man.”
“In what way?”
“He fooled around on me, he gambled more than he could afford, he drank like a fish, he was lazy and irresponsible, insensitive, and selfish. Other than that, he was a gem.”
“You sound bitter,” Savannah said softly.
“Yes, but that’s only because I loved him so much. Some people think that hatred is the opposite of love. Of course it isn’t; indifference is. As long as you have the capacity to love someone, you can hate them, too. Strong emotion is the same, no matter which way the river flows.”
“If he was that worthless, why did you love him? Why did you marry him?”
In answer to the question Beverly rose from the chaise and I, walked over to the mantel, which displayed an array of photos in silver and inlaid hardwood frames. Picking up two of the pictures, she brought them to Savannah and placed the first one in her hand.
“These people were my parents. They’ve both passed on now.”
Savannah studied the photo, which was faded and yellow with age. She wasn’t sure what she had expected the Harringtons to look like, but she hadn’t anticipated the stern, hard expressions, the extremely stiff postures, or the lack of contact between the man, the woman, and the small girl, whom Savannah assumed was Beverly.
The child in the picture looked miserably unhappy, lonely, alienated. Quickly Savannah readjusted her previous fantasy about how fairytale wonderful it must have been to be raised in a mansion like this.
“My father was a citrus rancher,” Beverly said. “This house, the family fortune, was built on the backs of migrant workers who were terribly misused. Peter Harrington was a powerful man in his day. He was greatly feared, but he wasn’t loved. Victoria Harrington was his idea of a perfect wife: beautiful, elegant, silent, and totally submissive.”
“What kind of mother was she?” Savannah asked.
“Distant.”
Beverly withdrew the first photograph and held out the other. Savannah saw a young couple in their late teens or early twenties: Beverly and Jonathan in better days. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, and they wore goofy, mischievous grins on their faces. Especially Jonathan, whose eyes sparkled with devilment.
“Looks like he was a bit of a pistol,” Savannah commented, feeling again the pang of regret that a living, breathing person had been robbed of his life.
“A bit? ” Beverly laughed. “Jonathan convinced me to toilet paper my first house—a former high school teacher who really deserved it. Jonathan and I climbed up on the freeway overpass at three in the morning to spray paint our initials. God, how times change. I’ve passed city ordinances that put kids in jail for stuff like that.” Beverly pulled the photo back and looked down at it, her face softening. “Jonathan was my first lover,” she said. “My only lover for years and years. He knew how to play, and he taught me that it was good to feel joy and passion. Emotions were good things, not frivolous and dangerous, as my parents had taught me. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”
She replaced the photographs on the mantel, then returned to her chaise. “Does that answer your question, Detective Reid?” she asked tiredly.
“Yes, very well. Thank you.” Savannah looked down at her notebook, which she had flipped open on her lap. “Mrs. Winston, could you tell me where you were early yesterday morning? About four.”
“Four.” She winced a little. “Was that when it happened?”
“We think so. Around that time.”
“I was in bed, asleep. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I sleep in sometimes.” Savannah heard the underlying sarcasm in her voice and thought how difficult it must be to lose a mate, then be suspected of committing the murder. She supposed Beverly Winston was entitled to a little bitterness.
“Excuse me, but...” Savannah cleared her throat. “... but do you have anyone who can vouch for the fact that you were
“In what way?”
“He fooled around on me, he gambled more than he could afford, he drank like a fish, he was lazy and irresponsible, insensitive, and selfish. Other than that, he was a gem.”
“You sound bitter,” Savannah said softly.
“Yes, but that’s only because I loved him so much. Some people think that hatred is the opposite of love. Of course it isn’t; indifference is. As long as you have the capacity to love someone, you can hate them, too. Strong emotion is the same, no matter which way the river flows.”
“If he was that worthless, why did you love him? Why did you marry him?”
In answer to the question Beverly rose from the chaise and I, walked over to the mantel, which displayed an array of photos in silver and inlaid hardwood frames. Picking up two of the pictures, she brought them to Savannah and placed the first one in her hand.
“These people were my parents. They’ve both passed on now.”
Savannah studied the photo, which was faded and yellow with age. She wasn’t sure what she had expected the Harringtons to look like, but she hadn’t anticipated the stern, hard expressions, the extremely stiff postures, or the lack of contact between the man, the woman, and the small girl, whom Savannah assumed was Beverly.
The child in the picture looked miserably unhappy, lonely, alienated. Quickly Savannah readjusted her previous fantasy about how fairytale wonderful it must have been to be raised in a mansion like this.
“My father was a citrus rancher,” Beverly said. “This house, the family fortune, was built on the backs of migrant workers who were terribly misused. Peter Harrington was a powerful man in his day. He was greatly feared, but he wasn’t loved. Victoria Harrington was his idea of a perfect wife: beautiful, elegant, silent, and totally submissive.”
“What kind of mother was she?” Savannah asked.
“Distant.”
Beverly withdrew the first photograph and held out the other. Savannah saw a young couple in their late teens or early twenties: Beverly and Jonathan in better days. Their arms were draped over each other’s shoulders, and they wore goofy, mischievous grins on their faces. Especially Jonathan, whose eyes sparkled with devilment.
“Looks like he was a bit of a pistol,” Savannah commented, feeling again the pang of regret that a living, breathing person had been robbed of his life.
“A bit? ” Beverly laughed. “Jonathan convinced me to toilet paper my first house—a former high school teacher who really deserved it. Jonathan and I climbed up on the freeway overpass at three in the morning to spray paint our initials. God, how times change. I’ve passed city ordinances that put kids in jail for stuff like that.” Beverly pulled the photo back and looked down at it, her face softening. “Jonathan was my first lover,” she said. “My only lover for years and years. He knew how to play, and he taught me that it was good to feel joy and passion. Emotions were good things, not frivolous and dangerous, as my parents had taught me. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”
She replaced the photographs on the mantel, then returned to her chaise. “Does that answer your question, Detective Reid?” she asked tiredly.
“Yes, very well. Thank you.” Savannah looked down at her notebook, which she had flipped open on her lap. “Mrs. Winston, could you tell me where you were early yesterday morning? About four.”
“Four.” She winced a little. “Was that when it happened?”
“We think so. Around that time.”
“I was in bed, asleep. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I sleep in sometimes.” Savannah heard the underlying sarcasm in her voice and thought how difficult it must be to lose a mate, then be suspected of committing the murder. She supposed Beverly Winston was entitled to a little bitterness.
“Excuse me, but...” Savannah cleared her throat. “... but do you have anyone who can vouch for the fact that you were
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