Carol O’Connell - Winter House

„Was she insane?“ Bitty’s hand flew up to cover her mouth, as if she had just committed a social faux pas, calling attention to an infirmity in front of a cripple. And now, realizing her blunder, she seemed on the verge of tears.

Nedda gave her niece a smile of reassurance, then dipped one hand into the pocket of her robe. „There’s something else we have to talk about.“ She withdrew a small worn box and held it up for Bitty to see. „Remember this? Last night at dinner?“ The box was heavily lacquered cardboard, not machine made, but one of a kind, handcrafted and painted with the tarot image of the hanged man.

A memento mod from days in hell.

Nedda opened the box and pulled out the deck. The card of destruction, an image of a burning tower, was on the top. „Tell me where you found my tarot cards.“

The bookcases that lined Charles Buder’s library were fifteen feet tall, necessitating a ladder slanting from the top-shelf railing to the floor.

High in the air, he rolled along on its wheels as he searched for the volume that Mallory wanted. „A friend of my father’s gave it to me. He said my New York History section would be incomplete without it.“

Though he had never considered reading the book, it had been stored on the upper shelf with similar volumes. After perusing the first page, he had found the writing inferior, but it would have been bad manners and literary heresy to toss the book in die trash. Now where was it?

Well, this was embarrassing.

The book was not where it ought to be. A few years might have passed since he had placed it here, but how could it be lost? After generations of librarians had inculcated him with rules, he was virtually incapable of losing a book by placing it on a shelf out of order. Each volume’s spine was tagged with the Library of Congress number to ensure against such losses.

But now he noticed that none of the books on the top shelf were in their proper places.

No, this could not happen, not to him.

He glanced down at Mallory. She was staring at his recently delivered club chairs, six of them arranged in a circle. In their midst one might expect to find – oh, say, a priceless piece of furniture with a provenance dating back to 1846 and great historical significance. However, inside the wide circle of chairs there was nothing but his memory of a page from an antique catalogue.

She lifted her face to his. „Charles, you’ve been robbed.“

„No, I gave away my card table after I bought another one. It would’ve been delivered this morning… if not for a warehouse fire last night.“

He turned back to his problem of the lost book and discovered that the top shelf was free of dust. All was clear to him now. Apparently, his cleaning woman had actually dusted up here, fifteen feet in the air, then rearranged all the books by height so the line of the topmost shelf would not appear so uneven. Mrs. Ortega’s mania for neatness was second only to Mallory’s. Rather than undo all of the woman’s hard work, he politely memorized the new order of his books.

Mallory called up to him from the foot of the ladder. „So you thought a new table might improve your poker game?“

„No.“ Well – yes. Charles was not as crippled by magical thinking as some people, but historical memorabilia could be psychologically empowering. And in the game of poker -

„You know,“ she said, „you’d have to cheat to beat those bastards.“

He sighed.

She was right. Psychology would not save him. He had the wrong sort of face for the game, expressions that gave up every thought and emotion. Worse, he had inherited his mother’s deep red blush that made a lie or a bluff nearly impossible to pull off. Regrettably, he had been genetically programmed to be an honest man and a poor poker player.

The bastards, as Mallory affectionately called them, were the charter members of a very old floating poker game. Upon the death of her foster father, Louis Markowitz, Charles had inherited a seat in the game and three new friends. Next week, the poker game would have been in his apartment, played at an antique table once graced by a famous politician and world-class card player. „The table wasn’t exactly new. President Ulysses S. Grant once sat in on a game at – “

Oh, what the hell. That bit of history was burned to a crisp.

He knew that Mallory took a dim view of the weekly poker game. It was entirely too friendly for her tastes, only penny-ante stakes, or, as she would say, chump change. She also objected to wild cards that changed with the phases of the moon or the dates for recycled trash pickups. Once, she had complained that the game was a close cousin to an old lady’s Bingo night at church.

„This week,“ said Charles, „the game’s at Robin’s house. If you want to come, I’m sure they’ll all be happy to play by your rules.“

Apparently, fleecing her father’s old friends in a fast game of cutthroat, rob-and-run poker was hardly tempting. Fat chance, said her eyes. However, she did run one hand over the new chairs, approving the grade of leather.

He rolled the ladder down to the end of the wall, and his eyes locked onto the title he had been searching for. „Found it. It’s roughly a thousand pages.“

This news seemed to pain her. „Can you give me the gist of it?“

„I never read it.“ He looked down at his copy of The Winter House Massacre. „Not my sort of thing.“

„It’s that bad?“

„Well, the information should be sound enough. The author’s an accredited historian. Now I wish I had read it. Would’ve saved me some embarrassment last night.“ He climbed down the ladder to stand beside Mallory. „You might’ve warned me that Nedda was Red Winter.“

„Honest surprise worked better.“ She stared at the dust jacket and its single drop of illustrated blood „But I knew the story of Winter House.“ What New Yorker, born and bred, did not? „Where does the advantage of surprise come in?“

Mallory patiendy waited him out, and now he must admit that he had not even recognized the address while visiting the crime scene. And, like most people who believe they know all the details of historical events, he had not understood the significance of an ice pick in Winter House of all houses.

„Last night,“ she said, „it would’ve been suspicious if you knew who Nedda was.“

„She’s right,“ said a voice behind him.

Charles turned to see Riker walking across the library, a cup of coffee in hand and probably wondering when the rest of his breakfast would be ready. The detective lacked the patience for homemade croissants.

„Don’t feel bad,“ said Riker. „After fifty-eight years, only a cop would’ve made the connection to Nedda Winter – and not just any cop. It even took me awhile, and I was raised on that story. The only name most people knew her by was Red Winter.“

Mrs. Ortega’s vacuum cleaner preceded her into the library, and all conversation stopped. The wiry little woman with dark Spanish eyes and a Brooklyn accent said, „Pick up your damn feet,“ as she moved the sucking nozzle perilously close to Riker’s scruffy shoes. She switched the machine off just long enough to curl her lip while passing judgment on his suit. After pulling a wad of paper slips from her apron, she stuffed them into the man’s breast pocket. „Those are dry-cleaning coupons. You know what you have to do.“ And now the vacuum powered up to move back and forth across the rug.

Charles handed the book to Riker and raised his voice to be heard over the noise. „Here, a gift. Might be rather dry reading. This author is known for that.“

„I read it,“ said Riker.

„You what?“ The vacuum cleaner switched off, and Mrs. Ortega observed a moment of silent disbelief. Previously, this detective had only admitted to reading the sports pages. And never mind the book’s cover art. Lurid drop of painted blood aside, this was a thick book. She steered the vacuum cleaner out of the room with mutterings of damn miracles.