straighten up for me, do some general cleaning?”
“Well, naturally, but I can come every single day, if you would like, Lucy.”
But Lucy didn’t want anyone around. She wanted to be alone to search this barn of a house. No, she told Mrs. McGruder, that wasn’t necessary. Before Mrs. McGruder could try to talk her around, Lucy turned to Mr. McGruder, complimented him on the nicely raked front lawn, done, he told her, that morning.
She didn’t want to ask them in; she had too much to accomplish. But neither of the McGruders appeared to want to come in. Mrs. McGruder said, “How we miss Mr. Joshua. It was a lovely service, Lucy. Ah, and how we miss your grandmother. Such a gracious lady, she was, so interested in everything, and always seeing to her charities, always on the go, always reading and studying. A very sharp lady, she was. Isn’t that right, Mr. McGruder?”
Mr. McGruder nodded, walked over to pick up a stray yellow oak leaf on the flagstone sidewalk.
Lucy said, “Do you remember my grandfather, Mrs. McGruder?”
“Well, that is a question for Mr. McGruder. He and Mr. Milton were great friends, weren’t you, Mr. McGruder?”
“That we were,” Mr. McGruder said, straightening, still holding that lone oak leaf in his hand. “A fine man; missed him sorely when he left. One day to the next, he was gone. I never could understand that.” He shook his head. His gray hair didn’t move, and Lucy realized he’d pomaded it down flat to his scalp.
“Did he seem unhappy before he left?”
“Mr. Milton? Oh, goodness, no,” said Mrs. McGruder.
“Aye, he did,” Mr. McGruder said right over her. “Maybe not exactly unhappy, but I remember he was all jumpy and distracted, I guess the word is, but when I asked him, I remember he wouldn’t tell me what bothered him. And then he was gone, just like that.” He snapped his fingers, then shook his head sadly. “So much trouble, so much death; it’s enough to make a man wonder how much more time he’s got left.”
Not five minutes later, Lucy was zipping up her ancient jeans, then pulled a dark blue FBI sweatshirt over her turtleneck sweater and slipped sneakers over her thick socks. Out of habit she clipped her SIG to her jeans. She was hurrying because she didn’t want to be searching the attic after dark—it was that simple. She didn’t know why, but there was something about attics and basements after dark, when everything was quiet, that gave her the willies.
She needed to get a move on. The narrow door at the end of the corridor on the second floor had always been locked when she was a child, the attic out-of-bounds to her, and it still sported a Yale lock. She’d been in the attic only once, to see if she wanted any discarded furniture for her condo—three years ago, right after her grandmother had died. She pulled out her SIG and smacked the butt to the lock, once, twice, and it opened. She climbed the steps into the immense, shadowy attic. It seemed to Lucy that with every step she took, the air got colder and clammier. There was no heat up here, but why should it feel clammy? There’d been no rain for a while. She noticed the bare attic beams weren’t insulated. It had to be roasting hot in the summer up here, and now in the late fall, it was as cold as the outside air.
She flipped the switch, and the long shadows of the huge open area gave way to a burst of light, not from a naked one-hundred-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling but from a bank of fluorescent lights. She immediately felt better, and wasn’t that stupid and childish of her?
Lucy looked around and lost every drop of optimism she’d had about how easy looking through the attic might be. She’d forgotten how immense it was, overflowing with old furniture, a zillion taped boxes, and ancient luggage. She wondered if some of the stuff dated back even before her grandparents had bought the house fifty years ago. Well, it didn’t matter. She’d have to dig in.
Yeah, but dig in to find what, exactly?
She didn’t have a clue. Still, Lucy hoped to her sneakered feet that when she found it, she’d know instantly.
Lucky her—all the boxes were beautifully labeled as everything from kitchenwares to master-bedroom linens to books.
She found a box labeled LUCY—TEENAGER and dug into it, unable to help herself. She’d pulled out her sophomore yearbook when her cell rang. “Yes?”
“Lucy, my angel, it’s Uncle Alan. I’m downstairs, sitting on your doorbell, but you don’t answer. Where are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m up in the attic, Uncle Alan. I’ll be right down. Is Aunt Jennifer with you? Court and Miranda?”
“Nope, only me. Your Aunt Jennifer sends her love. Court and Miranda—well, it seems the less I know about what they’re doing, the better. Your Aunt Jennifer, ah, hopes you’re all right.”
Alan Silverman, her grandmother’s youngest brother, was actually her great-uncle. He’d been in her life from her earliest memories. He was in his seventies now, having retired hurriedly after the bankers screwed the world, and she wondered cynically how many shaky derivatives and fancy bond packages he himself had conjured up. He’d married late, produced two children, Court and Miranda, who were, actually, her first cousins once removed, many years older than Lucy. Neither of them had ever married, and that seemed a bit odd to Lucy, both of them, well into their thirties and still out dating. Court was a gym rat and liked to think of himself as a stud, and maybe that explained it—he was too focused on himself to consider letting another person in. He was a successful retailer, owner of three vitamin stores in the D.C. area—LIFE MAX Natural Supplements—that were doing very well.
As for Miranda, she was a wannabe hippie, something of a resurrected flower child but without the usual freshness or color. Her clothes were all long and too loose, too depressing, really, all browns and grays and blacks. She always wore her hair straight, parted in the middle, and Lucy wished she’d wash her hair a bit more often. She played the French horn quite beautifully, though as far as Lucy could tell, that was the only thing on which she expended much effort. Once, she remembered, Miranda invited her to a seance in her condo before she’d moved back to her parents’ house some months before, after breaking it off with a guy her Aunt Jennifer had called The Louse. Lucy had politely declined the invitation.
She opened the door and was immediately pulled into Uncle Alan’s arms. He held her close and patted her back. “How are you, kiddo?”
She leaned back in his arms and smiled up at him. “I’m okay—well, as okay as can be expected. I miss Dad all the time, of course. But they’ve made me one of the leads on this whole deal with Ted Bundy’s daughter; talk about a major-league distraction.”
“But you’re not in any danger from her, are you? I know, I saw you and Agent McKnight on TV at the news conference with your boss, Agent Savich. It’s quite an accomplishment that they’ve made you such a big part of that, Lucy. If she was watching it, she knows who you are. You’ve got to promise me to be careful, sweetheart.”
“That’s a very easy promise to keep, Uncle Alan. Come in, come in.”
She led him into the lovely big living room, then stopped in the middle of the room and sniffed. It smelled musty, she thought, like no one lived there. She’d hardly come into this room at all since she’d moved in. But she would have to, since there were plenty of hidey-holes here where something could be stashed. She felt a chill through her FBI sweatshirt. “It’s too cold in here; let’s go to the kitchen. I’ve got some fresh coffee.”
Now, her kitchen smelled lived in, like a comfortable friend, in spite of all the intimidating stainless-steel gadgets, and she smiled as she bustled around to get milk and Splenda, both musts for Uncle Alan’s wuss coffee.
She said over her shoulder as she reached into a cabinet, “How is Aunt Jennifer?”
“Sad, a bit depressed, as I am, as both Court and Miranda are. She loved your father as much as I did. We were all together for so very long.” He fell silent, staring at nothing in particular on the opposite wall. “Josh was too young, Lucy, too young.”
She felt tears sting her eyes and quickly handed him a cup of coffee. Thankfully, his tears receded as he went about his ritual of adding milk and two Splendas.
He took a sip, sat back, and smiled at her. “When I think back—do you know I met Jennifer when I was nearly thirty-five years old?” His eyes twinkled. “Jennifer admits only that she was much younger than I. And then we had Court and Miranda. We wanted more children, but it wasn’t to be.” He took another drink of coffee. “Life,”
