There was a pretty wreath on the front door. Curly willow had been twisted into the shape of a heart, and dried red and white roses were snaked through its turns. Allie dug Jamie's house keys out of her pocket and opened the door.
The house was neat and very quiet. Allie knew from Jamie that he and Maggie had left Cummington in a hurry, but there didn't seem to be any dust, and the polished wood floor that ran down the length of the hall was unmarked by muddy boots or black heel prints. The house smelled of lemon wax, evergreen, and something that Allie could not put her finger on but would have bet was a fragrance that simply signified Maggie herself.
"Well," she said aloud, more to hear the way her voice sounded in someone else's home than anything else, "we've got work to do." She hung her coat over the knob of the banister and dug Jamie's list out of the back pocket of her jeans. "The file boxes are in the study," she read, and she poked her head into the first room off to the right.
It was a dining room, decorated with a large oval cherry table and an Irish lace runner. An oversized pewter goblet sat in the center of the table, filled with chubby wax grapes. From the dining room she stepped into the den, where the vacuous black eye of the TV screen stared back at her, and the simple dips of the couch showed that Maggie and Jamie liked to sit side by side.
I should be in forensics, she thought, tabulating the hundreds of things she had already learned about Jamie and his wife simply by stepping through a few rooms of his house. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, wrinkling her nose as she poured the sour milk down the sink drain and threw some moldy bread into the trash. Then she found the study.
It was painted an old-world blue, and one wall was filled with ancient yellowed books that Allie could not imagine anyone having the patience to read. There were two desks in the room: one the wide, tilted run of an architect's workspace, the other a simple oak structure with hideaway cabinets. Allie moved to the architect's desk first. Jamie had mentioned that Maggie was an illustrator, or she had been before it became too difficult to work. There were no pictures-in-progress tacked to the surface, but a small bowl painted with Mickey Mouse's face held markers in all the colors of Allies own roses: sage and lemon and honey and shell pink; sky blue and aubergine, topaz and ivory. Allie picked the markers up and rolled them between her palms, resisting the urge to draw a rainbow.
Clipped to the corner of the white desk was a photograph of Jamie and Maggie. Allie peered closer, fascinated by the mobile smile of Maggie's mouth and the shine of Maggie's eyes. Jamie's arm was looped around her shoulders, his face was turned in profile as he pressed a kiss onto her cheek.
Allie touched her finger to the spot on Maggie's cheek that Jamie was kissing, then touched her own mouth. Feeling slightly guilty, she pulled the photo from its clip and tucked it into the pocket of her chamois shirt.
Jamie's desk held all the bills and all the tax records. She found the fire-resistant strongbox under the right drawer, just as he'd said she would. The key was already in the lock; she had only to turn it to reveal their marriage certificate, their passports, the deed to the house, and their insurance. She took a manila envelope from the desk, emptied its contents, and placed these things inside. Then she removed the picture from her pocket and slipped it gently on top of the other documents.
If she was the jury, she knew what she'd believe more.
Allie walked upstairs to the bedroom and opened the three doors inside to find two closets and the bathroom. One entire shelf in the linen closet was filled with ovulation-predictor tests, carefully stacked. She took one out and stared at the fuzzy picture of a mother and child on the package. Maggie and Jamie had no children, neither did Allie and Cam. The difference was, Maggie and Jamie had wanted a baby. Allie did too--she had from the moment she'd starred dating Cam--but even now, years later, he insisted he wasn't ready. And in this, like all other things, she would wait for him.
Allie closed the linen closet and walked to the other side of the bedroom. She sat down in front of Maggie's vanity table and sprayed a bit of perfume from an atomizer onto her neck. Joy. She knew the smell; she had never been able to afford it. To the left of the perfume was deodorant. To the right was an army of amber plastic vials containing Demerol, Valium, and a host of other medicines that Allie did not recognize.
Oh, Maggie, she thought, staring into the mirror, I would have moved them. I would not have kept them in a place where I could see them every time I looked for my own reflection.
With the precision of a research scientist, Allie wrote down the names of the prescription drugs and their dosage strength on the front of the manila envelope.
In retrospect, she could not say what had made her do it, but Allie methodically began to get undressed. She tucked her sneakers under the vanity table and hung her shirt and jeans over the chair and walked into Maggie MacDonalds closet.
She dressed in a filmy camisole the color of apricots, and an ankle-length skirt made of silk faille in all the shades of a sunset. It was big at the waist, so she hiked it tighter with a leather belt embroidered with a Native American bead design. Then she found a big blue turtleneck sweater that reached to her knees and seemed to swallow her alive.
Maggie had been much taller.
In a hatbox on the top shelf of the closet she found a wig that was the same color as Maggie's hair. She didn't think Maggie had been wearing a wig; surely that would have come out during the autopsy. More likely this was from a year or so ago, when she had undergone chemotherapy that did not work.
Allie crouched in front of the vanity table and tugged and pushed her own dull brown hair under the neat mesh cap until a swing of artificial hair came to touch in two points at the base of her chin.
She went through the drawers of the lingerie chest, pulling on thigh-high stockings and then argyle socks and tennis Peds over those. She wrapped a scarf printed with exotic fruit around her neck, and a longer, more diaphanous one about her hips. In the top drawer she found Maggie's old bras, as wispy and thin as a memory, buried beneath the sturdy white cotton prosthetic ones for a mastectomy patient.
Feeling sick, Allie clamped her hand to her mouth with the intention of running to the bathroom, but when turning around she faced the bed. For the first time she noticed that it was unmade. In a house where everything had its place, where dust didn't deign to settle, the tangled blue sheets and knotted, rolled comforter seemed to be a violation. She inched closer, dropping down to the edge of the bed and reaching for a pillow; She brought it to her face, smelling Jamie's aftershave and Joy.
It was possible that Maggie had felt too sick to make the bed on the day they left, or that Jamie had been the last one to leave it. For all she knew, Maggie might not have even been sleeping upstairs at that point, too tired to go up and down. But Allie could see them as clearly as the bright patterns woven into the skirt she wore: Jamie and Maggie, about to walk out the door of their house, until Maggie turned suddenly and grasped Jamie's hand and dragged him back up the stairs to make love one last time in their own home.
She lay down on the bed in Maggie MacDonald's clothing, pulled the sheets over her head, and wept.
Cam's face turned the same way as Mia's when they kissed. They scraped teeth and mashed noses before getting it fight, but the simple act of finding their way together instead of having an expected pattern made his head swim. They sat on the couch, kissing like teenagers, their hands trapped between their bodies like gypsy moths, darting beneath clothing and batting against skin.
She smelled, felt, and tasted different than Allie, and Cam allowed himself to think this just once. Then he concentrated on learning the texture of the backs of her hands; the feel of the pulse at her temple; the clear, heady scent of her hair.
He undressed Mia slowly, waiting for her to clutch at the sides of her shirt or make a tiny cry of protest, but when she did nothing he simply continued. She sat on the couch on the white blur of her big shirt, which unfolded beneath her legs like the opened petals of a lily. Then
he stood up and began to unbutton his uniform.
The badge struck the edge of the table when he tossed it away, reminding him of exactly who he was and why he should not be doing this, but he pushed the thought aside to step from his shoes and shuck his way out of his pants. When he was naked in front of her, Mia reached out to touch his thigh. She got to her feet and walked around him in a little circle, trailing her fingers so that they were always brushing his skin. "Oh, my," she said softly, coming to face him. "Where are the mistakes?"
He caught her up close then, lifting her to the tips of her toes so that they pressed together at the shoulders and stomach and legs. He kissed a curl that had worked its way to the corner of her mouth. He followed her down to the couch and came into her slowly.
She saw Cam's beauty not in its entirety, but in bits and pieces, like a camera's eye swinging slowly. She panned from the russet of his thick hair to the veins beneath the white stretch of skin, to the simple sculpted V where the muscle of his shoulder joined his bicep. She ran her hands down his chest and stomach to the spot where they were joined, and felt him shake.
Their hearts were pounding between them, slightly out of rhythm. Cam knew he could not hold on, so he buried his face against her neck and, in the strongest effort of will he had yet to face in his life, pulled out of Mia and crushed her against him.
He felt the spot, milky and sticky between them, as binding as guilt. "I didn't have anything," he said, by way of explanation.
Mia nodded. "You'll have to do something about that next time."
Cam felt his heart jump. She wanted to see him again. She wanted to do this again. He rolled to his side, nearly knocking her off the narrow couch, and draped her body over his, realizing for the first time that Mia was crying. With his finger, he wiped away a tear that was balanced over her nostril. "Why?" he said, not sure he wanted to know the answer.
Mia shivered. "I was thinking of my parents," she whispered. "I was thinking I've waited far too long for you."
Cam shifted his weight, still afraid that she might break, or in the blink of an eye puff into a little cloud and disappear. He reached blindly behind him to the edge of the couch, and retrieved the sprig of basil. He tucked it behind Mia's ear. "About that tea," he said, and he watched her turn like a sunflower into the light and strength of his smile.
EIGHT
In 1692, forty MacDonalds of Glencoe, a town not five miles from Carrymuir, were murdered by Campbell soldiers who had enjoyed their hospitality for two weeks.
The MacDonald laird had been delinquent in pledging his support to William of Orange, waiting until the last day of the prescribed time to swear his allegiance. But he had given his word, so when a troop of Campbell soldiers came to Glencoe and asked to stay in the name of the English crown, the laird had no misgivings.
However, the English had decided to teach the Highlanders a lesson. The Campbells, longtime enemies of the MacDonalds, were all too happy to do the honors for William of Orange. After staying at Glencoe, they arranged a massacre in the early hours of the morning, shooting the MacDonald laird, biting the rings off his wife's fingers, and leaving her to die naked in the snow.
In Glencoe, and in Carrymuir for that matter, it was still said that you should never trust a Campbell.
Which was why, when Jamie MacDonald heard the name of the district attorney prosecuting his case, his knees gave out beneath him.
Audra Campbell, Assistant DA, stood in front of Martha Sully, the magistrate assigned to the preliminary hearing of the State of Massachusetts versus James Reid MacDonald, and held up a picture of a moon-white, lifeless body that was the very last thing Jamie wanted to see.
"Your Honor," she said, "we have the autopsy report on Margaret MacDonald; a signed confession from the defendant attesting to his role in her death; Polaroid photos taken upon the arrest of the defendant by Police Chief Cameron MacDonald that show signs of resistance by Margaret MacDonald to her attacker; and various pieces of evidence that link the defendant to the scene of the crime." She raised her brows, as if to convey, Don't we all have somewhere else we'd rather be?
Graham shifted uncomfortably beside Jamie. He'd explained the procedure to him before arriving in court; Jamie had understood that they wouldn't be offering any evidence of their own, because it would be subject to cross-examination. This isn't about your guilt or innocence, Graham had said. This is just a decision about whether or not to go to trial. And although Jamie had seemed to understand while sitting in the confines of Graham's Honda, it didn't explain why his client had taken one look at the prosecuting attorney and had wilted as if he had seen a ghost.
Audra Campbell was a tiger lady, an attorney with an immense chip on her shoulder that did nothing to soften her severely cut suits and her no-nonsense clipped boy's haircut. She did not particularly care for most of the cases she tried in the Berkshire area, but she liked to win. She did not consider defendants to be rapists and thieves and murderers as much as opponents to break down and send slinking away.
She moved in front of the wooden table set up for the prosecution and glanced at the people sitting in the back of the courtroom. "I have a witness here, Your Honor, who would be prepared to verify that the defendant drove to the Wheelock police station on the afternoon of September 19, 1995, and admitted in front of a crowd that he killed his wife. This same witness was the arresting officer who took the defendant's signed confession. In addition, I have another witness who will testify that the defendant attacked him in front of the police station, and had to be brought under control."
She glanced coolly at Graham MacPhee, who was too busy looking at the gathered crowd to catch her eye. Zandy Monroe, the sergeant who would apparently be willing to testify to being assaulted by Jamie, was sitting beside Cam, his head bent as Cam whispered something.
Graham wondered if Cameron MacDonald could do it. He wondered how he'd sleep at night knowing he'd put his cousin in jail for what would most likely be the rest of his life.
Graham stared down at the yellow pad he'd broughr to the preliminary hearing. He'd drawn triangles and his own initials, but nothing else of import. With great deliberation, he wrote Cam's name and underlined it. Allie was off in Cummington getting key witnesses, but Graham knew that parr of the defense straregy at Jamie's trial would be Cam. Graham pictured a cross-examination where he leaned against the witness box, casual as could be, and asked Cam to explain the intricate family ties of the Wheelock MacDonalds. He imagined asking Cam to recite the Carrymuir chief's motto, the same words that graced the Wheelock town seal: Ex uno disce omnes----From one, judge of the rest.
If Cam testified that his cousin was a killer, what would that say about Cam himself?
Graham smiled. All he had to do was make the prosecution's star witness look the tiniest bit unsure of himself on the stand, couple that with Jamie's testimony, and he'd be golden.
Now if only he could prepare a valid legal defense.
"Counselor," Martha Sully said, "do you have a response?"
Graham felt Jamie stiffen at his side. He stood up and cleared his throat, smoothed his Brooks Brothers jacket over his pleated suit pants. "Your Honor," he began, "while some of the contentions made by the prosecution are accurate, my client would argue that he is not guilty for the following reason: Overcome by grief, he was simply nor himself. At the time of Margaret MacDonalds death, James MacDonald was a victim of temporary insanity. We would be prepared to testify and present evidence to that effect at a trial."
He sat down abruptly and Jamie looked up at him, an amused smile quirking across his face. Jamie leaned close to Graham, his breath hot upon his ear. "Well," he whispered, "the ugly duckling becomes a swan after all."
Graham raised one eyebrow. "You ain't seen nothing yet."
Martha Sully looked down her nose at the people assembled in front of her. She slipped on her half-glasses and began to make markings in the file that lay open on the podium. "The court finds that there is sufficient evidence to
submit this case to a grand jury for further consideration," she said, and she snapped the folder shut.
Audra Campbell began to stuff her papers and notebook back into her leather briefcase. She stood, ran her hands down the back of her skirt, and walked over to the defense table. "I'll be seeing you soon," she said to Graham, and then she glanced at Jamie, a feral smile slicing her face in two. "Mr. MacDonald, I give no quarter."
Jamie looked her straight in the eye. "Well," he said evenly, "I'd expect no less from a Campbell."
Ellen MacDonald would not have scared the hell out of her if Mia had been doing something ordinary, like pruning the bonsais or making dish gardens, instead of writing Cam's name over and over on an order form.
"Hello," Ellen called, just inches away from Mia's shoulder, and she jumped a foot. Mia stood up and faced Cam's mother, whom she'd met briefly at the funeral, and slipped the paper she'd been dreaming on into the back pocket of her jeans.
"Mrs. MacDonald," Mia said, trying to smile. "Didn't Allie tell you she was going out of town?"
"Of course." Ellen walked over to the Mr. Coffee and poured herself a cup in a mug Allie usually used. "But she told me you'd be running the business, and that I should just stop by as usual and take what I want."
Mia stared at her blankly. Take what you want?
Ellen crossed to the cooler and began to finger the herbs that Allie kept on the right-hand side. "Fresh lemon balm and dried linden," she said, more to herself than to Mia. She stood up, frowning. "I know she's got them somewhere. She orders what I need every week."
Mia thought of the latest shipment Antonio had brought by, the strange twigs and leaves she hadn't recognized and had left for Allie on her desk. "Oh. You must mean these."
Ellen took the flowers into her hands, rubbing the petals with her fingers as if to assess their frailty. "Wonderful," she said. "These are both supposed to do wonders when it comes to calming you down."
Mia looked at the ugly little branches in Ellen's hands and raised an eyebrow. "I like a little more color."
"Oh, no. I use them for medicine. I boil them up. Natural healing." She waved the lemon balm in the air, so that several of the flower heads drifted toward the floor. "Allies a godsend when it comes to organic ingredients."