Carol O’Connell: Winter House

The grand staircase was the focal point, a tenuous bit of engineering that seemed to have no secure supports as it curved up to a partial vista on a floor above the cathedral ceiling. Though the rest of the stairs spiraled out of sight, in mind’s eye, he was swept along with them, rushing round and upward through all the dizzying flights.

Back to earth – a corpse lay on the floor, partially obscured by upright people, and Charles Buder, unaccustomed to crime scenes, was caught in a quandary of manners: perhaps he should have admired the dead man first, and maybe he should not be tapping his feet in time to the music of a clarinet.

An even less reverent police photographer stepped over the body to speak with Detective Riker, who directed the close-up shots of the deceased. After snapping pictures in quick succession, and in time to the beat of a snare drum, the photographer departed to another room, giving Charles his first clear view of the victim.

He had been prepared for something brutal and grisly, given that this case had attracted so much attention, but the man on the floor seemed to be merely resting – if one could only discount the pair of scissors protruding from the chest. The victim did not belong in this neighborhood of wealth. His pants were shapeless and dirty, the T-shirt stained with more sweat than blood, and a pointed object lay near one open hand. Thus laid out was the simple story of an icepick-wielding intruder felled by a homeowner who favored shears.

What could possibly interest all of these -

Following a cue of upturned heads, his attention was drawn to the second-floor landing and the slender young woman standing there in blue jeans and an attitude of privilege. Blond curls, cut by a virtuoso, grazed the shoulders of a tailored blazer worn over a silk T-shirt. Arms folded, she affected the pose of one who owned all that she surveyed, even the people in the room below and, most particularly, the corpse.

Mallory.

More formally, she was Detective Mallory and never Kathy anymore. She preferred the distancing surname even among those who knew her best. And, though Charles was her foremost apologist, he found the background music fitting. Louis Armstrong was belting out the lyrics of Savannah’s hard-hearted Hannah.

– pouring water on a drowning man -

One cream white hand with red fingernails – call them talons – lighdy touched the banister as she slowly descended the grand staircase, circling in a wide arc, her eyes fixed on one face in the crowd.

But not his face.

Two crime-scene technicians moved out of Charles’s way, and now he could see the object of Mallory’s fixation.

A child?

Detective Riker had told him that two women lived at this address. There had been no mention of this litde girl shivering like a whippet, that nervous, tremulous breed of dog that can never quite get warm, no matter what the temperature. No – wait. This was no child, but a tiny woman with a few silver threads in her dark brown hair, someone closer to his own age. Eyes cast down, this person presented herself at the bottom of the staircase in the manner of a penitent – or a volunteer for human sacrifice.

Tall Mallory literally descended upon the smaller woman, rapidly closing the distance and causing the little householder to shrink even more. Before the small head could turtle into the cowl of a white robe, Charles noted one charming detail: the short brown hair was angled across the ears, creating the illusion that they were pointed in the elfin way.

„That’s Miss Bitty Smyth.“ Detective Riker raised one eyebrow, as if expecting Charles to recognize the name.

He did not.

„Bitty? That’s a nickname?“

Riker shrugged and splayed one hand to say Who knows? „That’s how she introduced herself. If she’s got another name, we can’t get it out of her. We can’t get anything out of her.“

„She might be in shock.“ Charles watched on in helpless fascination as Mallory reached out to Bitty Smyth and gripped the woman’s thin arm. He was about to discount the possibility that Miss Smyth was the scissor-wielding homeowner when he turned to see the other resident of the house, a woman with long white hair and a green silk robe. She was barefoot and seated beside an antique radio, the source of the music. How amazing to find this old piece in working order. By the detail on its cabinet, he could date the radio back to the middle nineteen-thirties – the woman, too. He guessed her age at seventy or thereabouts. Her hand was on the dial, raising the volume.

„That’s Miss Nedda Winter,“ said Riker. „She’s Bitty’s aunt.“ Again, something in Riker’s manner suggested that Charles should also know this person.

She caught Charles staring at her, and he could only describe her expression as one of curious recognition.

The old woman turned off the music. Her attention had quickly shifted to the young homicide detective who had hold of Bitty Smyth’s arm.

Nedda Winter rose from her chair. She was taller than many of the men in this room, and her strides were long as she rushed toward her niece with an obvious plan of rescue. Riker, moving faster than his usual mosey, headed off Miss Winter. And now Charles was treated to a display that simply did not fit the man he knew. Playing the consummate gentleman, Riker extended one arm to the lady, as if she might need his support, then dazzled her with a broad smile and smoothly led her out of the room.

Star treatment. Perhaps he should know that old woman.

Charles turned back to the interrogation of Bitty Smyth, who was now facing in his direction. A Bible was clutched to the tiny prisoner’s breast, and her large brown eyes rolled back as her lips moved in what he took for whispers of fervent prayer.

Well, Mallory had that effect on people.

His next impression was that Miss Smyth had disconnected from the solid earth and might fly upward if not restrained. As Charles drew nearer, he heard Mallory say that, no, she had not found Jesus and had no intention of being saved. The smaller woman’s head wobbled and nodded, perhaps in a fearful palsy, or maybe agreeing that this young policewoman was beyond salvation.

„Charles.“ Mallory quickly dropped her hold on Bitty Smyth’s arm, as if caught in the act of beating a suspect. Supporting this illusion, Miss Smyth sank to an armchair, still nodding and trembling on the verge of a smile, so greatly relieved.

The long slants of Mallory’s eyes were always the first thing one noticed – a strange bright shade of green not found in nature. She did not smile upon greeting him, and he had not expected that. Her expressions were usually deliberate or absent, a chilling idiosyncrasy.

She had others.

Though Charles Butler possessed a vast knowledge of abnormal psychology, Mallory sidestepped every attempt to classify her with any sense of confidence, as if she belonged to a separate species of one, a denizen of some unsentimental planet of perpetual cold weather.

„Hello,“ he said, smiling and standing back a pace to take her in, as if he had expected her to have grown over the weekend.

Her hand was on his arm, and, with the lightest of pressure, she was able to drag him down a narrow hallway and into a small boxy room all decked out like a tailor’s shop with the tools and machines of the trade. Racks of thread spools lined one wall, and a basket of mending sat on the floor near a dressmaker’s dummy.

„A sewing room,“ she said, „without a single pair of scissors.“

„I think I noticed them back in the parlor.“ And here, wisely, he stopped, for Mallory’s eyes widened slightly to tell him that she did not appreciate his pointing out the obvious thing – the shears planted in the dead man’s chest. And neither did she care to be interrupted. Arms folding across her chest was all the warning he would ever get.