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glued to the floor.
"How long do you think he's been here?" I asked.
"An expert could estimate from the condition of the blood, but I'm no
expert. Perhaps it was concurrent with the incident on the stairs."
Barrett would be listening. Escott knew there was no need to hit him
with the news of Emily's death just yet.
"Logically and practically, I would say it was done earlier, as this was
a crime that was never meant to be discovered. Later than two o'clock
and she would never have had the chance to be alone long enough to do
it."
"And he's been here like this all day."
"He may not have been conscious."
He was only trying to ease my mind, but I knew better. Once his body had
been dragged from the bed, Barrett's contact with his soil would be
severed. He'd have been aware. Unable to act, but aware. For myself,
there is no feeling worse than that kind of helplessness.
I stood and motioned Escott to come with me to the far end of the
library, and kept my voice very low. "I need to go back upstairs again.
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Can you handle all this with him?"
"Yes, but--"
"I'm going to have a talk with Laura. It's way overdue."
"Agreed, but I'd like to be there myself."
"I know, but I need you to keep Barrett busy."
Whether he could read anything else into that, I wasn't ready to guess.
The important thing was to say something that was halfway convincing so
I could get out of there. He was distracted because Barrett was coughing
and still needed help, otherwise I might have gotten more argument from
him.
Escott finally nodded, and if he knew what I had in mind, he chose not
to comment.
"This might take awhile," I added, risking it anyway. A part of me hoped
he would catch on and try talking me out of it.
He didn't, or wouldn't. "Very well. Take as long as you need." I shut
the metal fire door behind me and climbed the stairs up to the deserted
wing. Inside me, equal portions of fire and ice went to war.
Chapter 11
==========
THE LAST OF the relatives were gone and the staff had cleared away their
debris and swept up. Except for the stale stink of cigarette smoke
hanging in the air, no signs were left of the recent invasion. I made a
careful and quiet sweep of the place to make sure Cousin Abigail hadn't
lingered in some corner, but all was clear and silent. In a den off the
main hall I found a third of a bottle of whiskey in a liquor cabinet and
took it upstairs.
The door to Emily's room was locked, probably as a precaution against
family souvenir hunters. The room was undisturbed and both jewel safes
in her closet were firmly shut, but I wasn't interested in them. I
pocketed what I needed and left.
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I listened for a long time outside Laura's door to be certain that Mrs.
Mayfair was gone and that the girl was alone. Water ran and splashed;
she was having a long shower to steam away the day's troubles. The water
sound cut off and softer, less distinct ones replaced it as she toweled
down and padded barefoot around her room.
Her door abruptly opened in my face and her light blue eyes flashed on
me in shock and fear. She nearly screamed, but didn't. The house was
empty, no one would hear.
She was head to toe in black, her bright blond hair covered by a black
scarf.
"Going to a funeral?" I asked.
Her heart jumped and she backed away, but I caught her wrist, swinging
her around until she was pressed against the wall. Now she did try to
scream, a normal reflex to the situation, but I stopped that with one
hand and talked quickly, urgently, focusing in hard enough to crack
through her terror. It eventually worked and she relaxed against the
wall and I took my hand away from her mouth.
"Where were you going?" I asked.
"The basement."
"Why?"
"I have to get rid of him."
It was no galloping surprise. At this point I was just being thorough.
"Did you try to--did you kill Barrett?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"He knew--knew--" She was struggling against it and could shake it off
if she fought hard enough.
"All right, calm down. Everything's okay."
Her breathing smoothed out.
"Go back into your room, lock the door, and sit down."
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I followed her in. She chose to sit at her dressing table on a little
satin stool much like the one in Bobbi's room. I checked the place,
keeping well clear of the veranda windows. The stables were at an
oblique angle to them on this side, but there was a chance Haskell might
look out and see my figure against her curtains. It was very important
that she appear to be alone now.
She was--at least in the mirrors.
It was a cheery place, with yellow flowers blooming in the wallpaper,
and a thick rust-colored rug covered most of the floor. The bath was
warm and damp from her shower, and that day's black dress was crumpled
into a hamper. She'd rinsed her stockings herself and hung them over the
shower rod to dry.
I found a chair and dragged it over to face her. In the mirror-covered
wall it moved all by itself.
She was very still, waiting for me to speak. Her body rhythms were
strong and even. After an active summer of swimming and riding, her skin
was tanned and healthy. She was quite a beautiful girl and her youth
attracted me even as it must have attracted Barrett.
"Laura, my name is Jack. You remember me from earlier tonight?"
She nodded.
"I'm going to ask you some questions and you will want to answer them.
You can tell me the truth, to do so will make you feel very good."
She waited, disinterested and seeing nothing.
"Laura, did you kill Maureen Dumont?"
"Who?"
And that threw me until I realized she might never have heard the name.
"Remember the summer of the fire?"
"Yes."
"Remember the dark-haired woman who came one night to see Barrett?"
"Yes."
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"Did you kill that woman?"
She'd buried it deep and it didn't want to come out. Her breath got
short, and for a second, real awareness came back to her eyes. I
steadied her down and soothed her, keeping my voice low, but pitched so
she had to listen. I told her it was all right to answer and repeated my
question, and then she said yes.
I felt nothing looking into her blank eyes. Her face ceased to belong to
a person and took on the smooth, bland beauty of a mannequin. The lost
years and the emotional racking and the physical trauma had taken all
feeling from me. The worry, fear, and doubt that had once driven me were
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