Devil's Waltz

27

The ride to the house wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes, leaving forty-five to go before my two-thirty with Cassie.

Remembering Cindy’s odd resistance to my coming out any earlier, I decided to head over there right now. Do things on my terms, for a change.

Each exit on the 118 took me farther into the isolation of brown mountains, deforested by five years of drought. The seventh was marked Westview, and it deposited me on a gently curving road of red clay darkened by the mountain’s hulk. A few minutes later the clay turned to twin lanes of new asphalt, and red pennants on high metal poles began appearing at fifty-foot intervals. A yellow backhoe was parked on a turnoff. No other vehicles were in sight. Baked hillside and blue sky filled my eyes. The pennant poles flashed by like jail bars.

The asphalt tabled at a hundred square feet of brick, shaded by olive trees. High metal gates were rolled wide open. A big wooden sign to the left of the aperture read WESTVIEW ESTATES in red block letters. Below the legend was an artist’s rendition of a spreading pastel-hued housing development set into too-green alps.

I rolled close enough to the sign to read it. A timetable beneath the painting listed six construction phases, each with “twenty to a hundred custom estate homesites, 1/2 to 5 acres.” According to the dates, three phases should have been completed. When I looked through the gates I saw a sprinkle of rooftops, lots of brown. Chip’s comments about population growth, a few minutes ago, seemed a bit of wishful thinking.

I drove past an untended guardhouse whose windows still bore masking-tape Xs, into a completely empty parking lot fringed with yellow gazania. The exit from the lot fed to a wide, empty street named Sequoia Lane. The sidewalks were so new they looked whitewashed.

The left side of the street was an ivy-covered embankment. A half-block in, to the right, sat the first houses, a quartet of big, bright, creatively windowed structures, but unmistakably a tract.

Mock Tudor, mock hacienda, mock Regency, mock Ponderosa Ranch, all fronted by sod lawns crosscut with beds of succulents and more gazania. Tennis court tarp backed the Tudor house; peacock-blue pool water glimmered behind the open lots of the others. Signs on the doors of all four read MODEL. Business hours were posted on a small billboard on the lawn of the Regency, along with the phone number of a real estate company in Agoura. More red pennants. All four doors were closed and the windows were dark.

I kept going, looking for Dunbar Court. The side streets were all “Courts” — wide, squat strips ending in cul-de-sacs, and ribbing eastward from Sequoia. Very few cars were parked along curbs and in driveways. I saw a bicycle on its side in the center of a half-dead lawn, a garden hose that lay unfurled like a somnolent snake — but no people. A momentary breeze produced sound but no relief from the heat.

Dunbar was the sixth Court. The Jones house was at the mouth of the dead end, a wide, one-story ranch, white stucco trimmed with used-brick. In the center of the front yard a wagon wheel leaned against a young birch tree too thin to support it. Flower beds edged the facade. The windows sparkled. The loom of mountains behind the house made it look like something constructed from a child’s kit. The air smelled of grass pollen.

A gray-blue Plymouth Voyager van was parked in the driveway. A brown pickup-truck with a bed full of hoses, nets, and plastic bottles was idling in the driveway of the house next door. The sign on the door said VALLEYBRITE POOL SERVICE. Just as I pulled up to the curb the truck shot out. The driver saw me and stopped short. I waved him on. A young, shirtless, ponytailed man stuck his head out and stared. Then he grinned suddenly and gave me the thumb-up, instant buddy sign. Dropping a bronze arm over the driver’s door, he finished backing up and was off.

I walked to the front door. Cindy opened it before I had a chance to knock, brushing hair out of her face and glancing at her Swatch.

“Hi,” she said. Her voice sounded choked, as if she’d just caught her breath.

“Hi.” I smiled. “Traffic was better than I thought.”

“Oh... sure. C’mon in.” The hair was unbraided but still waved by constriction. She wore a black T-shirt and very short white shorts. Her legs were smooth and pale, a little skinny but well-shaped above narrow bare feet. The sleeves of the T-shirt were cut high and on the bias, revealing lots of slender arm and a bit of shoulder. The bottom hem of her shirt barely reached her waist. As she held the door open she hugged herself and looked uncomfortable. Showing more skin than she’d intended for me, I supposed.

I walked in and she closed the door after me, taking care not to slam it. A modest entry hall ended at ten feet of wall papered in a teal-blue miniprint and hung with at least a dozen framed photographs. Cindy and Chip and Cassie, posed and candid, and a couple of a pretty, dark-haired baby in blue.

Smiling baby boy. I looked away from him and let my eyes settle on an enlarged snapshot of Cindy and an older woman. Cindy appeared around eighteen. She wore a white bare-midriff blouse and tight jeans tucked into white boots, and her hair was a wide, windblown fan. The older woman was leathery-looking, thin but wide-hipped, and had on a red-and-white striped sleeveless knit top over white stretch pants and white shoes. Her hair was dark-gray and cut very short, her lips so skinny they were nearly invisible. Both she and Cindy wore sunglasses; both were smiling. The older woman’s smile said No Nonsense. Boat masts and gray-green water backgrounded the shot.

“That’s my Aunt Harriet,” said Cindy.

Remembering she’d grown up in Ventura, I said, “Where is this, Oxnard Harbor?”

“Uh-huh. Channel Islands. We used to go there for lunch, on her days off...” Another look at her watch. “Cassie’s still sleeping. She takes her nap around now.”

“Back to routine pretty quickly.” I smiled. “That’s good.”

“She’s a good girl... I guess she’ll be up soon.”

She sounded edgy again.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she said, moving away from the picture wall. “There’s iced tea in the fridge.”

“Sure, thanks.”

I followed her through a generously dimensioned living room lined on three sides with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves and furnished with oxblood leather couches and club chairs that looked new. The shelves were full of hardcovers. A brown afghan was draped over one of the chairs. The fourth wall had two curtained windows and was papered in a black-and-green plaid that darkened the room further and gave it a clubby look, unmistakably masculine.

Chip’s dominance? Or indifference to interior decorating on her part? I trailed slightly behind her, watching her bare feet sink into brown plush carpet. A grass stain spotted one buttock of her shorts. She had a stiff stride and held her arms pressed to her sides.

A dining room papered in a brown mini-print led to a white-tile and oak kitchen large enough to accommodate a distressed pine table and four chairs. The appliances were chrome-fronted and spotless. Glassed cabinets revealed neatly stacked crockery and size-ordered glass-ware. The dish drainer was empty; the counters, bare.

The window above the sink was a greenhouse affair filled with painted clay pots stuffed with summer flowers and herbs. A larger window to the left afforded a view of the backyard. Flagstone patio, rectangular pool covered with blue plastic and fenced with wrought iron. Then a long, perfect strip of grass, interrupted only by a wooden play-set, that ended at a hedge of orange trees espaliered against a six-foot cinder-block wall. Beyond the wall the ubiquitous mountains hung like drapery. Maybe miles away, maybe yards. I tried to get some perspective, couldn’t. The grass began looking like a runway to eternity.

She said, “Please, have a seat.”

Setting a place mat before me, she put a tall glass of iced tea upon it. “Just a mix — hope that’s all right.” Before I could answer, she returned to the refrigerator and touched the door.

I drank and said, “It’s fine.”

She picked up a washcloth and ran it over clean counter tiles, avoiding my eyes.

I sipped a bit, waited till we finally made contact, and tried another smile.

Her return smile was quick and tight and I thought I saw some color in her cheeks. She tugged her shirt down, kept her legs pressed together as she wiped the counter some more, washed the cloth, rung it out, folded it. Held it in both hands as if unsure what to do with it.

“So,” she said.

I looked out at the mountains. “Beautiful day.”

She nodded, snapped her face to the side, cast a downward glance, and placed the washcloth over the faucet spout. She ripped a square of paper towel from a wooden roller and began wiping the spigot. Her hands were wet. A Lady Macbeth thing or just her way of dealing with the tension?

I watched her clean some more. Then she gave another downward look and I followed it. To her chest. Nipples poking sharply through the thin black cotton of her shirt, small but erect.

When she looked up, my eyes were elsewhere.

“She should be up soon,” she said. “She usually sleeps from about one to two.”

“Sorry for coming so early.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.”

She dried the spigot and stowed the paper towel in a wastebasket beneath the sink.

“While we wait,” I said, “do you have any questions about Cassie’s development? Or anything else?”

“Um... not really.” She bit her lip, polished the faucet. “I just wish I... someone could tell me what’s going on — not that I expect you to.”

I gave a nod, but she was looking out the greenhouse window and didn’t notice it.

Suddenly she leaned over the sink on tiptoe and adjusted one of the potted plants. Her back was to me and I saw her shirt ride up, revealing a couple of inches of tight waist and spine-knob. As she puttered, her long hair swayed like a horsetail. The stretch made her calves ride up and her thighs tighten. She straightened the pot, then another, stretched farther, and fumbled. One of the planters fell, hitting the rim of the sink, shattering, and showering planter’s mix onto the floor.

She was down on all fours in an instant, scooping and collecting. Dirt crusted her hands and streaked her shorts. I got up but before I could help her, she bounded to her feet, hurried to a utility closet and retrieved a broom. Her sweeping was hard and angry. I tore a paper square off the roller and handed it to her after she put the broom away.

She was flushed now, and her eyes were wet. She took the towel without looking at me. Wiping her hands, she said, “I’m sorry — I have to go change.”

She left the kitchen through a side door. I used the time to walk around the room, opening drawers and doors and feeling like an imbecile. Nothing more ominous in the cupboards than housekeeping aids and convenience foods. I looked out the door through which she’d left, found a small bathroom and service porch, and checked them out too. Washer and dryer, cabinets choked with detergents and cleansers, softeners and brighteners — a treasury of things promising to make life shiny and sweet-smelling. Most of them toxic, but what did that prove?

I heard footsteps and hurried back to the table. She came in wearing a loose yellow blouse, baggy jeans, sandals — her hospital uniform. Her hair was loosely braided and her face looked scrubbed.

“Sorry. What a klutz,” she said.

She walked to the refrigerator. No independent movement from her chest region, no nipples.

“More iced tea?”

“No, thanks.”

She took a can of Pepsi, popped it open, and sat down facing me.

“Did you have a nice ride over?”

“Very nice.”

“It’s good when there’s no traffic.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I forgot to tell you, they closed off the pass to widen the road...”

She continued to talk. About the weather and gardening, creasing her forehead.

Working hard at being casual.

But she seemed a stranger in her home. Talking stiffly, as if she’d rehearsed her lines but had no confidence in her memory.

Out the big window, the view was static as death.

Why were they living here? Why would Chuck Jones’s only son choose exurban quarantine in his own faltering housing development when he could have afforded to live anywhere?

Proximity to the junior college didn’t explain it. Gorgeous ranchland and plenty of country-club communities dotted the west end of the Valley. And funk-chic was still alive in Topanga Canyon.

Some kind of rebellion? A bit of ideology on Chip’s part — wanting to be part of the community he planned to build? Just the kind of thing a rebel might use to dampen any guilt over making big profits. Though, from the looks of it, profits were a long way off.

Another scenario fit, too: abusive parents often secreted their families from the prying eyes of potential rescuers.

I became aware of Cindy’s voice. Talking about her dishwasher, letting out words in a nervous stream. Saying she rarely used it, preferred gloving up and using steaming water so that the dishes dried almost instantly. Getting animated, as if she hadn’t talked to anyone in a long time.

She probably hadn’t. I couldn’t imagine Chip sitting around for chitchat about housework.

I wondered how many of the books in the living room were hers. Wondered what the two of them had in common.

When she paused for breath, I said, “It really is a nice house.”

Out of context, but it perked her up.

She gave a big smile, sloe-eyed, lips moist. I realized how good-looking she could be when she was happy.

“Would you like to see the rest of it?” she said.

“Sure.”

We retraced our steps to the dining room and she pulled pieces of wedding silver out of a hutch and showed them to me, one by one. Next came the book-lined living room, where she talked about how hard it had been to find skilled carpenters to build solid shelving, no plywood. “Plywood gasses out — we. want the house to be as clean as possible.”

I pretended to listen while inspecting the books’ spines.

Academic texts: sociology, psychology, political science. A bit of fiction, but none of it dated after Hemingway.

Interspersed among the volumes were certificates and trophies. The brass plate on one was inscribed: SINCERE THANKS TO MR. C. L. JONES III, FROM LOURDES HIGH SCHOOL ADVANCED PLACEMENT CLUB. YOU SHOWED US THAT TEACHING AND LEARNING WERE JUST PART OF FRIENDSHIP. Dated ten years ago.

Right below it was a scroll presented by the Yale Tutorial Project to CHARLES “CHIP” JONES FOR DEDICATED SERVICES TO THE CHILDREN OF THE NEW HAVEN FREE CLINIC.

On a higher shelf was yet another tutoring award, issued by a fraternity at Yale. Two more plasticized plaques, granted by the College of Arts and Sciences at the University of Connecticut at Storrs, attested to Chip’s excellence in graduate teaching. Papa Chuck hadn’t lied.

Several more recent testimonials from West Valley Junior College: the Department of Sociology’s Undergraduate Teaching Citation, a gavel on a plaque from the WVJC Student Council thanking PROF. C. L. JONES FOR SERVING AS FACULTY ADVISOR, a group photo of Chip and fifty or so smiling, shiny-cheeked sorority girls on an athletic field, both he and the girls in red T-shirts emblazoned with Greek letters. The picture was autographed: “Best, Wendy.” “Thanks, Prof. Jones — Debra.” “Love, Kristie.” Chip was squatting on a baseline, arms around two of the girls, beaming, looking like a team mascot.

Cindy’s got the tough job. I can escape.

I wondered what Cindy did for attention, realized she’d stopped talking, and turned to see her looking at me.

“He’s a great teacher,” she said. “Would you like to see the den?”

More soft furniture, crammed shelves, Chip’s triumphs preserved in brass and wood and plastic, plus a wide-screen TV, stereo components, an alphabetized rack of classical and jazz compact discs.

That same clubby feel. The sole strip of wall not covered with shelves was papered in another plaid — blue and red — and hung with Chip’s two diplomas. Below the foolscaps, placed so low I had to kneel to get a good look, were a couple of watercolors.

Snow and bare trees and rough-wood barns. The frame of the first was labeled NEW ENGLAND WINTER. The one just above the floor molding was SYRUP TAPPING TIME. No signature. Tourist-trap quality, done by someone who admired the Wyeth family but lacked the talent.

Cindy said, “Mrs. Jones — Chip’s mom — painted those.”

“Did she live back east?”

She nodded. “Years ago, back when he was a boy. Uh-oh, I think I hear Cassie.”

She held up an index finger, as if testing the wind.

A whimper, distant and mechanical, came from one of the bookcases. I turned toward it, located the sound at a small brown box resting on a high shelf. Portable intercom.

“I put it on when she sleeps,” she said.

The box cried again.

We left the room and walked down a blue-carpeted hall, passing a front bedroom that had been converted into an office for Chip. The door was open. A wooden sign nailed to it said SKOLLAR AT WIRK. Yet another book-filled leathery space.

Next came a deep-blue master bedroom and a closed door that I assumed led to the connecting bathroom Cindy had told me about. Cassie’s room was at the end of the hall, a generous corner space done up in rainbow paper and white cotton curtains with pink trim. Cassie was sitting up in a canopied crib, wearing a pink nightshirt, hands fisted, crying halfheartedly. The room smelled baby-sweet.

Cindy picked her up and held her close. Cassie’s head was propped on her shoulder. Cassie looked at me, closed her eyes, flopped her face down.

Cindy cooed something. Cassie’s face relaxed and her mouth opened. Her breathing became rhythmic. Cindy rocked her.

I looked around the room. Two doors on the southern wall. Two windows. Bunny and duck decals appliquéd to furniture. A wicker-back rocker next to the crib. Boxed games, toys, and enough books for a year’s worth of bedtime reading.

In the center three tiny chairs surrounded a circular play table. On the table were a stack of paper, a new box of crayons, three sharpened pencils, a gum eraser, and a piece of shirt cardboard hand-lettered WELCOME DR. DELAWARE. LuvBunnies — more than a dozen of them — sat on the floor, propped against the wall, spaced as precisely as cadets at inspection.

Cindy settled in the rocker with Cassie in her arms. Cassie molded to her like butter on bread. Not a trace of tension in the little body.

Cindy closed her eyes and rocked, stroking Cassie’s back, smoothing sleep-moistened strands of hair. Cassie took a deep breath, let it out, nestled her head under Cindy’s chin, and made high-pitched contented sounds.

I lowered myself to the floor and sat cross-legged — shrink’s analytical lotus — watching, thinking, suspecting, imagining worst-cases and beyond.

After a few minutes my joints began to ache and I got up and stretched. Cindy’s eyes followed me. We traded smiles. She pressed her cheek to Cassie’s head and shrugged.

I whispered, “Take your time,” and began walking around the room. Running my hands along the dustless surfaces of furniture, inspecting the contents of the toy case while trying not to look too inquisitive.

Good stuff. The right stuff. Each game and plaything safe, and age-appropriate, and educational.

Something white caught the corner of my eye. The buckteeth of one of the LuvBunnies. In the dim light of the nursery the critter’s grin and those of its mates seemed malevolent — mocking.

I remembered those grins from Cassie’s hospital room and a crazy thought hit me.

Toxic toys. Accidental poisoning.

I’d read about a case in a child health journal — stuffed animals from Korea that turned out to be filled with waste fibers from a chemical plant.

Delaware solves the mystery and everyone goes home happy.

Picking up the nearest bunny — a yellow one — I squeezed its belly, felt the give-and-rebound of firm foam. Raising the toy to my nose, I smelled nothing. The label said MADE IN TAIWAN OF LUV-PURE AND FIREPROOF MATERIALS. Below that was an approval seal from one of the family magazines.

Something along the seam — two snaps. A trapdoor flap that could be undone. I pulled it open. The sound made Cindy turn. Her eyebrows were up.

I poked around, found nothing, fastened the snap, and put the toy back.

“Allergies, right?” she said, talking just above a whisper. “To the stuffing — I thought of that too. But Dr. Eves had her tested and she’s not allergic to anything. For a while, though, I washed the bunnies every day. Washed all her cloth toys and her bedding with Ivory Liquid. It’s the gentlest.”

I nodded.

“We pulled up the carpeting, too, to see if there was mold in the padding or something in the glue. Chip had heard of people getting sick in office buildings — ‘sick buildings,’ they call them. We had a company come out and clean the air-conditioning ducts, and Chip had the paint checked, to see if there was lead or chemicals.”

Her voice had risen and taken on an edge again. Cassie squirmed. Cindy rocked her quiet.

“I’m always looking,” she whispered. “All the time — ever since... the beginning.”

She covered her mouth with her hand. Removed the hand and slapped it down to her knee, pinkening the white skin.

Cassie’s eyes shot open.

Cindy rocked harder, faster. Fighting for composure.

“First one, now the other,” she whispered — loud, almost hissing. “Maybe I’m just not supposed to be a mother!”

I went over and placed my hand on her shoulder. She slid out from under it, shot up out of the rocker, and thrust Cassie at me. Tears streamed from her eyes, and her hands shook.

“Here! Here! I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not meant to be a mother!”

Cassie began whimpering, then gulping air.

Cindy thrust her at me again and, when I took her, ran across the room. My hands were around Cassie’s waist. She was arching her back. Wailing, fighting me.

I tried to comfort her. She wouldn’t let me.

Cindy threw open a door, exposing blue tile. Running into the bathroom, she slammed the door. I heard the sound of retching, followed by a toilet flush.

Cassie squirmed and kicked and screamed louder. I got a firm grasp around her middle and patted her back. “It’s okay, honey. Mommy’s coming right back. It’s okay.”

She coiled more violently, punching at my face, continuing to caterwaul. I tried to contain her while providing comfort. She jerked and turned scarlet, threw her little head back and howled, nearly slipping out of my grasp.

“Mommy’s coming right back, Cass—”

The bathroom door opened and Cindy rushed out, wiping her eyes. I expected her to grab Cassie away but she just held out her hands and said, “Please,” mouthing the word over Cassie’s shrieks and looking as if she expected me to withhold her child.

I handed Cassie back to her.

She hugged the little girl and started to circle the room very fast. Taking large, hard steps that made her thin thighs quiver, and muttering things to Cassie that I couldn’t hear.

Two dozen circuits and Cassie’s cries got softer. Another dozen and she was quiet.

Cindy kept moving, but as she passed me she said, “I’m sorry — I really am. I’m sorry.”

Her eyes and cheeks were wet. I told her it was okay. The sound of my voice made Cassie crank up again.

Cindy began walking faster, saying, “Baby, baby, baby.”

I went over to the play table and sat as best I could on one of the tiny chairs. The welcome cardboard stared up at me like some kind of sick joke.

A few moments later, gasps and sucking sobs took the place of Cassie’s cries. Then she silenced and I saw that her eyes were closed.

Cindy returned to the rocking chair and began to whisper harshly: “I’m really, really, really sorry. I’m so — That was — God, I’m a horrible mother!”

Barely audible, but the anguish in her voice opened Cassie’s eyes. The little girl stared up at her mother and mewled.

“No, no, baby, it’s okay. I’m sorry — it’s okay.”

Mouthing to me: “I’m horrible.”

Cassie started to cry again.

“No, no, it’s okay, honey. I’m good. If you want me to be good, I’m good. I’m a good mommy, yes, I am, yes — yes, honey, everything’s okay. Okay?”

Forcing herself to smile down at Cassie. Cassie reached up and touched one of Cindy’s cheeks.

“Oh, you are so good, little girl,” said Cindy, in a crumbling voice. “You are so good to your mommy. You are so, so good!”

“Ma ma.”

“Mama loves you.”

“Ma ma.”

“You’re so good to your mama. Cassie Brooks Jones is the best girl, the sweetest girl.”

“Ma ma. Mamama.”

“Mama loves you so much. Mama loves you so much.” Cindy looked at me. Looked at the play table.

“Mama loves you,” she said into Cassie’s ear. “And Dr. Delaware’s a very good friend, honey. Here, see?”

She turned Cassie’s head toward me. I tried another smile, hoping it looked better than it felt.

Cassie shook her head violently and said, “Nuh!”

“Remember, he’s our friend, honey? All those pretty drawings he did for you at the hospita—”

“Nuh!”

“The animals—”

“Nuh nuh!”

“C’mon, honey, there’s nothing to be scared of—”

“Nuuuh!”

“Okay, okay. It’s okay, Cass.”

I got up.

“Are you going?” said Cindy. Alarm in her voice.

I pointed to the bathroom. “May I?”

“Oh. Sure. There’s one just off the entry hall too.”

“This is fine.”

“Sure... Meantime, I’ll try to calm her down... I’m really, really sorry.”

I locked the door and the one leading to the master bedroom, flushed the toilet, and let out my breath. The water was as blue as the tiles. I found myself staring down at a tiny azure whirlpool. Turning on the water, I washed my face and dried it, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Dire and old with suspicion. I tried on a few smiles, finally settled on one that didn’t approximate the leer of a used-car salesman. The mirror was the face of a medicine cabinet.

Child-proof latch. I undid it.

Four shelves. I turned the water up full blast, rifled quickly, starting at the top and working down.

Aspirin, Tylenol, razor blades, shaving cream. Men’s cologne, deodorant, an emery board, a bottle of liquid antacid. A small yellow box of spermicidal jelly capsules. Hydrogen peroxide, a tube of earwax-dissolving ointment, suntan lotion...

I closed the cabinet. When I turned off the water I heard Cindy’s voice through the door, saying something comforting and maternal.

Until she’d thrust Cassie at me, the little girl had accepted me.

Maybe I’m not supposed to be a mother... I’m a horrible mother.

Stretched past the breaking point? Or trying to sabotage my visit?

I rubbed my eyes. Another cabinet beneath the sink. Another child-proof latch. Such careful parents, pulling up the carpets, washing the toys...

Cindy was cooing to Cassie.

Silently, I got down on my knees, freed the latch, and opened the door.

Beneath the snake of the drainpipe were boxes of tissues and rolls of plastic-wrapped toilet paper. Behind those sat two bottles of green mint mouthwash and an aerosol can. I examined the can. Pine-scented disinfectant. As I replaced it, it fell and my arm shot forward to catch it and mask the noise. I succeeded but the back of my hand knocked against something, off to the right, with sharp corners.

I pushed the paper goods aside and drew it out.

White cardboard box, about five inches square, imprinted on top with a red-arrow logo above stylized red script that read HOLLOWAY MEDICAL CORP. Above that was an arrow-shaped gold foil sticker: SAMPLE, PRESENTED TO: Ralph Benedict, M.D.

A string-and-disc tie held the box shut. I unwound it, pushed back the flaps, and exposed a sheet of corrugated brown paper. Under that was a row of white plastic cylinders the size of ballpoint pens, nestled in a bed of Styrofoam peanuts. A folded slip of printed paper was rubber-banded to each one.

I fished out a cylinder. Feather-light, almost flimsy. A numbered ring girdled the bottom of the shaft. At the tip was a hole surrounded by screw thread; on the other end, a cap that twisted but didn’t come off.

Black letters on the barrel said INSUJECT. I removed the printed paper. Manufacturer’s brochure, copyrighted five years ago. Holloway Medical’s home office was in San Francisco.

The first paragraph read:

The second paragraph highlighted the selling points of the system: portability, an ultra-thin needle that reduced pain and the risk of subdermal abscesses, increased “ease of administration and precise calibration of dosage.” A series of boxed line drawings illustrated needle attachment, loading of the cartridge into the cylinder, and the proper way to inject insulin beneath the skin.

Ease of administration.

An ultra-thin needle would leave a minuscule puncture wound, just as Al Macauley had described. If the injection site was concealed, the mark just might escape detection.

I groped around inside the box, looking for needles.

None, just the cylinders. Shoving my hands into the recesses of the cabinet yielded nothing more.

Probably cool enough to store insulin, but maybe someone was picky. Could Insufill cartridges be sitting on one of the shelves of the chrome-faced refrigerator in the kitchen?

Standing, I placed the box on the counter and the brochure in my pocket. The water in the toilet bowl had just stopped spinning. I cleared my throat, coughed, flushed again, looking around the room for another hiding place.

The only possibility I could see was the toilet tank. I lifted the cap and peered in. Just plumbing and the gizmo that dyed the water.

Ultra-thin needle... The bathroom was an ideal hiding place — perfect conduit from the master suite to the nursery.

Perfect for fixing up a middle-of-the-night injection:

Lock the door to the master suite, fetch the gear from beneath the sink, assemble it, and tiptoe into Cassie’s room.

The bite of the needle would startle the little girl awake, probably make her cry, but she wouldn’t know what had happened.

Neither would anyone else. Waking up in tears was normal for a child her age. Especially one who’d been sick so often.

Would darkness conceal the needle-wielder’s face?

On the other side of the nursery door Cindy was talking, sounding sweet.

Then again, maybe there was an alternative explanation. The cylinders were meant for her. Or Chip.

No — Stephanie had said she’d tested both of them for metabolic disease and found them healthy.

I looked at the door to the master bedroom, then down at my watch. I’d spent three minutes in this blue-tile dungeon, but it felt like a weekend. Unlocking the door, I padded across the threshold into the bedroom, grateful for thick, tight-weave carpeting that swallowed my footsteps.

The room was darkened by drawn shutters and furnished with a king-size bed and clumsy Victorian furniture. Books were stacked high on one of the night-stands. A phone sat atop the stack. Next to the table was a brass-and-wood valet over which hung a pair of jeans. The other stand bore a Tiffany revival lamp and a coffee mug. The bedcovers were turned down but folded neatly. The room smelled of the pine disinfectant I’d found in the bathroom.

Lots of disinfectant. Why?

A double chest ran along the wall facing the bed. I opened a top drawer. Bras and panties and hose and floral sachet in a packet. I felt around, closed the drawer, got to work on the one below, wondering what thrill Dawn Herbert had gotten from petty theft.

Nine drawers. Clothing, a couple of cameras, canisters of film, and a pair of binoculars. Across the room was a closet. More clothes, tennis rackets and canisters of balls, a fold-up rowing machine, garment bags and suitcases, more books — all on sociology. A telephone directory, light bulbs, travel maps, a knee brace. Another box of contraceptive jelly. Empty.

I searched garment pockets, found nothing but lint. Maybe the dark corners of the closet concealed something but I’d been there too long. Shutting the closet door, I snuck back to the bathroom. The toilet had stopped gurgling and Cindy was no longer talking.

Had she grown suspicious about my prolonged absence? I cleared my throat again, turned on the water, heard Cassie’s voice — some kind of protest — then the resumption of mommy-talk.

Detaching the toilet paper holder, I slid off the old roll and tossed it into the cabinet. Unwrapping a refill, I slipped it onto the dispenser. The ad copy on the wrapper promised to be gentle.

Picking up the white box, I pushed open the door to Cassie’s room, wearing a smile that hurt my teeth.