Looking up at the withered old face reflected in the mirror across the room, Eleanor let the book slip from her hand. She’d been reading Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson for several weeks, never making much progress because she had so many other thoughts pressing on her that she had a hard time concentrating for more than a few minutes at a time. She’d begun reading the book after a friend from church had quoted Johnson to her. “At seventy-seven it is a time to be in earnest.” Eleanor had missed the date by three years. Perhaps the time for an earnest evaluation of her life had come and gone. It was hard to look into the darkness surrounding her now and see anything very clearly.
The doctor who had pronounced Lena dead said that an autopsy would need to be performed. As a nurse, Eleanor understood that unattended deaths required it, and yet the thought of her sister’s body being put through that kind of indignity made her sick at heart. She pleaded to be allowed to take Lena’s body to a funeral home, where she could be prepared for burial. They’d done a blood test and knew she’d had an excess of alcohol in her system. That and a Tylenol overdose mixed with frigid night air had surely been the cause of death. What more did they need?
“Lena,” she whispered, looking up. “I’m sorry. For everything.”
Eleanor had always felt that, when analyzing a problem, it helped to trace it back to its origin. But that was part of her dilemma. Where had it started? With Lena’s bad decision to sleep with Pauline’s boyfriend? With Stew Ickles arriving at the house? Was the attempt at a cover-up the beginning? Or, as Eleanor feared, was it the one singular, horrific, self-serving lie she’d told that was the genesis of all that came after. She didn’t know. She couldn’t say. She began to cry.
Rising from her chair, she drifted to the door and then out into the hall. She didn’t see the young renter until she’d almost bumped into him.
“I’m sorry about your sister,” said Quentin.
“Thank you.” She walked past him down the stairs. She was having trouble focusing. Iver was angry at her. He’d said as much. If she lost him, she’d lose the only thing that kept her going. No, that wasn’t true. She still had Frank. Her son had always been the one part of her life she would do anything to protect, no matter what the cost. Now, it appeared, it had cost her everything.
“Mom, are you okay?”
She adjusted her glasses. Frank was lying on the couch in the living room. She hadn’t heard him come in. “Oh,” she said. “You startled me. When did you get here?”
“I saw that you’d called me a bunch of times. Thought I should come by. Hey, before we get into … whatever … could you make me a sandwich?”
The ordinary request calmed her. “Of course I can. But all I have is peanut butter or bologna.”
“Bologna would be good. With extra mayo. And maybe some mustard. Actually, I’m kind of hungry. Could you make two?”
“Come into the kitchen,” she said. She found her apron on the hook behind the door and tied it on.
Frank pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table. He played with the saltshaker as she worked at the counter. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”
“Oh?”
“It’s Wendy. We had another fight. She’s moving back in with her parents. I’ll go home tomorrow, but I’ll need to stay here tonight.”
“You can always stay here, you know that. This is your home. In fact, maybe it’s time you move in permanently. Now that Lena’s gone—”
His head snapped up.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I forgot that you didn’t know. That’s what I’ve been calling you about. She attempted suicide last night. She died this morning.”
“Died?”
“Yes. It’s all such a shock.”
He turned his head, looked out the window. “How’d she do it?”
“Booze. Tylenol. She went out onto the porch and somehow managed to fall off. She landed in the snow.”
“Did you find her?”
“No, one of the renters did. Jane.” She walked over and set the plate of sandwiches in front of him, along with a glass of milk.
“Thanks.”
“You see, honey, there’s no reason now why you shouldn’t move in here. This is your house. I don’t have much money, so this will be your inheritance. It’s what you’ve always wanted.”
“I don’t want this place,” he said, cocking his head.
“Of course you do.”
“I don’t.” He took a bit of the first sandwich, wiped a hand across his mouth and then downed half the glass of milk. “This house is nothing but a white elephant. A money pit. Why would I want to take that on? In fact, why don’t you get rid of it? Move somewhere else. You’re too old to take care of a place this big.”
“But Frank, this is our family home. It’s been handed down for generations.”
He stuffed half a sandwich into his mouth, chewed. “Why, of all places on earth, would I want to live here, especially after what happened. Lena was right. It’s a freakin’ nightmare house.”
She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Of course he would live here. This was his birthright. His legacy. She’d preserved the house, scrimped and saved every penny to pay the taxes and keep it from falling into ruin. Everything she’d done was for her son.
“Was that the front doorbell?” asked Frank.
“What?”
“Do you have your hearing aids in?” Looking annoyed, he got up and left the room. A few moments went by before Eleanor heard Butch’s voice. She stood and walked into the living room.
“Sorry,” said Butch, removing his baseball cap. “I was hoping I could get an update on Lena’s condition. Novak was wondering, too.”
“She’s dead,” said Frank, still chewing. “Died this morning.”
“Would you like to join us in the kitchen?” asked Eleanor. She could see how upset he was at the news. “I made a pumpkin pie yesterday.”
“How … how did she die?”
“Pills and booze,” said Frank. “And frigid weather. A lethal combination.”
“So … it was definitely a suicide?” asked Butch.
“What else would it be?” asked Frank, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “You think one of us murdered her?”
Butch’s gaze slid from Frank to Eleanor. “No, of course not.”
“You were here this morning, weren’t you?” asked Eleanor. “You talked to the police?”
“Yeah. Mostly the cop wanted to speak to Jane—your renter. She found Lena in the snow. Did you know she was a private investigator? That Britt hired her.”
“She’s what?” said Frank, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
“A PI,” said Butch. “Yeah, it surprised me, too.”
Frank turned to glare at his mother. “Did you know anything about that?”
“Certainly not.”
“Didn’t you vet her? Don’t you vet the people you rent to?”
“Well, not extensively.”
“You’re an idiot. I’m surrounded by idiots.” He grabbed his coat off the couch.
“Don’t go yet,” said Eleanor. “Please. There’s something important I need to tell you.”
“I better head back to my house,” said Butch, looking uncomfortable as he slipped his cap back on. “Will you let me know about the funeral?”
“Just leave,” said Frank, stomping to the door and yanking it open.
“Yes, I’ll let you know,” said Eleanor. “We haven’t made any plans yet.”
As soon as Butch walked out, so did Frank.
Eleanor sank onto the couch feeling utterly defeated.