Hit and Run (19 page)

The sound of a cork popping in the media room was followed by laughter. Daisy was right. As rich as Dickens Hart had been, few would spend much time mourning his passing.

‘That's just wrong,' AnnaLise said.

Charity eyebrows went up. ‘Are you surprised at the celebration? From what I've seen and heard most, if not all of these people came here hoping to inherit upon his death. Which reminds me …' She stopped.

Against her better judgment, AnnaLise took the bait. ‘Reminds you of what?'

‘I couldn't help but notice that Hart did some home improvements … or, rather, enhancements for this shindig. The fountain out front, for one thing.' Charity hooked a finger to the expanse of wood where glass had once been. ‘Only why in the world did he leave this eyesore?'

‘He didn't. The window was broken early last evening as we were having drinks. At the time we thought an owl had gotten disoriented and flown into the glass, but Boozer found a bullet this morning.'

‘And didn't think to tell us.' Charity glanced around the room. ‘Where?'

‘Under the corner of the sofa there.' AnnaLise nodded toward the moss-green couch. ‘The slug was pretty badly deformed, so he figured it probably bounced off the fireplace. His thought was that it was some “yahoo” target-shooting. Or maybe a deer hunter.'

‘Same thing, sometimes.' Charity had followed AnnaLise's gaze toward the mantle. ‘Do you have it?'

‘The bullet?' AnnaLise thought about her conversation with Bacchus, trying to remember. ‘I believe Boozer took it back.'

Charity pulled a notebook from her chest pocket and wrote something.

‘Do you think the bullet's significant?' AnnaLise asked.

‘You mean in connection to Hart's death? I don't see how. A shot-out window is fairly commonplace in these parts,' she gestured at the west wall, ‘if not usually of that size. Still, it's something that bears documenting and you may need a police report in order to file an insurance claim.'

Good point, given the vandalism was now human rather than avian. ‘For what it's worth, Roy Smoaks is in town,' AnnaLise volunteered. ‘He's staying with Bobby across the lake.'

Charity crinkled her nose. ‘Roy Smoaks?'

AnnaLise realized that Charity hadn't been in Sutherton long enough to have known the man, much less share the rest of the town's jaundiced view of him and his son. ‘Roy was police chief at one time and—'

‘On the job, huh?' Charity looked up from her notes. ‘Are you thinking he might give us a hand?'

That was the
last
thing on AnnaLise's mind. ‘God, no … I mean, he's just here for Thanksgiving. You know, with family.'

‘I suppose that's just as well. I'm not sure how Coy would feel about it, anyway, given he's already had to call in the county.' Charity slipped the notepad back into her pocket. ‘For what it's worth, they should be here sometime Saturday. In the meantime, we're to secure the situation.'

‘And, presumably us, too?' AnnaLise said. The next morning was Friday and, even if the county sheriff's department did arrive to take over the case on Saturday, there was no guarantee they'd wrap things up by the following afternoon. In fact, the opposite was likely.

‘Charity, the out-of-towners probably have flight reservations out of Charlotte on Sunday. Should I tell them they may need to reschedule?'

‘You can tell them whatever you want,' Charity said, following Morris to the door. ‘But from what I've seen, none of these people are in much of a hurry to leave their new-found lap of luxury. You may have to pry them out of your new home, AnnaLise.'

Then Charity Pitchford glanced up and seemed to look past AnnaLise. ‘Assuming you get to keep it, of course.'

‘I
didn't like how she said that,' AnnaLise muttered to the empty foyer.

‘Hey, the great man died under – at best – mysterious circumstances and you're the heir apparent.'

AnnaLise turned to see Patrick Hoag, who had apparently come from the media room. ‘You're saying I'm a suspect in Dickens death?'

Dickens Hart's lawyer grinned. ‘You're certainly the one most likely to benefit. Police One-oh-One: The “heir apparent” becomes, by definition, the “suspect apparent” as well.'

‘I thought the spouse – or ex-spouse – always drew the most attention.' AnnaLise waved her hand toward the party on the other side of the door. ‘And, God knows, we've got enough of those.'

‘Enough of what?' Rose Boccaccio had motored up noiselessly behind them.

‘Exes,' AnnaLise explained.

‘Hexes?' Rose was fiddling with a wire behind her ear. ‘How exciting. I've heard there's still an active Wiccan community up here. In fact, I used to belong to a coven back in the day.'

AnnaLise and Patrick exchanged looks, before he cracked a grin and ducked back into the media room.

AnnaLise said, ‘I didn't know that, Rose, but I said “exes,” as in ex-wives and ex-lovers. Not “hexes,” as in spells.'

‘Ahh, that makes much more sense. I'm afraid I lost a bit of my hearing during my rock 'n roll phase.' Rose reversed the chair as she spoke then pushed the lever full forward, making the thing almost leap toward the kitchen. ‘Fucking woofers.'

AnnaLise laughed and trailed after her, grateful for the distraction. ‘Anything I can get for you, Rose?'

‘No. No, but thank you, dear. I was just going up to my room.'

‘Are you taking the elevat—?' AnnaLise paused, silently cursing at herself. ‘I'm so sorry. That was a stupid question.'

‘Not so stupid,' Rose said. ‘I have been known to hoist myself out of this mini-tank for special occasions.' Then a sigh. ‘Although I doubt I'd have the stamina anymore to climb Mt. Everest there.' She inclined her head toward the staircase.

‘Was it a stroke?' AnnaLise asked as she accompanied the woman into the kitchen.

‘That put me in this chair?' Rose maneuvered herself close enough to the counter next to the stove to reach a pan of Rice Krispy Treats. ‘Stroke of luck, maybe. I fell from a third-story window and lived to tell the tale, though my spine's a little worse for wear.'

AnnaLise levered out a hunk of the Krispy Treat, putting it on a napkin and extending the sticky bar to Rose. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Don't be,' the older woman waved off the younger one with her non-engaged hand. ‘It sure wasn't your fault.'

‘If I may ask, how did you fall?'

‘“Fall” is the way I candy-coat it for public consumption, but since we're nearly back-door family, I can level with you.' A wicked grin. ‘I jumped.'

‘You tried to commit suicide?'

‘Ineptly, as it turns out. At the time I couldn't seem to do anything right. I was pregnant and jobless – though in those days just being knocked-up was enough to make you unemployable. When my druggie boyfriend dropped out of the scene, too, I swallowed what few pretty pills he'd left behind and took a swan dive.'

AnnaLise searched for something vaguely reassuring to say, but could come up with only, ‘How old were you?'

‘Twenty, then. And, very nearly, forever.' Rose maneuvered her wheelchair to the doorway opposite of that they'd just entered through. ‘If you're going upstairs, the elevator is this way.'

AnnaLise followed her along to a back hallway. Straight ahead were the stairs to the basement and a door that would lead to the garages on the side of the house. To the right was a powder room and opposite that …

‘The elevator,' AnnaLise said. ‘Joy and I walked through here on our way down to the wine cellar and I never even noticed. The door blends into the cabinetry nearly seamlessly.'

‘I'm sure no expense was spared, given what I've seen of this place. It's also the quietest elevator I've ever been on and, I'll tell you, I've ridden more than my share.'

‘I guess you have.' AnnaLise had been thinking about what Rose had told her. ‘You mentioned the druggie who left you. He wasn't Eddie's father?'

‘I'm impressed,' Rose said, adjusting her chair to push the button. ‘You actually listen to this nattering old bag. However, no, he wasn't.'

‘So that leaves Dickens. Why didn't you approach him for help when you got pregnant?'

‘First of all, like I said before, my being twenty made Dickie just eighteen. I didn't hold out much hope that he could support him
self
, much less me and a child, too.'

‘But what about his family?'

Rose cocked her head as the elevator door slid open. ‘Do you know much about your paternal grandparents?'

‘No,' AnnaLise admitted. ‘I do have Dickens' journals for writing his memoirs and—'

‘Memoirs?' Rose repeated. ‘He was having
you
write them?'

‘I think it may have been an innocuous ploy by him, toward getting to know me before I knew he was my birth father.'

‘Innocuous. If I understand the word, Dickens was never that, nor even innocent. Not unlike this little gathering, before any paternity testing – to my knowledge – has even been done.' The wheels in Rose's head seemed to be rolling as smoothly as those on her chair. ‘Did
he
know?'

‘That I was his daughter, you mean?'

She nodded.

‘I think he suspected. Or maybe he just had a soft spot for Daisy over the years.'

Rose smiled in a kind way. ‘And decided to recognize you formally, however late in the process. Though it seems like there's a lot of that going on around here.' The older woman appeared to be chewing on something. ‘Related matter – no pun intended. Have you seen how that Bacchus man looks at your mother?'

‘Boozer?' AnnaLise was momentarily surprised, though she realized she shouldn't have been. The grizzled, tattooed ex-soldier always seemed to soften when Daisy was in the vicinity. Or even mentioned.

‘But back to Dickens' parents.' AnnaLise redirected the conversation. ‘I don't recall him mentioning them in his journals, even the very early ones.'

‘Not surprising, since from what he told me they weren't around much. By the time I met Dickie, he was at a college preparatory school in upstate New York. He reminded me of young Ebenezer Scrooge in
A Christmas Carol
, always left behind on holidays.'

Another kind smile as the second-floor door opened. The movement of the car had been so slick and silent, as Rose had predicted, that it had been barely noticeable.

The older woman leaned forward in her chair to hold the door. ‘I was living with a bunch of other kids – hippies to look at us, but never very dedicated to peace or harmony. Still, I felt kind of sorry for the little wretch, so I invited him for Christmas. We had turkey TV dinners, as I recall.' Now appearing embarrassed, Rose gestured AnnaLise into the hallway.

The reporter stepped out. ‘It's sad – almost a self-fulfilling prophesy – that the child named Dickens became a real-life version of his character in the novel by his namesake, Charles Dickens.'

‘Sad, maybe,' Rose said. ‘But not a coincidence.'

‘Because his given name is what spurred your thought of Scrooge in the first place?'

‘I'm afraid you have the cart before the horse, dear. Dickens named
himself
after the author. His birth name was “Richard.”' Rose rolled out of the elevator and stopped her chair. ‘You didn't know that?'

‘Honestly? I had no idea.' AnnaLise felt even worse for the man who'd died alone, even in his crowded mansion, and who had apparently lived much the same way, despite all surface appearances to the contrary.

‘Don't feel sorry for him,' Rose said, as if she could read AnnaLise's mind. ‘He chose his path, just like we all do.'

The elevator door glided back to its closed position.

AnnaLise stepped away from the wheelchair, so that Rose didn't have to crick her neck to maintain eye contact. ‘Then again, maybe this weekend was his “aha” moment – like Scrooge the morning after the visits from the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future.'

‘So Dickie flings open the window and calls for Bacchus to run and buy the “prize turkey” in the butcher's window? That would make the rest of us the Cratchit family.'

‘Exactly. Though one holiday early.'

‘Well, then. God bless us every one, Tiny Tim,' Rose said, rolling farther down the hall. ‘Especially your writer's imagination.'

AnnaLise frowned. ‘Believe me, my imagination's not good enough to make up this situation. The gathering of the heirs—'

‘Or not.' Rose pushed the joystick on her chair. ‘This is my room here, closest to the elevator.'

‘That's convenient.' AnnaLise had expected Rose to enter her own bedroom, but the woman kept right on rolling toward the end of the hall.

‘C'mon,' she said. ‘I'll show you the “South Wing” of the house that dick built.'

AnnaLise tried to decide if Rose had capitalized the next-to-last word.

Rose slowed and reached back to pat her hand. ‘No smarmy reply? You're such a nice girl. Are you sure you're related?'

‘To Dickens? So I'm told.'

‘Well, lucky you. You've had the best of all possible worlds. Inherit the big man's money, but raised by genuine human beings.'

‘I certainly don't have any regrets about my childhood, that's true. Though I'm sure a little of that money early on would have smoothed our way considerably.'

‘Yet, like Dickens, it was your mother's path to choose, bumpy as it might have been. You have to respect that.'

‘I do. Believe me.'

‘Now
this
door,' Rose said, starting the tour at the end of the hall, ‘is that lawyer's.' She winked. ‘Just in case you want to know.'

AnnaLise didn't pursue it. ‘And, from what I've been told, corresponding to a closet on the north wing, where I am.'