I woke, screaming. When I turned over to catch my breath, I found two small cloth dolls, crudely made and dressed in a patchwork of fabrics, beside me on the pillow. Pasted on the boy doll was a picture of Hugh; pasted on the tiny face of the girl was a picture of me. Punched through their tiny hearts were two large hat pins.
Chapter 8
I slithered out of bed carefully so as not to disturb the dolls, called the police and dressed quickly. Even though it was well past winter sunset, I made a double espresso while I waited for the patrol car.
How had someone snuck into the house? What had he wanted, other than leaving the dolls? What did they mean? Was it really as obvious as it seemed, that I was next on his list? If I was, why hadn’t he taken his chance? What advantage did I have to him alive? I remembered the whispering blood on my cheek, and shivered.
The caffeine or my heightened anxiety or both made me suddenly aware of the house’s noises. Every creak from the cold startled me. Birds fluttered at the feeder just outside the kitchen window, and tree branches cracked in the December breeze. Each sounded like a footstep or a door opening. I slid a knife from the countertop block and sat with my back to the kitchen wall, as the questions kept coming.
How could he know I would be sleeping? Was it a he? Was it a she? Were the dolls meant for me or Mother? Or—had the dolls been there all along and I’d been so exhausted I hadn’t seen them? No, someone had snuck in, I was sure of it. Had he—or she—left anything, maybe something to incriminate Mother? I realized I had to search before the police arrived.
Back upstairs, I started with her closet, which held only Chanel and Lagerfeld, jewelry, cash, and my father’s gun in a wall safe. She’d told me about the safe years ago—“just in case.”
Whatever that meant.
I panned the room, knife in hand. Nothing on the tables, the bed, the windowsill, the carpet. Nothing except the dolls. The books snagged my eye again, and I wondered why she would have them.
I skimmed the top one, Silencing the Self, and noticed she had underlined and made notes in the margins. One highlighted section read, Identifying with the male gaze is a gender-specific form of what psychoanalytic writers have called ‘identification with the aggressor,’ and this phenomenon explains the fundamental aggression against the self—the acts of self-alteration and hostile self-judgment—described by depressed women. Incomprehensible to anyone who hadn’t majored in self-help.
Other passages talked about the “immobility response,” like the rabbit stilling itself so the fox won’t notice, or “stuck energy” or “rebuilding connection” or “setting limits and boundaries.” Mother was queen at that last one—and she hadn’t learned it from a book. Had she experienced some kind of trauma? But what? And when?
Maybe Paul was right that I wasn’t ready for what I would find in Hugh’s shadow notes. She’d never talked about anything happening…not that she would have. It explained all the therapy with Hugh, but everyone was in therapy with Hugh. They compared neuroses over martinis at the club.
I flipped open the cover of Waking the Tiger. A small envelope taped inside contained a key. Nothing indicated what it opened. I checked the other books, and one had a lightly penciled address which seemed vaguely familiar. It wasn’t a very promising lead. I dropped the books, just as the doorbell rang.
Chief DuPont did not look pleased. “What happened?”
I hadn’t expected him to come, and something about his demeanor made me feel I’d overreacted until I took him upstairs and showed him.
“Did you touch these?” He indicated the dolls.
“No.”
“They weren’t there when you fell asleep?”
“What kind of idiot do you take me for?”
“Did you arm your security system?”
“No.”
“That kind of idiot. Do you ever listen to anyone?”
“Yes.”
His exasperated look said he didn’t believe me.
“I listened, but I was so angry…. I won’t do it again. That picture of me—that’s from this trip. I mean, it’s been taken since I got home.”
He pulled his radio out and called for his detective. “Did you touch anything else in the room?”
“I’ve been looking through my mother’s things for the last couple of days trying to figure out….yes, my fingerprints will be everywhere.”
He sighed. “We’ll need to take them for elimination.”
Downstairs, he examined the doors for scratches. “Who else has house keys?”
I shrugged helplessly. “I’ve only been home two weeks.”
“Guess.”
“Mother and me, obviously; the maid, maybe some service people? I really don’t know. Why would someone do this?”
We moved to the kitchen, and he turned down an espresso. I made another one for myself. Probably not the best idea.
“Who has it out for you and your family, Miz Montague?” We were back to formal address.
“The only enemies I know about are the Winters, and that’s just a society thing, some slight from school that Mary Ellen and my mother have never let die.”
“You think the Winters did this?”
“Of course not!”
“Then who? Who doesn’t like you?”
I didn’t want to suspect the people around me. I had so few friends left as it was.
“You heard Hetty the other night.” I shrugged. “She’s obviously angry with me. Mother’s lawyer, Bailey Womack, used to be a friend, but I’m not sure any more. Paul Love is a friend, but he’s not happy with me at the moment. But I can’t
