The Chalk Girl

Grace Driscol-Bledsoe had the look of a woman stripped naked in public. She turned to the sound of the roof door opening. Hoffman was running toward them, yelling, hands waving. There were cops in the house. They were everywhere. Everywhere!

On every landing, doors stood open to reveal the search in progress, men and women in uniforms upending drawers and turning out closets. Two flights away from the ground floor, an officer handed Grace Driscol-Bledsoe the search warrant. She read the text as she spoke to the detectives standing beside her on the stairs. ‘I gather this only pertains to the Hunger Artist?’

‘No,’ said Mallory. Once they were assured of getting in the door, she had tacked on a few other charges and more items, like trees and plants. ‘We’re also looking for any loose cash you have lying around.’

‘Whoa,’ said Riker. ‘Looks like they found it.’ He backed up against the wall, and the others did the same to make room for uniforms coming down the stairs, carrying clear plastic bags filled with currency.

Mallory watched the money walk past them. ‘Grace, I don’t think your income will account for all that cash. Large bills, maybe three hundred thousand a bag? Does that sound about right?’ More officers with bags paraded past them. ‘So we’re looking at millions here.’

The older woman resumed her reading of the warrant. ‘The Driscol Institute owns this house – furnishings, paintings, even the silverware. My lawyers won’t have a problem extending that ownership to cover money, too.’

As they passed the first door on the next landing, Mallory looked into a room outfitted like a small clinic. ‘You do plan ahead.’ A pantry stood open to reveal an impressive larder of medical supplies. Detective Janos was pointing to shelves of pharmacy bottles as he questioned Hoffman.

‘What’s up?’ Riker turned to his partner. ‘She’s got a phobia about hospitals?’

‘No, that’s not it,’ said Mallory. ‘If Grace has another stroke, she can’t afford a long hospital stay. There’s a residence clause in the charter – her great-grandfather’s idea to force every heir into keeping his family name. If there isn’t a Driscol in residence for a continuous year, the board of trustees has to sell the mansion.’

‘But she’s got a kid,’ said Riker.

‘Phoebe’s only a Bledsoe. Blood doesn’t count. Neither one of Grace’s kids had a claim on family income or property. Their mother neglected to add a hyphenated Driscol to their birth certificates. That’s all they needed. It’s spelled out on page five of the charter. I’m sure the family lawyers reminded Grace before the first child was born. I guess she just forgot.’

‘Twice.’ Riker turned on the last Driscol. ‘Lady, you’re a piece of work.’

‘Grace was only thinking ahead. Strokes run in the family. She wanted to give her kids a reason to keep Mom alive – but not in a nursing home.’ Mallory faced the society matron. ‘And you thought of that when they were only babies – a true long-range planner.’

‘You think I’m a—’

‘The first time we met,’ said Mallory, ‘you told me what you were. You said monsters are begot by monsters.’

Bravado held sway. The lady smiled. ‘Will a jury believe that I strung up three people to cover the murder of my own son? Or will they find a grieving mother sympathetic? Seriously, Mallory, monster to monster, what do you think of my chances?’

Mallory was not listening. Detective Janos was coming toward her, carrying a bottle of chloroform. It should not be here – still here – but there it was.

‘This is comfier than a police lockup.’ Riker opened the door and stepped back. ‘Ladies first.’

His prisoner entered the chicken-wire cage at the end of a long row of such enclosures. She stared at the furniture and tall stacks of cartons. ‘You’re planning to keep me in a warehouse?’

‘Oh, not just any warehouse, Grace. When people die intestate, all their stuff comes here – just till the city can legally steal all the money they leave behind. These things belonged to Ernest Nadler’s parents.’ But now, with the discovery of the will, it might only take another fifteen years to release the little family’s personal effects. The detective opened the small Gladstone bag that Grace had taken from Hoffman on the way out the door. Now he was staring at a pharmacy bottle of liquid and its companion syringe. ‘So you are shooting up.’

‘Give that back! If I have a stroke, there’s only a small window of time to take that shot. It prevents permanent damage.’ One hand closed around her medic-alert medallion, though it was useless in this place so far out of signal range.

‘No problem. When I go, there’ll be a cop posted right here. I’ll leave the needle with him, okay?’ No, he could see that was not okay with her, but she would not give him the satisfaction of begging. Riker rested one hand on the back of an overstuffed armchair. ‘Mallory says this is the best seat.’ He clicked on a floor lamp. ‘A reading light – you’ll need it. My partner spent a lot of time down here, reading Ernie Nadler’s diary. She made a copy just for you.’ He pointed to a stack of Xeroxes on the floor. ‘You’ll wanna get a jump on the evidence before the arrest.’

‘Before the arrest? I’m already—’

‘No, you’re being detained as a person of interest. Until we charge you, there won’t be any phone calls to the lawyers. Not what you expected, huh? Let’s see if I can guess the plan. Halfway through your trial, your lawyer lets it slip that Phoebe’s nuts – hears voices – maybe kills people.’ And now he echoed the words of Aggy Sutton’s brother. ‘Crazy is good. That’s reasonable doubt for a jury.’ He hunkered down to open a carton of Ernie Nadler’s favorite things, his comics – and a nest of baby mice.

Grace Driscol-Bledsoe stared at the mewling, pink vermin with a moue of distaste. ‘Where’s your partner? Why didn’t she come with us?’

‘Mallory thinks I’m wrong.’ Riker pulled out a slightly chewed comic book and leafed through the pages. ‘She bet me twenty bucks you’d never drag your kid into this mess. She says you’ve got other plans for Phoebe. If you have another stroke, you won’t wanna spend the next thirty years in a state nursing home.’

‘You forget. I inherited millions from my son. More than enough to—’

‘Naw, that’ll stay frozen in probate.’ He set down the comic book and pulled out another one. ‘And the cash we found in your house was impounded. If Phoebe’s in jail when you stroke out, the trustees will get you certified incompetent. They’ll dump you in a cheap nursing home and sell the house out from under you. What’s that place worth? Maybe ten million? I bet the trustees sell it for twenty. They’re a greedy bunch, really ruthless. Even Mallory was impressed.’

He laid down the comic book to answer his cell phone. ‘Yeah? . . . It’s a done deal? . . . Good.’ He ended the call and smiled at his prisoner. ‘That was Walt Hamlin, the DA. He says you just lost your job, lady.’

And now he explained what had been going on elsewhere during the long ride to this warehouse. The district attorney had convened a meeting of the Driscol Institute’s board of trustees. All the bags of cash taken from the mansion had been laid out on the boardroom table.

‘I collected that money as cash donations to charity.’

‘Yeah, sure you did. It was the landscaping that nailed you. The DA showed them pictures of your private park on the roof.’ With only these visual suggestions of criminal acts, the trustees had unanimously elected not to go to jail with Grace. ‘It took them six minutes to enforce a morals clause. They voted you out of the director’s chair.’

‘My compliments,’ she said. ‘However, you must know I’ll never do a day in prison.’

‘Maybe not.’ Riker held up the Gladstone bag. ‘But you’ll have a problem paying Hoffman’s salary.’ He opened the bag and took out the syringe. ‘What if she’s not around when you really need this shot?’

‘Where is your partner?’

‘I guess Mallory’s right. You’d never let Phoebe take the fall for you. You need a relative to keep you out of nursing-home hell. You need somebody who gives a crap if your adult diapers get changed now and then. And Phoebe can never leave you. She’s too damaged to make it on her own . . . thanks to good old Mom. That’s the payoff for years of standing by, doing nothing, just watching your kid go nuts.’

‘My daughter’s not insane. She’s a school nurse, a functional, productive—’

‘Crazy Phoebe won’t keep that job much longer. She’s getting wiggier by the day. But she’s still functional enough to spoon-feed you when you can’t even remember her name anymore . . . But what if she finds out why you paid Willy Fallon all that cash?’

Now she was frightened. And so half the job was done. The detective stepped outside the cage and locked the door. As he walked down the corridor, the woman found her voice, and he heard