Split Second
Page 47
Detective Horne hadn’t intended she be anywhere near the loop, but since she was in Savich’s unit, and his lieutenant really admired Savich, he said easily, “Not a problem.”
Coop said to her, “This is why you moved back here after your father’s funeral, isn’t it, Lucy? And why you were so mysterious about it? You wanted to find your grandfather?”
“No, it never occurred to me I’d find him. I was looking for something, anything, that would tell me why my grandmother murdered him in the first place.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe she stuffed him in a trunk in the attic.”
Detective Horne blinked at that. “Your grandmother?”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
“But how do you know your grandmother murdered her husband?”
Lucy pulled away from Coop to stand facing the three men, clutching that big, soft coat to her like it was her security blanket. “I’m not cold, but I’ll bet Coop is. Let’s go back inside.”
When she was seated in a big green wing chair in the staid and formal living room, she drew in a deep breath. “My father had a heart attack. He was in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he recognized me, sometimes he simply looked at me and went under again.
“In the final moments before he died, he opened his eyes and yelled—it was terrifying because his voice was so frantic, panicked. He said very clearly, ‘Mom, what did you do? Why did you stab Dad? Oh my God, he’s not moving. There’s so much blood. Why, Mom?’ She lowered her head. “I won’t ever forget that for the rest of my life.”
Coop wouldn’t, either, he thought. What a load to carry—first for the father and now for the daughter. He studied her face. Smudges of dirt were stark against her pale cheeks. Hair was coming out of her French braid, tangling around her neck, but her hands were smoothed out and quiet on her lap. He knew she was calm again. He realized he admired her very much in that moment.
She looked at each of them in turn. “I knew I had to find out what happened.”
Savich said, “So, this past week you’ve been looking for clues?”
“Yes. I’d already gone through my grandmother’s study, all her desk drawers, some of her many books, but I didn’t find anything, so I decided to try the attic. The door was locked—it always was, and now, of course, I know why—and it was easy to break open.”
Savich said, “Lucy, what did your dad say when he told you to stay out of the attic?”
She looked blank. “Do you know, I don’t remember. I just know I never wanted to disobey him and go up there.” She paused for a moment, then said, “It was neat and organized, and as you saw, the boxes are all clearly marked; the old discarded clothes hung in plastic bags on wooden rods. The luggage was in neat stacks, too, at least before I went to work on it.”
Detective Horne pulled out a small black book. “Let’s back up a minute. You had no idea your grandfather was murdered until just before your father died? When was that?”
“My father died a little more than a week ago, Detective, and no, I didn’t have a clue.”
“Had you missed your grandfather? What happened?”
“I was nearly six years old when I was told my grandfather had simply left his family without a word. That was twenty-two years ago. My father and I already lived here then; we’d moved in with my grandparents after my mom died.”
Detective Horne studied her face, his pen poised over his notebook. “So your father saw your grandmother murder her husband?”
“Yes. If he didn’t see the murder itself, he walked in moments after she’d done it.”
Detective Horne had heard so many outrageous stories happily recounted by veteran cops over beers, but he’d never heard a story like this. He said, “He never said a word about it to you, ever?”
“No.”
“Do you think your father ever told anyone? A really close friend, or a relative he trusted?”
“My grandmother’s youngest brother, Uncle Alan, has never let on that anything like that happened, so I’d have to say no one knew, only my father and my grandmother. We can ask Uncle Alan. I have to tell him about all this now, anyway. I think it will be as much of a shock to him as to me, especially so soon after my dad died.”
Detective Horne said, “We’ll be speaking to him and his family. You said you moved in here to look for clues why this happened.”
Lucy gave him a twisted smile. “As I told you, Detective, I hadn’t found anything yet that would tell me why, but I will keep looking. Surely something will turn up that will give me some idea of why this happened.” She paused, looked down at her hands, now tightly clasped in her lap. She raised her head and looked at Coop, her face leached of color. “She covered him with an expensive white towel and deodorant cakes and closed the trunk lid on him.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Dillon, I think I remembered something when I was in the attic, when I was looking at the padlock on the trunk. I was small and I was scared, but I saw—”
Coop said to her, “This is why you moved back here after your father’s funeral, isn’t it, Lucy? And why you were so mysterious about it? You wanted to find your grandfather?”
“No, it never occurred to me I’d find him. I was looking for something, anything, that would tell me why my grandmother murdered him in the first place.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe she stuffed him in a trunk in the attic.”
Detective Horne blinked at that. “Your grandmother?”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
“But how do you know your grandmother murdered her husband?”
Lucy pulled away from Coop to stand facing the three men, clutching that big, soft coat to her like it was her security blanket. “I’m not cold, but I’ll bet Coop is. Let’s go back inside.”
When she was seated in a big green wing chair in the staid and formal living room, she drew in a deep breath. “My father had a heart attack. He was in and out of consciousness. Sometimes he recognized me, sometimes he simply looked at me and went under again.
“In the final moments before he died, he opened his eyes and yelled—it was terrifying because his voice was so frantic, panicked. He said very clearly, ‘Mom, what did you do? Why did you stab Dad? Oh my God, he’s not moving. There’s so much blood. Why, Mom?’ She lowered her head. “I won’t ever forget that for the rest of my life.”
Coop wouldn’t, either, he thought. What a load to carry—first for the father and now for the daughter. He studied her face. Smudges of dirt were stark against her pale cheeks. Hair was coming out of her French braid, tangling around her neck, but her hands were smoothed out and quiet on her lap. He knew she was calm again. He realized he admired her very much in that moment.
She looked at each of them in turn. “I knew I had to find out what happened.”
Savich said, “So, this past week you’ve been looking for clues?”
“Yes. I’d already gone through my grandmother’s study, all her desk drawers, some of her many books, but I didn’t find anything, so I decided to try the attic. The door was locked—it always was, and now, of course, I know why—and it was easy to break open.”
Savich said, “Lucy, what did your dad say when he told you to stay out of the attic?”
She looked blank. “Do you know, I don’t remember. I just know I never wanted to disobey him and go up there.” She paused for a moment, then said, “It was neat and organized, and as you saw, the boxes are all clearly marked; the old discarded clothes hung in plastic bags on wooden rods. The luggage was in neat stacks, too, at least before I went to work on it.”
Detective Horne pulled out a small black book. “Let’s back up a minute. You had no idea your grandfather was murdered until just before your father died? When was that?”
“My father died a little more than a week ago, Detective, and no, I didn’t have a clue.”
“Had you missed your grandfather? What happened?”
“I was nearly six years old when I was told my grandfather had simply left his family without a word. That was twenty-two years ago. My father and I already lived here then; we’d moved in with my grandparents after my mom died.”
Detective Horne studied her face, his pen poised over his notebook. “So your father saw your grandmother murder her husband?”
“Yes. If he didn’t see the murder itself, he walked in moments after she’d done it.”
Detective Horne had heard so many outrageous stories happily recounted by veteran cops over beers, but he’d never heard a story like this. He said, “He never said a word about it to you, ever?”
“No.”
“Do you think your father ever told anyone? A really close friend, or a relative he trusted?”
“My grandmother’s youngest brother, Uncle Alan, has never let on that anything like that happened, so I’d have to say no one knew, only my father and my grandmother. We can ask Uncle Alan. I have to tell him about all this now, anyway. I think it will be as much of a shock to him as to me, especially so soon after my dad died.”
Detective Horne said, “We’ll be speaking to him and his family. You said you moved in here to look for clues why this happened.”
Lucy gave him a twisted smile. “As I told you, Detective, I hadn’t found anything yet that would tell me why, but I will keep looking. Surely something will turn up that will give me some idea of why this happened.” She paused, looked down at her hands, now tightly clasped in her lap. She raised her head and looked at Coop, her face leached of color. “She covered him with an expensive white towel and deodorant cakes and closed the trunk lid on him.” She paused for a moment, then said, “Dillon, I think I remembered something when I was in the attic, when I was looking at the padlock on the trunk. I was small and I was scared, but I saw—”
