An Illustrated Death (19 page)
Read An Illustrated Death Online
Authors: Judi Culbertson
I
WASN’T INVITED
to lunch the next day.
I wouldn’t have gone anyway.
Bianca came to the studio around three. “How’s it going?” She was dressed in the same peach sweater and jeans as the first day I saw her, her ginger hair in a single braid on her neck.
“Good. I’m just finishing up.”
“Really? You won’t forget about doing the photos, will you?”
I was surprised. “You still want me to?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I was thinking that maybe you could use one or two pictures of Morgan. She was so cute, and—the book is for her, after all.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“I have some black-and-white photos that a friend of my father’s took. I’m sure you could do something about tinting them.”
“Not a problem.”
She hovered beside the door. “We found out that Bessie wasn’t in jail when Rosa’s cottage burned down. They had been questioning her and let her go.
I
think Rosa saw something, maybe Bessie putting Gretchen in the pool, and Bessie was afraid Rosa would turn her in.”
It was an interesting theory. “I think I know what happened.”
“What?”
“I’m still working the details out.”
When she saw that I wasn’t going to tell her anything else, she left.
I
SOLDIERED ON,
hoping to be done before seven, but all too soon it was dark outside. I still had to make sure that I had examined all the books, and leave everything exactly as I had found it. While I checked the shelves, I wondered if I should call Marselli and tell him what I thought. He would not be receptive. He would demand proof. When he had things worked out, he did not like to be contradicted. I decided to call him anyway.
I was reaching for my bag to find my phone when I was overpowered by another feeling.
Get out of here. Leave. Now
. I could work out the final logistics of the evaluation and how to present it to the Eriksons back in the barn. Staying around after telling Bianca that I thought I knew what happened was crazy, it was putting myself in danger. I had wanted to see how she would react, but what was I thinking? This was not an English drawing room where everyone gathered politely to listen to the denouement.
I honestly believed I could pack up my laptop, store the flash drives in my bag, climb into my van, and drive home. I was opening the door with one hand, reaching for the light switch with the other, when a voice from the darkness said, “I was wondering when you’d come out.”
Eve’s white hair floated around her pale, creased face, hair light as dandelion fluff, and her ice blue eyes were steady on mine. There was no fog in them now. I stared down at the hand holding a kitchen knife close to my stomach. She gestured at me to go back inside and I did.
She followed me, slamming the door behind her hard. “I know you think you’re clever. But I’ve known you were in here since the beginning. Do you really think I don’t know everything that goes on around here?”
Did I think that? I guessed I had. “Bianca said I could use the studio to work on our project.”
“My
husband’s
studio? And did she say you could rearrange all the books and put them in cartons? What are my treacherous children up to now?” A flash of silver near the hip of her navy slacks. Her arm had relaxed but the point of the knife was still nearby. “Tell me, or you won’t leave here alive.”
It was so melodramatic I almost laughed. I knew I could overpower her before she could inflict any real damage. “They wanted me to look at the books, that’s all. Libraries should be cataloged.”
“And they’re
paying
you for this. With my money.”
“Is it?”
She gave a snort, a little laugh. Why had I let the family deceive me into believing she was incompetent? Perhaps because it was a role she enjoyed playing.
“Nate’s children, still sucking at the tit. They can’t be using their money, they don’t have any.”
I was confused. “But they’re your children too. I thought you wanted to keep them living close by.”
“You thought so, did you? You don’t know anything.”
“I know you slashed the painting of Sonia.”
Guilty.
“And that you poured lye down Sonia’s throat to get her away from Nate.”
“Sonia—that little nobody? He was finished with her, he told me so himself. Nate never kept anything from me. He had been tempted, she was a handful all right, but he knew he was too old to start over. Some pair they would have made—he couldn’t see and she couldn’t talk.” Her mouth twisted.
“Maybe he changed his mind.” I looked over at the white cup and saucer still on the studio table. “Did you put something in his coffee to make him pass out when he was swimming?” I had already worked out why she had not saved Morgan. Without the child there could be no more young and pretty au pairs
.
Maybe Morgan had been the target and Nate had tried unsuccessfully to intervene. It was not as if Eve was physically related to the little girl.
“Did you burn the picture of Morgan and Nate?”
“Terrible shot.” She gave an impatient wave with her knife hand as if she had destroyed it because it offended her artistic sensibilities.
“Gretchen was going to expose you at the memorial,” I said. “Or maybe claim credit for the work
she
had done on the illustrations. And that would have destroyed the whole mystique.” Gretchen’s painting that had seemed so familiar to me in Rosa’s cottage, the woman in the white blouse,
was
familiar. It was the same face as Queen Esther in my Bible storybook.
Eve pursed her mouth. “Do you really think anyone cares about that now?”
The door creaked behind her. “Delhi, are you still here?”
Eve whirled around, inches from Bianca. “You’re just as bad!”
“Mama, what are you doing here?”
But Eve had had enough. Still holding the knife, she pushed against Bianca on her way out the door. Bianca screamed as the blade slid into her side. And then Eve was gone.
B
IA
NCA, ARMS FLAILING,
was trying to pull the knife out. I was trying to stop her, grabbing for her hands, keeping them away from the hilt. The knife had sunk deep.
“But. It. Hurts.”
“Lie down. Just lie down here.”
“No, it hurts,” she moaned, and grabbed for the knife again.
By holding on to her narrow shoulders and moving her deeper into the studio, I was able to press her down onto the studio floor. Her peach sweater was darkening on her lower left side, a red pool spreading fast.
What to do, what to do.
I pulled off my gray “Port Lewis” sweatshirt and wrapped the cloth around the knife, then pressed down hard on either side of the hilt.
Bianca yelped at the pressure.
Was I doing the right thing? Maybe the pressure would make the blood spurt out faster. People wrapped injuries with tourniquets, but I had nothing to go around her entire stomach.
“Here, hold your hands like this, while I get my phone.” I brought her hands over to the wound, but there was no pressure in them.
My fingers were shaking, but I managed to pull my bag off the table and get my phone out. Then, still kneeling next to Bianca, I dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one.”
“Please, someone’s been stabbed. We need help right away!”
“Your name?”
“That doesn’t matter, just
send
someone!”
“Stay calm. Where are you located?”
“In Springs. On Cooper’s Farm Lane.”
“Number?”
“I don’t
know.
It’s a big house, the Erikson house.” I panicked because I didn’t know how to tell her how to find the studio. “Someone will be out on the road waiting for you.”
Bianca’s breathing had gotten harsh.
“Please hurry,” I begged.
“Is he conscious?”
“She. Yes.”
“Is there much bleeding?”
“Yes—we need help!”
“Don’t move the victim. Someone will be there as soon as possible. I’ll keep checking back with you.” She clicked off.
Bianca’s hands had slid limply off her sweater and the stain of blood was spreading. Frantically I pressed down firmly with both palms above and below the knife hilt.
She gave another gasp and her eyes moved to the side.
“Someone is coming. Just hang on.”
But I couldn’t leave her. She didn’t have the strength to provide any compression. Worse, if I wasn’t there she might pull out the knife completely to stop the pain, causing gushes of blood and certain death.
How could this be happening? Impossible that Bianca would die.
Moving my right hand away from the wound, I groped for my phone. “Bianca? What’s Claude’s number?”
She closed her eyes and moaned.
“Bianca? Tell me the number! We have to call him.”
Miraculously, she did, though she stumbled over the words.
I punched the numbers in, and pushed speakerphone. Then I went back to pressing Bianca’s stomach. The red circle on her sweater seemed to be crusting, without as much new blood. But what did I know about blood flow and first aid?
“Hello?”
“Lynn? Lynn, Bianca’s been
hurt.
In the studio. The ambulance is coming, but someone needs to be by the road to show them where to come. Now.”
“What happened?”
“Just
go
. If they can’t find her right away, she’ll—” I didn’t finish. I waited for the click as Lynn hung up.
Immediately the phone rang again. I pressed the green symbol with a bloody thumb.
“How are you doing?” the 911 operator asked into the room.
“We’re okay.”
I hope.
“She still conscious?”
“I think so.”
“Keep her talking. They’re on the way.”
The click of disconnect.
For a moment I couldn’t think of anything to talk about. Bianca’s face was already white, her freckles like blood pricks.
“It’s going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”
“Why did she . . .”
“It was an accident. You were in her way.”
“Am I going to die?” she whispered.
“Of course not! You have to relax—no, don’t move.”
Her eyes closed. She seemed to be having trouble breathing now.
“Bianca, let’s think about the illustrations you want in your book.”
“My book?” It was a whisper.
“You know. Your poems. Your wonderful poems.”
Dear God, don’t let her die. Don’t let her die, don’t let her die.
W
HEN
THE DOOR
creaked open and banged back against the wall, the floor dropped away beneath me. Eve was back with another knife. While I was trying to protect Bianca she would stab me and we would both die. I made myself look anyway and saw Claude and Lynn escorting a small army into the room.
Voices, a confusion of technicians carrying equipment, blue-suited police. Claude and Lynn stepped back against the wall, looking terrified. I pushed myself up from the floor, wanting to weep with relief when the technicians took over. I had probably done everything wrong, but they would know what to do. I fought the urge to retreat to a corner and sit with my hands over my face.
Everyone was demanding to know what happened.
“Are you hurt?” An East Hampton town policeman with grizzled graying hair was staring at my blood-spattered sweatshirt.
“No, I’m okay.” I looked down at my hands still covered in Bianca’s blood and pressed them on the table to keep standing upright.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Her mother—stabbed her.”
“Where’s the mother now?”
“I don’t know. She ran off.”
“Mama?” Claude interrupted us, shocked. “Are you talking about my mother?” Incongruously he was wearing his maroon dressing gown over his slacks, and leather slippers.
The policeman ignored him. “She had a knife?”
“She came to see who was in her husband’s studio.”
“She thought someone had broken in?”
“I don’t know what she thought.” I swayed and leaned heavily on the table. “She started talking, starting rambling about her husband and the au pair and—”
“Don’t listen to her,” Claude cried, his thin face pained. “Since my father’s death, my mother’s had all kinds of fantasies about what happened. I doubt she was even in the studio tonight.”
The policeman stared at him. “Well, somebody stabbed her.” He gestured at Bianca and we all turned to watch two EMTs in light green scrubs lift the stretcher from the floor. A third seemed to be clearing a path though no one was in the way, and opened the door. As Bianca passed us I tried to tell how she was by the way she looked. But she was already hooked up to tubing and had an oxygen mask over her face.
As soon as Bianca was gone, Claude thrust a hand toward me but spoke to the policeman. “She’s lying about my mother. My mother couldn’t have been here, she’s an invalid. She’s been asleep in the house for hours. This woman and my sister obviously had a fight, probably over money. She got angry and stabbed Bianca, then got worried and called for help.”
Even though I knew Bianca could tell them what had actually happened, I felt a splash of terror. What if she never regained consciousness and I was arrested? There were no other witnesses to explain what had happened and I didn’t expect Eve to confess. I knew in the confusion I had grabbed the knife hilt. What had Regan said about innocent people being railroaded for crimes they never committed? Bianca would die and I would go to jail. “I’m calling Frank Marselli!”
“You’re not calling anyone,” the policeman said gruffly.
“But he’s the detective on another case here. He’s with Homicide.”
“Suffolk County?”
“Yes! Out of Hauppauge.” I looked around for my small silver phone, then saw it on the worktable, still smeared with blood. I was too weak to reach over and pick it up. Instead I inched around the worktable and collapsed on the metal stool, propping up my head. Finally I picked the phone up and scrolled down. When Marselli’s name appeared, I punched the dial button. My hand was shaking so much I could barely hold the receiver close enough to my mouth.
The phone rang into an evidently empty room, and I thought of all the unimportant times I’d been able to reach him. Now when I needed him most, when everything was a matter of life and death . . . I waited for a prompt to let me speak to someone else. Finally another officer picked up and identified himself.
“My name is Delhi Laine,” I mumbled. “Please tell Frank Marselli to come out to Springs to the Eriksons. Eve Erikson stabbed her daughter.”
“It’s not true,” Claude cried. His pale face had taken on an odd reddish blush. He grabbed the policeman’s arm. “This ‘detective’ you let her call, he’s her
boyfriend.
He’ll believe any story she tells him. She’s threatened my sister before.”
The policeman looked at me, betrayed.
I shook my head. I could not begin to explain anything. What if Claude actually believed what he was saying? Marselli was my only hope.
“Okay, let’s calm down here. We’ll sort things out when he gets here.”
“Whatever you say. I’m going to check that my mother is okay.”
“Sir, no one is leaving right now.” He glanced over to the door where the younger policeman stood guard and gave a nod.
And so we waited.
It reminded me of the times I had taken my children to the emergency room with fractures or high temperatures or to get stitches. Lynn stood on Claude’s far side, looking stricken, but keeping her thoughts to herself. Claude spent the time glowering at me, now and then giving his head a quick shake, as if my lies were not to be believed.
I wanted to annihilate him.
The nauseating smell of Bianca’s blood lingered in the room.
Finally I heard the door open. But it was only Puck, who had seen the police car and lights on in the studio. I saw the younger cop bar his way, then step outside to talk to him.
“Ask him to check on my mother,” Claude called after them. “Make sure she’s okay.”
Back to silence. I wondered where Eve was now. Would she admit to stabbing Bianca? A further, frightening thought: Would she even remember?
In a moment the younger cop came back in alone. He had nothing to report.
M
ARSELL
I ARRIVED A
few minutes after nine. He looked as if he had come from home, in jeans, a Special Olympics T-shirt, tan windbreaker, and black Nikes.
He took in the scene, then moved to the older policeman, flipping open his ID. “Who’s the stabbing vic?”
“Young woman, name of Bianca Erikson.”
“Witnesses?”
He jerked his head at me.
“Figures,” Marselli muttered.
That did not bolster my confidence.
“She’s the one who did it!” Claude broke in.
I still couldn’t tell if he believed that. He was making up the story that Bianca and I ever fought about money. Yet what had she told him when I asked to be paid? Had she said that I was
demanding
money? Why had I ever brought it up? Surely he was just upset that I had accused his mother. If someone had accused my mother of a crime, I would be disbelieving and look around for someone else to blame.
Marselli jerked his head at the older policeman and they went into a private huddle over by the fireplace. Marselli seemed to be doing most of the talking. When he returned to us, he said to Claude, “Did you see what happened?”
“Of course not! She was the one who called and told us what she had done.”
I opened my mouth, but Marselli waved me quiet.
Lynn spoke up. “She said we should wait for the ambulance and bring them down to the studio, which we did. All she said was that Bianca was hurt.”
“Okay, you can go. Good-bye.”
But now Claude seemed cemented to the floor. Lynn pulled at his arm and pried him loose. At the door, he turned. “Don’t believe anything she says about my mother. She’s lying to save her own skin.”
“Not a fan of yours,” Marselli said when he was gone.
“No.” I felt too weak to explain anything, but I made myself tell Marselli what had happened when Eve came to the studio. It was hard to admit, but I added, “I guess I upset her more. I accused her of murdering her husband because he was having an affair with the babysitter and then killing Gretchen so that she wouldn’t tell anyone. But I think that’s what really happened.” I stopped talking and my eyes pooled. “If Bianca doesn’t make it . . .”
He studied my face. “She’s critical?”
“She lost so much blood. Those other policemen wouldn’t let me call the hospital to find out.”
That wasn’t totally true. But they had told me I couldn’t call anyone.
“She’s at Southampton?”
“That’s what somebody said.”
He called his office and asked to be put through to the hospital. I could hear only his side of the conversation. “E-R-I-K-S-O-N, Bianca.”
A pause, a couple of “Uh-huhs,” more listening, and then, “Okay, thanks.”
I knew he was going to tell me she had died. Instead he gave me a slight smile. “She’s out of surgery. She’ll be okay. Fortunately someone here kept her from bleeding out.”
I assumed he was talking about her rescue by the EMTs, then realized he meant me.
All the fears I had been holding in spilled over. I put my face in my hands and sobbed.