“Dry my hair.”
She threw a pillow at me. “Then what?”
“I don’t know.” I’d had enough investigating for the day, to tell the truth. I changed the subject. “Have you thought any more about Mom’s invitation? I told her I’d go.”
Danielle looked at me as if I’d volunteered to be part of a firing squad tasked with shooting her.
“Mom really wants you to come, too,” I coaxed. “We’ll have a good time. Don’t you remember what fun we had shell collecting? And how we got up in the middle of the night to watch the sea turtles hatch and make a dash for the ocean?”
“I remember
“Mom was there, too. She tried to scare away the herons eating the baby turtles by waving her arms and singing that Jim Croce song.”
“‘Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.’” An almost-smile lit Dani’s face briefly. “It didn’t even faze those herons.”
I let the subject drop, not wanting to push too hard and have Dani decide she wasn’t coming. Sometimes, not getting a “no” was progress.
Chapter 18
Sunday noon found me on the road to the Hopeful Morning Rehabilitation Center, Maurice seated beside me in my yellow Volkswagen Beetle. I’d called him midmorning to see how his day at the bridal fair had gone, and we’d ended up discussing my unplanned dip in the Potomac and the murder. Visiting Randolph Blakely, Corinne’s son, had been Maurice’s idea. “She got together with him every Sunday for brunch,” he said. “Maybe she said something to him the weekend before she died that would help us figure this out.”
Accordingly, we were driving through Maryland horse country on our way to the rehab center, flashing past gently rolling hills and pastures featuring leggy Thoroughbreds. When Maurice told me to turn, I initially thought he’d made a mistake, because the property in front of us looked more like the home of a successful horse trainer than a medical facility of any kind. Stately trees lined the long driveway, and outbuildings and barns surrounded the sprawling brick house fronted with a wide veranda. I was about to ask Maurice whether he was sure we were in the right place when I spied a discreet sign almost enveloped by a honeysuckle bush that read, HOPEFUL MORNING REHABILITATION CENTER.
“Wow,” I said, parking between a Mercedes and a BMW. “This is nicer than some resorts I’ve been to.”
“Keeping Randolph here cost Corinne more than ten grand a month,” Maurice said.
“Ouch. I guess they’ll be sending their bills to Turner now.”
The scents of honeysuckle and roses twined around us as we crossed the veranda. Bees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, and classical music drifted from a window above us. The facade of gracious living continued inside, with an Oriental rug on the marble-tiled floor and a crystal chandelier dangling from the ceiling. A young woman in khaki slacks and a black polo shirt with the center’s name embroidered over her left breast directed us outside when we asked for Randolph Blakely. She pointed to a flagstone path that led away from a set of French doors opening off what looked like a dining room. “His quarters are down that path. First building on your right.”
Maurice thanked her and we exited through the French doors. I realized as we walked that the buildings I’d thought were sheds were really little cottages. I had no knowledge of addiction treatment centers, other than what I’d learned from a thirteen-year-old ballet friend who’d been sent to a residential facility in Arizona when diagnosed with anorexia. “I guess the… patients aren’t locked in?” I asked Maurice. I knew my friend had been strictly watched.
He shook his head. “Randolph’s in a transitional program now, designed to help people who have undergone the initial detox and treatment phases. The transition program is supposed to help them adjust to living on their own and rejoining society. He can come and go as he wants, according to Corinne, but she said he hasn’t set foot off this property in the ten months he’s been here.”
We knocked on the door of a blue bungalow that looked like something out of a Beatrix Potter book, complete with white shutters, white picket fence and gate, flowering shrubs, and nameplate on the door that said, HOLLYHOCK HAVEN. I just knew the other cottages had names like Rose Retreat and Sunflower Sanctuary.
“Gag me,” I muttered as the door swung inward. “Too cutesy.”
The man who stood in the doorway, a questioning look on his face, did not fit with the cottage. Instead of being plump and cheerful, he was heavy in a way that made me think of a burlap bag filled with wet cement, and had a waxy complexion that spoke of illness. Gray-blond strands of hair were combed straight back off a face lined beyond its fifty-some years. I saw little trace of Corinne or the handsome Turner in his features, although his eyes were the same intense blue. He’d shaved unevenly, and a quarter-sized patch of whiskers bristled to the right of his chin.
“Maurice?” Puzzlement and perhaps a bit of alarm flitted across his face. “What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Randolph,” Maurice said. “It’s been a while.”
“Years.” Corinne’s son did not seem inclined to invite us in.
“I came to tell you how sorry I am about your mother. I didn’t know if I’d see you at the funeral?”
“Who are you?” Randolph ignored Maurice and fastened his gaze on me.
“Stacy Graysin,” I said, offering my hand. “I’m a ballroom dancer like your mom and a friend of Maurice’s. I’m very sorry about your mother’s death.”
“I doubt you’re like her,” he said. His tone was ambiguous, and I wasn’t sure whether he meant to slam Corinne or me. Looking from me to Maurice, he sighed. “I guess you can come in. I don’t have anything to offer besides tea or water, though.” He backed away so Maurice and I could slide past him.
The home’s interior and decorations-heavy on chintz, doilies, embroidered pillows, and ruffled curtains-told me the place had come furnished. Only a flat-screen television and a laptop computer on an ottoman looked like they might belong to Randolph. He went ahead of us with the gingerly movements of a man in pain, and I remembered Maurice had said his painkiller addiction began when he injured his back. He led us into a kitchen so determinedly cheery that I expected a singing Snow White to pop out at any moment.
“Sit.”
Maurice and I sat at the round oak table while Randolph filled a teapot and put it on the stove. Lowering himself into a chair, he said, “So, to what do I owe the honor?”
His tone and gaze were both sharper than when he’d opened the door, and I thought it wouldn’t do to underestimate Randolph Blakely.
“How are you doing?” Maurice asked.
“Do you mean am I sober? Clean?” Randolph’s gaze mocked Maurice, and I saw a little of Turner in the way his mouth curled up at one side. “Yes. If you mean am I grieving over my mother’s death, then no, not particularly. She wasn’t much of a mother.” He said it matter-of-factly, and I found his lack of emotion somewhat eerie.
I saw Maurice fighting to control his reaction to the slur on Corinne and jumped in with, “Have the police been out to see you?”
Randolph’s gaze slid to me. “As a matter of fact, they have,” he said, “although I’m not sure what business it is of yours.”
“Um…”
Before I could think of a reply, Maurice said, “Did Corinne visit you as usual last Sunday?”
“She thought coming out here once a week made up for all the times she was gone when I was growing up.” Grievance seeped from Randolph like gas from a sewer pipe.
I wanted to say,
The teakettle
