She tosses her head, as if she’s made some point. “Neither are you, apparently.”
“Did you know that’s why Father sent her away? Because he was ashamed of her . . . Jewishness?” It sounds awkward and ugly coming out of my mouth, but then the things my father has been accused of are ugly.
Cee-Cee folds her hands primly and places them on the blotter. “He was ashamed of her because she embarrassed him in front of his friends.”
“She was sick.”
“She was weak!”
And there it is. Confirmation, were I still in need of it. “You said once that Father sometimes made the chess pieces disappear. This is what you were talking about. Her. She was the troublesome chess piece.”
Cee-Cee pulls in a breath, then squares her shoulders. “You know how she was. You were there that night. You saw and heard the same things I did, the same thing everyone did. Sobbing and ranting like a crazy woman. How much longer was he supposed to endure her tantrums? He had to send her away.”
“And the accident,” I press. “The way she died.”
“What about it?”
“There are people who think it wasn’t an accident.” I hesitate, not sure I can actually say the rest out loud. Once I do, it’s said. There’s no taking it back. But I need to say it, to see her face when I say it. “They think someone was paid to drop a knife in her room—that Father paid someone to drop a knife in her room.”
She stares at me, aghast. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
The look of horror on her face fills me with a strange relief. “You didn’t know.”
“Know what? You’re talking nonsense.”
“Am I?” I look her up and down, her rattled expression, her rigid posture. “I don’t think so. And I think you know it. She didn’t die the way they said, Cee-Cee. It wasn’t an accident.”
I see her needing to deny it, to dismiss it as impossible, and I almost feel sorry for her. The idea that her hero, the father she’s worshipped and always striven to please, could be capable of something so horrifyingly cold-blooded has shaken her to her core.
“Of course it wasn’t an accident, you little fool. We all know what she did—and why. You said it yourself. She was sick. But no one was going to benefit from the truth coming out, especially if it got out that she’d tried twice before. Suicide is an ugly word. Of course they cleaned it up.”
I gape at her, incredulous. Not once had the word been mentioned in my presence, but it had clearly been mentioned in hers. “You knew about the other times?”
“Not at first, but after . . . The insurance people were sniffing around, asking questions. Father thought I should know.”
“But not me.”
“You were a child,” she flings at me before lowering her voice. “You have no idea how bad it was—how bad she was.” There’s a plea in her eyes now, a need to bring me over to her side—to his side. “The press would have had a field day with her dramatics. It was all so sordid, so . . . messy.”
“You make it sound like it was her fault. Like she deserved what happened to her.”
“What do you want me to say? It was tragic, horrific. But it was also inevitable. It’s why Father sent her there in the first place. He didn’t know what else to do with her. She was out of control, spiraling deeper and deeper. It was only a matter of time.”
I listen to her, justifying, rationalizing, shifting the blame onto my mother, and I realize she’s already absolved him. “You don’t care, do you? Whether he did what they say or not. You don’t care.”
“For the love of god! Will you listen to yourself? What you’re suggesting is absurd.” Her eyes harden suddenly, assessing me. “And in case you’ve got any wild ideas, it would be a very bad idea to repeat a word of it to anyone.”
There’s no missing her meaning. How like him she is, I realize with a wave of revulsion, trying to back me down with thinly veiled threats. “Am I next, then? Another chess piece to be disposed of? Who knows? Maybe I’ll have an accident too.”
She gives me a pained look, as if dealing with an intractable child. “I’d watch my step if I were you.” She scoops the stack of mail from the desk then and tucks it under her arm, signaling that our conversation is over. “And don’t go getting ideas. The Teddy matter is settled business. You’ll walk down the aisle as planned. And until you do, you’ll be staying close to home.”
“You can’t bully me into marrying someone I don’t want to marry.”
She looks at me as if I’ve said something amusing. “Of course we can. And you’re looking at the proof. Do you think I wanted to marry George and have all these children? That being someone’s wife was all I ever aspired to? It wasn’t. But here I am, dancing to everyone else’s tune—for the good of the family. And soon it’ll be your turn.”
I lift my chin, willing myself not to blink. “And if I’ve made other plans?”
She stares at me with an infuriating calm, like a card sharp who knows she’s holding the winning hand. “These plans of yours—they wouldn’t by any chance include a certain newspaper reporter? One with a seedy little apartment on Thirty-Seventh Street?” She smiles, pleased with herself when she sees my mouth drop open. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? You’re not nearly as clever as you think you are.”
I look away, feeling color creep into my cheeks.
Her eyes are riveted to my face as she continues. “I know how often you take the car out, where you go, and how long you stay. I know about the groceries and the wine and what I suspect are very cozy suppers. I know it all.”
“You had me followed?”
“I suspected the two of you might be involved the first time he came around. I saw you watching him. And him watching you. Like a pair of hungry cats. I didn’t care, so long as you didn’t botch the business with Teddy. A friend in the press can be a good thing to have.” She pauses, flashing a feral smile. “And something tells me he’s very good. A little rough around the edges, perhaps, but that can be a plus. They say it’s fun to go slumming now and then. Is it true?”
The crack of my palm against her cheek echoes off the study walls before I can check myself. Cee-Cee flinches, but her smile never slips. Still, I’m savagely glad to see the hot pink bloom of my handprint along her cheek.
“Right,” she says with a cool nod. “That’s what I thought.”
“I suppose Father knows.”
“No. Or not from me, at any rate. I decided as long as you were being discreet, I’d leave it alone. I assumed you’d be through with him by now, though. Instead, here you stand, ready to throw poor Teddy over for the paperboy.”
“Hemi is worth ten of Teddy.”