of his demise baffling, bizarre, possibly sordid, and they would gossip
with the feverishness of birds tearing at carrion.
The flashlight revealed Formica-sheathed cabinets. A stove top.
A stainless-steel sink.
The mystery surrounding his peculiar death would ensure that myths would
grow like coral reefs, incorporating every color of scandal and vile
supposition, but leaving his memory with precious little tint of
respect. Respect was one of the few things that mattered to Drew
Oslett. He had demanded respect since he was only a boy. It was his
birthright, not merely a pleasing accoutrement of the family name but a
tribute that must be paid to all of the family’s history and
accomplishments embodied in him.
“Be at peace, Alfie,” he said nervously.
A hand, as white as marble and as solid-looking, had been waiting for
the flashlight beam to find it. The alabaster fingers trailed on the
carpet beside the padded booth of a dining nook. Higher up, the
white-haired body of a man slumped over the bloodstained table.
Paige got up from the dining-room table, went to the nearest window,
tilted the shutter slats to make wider gaps, and stared out at the
gradually fading storm. She was looking into the backyard, where there
were no lights. She could see nothing clearly except the tracks of rain
on the other side of the glass, which seemed like gobs of spit, maybe
because she wanted to spit at Lowbock, right in his face.
She had more hostility in her than did Marty, not just toward the
detective but toward the world. All her adult life, she had been
struggling to resolve the conflicts of childhood that were the source of
her anger. She had made considerable progress. But in the face of
provocation like this, she felt the resentments and bitterness of her
childhood rising anew, and her directionless anger found a focus in
Lowbock, making it difficult for her to keep her temper in check.
Conscious avoidance facing the window, keeping the detective out of
sight–was a proven technique for maintaining self-control. Counselor,
supposed to reduce anger as well.
She hoped it worked better for her clients than it worked for her,
because she was still seething.
At the table with the detective, Marty seemed determined to be
reasonable and cooperative. Being Marty, he would cling as long as
possible to the hope that Lowbock’s mysterious antagonism could be
assuaged. Angry as he might be himself–and he was angrier than she had
ever seen him–he still had tremendous faith in the power of good
intentions and words, especially words, to restore and maintain harmony
under any circumstances.
To Lowbock, Marty said, “It had to be him drank the beers.”
“Him?” Lowbock asked.
“The look-alike. He must’ve been in the house a couple of hours while I
was out.”
“So the intruder drank the three Coronas?”
“I emptied the trash last night, Sunday night, so I know they aren’t
empties left from the weekend.”
“This guy, he broke into your house because . . . how did he say it
exactly?”
“He said he needed his life.”
“Needed his life?”
“Yes. He asked me why I’d stolen his life, who was I.”
“So he breaks in here,” Lowbock said, “agitated, talking crazy,
well-armed . . . but while he’s waiting for you to come home, he
decides to kick back and have three bottles of Corona.”
Without turning away from the window, Paige said, “My husband didn’t
have those beers, Lieutenant. He’s not a drunk.”
Marty said, “I’d certainly be willing to take a Breathalyzer test, if
you’d like. If I drank that many beers, one after another, my blood
alcohol level would show it.”
“Well,” Lowbock said, “if we were going to do that, we should have
tested you first thing. But it’s not necessary, Mr. Stillwater. I’m
certainly not saying you were intoxicated, that you imagined the whole
thing under the influence.”
“Then what are you saying?” Paige demanded.
“Sometimes,” Lowbock observed, “people drink to give themselves the
courage to face a difficult task.”
Marty sighed. “Maybe I’m dense, Lieutenant. I know there’s an
unpleasant implication in what you just said, but I can’t for the life
of me figure out what I’m supposed to infer from it.”