Dutifully, I reached for the phone and dialed Westwood’s pro shop. Ted was booked solid until ten o’clock. I gave Lucy directions and my car keys, and after she left, I read in front of the fire and fell asleep.
When I opened my eyes, I heard coals shift and wind gently touching the pewter wind chimes beyond the sliding glass doors. Snow was drifting down in large, slow flakes, the sky the color of a dusty blackboard. Lights in my yard had come on, the house so silent I was conscious of the clock ticking on the wall. It was shortly after four and Lucy had not returned from the club. I dialed the number for my car phone and no one answered. She had never driven in snow before, I thought anxiously: And I needed to go to the store to pick up fish for dinner. I could call the club and have her paged. I told myself that was ridiculous. Lucy had been gone barely two hours. She was not a child anymore. When it got to be four-thirty, I tried my car phone again. At five I called the club and they could not find her. I began to panic.
“Are you sure she’s not on the StairMaster or maybe in the women’s locker room taking a shower? Or maybe she stopped by the mixed grill?” I again asked the young woman in the pro shop.
“We’ve paged her four times, Dr. Scarpetta. And I’ve gone around looking. I’ll check again. If I locate her, I’ll have her call you immediately.”
“Do you know if she ever showed up at all? She should have gotten there around two.”
“Gosh. I just came on at four. I don’t know.”
I continued calling my car phone.
“The Richmond Cellular customer you have dialed does not answer . . .”
I tried Marino and he wasn’t home or at headquarters. At six o’clock I stood in the kitchen staring out the window. Snow streaked down in the chalky glow of streetlights. My heart beat hard as I paced from room to room and continued calling my car phone. At half past six I had decided to file a missing person report with the police when the telephone rang. Running back to my study, I was reaching for the receiver when I noticed the familiar number eerily materializing on the Caller ID screen. The calls had stopped after the night of Waddell’s execution I had not thought about them since. Bewildered, I froze, waiting for the expected hang up to. follow my recorded message. I was shocked when I recognized the voice that began to speak.
“I hate to do this to you, Doc…” Snatching up the receiver, I cleared my throat and said in disbelief, “Marino?”
“Yeah,- he said. “I got bad news.”
4
Where are you?” I demanded, my eyes riveted to the number on the screen.
“East End, and it’s coming down like a bitch,” Marino said. “We got a DOA. White female. At a glance appears to be your typical CO suicide, car inside the garage, hose hooked up to the exhaust pipe. But the circumstances are a little weird. I think you better come.”
“Where are you placing this call from?” I asked so adamantly that he hesitated. I could feel his surprise.
“The decedent’s house. Just got here. That’s the other thing. It wasn’t secured. The back was unlocked.”
I heard the garage door. “Oh, thank God. Marino, hold on,” I said, flooded with relief.
Paper bags crackled as the kitchen door shut.
Placing my hand over the receiver, I called out, “Lucy, is that you?”
“No, Frosty the Snowman. You ought to see it coming down out there! It’s awesome!”
Reaching for pen and paper, I said to Marino, “The decedent’s name and address?”
“Jennifer Deighton. Two-one-seven Ewing.” I did not recognize the name. Ewing was off Williamsburg Road, not too far from the airport in a neighborhood unfamiliar to me.
Lucy walked into my study as I was hanging up the phone. Her face was rosy from the cold, eyes spark ling.
“Where in God’s name have you been?” I snapped.
Her smile faded. “Errands.”