“It’s good you have a grave to visit.” Ginny stared out the window with a pleasant smile on her face. There was no telling where her mind was. “When your father died, I remember standing at his grave and thinking, This is the place where I can leave my grief. It wasn’t immediate, of course, but I had somewhere to go, and every time I visited the cemetery, I felt like when I got back into my car, a tiny little bit of grief was gone.”
Helen brushed invisible lint from her skirt.
Claire tried to summon good memories of her father. She was in college when Helen called to say that he was dead. At the end of his life, her father had been a very sad, very broken man. No one had been surprised when he’d committed suicide.
Ginny asked, “What’s that missing girl’s name again?”
“Anna Kilpatrick.”
The limo slowed as it made the wide turn into the driveway. Helen shifted in her seat to look out the front window. “Is the gate supposed to be open?”
“I guess the caterers—” Claire didn’t finish the sentence. There were three police cars parked behind the caterers’ van. “Oh, God. What now?”
A policewoman motioned for the limo to park on the pad down from the main house.
Helen turned to Claire. “Have you done something?”
“What?” Claire couldn’t believe the question, but then she thought about the Valium and the Tramadol and the Scotch and her heartless parole officer who’d said Claire’s smart mouth was going to get her in trouble one day, to which Claire had told him that day had come and gone or she wouldn’t have a parole officer.
Would he really drug test her on the day of her husband’s funeral?
“For the love of God.” Helen slid toward the door. “Claire, do something about your expression. You look guilty as hell.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Claire said, resurrecting a whiny tone she hadn’t deployed since the ninth grade.
“Let me handle this.” Helen pushed open the door. “Is there a problem, Officer?” She was using her librarian voice, low and terse and highly annoyed.
The cop held up her hand. “You need to step back, lady.”
“This is private property. I know my rights.”
“I’m sorry.” Claire edged in front of her mother. No wonder she had a problem with authority. “I’m Claire Scott. This is my house.”
“Can I see some ID?”
Helen stamped her foot. “Oh, for Godsakes. Are you really here with three police cars to arrest my daughter on the day she put her husband in the ground?” She threw a hand toward Claire. “Does she look like a criminal?”
“Mother, it’s all right.” Claire didn’t remind her that technically, she was a criminal. As part of her parole, the police could trespass all they wanted. She opened her purse to look for her wallet. And then she remembered that the Snake Man had taken her wallet.
Claire saw the tattoo again, the gold-plated fang. The Snake Man’s skin was white, a detail that had startled Claire when she’d relayed it to the detective at the police station. Was it racist to assume that rich white people were only robbed by black or Hispanic gang members, or had Claire listened to too much rap music in spin class? It was the same thinking that had made her conjure the image of a shiny black gun when it was actually a knife being held to Paul’s back. A knife that didn’t even look real but had still managed to murder her husband.
The earth started to tremble. Claire felt the vibrations move up from her feet and into her legs.
“Claire?” Helen said.
They’d been in Napa a few years ago when an earthquake hit. Claire had been thrown from bed, Paul on top of her. They’d grabbed their shoes but little else as they ran past broken water pipes and shattered glass.
“Insufficient shear reinforcement mode,” Paul had said, standing in the middle of the crowded, broken street in his boxers and undershirt. “A newer building would have base isolation bearings, or a quake-resistant sill-anchoring system that could buffer the shearing effect.”
Listening to him drone on about seismic loading was the only thing that had calmed her.
“Claire?”
Claire blinked open her eyes. She looked up at her mother, wondering why their faces were so close.
“You fainted.”
“I didn’t,” Claire argued, though evidence pointed to the contrary. She was lying on her back in her own driveway. The policewoman was standing over her. Claire tried in vain to think of an insect the woman resembled, but honestly, she just looked overworked and tired.
The cop said, “Ma’am, just stay there. There’s an ambulance ten minutes out.”
Claire forced away the image of the paramedics who had rushed down the alley with their gurney in tow, the way they had spent less than a minute examining Paul before shaking their heads.
Had someone actually said, “He’s gone,” or had Claire said the words herself? Heard the words. Felt the words. Watched her husband go from being a man to being a body.
Claire asked her mother, “Can you help me up?”
“Ma’am, don’t sit up,” the cop ordered.
Helen helped her sit up. “Did you hear what the cop said?”
“You’re the one who helped me sit up.”
“Not that. Someone tried to rob the house.”
“Rob the house?” Claire repeated, because it didn’t make sense. “Why?”
“I imagine they wanted to steal things.” Helen’s tone was patient, but Claire could tell she was unsettled by the news. “The caterers walked in on the burglars.”
Burglars. The word sounded antiquated in her mother’s mouth.
Helen continued, “There was a fight. The bartender was badly hurt.”
“Tim?” she asked, because she thought knowing the details might make her understand that this had really happened.
Helen shook her head. “I don’t know his name.”
Claire looked up at the house. She was feeling disembodied again, drifting in and out of the wake of Paul’s absence.
And then she thought of the Snake Man and snapped back into the present.
Claire asked the cop, “There was more than one burglar?”
She answered, “There were three African American males, medium builds, mid-twenties. They were all wearing masks and gloves.”
Helen had never had much faith in police officers. “With that description, I’m sure you’ll find them in no time.”
“Mother,” Claire tried, because this wasn’t helping.
“They were in a silver late-model four-door.” The cop gripped the baton handle on her belt, likely because she longed to use it. “We’ve got a statewide BOLO on the vehicle.”
“Young lady, to me a bolo is a garish string tie.” Helen was in full librarian mode again, taking out all the angst that she couldn’t direct toward Claire. “Could you trouble yourself to speak English?”
Ginny provided, “Be-on-the-look-out. Am I right?” She smiled sweetly at the cop. “I have a color television in my sitting room.”
Claire said, “I can’t sit in the driveway like this.” Helen grabbed her arm and helped her stand. What would Paul do if he were here? He would take charge. Claire couldn’t do that. She could barely keep her legs underneath her. “Did the burglars take anything?”
The cop said, “We don’t think so, ma’am, but we need you to walk through with the detectives and check.” She pointed toward a group of men standing by the mudroom door. They were all wearing Columbo trench coats. One of them even had a cigar clenched between his teeth. “They’ll give you a checklist to generate an inventory. You’ll need a thorough report for your insurance company.”