It could be he’s a master of floor plans, I thought. Or it could be that somehow he’d noticed that detail when he’d been here after Tracy was murdered. But I couldn’t recall that door being called to his attention in any way. Wait, he’d said something about knowing the previous owners.
After a few minutes, Arnie was seated opposite us, ready to get down to business. I had made the ritual offer of a glass of water, or a cup of coffee, and just as politely he had turned those down. Arnie began explaining all the security options—motion-sensor cameras outside, alarms on the windows and on the doors—and if we wanted, we could opt to look on our computers to see who was at the door. Robin brightened, since any new gadget was shiny to him, but I gave him a dampening look. Did we really need that?
I wanted the entire yard, front and back, lit up, after my experience of the week before. But lights that would stay on all night were out of the question, since they’d be a pain for our neighbors and for ourselves. Instead, we got motion-sensor lights.
“Could our cat set them off?” I asked. Sometimes, when I was up with Sophie, I heard the sound of the cat passing through its little door at very odd hours. Arnie assured me he could set the sensitivity of the lights to go off only if the moving object was larger than Moosie.
“How long have you had a security company?” Robin asked. I recognized an indirect approach when I heard one.
“Must be ten years now.” Arnie’s head was bent over the form while he figured out our cost, and I saw that his intensely black hair was threaded with some silver.
“Did you know the previous owners of this house? Laurie and David Martinez?”
Arnie looked up, his pen poised above the form. “He worked at Pan-Am Agra. Laurie was a nurse at Dr. Graham’s office.” He looked down again. “When my wife got sick, Dr. Graham was her doctor. We saw Laurie all the time. After Halina passed, we got to be friends.”
Did Arnie mean he and David and Laurie were friends? Or was his friendship strictly confined to Laurie? At least such a friendship explained why Arnie knew the layout of the house so well.
After some more discussion about our options, Robin signed a contract with our coroner/Spartan Shield Security expert. We were excited about the transformation of our home into an impregnable fortress.
“I’ll be over tomorrow with my assistant, and we’ll get you all fixed up,” Arnie said, standing. “I think I have all the components I’ll need, but I’ll check as soon as I get home.”
When Phillip breezed in, I told him about the Spartan Shield security system. “They’ll be here tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “With all their stuff.”
“That’s great! I want to watch them install the sensors.” Phillip tossed his head to throw back his hair. (It looked uneven and messy to me, but Phillip could wear his hair like he wanted. I pick my battles.)
“They’re supposed to get here at two thirty, but I’m sure you’ll be home in time to watch at least part of the work. Oh, by the way…” I warned Phillip that our security expert was none other than the coroner.
He was indignant. “How can he have two jobs?”
“The coroner is elected, and the job doesn’t pay enough for anyone to live on,” I said. “Most coroners have another full-time job. Like funeral director. But the job can be anything, like a salesperson at Lowe’s or a beauty parlor operator.”
“That’s just not right,” Phillip said.
“I agree, but that’s the way it works in Georgia. And a lot of states.”
Phillip shook his head. “People,” he said, disillusioned.
At least he hadn’t said, “Grown-ups.”
When my brother had gone to his room, presumably starting his homework, I admitted to myself that this was only one of many things about the adult world that Phillip would think were “not right.”
The next day, I took advantage of Sophie’s naptime to visit John at home. His doctor had let him go the day before, in the afternoon. On the way, I stopped off at Mother’s favorite deli/bakery and bought assorted salads, some containers of soup, and some rye bread, John’s favorite.
Mother was pleased. Though she scolded me, I could tell she was relieved to have some ready-to-eat food in the refrigerator. I hugged her because she looked depressed and ill, as if she was the one who’d been stricken. Mother held me for a moment without speaking, and I knew she was struggling not to cry.
I can’t tell you how unusual that was.
“John’s in the den,” she said, and stepped back, her weak moment over. I followed her into the den to find John lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling: the television wasn’t on, and he didn’t have a book nearby. This was as unusual for John as depression and emotional displays were for my mother.
This was not the joyful celebration of homecoming that I had expected. I perched on the ottoman, midway between them.
Mother resumed her seat in her favorite armchair and picked up some needlework. Mother hadn’t done needlework since—well, since forever. Though I was looking at it upside down, the piece appeared to be an alphabet sampler. Obviously, she was employing it as an excuse to sit and watch John.
I could understand why.
John looked bad. His complexion was pasty, his face slack, and he was not lying there like someone who was going to jump up eventually. He seemed to be on the couch to stay.
“Hi, Stepdad,” I said, doing my best to sound cheerful. “I know you’re glad to be out of that hospital.”
“I have to go back to the doctor tomorrow,” he said listlessly.
To mask my anxiety, I rattled on about the baby and her magnificence and quitting my job and getting the security system. Anything to fill in the awful silence. Mother gave up any pretense of working on the square, and dropped it in her lap. She tried to respond, but couldn’t muster much energy. Since she thought Sophie was the world’s most important citizen, this was really a bad sign.
I had a brainstorm. I knew what would really interest John! I gave my mother a narrow-eyed look to indicate I was about to do something she wasn’t going to like.
“John, you were at your family reunion when Phillip and I found the body in our backyard,” I said.
“What?” John looked startled, and I realized he didn’t know anything about events on McBride Street. “Whose body?”
I told John the entire story of the night Tracy had been killed: the inexplicable absence of Virginia Mitchell, my illness, Phillip’s steadfast help, the horror of the body, the threatening storm. The shooting, and my subsequent discovery of Virginia’s cell phone.
John did look much better when I’d finished, and it wasn’t my imagination. He was engaged and his mind was working. “So I was lying there in the hospital while people were getting shot outside,” he said. “I’m having a hard time believing that happened here in Lawrenceton. What’s happened to the boy? Duncan?”
“I don’t know. I assume he’s in the hospital—probably not ours—under police guard. Susan got him in the abdomen.”