Gail Bowen - The Glass Coffin

“As long as she does tell me,” Angus said. “Mum, nobody is doing Bryn any favours by letting her get away with stuff like this.”

“I’ll go in and introduce the subject diplomatically,” I said.

“You’re going to have to wait,” Angus said. “Bryn and Jill went to the airport to say goodbye to her aunts.”

“Later, then,” I said. “Thanks for helping Willie with his homework.”

Angus shrugged. “Claudia says if Willie does fifty downs a day, in a couple of weeks he’ll be a new dog.”

“When that happens I’ll buy you both a T-bone,” I said. “But right now, I’m going inside to get some tea.”

I was drawn to Bryn’s room like the proverbial moth to the flame. I prided myself on being scrupulous about respecting other people’s privacy, but it wasn’t difficult to spin out a rationalization for searching for the compilation tape. The day of the wedding, Bryn had stood before the mirror with her inscrutable bud of a smile. “I like to have things that belong to people,” she had said. “Not just material things, secrets too.” Her words made the unthinkable easy. I needed to find out what else Bryn had considered valuable enough to appropriate.

I checked the drawers in the dresser I’d cleared for her. I had to search carefully. Even Bryn’s underthings were folded as meticulously as the stock in a well-run store. As in a well-run store, there was nothing in the drawers that didn’t belong. Her suitcase was empty too. I was about to give up when I remembered that among the items Claudia had sent over from the hotel there had been a jaw-droppingly pricey red Hermes Birkin Bag.

I found it at the back of the closet behind some of my son Peter’s camping gear.

The bag was heavy, and when I opened it, I realized it was stuffed with items that had struck Bryn’s fancy. The compilation tape, still in its bright holiday wrapping, was on top. Beneath it was a manila envelope filled with Polaroid pictures of schoolgirls at a slumber party doing the kinds of things parents didn’t want to know their daughters did at slumber parties. There was also a note card of heavy cream vellum with a handwritten note: For Felix, who turned my bread into roses. C. There were photos from Evan MacLeish’s first two weddings. Linn Brokenshire had been a blissed-out bride with flowers in her hair, a young husband on her arm, and a New Testament close to her breast. Annie Lowell had been wary. Her vintage sleeveless dress and white mantilla were classic, but her expression was mournful, as if she knew that marriage would bring her more misery than joy. There was a roll of undeveloped film, which, after a split second of deliberation, I pocketed. There were a half-dozen pieces of antique jewellery, carefully wrapped in filmy handkerchiefs. Finally, there was a small three-ring binder.

One look inside and I knew this was Evan MacLeish’s “Bible,” the binder that contained the notes for his current works-in-progress. The information explaining tape reports, times, shot descriptions, size and movement, and best shot was neatly annotated on photocopied forms. At the bottom was a space for the director’s notes. The alphabet soup of notations: T, W, C, ZI, ZO, P, and F meant nothing to me; neither did the title of the project to which at least more than half the sheets were devoted. The Glass Coffin had not been among the upcoming projects mentioned in the New York Times article Jill had e-mailed me, but it was an evocative title. As I closed Bryn’s bag, I wondered which of the women in Evan MacLeish’s life he had decided to immortalize as a princess waiting under glass to be awakened by a kiss.

I was in the front hall adding water to the tree stand when I heard a car pull up out front. I opened the door and saw Felix Schiff getting out of a red Intrepid.

“Nice wheels,” I said.

Felix’s face was grave. “Jill’s been trying to locate you,” he said.

“Here I am,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Tracy attempted suicide this afternoon,” Felix said.

I was glad I had the door to lean on. “Is she going to be all right?”

“Tracy is always all right,” he said. “They’ve taken her to the hospital. Jill’s there. I’ll drive you over.”

“I’ll get my purse.”

On our way to the car, I stopped to praise Willie and tell Angus I wouldn’t be long.

Felix was silent until we pulled onto the expressway that led to the hospital. “That stunt was typical of Tracy,” he said furiously. “Narcissistic, melodramatic, and futile.”

“Considering the circumstances, that seems harsh,” I said.

“You might want to save some of that compassion for the people who have to clean up after her little venture.”

“Felix, why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

His voice was monotone. “Bryn and Jill went to the airport to see Claudia and Tracy off. Apparently the prospect of returning to the house on Walmer Road without Bryn was too much for Tracy, and she made some dramatic last-minute plea to the girl to go with her.”

“And, of course, Bryn refused,” I said.

“Why wouldn’t she refuse? Tracy has never shown the slightest interest in her. At any rate, there was a scene. Finally, Tracy excused herself to go to the bathroom. When the boarding call came, and Tracy hadn’t come out, Claudia went to get her. Tracy was in a stall slitting her wrists.”

The image was so vivid the words seemed to form themselves. “Like her sister,” I said.

Felix swallowed hard. “How did you know about that?”

“Bryn told me.”

“And I suppose when she did, her lovely eyes filled with tears. That girl is a real piece of work.” The loathing in his voice caught me off guard.

“Considering what her life has been…”

Felix cut in. “You don’t know what her life has been,” he said. “People have invested their lives in that child.”

“Her father certainly did,” I said. “Felix, was that film he was making about Bryn called The Glass Coffin?”

Felix’s intake of breath was audible. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

I knew he was lying. “No point talking about it then,” I said.

“But I’d like to talk about it,” he said, falsely casual. “It’s an intriguing title – right out of a tale by the Brothers Grimm.”

“It is an attention-grabber,” I agreed.

“Where did you hear about it?” Felix asked.

“Actually, I read it. I found Evan’s three-ring binder this afternoon – the one where he kept his shot lists and tape reports.”

I watched Felix’s face. Control was not coming easily. “Those notations are quite technical. Maybe I should have a look.”

“I’m sure if Jill needs help, she’ll let you know,” I said.

“She has a lot on her mind,” Felix said. “I could take care of this for her. Just tell me where the binder is.”

“I can’t,” I said. “The truth is I just happened to come across Evan’s notes. I’d feel like a rat telling you where they were without checking with the person who has them.”

“Stalemate,” Felix said.

“Apparently,” I said.

When he dropped me at the main entrance of the hospital, he sped away before I even had a chance to say thanks for the ride.

The decorations in the lobby had a dispirited day-after-Christmas droop, so did the woman behind the reception desk where I checked for Tracy’s room number. I rode up in the elevator with a young man drenched in Old Spice and a young woman drenched in White Diamonds. In the duel of the holiday colognes, Old Spice proved an easy winner. Tracy’s room was in the new wing. I had found the nursing station and was asking directions when I heard Bryn’s voice. “She’s only allowed one visitor at a time. Claudia’s with her now. You can wait with me if you want to.”