Chapter Thirty-Eight

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I address the issue head-on: "Looks like you're planning something. What's up?"

"This might be a bit unorthodox, but we're all in a hurry to finish this process," Beth begins. Her pale hands with slightly red knuckles are wringing together. "We thought you might like to stay for dinner. That way you can spend time with all of us together and reach your conclusions sooner."

I see a green salad in a wooden bowl on the counter, and beside it, a silver dish of dressing. The air smells of roasting potatoes, and five thick filets of salmon are resting on a foil-lined aluminum tray.

I've broken bread with many clients before, but never have I sat down for a civilized dinner with the two opposing parties in an ugly divorce.

No chance am I letting this opportunity slip away. "I'd love to."

I catch Harriet shoot Beth a relieved look. They're colluding again. Perhaps the two of them hatched this plot, then brought in Ian. When I try to catch his gaze, he busies himself brushing marinade over the salmon.

Beth reaches for a clear carafe filled with a ruby-colored liquid.

"Wine, anyone?"

"Just sparkling water for me." Harriet walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a can.

Normally I don't drink on the job, but I want Beth and Ian to be as loose as possible. If I refuse a drink, they might, too.

"I'd love a glass."

Beth opens a cabinet door and takes out three delicate-looking tumblers that match the carafe. She pours a generous serving into each. It feels jarring when I take a sip of the velvety wine and my lips close around the plastic rim of the tumbler.

The music briefly stops, then begins again. This piece is infused with what feels like a deep sorrow.

" Black Mass, " Beth tells me. "That's the nickname of this piece. Rose just began learning it. It's wonderfully complex."

I suppress a shudder as the notes intensify, seeming to cry out in despair.

"When do you think you'll wrap up your work, Stella?" Harriet asks.

Rose hits a wrong note and pauses, then repeats the section.

"It's difficult to say. The more time I have with all of you, the faster I'll reach my recommendation."

Beth and Harriet exchange another glance. I can't read the subtext.

Ian opens the oven door and checks on the potatoes, then slides in the tray of salmon. He's as skilled at the art of subterfuge as his mother. He told me he was going to make some calls while Rose and I spent time alone at the aquarium. Is it possible he followed us into Shark Alley and witnessed Rose's act of aggression, then filled in Beth and Harriet?

That could explain their sudden pressure. They want me out of the picture as quickly as possible.

"How about giving us a ballpark," Beth prods. "If you have a lot of access to all of us, could you finish in, say, three or four days?"

Police have officially cold-cased the active investigation into Tina's death. I've spoken to the Thin Man, Ashley, Mrs. Li, Detective Garcia, the three adult Barclays, and I've spent some time with Rose. I've gathered some information from Rose's school principal and Pete, and I've dug deeply into the legal papers and media hits. I've thought about this case to the point of near obsession.

If this were a typical case, I would be getting ready to write up my final report.

But this is no longer a matter of me trying to figure out the best custodial situation for Rose.

I don't trust any of them. They're master illusionists.

"What do you need from us?" Beth asks.

"Honesty," I tell her. "And a little more time."

"Fair enough," she says lightly.

We all fall silent as the music fades away with a mournful, drawn-out chord.

"Rose can play by ear, you know," Harriet tells me. "If she hears a piece just once, she can replicate it. Of course, that's for simpler pieces. The more complex ones require sheet music for her to perform."

"That's incredible," I reply.

All three Barclays are staring at me. Their eyes are like sharp pins driving into me. They're desperate to know what I'm thinking.

"Does Rose know I'm coming for dinner?"

Beth smiles. "Yes. She's very pleased."

I asked for honesty only seconds ago, and I'm pretty sure Beth is already lying to me. Rose has never once been pleased by my appearance.

The dining room is down a narrow hallway off the kitchen. It's a rectangular space with a low ceiling crisscrossed by exposed beams. Dark wainscoting covers the lower half of walls painted a deep maroon, and a heavy metal chandelier is centered over the regal-looking table.

The first thing I notice: This room contains no soft corners—the vibe is like an old-fashioned men's hunt club.

The second: There are no knives at the five place settings.

The baby rosemary potatoes are small enough to eat in a single bite, and the salmon looks tender enough to cut with the edge of fork. There's focaccia with individual dishes of herbed olive oil for dipping instead of butter. And the salad leaves are torn into pieces no bigger than sand dollars.

Beth brings the plastic pitcher of wine to the table and tops off my glass first, then refills hers and Ian's.

As she finishes pouring, Rose enters the room. I greet her, but her head is low and her affect is wooden again. She's wearing the same outfit she had on at the aquarium, and I wonder if the cherry-colored lip gloss is still buried in her skirt pocket.

"Shall we sit?" Beth suggests.

Harriet immediately claims the middle chair on one side, with Beth and Ian hurrying to flank her. This means Rose and I are left to take the two chairs facing them. It's difficult for me to see Rose without twisting in my seat. I wonder if that was the Barclays' intention, to provide the illusion of proximity.

Behind the three adult Barclays is a large window that showcases the skeletons of giant trees outlined against the darkening sky. Without Rose's music filling the air, every sound is magnified: the scrape of Ian's fork against his plate, Harriet's swallow when she sips her sparkling water, and a light, repetitive bump that I realize is Rose's foot tapping against her chair.

I wonder if her foot is accompanying music she hears in her head, or whether it's a signal she's agitated.

I spear a potato and try to eat it, but my throat closes up. It's an effort to swallow. I can hear echoes of Rose's bleak, anguished music lingering in the air.

Do the others not feel the darkness wafting through this house, snaking into the corners and curling around us like smoke?

"Delicious," Harriet says, indicating the salmon. "Did you use soy sauce in the marinade?"

"A bit," Ian replies.

"I won't have much, then. Soy sauce contains gluten," Beth chimes in.

"Does it?" Ian's voice is indifferent.

Rose is methodically working her way through her plate, her foot steady as a metronome. I can feel the vibrations echoing against my skin. I watch out of the corner of my eye as Rose selects an asparagus tip from her salad. Like everything else about her, her tastes seem far more sophisticated than a typical third-grader's.

"Stella, where did you grow up?" Beth's voice is loud and overly cheery in the cavernous room.

"In the area. I was born in DC and lived in Virginia for a few years. Since then, it's been DC my whole life."

"A native. There aren't many of us around here," Ian notes.

I look down at my salad. Topping the lettuce are a few bright red baby tomatoes. I stare at them, an idea forming in my mind.

I stab one with my fork and hold it up. "Did these come from your garden?"

Harriet shakes her head. "No, it's too cold. The tomatoes are gone by the end of September. The first week of October at the latest."

Rose doesn't move, but I swear I can feel her tighten up next to me, too, as if our nervous systems have linked together. Her foot stops briefly, then starts again, faster now, the metronome only I can hear gaining urgency.

Beth opens her mouth to say something, but I quickly interject. I want to stay on this topic.

"Can you taste the difference in the vegetables you grow here versus the ones you buy at the market, Harriet?"

"Oh, yes," Harriet begins, and I can tell I've hit a subject she's eager to elaborate upon.

Her comparison of the tastes buys me a few seconds to do mental calculations while I nod and pretend to listen: I've already timed how long it takes to rush from the garden to Rose's room; I was able to do it in less than a minute. It wouldn't add many more seconds to the stopwatch to climb one more level to the attic.

"It must be so satisfying to grow your own food," I blurt as soon as Harriet pauses for a breath. I can't lose this thread; I need to see where it leads.

Harriet beams. I've hit her sweet spot. She can't take full credit for Rose, even though her pride in her granddaughter's accomplishments is palpable.

But the garden is hers alone.

"If you have a green thumb and you're willing to take the time to learn, you'll end up with a very bountiful harvest. We incorporate our produce into our meals, and Rose and I have a deal—whenever we pick vegetables, she digs up a few carrots for Sugar and Tabasco and gives them their treats first."

Taptaptap. Rose's foot is frantic now.

The emotions roiling within her come out in her music, and in the movements of her foot. But they never find release in her voice. They must be building up to a crescendo. If Rose could make a sound now, I'm certain it would be a scream.

Does Rose recognize the massive mistake Harriet just made?

I steal a glance at Rose. Her face is implacable, her gaze focused down at her plate.

Harriet wasn't with Rose the whole time in the minutes surrounding Tina's death. She told me as much.

Rose's routine was to feed carrots to the horses first.

A detail that has always nagged at me explodes in my mind. Who hovers over a mature nine-year-old in a private backyard on a late September afternoon, watching them every single second?

Five or six minutes of distraction is all it would take. The time needed for Harriet to pluck some dead leaves from a few plants, or close her eyes and feel the sunshine on her face, thinking her granddaughter was bringing carrots to the horses.

When Tina landed on the patio, it would have taken Harriet a bit of time to limp over from the garden. She thought it was a tree limb falling; she wouldn't have hurried, and bushes would have obscured her view of Tina. Rose could have flown down two flights of stairs and appeared at her grandmother's side.

Harriet would do anything for Rose, Mrs. Li said.

Even create a false alibi, I think.

I feel the vibration die away. Rose's foot ceases moving. Her symphony is over.