All Fall Down (25 page)

“Yes.” Mrs. Quint’s voice broke. “He got a call from his mother that upset him. It’s not the first time he’s run away because of her. I could just
kill
that woman. Oh, well, I got hold of Logan—he insisted on doing paperwork at the office this afternoon, even though it’s Sunday. He’s getting some men together, and they’re going to begin a search of the woods between here and your place.”

“Why my house?”

“Because Tim was so taken with you and Robin. And especially the dog. What’s her name? Ashley? Anyway, he’s talked about her incessantly.”

“But I live over a mile from you—a mile of solid woods. And in this snowstorm…”

“I know.” Blaine could tell Allie Quint was crying. “But we’ve looked all around the neighborhood and checked with all of his friends. I thought, just maybe, he’d gotten to your place already.”

Blaine pictured Tim with his sweet, hopeful face, his missing front tooth, his passionate attachment to Ashley. “I think you’re right,” she said. “There’s a very good chance that if he’s upset he’ll try to come to Ashley. She and I will go out looking for him right now.”

“I didn’t mean you have to go out. I just thought he might be there.”

“I would have called.”

“Yes, yes, of course you would. But maybe we should leave the search to the men.”

Blaine had known Allie Quint since she and Logan were childhood friends. The woman had never been one to leave things
to the men
. She’s afraid to have me search for the child, Blaine thought with a stab of pain. Like everyone else, she thinks I might be a murderer. Blaine abruptly closed her mind to the thought. Now was not the time to be concerned with people’s opinion of her. “I’ll call you back in half an hour, Mrs. Quint.”

“Ashley,” she called after hanging up. The dog, who had been napping under the dining room table, padded into the kitchen. “We have to search for Tim. Remember Tim? He’s lost in the snow.”

Lost in the snow
. The words chimed in Blaine’s head as, five minutes later, she and Ashley stepped into the white maelstrom that was the backyard. Snow lashed at Blaine’s face. About three inches of it had accumulated on the ground in the past four hours, and walking was difficult, although she wore rubber-soled boots. She looked with concern at the dog, but Ashley seemed oblivious of the cold. Blaine stopped for a minute to look back at the house, where every light glowed, inside and out, hopefully as a beacon for Tim. She’d left the doors unlocked and the alarm system off in case he turned up while she was gone. She didn’t feel good about leaving the house open like that, but in her pocket she carried the .22 automatic.

Blaine lifted her voice above the wind. “Okay, let’s go, girl. I wish I had something of Tim’s for you to sniff. You don’t even know what you’re looking for. But you didn’t have a piece of Rosie’s clothing, either, and still—”

She broke off. No, she wouldn’t even think about that. Tim was fine. He was just lost.

They trudged across the back lawn toward the southern woods, the woods he would hide in. He was a smart little boy. He would know walking close to the highway would mean instant detection.

Wind howled across the open expanse of lawn. Blaine lowered her head and pulled the hood of her down parka tighter. She glanced back at the house and was disheartened to see that the illumination was swallowed by the churning darkness. Ashley was already completely coated with snow, but she plowed on, pulling at the leash as if she knew they were on an important mission.

They entered the woods and immediately the wind velocity dropped, although it still set tree limbs swaying. “Tim!” Blaine shouted. “Tim, where are you?”

Nothing, but then, her voice had been weakened by the cold and the strain of crossing the windswept lawn. “Slow down a minute,” she told Ashley. The dog stopped in her tracks and began barking. “That’s good. You’re louder than I am. Maybe he’ll hear you.”

But Tim did not appear, and after a minute they started out again. Here in the woods the snow was only half as deep as out in the open, and the wind only a lonely moan through the tree branches. Still, if Tim was out here, he was in danger. If he fell and hurt himself, he could freeze to death. And if he wandered around lost for very long, he could suffer frostbite. Blaine and the dog walked and walked while she shouted for Tim until she was hoarse. Finally she paused, looking at her hands in their thin gloves and at Ashley, who had begun to shiver violently. “We’ve got to take a break, girl,” Blaine said. “Maybe Tim is already
at
the house. If he isn’t, we’ll try again in a little while.”

Ashley was dragging by the time they crossed the lawn again. The wind seemed even stronger now, and the snow was deeper. About four inches of it lay in a vast blanket of white. Blaine couldn’t see prints she and Ashley had left earlier, and for a panicky moment she couldn’t spot the outside lights at the house, either. Her sense of direction had always been poor, and she wondered if they’d taken a wrong turn in the woods and managed to go in a circle. But Ashley pulled determinedly on the leash, leading her forward, and finally the lights over the deck, which were usually too bright, shone dimly through the clouds of blowing snow.

“Thank God,” Blaine breathed as they burst through the French doors.

She and Ashley staggered into the kitchen, both breathless and shaking with cold. Blaine shrugged out of her coat and thin, soaked gloves, throwing both on the kitchen table, and rushed into the laundry room to get a towel, with which she began vigorously rubbing Ashley’s sodden hair. “I can’t believe this weather,” she muttered. “This storm has to be one for the record.” She picked up one of the dog’s snow-encrusted paws and began trying to dislodge ice clumps from between her toes when suddenly Ashley bolted away, barking furiously.

“What on earth?” Blaine exclaimed. “Ashley?”

The dog tore through the house, and Blaine started after her. She was in the living room when the phone rang. Mrs. Quint, of course. She picked up the phone and uttered a ragged “Yes?”

Immediately she heard an electric piano:

Blaine froze. “The Merry Widow Waltz.” The music was so clear. And so was something else—the sound of a dog barking. A familiar bark.
Ashley’s
bark!

Blaine uttered a strangled cry and slammed down the receiver. The music was being played on Robin’s portable electric piano. The call was being made from the phone in Robin’s room.

A violent tremor shook Blaine. “Ashley?” she whispered. “Ashley!”

The dog appeared, wildly agitated, and grabbed Blaine’s wrist in her mouth, pulling her toward the door. Blaine went willingly. “We’ve got to get out of here,” she murmured.

“Ring around a rosy.

A pocket full of posy;

Ashes, ashes,

We all fall
down
.”

Dumbfounded, Blaine looked over her shoulder to see Joan Peyton standing behind her, singing, and holding a gun.

“Joan?” Her voice cracked. Ashley growled but stood still. She was not a trained guard dog—she was quick to let Robin and Blaine know when a stranger was around, but she had never been taught to attack. Blaine had no idea how the dog would react if her mistresses themselves were attacked.

“Familiar song?”

“Yes, Joan,” Blaine said blankly, staring at the woman.

“Shut the dog in the kitchen,” Joan ordered.

“I don’t understand,” Blaine faltered. “What are you doing?”

Something about Joan reminded Blaine of a coiled snake, her eyes cold and flat. “I said, shut the dog in the kitchen. I don’t like to hurt animals, but I will if I have to.”

Blaine looked at the gun. A .38 revolver pointed at Ashley. She led the dog to the kitchen and cast one longing glance at her jacket with her own gun in the pocket, thrown on the kitchen table nearly fifteen feet away. Too far away. If she made a dash for it, Joan might shoot her. “Stay,” she told Ashley, then quickly stepped out of the kitchen and shut the door. Ashley immediately began scratching at it. Although she had been shut in the kitchen a few times, she had sensed Blaine’s fear.

“Okay,” Blaine said shakily. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”

“It’s about death.” Joan’s long black hair, usually pulled back in a sleek French twist, now hung in damp, curling strings. The iron control she was so noted for had finally snapped. She looked wild, almost feral, and very frightening.

“Joan, obviously you’re upset.” In spite of her fear and shock, Blaine almost burst out laughing at the inanity of her comment. Joan, however, was watching her carefully. “Do you think I killed Rosie? Is that what this is about?”

“Everyone thinks you killed Rosie. Even Logan Quint isn’t going to be able to protect you much longer.”

Ashley was scratching furiously at the door now, and suddenly Blaine knew the dog
would
help if she could, but she was trapped. Even the lock panel was in place on the dog door.

“No, he isn’t. He’s turning the case over to the state police,” Blaine said, mesmerized by the gun pointing at her. “You don’t have to jeopardize your own welfare to see that I pay for Rosie’s murder.”

Joan stared at her for a moment. Then, amazingly, she threw back her head and laughed. “My God,” she gasped. “You really don’t know, do you? How
can
you be so stupid?”

“Stupid?” By now Ashley had stopped scratching at the door and lapsed into barking. “I don’t know what you mean by stupid, Joan.”

Joan wiped tears away from her face with her left hand. “I knew everyone else doubted you, but I thought you’d have sense enough to figure it out…” She shook her head. “And I thought there was actually a brain under all that red hair.”

Oh, God, Blaine thought. Yes, there
was
a brain now quickly putting all the pieces into place. “You’re not going to try to convince me that
you
killed Rosie,” she said, badly simulating shock. “I don’t believe it.”

“Try.”

Blaine’s voice emerged small and breathy. “
Why
would you kill Rosie?”

The weird, flat eyes narrowed. “I knew every move the girl made. I knew all about her and Rick.”

“And you thought her having an affair was worth
killing
her over?”

“Yes.”

Blaine forced herself to take a deep breath. “You knew Rosie was meeting Rick out here that night, didn’t you?”

“I
told
you I knew every move the girl made. Even if I hadn’t noticed the change in her behavior, I would have seen her pulling her car out of the garage and heading down the alley two or three nights a week. I’m not blind. I even knew the exact time she was to meet Rick that night. I overheard her talking to him on the phone. So I met her here earlier. She tried to hide when she realized I was outside, but she wasn’t the only person with a copy of the key to this house. I had one made from her own copy.”

“And you implicated me in her murder by putting her things behind my furnace.
Why?
”

“You were a bad influence.”

Blaine stared at the woman, her determination to be passive suddenly overcome by an awful realization. Without thought she blurted, “That’s not true. I had
no
influence over that girl. You killed her for another reason. What was it? Jealousy?”

Joan looked at her stonily. Ashley had abruptly stopped barking, and the house was frighteningly silent for a full minute. Then Joan gave her a cunning smile.

“So you
do
have a mind—a better one than I thought.” She stepped nearer. “Did you ever meet my sister, Blaine?”

“Once or twice, when I was a child.”

“But you didn’t really
know
her. Oh, what a treat you missed! Charlotte.” She laughed again, a harsh laugh full of bitterness. “My parents thought she walked on water.
Her! I
was beautiful.
I
had a four-point average at Radcliffe.
I
was Miss West Virginia. But who did my parents love? Charlotte. She wasn’t smart. She wasn’t even pretty. But she was
sweet
. That’s what they always said. I tried so damned hard, but all
I
ever got from them was restrained admiration. Even when I was a kid, I brought home straight As from school and they said, ‘Fine job, Joan, keep up the good work.’ If Charlotte managed to bring home straight Cs, they practically threw a party.”

“Maybe that’s why they fussed over her so,” Blaine ventured. “Because she
didn’t
have your gifts, they had to make her feel special.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that one before,” Joan scoffed, shrugging her wide shoulders, the shoulders Blaine suddenly realized were so strong because of Joan’s daily workouts. “A psychiatrist gave me that rationalization once. But that’s all it is—a rationalization meant to make me feel better. Do you know what my father said to me when I was sixteen and, on one of those rare occasions when he allowed himself a drink, he had too much scotch? He said, ‘Joan, you’re so damned perfect, it’s hard to love you. But Charlotte is
human
. That’s what makes
her
lovable.’ Can you believe that? They loved her because she was so
ordinary
.”

Blaine remembered Ned Peyton, a man born in a two-room shack who by tenacity and native intelligence had amassed a small fortune but remained a simple person with bad grammar and crude tastes. And then there was Edith Peyton, reared with material advantages her husband had never had, but daunted by a strange, almost monkeylike face. They must have been intimidated by Joan, their beautiful, brilliant, elegant daughter. Charlotte, on the other hand, had been average in every way. She hadn’t intimidated anyone.

Blaine’s hands were icy, and she was beginning to tremble all over, but she tried to keep her voice casual. “You always hated Charlotte. That’s why she had so many accidents when she was growing up, isn’t it?”

“Very good, Blaine. And do you know, the stupid thing never realized what was going on. She thought she was just clumsy.”

Blaine looked directly into the woman’s expressionless eyes. “Then you really weren’t Rosie’s mother, were you?”

“I knew you thought that!” Joan crowed. “Half the people in town think I was. She looked so much like me, and she was born in Boston when I was living there. And, of course, no one ever saw her father.” She sighed. “But no, she was Charlotte’s.”

Blaine asked slowly, “Joan, where
is
Charlotte?”

“Why, dead in Brazil, you know that.”

“No, I don’t think so. You’ve got nothing to lose now. Why don’t you tell me the truth? Considering what you’ve put me through, I think I deserve it. And it’s not as if I’m going to be alive after tonight to tell anyone.”

Joan appeared to be considering. “No, I guess you won’t be, will you? And there’s only one other person I told how I managed everything so brilliantly. I
am
a brilliant woman, you know.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“I was wasted at that high school.”

“I always thought so.”

“I only came back here because of my parents.”

“That was very kind of you, very unselfish.”

Joan nodded as if pleased, so lost in her own world she seemed unaware of Blaine’s insincere tone. “All right. I’ll tell you the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” She giggled, and Blaine suppressed a shudder. “During my years in graduate school, when I was living in Boston, Charlotte followed me there. You see, she
loved
me. Isn’t that ironic? I told you she was stupid. Anyway, after my marriage broke up, I came home, but Charlotte stayed. She told me she was in love with someone, but she couldn’t tell me who because he was married. As if I cared
who
it was! I was just glad she had a reason for staying.”

She sighed again. “Things were wonderful when I came home. Charlotte was gone. I wasn’t competing with her anymore. I felt so peaceful. Then Charlotte arrived with a baby. She’d written home a few months before that she was married, but it was a lie. Charlotte told my father the whole story of her affair, and do you know, he accepted the situation! That staunch Baptist! My God, if it had been me, he would never have spoken to me again. I can’t tell you how furious I was, but I bided my time. Charlotte said in a few weeks she was going back to Boston—her lover was getting a divorce. But then she changed her mind. Just about the time for her to go, she told me she wasn’t going to be responsible for breaking up a marriage. The relationship was wrong, she’d told the man it was over, and she was going to remain at home with Rosie.” The dead violet eyes sprang to life. “Stay at home! Just when my parents were starting to really love me. Or at least depend on me. And then there was
him
. He was the real reason she was staying, I
knew
it. The man I wanted, that’s what she really wanted—to take one more thing away from me. I couldn’t let that happen. I just couldn’t. So I killed her,” Joan ended simply.

Blaine’s throat tightened, although she’d already guessed the truth. “You killed Charlotte?”

“Yes. I took her for a ride and shot her in the woods. I don’t remember exactly where now. A few miles north of town. I buried her there.” Her forehead puckered with the strain of remembering, then quickly smoothed as she gave up the effort. “Before she died I made her write a note saying she’d gone to Europe and didn’t want the baby of a man who’d decided to stay with his wife. The note said that every time she looked at Rosie, she’d see him, and she hated him.” Joan’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits again. “She fought me about that note, but I told her if she didn’t write it I’d go home and kill Rosie, too.”

Blaine stifled her desire to call the woman a monster, and Joan continued in a calm voice. “I was glad later I didn’t have to kill Rosie, because my real revenge wasn’t murder, it was theft. Charlotte took what I wanted most—my parents’ love, the interest of the man I wanted—so I took what she wanted most—her child. And Rosie showed great promise. She was so lovely, so intelligent.” Joan looked perplexed. “You know, I’ve always wondered who her father
really
was. Not someone common, I’m sure. No, it must have been someone extraordinary to counteract Charlotte’s genes.”

Ashley’s paws stabbed uselessly under the kitchen door a few times. “Then Rosie’s father’s name wasn’t Derek Van Zandt?”

Joan shook her head. “That was Charlotte—considerate to the end. She used a false name on the birth certificate to protect the father. I think she’d read that name in a romance novel. It was
my
father who invented the story about Derek Van Zandt being an engineer from a wealthy Boston family. He told it around town when Charlotte had the baby. The dashing
Derek
was in Brazil building a bridge—that was the explanation for why he didn’t come home with Charlotte when Rosie was five months old, you see.”

“Did your mother know?”

“Oh, yes, although she convinced herself later there really had been a Derek.” She frowned. “You know, I think Mother might have always been a little unbalanced.”

“But recently Rosie began to suspect the truth, didn’t she? That’s why she wrote to Boston asking for a birth certificate for Derek Van Zandt.”

“You knew about the letter?”

“A partial rough draft was in her folder. I just found it today.”

“How careless of her. But, yes, I’m afraid she did get suspicious and confirmed her suspicions by writing to Boston. Then she was silly enough to confront me with what she’d found out—that there was no Derek Van Zandt born in Boston. She loved mysteries, you see, and she began wondering why she’d never seen any of her father’s relatives. She was told they were all dead, but as she got older, she began to doubt that
all
the Van Zandts had suddenly dropped dead, or that her father didn’t even have any friends who were curious about his child. Then she started wondering about that big monument my father had erected. She knew how devoted to Charlotte he was—he would have had her remains shipped back from Brazil if there were only enough to fill a matchbox.”

“Did your father know what
really
happened to Charlotte?”

“He never said he didn’t believe Charlotte had run off to Europe because she didn’t want the child, but I think he guessed the truth after a while when he never heard from her again. I think he knew she was dead, and that I’d killed her.” Her face turned hard. “Do you know I was left out of his will? He even appointed his lawyer as executor, not me. Oh, yes, I think he knew.”

“But he didn’t do anything.”