O' Artful Death - By Sarah Stewart Taylor Page 0,89

she was wearing all her clothes. All alone, she laughed and splashed in the water. It was brilliantly sunny and hot and Sweeney wanted to go swimming. Then Colm ran by again, as though he was chasing someone. Once again, she followed, yelling after him, asking him what was going on.

But he disappeared into the woods. She kept running, and came out onto a bluff, overlooking the water. Charley wasn’t there. She called her name, but there wasn’t a sound in the silent forest. She looked around for Colm, but he was gone, too. She was all alone.

And she woke alone, her heart racing, her head pounding, her hands clutching at the sheets. Her feet were cold, and she got out of bed to put on another pair of socks.

Awake with adrenaline and the middle-of-the-night beginnings of a hangover, she wandered over to her window and looked out over the Wentworths’ back gardens, down toward the cemetery. At first, she mistook the figure coming over the snow toward the house for a shadow, drawn in the moonlight by the profile of a fir tree, but as it drew closer, it took on the aspect of a man, bundled up in winter clothes and walking quickly, his arms swinging at his side. The clock by her bedside table read 4 A.M.

As he came closer, into the halo of light given off by the fixture next to the back door, Sweeney saw that the figure was Patch. She hadn’t heard him go out, and what could he possibly be doing walking around in the woods at almost midnight? Maybe he’d taken the dogs out. Or gone to check on the bridge. That was it, he’d probably gone to check on the bridge.

She found another comforter in a blanket chest at the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders before getting back under the covers. It had been a long time since she had dreamed about Colm, and it was awhile before she was able to sleep.

TWENTY-SEVEN

DECEMBER 22

SWEENEY WOKE UP the next morning piteously hung over, her shoulder throbbing from her fall, and lay in bed for a moment, only partly conscious. From downstairs, she heard the sounds of the household, faint voices calling to each other, a radio blaring hoarsely somewhere. An overwhelming urge to roll over and go back to sleepstarted to take hold, but the clock on her bedside table read 10 and her ears told her that the household was awake. She put on jeans and a sweatshirt and closed her bedroom door behind her.

“This is awful,” Britta said as Sweeney came down the stairs, one hand to her pounding head. “The house is a mess.” She looked as though she were about to cry and Sweeney murmured something sympathetic as she looked around at the post-party carnage: half-full champagne glasses everywhere, marked with oily lipstick kisses on the rims; plates covered with food scraps, bones and skin and fruit rinds. It made her nauseous and she closed her eyes as the floor rose up to meet her, squeezing her temples to make the throbbing stop.

Toby and Rosemary were working on the living room, picking up glasses and plates.

“We just told the caterers to go home because of the bridge,” Britta was saying. “We didn’t even think.”

The bridge. Sweeney had forgotten about the bridge. “Have they fixed it yet? I was thinking about going downtown for some Christmas presents.”

“No. But it should be clear soon.” Britta shivered a little. “I hate it. It makes me feel claustrophobic. At least Carl Thompson’s in jail.”

Patch came in from the kitchen, holding a giant garbage bag. “Okay, let’s do this. I want to get outside this afternoon.”

“Can I help?” Sweeney asked bleerily.

“You look like you’re going to be sick,” Toby said. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Sore. But not as sore as my head.” Sweeney rubbed her temples.

Patch said, “Why don’t you have some coffee, Sweeney. Brit and I can handle clean-up duty. Everyone else is down by the river, watching the cops try and get rid of the ice. You might want to head down and see what’s going on.”

“Actually,” Sweeney said. “I think I’ll go for a walk. The cold air will be good for my head.”

Britta looked as though she wished Sweeney would grab a garbage bag and get working. But she said, “Go ahead. By the way, there’s a paper bag on the table in the hallway. Charley Kimball came up and dropped it off for you this