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Dear Old Dead(31)

By:Jane Haddam


Rosalie was quicker than the rest of them. In Michael’s experience, Rosalie always was. She had made a royal mess of the office—at least, Michael assumed it was she who had made it—and she was now intent on making that mess ever more magnificent. All Michael’s lab beakers were shards of glass on the floor. Fortunately, he only used the lab beakers to grow oregano in when he had the time, and he hadn’t had the time for months now. She had overturned his looseleaf desk calendar and scattered the pages on top of the glass shards. She had dumped the ancient brown liquid in his coffeemaker onto his carpet. She had a tray of surgical equipment in her hands and was about to send it crashing to the floor. Unlike everybody else in the room, however, she was paying attention.

Michael caught the moment when Rosalie recognized him. Her gaze was roving back and forth across the crowd, checking out her audience. Sister Augustine was talking to her, but Rosalie was paying no attention. Rosalie’s eyes kept darting back in the direction of Gregor Demarkian, as if he were the one member of the crowd she had to convince. Michael wondered what it was Rosalie was intent on convincing them all of, this time. Then Rosalie’s head swung in his direction, and stopped. She was holding the tray of surgical equipment above her head. She froze it there. Then her beautiful eyes widened and she began to smile.

“Well,” she said. “If it isn’t the son of a bitch.”

That was when she did what Michael had been expecting her to do, ever since she got that tray into her hands. She raised it just a notch higher in the air. Then she whirled around and brought the tray down on the edge of his desk, so hard it clanged like a monster gong. Surgical instruments jumped into the air and flew everywhere. A scalpel stuck point-first into the side of his desk and stayed embedded there. Rosalie whirled around, crossed her arms over her chest and stuck out her chin.

“You son of a bitch,” she said again. “I’ve had the police in my apartment all week and it would never have had to have happened if you’d had the simple honesty to do what you ought to do and confess.”





2


FOR ROSALIE VAN STRAADT, the day had started to get rotten as soon as she opened her eyes. Either her alarm clock was on the blink or she had forgotten to set it. Whatever the reason, she hadn’t made it out of bed until after ten o’clock. That was a disaster. She’d had an important appointment at the bank at nine. She didn’t like the idea of making her bankers upset with her. She’d had to reschedule the appointment, and that had been embarrassing. She’d apologized to Harry Stratford himself, but even over the phone she had picked up the dry coldness of disapproval in Harry’s voice. She could hardly blame him. Her head ached and she wanted to smoke. She had quit smoking nearly six years ago.

The day got worse when she got her copy of the New York Sentinel from the hall outside her apartment door and saw the headline. It was the same headline the paper had had since four days after Grandfather had died, and it was maddening.

    POLICE STUMPED: Still No Break in van Straadt Murder.



Well, that was true enough. All the news had been no news for most of the last two weeks. So what? The other tabloids had moved on to fresher stories. The New York Times restricted itself to publishing tempered speculations on the future of Van Straadt Publications in the business section. Why did the Sentinel have to go on and on like this, killing its own circulation?

That was when Rosalie had decided to get away from it all, and picked up the phone to call her old friend Sharon Leigh. Halfway through dialing the number, she stopped. The last time Rosalie had talked to Sharon Leigh, just a few days ago, the conversation hadn’t gone too well. Sharon had seemed… distant, somehow. Standoffish. Sharon had been willing enough to talk. At points during that call, Rosalie had even suspected that Sharon was keeping her on the phone as long as possible. What Sharon hadn’t been willing to do was meet. Rosalie had suggested lunch at the Hard Rock Café. Sharon had given an excuse that had sounded lame even at the time. Thinking back on it, it sounded lamer. Rosalie had hung up and stared at the push-button dial. Over the headline on the Sentinel was one of those red banners.

    COUNTDOWN TO FATHER’S DAY,



it said.

    WIN A HUNDRED GRAND AND REALLY CELEBRATE.



Father’s Day, for God’s sake. Father’s Day. Rosalie had despised her own father with every cell in her body. Grandfather had despised him, too. Fortunately, he had smashed himself up at the age of forty-two. Rosalie had been ten at the time. Rosalie’s mother had been distraught. Rosalie’s mother had always been distraught. She had been a complete bimbo. Maybe she still was. Rosalie had minimal family feeling, and what she had had to do with money.