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“Violet went into Penny’s room and found her sitting up in bed with a needle hanging out of her arm,” Payne replied, evenly. “They’re waiting for an ambulance. Violet thinks it’s too late.”
“Oh, my God!”
A metallic female voice came on the telephone: “Dr. Payne is not available at this time. If you will leave your name and number, she will return your call as soon as possible. Please wait for the tone. Thank you.”
He waited for the tone and then said, “Amy, if you’re there, please pick up.”
“Dad?”
“Penny was found by the maid ten minutes ago with a needle in her arm. Violet thinks she’s gone.”
“Damn!”
“I think you had better go out there and deal with Grace,” Brewster Payne said.
“Goddamn!” Dr. Amelia Payne said.
“Tell her I’m coming,” Patricia said.
“Your mother said she’s coming to Chestnut Hill,” Payne said.
“All right,” Amy said, and the connection went dead.
Payne waited for another dial tone and dialed again.
“More than likely by mistake,” Matt’s voice said metallically, “you have dialed my number. If you’re trying to sell me something, you will self-destruct in ten seconds. Otherwise, you may leave a message when the machine goes bleep.”
Bleep.
“Matt, pick up.”
There was no human voice.
He’s probably at work, Payne decided, and replaced the handset in its cradle.
“Elizabeth, please call Mrs. Craig—you’d better try her at home first—and tell her that something has come up and I don’t know when I’ll be able to come to the office. And ask her to ask Colonel Mawson to let her know where he’ll be this morning.”
Mrs. Newman nodded.
“Poor Matt,” Mrs. Newman said.
“Good God!” Brewster Payne said, and then stood up. His old-fashioned, well-worn briefcase was sitting on the low fieldstone wall surrounding the patio. He picked it up and then jumped over the wal
l and headed toward the garage. His wife started to follow him, then stopped and called after him: “I’ve got to get my purse. And I’ll try to get Matt at work.”
She waited until she saw his head nod, then turned and went into the house.
Officer John D. Wells, in RPC Fourteen Twenty-three, slowed down when he reached the 900 block of West Chestnut Hill Avenue, a little angry that his memory had been correct.There are no goddamned numbers. Just tall fences that look like rows of spears and fancy gates, all closed. You can’t even see the houses from the street.
Then, as he moved past one set of gates, it began to open, slowly and majestically. He slammed on the brakes and backed up, and drove through the gates, up a curving drive lined with hundred-year-old oak trees.
If this isn’t the place, I can ask.
It was the place.
There was a man on a patio outside an enormous house sitting on an iron couch holding a girl in her nightgown in his arms.
Wells got quickly out of the car.
