Midnight Voices

CHAPTER 26

Caroline walked past the door to Tony’s study three times before she finally stopped. It was early, a little after eight; Tony had left the apartment an hour ago, and Laurie thirty minutes later. Ryan had come down for breakfast, but not until after he was sure Tony was gone, and disappeared back to his room as soon as he was finished eating.

Through it all Caroline had been doing her best to ignore the door to her husband’s study. But the study was the last thing she’d thought about before she had gone to sleep and the first thing she’d thought of when she woke up this morning. Twice she’d almost asked Tony if he’d found Ryan in the musty old room, but both times she’d remembered the fear in her son’s voice when he’d begged her not to tell Tony what he’d said, and even though she couldn’t imagine what Ryan had said was true, she’d still been unable to bring herself to break the promise she’d made to him. But the moment she’d come downstairs that morning the closed door to her husband’s study had drawn her like iron to a magnet, and now, with her husband and daughter gone for the day, and Ryan upstairs in his room, she found herself approaching the door once again. For a long time she stood in front of it, listening to the huge grandfather clock next to the coat rack count the seconds.

What was she waiting for?

Did she think if she stared long enough at the heavy mahogany panel it would somehow turn transparent?

Or was she afraid of what she might find behind it?

But what could possibly be there? It was just a room, its furnishings worn and outdated. But it was the way Tony liked it. It wasn’t as if there was some great secret hidden away in the study.

Her hand closed on the ornate crystal knob, and she twisted it.

Locked.

Had it been locked before, or had Tony only locked it after he’d found Ryan inside the room? She had no idea, except she was almost certain it hadn’t been locked the first time Tony had shown it to her, and obviously it hadn’t been locked when Ryan had gone in. Suddenly the vague sense of guilt she’d felt about invading Tony’s study gave way to an urge to know what was inside, what it was that Ryan had seen that had made Tony lock the room. But where was the key? Or did she even need a key? Since she’d been working at the shop, she’d picked half a dozen locks, most of them on desks, but a couple on large armoires. Besides, there must be keys around somewhere. Going to the kitchen, she quickly searched through the drawers under the counter. The third one down to the right of the sink turned out to be the one that had wound up as the catch-all, and after she’d gone through all the rest, she went back to it, searching more carefully. Nothing.

She moved on through the apartment, glancing at each door as she passed, but none of the locks held keys. She went upstairs, repeating the process on the second floor.

No keys anywhere? But that was ridiculous.

Her curiosity growing, she went back downstairs to the kitchen, reopened the third drawer down on the right, and went through it again, this time looking for something she could use as a makeshift pick. Finding a heavy paperclip, she straightened it out, then used a pair of pliers to bend one end in a short right angle. Going back to the study, she knelt down, inserted the paper clip into the lock, and began feeling for the catch.

In less than a minute, it snapped open.

When she twisted the knob again, the door to the study swung open. Caroline stood at the threshold of the room, gazing inside.

Something had changed.

But what?

Her heart suddenly beating faster, she stepped into the study and switched on the brass chandelier that hung over Tony’s desk. As the room flooded with light, she looked around. Until now, she’d barely even glanced into the room, but from what she could see, nothing really seemed any different — the furniture, the paneling, the pictures, all of it looked the same. And yet somehow it didn’t feel the same. Frowning, she moved deeper into the study. The carpet, an antique Aubusson, seemed brighter than she remembered it, and she would have sworn that the leather on the easy chair by the fireplace was far more worn than it looked. But maybe she was just remembering it as being far more in need of a redecoration than it really was. She began looking for the photograph album Ryan had described, but though there was a relatively dust-free rectangular area on the shelf under the lamp table by the fireplace that was about the right size and shape for a photograph album, there was no sign of the album itself, nor did she find it on any of the other shelves, either. Going to the desk, she tried the drawers, one by one.

And found every one of them locked. Nor did any of them yield to the paper clip that had opened the door. She was trying to decide what to do next when the doorbell chimed in the hall outside the study. Jumping like a child who was caught with her hand in the cookie jar, Caroline moved quickly to the door, pulled it closed, and started toward the front door. But then she turned back to the study door, inserted the paper clip in its lock once again, and twisted.

Nothing happened.

The doorbell chimed again.

Swearing softly under her breath, Caroline almost abandoned the study door, but as she gave the twisted piece of metal one final twist, the lock clicked again.

As the doorbell rang a third time, she pulled the door open to find Melanie Shackleforth just starting back toward the stairs.

“You are here,” Melanie said, coming back toward Caroline. “I thought you must have changed your mind about having me keep an eye on Ryan while you’re at work.”

Caroline stared at Melanie blankly. She remembered talking to Melanie last night about watching Ryan, but they hadn’t decided anything, had they? “I — actually, I’m not even sure I’m going to work today.” Had something flickered in Melanie’s eyes as she spoke the words? She wasn’t sure — she thought so, but—

“Well, if you change your mind, just let me know, okay?” Caroline nodded, and now Melanie cocked her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Are you all right, Caroline?”

“I–I’m fine,” Caroline assured her. But even as she uttered the words, she knew she wasn’t fine at all. “It’s just—” she began, but then fell silent. She hardly even knew Melanie Shackleforth. How could she even begin to explain all the horrible thoughts that had been tumbling around in her mind? Finally she shook her head. “It’s nothing, really. It’s just that everything’s sort of piling up. But I’ll get it sorted out — I always do.”

Melanie looked unconvinced. “You’re sure?” Caroline nodded with a lot more emphasis than she felt. “All right. But if you need help with anything, you call me, hear?”

Closing the door behind her, Caroline leaned against it for a moment, then went upstairs to Ryan’s room. She found him sprawled out on his bed, still in his bathrobe, with some kind of video game in his hands. When he looked up at her she could see the belligerence in his eyes, and when he spoke his voice was as dark as his expression. “I’m not staying with—” he began, but Caroline didn’t let him finish.

“I’m not asking you to,” she said. “I want you to get dressed — you’re coming to work with me.”

Ryan’s expression shifted from anger to uncertainty. “You mean you’re not mad at me anymore?”

Caroline took a deep breath, trying to figure out what she should say. There was no way she could explain all the emotions that were roiling inside her — the uncertainty, the fear, the doubts about everything that had taken root in her mind. That wasn’t what Ryan needed, not after losing his father, changing schools twice in less than a year, moving out of his home, and being asked to accept a stepfather when he wasn’t even used to the loss of his real father.

What he needed was for her to be strong, to be a rock of stability for him, to let him know that she, at least, was still there for him. “Of course I’m not mad at you,” she said. “You’re my favorite boy in the world, and I love you more than you’ll ever know until you have a son of your own someday. And I know you’re having a hard time right now, but I promise you, we’ll get through it. We’ll just take one day at a time, and everything’s going to be all right. Okay?”

Ryan put his arms around her and buried his face in her chest. “I didn’t mean to get kicked out of school,” he said, his voice muffled.

“It’s all right,” Caroline soothed. “And it’s only for a couple of weeks. If you have to come to work with me, so be it. Maybe you can be the youngest antique salesman in New York.”

Thirty minutes later Caroline stepped off the elevator, with Ryan — who had at least finally conquered his fear of the rattling brass cage — close behind her. As Rodney tipped his head and bid them both a good morning, she felt Ryan slip his hand into hers, and quicken his step until he was almost tugging on her arm as they went through the doors and out into the bright sunshine of Central Park West. “For heaven’s sake, Ryan,” she said as they turned south. “He’s not going to bite you.”

But Ryan wasn’t listening to her — he had stopped short, his eyes fixed on someone coming up the sidewalk toward them. For a moment Caroline wasn’t certain who he was staring at, but as a woman clad in a light coat came closer, Caroline realized she looked familiar, yet couldn’t quite place her. A moment later the woman had moved on up the street, nodding a greeting as she passed, and Ryan had turned around, his eyes still fixed on her.

“Ryan, stop that. It’s not polite to stare at people. Especially strangers.”

“But it’s that woman,” Ryan said, his gaze still on the retreating figure. “The one who wanted to touch my face.”

For a second Caroline didn’t understand what he was talking about, but then it suddenly came back to her. Helena Kensington? But that was impossible — Helena had been carrying a white tipped cane and— Before she could complete the thought, the woman Ryan was watching turned in at The Rockwell, mounted the three steps, and started to pull open the front door. But before the door swung wide enough to block her view, the woman looked back down the street and Caroline got a clear look at her face.

Ryan was right: It was Helena Kensington, but there was no sign of the white-tipped cane she’d been carrying the last time Caroline had seen her. Caroline was still staring at her when she smiled and nodded once more, then disappeared into the building.

Helena Kensington paused to let her eyes adjust from the glare of the daylight outside to the soft illumination of The Rockwell’s lobby, savoring every moment of the time it took for the furniture around the fireplace and the paintings hanging on the walls and the wonderful mural overhead to come into focus. The lobby was looking better — the mural seemed brighter than she remembered it, and the upholstery on the furniture appeared to have been cleaned. Not nearly as gloomy as it had looked before her eyes had begun failing her. Or maybe it hadn’t changed at all — maybe it was just that she was able to see it clearly again. Not that it mattered, really; the only thing that counted was that she could see again. In fact, she could see well enough now to get a license to drive, at least according to the eye doctor she’d gone to see this morning at some place called LensMasters that she’d found on Amsterdam Avenue, where all you had to do was walk in and ask to see someone. Helena wasn’t sure she liked the system, but she was well aware that if you tried to live in the past the world soon passed you by.

“Perfect,” the optometrist had pronounced after having Helena peer through the eyepieces of a peculiar-looking machine that hung in front of the chair she’d been seated in. “You have the eyes of a teen-ager.”

“Not quite,” Helena had retorted. “But they’ll do.” Assured that she probably wouldn’t even need reading glasses for another twenty years, she’d paid the strange-looking young woman at the counter with cash, and continued with her walk along Amsterdam, taking in all the new shops and restaurants that had opened over the past few years.

The neighborhood, Helena had noted, was changing, but at least this time it seemed to be changing for the better.

Now, back in the familiar surroundings of The Rockwell, she started toward the elevator, but paused to speak to Rodney.

“Did Mrs. Fleming and her son just leave?” she asked.

Rodney nodded. “Not more than a couple of minutes ago.”

Helena frowned. “I thought Virginia Estherbrook said she was watching the boy today.”

“Not Miss Estherbrook,” Rodney gently corrected. “Miss Shackleforth.”

“Whatever. But should he be going out?” Before Rodney could say anything, she turned away. “Oh, never mind — I’ll just go find out what’s going on for myself.”

Getting into the elevator, she pushed the button for the sixth floor, and a minute or two later was rapping sharply on Virginia Estherbrook’s door. When there was no response at all, she rapped again, then gave up and went back to the elevator, this time stabbing irritably at the button for the third floor. Her foot tapped impatiently as the elevator ground slowly downward, and when it finally clanked to a stop she didn’t even wait for it to come completely level with the floor before pulling the accordion door open. Walking quickly down the hall with no sign of the uncertain shuffle that had been her gait only two days earlier, she knocked at Irene Delamond’s door. To her surprise, it was Lavinia rather than Irene who opened the door a few seconds later.

“Well, look at you,” Lavinia said, stepping back and pulling the door wide. “No cane?”

“Not since yesterday,” Helena said in a tone that made Lavinia Delamond’s smile of greeting fade quickly away. “I was just up at Virgie’s. She’s not at home.”

“You mean ‘Melanie’s,’ ” Lavinia said.

“Very well, have it your own way. The point is, where is she? She was supposed to be looking after young Ryan today, wasn’t she?”

The rest of Lavinia Delamond’s smile vanished. “Isn’t she?”

Helena glared at the other woman. “I highly doubt it, since I’m sure I just saw him on the street with his mother.”

Lavinia seemed to deflate like a sagging balloon. “Oh, dear. What do you think it means?”

Helena uttered a snort of exasperation. “It means something’s gone wrong. Where is—” She paused, searching in her mind for the name that now both Rodney and Lavinia had used. “Melanie!” she finished, the name suddenly popping into her memory.

“Perhaps she’s at the Albions’. Alicia said Mrs. Fleming’s little girl was up there yesterday, asking about Rebecca.”

Now it was Helena who stepped back as if she’d been struck. “What did she say?”

“That Rebecca went to New Mexico, of course.”

“And did the girl believe her?”

“I suppose so. Why shouldn’t she? It’s a perfectly reasonable thing — don’t tuberculosis patients go there for the climate?”

Helena closed her eyes. “Not for fifty years, at least. I think perhaps I’d better call Anthony.”

“Oh, dear,” Lavinia fretted, her fingers nervously toying with a crumpled hanky. “Do you think that’s wise?”

Helena glared balefully at the other woman. “Well, I don’t know,” she said, her voice taking on a hard edge of sarcasm. “Let’s think about it, shall we? Do you want to get back in your wheelchair?” Lavinia shook her head. “I didn’t think so. Any more than I wish to go back to that cane, or George Burton wishes to tolerate the pain of his failing kidneys. And as for poor Rodney—”

“He’ll be all right for a little longer,” Lavinia broke in, the hanky in her hands twisted into knots now.

“Will he?” Helena Kensington shot back, her voice dropping to a furious whisper. “Will he live? Will any of us? Or will we start rotting away, piece by piece, like any other corpse? Is that what you want, Lavinia? Do you want your bones to start crumbling while your flesh rots and your skin peels away?” Lavinia Delamond was cowering now, pressing back against the wall as if to steady herself against Helena’s words, but Helena only leaned closer. “That’s what will happen, Lavinia. If the mother gets suspicious — if those children get away — that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

Shoving Lavinia Delamond roughly aside, she picked up the old-fashioned telephone that sat on the hall table and dialed a number from memory. “Mr. Fleming,” she said when a voice answered at the other end. “Tell him it’s urgent.”

Her lips pressed into an angry line, her gaze fixed balefully on the now-trembling Lavinia, she waited for Mrs. Haversham to put her call through to Anthony Fleming.