In the early morning I stood inside my dark living room, staring out at the shadows and shapes of my property.
My Plymouth wasn't back from the state garage. As I looked out at the oversize station wagon I was stuck with, I found myself wondering how difficult it would be for a grown man to hide under it and grab my foot as I unlocked the driver's door. He wouldn't need to kill me. I would die of a heart attack fust. The street beyond was empty, street lights burning dimly. Peering through the barely parted draperies, I saw nothing. I heard nothing. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Probably nothing had seemed out of the ordinary when Gary Harper had driven home from the tavern, either.
My breakfast appointment with the attorney general was in less than an hour. I was going to be late if I didn't muster up the courage to step outside my own front door and negotiate the thirty feet of sidewalk that would lead me to my car. I studied the shrubbery and small dogwoods bordering my front lawn, scrutinizing their quiet silhouettes as the sky lightened by degrees. The moon was roundly iridescent like a white morning glory, grass silver with frost.
How had he gotten to their houses, to my house? He had to have some means of transportation. There had been little speculation about the killer's ability to move around. Type of vehicle is as much a part of criminal profiling as age and race are, and yet no one was commenting, not even Wesley. I wondered why as I stared at the vacant street. And Wesley's grim demeanor in Quantico still bothered me.
I voiced my concern as Ethridge and I were eating breakfast.
"It may be, simply, that there are things Wesley chooses not to tell you," he suggested.
"He's always been very open with me in the past."
"The Bureau tends to be very closemouthed, Kay."
"Wesley is a profiler," I replied. "He's always been generous with his theories and opinions. But in this instance he's not talking. He's barely profiling these cases at all. His personality has changed. He's humorless, and he scarcely looks me in the eyes. It's weird and incredibly unnerving."
I took a deep breath.
Then Ethridge said, "You're still feeling isolated, aren't you, Kay?"
"Yes, Tom."
"And just a little paranoid."
"That, too," I said.
"Do you trust me, Kay? Do you believe I'm on your side and have your best interests in mind?" he asked.
I nodded and took another deep breath. We were talking in quiet voices inside the dining room of the Capitol Hotel, a favorite watering hole for politicians and plutocrats. Three tables away sat Senator Par-tin, his well-known face more wrinkled than I remembered as he talked seriously to a young man I had seen somewhere before.
"Most of us feel isolated and paranoid during stressful times. We feel alone in the wilderness."
Ethridge's eyes were kind on me, his face troubled.
"I am alone in the wilderness," I replied. "I feel that way because it's true."
"I can see why Wesley is worried."
"Of course."
"What worries me about you, Kay, is you're basing your theories on intuition, going on instinct. Sometimes that can be very dangerous."
"Sometimes it can be. But it can also be very dangerous when people begin to make things too complicated. Murder is usually depressingly simple."
"Not always, though."
"Almost always, Tom."
"You don't think Sparacino's machinations are related to these deaths?"
the attorney general queried.
"I think it would be all too easy to be distracted by his machinations. What he's doing and what the killer is doing could be trains running on parallel tracks. Both of them dangerous, even deadly. But not the same. Not connected. Not driven by the same forces."
"You don't think the missing manuscript is connected?"
"I don't know."
"You're no closer to knowing?"
The interrogation made me feel as if I hadn't done my homework. I wished he hadn't asked.
"No, Tom," I admitted. "I have no idea where it is."
"Is it possible it could be what Sterling Harper burned in her fireplace right before she died?"
"I don't think so. The documents examiner looked at charred bits of paper, identified them as twenty-pound, high-quality rag. They're consistent with fine stationery or the paper lawyers use for legal documents. It's very unlikely someone would write a book draft on paper like that. It's more likely Miss Harper burned letters, personal papers."
"Letters from Beryl Madison?"
"We can't rule it out," I replied, even though I had pretty much ruled it out.
"Or perhaps Gary Harper's letters?"
"There was quite a collection of his private papers found inside the house," I said. "There's no evidence that any of it had been disturbed or recently gone through."
"If the letters were from Beryl Madison, why would Miss Harper burn them?"
"I don't know," I replied, and I knew Ethridge was thinking about his nemesis Sparacino again.
Sparacino had moved quickly. I had seen the lawsuit, all thirty-three pages of it. Sparacino was suing me, the police, the governor. The last time I had checked in with Rose, she had informed me that People magazine had called, and one of its photographers was out front taking pictures of my building the other day after being refused entrance beyond the lobby. I was becoming notorious. I was also becoming expert at refusing comment and making myself scarce.
"You think we're dealing with a psycho, don't you?" Ethridge asked me point-blank.
Orange acrylic fiber connected with hijackers or not, that was what I thought, and I told him so.
He looked down at his half-eaten food and when he lifted his eyes I was undone by what I saw in them. Sadness, disappointment. A terrible reluctance.
"Kay," he began, "there's no easy way to say this to you."
I reached for a biscuit.
"You need to know. No matter what is really going on or why, no matter your beliefs and private opinions, you need to hear this."
I decided I would rather smoke than eat, and got out my cigarettes.
"I have a contact. Suffice it to say he is privy to Justice Department activities-"
"This is about Sparacino," I interrupted.
"It's about Mark James," he said.
I couldn't have been more unnerved had the attorney general just sworn at me.
I asked, "What about Mark?"
"I'm wondering if I should ask you that, Kay."
"What do you mean, exactly?"
"The two of you were seen together in New York several weeks ago. At Gallagher's."
An awkward pause as he coughed and added inanely, "I haven't been there in years."
I stared at the smoke drifting up from my cigarette.
"As I remember it, the steaks are pretty good…"
"Stop it, Tom," I said quietly.
"A lot of good-hearted Irishmen in that place who don't hold back on the booze or the banter-"
"Stop it, goddamn it," I said a little too loudly.
Senator Partin stared straight at our table, his eyes mildly curious as they briefly alighted on Ethridge, then me. Our waiter was suddenly pouring more coffee and inquiring if we needed anything. I was uncomfortably warm.
"Don't bullshit me, Tom," I said. "Who saw me?"
He waved it off. "What matters is how you know him."
"I've known him for a very long time."
"That's not an answer."
"Since law school."
"You were close?"
"Yes."
"Lovers?"
"Jesus, Tom."
"I'm sorry, Kay. It's important."
Dabbing his lips with his napkin, he reached for his coffee, his eyes drifting around the dining room. Ethridge was very ill at ease. "Let's just say that the two of you were together most of the night in New York. At the Omni."
My cheeks were burning.
"I don't give a damn about your personal life, Kay. I doubt anybody else does, either. Except in this one instance. You see, I'm very sorry."
He cleared his throat, finally giving me his eyes again. "Dammit. Mark's pal, Sparacino, is being investigated by the Justice Department-"
"His pal?"
"It's very serious, Kay," Ethridge went on. "I don't know what Mark James was like when you knew him in law school, but I do know what's become of him since. I know his record. After you were spotted with him, I did some investigating. He got in serious trouble in Tallahassee seven years ago. Racketeering. Fraud. Crimes for which he was convicted and for which he actually spent time in prison. It was after all this that he ended up with Sparacino, who is suspected of being tied in with organized crime."
I felt as if a vise were rapidly squeezing the blood from my heart, and I must have become pale because Ethridge quickly handed me my glass of water and waited patiently until I composed myself. But when I met his eyes again, he picked up where he had interrupted his damaging testimony.
"Mark has never worked for Orndorff amp; Berger, Kay. The firm has never even heard of him. Which doesn't surprise me. Mark James couldn't possibly practice law. He was disbarred. It appears he is simply Sparacino's personal aide."
"Does Sparacino work for Orndorff amp; Berger?" I managed to ask.
"He's their entertainment lawyer. That much is true," he answered.
I said nothing, tears fighting to break out.
"Stay away from him, Kay," Ethridge said, his voice a rough caress in its attempt to be tender. "For God's sake, break it off. Whatever you've got going with him, break it off."
"I don't have anything going with him," I said shakily.
"When's the last time you had contact with him?"
"Several weeks ago. He called. We talked no more than thirty seconds."
He nodded as if he had expected as much. "The paranoid life. One of the poisonous fruits of criminal activity.
I doubt Mark James is given to long telephone conversations, and I doubt he'll approach you at all unless there is something he wants. Tell me how it is you were with him in New York."
"He wanted to see me. He wanted to warn me about Sparacino." I added lamely, "Or this is what he said."
"And did he warn you about him?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"The very sorts of things you've already mentioned about Sparacino."
"Why did Mark tell you this?"
"He said he wanted to protect me."
"Do you believe that?"
"I don't know what the hell I believe," I said.
"Are you in love with this man?"
I stared mutely at the attorney general, my eyes turning to stone.
He said very quietly, "I need to know how vulnerable you are. Please don't think I'm enjoying this, Kay."
"Please don't think I'm enjoying this either, Torn," I said, an edge to my voice.
Ethridge removed his napkin from his lap and folded it neatly, deliberately, before tucking it under the rim of his plate.
"I have reason to fear," he said, so softly I had to lean forward to hear him, "that Mark fames could do you terrible damage, Kay. There is reason to suspect he's behind the break-in at your office-"
"What reason?"
I cut him off, my voice rising. "What are you talking about? What proof-" The words caught in my throat, as Senator Partin and his young companion were suddenly at our table. I hadn't noticed them get up and head toward us. I could tell by the look on their faces they realized they had intruded upon a tense conversation.
"John, good to see you."
Ethridge was pushing back his chair. "You know the chief medical examiner, Kay Scarpetta, don't you?"
"Of course, of course. Yes, how are you, Dr. Scarpetta?"
The senator was shaking my hand, smiling, his eyes distant. "And this is my son, Scott."
I noticed that Scott had not inherited his father's rugged, rather coarse features or short, stocky build. The young man was incredibly handsome, tall, fit, his fine face framed by a crown of magnificent black hair. He was in his twenties, with a quiet burning insolence in his eyes that bothered me. The cordial conversation did not ease my disconcertedness, nor did I feel any better when father and son finally left us alone again.
"I've seen him somewhere before," I said to Ethridge after the waiter refilled our coffees. "Who? John?"
"No, no-of course I've seen the senator before. I'm talking about his son. Scott. He looks very familiar."
"You've probably seen him on TV," he replied, stealing a distracted glance at his watch. "He's an actor, or trying to be one, at any rate. I think he's had a few minor roles in a couple of the soaps."
"Oh, my God," I muttered.
"Maybe a couple of bit parts in movies, too. He was out in California, now lives in New York."
"No," I said, stunned.
Ethridge put down his coffee cup and fixed calm eyes on me. "How did he know we were having breakfast here this morning, Tom?"
I asked, working hard to keep my voice steady as the images came back to me. Gallagher's. The lone young man drinking beer several tables away from where Mark and I had been sitting.
"I don't know how he knew," Ethridge replied, his eyes glinting with a secret satisfaction. "Suffice it to say that I'm not surprised, Kay. Young Partin's been shadowing me for days."
"He's not your Justice Department contact…"
"Good God, no," Ethridge said flatly.
"Sparacino?"
"I would think so. That would make the most sense, wouldn't it, Kay?"
"Why?"
He began studying the check, then said, 'To make sure he knows what's going on. To spy. To intimidate."
He glanced up at me. "Take your choice."
Scott Partin had struck me as one of these self-contained young men often a study in sullen splendor. I remembered he had been reading the New York Times and gloomily drinking a beer. I had been vaguely aware of him only because extremely beautiful people, like gorgeous arrangements of flowers, are difficult not to notice.
I felt a compulsion to tell Marino all about it as we rode the elevator down to the first floor of my building later that morning.
"I'm certain," I repeated. "He was sitting two tables over from us at Gallagher's."
"And he wasn't with nobody?"
"Correct. He was reading, drinking a beer. I don't think he was eating, but I really don't remember," I replied as we cut through a large storage room smelling of cardboard and dust.
My mind and heart were racing, trying to outrun yet another one of Mark's lies. Mark had said that Sparacino didn't know I was coming to New York, that it was coincidence when Sparacino appeared at the steak house. That couldn't be true. Young Partin had been sent to spy on me that night, and that could have happened only if Sparacino knew I was there with Mark.
"Well, there's another way to look at it," Marino said as we walked through the dusty bowels of my building. "Let's say one of the ways he stays alive in the Big Apple is he does some part-time snitching for Sparacino, okay? Could be Partin was sent to tail Mark, not you. Remember, Sparacino recommended the steak house to Mark- or at least this is what Mark told you. So Sparacino had reason to know Mark was going to eat there that night. Sparacino tells Partin to be there, check out what Mark's up to. Partin does, is sitting alone drinking a brew when the two of you walk in. Maybe at some point he slips out to call Sparacino, give him the scoop. Bingo! Next thing you know, Sparacino's walking in."
I wanted to believe it.
"Just a theory," Marino added.
I knew I could not believe it. The truth, I harshly reminded myself, was that Mark had betrayed me, that he was the criminal Ethridge had described.
"You got to consider all the possibilities," Marino concluded.
"Of course," I muttered.
Down another narrow corridor, we stopped before a heavy metal door. Finding the right key, I let us inside the range where the firearms examiners conducted test fires on virtually every weapon known to man. It was a drab, lead-contaminated cinderblock room, one entire wall covered by a pegboard and lined with scores of handguns and machine pistols confiscated by the courts and eventually released to the lab. Propped up in racks were shotguns and rifles. The far wall was heavy steel reinforced in the center and pitted by thousands of rounds fired over the years. Marino headed for a corner where nude manikin torsos, hips, heads, and legs were commingled in a heap ghoulishly reminiscent of an Auschwitz common grave.
"You prefer light meat, don't you?" he asked, selecting a pale flesh-colored male chest.
I ignored him as I opened my carrying case and got out the stainless-steel Ruger. Plastic clacked as he rummaged, finally selecting a Caucasian head with brown-painted hair and eyes. This went on top of the chest, both of which Marino set on top of a cardboard box against the steel wall some thirty paces away.
"You get one clip to make him history," Marino said.
Loading wadcutters into my revolver, I glanced up as Marino withdrew a 9-millimeter pistol out of the back of his trousers. Cocking back the slide, he pulled out the clip, then snapped it back in place.
"Merry Christmas," he said, offering it to me, safety on, butt first.
"No, thank you," I said as politely as possible.
"Five pops with your piece and you're out of business."
"If I miss."
"Shit, Doc. Everybody misses a few. Problem is, with your Ruger there, a few's all you got."
"I'd rather have a few well-placed shots with mine. All that thing does is spray lead."
"It's a hell of a lot more firepower," he said.
"I know. About a hundred foot-pounds more at fifty feet than I've got with mine if I'm using Silvertips Plus ammo."
"Not to mention three times as many shots," Marino added.
I had fired 9-millimeters before and didn't like them. They weren't as accurate as my.38 special. They weren't as safe, and they could jam. I had never been one to substitute quantity for quality, and there was no substitution for being informed and practiced.
"You need only one shot," I said, placing a set of hearing protectors over my ears.
"Yeah. If it's between the damn eyes."
Steadying the revolver with my left hand, I repeatedly squeezed the trigger and shot the manikin in the head once, the chest three times, the fifth bullet grazing the left shoulder-all of it happening in a matter of seconds as head and torso flew off the box and clattered dully against the steel wall.
Wordlessly, Marino set the 9-millimeter on top of a table and slipped his.357 out of his shoulder holster. I could tell I had hurt his feelings. No doubt he had gone to a lot of trouble to find the automatic for me. He had thought I would be pleased.
"Thank you, Marino," I said.
Clicking the cylinder back in place, he slowly raised his revolver.
I started to add that I appreciated his thoughtfulness, but I knew either he couldn't hear me or he wasn't listening.
I backed away as he unloaded six rounds, the manikin head jumping crazily on the floor. Slapping in a speed loader, he started in on the torso. When he was finished, gun smoke was acrid on the air and I knew I would never want him murderously angry with me.
"Nothing like shooting a man while he's down," I said.
"You're right." He removed his earplugs. "Nothing like it."
We slid a wooden frame along an overhead track and attached to it a Score Keeper paper target. When the box of cartridges was empty and I was satisfied that I could still hit the broad side of a barn, I fired a couple of Silvertips to clean out the bore before I took a patch cloth of Hoppe's No. 9 to it. The solvent always reminded me of Quantico.
"You want my opinion?"
Marino said, cleaning his gun as well. "What you need at home's a shotgun."
I said nothing as I returned the Ruger to its carrying case.
"You know, something like an autoloading Remington, three-inch magnum double-aught buck. Be like hitting the fool with fifteen thirty-two-caliber bullets-three times that you hit him with all three rounds. We're talking forty-five friggin' pieces of lead. He ain't gonna come back for more."
"Marino," I said quietly. "I'm fine, all right? I really don't need an arsenal."
He looked up to me, his eyes hard. "You got any idea what it's like to shoot a guy and he keeps on coming?"
"No, I don't," I said.
"Well, I do. Back in New York I emptied my gun on this animal who's freaked out on PCP. Hit the bastard four times in the upper body and it didn't even slow him down. It was like something out of Stephen King, the guy coming at me like the friggin' living dead."
I found some tissues in the pockets of my lab coat and began wiping gun oil and solvent off my hands.
"The squirrel who was chasing Beryl through her house, Doc, he was like that, like that lunatic I'm telling you about. Whatever his gig is, he ain't gonna slow down once he's in gear."
"The man in New York," I ventured, "did he die?"
"Oh, yeah, hi the ER. We both rode to the hospital in the back of the same ambulance. That was a trip."
"You were badly hurt?"
Marino's face was unreadable as he replied, "Naw. Seventy-eight stitches. Flesh wounds. You've never seen me with my shirt off. The guy had a knife."
"How awful," I muttered.
"I don't like knives, Doc."
"I don't either," I agreed.
We headed out. I felt grimy with gun oil and gunshot residue. Shooting is much dirtier than most people might imagine.
Marino was reaching back for his wallet as we walked. Next he was handing me a small white card.
"I didn't fill out an application," I said, staring, rather dazed, at the license authorizing me to carry a concealed weapon.
"Yeah, well, Judge Reinhard owed me a favor."
"Thank you, Marino," I said.
He smiled as he held open the door for me.
Despite the directives of Wesley and Marino and my own good sense, I stayed inside my building until it was dark out, the parking lot empty. I had given up on my desk, and a glance at my calendar had about done me in.
Rose had been systematically reorganizing my life. Appointments had been pushed weeks ahead or canceled, and lectures and demonstration autopsies had been rerouted to Fielding. The health commissioner, my immediate boss, had tried to reach me three times, finally inquiring if I were ill.
Fielding was becoming quite adept at filling in for me. Rose was typing his autopsy protocols and micro-dictations. She was doing his work instead of mine. The sun continued to rise and set, and the office was running without a hitch because I had selected and trained my staff very well. I wondered how God had felt after He created a world that thought it did not need Him.
I did not go home right away, but drove to Chamberlayne Farms. The same outdated notices were still taped to the elevator walls. I rode up with an emaciated little woman who never took her lonely eyes off me as she clutched her walker like a bird clinging to its branch.
I had not told Mrs. McTigue I was coming. When the door to 378 finally opened after several loud knocks, she peered quizzically out from her lair of crowded furniture and loud television noise.
"Mrs. McTigue?" I introduced myself again, not at all sure she would remember me.
The door opened wider as her face lit up. "Yes. Why, of course! How grand of you to stop by. Won't you please come in?"
She was dressed in a pink quilted housecoat and matching slippers, and when I followed her into the living room Burned off the television set and removed a lap robe from the couch, where she evidently had been sitting as she snacked on nutbread and juice and watched the evening news.
"Please forgive me," I said. "I've interrupted your dinner."
"Oh, no. I was just nibbling. May I offer you some refreshment?" she was quick to say.
I politely declined, seating myself while she moved about, tidying up. My heart was tugged by memories of my own grandmother, whose humor was unflagging even as she watched her flesh fall to ruin around her ears. I would never forget her visit to Miami the summer before she died when I took her shopping, and her improvised "diaper" of men's briefs and Kotex pads sprung a safety pin and ended up around her knees in the middle of Wool-worth's. She held herself together as we hurried off to find a ladies' room, both of us laughing so hard I nearly lost control of my bladder, too.
"They say we may get snow tonight," Mrs. McTigue commented when she seated herself.
"It's very damp out," I replied abstractedly. "And it certainly feels cold enough to snow."
"I don't believe they're predicting any accumulation, though."
"I don't like driving in the snow." I said, my mind working on weighty, unpleasant things.
"Perhaps we'll have a white Christmas this year. Wouldn't that be special?"
"It would be special." I was looking in vain for any evidence of a typewriter in the apartment.
"I can't remember the last time we had a white Christmas."
Her nervous conversation tried to overcome her uneasiness. She knew I had come to see her for a reason and sensed it wasn't good news.
"Are you quite sure I can't get you something? A glass of port?"
"No, thank you," I said.
Silence.
"Mrs. McTigue," I ventured. Her eyes were as vulnerable and uncertain as a child's. "I wonder if I might see that photograph again? The one you showed me last time I was here."
She blinked several times, her smile thin and pale like a scar.
"The one of Beryl Madison," I added.
"Why, certainly," she said, slowly getting up, an air of resignation about her as she went to the secretary to fetch it. Fear, or maybe it was merely confusion, registered on her face when she handed me the photograph and I also asked to see the envelope and sheet of creamy folded paper.
I knew instantly by the feel of it that the paper was twenty-pound weight, and when I tilted it toward the lamp I saw the Crane's watermark, translucent in the high-quality rag. I briefly glanced at the photograph, and by now Mrs. McTigue looked thoroughly bewildered.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I know you must be wondering what on earth I'm doing."
She was at a loss for words.
"I'm curious. The photograph looks much older than the stationery."
"It is," she replied, her frightened eyes not leaving me. "I found the photograph among Joe's papers and tucked it in the envelope for safekeeping."
"This is your stationery?"
I asked as benignly as possible.
"Oh, no."
She reached for her juice and carefully sipped. "It was my husband's, but I did pick it out for him. A very nice engraved stationery for his business, you see. After he passed on, I kept only the blank second sheets and envelopes. I have more than I'll ever use."
There was no way to ask her without being direct.
"Mrs. McTigue, did your husband have a typewriter?"
"Why, yes. I gave it to my daughter. She lives in Falls Church. I always write my letters out in longhand. Not so many anymore, because of my arthritis."
"What kind of typewriter?"
"Dear me. I don't recall except that it's electric and fairly new," she stammered. "Joe would trade it in on a new one every few years. You know, even when these computers came out, he insisted on handling his correspondence the way he always had. Burt-that was his office manager-urged foe for years to start using the computer, but Joe always had to have his typewriter."
"At home or in his office?" I asked.
"Why, both. He often stayed up late working on things in his office at home."
"Did he correspond with the Harpers, Mrs. McTigue?"
She had slipped a tissue out of a pocket of her robe and was twisting it in her fingers.
"I'm sorry to ask you so many questions," I persisted gently.
She stared down at her gnarled, thin-skinned hands and said nothing.
"Please," I said quietly. "It's important or I wouldn't ask."
"It's about her, isn't it?"
The tissue was shredding and she wouldn't look up.
"Sterling Harper."
"Yes."
"Please tell me, Mrs. McTigue."
"She was very lovely. And so gracious. A very fine lady," Mrs. McTigue said.
"Did your husband correspond with Miss Harper?"
I asked.
"I'm quite sure he did."
"What makes you think that?"
"I came in on him once or twice when he was writing a letter. He always said it was business."
I said nothing.
"Yes. My Joe."
She smiled, her eyes dead. "Such a ladies' man. You know, he always kissed a lady's hand and made her feel the queen."
"Did Miss Harper write to him as well?" I asked hesitantly, for I did not enjoy irritating an old wound.
"Not that I'm aware."
"He wrote her but she never returned his letters?"
"Joe was a man of letters. He always said he would write a book someday. He was always reading something, don't you know."
"I can see why he would enjoy Gary Harper so much," I commented.
"Quite often when Mr. Harper was frustrated, he would call. I suppose writer's block is the term. He would call Joe and they would talk about the most interesting things. Literature and whatnot."
The tissue was little bits of twisted paper in her lap. "Joe's favorite was Faulkner, if you can imagine. He was also quite fond of Hemingway and Dostoyevski. When we were courting, I lived in Arlington and he was here. He would write me the most beautiful letters you can imagine."
Letters like the ones he began to write his love in later life, I thought. Letters like the ones he began to write the gorgeous, unmarried Sterling Harper. Letters she was kind enough to burn before she committed suicide, because she did not wish to shatter the heart and memories of his widow.
"You found them, then," she barely said.
"Found letters to her?"
"Yes. His letters."
"No."
It was, perhaps, the most merciful half truth I had ever told. "No, I can't say that we found anything like that, Mrs. McTigue. The police found no correspondence from your husband among the Harpers' personal effects, no stationery with your husband's letterhead, nothing of an intimate nature addressed to Sterling Harper."
Her face relaxed as denial was blessedly reinforced.
"Did you ever spend any time with the Harpers? Socially, for example?" I asked.
"Why, yes. Twice that I remember. Once Mr. Harper came for a dinner party. And on one other occasion the Harpers and Beryl Madison were overnight guests."
This piqued my interest. "When were they your overnight guests?"
"Mere months before Joe passed on. I 'spect that would have been the first of the year, just a month or two after Beryl spoke to our group. In fact, I'm sure it was because the Christmas tree was still up. I remember that. It was such a treat to have her."
"To have Beryl?"
"Oh, yes! I was so pleased. It seems the three of them had been in New York on business. They were seeing Beryl's agent, I believe. They flew into Richmond on their way home and were generous enough to stay the night with us. Or at least the Harpers stayed the night. Beryl lived here, you see. Late in the evening Joe gave her a ride back to her home. Then he took the Harpers back to Williamsburg the following morning."
"What do you remember about that night?" I asked.
"Let me see… I remember I fixed leg of lamb and they were late coming in from the airport because the airline lost Mr. Harper's bags."
Almost a year ago, I considered. This would have been before Beryl had begun receiving the threats-based on the information we had gotten.
"They were rather tired from the trip," Mrs. McTigue continued. "But Joe was so good. He was the most charming host you'd ever want to meet."
Could Mrs. McTigue tell? Did she know by the way her husband looked at Miss Harper that he was in love with her?
I remembered the distant look in Mark's eyes during those final days so long ago when we were together. When I knew. It was instinct. I knew he was not thinking about me, and yet I would not believe he was in love with someone else until he finally told me.
"Kay, I'm sorry," he said as we drank Irish coffee for the last time in our favorite bar in Georgetown while tiny flakes of snow spiraled down from gray skies and beautiful couples walked by bundled in winter coats and brightly knitted scarves. "You know I love you, Kay."
"But not the same way I love you," I said, my heart gripped by the worst pain I ever remember feeling.
He looked down at the table. "I never intended to hurt you."
"Of course you didn't."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
I knew he was. He really and truly was. And it didn't change a goddamn thing.
I never knew her name because I did not want to know it, and she was not the woman he said he had later married. Janet, who had died. But then, maybe that was a lie, too.
"… he had quite a temper."
"Who did?" I asked, my eyes focusing on Mrs. McTigue again.
"Mr. Harper," she replied, and she was beginning to look very tired. "He was so irritable about his luggage. Fortunately, it came in on the very next flight." She paused. "Goodness. That seems so long ago, and it really wasn't that long ago a'tall."
"What about Beryl?" I asked. "What do you remember about her that night?"
"All of them gone, now."
Her hands went still in her lap as she faced that dark, empty mirror. Everyone was dead but her, the guests from that cherished and frightful dinner party, ghosts.
"We are talking about them, Mrs. McTigue. They are still with us."
"I 'spect that's so," she said, her eyes bright with tears. "We need their help and they need ours."
She nodded. "Tell me about that night," I said again. "About Beryl."
"She was very quiet. I remember her watching the fire."
"What else?"
"Something happened."
"What? What happened, Mrs. McTigue?"
"She and Mr. Harper seemed to be unhappy with each other," she said.
"Why? Did they have an argument?"
"It was after the boy delivered the luggage. Mr. Harper opened one of the bags and pulled out an envelope that had papers in it. I don't really know. But he was drinking too much."
"Then what happened?"
"He exchanged some rather harsh words with his sister and Beryl. Then he took the papers and just flung them into the fire. He said, That's what I think of that! Trash, trash!' Or words to that effect."
"Do you know what it was he burned? A contract, perhaps?"
"I don't think so," she replied, staring off. "I remember getting the impression it was something Beryl had written. They looked like typed pages, and his anger seemed directed at her."
The autobiography she was writing, I thought. Or perhaps it was an outline that Miss Harper, Beryl, and Sparacino had discussed in New York with an increasingly enraged and out-of-control Gary Harper.
"Joe intervened," she said, lacing her misshapen fingers together, holding in her pain.
"What did he do?"
"He drove her home," she said. "He drove Beryl Madison home."
She stopped, staring at me in abject fear. "It's why it happened. I know it."
"It's why what happened?" I asked.
"It's why they're dead," she said. "I know it. I had this feeling at the time. It was such a frightful feeling."
"Describe it to me. Can you describe it?"
"It's why they're dead," she repeated. '"There was so much hate in the room that night."