Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,91
on the mean streets of any major city than hanging out at an impeccably decorated Colonial in Cambridge.
I let them in.
“Evie Carter, Flora Dane. Flora, Evie.” D.D. makes the introductions. I shake hands with the woman, who looks like she could benefit from my mother’s stew even more than I. Her face is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. Someone who knew Conrad? Or one of his half a dozen aliases?
I feel the first trickle of unease.
In for a penny, in for a pound. I lead them to the table and introduce my mother.
In response, my mother scowls, reaches an unsteady hand for her martini. “Really, Sergeant, couldn’t this wait? It’s dinnertime, and meals are very important for a woman in Evie’s condition.”
Yep, nothing but a broodmare.
The Flora woman eyes me with renewed interest.
“Please have some stew,” I mutter. Please save me from this meal.
“Actually, we have a few things to discuss. Perhaps we could move into the front?” D.D. suggests. Works for me.
“I’ll do dishes,” I inform my mother, because again, she shouldn’t be touching plastic plates, let alone Waterford crystal.
She only scowls, pushes more lentils around her bowl. She’s depressed, I think. About our conversation earlier? The news her husband didn’t kill himself? Or is this simply what midday martinis do to you? I’ve never known how to talk to my mom. I certainly don’t have any answers now.
I direct D.D. and Flora to the side sitting room, with its greenery-swathed mantel and professionally decorated Christmas tree. My mom likes to have a theme for each tree. This one is Hark the Herald Angels Sing, meaning there is a lot of gold and, yes, a lot of angels.
As for actual sitting space, the room has a silk-covered love seat in stripes of pale green and pink. We all stare at it. It looks like something out of a dollhouse. The pile of coordinating throw pillows doesn’t help.
I have to get out of this house.
“Can I take your coats?” I ask belatedly, because the sofa barely looks capable of holding two women, let alone their heavy winter coats. D.D. shrugs, unbuttons her long black wool coat. I notice the other woman follows more reluctantly. She’s been taking in the room. Assessing. Again, the pinprick of unease. What is she doing here?
I don’t know what to do with the coats. Walking to the coat closet in the main foyer will expose me to the reporters across the street. This is the problem with a nighttime siege—the house is nothing but a glowing fishbowl, putting both my mom and me on display. No doubt why D.D. used the side entrance. And why we’re not seated near any windows now.
Finally, I pile the coats on the back of a wingback chair. I should sit, but I don’t want to. In fact, I suddenly don’t want to hear what they have to say.
“How are you feeling?” D.D. asks quietly.
“Like a bird in a gilded cage.”
“Your mother brought you clothes for your arraignment.” The woman speaks. She glances around the room. “I get it now.”
“You were at my arraignment? Why? Who are you?” My tone is sharp.
“My name is Flora Dane—”
“She already told me your damn name!”
The woman regards me evenly. “It doesn’t ring any bells for you?”
“Why would it? I’ve never met you before in my life. Now, what the hell is this all about—” I break off. My eyes widen. The sense of déjà vu, that I’d seen this woman before. Flora Dane. Six years ago.
Oh my God, I know who she is. And I no longer feel a tinge of unease. I want to vomit. Hurl my mother’s good-for-the-baby stew all over this fine silk-covered furniture, because I’m sure I don’t want to hear what she’s going to say next.
“Sit,” D.D. is murmuring in my ear, her hands on my shoulders. “Just like that. Head between your knees. Deep breaths. In, out, exhale all the way. Now deep in, hold, hold, hold, exhale. Two more times. You got this.”
When I finally stop hyperventilating, I’m collapsed in the wingback chair with the coats. Both D.D. and Flora are now kneeling on the floor in front of me.
“What did he do? Those fake IDs, all his secrets. What did Conrad do?” I stare straight at Flora Dane.
“Don’t you know?” D.D. asks me. “You’re the one who shot up the computer.”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Protect the legacy.” I’m not crying. I sound like a rote imitation of my mother, which is worse.