“You’re the ones from out of town,” the man said.
“Are you Mr. Maxwell?” Marino asked.
“Lee Maxwell. Please come-in. I guess you want to talk about Wren.” We entered the house as an overweight woman in a pink sweatsuit came downstairs. She looked at us as if she knew exactly why we were there.
“He’s up in his room. I was reading to him,” she said.
“I wonder if I might speak to him,” I said in as nonthreatening a voice as possible, for I could tell the Maxwells were upset.
“I can get him,” the father said.
“I’d rather go on up, if I might,” I said. Mrs. Maxwell absently fiddled with a seam coming loose on a cuff of her sweatshirt. She was wearing small silver earrings shaped like crosses that matched a necklace she had on.
“Maybe while the doc does that,” Marino spoke up, “I can talk to the two of you?”
“That policeman who died already talked to Wren,” said the father.
“I know.” Marino spoke in a manner that told them he didn’t care who had talked to their son.
“We promise not to take up too much of your time,” he added.
“Well, all right,” Mrs. Maxwell said to me.
I followed her slow, heavy progress up uncarpeted stairs to a second floor that had few rooms but was so well lit my eyes hurt. There didn’t seem to be a corner inside or out of the Maxwells’ property that wasn’t flooded with light. We walked into Wren’s bedroom and the boy was in pajamas and standing in the middle of the floor. He stared at us as if we’d caught him in the middle of something we weren’t supposed to see.
“Why aren’t you in bed, son?” Mrs. Maxwell sounded more weary than stern.
“} was thirsty.”
“Would you like me to get you another glass of water?”
“No, that’s okay.”
I could see why Emily would have found Wren Maxwell cute. He had been growing in height faster than his muscles could keep up, and his sunny blond hair wouldn’t stay out of his dark blue eyes. Lanky and shaggy, with a perfect complexion and mouth, he had chewed his fingernails to the quick. He wore several bracelets of woven rawhide that could not be taken off without cutting, and they somehow told me he was very popular in school, especially with girls, whom I expected he treated quite rudely.
“Wren, this is Dr.” –she looked at me”–I’m sorry, but you’re going to have say your last name again.”
“I’m Dr. Scarpetta.” I smiled at Wren, whose expression turned to bewilderment.
“I’m not sick,” he quickly said.
“She’s not that kind of doctor,” Mrs. Maxwell told her son.
“What kind are you?” By now his curiosity had overcome his shyness.
“Well, she’s a doctor sort of like Lucias Ray is one.”
“He ain’t a doctor.” Wren scowled at his mother.
“He’s an undertaker.”
“Now you go on and get in bed, son, so you don’t catch cold. Dr. Scarletti, you can pull up that chair and I’ll be downstairs.”
“Her name’s Scarpetta,” the boy fired at his mother, who was already out the door. He climbed into his twin bed and covered himself with a wool blanket the color of bubble gum. I noticed the baseball theme of the curtains drawn across his window, and the silhouettes of trophies behind them. On pine walls were posters of several sports heroes, and I recognized none of them except Michael Jordan, who was typically airborne in Nikes like some magnificent god. I pulled a chair close to the bed and suddenly felt old.
“What sport do you play?” I asked him.
“I play for the Yellow Jackets,” he answered brightly, for he had found a co-conspirator in his quest to stay up past bedtime.
“The Yellow Jackets?”
“That’s my Little League team. You know, we beat everybody around here. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us.”
“I’m certain I would have heard of your team if I lived here. Wren. But I don’t. ” He regarded me as if I were some exotic creature behind glass in the zoo. “} play basketball, too. I can dribble between my legs. I bet you can’t do that.”