Hugo pursed his lips and pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "She was smothered, in layman's terms. Probably had been dead for about five or six hours when I first saw her. He most likely used a pillow; there were fibers on her lips and in her hair that matched up with the police lab reports, although that might have just meant she liked to sleep on her belly."
"Anything else?"
From the other room came the high sob of a mourner. "You know, of course, that she was in the advanced stages of cancer."
Graham nodded. "I'll be speaking to her doctor in a few days. But you found . . . ?" He let his question trail off.
"A radical mastectomy of both the breast and the lymph nodes. Evidence of radiation for a tumor affecting the optic nerve. Bone lesions all over her body that had been present for some time." He shrugged and looked up. "She wasn't in great shape."
"You mentioned in your report evidence of skin beneath her fingernails."
"Her husband's," Hugo said. "But as I've told Miss Campbell, I don't think it necessarily means there was a struggle. There was no other indication of that--no bruises or contusions, and from what I've heard, the room was in pretty good condition too, although I suppose it could have been picked up clean after the fact ..." He smiled ruefully. "You get into my line of work, Mr. MacPhee, and you start to get a sixth sense about things. I'm no expert about police business or matters of the heart, either, but I have a connection with the people I lay out for a burial. I would have been able to tell if Maggie was fighting him. People who are shot or stabbed always die with their eyes wide and scared, their mouths still screaming. Maggie looked like she'd gone off to sleep."
"Well," Graham said, forcing a smile. "How about that." He realized he had been sitting on the foot of a mahogany casket and leaped to his feet.
Graham remembered that Maggie's casket had been closed, and white, and delicate. He wondered if Jamie had picked it after he'd been released on bail. He tried to imagine having to do such a thing. Did you proceed automatically, the way you might select a kitchen cabinet or a color to paint your house: the sandy one, no, the black with gold trim? How could you go about choosing something that would hold the half of your heart you had to bury?
It had taken Angus nearly three full days to get in touch with the branch of the Scottish National Trust that took care of Carrymuir and to convince them that he was indeed a former custodian of the estate, but a week later he presented a package to Allie still bearing the marks of overnight international airmail. "Ye canna possibly thank me for all the trouble I've gone to, lassie," he said, "so dinna fash yourself trying."
Allie fell in love with the picture, which was still in a cracked obsidian frame and faded with age. It showed two little boys on the front steps at Carrymuir. One was crouching over a game of marbles, the other had his hand on the broad back of a wolfhound. The two boys were about five, and a stranger would have guessed they were brothers, so alike were their rangy builds, their Beatles haircuts, and the shadow of their coloring.
As far as she knew, Cam had never seen the picture of himself with his cousin Jamie, taken in 1965.
She had removed the photograph when she got home from the shop, and Krazy Glued the frame back together. It wouldn't be dry till tomorrow, but she slipped the picture back behind the glass so that Cam could get the overall effect.
He came in, clearly exhausted, unhooked his belt and holster and kicked off his boots. Then he flopped down on the couch, barely noticing Allie at the dining room table. "Rough day?"
"I was a traffic light for rush hour," he mumbled.
Allie smiled. "Is that like being a goblin for Halloween?"
Cam groaned and sat up, hugging a throw pillow to his chest. "I want to know why the DPW has programmed the only goddamned light in Wheelock to go on the blitz at four-thirty."
Allie rubbed the corner of the frame with her sleeve, making it shine. "Do they really need someone to direct traffic? What happened before there was a light?"
"People got into accidents." Cam glanced over at her. "What are you up to?"
She walked into the living room. "I got Jamie's Christmas gift," she said, presenting the frame with a flourish.
Cam looked at it dispassionately, a word of praise hovering at his lips, and then his eyes flew open. "That's me."
"And Jamie."
He grabbed the frame out of her hand. "That's Carrymuir. Where the hell did you get this?"
His eyes were poring over the picture, as if sheer scrutiny could force the blurry edges of the background into focus, or make the years that had gone between come flying back. "Angus had it," she said, bending the truth just a little.
Cam looked up at her. For a moment, a play of light from a passing car froze her features, then she again became someone familiar. "Angus owns one picture. It's the one the National Trust made into a postcard."
"Well, he must have forgotten about this one."
Cam set the picture down on the couch beside him and shook his head. "You aren't giving this to Jamie."
Allie smiled. "I knew you were going to want one too. I had a duplicate made up. It should be ready on--"
"You are not giving this to Jamie," Cam said again. "I don't want him coming up to me and thinking, 'Shit, we used to play with marbles together, he must owe me something now.' "
Allie crossed her arms over her chest. "You're being ridiculous. Give me that."
"No," Cam said, coming to his feet. He towered over her, and , she had to crane her neck to be able to maintain eye contact. "I'm sick of hearing about Jamie MacDonald from you and from my
mother and from the newspapers. I don't want to know that we used to play together in Scotland. I don't want us to have any history whatsoever."
A cord was pulsing erratically in his neck, and his eyes had darkened to a shade just shy of black. Allie took a step back, recognizing this part of the argument. Here was the point where she usually backed down. Here was the point where she smiled at Cam and told him whatever he wanted to hear.
"You can't change something that's already been done," she heard herself say.
He didn't know, never would know, what put him over the edge. He wasn't even thinking about Jamie anymore when Allie decided to take a stand and impart that piece of wisdom. He was thinking of Mia, and what he was guilty of. Cam looked at his wife, beautiful and fierce, and realized that he had finally succeeded in doing what he'd set out to do months before: He had provoked Allie. And now he was overcome by his anger--at himself, for falling in love with Mia; at Allie, for finding this photo which was sure to make its way to the local paper; at Jamie, who had so usurped Allies thoughts that she hadn't been there to stop Cam from tangling up his life to the point where getting free was only possible with a painful, irrevocable cut.
"Wanna bet?" he said, his voice silkily quiet, and he took the photo from the couch. The healing frame gave under the pressure of his fingers, and the glass shattered around their feet. Cam pulled the yellowed strip of photo out and tore it in half, so that he and the wolfhound landed a good three feet away from Jamie's image.
Allie shoved him, catching him so off guard he landed back on the couch staring up at her. He watched her throat shake as she tried to control her words. "You bastard. Did you ever once think that what you want and what you need is not necessarily what's best for everyone else?"
She grabbed her purse from the low parson's bench in front of the window and started for the front door. She kept hearing her words in her head, and wondered at what point the argument had gone from a silly squabble about a Christmas present to a question about her whole life with Cam.
Everything about her was in some way connected to him. The
Allie was chopping celery with a passion. "He's a jerk," she said. "I'm not putting up with this anymore."
Ellen lifted the circles of cucumber off her eyes. She was lying on the kitchen floor so that she'd be able to talk to Allie while she chopped. They had already eaten, but there was a negative aur
a about Allie that had to be worked off before she could transcend into sleep, and since Ellen didn't own a punching bag or something equivalent, she'd emptied her vegetable drawer. "He's also my son," she pointed out.
Allie glanced over her shoulder. "I know," she apologized, as if this were too much of a cross for Ellen to bear. "At least I can walk away."
Ellen laughed and stood up, the caftan falling gracefully down to pool around her bare feet. "I can't, and neither can you, dear." She took Allies wrist, shaking free the sharp knife and turning it up so that a pale silver scar showed under the fluorescent lights. "He's gotten under your skin."
location of Glory in the Flower had been chosen for its proximity to the police station. She had adjusted her mealtimes so that they coincided with the shifts that Cam was working on a given week. In the past five years she had learned how to fish, how to target-shoot, how to tell time by the height of the sun, how to clear her mind in the aching cold. She was rarely Allie; instead, she had become the police chiefs wife, the clan chief's wife. She had wanted Cam so badly eight years ago that she hadn't realized the price would be giving up herself.
It was liberating to be furious; it took her twice the distance in half the time. She would give Jamie a hundred of those pictures if it struck her fancy. She'd let Cam flounder in the unnatural confines of his own home, trying to remember where she kept the receipts for his dry-cleaned uniforms and how to cook beyond boiling water.
She thought about staying with Mia at the Wheelock Inn, but that seemed to be an imposition. Graham MacPhee had instigated this, but she didn't know him past the level of acquaintance. And Angus didn't have the room for both Jamie and her. So she walked all the way to the center of town, to the pay phone beside the police station. Then she called Cam's mother, and asked her if she'd like an overnight guest.
Ellen had a scar too. Most couples who'd been married in Wheelock did; it was the pagan ending to the church wedding ceremony. Years ago Scottish marriages had been sealed with a blood vow, and the tradition had been carried over the ocean with the residents of the town. There was a joke once about a woman who'd divorced and remarried a number of times--something about her having more notches up her arm than a yardstick.
Ellen had fainted when Ian took the sgian dhu from his boot and sliced both their wrists neatly, wrapping them close with a handkerchief to stanch the blood. They had been standing on the front steps of the justice of the peace's office, and all of a sudden the sun had seemed too white to be real and she had awakened with her head in her new husband's lap and a low, dull throbbing in her arm. If Ellen remembered correctly, Allie had taken the blood vow quite well. It was Cam who had looked a little sick.
Allie wrapped her free hand around her wrist as if, five years later, it was still sore. She walked to the kitchen table and sat down. "This trial is going to kill us. We won't be speaking at all by the time it's over."
Ellen nodded sympathetically. "Guilt," she said flatly. "Why else would he flare up every time you mention some little kindness?" She paused. "I suppose you could get a bit less involved with Jamie's case. You could let Graham go to Cummington by himself this time."
Allie shook her head. "He can't keep me from doing something I want to do. This is Cam's problem, not mine."
"Yes, but you learn to pick your fights. If it's more important to you to be an integral part of the defense strategy, then concede a little battle. Tell Cam you won't give Jamie the photo for Christmas."
Allie sighed and rested her cheek on the cool wooden table. It was a full moon. She could hear the faint strains of a dog barking somewhere down the block, and the whistle of the wind through the fireplace in the adjoining room. "I'm supposed to leave tomorrow," she murmured.
"Cam mentioned that."
"I don't want to leave if things are like this." She sat up abruptly and rubbed her face with her hands. She absently rubbed her wrist, as if she wanted to feel the scar made the day of her wedding. What else had they promised each other? She remembered
Cam looking down at her, his voice steady and firm as it fell around her shoulders like a protective cap. With all that I have, and all that I am, I thee endow.
She had said the same words to him. Had they been true, they should have traded bits and pieces of their selves the same way they had shared blood: Cam might have taken her calmness, she might have inherited his quick temper; and so on, swapping emotions and attributes until they were no longer opposites but two of a kind.
They probably would never have had this fight.
She looked up at Ellen and smiled a little. "You're always on his side," she said.
The older woman laughed. "Force of habit." She handed Allie her own car keys. "Take the Accord. Cam can follow you here in the morning when you drop it back off."
Allie walked to the sink, washing the residue of the celery off her hands. "How did you know I was going to leave?"
"Because I know you, and I know my son, and you're the bigger person."
Allie sighed. "You'll check in on him when I'm in Cumming-ron?" she asked, kissing Ellen's cheek. Ellen nodded, and opened the door to let her daughter-in-law pass by.
It had begun to snow, a fine moonlit dusting that turned the world into a ghost's playground. Allie tipped her face back and let the snow land on her eyelashes. She snaked out her tongue to catch several flakes, and she let them melt in her mouth with her pride.
She knew Cam wasn't asleep the moment she stepped into the
bedroom. She flicked on the light. "I'm back."
Cam rolled toward her and blinked. Allie sat down on the edge of the bed and slipped off her shoes. "Look," Cam said thickly, as if the word were lodged in his throat.
"I don't want to fight. I'm going away tomorrow for three days and I just want to sleep in my own bed." She glanced over at him. "Does it bother you that I'm going away? That I want to do this for Jamie?"
"You can do whatever you want, Allie."
She frowned at him. "That isn't what I asked you."
"You can do whatever you want. I just wish you wouldn't drag
Watchell Spitlick told Graham that after they were done with their little talk-to, he'd show him a crate of hair pomade he
his name up all the time. I don't want any part of it." When Allie didn't say anything, Cam peeked up at her. "You can give him the goddamned picture if it means so much to you," he muttered.
Allie ran the edge of the comforter through her fingers. "No, you've made yourself clear about that. I'll buy him a sweater."
"Give him the picture."
"He could probably use a sweater anyway--"
"Allie," Cam interrupted. "Give him the stupid picture."
She stretched out on the bed and crossed her arms over her chest. "We're fighting about it again. We can't do anything right."
She wondered what had happened between yesterday and today, since that was all the time it had taken for her to lose control of herself. The old Allie would have welcomed Cam's apology, would have helped him through it because she knew how difficult it was for him to say it. The old Allie would have settled in happily for the night at this point, knowing she'd managed to lighten the mood and restore the peace. That was why, after all, she had come home. But instead, Allie remained .still and withdrawn on her own side of the bed, trying to breathe in spite of the stone that had settled on her chest.
The trees swayed outside the window, blocking the moonlight and Cam's view of his wife. "We can do certain things right," he said suggestively. He did not question his motives-- something any good police chief should have done--he simply shifted toward Allie and pulled her into his arms. He closed his eyes and tried to think about the comfortable set of her shoulders against his chest, the twitch of her feet feeling out cool spots under the covers. Something rushed through him like a nicotine draw, but warmer and similar to relief. He brushed his lips behind her ear.
For a moment, Allie seemed to melt underneath Cam and realign herself closer to the source of
his heat. He heard her skin sigh where his fingers touched her. But then, to his surprise, and for the first time in his life, Allie Gordon MacDonald drew herself away.
had left over from business days. "You use that fancy gel stuff," he said, "but it isn't any different. You pay what, four bucks a pop? I'll let you have the whole crate for four bucks."
If it was anything like what Watchell himself wore on his hair, which plastered the white strands down on his pink head like yarn on a baby's bottom, Graham wanted no part of it. Still, he had a better deal than Allie, who was in the kitchen with Marie Spitlick, looking at a photo album of the poodle they'd just had put to sleep. He was having second thoughts about these two. He knew, at the most, he'd put one of them on the stand; but it was a toss-up as to which one was more credible.
"I wish Mrs. MacDonald--Allie--had told us last time," Bud said, shaking his head. "I would have felt better if I'd gone to the funeral."
Graham smiled. "By the time Allie met you, the funeral had already passed. Things were a little hectic back then."
The older man nodded. "I can't imagine what Jamie's been going through. He could have called, you know. Collect. I would have listened."
"I'm sure you would have." Graham shifted slightly so that a tower of eight-track cartridges would not jab into his hip.
"Well," Bud sighed, lifting a glass of carrot juice in a silent toast. "Maggie's better off this way."
Graham sat up, freshly alert. "You knew about Maggie's illness?"
"Hell, yes," Bud said. "Didn't Mrs. MacDonald--Allie--"
"Let's just assume that when you say Mrs. MacDonald," Graham interrupted smoothly, "you mean Allie."
"Well, didn't she tell you what I mentioned last time?" If she had, it was months ago, and Graham couldn't really remember. "About the night the ambulance came for Maggie when she stopped breathing. Damn near broke our hearts to see those kids going through that. And Maggie the way she was."
"Weak, you mean?"
Bud laughed. "Maggie? Weak? No, I mean helpless. She couldn't stand anybody doing for her. Told me flat out when I was going through the same thing with my sister that she'd rather be dead than hooked up to the mercy of machines."