That she was going to case her place while she used the phone? Walk off with her Oneida teaspoons?
She walked unsteadily back to the front door. She’d never seen a dead person before. The odd part was how alive Lorraine looked. Just like the cliche said—as if she were merely asleep. Faith shuddered. Death was something she’d planned to think about when she was much, much older, and until then it could stay crammed way in the back of her mind. But it was going to be very hard to keep Lorraine’s still face from creeping forward. Still. The corpse was absolutely still.
Not the tremor of a breath, the twitch of an eye. Finally, unalterably, irretrievably still. Faith opened the door with a shaking hand.
The phone was in the kitchen, and after taking a few deep breaths, she dialed 911. The bored voice that greeted her report told her that what was a cataclysmic event in her young life was soon to be just another statistic in a file somewhere.
“An officer will be right there. Don’t touch anything.” And that was it.
She hated leaving Lorraine alone with the woman next door, but she had to look for the manuscript.
Emma was still alive—for the moment. What if the blackmailer thought Emma knew more about his identity than she did? There were two deaths now, and Faith was certain they were connected. Certain this, too, was murder. For one thing, Lorraine had made an appointment with Faith for this morning and Lorraine was a very conscientious type. The ultimate good girl, despite her illegitimate child and belief in overthrow-ing the United States government. If she was going to kill herself, she’d do it on a day when she hadn’t invited a guest to her home. She knew Faith was coming and that she’d be there early. She’d have intended to offer coffee, not a corpse. It wasn’t simply a bizarre question of manners; it was the way Lorraine had lived her whole life—for other people.
But more significant, Lorraine would never willingly have left Harvey. Strange as that might seem to Faith, she knew it was true. Lorraine had been devoted to her son. She wouldn’t have abandoned him. And wouldn’t a suicide have locked the car doors? To make it that much harder to be rescued?
Keeping her warm gloves on, Faith went into the living room to start searching. She didn’t have much time. The police would be here soon and the neighbor would start to get suspicious.
When Faith had last seen Lorraine’s collection of Nathan Fox memorabilia, it had been spread out on the floor. Lorraine had grabbed a thick envelope from the top of one pile, which tipped over. She’d scattered it more, pulling at the papers to either side, kicking them. It had been a mess. Apparently, she’d put it all back, but the thick envelope—the one she’d waved about, saying, “I’ll show you a book!”—was missing.
Faith looked again, but it wasn’t there. She made a quick search of the room, lifting sofa cushions, opening the coat closet. Nothing. The kitchen and dining room were the same. It had been a thick parcel, and there weren’t too many hiding places. She ran to the basement. It was neat as a pin and bare save for the fur-nace, a washer and dryer, empty clothes basket, and a few tools on a shelf.
Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bath. It was hard to go through Lorraine’s pitiful wardrobe, feeling under a stack of well-worn turtlenecks, tights that had been darned, and flannel nightgowns soft with wear. On the bureau, there was a large photograph of Fox and Lorraine, taken many years ago. They both had their fists raised and they were smiling. There was a baby picture next to it, a truly repellent-looking infant, who could only be Harvey. A wedding picture, presumably of Lorraine’s parents, was the sole addi-tional object.
Faith felt under the mattress. The bed had been slept in—there was a deep impression in the pillow—but by now the sheets were ice-cold. She glanced involuntar-ily toward the window. Like Lorraine.
The bathroom yielded nothing save a confirmation of Faith’s suspicion that Lorraine had not been aiding in any way what God had given her. Not even lipstick.
The second bedroom in the rear was tiny—room for a single bed and bureau, as well as a small desk and bookcase. The drawers were filled with young Lorraine’s schoolwork. Papers on the life cycle of the fern and the use of metaphor in
The only sign that Harvey had ever occupied the room was a Metallica poster taped to the rosebud wallpaper.
Faith was getting angry. She wished Lorraine had never met Fox—or Harvey’s father. Again the words
“She deserved better” returned—as they would every time she thought of Lorraine Fuchs, Faith realized.
Natasha, the owner of the bookstore, had refused to talk about the woman. “It’s too sad,” she’d said. And she was right.
Nothing under the bed or mattress here, either. A hall closet held linens, a shabby suitcase—empty—
and a vacuum cleaner. There was no attic. Faith raced down the stairs, convinced that the manuscript wasn’t in the house. She had to get back outside. She’d already been gone too long.
“You took your time.” The woman from next door looked at Faith accusingly. She’d dragged a lawn chair from the garage and was sitting next to the body in a crude parody of a summer’s day. Lorraine might as well be a sunbather.
“I was looking for an address book, so we could call her son and other relatives, but I couldn’t find one.”
This was true, and the oddness of it struck Faith even more forcibly out here in the clear light of day.
Comrades didn’t send Christmas cards, but Lorraine must have had some phone numbers, some addresses.
“He lives in Jersey. Hoboken. But don’t expect the brokenhearted son. He’s the scum of the earth, that kid.
Always has been, but Lorraine would never admit it.
‘Too sensitive,’ she’d say. ‘Misunderstood.’ They’d come to visit now and then. We’d all be sure to lock our doors and keep our own kids away from him. Harvey Fuchs never cared about anybody or anything except himself and getting high.”
From what she’d seen, Faith was sure the woman was right. A voice nagged at her. What Lorraine knew, Harvey would have gotten out of her eventually, if not immediately. Which included knowing about the manuscript. It was worth a lot of money—possibly in blackmail alone. But he would have had to get his mother out of the way. She would never have let it be used like that. Harvey might have tattoos, but
Harvey would inherit the house, too, Faith realized.
Unless Lorraine had willed it to some politically acceptable group, it would go to her son. Knowing Lorraine, it was probably going to her boy. Were all women this crazy about their sons? Faith hadn’t had a whole lot of experience with mothers, and the mothers she knew best all had girls.
The woman continued: “And she doesn’t have any relatives. An only of only.” She sounded scornful, as if there was something genetically wanting in their bloodlines. “Never saw any friends come to the house, neither. Probably has some Commie friends, but they wouldn’t be in the book.” She laughed at her joke.
“Communist.” She spat out the word. “That’s what she was—a Communist.” In case Faith hadn’t picked up on the allusion.
There wasn’t much Faith could think of to say to this.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Got in with the wrong crowd in college.” She made it sound like binge drinking. “Broke her
