“Please.”
A few moments later, Maxine tapped on Burton’s door. “What did he say?” Burton growled.
“He wanted to let you know that they’ll be filing a brief to amend the suit so it goes against Mr. Patterson’s estate. That is, unless Ivy is interested in negotiating a settlement now, without any more courtroom proceedings whatsoever.”
Burton buried his face in his hands. “I should have known,” he said. “That’s Holly through and through, always more than happy to kick some body when they’re down.”
He got up and took his coat off the hanger.
“Where are you going?” Maxine demanded.
“To see my client.”
“I thought your client was dead.”
“I’ve got a new one now,” he answered grimly.
“She may not realize she needs me yet, but she does. How are the gossip mills working around town?”
“Fine, I suppose. Why?”
“Does anyone know where the honeymooners spent the night?”
“I suppose if anyone did, Helen Barco would be the one.”
“I’m going down the hall to wash my face. Get on the horn and see if you can find out where Ivy and her groom spent the night. It’ll be a whole lot easier to track them down if I have some idea where I’m going.”
As usual, the fact that something threatened Ivy -was enough to jar Burton Kimball out of his funk.
The same kind of lifetime habit that had brought him to his office that morning now propelled him to action. If Ivy was threatened, he had to do something about it.
Even as she dialed Helen Barco’s number, Maxine didn’t understand what had gotten into him all of a sudden. Linda Kimball would have under stood, if she had known about it. Her husband was like that where Ivy Patterson was concerned, always had been.
When Isabel Gonzales finished dusting and straightening the living room, she took the mornings paper out to the kitchen, where she sat down long enough to drink a cup of coffee and read the paper.
Isabel had lived a quiet and fairly sheltered life.
This was the first time a violent death of any kind had touched her life so closely. She tried to imagine how she would feel that morning if she were Holly Patterson.
It was bad enough for Holly to come back home after all those years to bring such awful charges against her own father. Isabel had no idea what had gone on during that stormy afternoon session in the library on Tuesday. Isabel herself had ushered Harold Patterson into the room for the scheduled conference while Miss Baxter and Miss Patterson were still upstairs. She supposed they were some of the last people to see the old man alive. That saddened her, made her feel some how responsible.
Mr. Patterson had been sitting there waiting when Holly came into the room, accompanied by Amy Baxter. Isabel had closed the door behind them and had gone on about her business, doing her best not to eavesdrop, but even in that huge house, she hadn’t been able to avoid the sound of raised and angry voices. When you’re used to a house being peaceful and quiet, it’s hard not to notice when people are yelling.
Isabel had prepared a casserole and a salad for dinner, and she had left the house early -promptly at five- thirty-so she and Jaime could go vote. She had no idea how the library battle had ended, and she hadn’t seen Holly make off with Mr. Rogers’ fancy red car either. But she had certainly witnessed the awful aftermath.
Holly’s appetite had been bad before. After the incident with the car, it was almost nonexistent. She had virtually quit eating altogether. Some times she drank something, but the food on the trays remained almost untouched. Isabel worried about it, but she didn’t mention it to either Miss Baxter or Mr. Rogers. As a Mexican- American housekeeper, Isabel Gonzales knew her place. She kept her mouth shut and tried not to listen to the noise of the rocker creaking away in Holly’s room directly over the kitchen.
Someone would have to be crazy to rock that much, Isabel thought, to sit there rocking and staring out the window at nothing but the dump for hour after hour after hour. Of course, Miss Baxter would never use the word “crazy” or even “loco.”
She said Miss Patterson had “emotional problems.” Poor thing.
And then, just as those thoughts ran through her head, Isabel realized she was no longer hearing the rocker.
Moments later, the kitchen door swung open, and a disheveled Holly Patterson stood there in her robe, leaning weakly against the doorjamb. “I want some more coffee,” she said.
Isabel Gonzales had cared for a number of invalids in her life who were ill enough to require looking after, but not sick enough to need a nurse. She knew that after even a few days of bed rest, the transition from bed to walking around is a tricky one that requires careful negotiation.
“You should sit down,” she said, hurrying to Holly’s side. “You shouldn’t be up walking like this.”
Holly waved her away. “I’m fine,” she announced. “I’m really fine.” Nevertheless, she did totter over to the table and chairs just inside the door.
While Isabel hurried to pour a cup of coffee from a fresh pot, Holly sank down at the kitchen table. Her eyes were drawn at once to the pictures on the front page of the paper that was lying there in front of her.
The moment she saw the picture, a lifetime’s worth of forgotten memories boiled to the surface, threatening to drown her in a head-crushing wave.
- The hours of careful probing sessions with Amy, the hazy, hypnotic, dreamlike questions and answers, had never come near this terrible, searing pain, had never cast a light on Holly Patterson’s interior darkness. Or her
