Tess Gerritsen - Harvest

Someone else?

Details, thought Katzka. It was the details that drove him craw.

"I can't believe it," Elaine kept saying. "I just can't believe it." She was not crying, had sat dry-eyed through the burial, a fact which greatly disturbed her mother-in-law Judith, who had wept loudly and unashamedly while the Kaddish was recited over the grave. Judith's pain was as public as the ceremonial slash in her blouse, a symbol of a heart cut by grief. Elaine had not slashed her blouse. Elaine had not shed tears. She now sat in a chair in her living room, a plate of canapes on her lap, and she said, again: '! can't believe he's gone."

"You didn't cover the mirrors," Judith said. "You should cover them. All the mirrors in your house."

"Do what you want," said Elaine.

Judith left the room in search of sheets for the mirrors. A moment later, all the guests gathered in the living room could hear Judith opening and closing closets upstairs.

"It must be a Jewish thing," whispered Marilee Archer as she passed another tray of finger sandwiches to Abby.

Abby took an olive sandwich and passed the tray along. It moved from hand to hand down a succession of guests. No one was really eating. A polite nibble, a sip of soda, was all that anyone seemed to have stomach for. Abby didn't feel much like eating either. Or talking. At least two dozen people were in the room, seated solemnly on couches and chairs or standing around in small groups, but no one was saying much.

Upstairs, a toilet flushed. Judith, of course. Elaine gave a little wince of embarrassment. Here and there, subdued smiles appeared among the guests. Behind the couch where Abby was seated, someone began to talk about how late autumn was this year. It was October already, and the leaves were just beginning to turn. The silence, at last, had been breached. Now new conversations stirred to life, murmurings about fall gardens and how do you like Dartmouth? and wasn't it warm for October? Elaine sat at the centre of it all, not conversing, but obviously relieved that others were.

The sandwich platter had made its round and now came back, empty, to Abby. "I'll refill it," she said to Marllee, and she rose from the couch and went into the kitchen. There she found the marble countertops covered with platters of food. No one would go hungry today. She was unwrapping a tray of shrimp when she looked out the kitchen window and noticed Archer, Rajiv Mohandas, and Frank Zwick standing outside on the flagstone terrace.They were talking, shaking their heads. Leave it to the men to retreat, she thought. Men had no patience for grieving widows or long silences; they left that ordeal to their wives in the house.They'd even brought a bottle of scotch outside with them. It sat on the umbrella table, positioned for easy refills. Zwick reached around for the bottle and poured a splash into his glass. As he recapped the bottle, he caught sight of Abby. He said something to Archer. Now Archer and Mohandas were looking at her as well. They all nodded and gave a quick wave. Then the three men crossed the terrace and walked away, into the garden.

"So much food. I don't know what I'm going to do with all of it," said Elaine. Abby hadn't noticed that she had come into the kitchen. Elaine stood gazing at the countertop and shaking her head. "I told the caterer forty people, and this is what she brings me. It's not like a wedding. Everyone eats at a wedding. But no one eats much after a funeral." Elaine looked down at one of the trays and picked up a radish, carved into a tiny rosette. "Isn't it pretty, how they do it? So much work for something you just put in your mouth." She set it back down again and stood there, not talking, admiring in silence that radish rosette.

"I'm so sorry, Elaine," said Abby. "If only there was something I could say to make it easier."

"I just wish I could understand. He never said anything. Never told me he. ." She swallowed and shook her head. She carried the platter of food to the refrigerator, slid it onto a shelf, and shut the door. Turning, she looked at Abby. "You spoke to him that night. Was there anything you talked about — anything he might have said. ."

"We discussed one of our patients. Aaron wanted to make sure I was doing all the right things."

"That's all you talked about?"

"Just the patient. Aaron didn't seem any different to me. Just concerned. Elaine, I never imagined he would…" Abby fell silent.

Elaine's gaze drifted to another platter. To the garnish of green onions, the leaves slitted and curled into lacy puffs. "Did you ever hear anything about Aaron that… you wouldn't want to tell me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Were there ever rumours about other women?"

"Never." Abby shook her head. And said again, with more emphasis, "Never."

Elaine nodded, but seemed to take little comfort from Abby's reassurance. "I never really thought it was a woman," she said. She picked up another tray and carried it to the refrigerator. When she'd closed the door she said, "My mother-in-law blames me. She thinks it must be something I did. A lot of people must be wondering."

"No one makes another person commit suicide."

"There was no warning. Nothing at all. Oh, I know he wasn't happy about his job. He kept talking about leaving Boston. Or quitting medicine entirely."

"Why was he so unhappy?"

"He wouldn't talk about it. When he had his own practice in Natick, we'd talk about his work all the time. Then the offer came in from Bayside, and it was too good to refuse. But after we moved here, it was as if I didn't know him any more. He'd come home and sit down like a zombie in front of that damn computer. Playing video games all evening. Sometimes, late at night, I'd wake up and hear those weird beeps and clicks. And it was Aaron, sitting up all alone, playing some game." She shook her head and stared down at the countertop. At yet another platter of untouched food. "You're one of the last people who spoke to him. Isn't there anything you remember?"

Abby gazed out the kitchen window, trying to piece together that last conversation with Aaron. She could think of nothing to distinguish it from any other late-night phone call. They all seemed to blur together, a chorus of monotonous voices demanding action from her tired brain.

Outside, the three men were returning from their garden walk. She watched them cross the terrace to the kitchen door. Zwick was carrying the bottle of scotch, now half-empty. They entered the house and nodded to her in greeting.

"Nice little garden," said Archer. "You should go out and take a tour, Abby."

"I'd like to," she said. "Elaine, maybe you'd come out and show me…" She paused.

There was no one standing by the refrigerator. She glanced around the kitchen, saw the platters of food on the counter and an open carton of plastic wrap, a glassy sheet hanging out and fluttering in the air.

Elaine had left the room.

A woman was praying by Mary Allen's bed. She had been sitting there for the last half-hour, head bowed, hands clasped together as she murmured aloud to the good Lord Jesus, imploring him to rain down miracles upon the mortal shell of Mary Allen. Heal her, strengthen her, purify her body and her unclean soul so that she might finally accept His word in all its glory.

"Excuse me," said Abby. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I need to examine Mrs Allen."

The woman kept praying. Perhaps she had not heard her. Abby was about to repeat the request, when the woman at last said, "Amen," and raised her head. She had unsmiling eyes and dull brown hair with the first streaks of grey. She regarded Abby with a look of irritation.

"I'm Dr. DiMatteo," said Abby. "I'm taking care of Mrs Allen."

"So am I," the woman said, rising to her feet. She made no attempt to shake hands with Abby, but stood with arms cradling the Bible to her chest. "I'm Brenda Hainey. Mary's niece."