O' Artful Death Part 18

How had he gotten there so quickly? How had he known where to go? It only made sense if he had pushed her. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became.

He had lied about when he arrived. And he had followed Sweeney to Boston. Kissing her had been a ploy to distract her from the sheer silliness of his stupid excuses.

But why? That was what she kept coming back to. The police were saying that Carl Thompson had killed Ruth Kimball and until she found out differently, Sweeney was going to accept that. So was it possible that Ruth Kimball's murder had absolutely nothing to do with Mary Denholm's? Was it possible that Ian had come to make sure that the truth about the older mystery didn't get out?

Anything was possible, Sweeney told herself sardonically. But not everything was true. She decided she'd head over to Gilmartin's studio.

She hadn't seen it yet and it might be inspiring to see the place where he'd carried on his liaisons, the place where Mary's body had been found.

She took the path through the woods, taking the fork that Ian had pointed out to her that first day in Byzantium. As she came out on a little ridge, she could see the river below her. The morning sun and warmer air had loosed the ice floes a bit and the water ran swiftly by, dark and bottomless. She stood for a moment, looking down at it and gasped when she saw a dark form floating by, the face stretched into a grimace, the flowing hair trailing in the water, the hands folded demurely over the lap.

But it was just a log, a frozen chunk of ice at one end, a plastic bag dragging like hair, icy hands twisted from a few leftover branches at the other. The log bobbed a bit on the water, innocuous now, and Sweeney admonished herself for being so skittish.

The path sloped down to the river and after a few minutes she saw, up ahead in the trees, the small brown form of Herrick Gilmartin's studio. It was like a little log cabin, built up on stilts. Underneath was piled firewood, and off to one side was a telephone booth-sized structure Sweeney a.s.sumed was an outhouse.

She stood and looked at the little building. It was in a pretty spot, just above the river, with views across to the other bank and a path that led down to what must have been a small beach. In winter, under a thin and unattractive covering of snow and ice, the studio looked a bit forlorn, but she could imagine it surrounded by leafy trees and gardens, the green banks of the sparkling river beckoning a tired artist. She climbed three wooden stairs to the porch and tried the front door, but found it well secured with a s.h.i.+ny padlock. The windows were obscured by curtains and when she stood up on tiptoes to try to look through the narrow pane above the door, she saw only molding, the top of a wall. Darn.

She climbed down off the porch and studied the building. So this was where he had carried on his affaires de couer affaires de couer, Sweeney thought, or his affairs of something else. It was also where Mary had modeled for Gilmartin on her last day of life.

The wind blew through the trees, stirring up the bone-bare limbs, which clacked against each other alarmingly. A branch that had been wedged in a little tree next to the studio flew and skittered down onto the ground. The wind came hurrying through the trees again and she felt suddenly afraid.

She turned to go. But the outhouse stood there like an unfinished sentence. She would just make sure there wasn't anything there of interest. She wasn't sure exactly what she was hoping to find, but it had been Gilmartin's and who knew, maybe there was some Victorian graffiti scrawled on the walls: "I killed Mary." "Mary and Herrick forever." Sweeney allowed herself a small smile.

She made her way across the little yard between the studio and the outhouse, and stood there, gathering her courage, then strode over and threw the door open.

She saw blood.

Red blood, frozen on the wooden floor of the outhouse. Eyes staring lifelessly at nothing, the body stilled in an improbable position.

She screamed and almost fled, then forced herself to look.

An unfortunate ermine-she only knew its name because she had studied art and she had seen countless of those snowy white pelts in European portraits of royalty-had retreated here after being attacked by some predator of the woods. Its throat had been opened. The blood had pooled beneath it and frozen. Its white coat was absolutely pristine, though, and its eyes looked somehow peaceful. Sweeney checked to make sure that there wasn't anything else to see in here, and shut the door.

She waked quickly back toward the house and felt better as she came out into the sun, her s.h.i.+rt sticky with perspiration inside her layers of winter clothes.

As she caught sight of Birch Lane, she decided to go visit with Sabina. She had been wanting to ask her about last night, about what she had seen in the window that had scared her so. She walked along the road and in five minutes, she was striding up Sabina's driveway.

The door was already open, just a crack, but through the thin aperture, she could see Sabina's cat. It had one paw around the edge of the door as though she were trying to open it, and she mewed plaintively at Sweeney.

"Sabina?" Sweeney called out, the door yielding to her gentle pressure. It was very cold in the hallway, probably because the door had been left open, and Sweeney s.h.i.+vered as she called out again. "Sabina? It's Sweeney. I just wanted to see if you're okay. You seemed pretty shaken up last night."

Silence. Sweeney stepped carefully over the cat, who was rubbing desperately against her legs. As she came into the morning room, she saw that it was very messy. Papers and magazines lay on the floor, and then as she stood there, she realized that it wasn't just messy, that someone had knocked these things from the coffee table and the bookcases. Paintings and picture frames lay broken and jumbled on the floor. Shards of gla.s.s from a broken vase glittered on the oriental carpet.

"Sabina?" she called again, more desperately this time, going quickly toward the library. "Are you okay?"

In the moment that she saw Sabina's body lying on the floor of the library, Sweeney felt as though Death had finally shown his face. He had been stalking her all this time, leaving small clues, t.i.tillating her with his mysterious ways. But now here he was, in the flesh. And it was Sweeney he sought. She was sure of that now.

She went to Sabina's body and kneeled down beside her to peer at her eyes, which stared heavenward, dead and empty. Her face was purple and around her neck was a red satin cord. Sweeney saw that it had come from the drapes in the morning room, the strands of glossy crimson rope wound together, the silk ta.s.sels hanging ridiculously by Sabina's waist.

She was wearing only a blue terrycloth bathrobe and it had opened in front to reveal a peek of grotesquely mottled breast, silvery gray hair between her legs.

Sweeney looked up quickly at the wall where the relief by Jean Luc Baladin had been, and when she saw that it was bare, she got up and she began to run, away from Death, away from the evil that had been done here, away from her chaotic confusion about what it all meant.

She ran from the house and didn't stopuntil she reached the bridge.

TWENTY-EIGHT.

"SO THE RELIEF WAS MISSING?" It was much later and Sweeney was sitting in Chief Cooper's office at the police station, curled in a chair, hugging herself as if she could get warm again. One of the state investigators-she didn't remember his name-sat in a chair at the other end of the room, listening. It was much later and Sweeney was sitting in Chief Cooper's office at the police station, curled in a chair, hugging herself as if she could get warm again. One of the state investigators-she didn't remember his name-sat in a chair at the other end of the room, listening.

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes. I looked up and the whole wall was bare. It's definitely gone. I looked around the whole room, after I'd realized she was ... that there was a body." She was seeing once more the image of Sabina's eyes, staring up at her.

Cooper said nothing. His eyes were tired and his hands, Sweeney noticed, tremored slightly. "Had anything else been taken?"

She was so tired, she had to fight through a veil of exhaustion in order to focus her eyes on his face. "I don't know. I'd only been there once. You'd have to ask Willow, or someone who knows. I just don't ... I can't remember."

He watched her. "Have you ever seen a body before?" he asked quietly. "It can be very disturbing if you haven't."

The radio on his desk buzzed suddenly and Sweeney listened to a voice say something about securing Sabina's house after the body had been taken away. "You'd think so, in my line of work. But I haven't. It was different than I thought it would be, you know? I think I'd always figured that a dead body would look the way they do in horror films. Grotesque. Violated. But it was just a person, it was just her. Except I knew she wasn't alive anymore."

"What made you go and see her?" She had been waiting for him to ask the question and she swallowed hard before telling him about the way Sabina had suddenly stared at the window at the party, and the look of fear that had pa.s.sed across her face.

"So you think she must have seen something reflected in the window that scared her?"

"It's the only thing I can think. I was going to make sure she was okay and ask her what it was. But someone ..."

"Someone got there first." He met her eyes and she nodded.

She thought for a moment and said, "It means that it wasn't Carl, doesn't it? Because he was in jail."

He looked up at her in surprise, then said. "You're right. I think it's pretty safe to say that Carl Thompson wasn't responsible for this." The state investigator cleared his throat and Sweeney got the idea that Cooper had said something wrong.

"I don't know anything about this. She was ... she was strangled with a cord. From the curtains. I don't know how it works. Would you have to be strong, to do that? Or would the cord ...?"

He raised his eyebrows at her and she could see that he wasn't going to tell her anything. "Tell me a little bit more about what happened last night. There was an accident?" he said finally.

She looked up quickly, wondering who had told him. "Yes. But I'm not sure if ... It was probably just an accident."

He raised his eyebrows. "I don't know. You were coming back from the sleigh ride when I saw you. Is that right?"

"Yes. You'd just shown up to announce about the bridge." She saw something flash across his face and in that instant, she understood why he seemed so grim. "I just realized. About the bridge. Don't you see? It had to be one of us. It had to be someone on The Island."

"Yes," he said slowly. "It had occurred to me. That's why we're trying to pin down what everyone did after the party. You went to bed, I take it?" She nodded. "What about the rest of the household?"

Sweeney swallowed, remembering Patch's figure returning home at 4 A.M A.M. "The kids went to bed, too, at least I think they did. I think Britta and Patch went to bed about the same time I did."

He must have heard hesitation in her voice because she prompted her with a "And ...?"

"And I woke up from a bad dream at four and saw Patch coming home. He was walking."

Cooper sat up a little straighter in his chair. "At four, you say?"

"Yes. I figured he had gone to check on the bridge."

Cooper didn't confirm or deny that. "According to our interviews, your friend Mr. DiMarco took Electra Granger and Rosemary Burgess home. Mrs. Granger says he and Rosemary talked out in the car for a while and that she came back in around one. What time did he get home?"

"I don't actually know. I was asleep by then."

"What about Ian Ball?"

"I don't know. I a.s.sume he went to bed, too."

"But did you see him? Up on the third floor?"

Sweeney hesitated for a moment. "No," she said. "I didn't see him and his door was closed."

IT WAS BRITTA WHO picked her up at the police station. She was waiting in the lobby when Sweeney came out of Cooper's office, reading a magazine, her right foot tapping out a nervous rhythm on the linoleum. Outside the windows, the twilight sky was the loveliest shade of blue Sweeney had ever seen. A few early stars shone brilliantly above. picked her up at the police station. She was waiting in the lobby when Sweeney came out of Cooper's office, reading a magazine, her right foot tapping out a nervous rhythm on the linoleum. Outside the windows, the twilight sky was the loveliest shade of blue Sweeney had ever seen. A few early stars shone brilliantly above.

"Thanks for coming to get me," Sweeney said as they got into the Land Rover.

Britta had been crying and she looked up and said, "That's okay. Toby wanted to, but I felt like I just had to get out of the house. I couldn't stand being strong anymore. For the children."

"I'm sure no one expects you to be strong all the time. Sabina was your friend."

"I know. There are times I think it's better for them to know that you don't stop being scared or weak just because you're an adult, that I should let them see what our problems are, where all the fissures lie. And there are times when I think the most important thing I can do for them is to let them be scared while we keep things going."

"You're right. I had parents who let me see how weak they were all the time. It was terrifying."

Britta started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot. "Where does your mother live? Why don't you see her at Christmas?"

"She lives in England. We haven't talked in two years." Sweeney thought for a moment, remembering. It was as though she could smell Ivy's perfume. Gardenia. Heavily s.e.xual, sickly sweet. "She couldn't rise to the occasion when I needed something from her. I'm stubborn. She's ... we disagree about something. We've never worked it out."

"What do you disagree about?"

Sweeney wasn't sure why she told Britta the truth now, but she looked over at her and said, "It's nothing particularly interesting. She's an alcoholic."

"I'm sorry." They were out of town now, Britta driving too slowly along the road. Normally, Sweeney became impatient when stuck in the pa.s.senger seat with a poky driver. But today, she didn't mind. She felt she wouldn't mind if they never went back to The Island.

"How's everyone doing?" she asked.

"Not very well. Rosemary and Electra and Willow have been at the house most of the day. I think Toby's going to stay with them tonight. Anders is coming back from Boston to be with Willow."

"That's good," Sweeney said. "I wouldn't want to be alone tonight."

It was dark in the car and so she didn't notice that Britta was crying again until she pulled the car over and bent her head to the steering wheel, her body shaking with sobs.

"Britta? What's the matter?"

"I need you to drive. Okay? Just, can you ...?" She got out of the car and leaned against the hood for a second, staring out past the dark shoulder of the road. When Sweeney went to touch her shoulder, she could see that Britta was shaking. "Let's just get in the car."

Sweeney got behind the wheel and pulled back onto the road as soon as Britta had put on her seatbelt. They drove in silence for what seemed like hours until Britta stopped crying and said, "I thought I could handle this, but I guess I can't."

"It's understandable, Britta."

"No. You don't understand. You see, I was diagnosed with MS. Years ago, and I've been fine for the most part. It's just that when I'm tired or stressed I can feel ... it's hard to describe. It's like I can hear a train coming from miles away, feel the vibrations. I got scared this afternoon, because I could feel it. That's why I had to get out of the house."

"I'm so sorry. Should you go to a doctor? I'd be glad to ..."

"No!" Britta cut in. "The kids don't know and I don't want to tell Patch right now."

"But, Britta ..."

"No!" Britta grabbed Sweeney's arm. "Please, Sweeney. You don't understand. We just have to get through this. As a family. There are things I can't tell you. Please don't say anything."

Sweeney promised with a nod.

BY THE TIME they got home, the house was quiet. Apparently everyone had gone to bed. Britta went upstairs and Sweeney sat down at the kitchen table, surprising herself by being ravenously hungry. When she had finished off three bowls of the chicken soup Britta had left simmering on the stove, she wandered into the laundry room to find a pair of sweatpants Toby had said he was going to wash for her. they got home, the house was quiet. Apparently everyone had gone to bed. Britta went upstairs and Sweeney sat down at the kitchen table, surprising herself by being ravenously hungry. When she had finished off three bowls of the chicken soup Britta had left simmering on the stove, she wandered into the laundry room to find a pair of sweatpants Toby had said he was going to wash for her.

She couldn't find the sweatpants, but as she turned to leave the laundry room, she saw the door to Patch's studio, painted red and decorated with a little artist's palette, at the end of the hallway and went to investigate. It was slightly ajar and she listened for a moment to make sure that no one was coming, and pushed it open.

It was the studio of a hobbyist rather than a full-time artist. For one thing it was too clean, and for another there was a lack of the clutter that filled every well-used studio she had ever been in. But the smell of turpentine and stale coffee brought her back with a painful jolt of memory to her father's studio. She had always liked sitting on his spare chair while he worked. The rule had been that she wasn't allowed to talk, but she hadn't minded, as long as she could watch him paint.

She looked at the canvases stacked upright against the far wall, boring landscapes and still lifes that would have been perfectly at home on the waiting room wall of her dentist's office.

But on another wall was a framed collage of black-and-white photos of the kids, Trip grinning and holding a tennis racket, Gwinny looking beautiful and ethereal in a sundress. Gally's photo was strange. He was sitting on the porch and looking out over the back lawn, where a blurry group of unidentifiable people were playing volleyball or badminton. His profile in focus, his chin resting on his hand in an unconscious mimic of "The Thinker," he looked very worried, Sweeney decided, and very alone.

At the back of the studio, there was a closet door and she went to open it, fumbling with the pull on the dangling lightbulb.

It was a walk-in storage area which Patch had retrofitted with upright storage racks that held ten or so canvases each. They were wrapped in clear plastic and Sweeney could see that they were mostly landscapes, similar to the ones leaning against the wall. But when she felt along the back wall, she detected that there was one that had been pushed down between the end of the rack and the back wall. She slid it carefully out of its wrapping and brought it out into the light.