Bad Blood (Maggie Ryan Book 8) Page 2

  She backed out of the driveway, waving at Delores Gallagher, who was just arriving. Someone was with Delores. A man. Rina turned toward the University of Maryland. Rina was teaching a quilting course at the crafts union. Today she wanted to show the students the importance of relationships. She had a scrap of calico, a muddy gray-brown print, ugly to look at; but it would spring to life and become rich and lovely when she pieced it into the shadowed side of a fruitful hill.

  That at least was true.

  “Keep that cat in your room,” warned Gram over her shoulder as Mrs. Deaver led her down the hall.

  “I always do, Gram.” Ginny closed the door behind them, then put Kakiy down and looked unhappily at the muslin baby.

  Oh, God. Oh, God, she thought, help me, whoever I am.

  Mrs. Deaver was a pretty good sport. Ginny decided to remove thePlaygirl. She slipped hastily into the hall and into the bathroom next door. But the magazine was gone already. Mom, probably. Bad scene coming up, especially if she told Dad.

  The doorbell rang. More of Gram’s friends arriving.

  “Hello, Delores,” said Gram warmly. “How are you?”

  Oh, shit, thought Ginny, seeing Kakiy dart past the bathroom door toward the living room. She should have checked to make sure her door had latched. Ginny eased into the hall to pursue him furtively.

  “Hello, Leonora.” Mrs. Gallagher was a tall, jolly woman, not as bright as Mrs. Deaver but popular with Gram and her friends. She enjoyed knitting, a waste of a good skill as far as Ginny could see, because she favored garish garments of clumsy design. Today her magenta raincoat came off to reveal a creation of lemon-yellow, with a pair of purple iris emblazoned across the ample Gallagher front. They were done in a bulky yarn that gave the edges of the flowers a stepped effect, as though they’d been built of cinder blocks. But Gram didn’t comment on the sweater, because her eyes were glued to Mrs. Gallagher’s companion. Mrs. Gallagher, her hand hooked possessively in the crook of his elbow, said, “I’d like you to meet John Spencer.” He was a thin man with a paunch, strands of gray hair combed back to cover his bald spot, a yellowish complexion, a pleasant smile.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Gram, with what looked to Ginny like a simper.

  “Delighted.” Mr. Spencer bowed his head politely as he handed her his trench coat. His light tweed suit looked expensive and neat.

  “Please come in,” Gram said. “Marie is here already.”

  Mr. Spencer walked up the half-flight rather stiffly, but at the top exclaimed, “Mrs. Rossi, what a perfectly lovely home!”

  “Yes. My daughter has done very well,” said Gram graciously. Actually she complained periodically that they needed brighter colors. Ginny, annoyed, had once suggested that maybe Gram should move in with Mrs. Gallagher. Mom had shut her up, of course. But thank God, Mom remained adamant about the decorating, and managed to keep Gram’s heart-shaped pillows and Grand Canyon paintings limited to Gram’s own room. Just as Kakiy was supposed to be limited to Ginny’s. Ginny edged up the steps, seeking the cat.

  “Leonora! What a feast!” Mrs. Gallagher had peeked into the kitchen. “Oh, you Eye-talians are so extravagant!”

  “Just a little snack, Delores,” Gram said modestly.

  Mrs. Gallagher laughed and squeezed Gram’s shoulders.

  Mr. Spencer had made his way across the room to the glass doors that led to the deck. Mrs. Deaver, who had been looking out, now turned to meet him.

  “Why, Mrs. Darcy, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Deaver,” she said, smiling. “Marie Deaver.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “What a lovely suit you’re wearing.”

  “Oh, you’ve met before?” caroled Mrs. Gallagher, flouncing out of the kitchen, lemon-yellow sails billowing.

  “Just casually,” said Mr. Spencer. “In the supermarket out at Eastland mall, wasn’t it? How wonderful to have this chance to know you better!”

  An old gallant, thought Ginny disgustedly. But it seemed to be working: Mrs. Deaver was smiling at him warmly, and Gram and Mrs. Gallagher were looking on with something remarkably like jealousy. Love among the ruins.

  Then Ginny spotted Kakiy. He was crouched behind the big terra cotta pot that held the rubber plant, watching them all. Ginny began to sidle along the wall behind the piano toward him. Gram, fluffing her iron-gray hair, was saying, “Mr. Spencer, would you help me with the chairs, please?”

  “I’d be delighted to help you withanything.” He beamed at her. Mrs. Gallagher fidgeted with her garish garment, looking uncomfortable. Mrs. Deaver merely eyed them narrowly as he and Gram went to the hall closet where the chairs were kept.

  What if Gram wins and marries him? Ginny thought with a sudden lurch of hope. But she quashed the idea quickly. Mr. Spencer would not be that dumb. In the light from the glass doors she could see that his suit, of expensive tweed, was wearing a little on the seat and elbows. Well, none of them were rich, not even Mrs. Deaver. Gram certainly wasn’t. If Gram were rich, she wouldn’t be living here.

  Ginny had almost reached Kakiy when Gram, returning with the cards, spotted her. “Ginny, what are you doing?” she asked, annoyed.

  “I’m sorry, Gram. Kakiy got out. I’m getting him now.”

  “Ginny, I told you and told you to keep that cat in your room!” Gram bristled, her dark eyes snapping, her explosion of gray hair flaring out, making Ginny think of the feisty schnauzer next door.

  Mr. Spencer, bringing across two chairs, sneezed. “Is it a cat?” he asked apologetically. “I’m afraid I’m allergic to cats.”

  Gram lost control. “Scat, scat!” she shouted, running at Kakiy. He darted from behind the planter out into the room and paused, confused.

  Mr. Spencer sneezed again. Gram kicked at Kakiy.

  The sharp corner of her heel grazed the cat.

  Gram looked astonished and started to apologize, but Ginny was already screaming, “You old bitch! Can’t you even wait for me to get him?”

  Kakiy, yowling, was streaking for the bedroom hall.

  “Ginny, be calm,” soothed Mrs. Deaver.

  “Young lady,” said Mr. Spencer severely, “you should never, never address your grandmother that way!”

  “Yeah? Why don’t you tell her how to address a helpless little cat, you old fart!”

  She was running back down to the bedroom corridor after Kakiy. Shocked comments from Gram and Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Gallagher crackled behind her. “I’m so sorry, John! That girl was born rotten!” Gram fumed. “She might as well stab me in the back, she’s so thoughtless!”

  “Hey, let’s not let a silly cat spoil a good party!” sang out Mrs. Gallagher.

  Kakiy had fled into the den. Ginny closed the door tightly and inspected him, swallowing her sobs. He was licking a patch on his side, but the skin was scarcely scratched and he was calming down. She stroked him, and eventually he began purring.

  The horrified exclamations from the living room had subsided, and the old people were at their bridge game now, discussing each hand with animation. Mr. Spencer was complimenting Gram’s cooking. Ginny heard Mrs. Gallagher pass the den door on her way to the bathroom across the hall, and later Mrs. Deaver, and finally Mr. Spencer. Old flabby bladders. And still flirting like the kids in study hall.

  Kakiy had gone to sleep, but Ginny still seethed with guilt and fury.

  She pulled Buck’s birthday present from her pocket, looked at it, and swallowed half a lude. Her eye fell on Dad’s desk. The bottom drawer, she knew, held the little metal strongbox.

  Shit, why not? She was born rotten, right? Besides, tomorrow was her birthday.

  Rina knew when she arrived that something had gone wrong. Her mother’s eyes were stormy, the cheerfulness of the others a little forced. Rina greeted them all, then asked, “Where’s Ginny?”

  “Den,” said Mamma tersely. As Rina started down the steps, she added, “I begged her on bended knee not to let that cat out.”

  “I’ll talk to her, Mamma.”
Rina the go-between. Why didn’t they warn you that you had to be a diplomat, chief ambassador,before you decided to become a mother? The job description was grossly inadequate. Rina took a deep breath and opened the door. “Hi, honey.”

  Ginny, her cat dozing at her knee, was sitting cross-legged on the floor looking through the strongbox. “Hi, Mom,” she said dreamily. “Kakiy’s better. Gram kicked him.”

  Rina inspected the scratch. “She did that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, dear.” Rina sat down on the floor next to Ginny and put her arm around her. “I’m sorry, honey. What are you looking for in the box?”

  “Why is she sho—so mean to him?”

  “She’s never done anything like this before, honey. But you know the cat upsets her. And she did have guests.”

  “She shouldn’t be so mean.”

  “I think she’s unhappy because she misses her own home.”

  “But she’s been here in Maryland two years!”

  “She was there for fifty. In charge.”

  “Well, she still shouldn’t kick Kakiy.” Ginny smiled beatifically.

  The smile cut cruelly at Rina’s heart. A few weeks ago, stumbling in after a movie with Buck, Ginny had been like this. Giggling, she had denied Rina’s accusation of being drunk. “Ludes, Mom,” she’d explained, half confiding, half cruel, and Rina’s world had ripped apart.

  But what could you do? Rage about it and lose the close relationship that was so important, and so hard to maintain these days? Or smile politely as though it were okay for your daughter to waste her shining young life?

  Clint had raged. “That does it! We’ll ground her, Rina. No daughter of mine—”

  “Please, Clint. She probably hasn’t thought it through. Let me try to explain to her.”

  Rina had waited a day, found a booklet on the dangers of drugs, and faced her daughter. “Honey, I don’t want to make a big thing out of an experiment. But drugs are off-limits in this family.”

  “For sure, Mom. No problem.”

  The ironic flash in the blue eyes hurt Rina. She had exclaimed, “Ginny, think of your future! You’re bright and talented. You can do anything you want!”

  Ginny had smiled tauntingly. “Like you, Mom?”

  But at least she hadn’t come home high again. Till now.

  Rina couldn’t trust herself to mention it directly today. She said, “Honey, if you have problems, please tell me about them. Don’t run from things. You have to face them.”

  “Oh? You tell me to face them? You? Funny old Mom!”

  “Yes, damn it! I’ve faced problems!” And a hell of a lot bigger than whatever you think yours are, she almost added. But she swallowed her rage; Ginny was high, so arguing wouldn’t help now. She said more calmly, “It’s just that you could be hurt. I don’t want that.”

  “Yeah, for sure. I could be hurt.” That shining, cruel smile again. “Or I could be an addict. Or I could be a movie star. In America I could be anything!” Ginny pushed herself to her feet, scooping up Kakiy. She carried him steadily enough into her bedroom. Rina followed as far as the door. Ginny had made an insert for her backpack, a sturdy cardboard cat carrier with a round porthole window. She put Kakiy into it, took her waterproof poncho from the closet, clapped the fedora onto her head, then frowned at her cluttered table for a moment. Finally she picked up a box of cat treats.

  “Where are you going, honey?” asked Rina.

  “Library.”

  Rina sighed. Better to talk to her later. “Okay. See you at dinner.”

  “Yeah. Save the whales.” She kissed Rina almost contemptuously, then pushed by and swung down the hall. Kakiy, unapologetic, gazed back serenely through his porthole as she marched out the door.

  She wasn’t back for dinner. Rina fought down her worry. But when her mother finally excused herself and went downstairs to her room, she said to Clint, “Maybe Ginny thought we’d be eating late, because of the bridge game.”

  “Maybe.” Clint, silvery-haired and blue-eyed, paused with a last forkful of cherry pie halfway to his mouth. “You’re worried, though.”

  “Yes.”

  He tried to be comforting. “She’s probably just throwing her weight around.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Rina, I hate to see you worrying like this! It’s time to get her back in line. It’s no favor to go easy on a kid these days. But it’s up to you, Rina. I’ll back you up, but I’m not here much of the time, damn it.”

  “She had reason to be mad today.”

  “Half her fault,” he pointed out. He was too much the lawyer, she thought, always ready to see both sides of a question and argue whichever suited him. Rina busied herself cleaning off the table.

  But when the doorbell rang at eight-fifteen Rina ran to it, her anxious heart a staccato counterpoint to her footsteps. Two men stood there: stolid faces, intelligent eyes. The older one held out a shield. Police.

  “Ginny?” she blurted before they could say anything. “Has something happened to Ginny?”

  “No, ma’am,” said the older policeman. His voice was flat-pitched, unexcitable. “We’re here to ask about a John Spencer.”

  “Spencer?”

  Behind her, Mamma laid a firm hand on her arm. “John Spencer was here this afternoon. Is there a problem?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Marshall?”

  “I’m Mrs. Rossi. Leonora Rossi,” Mamma corrected him. “My daughter here is Mrs. Marshall. But I’m the one who knows John Spencer. Not well—we just met this afternoon.”

  “I see. Well, ma’am, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Clint had come up behind them. “We’d be glad to help,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

  In answer the policeman held up his identification again. “Just a few questions, sir,” he repeated. “I’m Sergeant Trainer. Homicide.”

  II

  “Homicide!” exclaimed Mamma.

  Clint said, “Please come in,” and Rina showed them up to the living room. Trainer was middle-aged, skin weathered to the rough texture of burlap, shrewd light-blue eyes a bit like Clint’s. The other detective, Carmody, ruddy-faced and younger, deferred to him.

  They settled themselves on the leather sofa, and Carmody produced a little notebook. Trainer said, “Thank you. We’re trying to find out something about Mr. Spencer, about what he did today.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help,” said Clint. He had settled into his favorite chair, next to Rina’s. “I commute into Washington, and they’d all left before I got back from work, so I never met him. Can you tell us why you’re asking us about him, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir. He had an appointment book. It gave this address for three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “Yes, that was my bridge party,” said Mamma.

  “That was the last thing in his book for today. At two-thirty he had written the name ‘Gallagher.’ Does that mean anything to anyone?”

  “That would be Delores Gallagher,” said Mamma. “She drove him over. He doesn’t have a car.”

  “I see. Could you give me Delores Gallagher’s address?”

  Mamma did so, and added, “She met him through a church friend a year ago. But Sergeant Trainer, you said homicide. Is John Spencer dead?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He was stabbed.”

  Stabbed. Rina saw the word working on Mamma, the horror slowly seeping into her expression. Rina reached over to take her hand. It was trembling. Mamma shook her head. “No, no! It can’t be true! I just saw him!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Now, you say this was a bridge party?”

  Trainer’s calm voice helped. Mamma concentrated on his question. “Yes. Delores and Marie Deaver and I usually play with Marge Buford, but she’s away visiting family for a couple of weeks. So Delores said she’d invite a man friend from her church. She knew he enjoyed bridge.”

  “And they arrived when?”

  “Before three,” said Mamma. “I don’t know exactly. Marie Deaver
got here first, then they came.”

  “I was driving away as they arrived,” said Rina, thinking back. “It must have been about twenty to three, because Ginny was already back from school.”

  “Could I have this Marie Deaver’s address?” asked Trainer.

  Mamma gave it to him, and Trainer waited until Carmody had written it down before he continued, “So Mr. and Mrs. Marshall, you didn’t meet Mr. Spencer?”

  “I was at work, as I said,” said Clint.

  “I met him. I got back around four-thirty,” said Rina. “I saw him very briefly. They all left a little after five.”

  “Did he indicate where he was going next?”

  “Home, I thought. Delores was to drive him,” said Mamma.

  “Did he seem excited, or depressed?”

  “Well, I don’t know what he’s usually like,” said Mamma. “But not depressed. I suppose if anything we were all a little excited.”

  “Oh? Any special reason?”

  Mamma’s dark eyes snapped. “Ginny. Her cat. Her stupid boyfriend.”

  Mamma, shut the hell up,prayed Rina; but there was no stopping her. The detectives heard a full account of the altercation, of Ginny’s insults to Mr. Spencer. “I didn’t mean to hurt the creature. But it’s going to give me a heart attack someday! She knows the cat isn’t allowed in the living room. And right when I was having a party! In my own home! And poor John is allergic to cats, and she was yelling insults—” For a moment Mamma’s lips trembled. She concluded more quietly, “Oh, I’m too hotheaded sometimes, I know that. She’s young and selfish, we’ve all been young and selfish. Anyway, finally she and the cat went into the den, and we went ahead with our game. Then Rina came home, and she said hello and went to talk to Ginny.”

  Trainer’s light, shrewd eyes moved to Rina, who nodded, trying not to glare at her mother. Didn’t she realize that it wasn’t going to help poor Mr. Spencer to tell all their private problems to the police? Well, try to get past this part. She said, “Yes, I talked to her. She was in the den with Kakiy. The cat. She was—upset.”

  “Upset.” Carmody wrote it down.