“How’s Terry?”
“Not doing so well. She always thought of herself as the hardheaded sister, and then she let herself be taken in by her mother, only to be disillusioned with equal speed. But she’ll get through it, with her husband’s and Jen’s help.”
“I’m sure she will.”
Last Monday, the district attorney in Crescent City had launched an investigation into the death of Bruce Collingsworth, and the California Board of Nursing had initiated proceedings against Laurel. If she didn’t do prison time, she’d certainly be under scrutiny for years to come. In addition, she’d been fired from her job at the Klamath Falls nursing home where she’d worked and banned from the hospice where she’d volunteered.
“I wonder what she’ll do?” I said, more to myself than to Rae.
“Who? Jen?”
“No, I was thinking of Laurel.”
“Don’t know. She’s tried to call both Jen and Terry several times, but they won’t have anything to do with her.”
I envisioned Laurel, shut away in her shabby little house in the slipping-down tract, alone with her books and videos. Wondered if she’d dismantled the picture wall that had been her undoing with her daughters. Wondered also if she’d abandoned Josie Smith’s name, or if she would keep up the pretense of being the woman she had killed until even that was stripped from her. Not that I really cared what she did or what happened to her. I’d seen firsthand the looks of betrayal on the faces of the daughters she’d claimed to love. And I’d seen too many other victims of cold, calculating people like her.
Rae said, “So Hy’s finally coming up. He going to press you about your living-space problems?”
“Probably.”
“Whatever his ideas are, I don’t think you should worry. If you don’t like what he suggests, you two will work something out to your mutual satisfaction. You always have.”
I frowned at her. “I thought you were the one who said marriage changes things.”
“That’s right.”
“But you didn’t mean for the better.”
“Of course I did. As far as I’m concerned, it only gets better.”
“Oh.”
“Why would you think I meant for the worse?”
“I… I don’t know. I guess I was just looking for trouble. And in the course of this investigation I’ve come up against two truly dysfunctional marriages.”
“Laurel’s and Jennifer’s. But yours could never be like that. It’s not the institution, but the people who come into it that make or break a marriage.”
She was right, of course. “Oh,” I said, waving my hand helplessly, “I’m so damn
Rae’s freckled nose crinkled, and she tried not to laugh, but as soon as she did, I joined her. People at nearby tables were casting curious glances at us when her cellular rang.
She answered, and I watched as her face sobered. She said, “Okay. It’ll be okay. I’m on my way.”
“What?” I asked, thinking of Ricky, the kids, even Charlene or Vic.
She snapped the unit shut, looking dazed. “That was Jen. Mark’s sailboat capsized outside the Golden Gate this afternoon. Another boater spotted it, notified the Coast Guard, and an immediate search was launched, but they didn’t find him. Looks like he was swept out to sea.”
“Accident? Or suicide?”
“Could be either, but I’d say suicide. Mark’s a good sailor; he knows the currents there.”
I shut my eyes, pressed the heels of my hands against them. Pictured the strong, vital man who had assured me he would do anything to bring his wife peace of mind. A falsity, like everything else about the case. And Rae and I had been instrumental in bringing him down-
Rae said, “Not our fault, Shar. Goes with the territory.”
“Maybe I’m getting sick of the territory.”
“No you’re not. The good you do far outbalances crap like this. I’ve got to go now, be with Jen. You go home. Listen to what Hy has to say about the house with an open mind.”
He was already there when I arrived, his classic Mustang in the garage, so I could have the driveway for the MG. I parked, ran up the front steps, and called to him from the hallway.
No reply, but his flight jacket was on the coatrack. He wasn’t in the sitting room or kitchen, but his travel bag lay on the bed.
I went to the door to the deck. He wasn’t out there either.
“Ripinsky?”
A thump from below.
“Ripinsky?”
“Down here. Hit my goddamn head.”
I went across the deck and took the stairs to the backyard. Still didn’t see him. “Where
His dirt-smudged face peered around from the far corner of the house. “Hey, I was right. I’ve found our living- space solution.”
I angled under the deck toward him, cobwebs catching at my hair and face. He wore rumpled jeans and a filthy T-shirt, had a tape measure in one hand, a flashlight in the other. When he encircled my shoulders for a hug, the light banged into my spine.
I disentangled myself and tried to look disapproving, but his expression was so like that of a kid whose Halloween goodie sack is overflowing that I had to smile.
“Okay,” I said, “show me.”
He led me down the narrow walkway between my house and the Curleys’ fence, to a door that led into a tiny storage space behind the garage, where I kept a lawn mower that I seldom used on the small back lawn that seldom grew. After squeezing inside he rapped on the wall that separated it from the space that extended to the rear wall under the deck.
“What’s beyond this, McCone?”
“Dirt. When one-God knows which-of the former owners decided to raise up the house for the garage, they shoveled all the dirt back here and walled it off. It’s pretty much solidly packed, nearly to the joists of the kitchen and bedroom floors.”
“Yeah, dirt. I know, because I ripped out a piece of the wall in the garage.” He beamed at me. “Dirt that, should we have it dug out, would create a hell of a lot of space.”
“For?”
“One big room. Call it a playroom.”
“Oh.” Now it was beginning to compute. “A playroom containing a big bed.”
“Right. And an adjoining bath with a big shower and tub like we have at Touchstone.”
“Closet space. Your own sock drawer.”
“Your stuff not getting shoved to the side and wrinkled by mine.”
A drawback had occurred to me. “How do we get to this room? I mean, in the winter rains, do we have to run across the deck and down the stairs and enter through this door?”
“Hardly. Interior stairway.”
I tried to picture where it would go. Couldn’t.
Hy smiled and hugged me again. This time the tape measure rapped against my spine.
He said, “Leave it to me, McCone. I’ll get it done.”
“It’s in your hands.”
