“I heard about it on the radio the next morning,” she muttered.
Dear God, I thought. How awful.
She said nothing more. Her wounds were beyond my reach, and as much as I wanted to offer a word of comfort, there was nothing I could say. So we sat in silence for what seemed a very long time. When I finally stole a glance at my watch, I saw it was almost midnight.
The house was very quiet–too quiet, I realized with a start.
After the warmth of the library, the entrance hall was as chilly as a cathedral. I opened the back door and gasped in surprise. Beneath the milky swirl of snow the drive was a solid white blanket, with barely perceptible tire tracks left when the damn cops had driven off without me. My state car had been towed long ago, and they had forgotten I was still inside the house. Damn! Damn! Damn!
When I returned to the library, Miss Harper was placing another log on the fire.
“It appears my ride went off without me,” I said, and I know I sounded upset. “I’ll need to use a phone.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” she answered unemphatically. “The phones went out not long after the policeman left. It seems to happen quite often when the weather’s bad.”
I watched her stab the burning logs. I watched ribbons of smoke curl out from under them as sparks swarmed up the chimney. I had forgotten. It hadn’t occurred to me until now.
“Your friend …” I said.
She jabbed the log again.
“The police said a friend was on her way, would be staying with you tonight…”
Miss Harper slowly straightened up and turned around, her face flushed from the heat.
“Yes, Dr. Scarpetta,” she said. “It was so kind of you to come.”
8
Miss Harper returned with more wine as the tall case clock on the landing outside the library chimed twelve times.
“The clock,” she seemed compelled to explain. “It’s ten minutes slow. Always has been.”
The mansion’s phones really were out. I had checked. The walk to town was several miles through what was now at least four inches of snow. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Her brother was dead. Beryl was dead. Miss Harper was the only one left. I hoped it was a coincidence. I lit a cigarette and took a swallow of wine.
Miss Harper didn’t have the physical strength to have killed her brother and Beryl. What if the killer were after Miss Harper, too? What if he came back?
My .38 was at home.
The police would be staking out the area.
In what! Snowmobiles! I realized Miss Harper was saying something else to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said, forcing a smile.
“You look cold,” she repeated.
Her face was placid as she seated herself on the baroque side chair and stared into the fire. The high flames sounded like a wind-whipped flag, and infrequent gusts of wind sent ashes blowing out on the hearth. But she appeared reassured by my company. Were I in her shoes, I wouldn’t have wanted to be alone, either.
“I’m fine,” I lied. I was cold.
“I’ll be glad to get you a sweater.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself. I’m comfortable– really.”
“It’s quite impossible to heat this house,” she went on. “The high ceilings. And it isn’t insulated.
You grow accustomed to it.”
I thought of my gas-heated modern house in Richmond. I thought of my queen-size bed with its firm mattress and electric blanket. I thought of the carton of cigarettes in the cupboard near the refrigerator and of the good Scotch in my bar. I thought of the drafty, dusty dark upstairs of the Cutler Grove mansion.
“I’ll be fine down here. On the sofa,” I said.
“Nonsense. The fire will go out soon enough.” She was fidgeting with a button on her sweater, her eyes not leaving the fire.
“Miss Harper,” I tried one last time. “Do you have any idea who might have done this? To Beryl, to your brother. Or why?”
“You think it’s the same man.”
She presented this as a statement of fact, not a question.