Harlan Coben - Drop Shot

Except…

Except for last night's rendezvous between Duane and Curtis Yeller's mother.

If not for that – if Myron hadn't seen them together at the hotel – he would be able to dismiss them both entirely. But Duane and Deanna Yeller having an affair – it was too much of a coincidence. There had to be a connection.

"Don't cancel," Myron said.

Valerie's funeral was strictly cookie-cutter.

The reverend, a porky man with a red nose, hadn't known her with any depth. He listed achievements as though reading from a resume. He mixed in a few oldies but goodies: loving daughter; so full of life; taken so young; God has a plan. An organ sounded self-righteous indignation. Tacky flowers, like something you'd find draped around a winning horse, adorned the chapel. Stem stain-glass figures peered from above.

The crowd did not linger long. They stopped by Helen and Kenneth Van Slyke, not so much to offer comfort but to be sure they'd been seen and recognized, which was the real reason they'd come in the first place. Helen Van Slyke shook hands with her head high. She did not blink. She did not smile. She did not cry. Her jaw was set. Myron waited in the receiving line with Win. As they got closer they could hear Helen repeat the same phrases – "Good of you to come, thank you for coming, good of you to come, thank you for coming" – in a singsong voice reminiscent of a flight attendant upon disembarkation.

When it was Myron's turn Helen gripped his hand hard. "Do you know who hurt Valerie?"

"Yes." She had said hurt, Myron noted. Not kill.

Helen Van Slyke looked at Win for confirmation. Win nodded.

"Come back to the house," she said. "There's going to be a reception." She turned to the next mourner and hit PLAY on her internal tape recorder. "Good of you to come, thank you for coming, good of you to come…"

Myron and Win did as she asked. The mood at Brentman Hall was neither Irish wake-like nor devastating grief. There were no tears. No laughter. Either would have been more welcome than this room completely void of any emotion. "Mourners" milled around like they were at an office cocktail party.

"No one cares," Myron said. "She's gone and no one cares."

Win shrugged. "No one ever does." The eternal optimist.

The first person to approach them was Kenneth. He was dressed in proper black with well-shined shoes. He greeted Win with a back slap and a firm handshake. He ignored Myron.

"How are you holding up?" Win asked. Like he cared.

"Oh I'm doing okay," he said with a heavy sigh. Mr. Brave. "But I'm worried about Helen. We've had to medicate her."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Myron said.

Kenneth turned to him, as though seeing him for the first time. He made a face like he was sucking on a lemon. "Do you mean that?" he asked.

Myron and Win shared a glance. "Yes, I do, Kenneth," Myron said.

"Then do me the courtesy of staying away from my wife. She was very upset after your visit the other day."

"I meant no harm."

"Well, you caused plenty of it, I can tell you. I think it's high time, Mr. Bolitar, you showed some respect. Leave my wife alone. We are grieving here. She's lost her daughter and I've lost my stepdaughter."

Win rolled his eyes.

Myron said, "You have my word, Kenneth."

Kenneth nodded a manly nod and moved away.

"His stepdaughter," Win said in disgust. "Bah."

From across the room Myron caught Helen Van Slyke's eye. She made a gesture toward a door on her right and slipped through it. Like they were meeting for a secret liaison.

"Keep Kenneth away," Myron said.

Win feigned surprise. "But you gave Kenneth your word."

"Bah," Myron said. Whatever that meant.

He ducked through the doorway and followed Helen. She too wore all black, a suit of some sort with the skirt cut just low enough to be sexy yet proper. Good legs, he noticed, and felt like a pig for thinking such a thing at such a time. She led him to a small room down the end of an ornate corridor and closed the door behind them. The room looked like a miniature version of the living room. The chandelier was smaller. The couch was smaller. The fireplace was smaller. The portrait over the mantel was smaller.

"This is the drawing room," Helen Van Slyke explained.

"Oh," Myron said. He'd always wanted to know what a drawing room was. Now that he was in one he still had no idea.

"Would you care for some tea?"

"No thanks."

"Do you mind if I have some?"

"Not at all," he said.

She sat demurely and poured herself a cup from the silver set on the table. Myron noticed that there were two tea sets on the table. He wondered if that was a clue as to the definition of drawing room.

"Kenneth tells me you're on medication," he said.

"Kenneth is full of shit"

Big surprise.

"Are you still investigating Valerie's murder?" she asked. There was almost a mocking quality in her voice. Her words also seemed just a tad slurred, and Myron wondered if perhaps she was indeed being medicated or if she'd added a little home brew to her tea.

"Yes," he said.

"Do you still feel some chivalrous responsibility toward her?"

"I never did."

"Then why do you do it?"

Myron shrugged. "Someone should care."

She looked up, searching his face for a shred of sarcasm. "I see," she said. "So tell me: what have you learned from your investigation?"

"Pavel Menansi abused your daughter."

Myron watched for a reaction. Helen Van Slyke smiled semi-teasingly and put a sugar cube in her tea. Not exactly the reaction he had in mind. "You can't be serious," she said. "I am."

"What do you mean, abused?"

"Sexual abuse."

"As in rape?"

"You may call it that, yes."

She made a scoffing noise. "Come now, Mr. Bolitar. Isn't that a tad extreme?"

"No."

"It is not as though Pavel forced himself on her, is it? They had an affair. It's hardly unheard of."

"You knew about it?"

"Of course. And frankly, I was quite displeased. Pavel showed poor judgment. But my daughter was sixteen years old at the time – maybe seventeen, I'm not really sure. Anyway, she was certainly of legal age. Calling it rape or sexual abuse, well, I think that's being a tad overdramatic, don't you?"

Maybe both medication and booze. Maybe even mixing them. "Valerie was a young girl," he said. "Pavel Menansi was her coach, a man of nearly fifty."

"Would it have made it any better if he was forty? Or thirty?"

"No," Myron said.

"So why bring up their age difference?" She put down the tea. The smile was again toying with her lips. "Let me ask you a question, Mr. Bolitar. If Valerie was a sixteen-year-old boy and he had an affair with a beautiful female coach who was, let's say, thirty – would you call that sexual abuse? Would you call that rape?"

Myron hesitated for a second. It was a second too long.

"I thought so," she said triumphantly. "You're a sexist, Mr. Bolitar. Valerie had an affair with an older man. It happens all the time." Again the playful smile. "To me even."

"Did you have a breakdown after it was over?"

She raised an eyebrow. "So that's your definition of abuse?" she asked. "A breakdown?"

"You entrusted your daughter to this man," Myron said. "He was supposed to help her. But he used her instead. He tore her down. He destroyed and discarded her."

"Tore? Destroyed? Discarded? My, my, Mr. Bolitar, we are out for shock effect, aren't we?"

"You don't see anything wrong with what he did?"

She put down her tea and took a cigarette. She lit it, inhaled deeply with her eyes closed, and let it all out. "If it makes you happy to blame me for what happened, fine, blame me. I was a lousy mother. The worst. Is that better?"

Myron watched her calmly smoking her cigarette and sipping her tea. Too calmly. Did she really buy this crap she was peddling? Or was it an act? Was she just deluding herself or…