In Death's Shadow

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The whole viatical thing was giving me the creeps.

After my matter-of-fact conversation with Brian about Valerie, I went home and took a bath-a long, hot bath-hoping to soak the revulsion out of me beginning at some deep molecular level. It didn't work. Every time I leaned back in the tub and closed my eyes, vultures began to gather and circle beneath my eyelids, peering down with flame-red eyes at Valerie, sunning herself poolside, oblivious to the danger hovering overhead.

After I dried off and changed into pajamas, I tried to telephone Paul, but got switched to his voice message. Northern Lights must be out of cell phone range. I checked the itinerary tacked up on the bulletin board in the kitchen: they would be somewhere off the coast of New Jersey that night. If they were making good time, Montauk Light-110½ feet tall, with a beam that was visible for miles-would be flashing every five seconds on the horizon. If they weren't, well, let's be optimistic. Maybe somebody on the beach at Fire Island would be flashing.

I left a message for Paul to call me, then cobbled together a dinner: leftover tuna noodle casserole and what remained of a can of stewed tomatoes.

Then I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances. I ate a half pint of Hagen-Dazs rum-raisin ice cream all by myself, crawled into bed, and fell asleep watching a rerun of The X-Files.

Our lives are defined by milestones. Graduations, weddings, the birth of our children. For me, life is either BC or AC-before cancer or after. Every day AC is a precious gift. I'm sure Valerie thought so, too.

Monday, June 15. My friend had been dead for a week. When I got out of bed that morning, I stared at my polished toes and thought that when I got that pedicure, Valerie Stone was still alive.

I didn't feel much like breakfast, but figured I'd better eat something, so I toasted a bagel.

As I sat at my kitchen table, munching thoughtfully, it bothered me that I still didn't know very much about Valerie's passing. Peacefully in her sleep, of heart failure. More than that, the newspaper hadn't said. And who had discovered Valerie's body? Brian would know, of course, but it would have been crass and insensitive of me to ask.

I wondered, too, if there had been an autopsy. I knew that the bodies of people who died under suspicious circumstances were sent to the Office of the Medical Examiner in Baltimore; that was the law. Yet, nobody seemed to think there was anything the least bit suspicious about Valerie's death. Nobody, that is, except me.

Paul would tell me I was overreacting. Maybe so. But rock a few boats, shake a few trees, and sometimes the truth falls out.

After a few minutes I trudged outside in my slippers to pick up the newspaper, tossed it, still in its blue plastic sleeve, on the kitchen table, and tucked my mug and dirty plate into the dishwasher. As I filled the little trapdoor with dishwashing detergent and snapped it shut, I remembered with a pang that ghastly day when my mother had a heart attack, collapsing right where I stood, on my kitchen floor. The paramedics had been amazing, and everyone, it seemed, worked in concert to save my mother's life, even the neighbors who poured out of their houses and stood on the sidewalk, praying she'd be okay. Police and emergency vehicles blocked the street, lights flashing, for nearly an hour. Valerie couldn't have passed on, I reasoned, without somebody in her neighborhood noticing something. The people living in the faux Tudor disaster across the street, for example, or the house I had taken for a tool shed just next door.

You never know until you ask.

Television's intrepid Jessica Fletcher might have gone trundling off to Hillsmere on her bicycle, but I went looking for a cover. That sent me back to the deep freeze for another of my rainy day casseroles. I set it carefully on the floorboard of my car and drove it to Hillsmere, hoping that the Stones weren't surrounded by commuting couples who couldn't tell you whether their siding was white or yellow because they so rarely saw it during daylight hours.

With my tires spitting gravel, I brought my LeBaron to what I hoped was a conspicuous, screeching halt in the Stone's driveway, then, carrying my casserole, I strolled casually up the walk and rang the bell. Nobody answered. Shading my eyes with one hand, I peered through the tall, narrow windows that flanked the door. The suitcases that had been there the day before were gone. A good sign.

I left my car parked in the Stones' driveway and carried my casserole out onto East Bay Drive. According to the mailbox, the house next door belonged to an R. Carpenter. It was much larger than a tool shed, of course. I could see that clearly as I rounded the hedge and strolled leisurely up a walk of round concrete slabs, each one decorated with a different fossilized plant. R. Carpenter and his missus-if there was a missus-shared a modest, sixties-style split foyer. The aluminum siding-in creamy vanilla-was complemented by dark green shutters. All of it looked brand new. A copy of the Washington Post lay on the lawn. A good omen. Someone must be home.

I tucked the newspaper under my free arm, rang the bell.

Just on the other side of the door, a dog barked. After a few seconds the door swung wide and I found myself gazing into a pair of pale blue eyes set in a plump, pleasantly round face, fresh-scrubbed and pretty, without a speck of makeup.

Even without her strand of fat pearls, I recognized her immediately: the woman in pink I'd seen talking to Brian at Valerie's funeral. Now she was dressed in a soft apricot warm-up suit the same color as her hair, and she'd clumped downstairs to greet me wearing a pair of white crepe sole creepers so clunky that I was amazed she could even pick up her feet. On the steps behind her a miniature poodle was yapping.

"Hi," I said, raising the casserole dish slightly for illustrative purposes. "I'm Hannah Ives, a friend of the Stones? I brought this casserole over for Brian, but I can't get anyone to answer the door."

The longer I talked, the faster the dog yapped. The little mutt must have been on speed.

Mrs. Carpenter covered her ears with both hands, turned her head and shouted, "Shut up, Yacky!"

"Yacky!" I had to laugh. "What an appropriate name for your dog."

Still holding the door open with one hand, she beamed out at me. "It is, isn't it? Didn't start out that way, of course. Yacky's short for Cognac. Sorry, you were saying?"

"Uh, I wanted to leave this casserole for Brian and Miranda, but nobody seems to be home."

Mrs. Carpenter joined me on the little porch, pulling the door closed behind her, probably to keep Yacky from escaping and terrorizing the neighborhood like Dogzilla. "Such a pity about Valerie, isn't it? She was the sweetest thing…" Her voice trailed off.

"Valerie and I used to jog together," I told her, stretching the truth just a smidge. "I still can't get used to the idea that she's gone."

"We haven't been neighbors for long, but in that time I grew to love her like a daughter." She half leaned, half sat against the wrought-iron railing. "When the Stones were building their house-you should have seen the old place, it was such a dump!-Valerie used to come over and visit with me while Brian talked to the contractors." Her eyes glistened. "I feel so sorry for Miranda."

My casserole was melting. The foil had frosted over; water had condensed on the sides and sweated off, dripping on my toes, which stuck naked out of the ends of my sandals. "I guess I should take this home," I said.

"Oh, no. Don't do that. Why not leave it with me? I'll just pop it in my freezer and keep it until Brian gets back." She pushed open the door, stepped back into her foyer and motioned for me to follow. "They've gone to New Jersey, by the way. With Valerie's body."

I figured some sort of response was required, so I said, "Oh."

The instant I stepped over the threshold, Yacky went nuts.

"Just ignore him," Mrs. Carpenter said. Easy for her to say. She wasn't carrying a newspaper and balancing a casserole with a maniac dog nipping at her heels. "What is it?" she asked.

"What's what?" I said, puzzled.

"The casserole."

"Oh, eggplant parmesan."

"My, my," said Mrs. Carpenter. "I'd better label it 'Tofu Delight' or Dick-that's my husband-will be all over it the minute our backs are turned." She waved an arm. "Come in, come in."

With Yacky dancing around my ankles, I followed her into the kitchen.

"Dick's off at a SPEBSQA convention," she said in way of explanation. "So it's just us girls."

Spebsqua? What the heck was a spebsqua?

Mrs. Carpenter grinned, apparently reading my mind. "S-P-E-B-S-Q-A," she spelled out. "It's the Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barbershop Quartet Singing in America. Dick sings in a quartet." She

opened the door of her side-by-side, shuffled a few items around, then pushed my eggplant parmesan all the way into the freezer with the flat of her hand. "There! Now we can tell Brian to come over here the next time he needs a good dinner. I'll even heat it up for him."

"Thanks, Mrs. Carpenter. I really appreciate it."

She flapped a hand. "Pshaw! And call me Kathy, please. Would you like some coffee?" she asked, all in one breath. “It'll put hair on your chest, but it's hot."

Kathy's coffee was as different from the cup I shared with Brian the day before as Valerie's coffee was from instant. "Mmmm, robust," I said. We were sitting at the kitchen table. A picture window, hung with cheerful yellow curtains dotted with plump strawberries, overlooked the river, which sparkled in the mid-morning sun.

"Kathy," I said after a respectful silence during which I was supposedly savoring the full-bodied flavor and aroma of her coffee, "I keep worrying about something."

Kathy set her cup down in its saucer and gave me her full attention. "What is it, dear?"

"Well, the last time Valerie and I talked, she told me Brian was going to be out of town on Monday. He had some sort of assignment, she said. I know they don't have live-in help, so I worried-" I paused. "I worried that it was Miranda who found her mother's body."

Kathy nodded so vigorously that the half glasses that had been perched on her forehead slipped down to rest on the bridge of her nose. "I'm afraid so."

I shuddered, suddenly cold in spite of the scalding hot coffee and the sun streaming through the window. "Poor little thing! What did she do?"

"She came looking for me, thank goodness. I'll never forget that day as long as I live." Kathy fished around in her jacket pocket, withdrew a wad of Kleenex and used it to blow her nose. "Eight o'clock in the morning, and there she was, at my back door, wearing her Hello Kitty pajamas, carrying her Elmo doll and telling me, 'Mommy won't wake up.'" Kathy pressed a hand flat against her chest and took a deep breath. "I thought my heart would break." A fat tear slid down her cheek; she swiped at it with the wadded-up Kleenex. "I'm like a grandmother to that child. Brian's parents have been dead for years and, well, you've met Katherine and Fletcher-“

For a split second I couldn't think who she was talking about, then I remembered-Valerie's parents, the Honorable Judge and missus. I set my coffee cup down on the table, narrowly missing the saucer. "Kathy, I'm so sorry. What on earth did you do?"

"I went next door with Miranda, of course, and sat her down in the kitchen with some cereal. Then I went upstairs to check on her mother." Kathy was crying openly now, the Kleenex ragged and useless. I got up, ripped a paper towel off the roll mounted over the sink and handed it to her. After a while she continued. "Valerie was cold as ice, Hannah. I don't have much experience with these things, thank goodness, but I suspect she had been dead for hours and hours."

"How awful for you."

"I dialed 911, as anyone would, and the paramedics came right away." She shook her head. "But there wasn't anything they could do." She spread the paper towel out on the table, smoothed out the creases, then pinched bits absentmindedly off the edges as she continued. "Then a policeman came, a nice young man, who stayed with us until we could get in touch with Brian."

"Where was Brian?" I asked.

She plowed on, ignoring my question. "It wasn't easy, I can tell you! I left three urgent messages on his cell phone. Three! It was over an hour before he called us back."

"I would hate to have been in your shoes, Kathy. How did you tell him? What on earth did you say?"

"Oh, I didn't talk to him, dear. I just couldn't! I let the policeman do it. I mean, it was private, family information, wasn't it? People to be notified. Decisions to be made. And Brian was miles away in Harpers Ferry."

"He must have been wild with grief."

"Oh, he was, he was. Brian was practically incoherent on the phone. Not much use to the police, I'm afraid. It was me who helped the officer find the telephone number of Valerie's doctor."

"Doctor?" I paused, swallowed, hoping she hadn't noticed that I'd practically yelped the word. "Didn't the police call the medical examiner?"

"The medical examiner? No, dear, why?"

"Well, I understood that all unattended deaths… you know."

She shook her head. "Everybody knew about the chemo and the risks Valerie took when she agreed to go through with it. Allen Kimmel's been her GP for years. He rushed right over and examined Valerie himself. If there had been even the slightest hint of something out of the ordinary, I'm sure Dr. Kimmel would have noticed."

"I'm sure," I said, but I wasn't sure at all.

"We should all be so lucky," Kathy Carpenter said, turning her cup round and round in its saucer.

"How so?"

"When my time comes, to go to sleep all peaceful like that, in my own bed with a comforter tucked up nice and neat under my chin."

Once again I froze. In the hospital, Valerie had tossed and turned until her bedding resembled a mixed salad. I decided to keep that information to myself. "I think Valerie deserved a few more years, don't you?"

Kathy's gaze shifted heavenward and she said, as if reading the words off the ceiling, "'So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.'" Her eyes settled on me again, and she smiled. "Psalm Ninety."

"Oh, I do," I assured her. "I most certainly do."

At that moment, though, I wasn't applying my heart unto wisdom or anything else. My heart was aching, picturing Miranda, dressed in her footie pajamas, eating Cheerios in the kitchen while her mother lay dead in a bedroom upstairs. That image would haunt my dreams for a long, long time.