—” I'm losing it, she thought, scrubbed at her face, and blew her nose. “I'm scared.” She hauled in a long, shaky breath. “One of my family hates me.”

“Oh, Ellen, no. Why would you think that?”

“Because—” She almost told Nadine about Daddy's gun. Instead, she explained about the painting and the phone call that had gotten her to Vicky's. “I can't stay at the house anymore. It's too weird with Dorothy not there. I'm scared of everybody. What if Taylor did it? What if he creeps up and stabs me in the back? I've got to leave.”

“And go where? Carl's?”

She couldn't even do that. Afraid to trust Carl. Everything was wrong and crazy. “Home. My place.”

“You can't. There's no plumbing.”

“So I'll camp out. No big deal. I can't stay at the house anymore. I'm going. I have to.”

“It's not safe, all by yourself.”

“Safe?” Ellen heard the high wail in her voice and got a tighter grip. “I'm not safe anywhere. At least, out there I can hear them coming.” I'm safer there than where I am.

“Ellen, there's another storm on the way.”

“So I'll wait out the wind.” Ellen gathered cookie crumbs, tore up leftover pieces of bread and squished toward the duck pond, swollen almost double. The ducks saw her coming and noisily squabbled around her. She scattered crumbs, dusted off her hands, and wiped them on the seat of her jeans.

“I'm not going to let you do it.” Nadine packed wrappings back in the paper sack and stowed it in the diaper bag.

“You can't stop me.”

They left the park, Nadine shoving the stroller over the uneven ground. “Then I'm coming with you.”

“With Bobby? Don't be ridiculous. And what would Bob say?” Ellen lifted the front end of the stroller up onto the sidewalk.

“Please don't go.”

“I have to.”

“Ellen, no—”

After Ellen made promises to be careful, they split at the intersection. Ellen plodded along Ninth Street, then over to Indiana, and let herself into the old family home. Ha. Where, if you have to go, they have to take you in. Taylor wasn't around, and she wondered where he was.

Upstairs in her bedroom, she gathered clothes, toothbrush, and comb and jammed them in the backpack. After all that firm talk, it suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea. Foolhardy. Dorothy had always said she was foolhardy. Ellen sat sideways on the window seat, elbows propped on her bent knees, and stared out at the flowers and the latticework gazebo where she used to read as a kid. Her throat got tight, and tears dribbled down her face. Leaving home. She seriously didn't want to go.

Then what? Stay here and snivel? She hauled herself to her feet and slung the backpack over one shoulder.

Leave a note? Call Carl? She didn't want anybody to know where she was, but if she simply disappeared, panic and bloodhounds would be in order. She scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table.

It was after seven-thirty when she tossed the backpack onto the passenger seat of the Mustang and stuck the key in the ignition. The cranky old car was always developing freaky problems that couldn't be diagnosed, but it started right up and idled roughly. Hands on the wheel, she sat looking at the house: a symbol of safety, belonging, a haven in times of dire trouble. Looking at it now made her cry again. Nothing had been what she thought, not family unity, not loving relatives, not even safety. It was a place of danger and betrayal.

Shoving the car in gear, she backed out of the driveway. Adam she didn't even allow headroom. If she were arrested, there'd be plenty of jail time to think about him. Find out who was trying to frame her. Stop this quivering in fear and waiting for the axe to fall.

Willis. Of them all, he was the most devastated by Dorothy's death. The two of them had always been close. With a crazy father and a mother too busy and psychologically unsuited for motherhood, they had clung to each other. Vicky's death coming on top of Dorothy's shattered Willis to the point of nonfunctioning.

Marlitta. Plodding along doing everything by rote. Like her mind was zapped by electricity and her body went on without it. Brent. Slimy creep. Pawing anything young and female. God's gift, for Pete's sake. Marlitta loved him. Why? Couldn't she see what he was? Obviously not. Besotted.

Carl. The smartest. Would he kill and try to frame her? That hurt. That hurt a lot. So much, she could only come at it sideways. No matter how this all turned out, there'd be pain. Maybe too much, and it would tear away even the pretense of togetherness.

Unless Taylor was guilty. Nobody would be too grief-stricken then. Which was, of course, why everybody wanted him to be it.

A hawk flew against the gray sky, banked in a wide arc, and floated gently down to a tree limb. Freedom. Ha. Freedom was a myth. The world consisted of predators and prey. You were either hunting or running.

Far to her left, floodwater surrounded outbuildings and the roofs looked like small islands. A farmer in a rowboat was ferrying a pig to higher ground. The pig gazed imperiously ahead like an emperor surveying his kingdom.

Two miles further, she turned off on the road that led to her place. When the old stone house came into view, her heart lifted. She loved this place; just being back gave her some hope. Maybe she could figure out what was going on.

The house sat on top a hill, and even though there were patches of standing water, the house itself was in no danger of flooding, though the trenches the plumbers had dug were brimming. Her very own swimming hole. So it was long and narrow instead of round. She'd always been a nonconformist. Would she ever have workable plumbing? She sighed. Not until the weather cleared up. She pulled up in front.

Slinging the backpack over a shoulder, she slid from the Mustang, unlocked the door, and let it stand wide. Dim inside. Musty smell. She shoved up the two windows in the living room and trudged upstairs. Didn't smell as bad up here. She opened windows and went back down.

Worry tugged frantically at the edges of her mind. Some small animal, maybe a field mouse trying to get away from floodwater, had gotten inside and died. Didn't smell too bad in the living room. Stronger in the dining room. Apprehension catching hold, she eased toward the kitchen.

Her heart banged around in her throat.

Blood. Dark against the scuffed linoleum. Taylor crumpled like a felled steer. Legs bent, arms flung out, knife handle in the middle of his chest. Gray suit jacket open, white shirt soaked black.

Flies. Oh, God, flies. Horrible, big green flies. Buzzing. Crawling. Taylor wasn't moving. He wasn't moving at all. The knife handle was ivory. It came from the wooden block on her cabinet.

26

“W
HY WAS
T
AYLOR
here?” Susan sat in a white wicker chair with flowered cushions. Dr. Fisher had come and gone; the body had been bagged and taken away; Parkhurst and Osey were working the scene with a sheriff's deputy, since technically this was the sheriff's jurisdiction.

“I don't know,” Ellen said. Huddled into herself, she sat on the hearth of the stone fireplace that reached the ceiling, with knees tight together, sneakered feet pointed in with the toes touching, and the relative calm of being pushed so close to the edge the slightest movement would send her over.

Lamps on small tables lent a gleam to the wood floors. Brightly colored rugs—by the small paisley couch and blue chair and in the entryway—gave the room a cheery note. On white walls were framed photos of woodland scenes: a deer, an eagle in flight, a coyote against snow.

“Why were you here?” Susan asked.

“It was strange at the house with everything—”

Susan could tell from her tone her mind was cluttered. “When did you decide to come?”

“I've been thinking about it.”

“Staying here? With no plumbing?”