No Time to Die & the Deep End of Fear

  I think I woke up Joseph. He sounded a bit cross when I phoned him from the school parking lot, but recovered quickly when he realized I was the one calling. We agreed to meet at Tea Leaves. Twenty minutes later he arrived at the bakery and cafe, looking like a rumpled schoolboy who had overslept.

  "I shouldn't have called you so early,' I said as we placed our breakfast on a table by the window and sat down. "Middle button," I added, and he fastened his shirt.

  "No, no," Joseph replied, "I had planned to be at the shop by now. I should be wrapping things up faster than I am and getting back to my job in Baltimore. Ah, coffee." He took several sips, then examined the china mug. "I wonder if Jamie would buy off any of my mother's collection? Nothing else here matches."

  The owner had painted the cafe's furniture in a rainbow of hues, making no effort to match the sets of tables and chairs. With the fog enveloping the town, pressing against the cafe's street-front windows, the room was a cheerful island of color and warmth. I watched Joseph eat his muffin with a knife and fork. I bit into mine, messy but content.

  "Did you talk to Jim Parker?" he asked.

  That single moment of ease evaporated.

  "Yes. He was very helpful. He doesn't think Ashley is a ghost."

  I explained the psychologist's theory.

  "Well, I find that easier to believe than the walking dead," Joseph remarked when I had finished, "though not much easier."

  "But you see the possibilities," I said.

  Joseph took a long sip of coffee, "I—no, I don't think I do."

  "If Patrick can tap into the record of Ashley's thoughts and feelings, all I have to do is get him on the right page."

  "The right page?"

  "Get him to connect with Ashley's thoughts on the day she was murdered."

  He slowly set down his cup. "I see."

  "I'm taking him down to the pond as soon as we get home from school today. I'll talk to him about the day she died, try to get him to think about it, and hope that he taps into her memory trace. If Ashley saw someone when she was lured out on the ice, saw just a piece of clothing through the trees—someone's jacket, for instance—it could be an important clue. Maybe she noticed footprints or heard a familiar voice. I don't know what exactly I'm looking for, but there may be something in her thoughts and feelings from that time that could tell us who killed her."

  Joseph chewed thoughtfully. "If someone killed her," he said at last. "Katie, I'm not tell ing you that she wasn't murdered, but I do worry that, without realizing it, you have turned a possibility of murder into a fact."

  I picked up my juice glass and swished it around, watching the little particles of orange swirl.

  He went on. "I think that—don't be offended—in a way, you want it to be murder. I understand why. It would explain a lot of things that are happening now to Patrick."

  I thought about Dr. Parker's warning: It is when we like our theories too much that we should be wary.

  "The day Ashley died," Joseph went on, "she was distraught over her missing rabbit. And she was always an impulsive child. If anyone would have run across dangerous ice to catch her pet, Ashley would have. Remember, they found the rabbit when they drained the pond. And when the coroner examined Ashley's body, he found no sign of trauma.".

  "That doesn't prove anything," I argued. "No one had to touch her. All they had to do was lure her onto the ice. It would be easy enough to kill a rabbit and slide it out on the ice with a pole, leaving it there for her to see. A rabbit is light; ice that was soft enough to give way beneath Ashley could have held a rabbit."

  Joseph chewed some more, thinking, then set down his knife and fork, picking the crumbs off his plate with his fingers, licking the tips.

  "What you're saying makes sense. Just remember that if you start out with the wrong assumption, you may misinterpret whatever follows."

  I nodded.

  "So take Patrick to the pond," Joseph advised. "It can't hurt, and maybe it will help. See what he tell s you. I admit, I'm getting curious." He glanced down at his plate, which was now crumb less. "Would you like another muffin?"

  "No, but get one for yourself. I have some tea left."

  Joseph shoved back his chair. "Wouldn't want to get thin," he said.

  As he headed toward the glass cases that ran along the back of the cafe, I gazed at the buildings across the street. In the fog, the Queen Victoria, with its second and third-story porches, looked like a faded photograph of a nineteenth-century hotel. The illusion was broken when someone in a bright green business suit emerged from the entrance. She reached back and the man behind her put his coat over her shoulders. It was Trent—and the woman from the other day, the hotell manager, I assumed. They crossed the street and entered Tea Leaves.

  Walking to the cases at the back of the cafe, they passed Joseph on his return to our table. I thought Joseph hadn't noticed them, but when he sat down he leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Trent is seeing Margery?"

  "I think so."

  He offered a toast with his coffee. "Here's to women who know how to latch on to money."

  Trent glanced over his shoulder at us.

  Unfortunately, the only table in the cafe available to them was close enough to ours to limit our conversation to Joseph's progress in organizing his mother's estate. I hope her soul was in better shape than her finances," he kept saying.

  He finished his muffin, and we rose to leave. I smiled and said hello to Trent as we passed his table. Just as Joseph and I reached the cafe door, Trent called to me.

  "I had better see what he wants," I said.

  Joseph looked irritated and glanced at his watch. "I've got to keep going. I have an appointment with Mother's no-good lawyer."

  "Thanks for listening, Joseph."

  "Sure, Katie," he said. "You know I'm just an old grouch and don't mean anything when I fuss."

  He left, and Trent rose from his seat, meeting me halfway aaoss the room. "We'll go outside for a moment," he said, taking my arm lightly and steering me in that direction.

  I pulled my arm free, then glanced toward Margery. She showed the training of a discreet hotell manager, acting as if she hadn't noticed me and had come to the cafe to eat by herself.

  When Trent and I were standing on the brick walk, he started right in. "That's the second time I've seen you with Joseph Oakley."

  "And it's the second time I've seen you with her," I replied, nodding toward his companion inside.

  "I hope you are not involved with Joseph."

  "Involved? Don't you think he is a little too old for me?"

  "I wasn't speaking romantically," Trent said stiffly. "I feel it is my duty, Kate, to tell you that Joseph is a dishonest man, an unreliable person. When you are young and naive, it is sometimes difficult to see people for what they are."

  "Oh. Well, since you are old and wise, what do you think about Sam Koscinski?" I asked. "You were looking out the library window this morning, weren't you?"

  "Yes."

  "You know he is the son of the private investigator your father hired after Ashley died, the man who was killed when pursuing my family."

  "Yes," Trent replied, his lips barely opening.

  "Why was Mr. Koscinski chasing my mother? Why wasn't he pursuing you as well?"

  Trent's eyes shifted away from me.

  "Both you and my mother were cheated on."

  Trent's face washed white. Some people redden with anger; he paled with it.

  "You would have the same motive," I continued.

  "Motive for what?" he asked.

  I ignored the question; we both knew its answer. "Why do you think Ashley keeps talking to Patrick?"

  "Patrick is an exceptionally spoiled and confused child," Trent said. "His behavior is easy to understand. It is yours that baffles me. On the surface you appear to care too much for the boy to want to make things harder for him."

  "I'm making things harder?" I exclaimed, so loudly that a person passing by turned around t
o look at us. I waited until the man had moved on. "I'm not the one who—"

  "You," Trent interrupted, "are the only one in the house who still has a choice in the matter. You can choose to let go of the past and encourage Patrick to forget about Ashley. Let sleeping dogs lie, Kate."

  "They've lied too much already," I said.

  He shook his head. "Don't make Patrick pay the price for your curiosity about the past. I'm warning you, Kate, and I'm not going to warn you again." He pivoted and reentered the cafe. I stared through the window at him, but he had sat down and turned his attention to his lady friend.

  I walked away, upset by his words. Was I pursuing the truth for Patrick's sake or my own? I had thought I was doing it for Patrick—at least, it had started out that way. But I had learned that the past was tied up in lies, lies that had changed my own life. I was doing this for both of us now, though it was only myself I had the right to endanger. The question was, which was endangering Patrick more: pursuing the truth or letting it go?

  Chapter 18

  When I picked up Patrick at school that afternoon, he seemed happier than he had earlier in the day. He had done well on a spelling test and had discovered another boy in his class who liked ice hockey. But the little bit of brightness in his face faded by the time we reached the end of the long road up to Mason's Choice. A few minutes later, when I offered him an after-school snack, he took a tiny bite out of the peanut butter cracker I had fixed, then set it down.

  "What's wrong?"

  He looked at the plate of crackers warily. "I don't want a tummy ache."

  "They won't hurt you. I fixed them myself."

  "I'm not hungry."

  Trust me! I wanted to say, but even I could recognize the irony of that coming from me.

  "Do you want to go for a hike?" I asked.

  "No."

  "Not even down to the pond?"

  "The pond?" He was interested.

  "Why don't you change into your play clothes? I'll put your crackers in a bag, and we can take them along for a picnic."

  His face lit up, then he reconsidered. "No, thanks. I'm not hungry."

  "Then we'll skip the picnic part, but go change your clothes."

  Mrs. Hopewell entered the kitchen as soon as Patrick left. I had the feeling she had been eavesdropping.

  "Patrick and you will eat with the family tonight."

  "Is that what Adrian wishes?" I asked.

  She hated it when I called him by his first name. Yes.

  I nodded, put an unopened bag of crackers in my coat pocket, and headed upstairs. When I got to Patrick's bedroom, I saw that he had taken out his ice skates.

  "Patrick, can you see how foggy it is outside?" Yes.

  "When warm air comes in contact with the cold of the melting snow, it makes fog. The air is very warm today, the temperature well above freezing. The ice on the pond will be too soft for skating." "No, it won't."

  "I'm sorry, but it will."

  "It won't!" he said, swinging his skates, banging them against his closet door.

  "It will," I said firmly.

  He dropped his skates and threw himself on the bed. "Then I don't want to go."

  "All right. You stay here and do your homework. I'm going on a hike to the pond." I strode across the hall, wondering how far I could go before having to give up the bluff. He followed me down the main stairs, keeping about ten steps behind. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was carrying his skates.

  When I reached the first-floor hall, I heard voices in the library—more fighting. I walked quietly toward it, trying to decipher Robyn's words. Trent cut her off, then Emily's high-pitched voice interjected something. Patrick caught up with me just as the library door opened. At the sound of their angry voices, he cringed.

  "It's okay," I whispered.

  Brook emerged. Seeing Patrick and me, he grinned as if he knew a secret. "The cat's away," he told us, "and you know what happens then." He pointed to the library.

  "My cat is dead," Patrick replied solemnly.

  "Oh yeah, I forgot about that old thing."

  "Close the door, Brook," I said.

  He reached back and pulled it shut, muffling the sound of the raised voices, then walked toward us. "Do you think your cat ate some raspberry pie?"

  I glared at him. "Sometimes, Brook, I can't tell if you are exceptionally mean-spirited or simply stupid."

  "I've never been exceptional at anything," he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets, "so I must be stupid. Grandfather thinks so." He shrugged, as if it were unimportant, but there was an edge in his voice. "He has gone into town to see his attorney. Grandfather's personal attorney always comes here, of course. I guess the old man wants some privacy while deciding how to divide up his loot. Anyway, when the cat's away—"

  "The mice will play," I finished for him. "It's just a saying, Patrick."

  "Oh, it's more than that," Brook said. "It's advice. Be on your guard. The mice can play rough, especially when the cat frustrates them."

  The library door opened again. Trent emerged, his face the color of vanilla ice cream, his brow pinched. With barely a glance in our direction, he headed toward his wing. Robyn came out and stared straight at us, but I wasn't certain she saw us. Her cheeks flamed with anger. Emily was still in the library, her fists clenched, tears running silently down her face. Hoping Patrick didn't see his mother, I quickly turned him in the direction of the kitchen, where we kept our boots, and gave him a little push.

  "So where are you going, Patrick?" Brook asked.

  Patrick didn't reply.

  "To the pond," Brook guessed, noting the skates. "What a great idea, ice skating on a nice warm day like this!"

  I told him the pond was too soft. He wants to see for himself. Excuse me."

  Patrick was halfway down the hall and I took long strides to catch up with him. In the kitchen, we pulled on our boots, then exited out the back of the house.. Patrick walked swiftly, wordlessly toward the snowman we had built two days ago. Our hockey player had shrunk into a troll.

  "He's melted," I observed.

  Without replying, Patrick picked up the snowman's hockey stick and circled the house to the front. I could have stopped him there and given him the choice of dropping the skates and stick or going to his room, but going back inside that angry house was too stiff a penalty for any child to pay. We'd settle the matter when he could see the ice for himself.

  We walked silently down the main road, then cut across a garden and orchard, Patrick leading the way, making a wide circle to skirt the horse bam. The stand of trees around the pond looked eerie in the fading afternoon light, like an island floating in the snow and mist. We entered the ring of cedar and pine, following the short trail through dripping branches. Fog darkened the wood and hung over the pond, turning the straggly trees near the shore into ghostly figures. The ice was leaden gray. Off-center, larger than before, was the circle of black water.

  Patrick picked up a stick and threw it on the ice. "See? It's frozen."

  "Patrick, sticks float on water."

  "But it's not floating," he replied. "It's just sitting there."

  "The point is that sticks are so light, they can float on water. You are much heavier."

  "I float," he argued. "I float on my back."

  Struggling to keep my temper, I took the skates and hockey stick from him. "You can't go on the ice. I don't want to hear any more about it."

  I put his things at the entrance to the path, then dragged two heavy limbs to the narrow margin between pond and trees, and pushed them together.

  "Do you want to sit on my new bench?" I asked, taking out the bag of crackers. I had brought the buttery ones, his favorite. "You may open them if you like."

  The sulk could be sustained for only so long. Patrick sat down next to me. After a moment, he tore open the crackers and gobbled up several of them. As he did, I thought about how to facilitate his contact with Ashley's thoughts the day she died. I knew the first part of t
he story; perhaps all I had to do was get it started, and let Ashley finish it.

  I never mentioned this, Patrick," I said, "but I used to play with Ashley—"

  My cell phone rang, startling both of us. I reached in my pocket to turn it off, but before I could, the three-note ring sounded again.

  "It's your phone," Patrick said.

  I sighed and pulled it out. "Hello."

  "Miss Kate?"

  "Yes."

  "It's Jack, one of Mrs. Caulfield's grooms."

  "I'm sorry?" The voice sounded low and raspy, the connection unclear.

  "Jack, from the bam. We got a kind of problem here. I found some painting on the bam, spray paint, low down on the west side. Don't know how long it's been there—no one goes around that way. I had to call Mrs. Caulfield about it. She's mad and coming down to see herself."

  He paused.

  "So?" I asked, but I could guess what was coming.

  "She said you should be here waiting to explain."

  "Did she now."

  I reminded myself that it wasn't the groom's fault that Robyn had leaped to this conclusion. And, to be fair to Robyn, Patrick had earned her suspicion.

  "Would you hold for a moment, please?" I pressed the mute button. "Patrick, did you spray paint the outside of the horse barn?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  His face grew anxious, his mouth moving silently before he spoke. "I don't have any spray paint."

  I mentally ran through the forty-eight hours since he had dropped the manure through the hay chute. He had slipped off that afternoon when I had found him on the diving board, and had slipped away again at dawn when I had found him here at the pond, but I doubted he had gone anywhere other than the pool and pond. Of course, the vandalism might have been done before that and not noticed til now. "Have you had any dares from Ashley that I don't know about?"

  "No. Am I in trouble?" He had taken off his mittens to eat the crackers, I saw the tense way he curled his hands, leaving his knuckles bony white.

  "Not if you didn't paint the barn." Someone else could have, I thought, someone hoping the blame would fall on Patrick.

  I released the mute button and spoke into the phone again. "Please tell Mrs. Caulfield that I have questioned Patrick, and that it would make more sense if the person who did it was there to explain."