Winter House

Chapter 3

RIKER WAS TELLING HIS PARTNER A STORY TO DISTRACT HER from a favorite sport of near-death adventures in traffic, and so the tan sedan rolled safely down Madison Avenue.

Mallory pulled up to the curb. Legal parking spaces were impossible to come by in midtown, but bus stops like this one were plentiful. She cut the engine. „Why did they call him Stick Man?“

„The lead detective on the Winter House Massacre – he named the freak.“ Riker stepped out onto the sidewalk. „There’re only two or three cops who’d remember why he picked that name, and they’re in nursing homes.“

He paused to light a cigarette, striking three matches in the wind. Impatient, Mallory slammed her car door, and still he took his time, exhaling a cloud of smoke as he walked toward an office building at the middle of the block. „One of the Winter kids was holding a crayon drawing when they found him. It was a stick figure, no detail. You know the way kids draw, and this litde boy was only four years old. There was one small hole in the paper and some blood from the stab wound to his heart. So the lead detective – Fitzgerald was his name – he framed the kid’s picture and hung it up in the squad room. At first, only the cops on the case knew how important that drawing was.“

„So Fitzgerald thought the boy drew a portrait of his killer?“

„Yeah“ said Riker, „and, in a way, he did. There were thirty detectives assigned to the massacre. They worked it for a solid year, and they never had one lead to flesh out a suspect. You see? The kid’s drawing of a stick man fit the case. It hung on that wall for years. It drove them all nuts.“

He stopped and looked up at the sky, as if he gave a damn about the weather. He was wondering how much of the story he should hold back. In Mallory’s puppy days, when he was still allowed to call her Kathy, she had loved his grisly cop stories, the more blood the better – but never ghost stories. Eventually, he would have to tell her that Stick Man’s killings had begun in 1860.

And then she would have to shoot him.

„My grandfather didn’t work the case,“ said Riker, „but it was all he ever talked about.“ And it was all that Granddad had really cared about. The old man had made a science of ice-pick wounds that spanned a full century. But Mallory did not need to know that, not yet. And now that they had reached the address of Willy Roy Boyd’s attorney, the story hour was over.

The two detectives pushed through the glass doors of the rat maze, floor upon floor of lawyers’ offices stacked up to the moon. Riker flashed a badge at the security guard who wanted to stop them from using the penthouse elevator. They stepped inside a carpeted box paneled with mirrors and lit by a tiny crystal chandelier. It was a style that New Yorkers would call piss elegant. The elevator doors closed and they rode upward through the tower of law firms, aiming for the most expensive one. Riker was looking forward to this meeting, and he had no plans to restrain Mallory’s enthusiasm for payback.

They exited at the last stop and breezed on by a young woman at the reception desk, paying no attention to her as she called after them, asking if they had an appointment. The next woman to ask this question was a more formidable brunette, whose desk stood guard before a lawyer’s door. The secretary spoke only to Mallory, or, more accurately, to Mallory’s clothes, the silk T-shirt and tailored blazer, money on the hoof that blended well with the luxurious surroundings. The brunette made it clear that Riker’s suit really ought to have arrived on the delivery elevator at the rear.

Mallory’s clothes leaned over the desk and said, „We don’t need an appointment.“

Did the dark-haired woman find her unsettling, possibly dangerous?

Oh, yeah.

The secretary sat very still, hands tightly folded and knuckles turning white, as the young detective reached across her desk to press the button that would admit them to the inner sanctum of Sid Henry, Esquire. Riker followed his partner through the door, glancing back at the cowed woman behind the desk.

Good job.

The door swung open on panoramic windows and brilliant light. The lawyer was reclining in a leather chair and sunning himself like a lizard in very expensive threads. The man even moved like a reptile, his head jerking upward, startled. As the attorney rose from his desk, preparing his first verbal assault, he suddenly shut his gaping mouth. Was it the sight of Mallory’s lovely face? No, Riker guessed it was probably the very large gun, a.357 Smith and Wesson revolver. She had one hand on her hip, her blazer open and pulled to one side, and there was no way he could fail to see that cannon.

Sid Henry sat down – quietly.

Riker luxuriated in these passing seconds, for Mallory had not yet produced her shield, and, considering this attorney’s recent client, a serial killer, the poor bastard sincerely did not know if she was crazy or a cop. Would he live or die?

It was Riker who ended the suspense, holding up his own gold shield.

Mallory pulled a manila envelope from her knapsack, tore it open, and held up the morgue photograph of a body on the dissection table – after the dissection, minus all the vital organs, and looking very pale. „Recognize your former client? No? Well, it’s a bad photo. Willy Roy Boyd was the psycho who butchered three women, gutted them with a hunting knife. And you got him out on bail.“ She dropped the photo on his desk. „Remember now?“

„Blame it on NYPD.“ Sid Henry grinned at her, entirely too confident that she would not hurt him. „The case against my client wasn’t exactly flawless.“

Mallory slammed her fist down on the desk with the force of a hammer. „My case wasperfectl“

The attorney flinched, and his eyes widened with sudden clarity, for now he understood his error: she was the lead detective on that case – and she did not respond well to criticism.

„I looked up every precedent you cited at that bail hearing,“ she said. „You had nothing. It was all smoke. You knew that judge would never admit he didn’t know case law on search and seizure. You were right on the edge of perjury.“

„So,“ said Sid Henry, „this is retribution? You plan to scare me to death?“ He tapped the photograph. „This is so unnecessary.“ He turned the picture over. „The dramatics, this disgusting picture.“

Riker had predicted that the man would rally quickly. According to police lore, lawyers were as resilient as cockroaches, and one who had been decapitated could litigate for up to three days.

Mallory walked back to the door and closed it – slowly – smiling as she shut out all sound and sight of witnesses, and this little gesture was not lost on Sid Henry.

„So, Sid, let me guess,“ said Riker. „You’re just an associate, right? Not a partner in the firm? Naw, you’re too young. I’d bet even money those old geezers don’t know you took a fee to bail out that butcher.“

„Maybe,“ said Mallory, „you told them it was pro bono. All the money you made on that hearing didn’t go through the firm’s billing office.“ At least, she had found no record of it while raiding the firm’s database. However, she had found a large deposit in the lawyer’s personal bank account.

By Sid Henry’s silence, Riker knew they had the man cold for pocketing money that belonged to his firm, and now they owned him. Oh, and best of all, there would be no charge of police harassment at the end of the day – even if Mallory left marks on him.

„You didn’t ask how your client died,“ said Riker, not giving the lawyer any time to wonder how the police could access the firm’s billing office.

„It wasn’t in the newspapers. Not on the tube, either. But you don’t seem surprised.“

„I haven’t seen Willy since the bail hearing.“ Sid Henry picked up the photograph of his late client and forced a smile as he handed it back to Mallory. „So he’s dead. Can I assume this is your work, Detective? Rather excessive use of force.“

Mallory ignored the photo and let it hang in the air between them until the man’s arm got tired and he lost the idea that he could win a staring contest with her. She pulled out the pocket watch that had once belonged to the late Louis Markowitz. „You’ve got two minutes to clear yourself on a charge of murder for hire.“ This little trick of time, the pressure of a ticking bomb, was another hand-me-down from her foster father. „If you can’t do that, then we get to parade you out of here in handcuffs.“ She waited out the silence, her eyes cast down to the face of her watch. „One minute, fifty-five seconds.“

Sid Henry’s voice cracked. „If you think you can – “

„We wanna know who paid for that bail hearing.“ Riker snatched the photograph from the lawyer’s hand. „And don’t give us any crap about attorney-client privilege. That won’t cover the bastard who hired you. We know Willy couldn’t afford fifteen minutes of your time. So who paid your fee?“

„One minute, fifty seconds,“ said Mallory.

„You’ve got no right to – “

„This is a warrant.“ Riker waved a folded sheet of paper. It bore no judge’s signature, but it worked well as a prop. „The charge is attempted murder. Your client tried to kill another woman last night – a rich woman. Now the older lawyers, the guys with their names on the door of this outfit, maybe they even know her. All these rich people know each other, don’t they?“ He turned to his partner. „Curious, Mallory? We could ask them on the way out.“

She nodded, saying, „One minute, thirty seconds.“

Riker pulled out his handcuffs, then tossed a Miranda card on the desk. „I think we can assume you know your legal rights. I’m guessing you plan to use the right to remain silent.“

„One minute, fifteen seconds.“

Riker grinned at her. „I think your watch is slow, kid. I say we just do him.“

It happened very fast. She had reached the other side of the desk before the lawyer knew she was after him. Now he was half risen from the chair and pulled forward by her hand dragging his necktie – no visible bruising that way. He was quickly bent over the desk, face pressed to the blotter, as she worked his arms behind his back.

Riker threw her the handcuffs, and, while she did the honors, he stood back and smiled, wanting always to remember this special moment – Sid Henry bending over and exposing his ass to all comers.

Evidently, the lawyer saw his own posture as a portent of things to come in lockup. „I don’t know who hired me!“ he yelled.

No – call it a squeal.

„That’s not what we wanted to hear,“ said Mallory.

„I couldn’t tell you if I wantedto!“ And now, his words came out all in a rush. „It was a cash payment – anonymous. Ask my secretary. She opened the first package. There were two installments, one before the bail hearing and one afterward.“

„And you gave the secretary a cut to keep her quiet, right?“ Riker pocketed the warrant, producing instant relief in the attorney’s eyes. „Okay, I don’t think we have to pursue this – if your story holds up.“ He took one last look at the man bent over his desk, then turned to his partner. „Can we take a picture of this before you uncuff him?“

No, he could see that Mallory was in a hurry to get on to the next interview. Well, one lawyer down and one to go. Their second target of the day was the attorney of record for the Winter family trust fund. He was also the father of Bitty Smyth.

The reception hall of the Harvard Club had the hallmark of wealth and power – wasted space on an obscene scale. The high ceiling was close to God and deceased alumni.

It was rare for Charles Butler to set foot in this place. As a child prodigy, he had not made many friends among his older classmates. Today’s luncheon was at the invitation of Sheldon Smyth, scion of the oldest and most venerable law firm in New York City. Smyth had mentioned that his son, Paul, would also be dining with them. The old man harbored the delusion that Charles and Paul had been great friends at school.

Untrue.

Paul Smyth had been shoehorned into Harvard as the son of a wealthy alumnus, while Charles had been a sought-after child, the center of a bidding war among the finest schools on the Eastern Seaboard. There had been only one occasion when he and Paul had met on campus – in passing. At eighteen, Charles had been on his way out, one semester away from submitting a Ph.D. dissertation, and Paul had just arrived as an incoming freshman. No thought had been given to this – schoolmate – in decades. However, last night, the birthday party photographs in Bitty Smyth’s bedroom had raised old grudges dating back to the sandbox.

The main dining room, a grand oak-paneled affair, was lined with the portraits of patrons immortalized in gigantic oil paintings, their names and deeds long forgotten. However, the club’s famed cheese dip was memorable.

He crossed the room behind a waiter. If not for this escort, he would never have chosen the right table, for his old enemy was so altered by time. Paul Smyth’s hair had thinned, his belly had expanded, and his chin had tripled. But Charles was recognized at once, so little changed was he, with a full head of hair and only the one chin. So it was a balanced universe after all. Paul stood up to shake hands with him.

In peripheral vision, Paul’s father was a thatch of silver hair with thick black eyebrows. Now the older man rose from his chair to match Charles’s stature of six-four. Sheldon Smyth extended one hand across the table to greet his luncheon guest. The old man’s eyes were the magic mirrors that every narcissist prayed for, clear blue reflections of the egoist coda, saying to the beholder: My God, I think you’re wonderful.¹Aloud he said, „So good of you to come, such short notice and all.“

Charles was stunned, but not seduced. „How do you do, sir?“

By Sheldon Smyth’s manner and smile, the other diners might believe that they were close friends who met for lunch every day. When the three men were seated with menus in hand, the elder Smyth said, „I understand the police got you out of bed last night. My ex-wife called this morning. You remember her of course. Cleo Winter-Smyth?“

„No,“ said Charles. „We’ve never met.“ For that matter, he could not recall having met Paul’s father either. At those gatherings where children were forcibly pitted against one another, Paul had always been accompanied by a nanny.

„But you did meet her once,“ said Paul, „for about six seconds when you were ten. She dropped off me and my sister at your birthday party. Bitty wasn’t invited, of course, but she badgered Dad, and I had to take her.“

Sheldon Smyth cleared his throat to announce that this minor slander did not sit well with him. „Bitty is the only child by my first marriage to Cleo.“

Charles nodded in a show of polite interest. „I see the family resemblance.“

„Bitty’s adopted,“ said Paul.

This was a surprise, for the woman had features in common with her father, the shape of his large eyes, if not their color, the same chin and mouth. Paul, on the other hand, bore no -

„She’s family,“ said Sheldon Smyth, all but daring his son to say one more word. With a friendlier expression, he turned all of his attention on Charles. „Cleo and I adopted Bitty when my cousin died in childbirth. Now tell me, why should the police bother you about a lot of photographs?“

„I believe they’re required to notify me of a potential stalker.“

„But you set them straight, of course, told them she was a family connection.“

This was news to Charles, who had no surviving relatives. He politely smiled and waited for some explanation.

„Your mother’s second cousin, Charles. His half brother was a Smyth. No blood relation perhaps, but there you are,“ he said. „Family.“ The old lawyer allowed this word to hang alone, punctuated with respectful silence to increase its import.

Charles was not surprised. He had long been a believer in the six degrees of separation: the theory that everyone on the planet was somehow connected to everyone else by a sequence of relationships. However, the Smyths had taken it to an elitist extreme, marrying into every major fortune in New York State.

„So you’ve got a stalker,“ said Paul, not quite understanding that word as the one his father most wanted to defuse. He failed to catch the old man’s eye and that look of disappointment in an idiot son. „Just like a rock star.“ Grinning, Paul punched Charles on the arm, instantly calling up the days when a child-size Paul had fired sniper shots with closed fists, jabbing and bruising on the run, then finishing off his prey by killing him with words that had an even stronger punch and power. Charles had died each time they met.

But not today.

Sheldon Smyth had finally managed to capture his son’s attention. The old man narrowed his eyes in an ocular thump on the head, a warning not to punch their guest one more time. Glancing at his watch, he said, „Paul, don’t let us detain you any longer.“ As he reached out for a roll and a butter knife, his face said the rest: Go, or be impaled on the silverware.

And now, Charles quite liked the old man.

When Paul had excused himself from the table and the waiter had departed with their menus and lunch orders, Sheldon Smyth leaned forward, voice lowered. „So, my boy, Cleo said the house was full of police – standing room only. Why all this fuss over a burglar?“

„Well, he was a dead burglar. You didn’t know?“

„No, my ex-wife neglected to mention a corpse. So typical of Cleo,“ he said, as if dead bodies lying about the house were an everyday nuisance. „I think she was more concerned that you might cause problems for Bitty. When I called my office this morning, I was told that the police had paid a visit. Well, naturally… I wondered if you’d pressed charges against my daughter.“

„No, sir, it never occurred to me.“

„Good man.“

Salads arrived during the ensuing silence. Then Charles further reassured Bitty’s father, saying, „I had a long talk with Bitty last night. I’m satisfied that she isn’t the least bit dangerous.“

„Quite right. No more than a simple schoolgirl crush. I’m sure you found it quite charming.“

Charles understood this from his host’s perspective. Quite comical, really. A man like himself, one with the attributes of an eagle beak and bullfrog eyes, would have so few choices; how could he fail to be flattered by the fixation of a neurotic elf?

Between one course and another, he learned that the Smyth firm had served the Winter family for more than a hundred years. The old man’s eyes were always fixed upon Charles, as if he regarded his guest as the most important personage on the planet. It was an illusion from a lawyer’s bag of tricks to win over juries and stalking victims alike, but Smyth had perfected it to a fine art, and Charles felt that his immunity to flattery was slipping.

Meanwhile, heads were turning at all the other tables. Mallory had arrived to work her usual effect upon a room. No one thought to stop her forward momentum across the wide floor. She was so obviously one of the power people in this gathering. What waiter would risk being trampled? There were nods of approval all around. Yes, the patrons assured one another, she was one of them, though so few of them carried guns to lunch. Hers was exposed – quite deliberately, Charles thought – as she swept the blazer to one side and reached into a rear pocket of her jeans, where she kept her gold shield.

Only now did Smyth realize that his table had become a spectacle. He looked up to see the young homicide detective standing beside his chair. She was no longer displaying the gun, but only discreetly holding out her badge.

Mallory gave Charles a curt nod. „Hello, Dr. Buder,“ she said, employing a title he never used, though his credentials entitled him to do so. And with this pointed formality, she wiped away their friendship, their business partnership and the years that they had known one another. They were merely recent acquaintances – that was her message to him. And now, after forcing Sheldon Smyth to wait out this little farce, she turned her eyes on him. „Your office told me I could find you here.“

„Really,“ he said. With those two syllables, Smyth managed to convey that some minion would be parted with his head just the moment he returned to his office.

Hardly inclined to wait on an invitation, Mallory pulled up a chair at the table. As if she did not already have Smyth’s complete attention, she asked, „Can you think of any reason why someone would want your daughter dead?“

Smyth stared at her, then shook his head and kept his silence, perhaps adhering to a lawyer’s code to ask no question to which he did not already have the answer. And then, of course, he could not have been more stunned if she had pistol-whipped him.

Mallory seemed to like that reaction. She liked it a lot. „Money motives work for me. Who inherits if your daughter dies?“

The words were slow to come. „No one,“ said Smyth. „I drew up her will myself. Her estate goes to the Legal Aid Society.“

„I know there’s a family trust fund.“ Mallory’s tone implied that she had caught the old man in a lie.

„My daughter has no stake in that. The only beneficiaries are her mother and her uncle.“

„And Nedda Winter?“

The old man nodded.

„Tell me why your daughter doesn’t benefit from the trust fund.“

It took a moment for Sheldon Smyth to adjust to the fact that he was not in control of this interview. He graced her with a radiant smile – an experiment that immediately failed. She had a natural immunity to charisma, and this seemed to irritate him. The old man made a great show of looking at his wristwatch, and he would not meet her eyes when he spoke. „I can’t discuss the trust fund with you.“ He addressed the empty chair on the other side of the table. „It’s privileged information. I can tell you that Bitty doesn’t need a. draw on the trust. I provide her with a generous allowance.“

„That’s not what I asked.“ Mallory leaned forward and raised her voice, as if the old man might be hard of hearing. „So, apart from you, her only source of income is her law practice?“

Charles sat up a bit straighter. „Bitty? A lawyer?“

„Yes, my daughter was top of her class at Columbia.“ The old man misunderstood Charles’s startled expression. „Of course, I wanted her to go to Harvard, but she preferred to stay close to home.“

Mallory called Smyth’s attention back to herself. „Where does your daughter practice law, and what’s her area of expertise?“

„She used to work for my firm, but now she’s on sabbatical. She’s always concentrated on contract law.“

„Would that include trust-fund busting?“

„You can’t mean the Winter family trust.“ Smyth was incredulous. „What would be the point if she didn’t – “

„I need copies of all the documents for that trust fund,“ said the detective. „I want them today.“

„Got a warrant, Detective?“ Smyth seemed suddenly cheered by Mallory ‘s prolonged quiet. „No,“ he said, „I didn’t think so.“

„You’re the executor,“ said Mallory. „You can give me any – “

„That trust fund has a long history. The documents – every bill and receipt and canceled check, paperwork for decades of transactions – it fills a good-size storage room.“ He leaned toward her with new confidence. „It would take a small army to copy all that paperwork, and the originals will never leave my firm.“

„Did I mention that I was trying to keep your daughter alive?“

„And were you listening when I said there was no motive for anyone to harm her?“

„It’s my job to decide that,“ said Mallory. „You’re only a lawyer. I’m the law“

Sheldon Smyth inclined his head and smiled, perhaps in agreement with this distinction, but more likely in approval, a sudden change in his opinion of this young adversary. „Detective Mallory, I can give you the basic structure of the trust. Cleo Winter-Smyth and her brother are entitled to a monthly draw.“

„And Nedda,“ said Mallory, reminding him once more of this woman’s existence. „She could also be a target. So if she dies – “

„It doesn’t change the amount of the draw. You should also know that the trust fund is entailed to charity. The payouts end with Lionel and Cleo’s generation.“

„And Nedda,“ said Mallory. „You keep forgetting her.“

Sheldon Smyth dropped his smile and laid his napkin on the table. „I think we’re done here, Detective. Talk to my secretary if you need more information. She’ll schedule an appointment.“ And now, because he must sense that she did not take direction very well, he added, „I’m afraid we ‘re boring poor Charles with all of this.“

After Mallory had kicked him under the table, Charles was encouraged to say, „Oh, no, sir. This is fascinating.“

„Well, Charles,“ said Smyth, „if that’s the case, I suggest you have dinner with the family tonight. You’ve been invited by my ex-wife. I’m sure Bitty would like to properly apologize for the unpleasantness with the police.“

„I assure you there’s no need for that,“ said Charles, shifting his legs beyond Mallory’s long reach.

„Say yes,“ said Smyth. „I’m asking as a favor. Bitty’s so easily crushed. Tell me you’ll go.“

In Mallory’s version of subtlety, she examined her fingernails – as if they might need sharpening.

„Of course,“ said Charles.

After signing a tab for the luncheon and leaving instructions to care for his guests, Sheldon Smyth departed, and the energy level of the dining room was diminished by half.

Moments later, Riker arrived, and he proved to be another head turner, attracting attention from every quarter of the dining room. He moseyed toward the table, followed closely by a waiter, who no doubt suspected this badly dressed man of a scheme to steal the silverware. Charles stood up to greet the detective, and the waiter, somewhat relieved, melted away.

When Riker had been apprised on the fine points of Mallory’s interview, he sipped his coffee and grinned at Charles. „So Mallory promoted you to snitch. Good job. Take a nose count when you show up for dinner. There might be somebody living there that we don’t know about, maybe the one who wrote this letter.“ He handed over a clear plastic bag containing a sheet of paper. „We took that from the dead man’s lawyer. It came with a boxful of money.“

Charles read the scant information neatly typed. It mentioned the name of the client and an arrangement for more money if the bail hearing was successful. „My God, I should’ve recognized him from his picture in the newspaper. This is the dead burglar, isn’t it? Willy Roy Boyd?“

„Keep that to yourself,“ said Mallory. „Can you tell us anything helpful?“

Charles shook his head. „Bare sentence fragments. No style or turn of phrase to give the writer away. I can tell you that you’re not dealing with an idiot. Does that help you?“

No, apparently not.

„Sorry.“

An afternoon of begging for warrants had come to a bad end. District Attorney John J. Buchanan had personally turned down the last request for assistance from his office. In a rare exception to protocol, he had granted an audience to mere detectives, and that alone had been enough to make Riker suspicious.

The DA had made it clear that the Smyth firm was unassailable and off-limits to the NYPD. That directive had included Bitty Smyth, a former member of that firm.

It was dark when the partners returned to SoHo, and Riker was gearing up for another unpleasant confrontation as they left the car and headed down the street to a familiar haunt. „Well, it’s an election year,“ he said, as they walked along. „Smyth must be a big contributor to the DA’s war chest. Damn Buchanan.“

They stopped by the window of a brightly lit cafe across the street from the station house. The table on the other side of the glass was littered with guidebooks and cameras, and the chairs were filled with middle-aged ladies.

Damn tourists.

All the cops in sight had had the decency to take other tables. A gray- haired woman sat in the chair once occupied by Mallory’s foster father. Unaware that she was trespassing, this tourist looked up to see the young homicide detective’s face close to the window and those cold eyes like oncoming bullets. Apparently the mayor’s new handout sheet for visitors had included tips that were actually helpful, like – never make eye contact with the sociopath, for now the woman quickly looked down at her menu, wishing the green-eyed apparition away.

Riker nudged his partner. „They’re ordering dessert. We can come back later.“

No, that would have been too easy.

The woman seated in the dead man’s chair looked up to the window again, and now her companions were also curious. This was Mallory’s cue to clear the table – quickly and efficiently. Before his partner could casually draw back one side of her blazer to terrorize these out-of-towners with the display of her shoulder holster, Riker said, „No, let me do it this time. Just wait here, okay?“

He entered the cafe and hunkered down by the ladies’ table. Softly, he spoke to them about the young woman on the other side of the window glass, the one with the very disturbing eyes. Really just a kid, he said to them. He talked about her foster father, a late great cop, and how Kathy Mallory had never come to terms with the fact that she would never see him again. It was too hard to believe that Lou Markowitz would not be sitting at this very table each time she came by the cafe. And here Riker paused a beat to rap the table – softly.

There was always this little moment of pretend, he told the ladies, before the kid turned to the window to see that the old man’s chair was empty. And then she would come in and sit down to wait for him because, bless the old bastard’s soul, he was always late. And, just for a little while, Lou was still alive. He had never died in the line of duty and left his kid all alone in Copland.

Just a kid, he said once more.

And he told them about Gurt, the waitress who had kept this table clear of other patrons at this same hour, until the day, not long ago, when she had retired. So now the girl had also lost another fixture in her life. Ah, Gurt, he said to them, that saint (a sarcastic old bat who should have retired years ago). And so, as the ladies could see – he pointed to Mallory now – the kid did not handle change very well. It… disturbed her.

They all turned to the window, as if waiting for Mallory to cry. They would wait forever.

He was still talking as these women rose from their chairs, all smiling with their kind faces from the heartland of America, where all the good people lived. They picked up their plates and glasses, silverware and napkins, and moved to a vacant table at the back of the room. Riker faced the window, but Mallory was gone.

„What did you say to them?“ She was behind his back, and he jumped. One hand went to his heart – still beating – just checking.

„I told them the truth,“ he said, and that should shut her up. Mallory had difficulties with that simple concept. And the idea of human kindness would give her even more trouble.

When they were seated and waiting for their meal, Riker continued to parcel out the story of Nedda, a.k.a. Red Winter.

„You’ve seen the painting,“ he said. „I guess everybody has. But back in the day – remember this is the forties – a nude painting of a little girl was a shock and a half. In the other paintings the kid had clothes on, but the nude was the biggest one, nine feet tall. And Nedda was only eleven years old then. The cops raided the art gallery and took all the paintings away.“

„The artist was her father, right?“

Riker nodded. „Her rich father. I guess that’s why the whole thing blew over – one headline in the papers, then nothing. Some of the books about Red Winter figured her for a runaway because Daddy was a freak. And some say she killed him.“

„And everyone else in the house?“ Mallory shook her head. „A little girl on a murder spree doesn’t work for me.“

That had been predictable. His partner favored money motives.

„Hey,“ said Riker, „I can only tell this story the way it was told to me. You wanna hear it or not?“

He knew that she did. Her chin lifted slightly, a vow to behave, and she was his old Kathy for a moment, just another little girl sitting around a cop-shop, surrounded by men with guns and human scum in handcuffs.

Riker had sometimes done midget duty in the after-school hours, making sure the tiny, semireformed street thief would not rob the place while her old man had been occupied with more hard-core criminals. Riker had kept Lou’s foster child honest by telling her all of his handed-down family stories from the days of Legs Diamond, Lucky Luciano and Murder Incorporated – murders by the dozen in every tale.

What a deal.

Young Kathy had never gotten such bloody treats at home. Her foster mother would never have allowed it. Gentle Helen Markowitz had always held the strange notion that Kathy Mallory was a normal child, one who might have bad dreams of the bogeyman. What Helen had never understood was that little Kathy had the early makings of the bogeyman’s nightmare.

„Anyway,“ said Riker, „after the raid on the art show, Quentin Winter’s daughter is famous. Everybody, uptown and down, has a theory on what goes on inside Winter House. Then one day, a year later, the cops get a call from another litde girl. She tells ‘em she just got home from the park with her brother, Lionel. The whole house is dead – that’s the way she put it – except for the baby. And the baby’s crying. The litde girl on the phone says her name is Cleo. She was only five years old.“

When Charles rang the bell, it was Sheldon Smyth who responded. The older man had won a footrace to the door, beating a young woman in a maid’s costume, who rushed up behind him with a tray of hors d’oeuvres in hand.

„Not now,“ said Smyth, flicking his fingers at her to shoo her away as if she were an insect. „Hello, Charles.“ He glanced back, satisfied to see the maid in retreat. „Not the best caterers, I’m afraid. Short notice and all.“

Charles wondered why Smyth would tell such a lie. The truck parked outside the house belonged to the most exclusive caterer in Manhattan, one who was booked months in advance and not the sort to do impromptu dinner parties-unless of course, the fee had been doubled or tripled.

With the old lawyer’s hand on his back, Charles was gently but firmly propelled into the front room, and his eyes were once again drawn to the wildly impractical staircase. The architect must have hailed from a school that regarded clients as parasites in the home, only grudgingly deferring to them by allotting space for kitchens, bathrooms and the like. And now he had exhausted every sane rationale for his sudden discomfort. In a less pragmatic part of his mind, he thought the house was hostile. How ludicrous.

At the foot of the stairs was a fully stocked bar, and here introductions were made to Bitty’s uncle. While Charles was shaking hands with Lionel Winter, he felt that his host was missing something – oh, perhaps a pulse. The man was simply not present, that or his personality was in hiding. Given the snow-white hair, the face was younger than it should be, and Charles wondered if the lack of age lines was due to the absence of an emotional life. It was pathos and comedy that creased a face with personal history.

Sheldon Smyth dismissed a young man from the caterer’s staff and assumed the role of bartender. „Let me guess your poison, Charles.“ He poured a double shot of Chivas Regal into a brandy glass. „Neat, am I right?“

„Yes, thank you.“ This was indeed Charles’s usual fare, but he had not ordered Chivas at lunch today. He was given further proof that Smyth had gone to a great deal of trouble over this dinner party, for now he learned that his favorite foods were on the menu. However, the elderly lawyer had not discerned that Charles’s taste in music was strictly classical, though this extended to the vintage jazz that Nedda Winter had played on the radio during his last visit to this house. Tonight, he was forced to listen to elevator music, popular tunes played as boring instrumentals by an uninspired orchestra. Even the tonal quality had changed overnight. The sound surrounded him. He did not have to look at the antique radio to see that the dial was dark, that the music did not come from there.

Lionel Winter made his first attempt at conversation, going on at length about the elaborate sound system that played in every room of the house.

And when Charles mentioned the jazz tunes of the previous evening, his host fell silent and only stared at him.

Sheldon Smyth filled this uncomfortable void, saying, „The ladies should be joining us any minute now. Ah, women – never on time. Well, what’s the use of a grand staircase if you can’t make a stunning entrance?“

And now the ladies were coming, gliding down the stairs in long gowns. The tall woman could only be Cleo Winter-Smyth. Resplendent in a dark-blue gown the color of her eyes, she towered over her daughter.

Poor little Bitty. Her strapless dress of iridescent colors was reminiscent of a disco ball on prom night, and her gamin charm had been destroyed by a gash of lipstick, a rouge pot on each cheek, and hair lacquered into appalling spit curls. Aghast, Sheldon Smyth turned from his daughter to his ex-wife, and Charles wondered if Bitty had been transformed into a circus pony under duress. The tiny woman flinched, needing no more than her father’s expression to tell her how foolish she looked.

Cleo Winter-Smyth resembled her brother, Lionel. Both were tall and fair and absent any human aspect in their eyes. The woman tilted her head to one side, and this was the only indication that she was surprised by her ex-husband’s attitude. Turning away from him, she managed a floodlight white smile for their guest.

During the ensuing small talk of weather and dead burglars, Charles felt more and more ill at ease. Again, he tried to blame this on the staircase that was always in the act of running off to the top of the house. And all those tall mirrors – they picked up each gesture of a head half turned, repeating it in a herd of heads all giving alarm as animals will do when they turn to the sound or the scent of danger. Even the small painting over the bar had a manic quality of stroke and line and color. Between one drink and the next, he learned that Bitty Smyth had grown up in this unsettling house. And so, if there was an easily startled air about her, in her eyes and in her manner, this was to be excused.

Cleo Winter-Smyth lifted her face ever so slightly as she peered into one of the mirrors lining the walls. She spoke to the reflection of another woman on the staircase behind her. „Nedda, I didn’t know you’d be joining us tonight.“

Was there something in her tone that implied the older woman was unwelcome?

Nedda Winter drifted down the stairs in a long black satin dress that called to mind a black-and-white movie from a more elegant era. A loose-woven shawl of silver threads was draped over her shoulders, and her braided white hair served as a coiled crown. She was another paradox of the house. The lines of her gown were sylvan and classical, the lady statuesque, her posture unbowed, and, despite the wrinkles and the hair gone white, the total effect was beautiful. And what quiet authority this woman had, sufficient to reduce Sheldon Smyth to a fidgeting child on best behavior. Her pale blue eyes took in the drastic alterations to her niece. If the sight was unpleasing, she never let on, but, while Bitty was looking elsewhere, Miss Winter glanced at Cleo with mild disapproval. The younger sister would not look at her.

Upon reaching the bottom step, the elder lady inclined her head and extended one veined hand to Charles. „How nice to see you again. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk last night.“

„Well,“ said Sheldon Smyth, „we’ll make up for that this evening.“ And with those words, the occasion of a man’s violent death had been reduced to a previous social event.

Nedda placed a protective arm about Bitty’s shoulders, then guided her niece into the dining room, and the rest of the party followed them to the table.

A waiter pulled out a chair to seat Cleo Winter-Smyth beside Charles. „I met your parents years and years ago,“ she said. „Sheldon and I were enrolling Bitty at the Marshal Frampton Institute.“ Left off this long name were the words for gifted children. „They seemed to dote on you.“

The woman had more grace than to mention that Marion Butler had been a bit old for motherhood. Charles’s birth had been a shock to his parents, a pregnancy so late in life. His parents had died of old age before he was out of his teens. And, yes, they had doted upon him and sent him to schools that would cater to his freak’s IQ. He looked down at his place setting, wondering how he could have forgotten Bitty Smyth among the limited enrollment of the Frampton Institute.

„Stop racking your brain, my boy,“ said Sheldon Smyth. „The moment my back was turned, Bitty’s mother pulled her out of school. I don’t think she attended for more than two days.“

The subject came up again as the first course was being served.

„It wasn’t the right school for Bitty.“ Cleo’s tone was somewhat defensive. „I sent her to a better one where she could make all the right connections.“

„Connections?“ Smyth laughed. „She was a five-year-old, not a socialite.“

Bitty seemed to be growing smaller, sinking down in her chair as she was talked about, but never acknowledged as a person in this room. She was so small, so easily overlooked in a family of giants. Charles imagined her life as a mouse in this house, scurrying from one bolt – hole to another. He waited for her to look his way, then smiled and said, „It’s a pity you didn’t stay at Frampton. We might’ve gotten to know one another much earlier.“

Bitty smiled and spilled her water glass. While a waiter mopped up the table, Nedda Winter nodded her approval of Charles. The subject was closed and peace was restored – for a time.

Before the last entree had been served, the house and all its company, all save Nedda, had begun to wear on Charles. He hardly tasted his food while eating his way toward the final course. Cleo and Lionel’s smiles were flashing on and off like lightbulbs, and, by this odd behavior, he determined that the history of the house was a subject to be avoided. Every foray into this area was sharply cut off and the conversation directed elsewhere.

Odder still was the bond between brother and sister. In some respects, Lionel and Cleo brought to mind an old married couple who could finish one another’s sentences or altogether do away with the spoken word. However, there was no apparent affection between them. They simply came as a set. If you got one, you got the other.

Charles picked up the challenge of cleaving the pair. „Lionel, what sort of work do you do?“

„Work?“

Cleo translated for her brother. „Investments, dear, the stocks and bonds.“

„So you work on Wall Street,“ said Charles in an attempt to be helpful. Oh, wait. There was that pesky word again. Work? Us?

„No, we manage our own investments,“ said Lionel. „But it is time consuming.“

Somewhere between the chocolate mousse and postprandial brandy, the conversation had turned to the subject of fortunetellers. Where this topic had come from, Charles could not say, but he suspected that Bitty had raised it in a small voice and wafted it across the table to her mother, a willing receptacle.

„I’ve had a few tarot card readings,“ said Cleo, „and it was worth years of therapy. But there’s nothing mystical about it. The fortuneteller reads the person, not the cards. Some readers are remarkably intuitive.“

And Charles took this to mean that a fortuneteller had once flattered her. No, that was unkind and in conflict with his heightened sense of empathy. He suspected a wound at the core of this woman, some serious misadventure of the psyche. It was a certainty that she shared this affliction with her brother, hence the odd bond between them. Something had happened to them, some great trauma.

Bitty gulped down her brandy and reached for the decanter, saying, „Aunt Nedda can read tarot cards.“ Out of the entire company, Nedda Winter was the most surprised by this news. Bitty quietly slipped away from the table and left the dining room door ajar as she made her way across the front room, wobbly but stumbling only once.

Upon finally noticing her daughter’s absence, Cleo shrugged her apologies to Charles. „I’m sure she’ll come back.“

„It might be better if she didn’t,“ said Lionel. „She’s had way too much to drink.“ He turned to Charles, saying, „My niece isn’t accustomed to alcohol. The religious life, I suppose. Her current church – “

„Religious?“ Sheldon Smyth pronounced this word as if he had never heard it before. „Bitty? She’s never even been to Sunday school.“

„It’s a phase she’s been going through,“ said his ex-wife, „for the past three years.“ There was a clear comment here on Sheldon Smyth’s apparent lack of interest in his own child.

Lionel turned to his erstwhile brother-in-law. „So Bitty never told you when she joined the Catholics.“ There was nothing in his voice to say that Sheldon’s ignorance surprised him. „Well, that’s old news.“

In an aside to Charles, Cleo said, „Bitty’s a Protestant now – Bloody Heart of the Redeemer, I think. Something like that. It’s a sect – no, actually, more like a cult. Lots of traveling on holy missions to recruit heathens.“

„I’m sure,“ said Lionel, „Bitty finds it a damn shame that the Protestants have no nunneries.“

„It’s a shame they have no confessionals,“ said Bitty, reappearing from behind her uncle’s chair, weaving slightly and producing an awkward silence all around the table. „Imagine a little room where you can take your soul to get it cleaned.“

This comment was met with dead quiet. Charles affected the distance of outsider status. Eyes cast down, his spoon served only to move the dessert about on his plate.

„You’ve had quite enough to drink.“ Cleo was firm and apparently still had the power to forbid her forty-year-old child, for now she moved the brandy snifter far from her daughter’s place setting.

Ignoring her mother, Bitty passed by her own chair and moved toward Nedda in a slow, somewhat unsteady march. She held a boxed deck of cards in her hands. The cardboard was worn with ages of handling and bore a tarot illustration of the hanged man. She set it down on the table before her aunt, as though bestowing a precious artifact. „Maybe you could read the tarot cards for Charles.“

Nedda Winter stared at the deck with a trace of alarm. This might as well be a dead animal that her niece had laid on the dinner table. She was slow to recover her composure, and then she slipped the deck into her lap beneath the cover of the tablecloth. „Not tonight, dear. I’m rather tired.“

„What you need is a good stiff drink.“ Sheldon Smyth rose to gallantly pull out her chair, then led her away from the table, and the rest of the party followed them to gather around the bar in the front room. While the lawyer poured out their drinks, Charles renewed his fascination with the staircase.

„You feel it, too,“ said Bitty, nodding. „It’s haunted.“

He noticed a sudden dismay about her and turned to see what she was staring at – another damned mirror. It was impossible not to encounter one’s self at every turn. Bitty had caught her reflection alongside his own. How he dwarfed her in size. They resembled a sideshow team of giant and midget. She turned her eyes this way and that, finding the same tableau in every direction.

They both looked up to escape the mirrors, and now they shared a view of the winding banister encircling a skylight dome at the top of the house. In another era of horse-drawn carriages and clearer skies, there might have been stars up there.

„Lots of history in this house,“ he said.

„You mean all the murders,“ said Bitty.

Cleo’s smile clicked on slightly out of sync and all for Charles. „I’m sure you know the story of Winter House. Everyone does.“ Glancing back at her daughter, she said. „It’s a tired old story, dear.“

Every pair of eyes was fixed on Charles, reading the stunned surprise on his face. He was recalling a bit of history that appeared in newspapers every ten years or so, the regurgitation of a mass murder for the reading pleasure of the public on a Sunday afternoon.

Oh, bloody hell.

Riker and Mallory should have told him, warned him.

Forgetting his manners, he looked over Bitty’s head to gape at the surviving Winter children all grown up.

„There was another murder that wasn’t famous.“ Bitty addressed Charles’s shoes. „You’re standing on the place where Edwina Winter died. She was Aunt Nedda’s mother.“

He backed up a few steps. „She fell?“ He looked straight up. The body could not have landed in that spot, not after falling down the stairs. The woman must have gone over the -

„Nedda is our half sister,“ said Cleo, as if this might be what puzzled her guest. „Different mothers. And her mother drank quite a bit. Well, there you have it, the oldest family scandal. Edwina Winter was drunk when she went over the banister.“

„My father and his brother, James, saw her fall,“ said Lionel, directing his gaze upward to a large picture hanging on the second-floor landing. „That’s their portrait.“

Charles looked up at the oil painting of two adolescents. Even at this distance, he would call it a very bad piece of work, almost a cartoon.

„Their account wasn’t quite accurate,“ said Bitty.

„Daddy and Uncle James gave the only account,“ said Cleo. „How can it – “

„Quentin and his first wife hated each other.“ Bitty sipped sherry, stocking up on a little bravery from a glass. „I found the divorce papers filed just before Edwina died. They were charging each other with infidelity.“

„That’s enough, Bitty,“ said her mother. „Have some consideration for your aunt.“

„No, don’t stop because of me,“ said Nedda. „I never knew my mother. I was a baby when she died.“ She gave her niece an encouraging smile, apparently approving of this uncharacteristic demeanor.

„All the money belonged to Edwina Winter.“ Bitty was running out of false courage. She went to the bar and poured herself some more. „The staircase is full of ghosts. It’s a nervous kind of haunting. Can’t you feel it?“

„I know what she means,“ said Sheldon Smyth. „There’s always been something queer about this house. Always felt it, just as she says. And that damned staircase. It’s just plain wrong.“

„It’s the pride of the house,“ said Cleo. „It was featured in Architectural Digest. The writer called it the absolute triumph of form over function. His very words.“

Sheldon Smyth wore a condescending smile. His ex-wife had missed the insult in that quotation, and she was doomed to repeat it to anyone who would listen to this joke told by herself at her own expense. Politeness prevented Charles from enlightening her, informing her that life was not lived on the stairs, but in the rooms where people might take creature comforts, procreate and dream. But not in this house. Here everything revolved around the tension of the staircase; the inertia of lines rushing upward appeared to be all that kept it from falling down.

Taking Charles by the arm, Bitty smiled with newfound boldness. „You decide.“

Helplessly bound by good manners, he climbed the stairs with her until they gained the second floor. The rest of the party was also being pulled along, straggling upward without wills of their own. The dynamic of the dinner party had changed. Oddly enough, Bitty was running the show. She paused and, with the air of a tour guide, pointed to the place along the stairs where Quentin Winter had died in the famous massacre. Charles glanced back to see Nedda, last in line, giving wide berth to this area, as if she must round the dead body of her father before she could continue upward.

The staircase was not haunted – Nedda was.

„Edwina Winter died almost twelve years before the massacre.“ Bitty stood beneath the painting of the Winter brothers and instructed Charles to remain by the railing. „That’s where she was standing when she – -fell. Now remember, all the Winters were tall, and they married tall people, like you. Think you could fall by accident?“

He stood with his back to the railing, which was higher than one might expect, yet another design flaw, and he tried to imagine a scenario where he might go over the side; perhaps if the floor were slippery or he were to stumble. No, that would not work. His center of gravity would still be below the rail.

„Tricky, isn’t it?“ Bitty rested one hand on the smooth, round wood. „Now if it had broken, that would explain everything, but this is the original – perfectly sound. Give up?“ Without waiting for a reply, she turned her back on him to open a door into the blackness of a bedroom. She pointed to the spot where he was standing. As if commanding a very large dog, she said, „Wait there.“

The tiny woman was swallowed up in the shadows. Seconds later, she was rushing back into the light, running toward him, hands extended and palms flattened back, as if to push him. And she was fast. There was no time to grip the rail, nor even to raise his arms. Bitty stopped – dead stop – when her hands were a bare inch from his chest. She turned her smiling face up to his. „That’s the only way it could have happened. Quentin Winter murdered his first wife.“

„That’s enough,“ said Cleo, „I won’t have you saying these things about my father.“

„Why not?“ said her ex-husband. „Neither one of the Winter boys was a saint, not according to my father. It’s as good a theory as any.“

„And now – the other ghosts.“ Bitty was gleefully potted as she descended the stairs to a midpoint between the high ceiling and the parlor floor. She turned to look back at Cleo. „This was where your mother died.“ Bitty turned her eyes to Charles. „Alice was her name. The second Mrs. Winter was my grandfather’s favorite model. He was an artist, you know.“

All eyes followed the dramatic point of Bitty’s finger. „There was another body in the – “

„Stop! You weren’t there!“ Cleo yelled at her daughter. „You weren’t even born yet! You don’t know anything?“

Nedda Winter was not taking this well, either. She gripped the rail with a sudden need of support.

Had both these sisters witnessed the massacre of their family? Charles’s sketchy knowledge of this old story held no such detail.

Bitty was prattling on about the other deaths and where the bodies fell as she led the party down the staircase. „And then there was the baby,“ she said, almost as an afterthought. „A newborn. Sally was her name. She survived the massacre. What happened to her after that, Mother?“

Nedda paused on the last step and stared at Cleo, waiting on the answer to that question. Clearly, she had no knowledge of her baby sister’s whereabouts. How curious. Charles wondered if another of the Winter children had been… lost.

„Sally Winter.“ Sheldon Smyth was the first to reach the bar. „I haven’t heard that name in years.“ He smiled at Charles. „Everyone called her Baby Sally. I was just a boy, away at school when I heard the news. She ran off. Isn’t that right, Lionel? Isn’t that what the nanny told the police?“

„The nurse,“ said Cleo, „Sally had a nurse.“

„Quite right,“ said Sheldon. „As I recall, your uncle James fired that woman for stealing.“ He spoke to Charles, for the outsider would need a running translation. „James Winter was their guardian after the rest of the family was murdered. Yes, I remember him confronting the nurse about stealing.“

„You’re confused, old man,“ said Lionel. „It was Uncle James who was stealing.“

„Yes, of course,“ said Sheldon Smyth. „That’s why he left town so suddenly. If I remember correcdy, that was the year you turned twenty-one.“

Lionel turned his back on the man, then poured a double shot of whiskey from the bar and downed it quickly.

Nedda’s face had gone bloodless. She drifted back to the stairs, passing all of them by, and, without a good night to anyone. In dead silence, they all watched her climb and climb, then disappear behind a door on the floor above. Bitty, the living portrait of contrition and regret, trailed after her aunt.

Sheldon Smyth was quick to retrieve a briefcase from the floor of a closet, and now he made his retreat, backing up to the door, pleading an early appointment and urging his guest to stay on for a nightcap. The caterers were gone, and so were Cleo and Lionel. Charles opened the door to the dining room, hoping to find them there, to say good night and beat a hasty retreat.

Not there. Where then?

They had not gone upstairs. After searching the kitchen and the sewing room, he returned to the front of the house to find Cleo and Lionel standing by the entrance to the foyer. With only a nod to their guest, they turned around and left. Charles heard the front door close behind them. Well, this was a bit backward, the hosts leaving the house in advance of the guest. „A most unconventional dinner party,“ said Nedda Winter. He turned to see her standing behind the bar, uncorking a bottle of wine. „My family doesn’t entertain much anymore.“ She smiled, quite her old self again, such a charming smile. She tapped a button on a control panel next to the bar, and the sound system died off to blessed silence. „Ah, that’s better. I’d like to thank you for not asking me where I’ve been for all these years.“

„To be honest, I wasn’t sure that you were Red Winter. I don’t know the story as well as I thought.“

„Do you like jazz, Mr. Butler?“

Old-fashioned record albums had appeared on the bar, stacked up beside two wineglasses. Charles examined them one by one. Any audiophile could date them back to the middle of the last century. „This is a wonderful collection.“

„Unfortunately, they’re all warped and scratched. And all the records that my sister stacked up for the party are not my idea of music.“

„Mine either.“ He pulled a record from the album cover. It was made of hard plastic that predated vinyl, cassettes and magnetically encoded discs. And it was ruined. What a great pity.

Nedda turned away from him to study the control panel for the sound system. „I was hoping you could show me how to play the radio on this thing. It has a beautiful sound quality, and I know a station that only plays jazz from the thirties and forties. I tried to tune it in once, but that made Cleo cry. She said I changed the programming for all her favorite stations. She doesn’t know how to work it, either.“

„And neither do I.“ For a birthday present, Mallory had rewired his apartment with a similar sound system, and, yes, the sound quality was incredibly beautiful, but the control panel she had installed was equally daunting. „I have one at home, but it’s a different model and the buttons are color coded.“ Mallory had programmed his stations and painted the selection buttons with red nail polish.

He strolled over to the antique radio that she had played last night. „Well, we know this works.“

The front windows were open. The curtains blew inward, Duke Ellington and his band flowed out into the street.

Charles Buder was in Luddite heaven. He ended the evening painlessly, sitting outside on the stone steps. The warm wind of Indian summer ruffled his hair to the tune of rippling piano keys. They were finishing off the last bottle in a prolonged good-bye.

„I haven’t gotten soused on wine since I was twelve years old,“ said Nedda Winter.

„I gather your upbringing was rather liberal.“

„You have no idea.“ She looked up at the face of her house and smiled. „It was a party that went on for years. My parents were jazz babies, and they were never bothered by nice people from good families. Our guests were miles more interesting.“ She ticked off an impressive list of actors, writers, gangsters and gamblers who had passed out at the dining room table. „But I liked the chorus girls best. They gave me a taste for cold beer and taught me to curse.“ She produced a pack of cigarettes from the folds of her shawl. „And they taught me how to blow smoke rings.“ She blew one now and it hung in the still night air. „You don’t like my house much, do you?“

„I suppose it makes me nervous.“

„Yes, I noticed that. But it didn’t bother you the other night, did it? Not with all those policemen, all that activity – and this music on the radio.“

„Well, no.“

„Oh,“ said Nedda – big smile, „how the house loves a good party. I’m afraid we put on a rather poor show tonight. Not nearly enough people – and that dreary music.“ She caressed the wrought-iron railing. „Poor house. It was made for a wilder nightlife.“

Though he would not describe the crime scene as a wild party, he took her point. „So, tonight, I’m seeing the house out of context. The interior – that was actually designed tor large gatherings, wasn’t it?“

She nodded and refreshed his glass with more wine. „My father’s work. He gutted the front room years before I was born. The staircase was the main event. It works best with a hundred people lounging on the steps, slugging back whiskey and tapping their feet to very loud music. Late in the evening, the music was live. Musicians came by from every club in town. Jam sessions till sunup. Piano men and men with horns, women with voices that could belt out a song to bring the roof down. Everyone in motion, dancing, even when they were sitting down. Now the mirrors – Daddy hung them up to create a bigger crowd than the house could hold. He even slanted the walls to give the mirrors more scope.“

„That’s why you can never avoid the multiple reflections?“

She nodded. „You could never escape my father’s illusion. All that energy. The people and the music fed the house.“ Her hand rubbed the stone step she sat upon. „Poor house. Now it’s starving – dying for the next big party.“

As Charles lit the last of her cigarettes, he glanced at his watch, startled to realize that another hour had passed. He liked this woman tremendously. However, he knew she must be tired. With some regret, he rose to take his leave, to see her safely behind the door, and to lose the pleasure of her company.

Lionel Winter loved one thing in all the world, the 1939 Rolls-Royce – the Wraith. In the last two years of production before the war, only 491 had ever existed. The Wraith had been his father’s car, and it was in near-perfect running condition. The ride was smooth and utterly quiet. He paid lavish tips to the garage attendant for a little magic from an aerosol can that always made the leather smell like new – like 1939, the year when he had sat upon his father’s lap and steered the Wraith down city streets. Whenever he drove this car, he lived in that year.

Tonight, however, it was difficult to escape the twenty-first century, and all his thoughts were centered upon his niece. What was she playing at? Since Bitty had abandoned the practice of law at her father’s firm, she had become more and more peculiar, or so it seemed on those days when she appeared in his line of vision. Most of the time, he hardly noticed her. He could not entirely blame the wine for the night’s disaster. How long had she been harboring these suspicions, and how much could she really know?

Flying down the Henry Hudson Parkway, boats on the water, the town alight – electric – New York at night. How he loved to drive, always shuttling between the summer house and town. That was his whole life, going nowhere with great speed and always alone.

His solitary thoughts turned to Nedda. Why was she still alive? At the hospice, an ancient doctor had virtually promised him that his older sister would be dead before the month was out, that no tests were necessary to tell him that there was no hope of a cure. All the signs of end-stage cancer had been there, her skin a ghastly yellow, her belly bloated, and the rest of her body wasted. And yet, months later, Nedda had come home to Winter House, and there she resided – in splendid good health.

Doctors were so untrustworthy. Hardly science, was it?

Obviously, his older sister had been woefully misdiagnosed. So she lived – in his house – and every day Nedda summoned up the gall to look him in the eye. Every smile in his direction was a mockery. And now she was using Bitty, turning his niece against her own family. Lionel’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and the car accelerated down the parkway. He sped past the taillights of slower cars, the electric yellow windows of tall buildings and bright reflections on the river, going faster and faster.

Why did you come back, Nedda?

Uncle James had promised them, over and over, that their sister would never return to Winter House.

He turned toward the passenger seat to look at his sister in her own neighboring galaxy on the other side of the car. Her face was bathed in dim light from the dashboard.

„Cleo? You don’t remember very much, do you? When we came home from the park that day… and found them all dead.“

„No.“ She shivered slightly, as if awakening and shaking off dreams. „No, I don’t.“

That was not surprising. His sister had been only five years old when the two of them had come home to find their parents’ bodies sprawled on the stairs. And the dead housekeeper – what was her name?

No matter. He could not remember the nanny’s name either. Oh, but the others, his brothers and sisters. He saw them now, white and still.

His parents were his most vivid memory. What a picture for the family album: little Cleo clinging to their dead mother, the corpse warm to the touch, and by that warmth, still giving comfort to one of her children – but not to Lionel. While standing on the stairs, only inches from his father’s body, he had been a zillion miles distant from that scene, wishing himself to the moon and listening in on the world from a great distance.

Listening to a memory now – truly a long way off – he could still hear Cleo’s sad little conversation with the police on the telephone, numbering and naming the dead, then ending by asking them so innocently, „Are you coming?“

Lionel looked at his mask of a face in the rearview mirror, then glanced at his sister’s mask before turning back to stare at the windshield.

Alone again.