She’d lived here until she’d left for college at eighteen, and that was when her father had bought his own house and left as well.
She was twenty-seven years old, and here she was, moving back to the home of her childhood.
The main rooms were huge, with beautiful crown moldings and coffered ceilings, filled with Low Country antiques. The large Persian carpets sported lustrous blues and reds and yellows despite their age, or maybe because of their age. Everything felt settled and old and comforting.
All except the kitchen. It was brand-new, remodeled six years before by her grandmother, and so modern it was a shock walking into the room. There was a large island in the center, a breakfast section that could seat eight people, and enough sparkling high-tech appliances for a French restaurant. The walls and cabinets were painted a soft light yellow, the floors umber Italian tiles, and the tall ceiling was barreled, the beams a light ash.
Mrs. McGruder had stocked the pantry and refrigerator for her with lots of cold cuts and cheeses, a couple of casseroles, flavored water, vegetables—actually, anything she could wish for. She’d need to tell Mrs. McGruder she would see to things now, maybe ask if she could come to clean every couple of weeks.
She pulled out some ham, a slice of Swiss, and homemade rye bread, and ate standing at the island. After she washed up, she went upstairs. Her old bedroom simply hadn’t felt right, and so she decided to take over her grandmother’s huge suite. Along with updating the kitchen, her grandmother had redone her bathroom. It was an incredible space now, done in greens and cream, the tiles on the sink and floor green and yellow with splashes of pale blue, with matching towels and rugs. The Jacuzzi was nearly as large as her bed at the condo.
She sat in that humongous Jacuzzi, its jets going full blast, for a good long time. Afterward, she put on her pajamas, shrugged into a tatty chenille robe, and brought out the box with her workout clothes and shoes.
There were so many things to do that would take great gobs of time—clothing to unpack and arrange, books to go through, laundry—so much laundry to do—so many decisions to make. She held a pair of gym socks in her hand, simply stared down at them, not knowing where to put them, and began to cry. She was crying not only for her father but at the ending of a whole part of her life. There was no turning back, no changing what had happened. Life happened and would continue to happen. What would the rest of her life be like?
She didn’t know, but she knew there had to be something in this house to give her a clue as to what had happened here. She would find out why her grandmother had murdered her husband. And you saw it, Dad.
She couldn’t imagine it.
CHAPTER 9
Philadelphia
Chilly’s Bar
Tuesday night
Ruley had served three tours of duty and been wounded twice in the Vietnam War, and come home to find that his four siblings and many of his friends despised him for fighting in an immoral war. A few days after his plane landed in Philadelphia, he bought a six-pack of Bud and a lottery ticket, the only one he’d ever bought in his life. He won a bucket load of money. His family and friends tried to do a one-eighty when they found out about it, but he decided he wanted new friends and he’d make his own family. He hung up on all the scammers who wanted to take good care of his winnings for him and bought lots of long-term bonds and a bar he named Chilly’s, after a buddy of his who’d stepped on a mine in the war. He married and fathered four kids, all married with kids of their own now. He was set.
Chilly’s Bar was a popular hangout with the young professional crowd in a neighborhood once filled with industrial buildings turned into lofts, artists of every medium imaginable, and run-down bistros. It had been gentrifying for more than fifteen years now, and the lofts were giving way to high-end apartments for account executives, and more coffeehouses than Seattle.
Chilly’s had changed right along with the neighborhood. It was low-key now, a place to stop after a long day at the office. Ruley liked the pleasant hum of conversation, the good manners. He hadn’t had to break up a fight in Chilly’s for a good ten years now. He was looking complacently over the Tuesday-night crowd, most of them white wine drinkers. The wine from his top-end wine list made him lots of money, much more than he’d made years before when he’d had to push light beer. Chilly’s, he thought complacently, no longer smelled like stale cigarette smoke, bless the lawmakers.
A young woman he’d never seen before came in alone. She was tall, pretty, and well dressed, and when she bellied up to the bar, she smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile, but it didn’t reach her pretty brown eyes. There was some kind of trouble, he thought, behind those eyes of hers. She looked over his specialty Tuesday-night wine list and ordered a Peridot Vineyard chardonnay that cost twelve dollars a glass. Ruley asked her if she was new to the neighborhood. She’d been visiting the police station a block over, she told him, closed her eyes, and took a huge gulp of the very fine chardonnay. Not a happy camper, Ruley thought. He told her his name was Ruley and shook her hand when she said her name was Liz.