“Yes, Noelle, I believe you—although if you had shot him I would have applauded you. But no, I never really believed that you did. But I can’t remember, I just can’t remember, and the police and the FBI, they all believe I know everything that happened that night. Won’t you tell me what happened, Noelle?”
“Are you well again, Sally?’
She stared at her mother. She sounded vaguely frightened. Of her? Of her own daughter? Did she think she would murder her because she was insane? Sally shook her head. Noelle might look a bit frightened, but she also looked exquisite in vivid emerald lounging pajamas. Her light hair was pinned up with a gold clip. She wore three thin gold chains. She looked young and beautiful and vital. Perhaps there was some justice after all.
“Listen to me, Noelle,” Sally said, willing her mother to believe her. “I wasn’t ever sick. Father put me in that place. It was all a plot. He wanted me out of the way. Why? I don’t know. Maybe just plain revenge for the way I’d thwarted him for the past ten years. Surely you must have guessed something. Doubted him when he told you. You never came to see me, Mama, never.”
“Your father told me, and you’re right, I was suspicious, but then Scott broke down—he was in tears—and he told me about all the things you’d done, how you simply weren’t yourself anymore and there hadn’t been any choice but to put you in the sanitarium. I met Doctor Beadermeyer. He assured me you would be well cared for.
“Oh, Sally, Doctor Beadermeyer told me it would be better if I didn’t see you just yet, that you were blaming me for so many things, that you hated me, that you didn’t want to see me, that seeing me would just make you worse and he feared you’d try to commit suicide again.”
But Sally wasn’t listening to her. She felt something prickle on her skin, and she knew, she knew he was close. She also knew that her mother wasn’t telling her the truth about the night her father was murdered. Why? What had really happened that night? There just wasn’t time now.
Yes, James was close. There was no unnatural sound, no real warning, yet she knew.
“Do you have any money, Noelle?”
“Just a few dollars, Sally, but why? Why? Let me call Doctor Beadermeyer. He’s already called several times. I’ve got to protect you, Sally.”
“Good-bye, Noelle. If you love me—if you’ve ever loved me—please keep the FBI agent talking as long as you can. His name is James Quinlan. Please, don’t tell him I was here.”
“How do you know the name of an FBI agent?”
“It’s not important. Please don’t tell him anything, Noelle.”
“Mrs. St. John, we saw the car parked on Cooperton. Sally was here. Is she still here? Are you hiding her?”
Noelle St. John stared at his ID, then at Dillon’s. Finally, after an eternity, she looked up and said, “I haven’t seen my daughter for nearly seven months, Agent Quinlan. What car are you talking about?”
“A car we know she was driving, Mrs. St. John,” Dillon said.
“Why are you calling my daughter by her first name? Indeed, Sally is her nickname. Her real name is Susan. Where did you get her nickname?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Quinlan said. “Please, Mrs. St. John, you must help us. Would you mind if we looked through your house? Her car is parked just down the street. She’s probably hiding here in the house waiting for us to leave before she comes out.”
“That’s ridiculous, gentlemen, but look to your hearts’ content. None of the help sleep here, so the house is empty. Don’t worry about frightening anyone.” She smiled at them and walked with her elegant stride back into the library.
“Upstairs first,” Quinlan said.
They went methodically from room to room, Dillon waiting in the corridor as Quinlan searched, to ensure that Sally couldn’t slip between adjoining rooms and elude them. When Quinlan opened the door to a bedroom at the far end of the hall, he knew immediately that it had been hers. He switched on the light. It wasn’t a frilly room with a pink or white canopied bed and posters of rock stars plastering the walls. No, three of the walls were filled with bookshelves, all of them stuffed with books. On the fourth wall were framed awards, writing awards beginning with ones for papers she’d written in junior high school on the U.S. dependence on foreign oil and the gasoline crisis, on the hostages in Iran, on the countries that became communist during Carter’s administration and why. There was a paper that had won the Idleberg Award and appeared in the New York Times, on the U.S. hockey win against the Russians at Lake Placid at the 1980 Olympics. The high school awards were for papers that ran more toward literary themes.