“What sort of trauma? I’m still not getting it.”
Crystal seemed to debate with herself. She stared straight ahead and when she spoke her tone was as flat and distant as an old phonograph record. “I had a little boy who drowned. Of course, it affected us all. That was the beginning of the end where Lloyd and I were concerned. Some things you never recover from. A child’s death is one.”
“What happened?”
“That was Jordie. My sweet one. He was eighteen months old. I was working one night and left him with the woman next door. She was talking on the phone when Jordie toddled out the screen door and fell in the pool. By the time she found him and called the paramedics, he couldn’t be revived.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought I’d die, but it was worse for Leila. Children aren’t prepared for loss. They don’t understand and it’s hard to explain death in terms that they comprehend. I’ve never been religious. I didn’t want to sell her a fairy tale, especially one I wasn’t buying myself. Dr. Fried-man says when faced with the death of a sibling, some children disconnect. They act like nothing’s happened. Others, like Leila, start acting out. She’s difficult. You’ve seen it yourself. Rebellious. Emotional. I’ve talked to Charlotte-with Leila’s permission of course. Charlotte feels Leila’s behavior is her way of distancing herself, creating a barrier between herself and a world that she finds treacherous. If she doesn’t care about anyone, she can’t be hurt. At any rate, I know I’m protective. I’m not even sure how I’m going to tell her about all this.”
“She’s here. Didn’t you see her back there with Lloyd?”
Crystal sat up abruptly. “I had no idea. Where?”
“Far side of the road, about three cars back. At least they were a while ago.”
“I better see how she’s doing.” Crystal reached around the seat for a big black umbrella that was stashed on the floor. She opened the car door a crack and stuck the umbrella out, popping the automatic latch that caused it to thwop into full sail.
“Thanks for the Hershey’s. You saved my life.”
“You’re welcome.”
The tow truck appeared, its headlights illuminating the roadway as far as the next curve. I opened the door on my side, tented my slicker over my head, and got out, closing the door behind me. I turned, watching as the tow truck driver’s assistant hopped out of the cab. Crystal passed him, trekking back along the road while the driver did a three-point turn and started backing up the slope. The heavy tires slipped, chewing two channels in the grass. The driver craned a look over his shoulder, one hand on the wheel. His assistant whistled sharply and gave rolling-arm instructions about the angle of ascent. The blond reporter caught sight of Crystal and moved to intercept her. Crystal shook her head, waving her off.
I retreated to my car and turned the key in the ignition. The rain was reduced by now to an icy mist, soaking the unwary onlookers by slow degrees. The interior temperature had dropped while I was gone and the tepid breeze generated by the heater wasn’t even as effective as my own breath. I watched the tow truck slip sideways and then lumber backward up the hill to the top. I couldn’t imagine how they’d manage to haul the Mercedes out of the water and up the sodden hill.
I turned, looking over the backseat to check Crystal’s progress. She’d reached Leila, who was standing by the side of the road with Lloyd. Lloyd had his arm around her, but the minute Leila saw Crystal she fled to her mother’s embrace. Crystal held her and rocked her where they stood, resting her face in Leila’s hair. After a moment, the three conferred; Leila looking miserable, Lloyd withdrawn. Whatever the debate, it was evident that Crystal prevailed. Mother and daughter passed my car in their return to the station wagon. Crystal was talking earnestly while Leila wept without sound. I watched as she settled her daughter in the front seat and then went around the rear of the car and slid in under the wheel.
I adjusted my rearview mirror, keeping a watchful eye on Lloyd, who’d started toward his car, his head bent, hands in his jacket pockets. Maybe the two were in competition, playing good parent. Leila was the prize and Lloyd had been forced to forfeit this round. In mirror-reverse, I saw him light up a cigarette and belatedly I smelled smoke drifting through the damp night air. Idly, I wondered how far out into dark I’d have to go so I could pee without being arrested for indecent exposure.
Detective Odessa, in a hooded water-repellent jacket, appeared at the crest of the hill and began his descent, his footing as tenuous as mine had been. He spotted my VW and began to tack in my direction. I leaned over and cranked down the window a couple of inches. He reached the car and peered in. Drizzle had collected on the shiny surface of his jacket and the water slid in runnels along the stitching in the seams. His nose was slightly too prominent and something in the shape of it left him just short of handsome. He gestured toward the work lights on the far side of the hill. “I want you to meet Detective Paglia.”
I said, “Sure.” I rolled up the window and killed the engine. I got out, taking a moment to shrug into my slicker before I followed him up the hill. The two of us struggled together, Odessa holding on to my arm as much for stability as for support.
I said, “How’s it going?”
“It’s a bitch,” he said. “I see Crystal’s here. I sent an officer to the house. I thought she should know what was happening.”
“What about Fiona? Anybody heard from her?”
“Nope. We notified the daughter, but she can’t make it over here until the nanny gets back from dinner.”
“Does she know where her mother is?”
“Not offhand. She says she’ll put in a few calls and see if she can track her down. Otherwise we wait and hope she comes home.”
We scrambled the last few yards to the top of the hill and stood there together staring down at the lake. The light from the flood lamps had washed the color from the scene. Steam rose like smoke where the rain came in contact with the hot metal flanges. An assortment of people stood in clusters, apparently waiting for additional technicians or equipment. I could see an eerie green glow moving under the surface of the water as a search went on in the depths. With the angle of the floodlights, the butt end of the Mercedes glimmered incongruously. “Is he in there?”
“Don’t know yet. We’ve got a diver in the water. The shelf drops off sharply to a depth of twenty feet. . . this is five or six yards out. Car got hung up against a boulder or it’d be down on the bottom and we’d be out of luck.”
The diver surfaced in a dark blue wet suit and hood, a compressed-air cylinder strapped to his back. He removed his mouthpiece and let it dangle as he waded ashore, algae clinging to his fins. He lifted off his face mask and left it resting on the top of his head like a hat. Once on shore, he was intercepted by the coroner and another man, both in raincoats, who listened while he reported, complete with gestures.
Meanwhile, the tow truck had backed down within range of the shore. Two men in hip boots and yellow slickers had entered the water in preparation for the salvage operation. One was already attaching a chain to the Mercedes’s axle. As I looked on, one of the two men miscalculated and slipped into deeper water, his slicker billowing out around him like a deflated life raft. He flailed, cursing, while his partner snorted with suppressed laughter and pushed forward through the water to lend him a hand.
Odessa nodded in the diver’s direction. “That’s Paglia with the coroner.”
“I gathered as much.”
As if on cue, the other detective turned and caught sight of Odessa and me. He excused himself and headed in our direction across soft ground already trampled with footprints. Days of rain had obliterated any trace of tread marks, but the projected path of the car had been secured and searched. Evidence was doubtless in very short supply after so much time had passed. When he reached us, Detective Paglia held out his hand. “Ms. Millhone. Jim Paglia. Con Dolan’s spoken to me about you.” His voice was deep and uninflected. I placed him in his fifties. His head was shaved, his freckled forehead etched with a trellis of vertical and horizontal lines.
We shook hands and said hi-how-are-you-type things. Lieutenant Dolan had been in charge of the homicide unit until a heart attack dictated his early retirement. “How’s Dolan doing these days?”