a side door that led into a small sitting
room.
Inside, the air was still and faintly stale-smelling,
even though Victor's cleaning help kept the house sparkling
enough to do surgery in. It certainly did not have
the air of inhabitedness that mine did, the sense of welcome.
Without Victor in it, I felt immediately the dark
vacancy of the rooms.
Quickly, I went around turning on lights. The investigators
had not made a mess of things, or at least
not the awful one I had expected. There were smudges
of what I supposed must be fingerprint powder. Papers
had been riffled through, not left in the order that
Victor would have. Drawers had been emptied, their
contents scattered, and manila folders lay out on the
desk.
But there was no sign of the callous ransacking
that I had feared. Victor's fastidiousness was elemental
to him, and even after all that had happened between
us, I did not, I realized as I noted my own relief, want
him utterly destroyed even by proxy.
"There's too much I don't understand," I complained
as Wade pulled the drapes and checked the
lock on the back door. "All of you seem to think that
what happened to Reuben Tate was justice. As if he, or
anyone, could have deserved that ... that atrocity."
On a low table, the day's heap of letters and journals
lay where the detectives had left them, after bringing
them in and going through them. Wade squared up
the pile and set it on a bookcase in which Victor's medical
books were grouped by category.
"But I just don't believe in that kind of justice," I
said. "Maybe there are exceptions to the rules we've
come up with to deal with renegades, but I wouldn't
know how to pick them. And it worries me," I finished,
"to find out that maybe you do."
I could see him thinking about how to reply as we
went into the rest of the downstairs rooms, then to the
cellar. Wade checked the pilot light on the furnace, rattled
the cellar door, peered into the fuse box. Everything
seemed shipshape.
But it was like going through a house after somebody
in it had died. Back on the main floor in the front
hall stood Victor's antique instrument case, its glass
doors open, its contents taken away. Evidence, I supposed,
though I didn't see of what.
"That collection was the only thing he brought
with him from New York," I said, hoping someone had
at least made a list of it. "That and his clothes. Back in
the city, he kept souvenirs of his girlfriends: photographs,
letters. He had a little black book the size of
the Manhattan telephone directory."
Or so it had seemed to me when I'd come upon it
one day when I was still married to Victor, while I was
cleaning closets.
"But Sam says he got rid of it all," I said. "Took
the black book and tore the pages out of it, tore those
up, and flushed them down the toilet. Sold his little
sports car, stereo, all that kind of thing. All his city
toys."
We went up to check the second floor, and Wade
climbed the third-floor stairs to make sure the attic
door was closed,
"Don't want squirrels moving from there into the
house," he explained, coming back down again. "So
Victor was really turning over a new leaf."
"Right," I said. A bitter little laugh bubbled up in
me at the idea of Victor having squirrels in his attic.
Real squirrels, I mean. "He was never going to be
what you might call personally well adjusted," I went
on. "But he was trying. For once, he was trying hard.
Which is another reason why what's happening to him
now isn't ..."
We went back downstairs. The investigators had
left a light on in the display case. Wade reached in and
switched it off, its fluorescent hum leaving a louder
silence where it had been.
"Justice," he finished my sentence for me. "You're
right, it isn't. I don't think Victor killed Reuben any
more than you do. And you're wondering if I think
what happened to Reuben out there at Hillside
room.
Inside, the air was still and faintly stale-smelling,
even though Victor's cleaning help kept the house sparkling
enough to do surgery in. It certainly did not have
the air of inhabitedness that mine did, the sense of welcome.
Without Victor in it, I felt immediately the dark
vacancy of the rooms.
Quickly, I went around turning on lights. The investigators
had not made a mess of things, or at least
not the awful one I had expected. There were smudges
of what I supposed must be fingerprint powder. Papers
had been riffled through, not left in the order that
Victor would have. Drawers had been emptied, their
contents scattered, and manila folders lay out on the
desk.
But there was no sign of the callous ransacking
that I had feared. Victor's fastidiousness was elemental
to him, and even after all that had happened between
us, I did not, I realized as I noted my own relief, want
him utterly destroyed even by proxy.
"There's too much I don't understand," I complained
as Wade pulled the drapes and checked the
lock on the back door. "All of you seem to think that
what happened to Reuben Tate was justice. As if he, or
anyone, could have deserved that ... that atrocity."
On a low table, the day's heap of letters and journals
lay where the detectives had left them, after bringing
them in and going through them. Wade squared up
the pile and set it on a bookcase in which Victor's medical
books were grouped by category.
"But I just don't believe in that kind of justice," I
said. "Maybe there are exceptions to the rules we've
come up with to deal with renegades, but I wouldn't
know how to pick them. And it worries me," I finished,
"to find out that maybe you do."
I could see him thinking about how to reply as we
went into the rest of the downstairs rooms, then to the
cellar. Wade checked the pilot light on the furnace, rattled
the cellar door, peered into the fuse box. Everything
seemed shipshape.
But it was like going through a house after somebody
in it had died. Back on the main floor in the front
hall stood Victor's antique instrument case, its glass
doors open, its contents taken away. Evidence, I supposed,
though I didn't see of what.
"That collection was the only thing he brought
with him from New York," I said, hoping someone had
at least made a list of it. "That and his clothes. Back in
the city, he kept souvenirs of his girlfriends: photographs,
letters. He had a little black book the size of
the Manhattan telephone directory."
Or so it had seemed to me when I'd come upon it
one day when I was still married to Victor, while I was
cleaning closets.
"But Sam says he got rid of it all," I said. "Took
the black book and tore the pages out of it, tore those
up, and flushed them down the toilet. Sold his little
sports car, stereo, all that kind of thing. All his city
toys."
We went up to check the second floor, and Wade
climbed the third-floor stairs to make sure the attic
door was closed,
"Don't want squirrels moving from there into the
house," he explained, coming back down again. "So
Victor was really turning over a new leaf."
"Right," I said. A bitter little laugh bubbled up in
me at the idea of Victor having squirrels in his attic.
Real squirrels, I mean. "He was never going to be
what you might call personally well adjusted," I went
on. "But he was trying. For once, he was trying hard.
Which is another reason why what's happening to him
now isn't ..."
We went back downstairs. The investigators had
left a light on in the display case. Wade reached in and
switched it off, its fluorescent hum leaving a louder
silence where it had been.
"Justice," he finished my sentence for me. "You're
right, it isn't. I don't think Victor killed Reuben any
more than you do. And you're wondering if I think
what happened to Reuben out there at Hillside
Similar Books
