“Excellent,” said Simone, and I could swear there seemed to be avarice in her eyes. “I’ll check in with the police, just to be sure it’s okay with them if we go inside and look around. I don’t suppose there will be a problem; it’s our house, after all, and Linda was found outside in the shed.”
There was a slight whimper in response to her last words. Hugh had brought his fist to his mouth again, as though to stifle tears.
I stood to leave. “I’m so sorry, Hugh, for your loss.”
“The police seem to think she killed herself,” Hugh said. “Do you think that’s true?”
“Of course she did,” Simone answered. “She’s been unstable ever since . . . ever since the incident. It’s only gotten worse with age.”
The Incident . . . Sounded like a title for a terrible movie: Incident at Murder House.
“Or . . .” Hugh said in his quiet, thoughtful way, looking at dust motes dancing in the light of the window. “Perhaps they finished the job.”
“‘They’ . . . ?” I asked.
“Whatever evil is in that house . . . my father became a monster that night. Maybe . . . maybe he won’t stop until he’s killed us all.”
Chapter Nine
I limped home, feeling beat-up. It wasn’t my usual end-of-the-day fatigue. I could handle that. I was used to long days on jobsites and meeting with clients, accustomed to at least ten things going wrong every day that for some reason only I could put aright. What I wasn’t familiar with was the depth of sadness I had felt in Hugh’s presence. There was a level of pathos there that left me feeling . . . I don’t know, maybe compelled to write some poetry of my own?
That impulse departed as quickly as it arrived—luckily for all of us—but it dawned on me that art or literature provided an outlet for feelings that can’t be expressed any other way. The only thing I did that was close to being artistic—besides building, which was arguably an aesthetic labor of love—was putting together the scrapbooks I made for our clients. For each job, I gathered bits and pieces of construction-related ephemera like old wallpaper and purchase orders, took before-and-after pictures as well as progress shots, and included comments and funny stories from the crew. Homeowners loved the scrapbooks, and I kept floor copies to show prospective clients, like a very personal portfolio. It always gave me a nice feeling of satisfaction to see how everything turned out. Maybe I should do some scrapbooking tonight.
I pulled up to the old farmhouse I shared with Dad and Stan—and, most recently, Cookie—in Oakland’s Fruitvale section. The silhouette of Dog’s head popped up in the living room window, and I could hear him barking to welcome me home as I skirted the house to the back door.
Dad was standing in front of the old Wedgewood stove, wooden spoon in hand. A huge soup pot sent billows of steam toward the ceiling, and the air carried the delicious aroma of tomatoes, garlic, and oregano.
“Hi, babe. Spaghetti night,” he announced happily as I walked in.
“Smells great.”
“Stan’s still in the office. About half an hour to dinner. You want regular spaghetti or one of your fancy kinds?”
Dad was a fan of spaghetti, though he occasionally ventured into linguine territory. He considered my interest in other shapes of pasta to be exotic, even erudite.
“Chef’s choice. Thanks, Dad.”
As I started down the hall to the office, I noticed the lights were on in the dining room. The dining room rarely saw much use, as we all preferred the homey informality of the pine table in the alcove off the kitchen.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
My sister was seated at the dining room table, surrounded by the papers and photos I’d been collecting to make a scrapbook for the Bernini B&B. Scattered across the table were colored pencils and pens; several glitter glues; a pile of cutesy labels; a pair of scissors that made a scrolly design instead of a straight edge; ink pads and stamps; a stack of patterned paper; and something that looked a lot like cotton candy. Somebody had had a very good time in the local arts and crafts superstore.
“Hi,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“Guess!”
“I’m not very good at guessing, so why don’t you just tell me?”
“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport! Guess!”
I felt like snapping at her. Cookie’s cheerfulness inevitably had this effect on my grumpy self. I swallowed my irritation and guessed.
“Is it . . . somebody’s birthday?”
“Nope! Try again!”
“Um . . . One of the kids’ school projects?”