Split Second
Page 42
“Of course you’ve got lots to do. This is a very big house, too big for one single girl.”
She ignored that. “I’ve got help. Mrs. McGruder cooked for me and stocked the whole kitchen, and Mr. McGruder takes care of the yard, of course. They were here a while ago. They’ll continue coming. Everything will be fine.”
“She’s a lousy cook.”
“Maybe not as good a cook as Aunt Jennifer, but I don’t mind cooking for myself. I’ve done it for years now. Don’t worry, Uncle Alan, everything’s okay, I promise. Thank you both for inviting me. But I’ll be fine.” And Lucy rose. There wasn’t much daylight left. She had no intention of spending a single minute in the attic after dark, and she had to get back to it.
He didn’t want to leave, she could see it on his face, a face that reminded her of his older sister, her grandmother, Helen. He was a lot younger than her grandmother—she could never remember how many years exactly. They hadn’t been very warm toward each other much, she remembered, but Uncle Alan had loved his nephew—her father, Josh—very much. After her mother’s death, when Lucy and her father had moved in, he used to visit them in the evenings several times a week. She stood there over him, smiling.
He rose slowly to his feet. He was taller than her father had been, and very proud of how fit he was. He worked hard on it with a program Court had designed for him. As far as she knew, Uncle Alan had only to deal with high cholesterol, and a bit of arthritis, nothing else—amazing, really, for someone in their seventies. Actually, she realized, he was on the thin side, even for him. Grief? She understood that; she’d dropped five pounds herself.
“Thanks for coming to see me, Uncle Alan,” she said, and walked with him to the front door. “Do give my love to Aunt Jennifer and to Court and Miranda. How is Miranda, by the way?”
He harrumphed. “The girl has taken to playing her French horn in her room at all hours. Drives me nuts. When she’s not playing that blasted instrument, she’s still hanging out at coffeehouses, probably meeting another loser like that last one who sent her running back home again.”
Lucy had to laugh. “Ah, Uncle Alan, I meant to ask you: did you know Grandmother did a lot of reading about ESP, mystics, psychics, time travels, strange things like that?”
He stilled, never took his eyes from her face. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, there was a time years ago when Helen was obsessed with odd things. The odder the better. She bought into all of it. What makes you ask, Lucy?”
“I was reading through some of the files in her desk. There’s lots and lots about all of it. She never mentioned it to me, so I was surprised. I wondered if she talked with you about it.”
“I didn’t have much interest,” he said. “Why should I? I was in the most mundane of fields, Lucy, banking, like your father. That’s as far away from magic as it gets. What do you think about it?”
Lucy shrugged. “Everyone’s into something, I suppose. I have a friend who is perfectly nice but is up to his ears in astrology, won’t begin his day unless he knows if Mercury is in retrograde, or whatever.”
“She was your grandmother, not a friend. I’m not surprised she never spoke to you about any of the ESP stuff. Your father would not have approved.” He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “Lucy, does this have anything to do with why you’re living here in your grandmother’s house? I mean, you have your own condo; you also have your father’s house. Why this huge house?”
Did he have any idea? No, he couldn’t.
She channeled herself back into a calm, reasoned FBI agent, who could always avoid being pinned down. “Why would you ask that, Uncle Alan?”
“You seem, well, preoccupied, I guess, like you’d really like to see me out of your hair.”
“No, never that. Don’t forget Kirsten Bolger. She’s alive and well, and very likely regrouping as we speak. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“I wonder what your father would have thought about your moving in here.”
“Dad knew I loved this house. It’s why he didn’t sell after Grandmother died.” Now, that’s a big whopping lie. The reason he hadn’t sold the house was because he was saving it for her; he probably believed it would be worth three fortunes in another ten years or so.
“It surprised me when he didn’t sell it,” Uncle Alan said. “You said you were looking through your grandmother’s files? Have you found anything interesting?”
She ignored that. “I’ve got help. Mrs. McGruder cooked for me and stocked the whole kitchen, and Mr. McGruder takes care of the yard, of course. They were here a while ago. They’ll continue coming. Everything will be fine.”
“She’s a lousy cook.”
“Maybe not as good a cook as Aunt Jennifer, but I don’t mind cooking for myself. I’ve done it for years now. Don’t worry, Uncle Alan, everything’s okay, I promise. Thank you both for inviting me. But I’ll be fine.” And Lucy rose. There wasn’t much daylight left. She had no intention of spending a single minute in the attic after dark, and she had to get back to it.
He didn’t want to leave, she could see it on his face, a face that reminded her of his older sister, her grandmother, Helen. He was a lot younger than her grandmother—she could never remember how many years exactly. They hadn’t been very warm toward each other much, she remembered, but Uncle Alan had loved his nephew—her father, Josh—very much. After her mother’s death, when Lucy and her father had moved in, he used to visit them in the evenings several times a week. She stood there over him, smiling.
He rose slowly to his feet. He was taller than her father had been, and very proud of how fit he was. He worked hard on it with a program Court had designed for him. As far as she knew, Uncle Alan had only to deal with high cholesterol, and a bit of arthritis, nothing else—amazing, really, for someone in their seventies. Actually, she realized, he was on the thin side, even for him. Grief? She understood that; she’d dropped five pounds herself.
“Thanks for coming to see me, Uncle Alan,” she said, and walked with him to the front door. “Do give my love to Aunt Jennifer and to Court and Miranda. How is Miranda, by the way?”
He harrumphed. “The girl has taken to playing her French horn in her room at all hours. Drives me nuts. When she’s not playing that blasted instrument, she’s still hanging out at coffeehouses, probably meeting another loser like that last one who sent her running back home again.”
Lucy had to laugh. “Ah, Uncle Alan, I meant to ask you: did you know Grandmother did a lot of reading about ESP, mystics, psychics, time travels, strange things like that?”
He stilled, never took his eyes from her face. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, there was a time years ago when Helen was obsessed with odd things. The odder the better. She bought into all of it. What makes you ask, Lucy?”
“I was reading through some of the files in her desk. There’s lots and lots about all of it. She never mentioned it to me, so I was surprised. I wondered if she talked with you about it.”
“I didn’t have much interest,” he said. “Why should I? I was in the most mundane of fields, Lucy, banking, like your father. That’s as far away from magic as it gets. What do you think about it?”
Lucy shrugged. “Everyone’s into something, I suppose. I have a friend who is perfectly nice but is up to his ears in astrology, won’t begin his day unless he knows if Mercury is in retrograde, or whatever.”
“She was your grandmother, not a friend. I’m not surprised she never spoke to you about any of the ESP stuff. Your father would not have approved.” He lightly laid his hand on her shoulder. “Lucy, does this have anything to do with why you’re living here in your grandmother’s house? I mean, you have your own condo; you also have your father’s house. Why this huge house?”
Did he have any idea? No, he couldn’t.
She channeled herself back into a calm, reasoned FBI agent, who could always avoid being pinned down. “Why would you ask that, Uncle Alan?”
“You seem, well, preoccupied, I guess, like you’d really like to see me out of your hair.”
“No, never that. Don’t forget Kirsten Bolger. She’s alive and well, and very likely regrouping as we speak. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“I wonder what your father would have thought about your moving in here.”
“Dad knew I loved this house. It’s why he didn’t sell after Grandmother died.” Now, that’s a big whopping lie. The reason he hadn’t sold the house was because he was saving it for her; he probably believed it would be worth three fortunes in another ten years or so.
“It surprised me when he didn’t sell it,” Uncle Alan said. “You said you were looking through your grandmother’s files? Have you found anything interesting?”
