Blow Fly

109

A FRAGILE WEDGEWOOD TEACUP lightly clinks against a saucer.

Mrs. Guidon and Scarpetta sit at a kitchen table made of a centuries-old butcher block that Scarpetta finds repulsive. She can't help but imagine how many chickens and other animals were slaughtered and chopped up on the worn, sloping wood with its hack marks, cracks and discoloration. It is an unpleasant by-product of her profession that she knows too much, and it is almost impossible to kill bacteria on porous materials such as wood.

"How many times must I demand to know why I'm here and how you managed to get me here?" Scarpetta's eyes are intense.

"I find it charming that Albert seems to have decided you are his friend," Mrs. Guidon remarks. "I try very hard to encourage him. He wants nothing to do with school sports or any other activities that might expose him to children his own age. He thinks he belongs right here at this table"-she taps the butcher block with her small, milky white knuckles-"talking to you and me as if he is our peer."

After years of dealing with people who refuse to answer questions or can't or are in denial, Scarpetta is skilled at catching truths as they subtly show themselves. "Why doesn't he associate with children his own age?" she inquires.

"Who knows? It is a mystery. He has always been odd, really, preferring to stay home and do homework, entertaining himself with those peculiar games children play these days. Cards with those awful creatures on them. Cards and computers, cards and more cards." Her gestures are dramatic, her French accent heavy, her English stilted and faltering. "He has been more this way as he gets older. Isolated and playing the card games. Often, he is home, stays in his room with the door shut and will not come out." Suddenly, she softens and seems caring.

Every detail Scarpetta observes is conflicting and disturbing, the kitchen an argument of anachronisms that seem a metaphor for this house and the people who live in it. Behind her is a cavernous fireplace, with formidable hand-forged andirons capable of bearing a load of wood large enough to heat up a room three times this size. A door leads outside, and next to it is a complicated alarm system keypad and an Aiphone with a video screen for the cameras that no doubt guard every entrance. Another keypad, this one much larger, indicates the old mansion is a smart house with multiple modems that allow the occupants to remotely control heating, cooling, lights, entertainment centers and gas fireplaces, and even turn appliances off and on. Yet the appliances and thermostats Scarpetta has seen so far have not been upgraded for what she estimates is at least thirty years.

A knife holder on the granite countertop is empty, and there are no knives in the porcelain sink, not a knife anywhere in sight. Yet hanging over the fireplace is a rack of nineteenth-century swords, and on the heavy chestnut mantel is a revolver with rubber grips, most likely a.38, in a black leather holster.

Mrs. Guidon follows Scarpetta's eyes, and for an instant, her face registers anger. She has made an oversight, a telling mistake. Leaving the revolver in plain view was not intentional. "I'm sure it hasn't escaped your notice that Mr. Dard is very security-conscious." She sighs, shrugging, as if taking her guest into her confidence and hinting that Mr. Dard is ridiculously cautious and paranoid. "Baton Rouge is high-crime. I'm sure you know that. Living in a house like this and having wealth causes concerns, although I'm not the type to be looking over my shoulder all the time."

Scarpetta hides how much she dislikes Mrs. Guidon and is infuriated about what Albert's life must be like. She wonders how far she can go to pry loose the secrets that haunt this very old estate.

"Albert seems very unhappy and misses his dog," she says. "Perhaps you should get him another one. Especially if he's lonely and has no friends."

"With him, I believe it is genetics. His mother-my sister-wasn't well." Mrs. Guidon pauses, then adds, "Of course, you know that."

"Why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to know. You seem to know so much about me."

"Now, you are perceptive," Mrs. Guidon replies with a touch of condescension. "But not as cautious as I would have guessed. Albert called me on your cell phone, remember? That was careless for someone of your reputation."

"What do you know of my reputation?"

"Caller ID came back to your name, and I am aware you haven't suddenly arrived in Baton Rouge for a little vacation. Charlotte s case is complicated. No one seems to have any idea what happened to her or why she went to a horrible motel frequented by truck drivers and the dregs of society. So Dr. Lanier has solicited your assistance, no? But I, at least, am relieved and grateful, and let's just say it was planned that you would sit next to Albert and drive him home, and here you are." She lifts her teacup. "All things happen for a reason, as you must know."

"How could you possibly have orchestrated all this?" Scarpetta pushes her, warns her, making it clear that she has had enough. "I don't suppose U.S. Attorney Weldon Winn is involved with your scheming, since he just happened to sit next to me, too."

"There is much you don't know. Mr. Winn is a close family friend."

"What family? Alberts father didn't show up at the airport. Albert doesn't seem to even know where he is. What did any of you suppose would happen to a young boy traveling alone?"

"He wasn't alone. He was with you. And now you are here. I wanted to meet you. Perfect."

"Family friend?" Scarpetta repeats. "Then why did Albert not know Weldon Winn, if he is such a good family friend?"

"Albert has never met him."

"That makes no sense."

"That's not for you to say."

"I'll say whatever I want, since you seemed to have assigned Albert to me and were certain he would be safe with me-a perfect stranger-and that I would bring him home. How could you be sure I would take it upon myself to look after him or that I'm trustworthy?" Scarpetta pushes back her chair and gets up, and it scrapes loudly against heart-of-pine flooring. "He lost his mother, who the hell knows about the father, and he's lost his dog, and next he's abandoned and frightened. In my business, this is called child neglect, child abuse." Her anger flashes.

"I am Charlotte's sister." Mrs. Guidon gets up, too.

"All you've done is manipulate me. Or try to. I'm leaving now."

"Please let me show you around first," Mrs. Guidon says. "Particularly le cave. "

"How could you possibly have a wine cellar in an area where the water table is so high that plantation houses have to be built on pillars?" Scarpetta asks.

"So you are not always observant. This house is on an elevation, built in 1793. The original owner found the perfect location for what he had in mind. He was a Frenchman, a wine connoisseur who often traveled back to France. Slaves constructed a wine cellar, like the ones he knew in France, and I doubt there is another one like it in this country." She walks to the door leading outside and opens it. "You simply must see it. Baton Rouges best-kept secret."

Scarpetta stands where she is. "No."

Mrs. Guidon lowers her voice and is almost gentle when she explains, "You are wrong about Albert. I was circling the airport. I saw the two of you on the sidewalk. Had you left him, I would have picked him up, but based on what I know about you, you would not leave him. You are too caring, too decent. And you are wary about the evils in this world." She states this not with feeling but as fact.

"How could you have been circling the airport? I called you at home…"

"Programmed to roll over to my cell phone. I actually was looking at you when you called me." This amuses her. "I got to the house no more than fifteen minutes before you did, Dr. Scarpetta. I don't blame you for being angry and confused, but I wanted to talk to you when Jason wasn't here. Albert's father. Believe me, you are very fortunate that he isn't here." She hesitates, holding the kitchen door open wide. "When he's around, there is no such thing as privacy. Please come." She motions to her.

Scarpetta looks at the keypads by the kitchen door. Outside, shadows fall in a black curtain from trees lush with new leaves. The woods are damp and earthy beneath a waning moon.

"I will let you out this way, then. The driveway is just to the side. But you must promise to come back and see the cave," she says.

"I'll go out the front." Scarpetta starts walking that way.