Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Read online

  Bad Blood

  Maggie Ryan, 1979

  By P.M. Carlson

  Copyright & history

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Bad Blood

  About the author

  The Mystery Company

  Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania

  BAD BLOOD

  Copyright © 1991 by Patricia Carlson

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  PRINT ISBN: 978-1-932325-52-2

  Cover art by Robin Agnew

  Author photo copyright © by Kathy Morris

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Doubleday Perfect Crime first edition: December 1991

  The Mystery Company paperback edition: October 2017

  The Mystery Company Kindle edition: October 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  The Mystery Company, an imprint of Crum Creek Press

  24 N Bryn Mawr Ave #271

  Bryn Mawr, PA 19010

  www.crumcreekpress.com

  To the memory of my mother

  The author would like to thank friends and experts Patricia King, Robert Knightly, K.T. Anders, Kay Williams, Joanna Wolper and David Linzee.

  “What do you call yourself?” the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet voice it had!

  “I wish I knew!” thought poor Alice. She answered, rather sadly, “Nothing, just now.”

  “Think again,” it said: “that won’t do.”

  LEWIS CARROLL

  Through the Looking-Glass

  Thursday

  September 13, 1979

  I

  Arms folded casually across a blond chest as furry as terry cloth, the young man in Rina’s guest bathroom smiled: well muscled, relaxed, and totally naked. Rina froze, her hand still on the doorknob.

  “Ginny, Ginny!” she murmured, horrified at her daughter’s joke.

  “Did you say something, Rina?” her mother called from the kitchen.

  “No, Mamma.” But thank God I got here before you did, she thought. Headed off your usual Vesuvius act. Mamma’s spitfire temper had not mellowed, not even now that she was in her seventies. Rina charged across the bathroom, feeling a bit like Vesuvius herself, and folded the naked young man back into the magazine.Playgirl. Ginny, you idiot. There ought to be a rule: all offspring must be confined to padded cells between the ages of twelve and twenty-one. The world was a tough enough place without having to put up with teenage humor.

  The room was still clean, at least. No toilet paper wrapped around the sink, no graffiti soaped onto the window. Look on the bright side, right? No bombs in the wastebasket either. No dead rats in the soap dish. Nothing unfixable that could cause Clint to storm around about getting tough once and for all. A lucky day all around.

  Rina adjusted a towel on its ring and glanced in the mirror. Dark hair pinstriped with gray, and worry lines seaming her fifty-two-year-old face. Ginny saw to that.

  But this was just a phase, of course. Ginny was bright. And God, she loved her daughter despite her faults.

  The doorbell rang. Hastily, Rina rolled up the magazine and held it out of sight as she went back into the hall. Mamma had answered the door already. With short iron-gray hair erupting from around her heart-shaped face and dark snapping Italian eyes like Rina’s own, she was helping her friend remove her trench coat. “How are you, Marie?”

  “Fine, Leonora,” Marie Deaver said to Mamma. “My, it smells wonderful in here! An Italian banquet again!”

  “Not really. Can’t get good cheese around here. You’d think this close to Washington you could get cheese! And the bread is hopeless!” But Mamma beamed at her friend.

  Marie Deaver wore a pink bouclé suit that set off her angora-fluffy white hair. “Then you’ve worked your little miracles again.” With one white-gloved hand she touched Mamma’s salmon-colored knit dress. “Lovely dress! Oh, hello, Rina, dear.”

  “Hello.” Rina smiled and nodded, feeling foolish, the magazine clutched behind her.

  “Is Bobby’s quilt done?” Marie Deaver asked eagerly. She had purchased one of Rina’s cheeriest works, but had asked Rina to add a wide border echoing the reds of the design so that it would cover her son Bobby’s bed.

  “Oh, yes, I finished it this week. I’ll bring it right out!” Grateful for the excuse, Rina fled to her room, hiding thePlaygirl under her workbasket before she pulled out the bright red-and-white quilt rolled in a protective plastic sheet. She carried it out to Marie Deaver.

  “Wonderful! Here, Leonora, take my cheese puffs. My humble offering to this feast.” Marie handed a foil-wrapped baking pan to Mamma and accepted the bundle from Rina. “I’ll just take the quilt out to my car now so I won’t forget it. Bobby will love it. His teachers say he’s very sensitive to art.”

  “Oh, good. I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Deaver.”

  Bobby Deaver was in his forties. Autistic since infancy, institutionalized for most of his life, he would never be much better. His mother heard the note of doubt that had been in Rina’s voice and said, “Well, it’s a difficult problem. But they’re trying. And you can’t give up hope.”

  “Of course not,” Rina agreed quickly. “And they learn more about it every year.”

  “Yes. And already he’s happier. I’m sure of it.”

  “That’s the important thing.” Platitudes, but true all the same. Happiness: what we all want for our children.

  “I’ll be right back, Leonora.” Marie Deaver was opening the door. “Then we’ll warm up my cheese puffs.”

  “Oh, Marie, you’re a dear!” Mamma’s face, the skin as soft and thin as crêpe, crinkled into a smile. She carried the cheese puffs up the half-flight of steps from the entry hall to the living room and kitchen level. An act of kindness, Rina knew, smiling to herself. Cheese puffs weren’t real food, not by Mamma’s standards. Mamma was definitely more cheerful these days. They’d had months of moping at first, after money problems had forced her from her longtime Hoboken home to live here in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C. with her daughter.

  Hastily, Rina dodged back to her room, retrieved Ginny’s magazine, and hurried across the hall and into Ginny’s room, next to the bath. She closed the door firmly. There was a ragged stack of magazines in the nightstand. Needlework magazines,Seventeens, and one or two others with features on the dancer Baryshnikov. Rina tucked thePlaygirl into the stack. Ought to make Ginny burn it. But this wasn’t the time for a scene. She straightened and glanced around the room. Books crammed onto the bookshelves, almost as many more on the floor. Bed hastily made, little stuffed animals and dolls tumbled on the pillow. “Looks like a bomb site,” Clint would grumble, “and they’re the casualties.”

  “I keep the door closed, Dad,” Ginny would reply frigidly, tossing back her long black hair and disappearing into the room with a slam.

  There was a half-finished sewing project on the worktable, scissors and thread and scraps of muslin and broadcloth strewn across it. A box of kitty litter sat under the table. The cat himself lounged on the windowsill, well cared for, glossy as gold brocade in the sunlight, looking sleepily at Rina. Whatever Ginny’s faults, she was a model mother to her adored pet.

  “We try, Kakiy,” said Rina to the cat, who remained royally unimpressed. And she had tried, fighting to overcome her handicap, to remake her life. “But you see, there’s a generation gap.”

  Another platitude, another truth. Mamma was mercurial as a teenager he
rself these days, sometimes hugging Ginny and praising her art projects, other times lashing out at the girl’s clothes, at her boyfriend, at her beloved cat. Not that Rina didn’t agree with some of Mamma’s complaints, but scolding wasn’t the way to convince a willful teenager to change. Not today, not in 1979. Rina’s teen years had been in World War II; she’d lost her older brother then, her parents’ pride and hope, and at such a time of personal grief and national crisis, the rebellions of coming of age had been dwarfed, somehow, or at least muted by other problems.

  Ginny, of course, made no attempt at all to understand her grandmother’s frustrations, the natural resentment that came with losing your own home of fifty years and having to move in with your daughter’s family. Rina and Clint had given Mamma the big room on the lower level with a private bath and a sliding glass door. It opened onto the garden that Mamma loved so much, and she had adapted well in some ways. She’d made her own friends at church. She was deferential to Clint, and left them plenty of privacy when he was home. From time to time she even tried to reach Ginny, with old family stories of immigrant days that usually concluded, “In America you can be anything!” But lately Ginny responded with boredom or with sarcasm, and it was no wonder that Mamma in turn flared back with Italian gusto.

  And Rina, the middle generation, was buffeted by the constant angry flow and counterflow of their clashing demands. The carefully stitched fabric of her family had become a crazy quilt of conflict, stretched and strained until sometimes she felt that her own terrified grip was the only feeble thread that kept it from ripping apart at the seams.

  Another dream of her youth was dying.

  Ginny was thinking about her mother. A graceful, dark-haired young woman long ago, a dancer before Ginny was born. Ballet. Frail and lovely, headed for stardom before the tragedy. In her mind Ginny pirouetted with her mother in that once-upon-a-time spotlight, jetéed with her across the stage, graceful as a doe. In the audience her father, rich and young, burned with love for the pale vision in the light.

  “Ginny Marshall!”

  Shit. That tone meant that Mr. Hunt had already called her name once. Ginny gave Mr. Hunt a gentle, regal, ballerina smile and said, “Yes?”

  “Number fourteen,” whispered curly-haired Jan behind her.

  Ginny glanced at the unread page open on the scarred desk before her and skimmed the question. “Um …” Oh, yeah, Browning. She looked straight into Hunt’s rheumy yellow eyes and explained, “That means he had the duchess put to death. He was jealous because she enjoyed people and things besides him.”

  “Fine.” Mr. Hunt didn’t sound pleased. Well, screw you, Hunt. Ginny went back to her dream.

  After school Buck stopped by her locker. She had just decided grudgingly to take her books home, three quizzes tomorrow, when she felt his tongue on her ear. “Hiya, Blue-Eyes.” He was stoned already.

  She pulled her fedora on firmly. “Hi.”

  “Got a present,” he murmured, handing her an envelope.Happy birthday, love, Buck, it said.

  “Can’t wait till tomorrow, huh?” She smiled at him and looked inside. A handful of white pills. “Ludes?”

  “Ludes. Lemmon. The best on the old man’s shelf.”

  “Hey, wow!” She tucked them into her black vest.

  “Tomorrow we really party.” A flicker of uncertainty as he chucked her under the chin. “Wanna go for a ride now?”

  “No way. I’m about to flunk math,” she lied.

  “Okay. Maybe I’ll swing by about five, see if you can handle it then.”

  Linda, her eyes hungry, was waiting for her beside the door. “What went down with Buck, Ginny? What’d he give you?”

  “Vitamin Q.”

  “Oh, my God! All I have is a joint.”

  “Okay. Trade you.” Feeling generous, Ginny pulled out several pills. “You better go easy, Linda.”

  Linda was already swallowing one. “These can’t hook you.”

  “Yeah, that’s what my mother thought too,” said Ginny ominously.

  “Your mother?”

  “Whiskey back in those days. She thought she could handle it too, and then one day she took an axe to her five children in a drunken fit.”

  “Oh, come on!” Linda frowned uneasily. She wasn’t very bright.

  “Except the baby. I was the baby,” explained Ginny matter-of-factly. “She tried to strangle me.”

  “You’re goofing on me!”

  “Listen, I can see it all as clear as yesterday,” Ginny insisted. “Good old Mummy, and my brothers cowering against the wall, and Mummy swaying a little with a whiskey bottle in one hand and the axe in the other. Wow! And then just hacking away.”

  “Jesus, Ginny!”

  “And I only am escaped alone to tell thee. I hid under the bleeding bodies. She was smashed out of her gourd and thought I was dead.”

  “Your mother’s no drunk.” Cheeks flushing, Linda gave a sudden drugged giggle. The lude was beginning to lift her above worried thoughts, out of Ginny’s reach.

  “Well, after that she joined AA. See you around.” Ginny slung her backpack over one shoulder and bounded out to climb on the bus.

  It was getting late. Rina went to her room to pack her workbasket and her demonstration project, a quilted landscape of hills and trees called “Autumn.” In the corner of the room, a stack of brightly wrapped presents waited, a frail tower of hope for the future. Ginny would be sixteen tomorrow. Maybe time would help. Transitions were confusing, and what transition was more complex than the one from child to adult? Like being hurtled from fireside to angry open sea. She and Clint had done their best, surrounding Ginny’s girlhood with music, laughter, books, love—oh, hell, what did she expect? The Spock Award for Excellence in Parenting? Some days she thought she should never have tried to be a mother at all.

  “Mamma?” Pulling on her trench coat, Rina hurried up the half-flight and peeked into the kitchen. It was a delightful array of mouth-watering plates: a hot anchovy dip surrounded by fresh cherry tomatoes and cauliflower and broccoli, crostini toasted and bright with a sun-dried tomato spread, a cold meat platter starring velvety mortadella brought back from her last visit to Hoboken, flaky triangles filled with prosciutto and fragrant with rosemary. The little bridge party would never finish it all, but that meant wonderful leftovers for the rest of them. Rina sampled the broccoli and dip. “Mmm! Wonderful! Have fun, Mamma. I’m going to the college now. Back in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay,cara, good-bye.” Her mother kissed her exuberantly, invigorated by the upcoming party. “We’ll save you a bite of everything.”

  “Good! It’s wonderful! Oh, hello, Ginny.”

  Ginny dropped her backpack by the front door and pulled the battered fedora from her black hair. She looked tired, Rina thought, the dark-blue eyes haunted, the leggy young figure drooping. “Hi, Mom,” she responded, leaning back against the door to close it before walking slowly up the stairs to kiss Rina and Mamma. “Hi, Gram. How are you, Mrs. Deaver?”

  “Fine. Ginny, show me your new soft sculpture. We have time, don’t we, Leonora?”

  “The others will be here soon.” Mamma’s brows twitched a warning.

  “It won’t take long.” Marie Deaver urged Ginny ahead down the half-flight to the bedroom hall level, and she and Rina followed the girl to her room. Kakiy bounded joyfully from the windowsill to greet them, and Ginny, cooing, scooped him up. With her free hand she picked up her scissors from the work table, snipped a thread, then offered the ugly muslin baby to the white-haired woman. Marie Deaver understood Ginny’s work better than most of Mamma’s friends, Rina thought, watching from the hall. Marie loved art, opera, the symphony, and she frequently accompanied Mamma to Wolf Trap. She knew that the purpose of art was not necessarily prettiness. She wouldn’t say politely, like another of Mamma’s friends, “What a sweet doll!” only to have Ginny reply just as politely, “Yes, ma’am. It’s called ‘Auschwitz Baby.’ Very sweet.”

  Marie Deaver’s brows ro
se, but she inspected it thoughtfully. Its embroidered eyes were squeezed closed, its mouth unhappy between gaunt muslin cheeks. The thin little body was not floppy, but stuffed taut, hands and legs extended rigidly, except for one bent knee curled tense against its stomach. “She’ll have a short red shirt,” said Ginny. “Tight around the neck.”

  “Yes.” Marie Deaver nodded in satisfaction as she replaced the haunting little figure on the worktable. “That’ll be perfect. It’s a good piece, Ginny. Tough.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mamma came in with Ginny’s hat and backpack and dropped them on the chest of drawers. “I still like the bears best. She used to make real cute ones.” She shook her head in distaste at the odd, ugly little stuffed baby lying in the midst of Ginny’s scraps of muslin and padding, needles and scissors. Rina tensed, but fortunately Ginny held her peace, cuddling the cat against her flame-red sweater.

  “Oh, but Leonora, this is Art,” said Marie Deaver lightly.

  “That’s what Rina says too,” admitted Mamma.

  “And the Crafts Fair jury.” Marie Deaver smiled at Rina and waved a hand at one of Ginny’s dolls, framed and hanging on the wall next to the door, a red ribbon still attached to the frame. “Come on, Leonora. She’s too clever for us old folks.” She herded Mamma expertly from the room.

  Rina kissed Ginny good-bye, then Mamma, and hurried out to the car. Gloomy cool day, rain coming. But the begonias Mamma had planted were still vivid, scarlets and pinks as bright as glazed chintz against the dark-stained cedar of the shingled house. Her dream house. She and Clint had planned and saved for years for this house, had chosen every handmade tile in the kitchen, every lighting fixture. And it was lovely, a graceful friendly split-level nestled into the trees of this wooded suburb. A house with room for beauty and love, she’d thought. Illusions, illusions.