Chapter 3 - The Inventory of the Rooms
The drive back to Elmwood Ridge took forty-two minutes through the heavy, wet mist that came off the Potomac. The headlights of my sedan cut through the dark branches of the old oaks that bordered the lane, their leaves turning that greasy, wet brown that belongs to the final weeks of autumn.
Marcus Bell’s silver town car was already parked at the gatehouse entrance, its engine idling with a low, rhythmic rattle that sounded like a sewing machine running in an empty room. Beside him stood Deputy Miller’s white Ford Interceptor, its blue and red roof lights turned off but the high-intensity spot lamp directed squarely at the iron lock of the main fence.
Miller was fifty-eight, with a wide, weathered neck that rose out of his fleece-lined collar like an old cedar post. He didn't look at my face when I got out of the car; his eyes dropped instantly to the white silver-sulfadiazine patch that covered the whole left side of my jawline.
"Your mother still has that little white terrier, Caroline?" he asked, his hand resting on the heavy leather holster of his service weapon as we walked toward the iron gate.
"No," I said. "The dog died in November, Deputy. Vanessa left the gate unlatched while she was waiting for a delivery driver."
"Pity," Miller muttered, sliding his brass master key into the manual override cylinder of the gate motor. "That dog had more sense than the whole family combined. At least he knew when to get out of the way of the lawn mower."
The gate swung back with a long, mechanical shriek that had no grease left behind it. We walked up the gravel drive in a single file—the lawyer first with his leather brief-case, then the deputy with his flashlight, and then me, my hands tucked into the pockets of my trench coat to keep them from freezing against the iron keys.
The house was completely dark from the front, but the high windows of the master bedroom suite on the second floor were throwing a bright, yellow glare against the wet slate of the roof. Through the glass, I could hear the rhythmic, thumping bass of a regional dance station playing from Vanessa’s wireless speaker—a sound that didn't belong on the ridge, where the only music for fifty years had been the wind through the hemlocks and the occasional call of the river herons.
Miller didn't knock on the oak door. He used the flat base of his heavy aluminum flashlight to strike the wood three times—a sound that echoed through the stone entryway like an old iron wedge hitting an oak log.
The music upstairs didn't stop, but the shadow behind the frosted glass panel of the door moved instantly. The lock clicked back with a sharp, dry snap, and Diane stood in the opening, wearing her beige silk blouse and holding a crystal glass half-filled with my twenty-year-old single malt scotch.
"Caroline," she said, her voice dropping into that high, dramatic vibrato she used when she was trying to convince the neighbors that her credit cards were only blocked because of an administrative error at the bank. "What is the meaning of this theater? It’s nearly six o'clock on a Sunday evening. You know your stepfather needs his rest before his therapy session in the morning."
"Mrs. Wright," Deputy Miller said, stepping into the warm air of the foyer without removing his hat. He pulled a three-page printed document from his breast pocket—the one with the red seal of the regional circuit court stamped across the top line. "I have an emergency writ of immediate possession issued by Judge Harrison at four-fifteen this afternoon. The Evelyn Vance Trust has revoked your occupancy license effective immediately based on a verified report of physical violence against the executor."
Diane’s face didn't go pale; it turned that bright, dark crimson I had seen in the kitchen seven hours earlier. She looked at Marcus, then at the deputy, and finally at my face, her eyes locking onto the white cream on my cheek with a sudden, sharp hatred that looked like an old tooth breaking through the gums.
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"You miserable little snitch," she whispered, her voice dropping into her chest. "You went to the police over a kitchen accident? I was making dinner for the family, Caroline! You stumbled against the counter while I was carrying the tureen! Vanessa saw the whole thing!"
"The security camera above the microwave has thirty frames per second, Mother," I said, my voice remaining level, flat, and cold as the river mud. "The file has already been logged into the state evidence portal. You have twenty minutes to pack your personal effects before Deputy Miller locks the chain on the main drive."
