Last to Know (20 page)

“The circumstances?” he asked, folding his hands on the table in front of him and not asking if they wanted coffee, something he knew would get under the collar of the lawyer, who expected due deference whether he wanted the coffee or not. That was who he was, and how powerful he was.

“No thanks, Detective,” Leverage said, allowing irony to permeate his voice. “I don’t want coffee. Meanwhile the special ‘circumstances,’ as you well know, are that my client, Ms. Havnel, was running because shots were being fired at her. Ms. Havnel was afraid for her life, Detective. I call that a very ‘reasonable circumstance,’ as I am sure you will too. Now you know the truth.”

“The truth is still debatable, sir.” Rossetti was careful to be polite, though he hated this fuckin’ lawyer and did not trust his client one bit, and knew he would not be able to hold her in jail any longer.

Mike Leverage shuffled some papers on the table, clipped them together, and pushed them across to Rossetti. “Here is a copy of my client’s sworn statement of the events of that night,” he said. “You may read it at your leisure, Detective, when Ms. Havnel has been released and the charges against her erased from the record.”

“Those charges are ‘being present at a murder,’ as you well know,” Rossetti said. “I assume Ms. Havnel is not disputing that?” He looked at Bea, who looked him straight in the eye again. Rossetti thought of Harry, of how he saw innocence personified in this young, lovely blond woman. He wondered for a quick moment whether Harry could be right and he was wrong, but dismissed it immediately. She had been present at two major disasters, two suspicious deaths, he was hoping there would not be a third but he knew she knew he could not keep her there. The questioning was over.

“Ms. Havnel was indeed at the scene, but as you will see from her sworn statement that was because the young woman, Jemima Forester, was following her. In some sort of charade as a detective, I believe. I think you can confirm that with your colleague, Detective Jordan,” Leverage added with a smugly confident smile.

Rossetti nodded, keeping his eyes on Bea. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you, Detective Rossetti,” she said in her low, sweet voice. “I don’t know where Harry is but please, would you thank him for me, for all the help he gave me. For his trust,” she added.

At that moment even Rossetti was inclined to believe her; after all, he had no concrete evidence. But he needed to find more about who she really was, and who the woman who called herself Lacey Havnel—and also called herself Bea’s mother—truly was. Meanwhile, he would ask her no questions about her identity; see where she took it. He’d bet the insurance would have no choice but to pay up. And meanwhile also, the burned woman could not yet be buried, not until it was found who had put that knife in her right eye. And also why.

*   *   *

Half an hour later, when Bea had changed from her prison overalls into her usual jeans and the new black sweater her lawyer had thoughtfully bought for her because the weather had turned cold, she told him she wanted to go back to the lake. “I need to stay out there,” she said. “Somehow, there, I will feel closer to my mother. Until they find out who did this to her. To me.” She put a hand gently on his arm as he held the car door for her.

Mike Leverage looked at her, surprised. “But your house is gone. Where will you stay?”

“Why, with the Osbornes of course.” Bea looked surprised he had even asked. “You must take me there right away. I have to apologize to Rose, explain my mistake in thinking it was Wally because I saw him there too. I mean, it was exactly the same thing that happened to me. Wally and I were put in the same position. Somebody killed that poor girl and we were just there and we got the blame. Somebody with a motive, somebody who hated her, did it, then ran off, drove off, escaped … and I want to know who that person was. And so, I am sure, do Rose and Wally Osborne.”

Mike rolled his eyes. He did not see a chance in hell of Bea getting what she wanted from the Osbornes, but he would drive her there, try to open negotiations, see what happened.

*   *   *

Wally had not come home, though Rose knew he’d been reprieved, albeit temporarily. Therefore she was astonished when she saw the lawyer’s car pull up in front of her house and Bea get out. She opened her front door, stood, arms folded, waiting for them to speak.

Mike Leverage went first, standing at the bottom of the low flight of steps leading into the house. “Ms. Havnel has come to apologize, ma’am,” he said, holding his arms wide as though it was he who was apologizing. “Ms. Havnel is innocent of any wrongdoing, ma’am. As innocent as your husband. They were both caught in a bad position, the wrong place at the wrong time. Ms. Havnel entreats you to let her speak, to please see her, allow her to apologize to you and your husband. Indeed, to all your family. Her life has fallen down around her ears, so to speak. She has nowhere to turn. No one to listen to her.”

“No one to take her in. Again,” Rose said, in a voice so cold it almost made Mike shiver.

Bea was staring at Rose out of the open car window. She looked young, terrified, and alone.

“Please tell your client,” Rose said to Mike, “that if she cares to cast her mind back, she might remember that not only did she accuse my husband of murder, but that she caused infinite distress to my entire family, that my husband’s reputation is clearly ruined, and that she has her own property across the lake. Burned down, of course, and with her mother in it. Murdered, they say, though Bea, who was with her when it happened, seems not to know anything about that. Nor does she know anything about the death of young Jemima, though she was also at that scene. I do not think it advisable to take in a woman with those suspicions hanging over her. Not only that, you might want to remind Bea, since she appears to have also forgotten, there is a small guest house on her own property which was not burned in that fire. I suggest she goes there, makes of it what she will. She is not welcome in my home.”

Bea heard everything. She got out of the car and went and stood next to her attorney at the bottom of the steps. Her face was pale, her mouth tight.

“Please, Rose,” she said, almost in a whisper, she was so close to tears. “Let me apologize. I came here to you when all was lost. You took me in. I’d always admired you from afar, when I would see you walking round the lake, you and your family. I wanted a family so bad and all I had…” She stopped herself, and clasped her hands together, staring down at them. “I never accused Wally,” she said. “All I said was that he was there, and so was I. We were both caught in the same trap. Both innocent. I was put in prison, Rose, just like Wally. Please, please, can you forgive me? I will not beg you to take me in, I know that’s too much to ask, but please, speak to me again, Rose. Allow me to be the person you believed I was, the person I really am.”

It was tempting. The girl seemed so truly hurt, so completely alone. All she had was a lawyer and money in the bank and a room at the Ritz. Rose thought of her own family, of her girls, of Diz who saw everything; and Wally who was going through his own hell. She found she had no emotion to spare for Bea Havnel.

“I’m sorry, Bea, but you must find your own future,” she said, and she walked back inside and shut the door.

Mike looked at his client. Her face was unreadable, completely lacking in emotion, though he guessed she had just received a serious blow to her future.

Bea caught his glance, looked away, and said, “Rose is right, I had completely forgotten the guest house. It’s on the other side of the lake. You can see it from here, next to the burned ruins where my mother died. And,” she added, “I am going to make sure whoever did that pays the final price.”

39

Later that day, Wally came home. He just walked in, said “hi” as if he’d been off on some book-signing jaunt, while they stood silently, gaping. Then he went upstairs to change.

Rose was trying to act normal, as though everything was the same as it used to be. She went into her usual kitchen bustle, attacking the stove with rashers of bacon sizzling madly in the pan, even though it was suppertime, whipping eggs into a frenzy for omelets all round, slicing leftover chicken, heating up frozen gravy in the micro, boiling water for some kind of vegetable she knew she must have in the fridge, she just hadn’t had the heart to look right now. In fact she didn’t want to be doing any of this; she wanted to be alone with her husband, to ask him what the truth was. Not that it mattered because she knew Wally would not tell her anyway.

Everyone but Wally was sitting around the table. Bottles of wine had been opened, Cokes dispensed in cans her sons crackled in their hands after they’d drained them. Seemingly unable to bear the lack of conversation Roman got up and put on FM radio, playing contemporary classics: Rod singing oldies, Bublé singing something else. At least, Rose thought, it covered the silent hole in their lives. Temporarily. Roman sat back down staring at his can of Coke, remote as always. It was as though life was being played out in front of him and he chose not to notice.

“I hate that stuff.” Diz glared at his brother, who shrugged an uncaring shoulder and answered, “Whatever.”

Rose slammed down her spatula, strode across the room, and turned off the music. “He’s right,” she told Roman. “At least put on something decent.”

Without waiting for him to do so she slipped in a disc of Chopin piano études being played by someone with ethereally delicate fingers, which somehow in their nerve-ridden kitchen sounded totally out of place.

All eyes swiveled to Wally when he walked into the room. He’d changed from what Rose now thought of as his “prison garb,” meaning the clothes he’d been wearing when he was caught at the murder scene, into baggy tan shorts and a white tee. His hair was plastered to his head, still wet from the shower. He nodded acknowledgement to his family and took a seat at the table.

No one spoke; the only sound was of the bacon still sputtering. Everyone was eyeing Wally out of the corners of their eyes, afraid to be the first to ask the questions that were on the tips of their tongues.

After a minute Wally got up. He went to the freezer, took out a bottle of vodka and a glass, frosted-white, then poured the vodka into it. He drank it straight down, standing by the still-open freezer door, then turned and surveyed his bug-eyed family.

“I never expected to have to tell you this.” He slammed the freezer door shut and stood tall, blondly handsome, the man any woman would want, the man any kid would be proud to call Dad. “I am a drug addict,” he said. “I fell into the situation I have tried all my life to keep you out of. I became trapped by it. Drugs are insidious, they steal into your life while you, poor sucker, feel you have the world by the balls. Only you don’t. The person who first turned you on—turned me on when I was at a low point, wondering if I could ever write again, wondering about where my life was going, falling into a depression so deep the bottom of the lake looked like a valid answer. This person saw me, saved me, found the answer to all my problems. That’s what I thought, as all addicts do I guess, until very quickly I found I still had all my problems, plus now another even bigger one. One I had to pay handsomely for. And did.”

Diz got up and went to stand next to his father. “It’ll be okay, Dad, we know you didn’t kill Jemima, we’ll help you with the drugs.”

Wally stroked his boy’s hair. “Thank you, son.”

Rose put down her spatula and left the bacon to burn. She stood in front of her husband, her hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes as though searching for something he might be hiding.

“I had nothing to do with Jemima,” he told her. “I never even met her, but for the police I remain ‘a person of interest.’” Wally frowned, as if thinking of the dead young woman becoming simply a police case. His voice trembled as he added, “I mean, in her murder. I don’t know who did it, though I have to believe it has something to do with drugs. I’d just left the dinner party, Rose, I simply went outside for a while because I needed to be alone, to ask myself what I thought I was doing, where I imagined I was going to end. And that’s when I heard Bea screaming. I saw her run through the trees, went after her and found Jemima lying there.” Wally put his head in his hands. “Dear God, I hope never to have to see anything like that again. I write about this! I know exactly how it’s done, exactly what knife to use. I write how that knife feels as it slits open a throat, the way the blood spurts then oozes, I write about blood matting the hair, the broken necklaces…”

He lifted his head and looked at his stunned and silent family. “I am telling you the truth and I’m thinking I deserve to be suspected of this horror, a man like me, who makes money from it.”

Rose slid her arms around her husband and he bent his head into her smooth throat, the kind of throat Rose knew Wally knew how to slit, knew exactly where the jugular was, knew where the muscle was that paralyzed. “I believe you,” she told him, though an uneasy weight seemed to have gripped her heart. “I believe you, Wally,” she repeated, looking round, collecting her children’s eyes with her own.

“We believe you, Dad,” Frazer and Madison chorused staunchly.

“What about Bea?” Roman said.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“Were you having an affair with her?” Roman asked.

“Jesus!” Wally was shocked. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Wally replied, quickly. “I certainly was not.”

Diz thought Roman looked relieved as he turned away, and he guessed the reason why. It was
Roman
who was enamored of Bea, not his dad. Bea had Roman in her clutches and he’d do anything for her … But
murder?
No, no, he didn’t think so. Roman could
not
do that, not with a mother like
Rose
 … he would not hurt
her,
though he might be out to get Bea if she was stringing him along. Oh God, what was happening to his family?

Diz looked at his mother holding tightly to his father as though if she let go the whole family might sink into Evening Lake. As though, without Wally, they would all be gone forever.