Split Second

CHAPTER 8

Chevy Chase, Maryland

The Carlyle Estate on Breckenridge Road

Tuesday

No time for another load; it would be dark in an hour. Lucy hefted the last cardboard box she’d brought over, this one filled with shoes and workout clothes, closed the door of her Range Rover with her hip, wondering idly if she should name him—or her? She didn’t think so. Gloria? She was smiling as she walked up the elaborate flagstone pathway, lined with flowers that were fast closing down for the winter. Huge maples and oaks filled the front yard, and their colors were amazing, all oranges and reds and bright browns, happily tossing their leaves to the ground. Why hadn’t Mr. McGruder cleaned up the leaves? She’d have to ask. Odd, she couldn’t remember either of the McGruders’ first names. They’d been a constant in her life until she’d left for college. Silent, for the most part—grimlooking, really, she’d always thought. Very proper, giving her a look whenever they believed she’d smart-mouthed her father or come in later than they’d thought proper from a date or made too much noise when her friends were over.

Lucy paused for a moment before climbing the six wide wooden steps up to the huge wraparound porch that encircled the entire house. Pots of flowers were scattered haphazardly along it, the plants beginning to lose hope now that winter was close. Hanging pots of ferns and ivy streamed down from the overhead porch beams. All this work to maintain a house that no one lives in? “Yes,” her father had said, and laughed. “You never know.” He’d been right.

Lucy loved that you could sit out on a spring day and watch the rain come down on all the beautiful flowers surrounding the house. It was only mid-October, still time for some more warm days, she hoped.

She realized she’d missed this house, missed the feel of it, the warmth of its memories, even though it was at least ten thousand square feet and the heating bills to keep it warm had to approach the national budget of some small countries. She’d lived here since her mom had died because, her dad told her, he’d needed help to raise her, and who better to help than her grandparents?

She’d lived here until she’d left for college at eighteen, and that was when her father had bought his own house and left as well.

She was twenty-seven years old, and here she was, moving back to the home of her childhood.

The main rooms were huge, with beautiful crown moldings and coffered ceilings, filled with Low Country antiques. The large Persian carpets sported lustrous blues and reds and yellows despite their age, or maybe because of their age. Everything felt settled and old and comforting.

All except the kitchen. It was brand-new, remodeled six years before by her grandmother, and so modern it was a shock walking into the room. There was a large island in the center, a breakfast section that could seat eight people, and enough sparkling high-tech appliances for a French restaurant. The walls and cabinets were painted a soft light yellow, the floors umber Italian tiles, and the tall ceiling was barreled, the beams a light ash.

Mrs. McGruder had stocked the pantry and refrigerator for her with lots of cold cuts and cheeses, a couple of casseroles, flavored water, vegetables—actually, anything she could wish for. She’d need to tell Mrs. McGruder she would see to things now, maybe ask if she could come to clean every couple of weeks.

She pulled out some ham, a slice of Swiss, and homemade rye bread, and ate standing at the island. After she washed up, she went upstairs. Her old bedroom simply hadn’t felt right, and so she decided to take over her grandmother’s huge suite. Along with updating the kitchen, her grandmother had redone her bathroom. It was an incredible space now, done in greens and cream, the tiles on the sink and floor green and yellow with splashes of pale blue, with matching towels and rugs. The Jacuzzi was nearly as large as her bed at the condo.

She sat in that humongous Jacuzzi, its jets going full blast, for a good long time. Afterward, she put on her pajamas, shrugged into a tatty chenille robe, and brought out the box with her workout clothes and shoes.

There were so many things to do that would take great gobs of time—clothing to unpack and arrange, books to go through, laundry—so much laundry to do—so many decisions to make. She held a pair of gym socks in her hand, simply stared down at them, not knowing where to put them, and began to cry. She was crying not only for her father but at the ending of a whole part of her life. There was no turning back, no changing what had happened. Life happened and would continue to happen. What would the rest of her life be like?

She didn’t know, but she knew there had to be something in this house to give her a clue as to what had happened here. She would find out why her grandmother had murdered her husband. And you saw it, Dad.

She couldn’t imagine it.