Meg Gardiner - The Liar’s Lullaby

She put on a practiced face of her own: neutral. “Can’t play it that way.”

Behind her the front door opened. A man in a blue blazer extended his hand. “Dr. Beckett? I’m the property manager.”

Jo stepped into the front hall. Chennault followed.

“Excuse me?” she said.

He shrugged, gesturing no biggie. “I’ve been here before. Stayed in the guest room half a dozen times.”

“Okay, but right now I’m the one with permission from the police to come inside. Sorry, Mr. Chennault.”

He raised his hands. “Wouldn’t want to muddle the pack order, Alpha girl. Mr. Manager and I’ll wait while you take your tour.”

Jo smiled firmly, neutrally, at him. “How about we grab coffee after this?”

Hands still up, he retreated. When he reached the door, he put his hands together and bowed, like a Thai offering a wai.

She watched him walk down the steps toward his car. To the property manager she said, “Have you seen him here before?”

“No, but I’m not here very often.”

“I’m going to survey the house. I may be a while.”

“I’ll be in the car. Got calls to make.”

Jo took out her digital camera and walked deeper into the house. It was compact and elegantly appointed. Food in the kitchen: organic arugula, an empty KFC bucket in the trash. Vitamins, herbal supplements, and a bottle of Stolichnaya on the counter.

She wandered into the living room. The plate-glass windows overlooked a small backyard that rose steeply into bottlebrush trees and rhododendrons on the hillside.

The police had been through the house already, and apparently hadn’t found any evidence of a crime. So Jo was looking for the contours of Tasia’s emotional landscape. And she was looking for traces of her final day.

Two big bookcases were haphazardly piled with paranormal romance novels, old copies of Entertainment Weekly , and a country music Listeners’ Choice award.

Mixed in with the spicy books about hot girl-on-werewolf love was a copy of Gerald Posner’s Case Closed. Jo picked it up, perplexed. The book was an anti-conspiracy text, considered an authoritative tome debunking conspiracy theories about the Kennedy assassination.

Why was Tasia interested in JFK? Or presidential assassination?

She snapped a photo of the bookshelf.

The grand piano was covered with slumping piles of music manuscript paper. Jo was certain that the police had shuffled through them looking for a suicide note. They hadn’t found one. The manuscript paper was covered with Tasia’s compositions. Musical notes crowded the treble staff. The lyrics rushed across the page, as if Tasia had been gasping to keep up with the music that poured from her head.

Propped on the music stand was “The Liar’s Lullaby.” Tasia had scored a complete arrangement for piano. At the top she’d scribbled Allegro. Counterpoint/Round. Dense chords packed the bass clef.

Said you wanted me to be your choir

Help you build the funeral pyre.

Jo picked out the piece on the keyboard. The melody was minor key, droning, repetitive, sad. It sounded almost compulsive. From the evidence heaped on top of the Steinway, Tasia had been filled with desperation and obsession.

Jo carefully photographed each sheet. Then she went upstairs.

In Tasia’s bedroom she found disorder. The bed was unmade and clothes were strewn on the floor.

Jo’s own wardrobe was functional. She wore tailored blouses and well-fitting pants that allowed her to simultaneously look professional and run for her life. No pencil skirts, no scarves that wrapped around her neck. Nothing that would prevent her from leaping out a window if a schizophrenic gangbanger heard voices telling him the bitch needed cutting, or a psychopathic convict decided, on a whim, to strangle her. She had combats for the weekend, sweats and shorts for climbing, and a black suit for testifying in court. If she wanted to go high fashion, she’d put on her paisley Doc Martens.

The thought that Tasia McFarland, or anybody, would treat designer clothing—clothing that cost enough to put a teenager through college—like dishrags dropped on the floor to mop up spilled coffee, boggled her. Either Tasia had been inured to the privileges of fame, or she was so depressed that she couldn’t even pick up a…she looked at a label…Dolce & Gabbana dress from the bathroom floor.

She took more photos. Then she turned to the bed. The covers were turned down on both sides. Two pillows had distinct impressions. A set of men’s boots sat beside it. Worn, well-loved red cowboy boots.

On an easy chair, beneath a gauzy pile of women’s blouses, she found a man’s shirt that still smelled of aftershave. She checked inside the collar. A cleaner’s mark read SL. Leaning against the chair was an acoustic guitar.

Searle Lecroix had, it seemed, been serenading Tasia shortly before her fateful trip to the concert.

She headed into the bathroom. The wind sliced through the open window. Half a dozen prescription bottles sat on the counter.

Tasia’s pharmaceutical cornucopia looked as colorful as confetti. Antianxiety drugs. Vicodin and Tylenol with codeine. Sleeping pills. Diet pills, aka amphetamines. Prozac.

Lithium. From the scrip label, the prescription had been filled two months earlier, but the bottle was full.

Off her meds.

Jo lined up the bottles and took photos, making sure she got the labels and the prescribing physicians’ names. All these bottles would be checked by the medical examiner and cross-referenced for tox screening in connection with Tasia’s autopsy. But Jo wanted to verify their contents for herself.

The wind whistled through the open window. She heard a car drive past the house. Men’s voices batted about on the wind.

The floor creaked behind her. She turned.

The bedroom looked exactly as she’d seen it moments earlier. The floor creaked again, in the hallway beyond it.

Chennault.

Damn, the nosy bastard had snuck back inside the house. She strode out of the bathroom toward the bedroom door. “Excuse me.”

Again the creak. She stepped into the hall. Nobody was on the landing.

“Mr. Chennault?”

She told herself she hadn’t imagined it. Again she heard men’s voices outside. She walked to the landing, where a picture window overlooked the street. The hairs on her arms prickled.

Beside his car, Chennault stood talking to the property manager.

Slowly she turned. Behind her, outside a hallway closet, stood a figure in fatigues and a balaclava.

Five foot eight, probably two-fifty, and breathing hard. Jo’s gaze went to his hands. Gardening gloves.

She ran for the stairs.

She sprinted, two steps, three, and heard him coming. His feet thumped on the carpet. Run, she thought. She leaped down the stairs two at a time.

A hand grabbed her hair. Her head snapped back.

She swung an elbow and hit padded flesh, heard his thick breathing, felt his meaty presence. His hand twisted her hair. She lost her balance, missed a step, and fell.

She threw out her hands and hit hard, knees to stomach to her face. The masked man grunted and toppled with her. They slid down the stairs and thudded against the hardwood floor.

He landed on top of her. His weight, his smell, were crushing. She squirmed, fingernails out. His flesh was soft and red around the collar. She clawed at his neck.

He lumbered to his feet and careened into the living room, hitting the wall as he ran. He threw open the plate-glass patio door.

Jo clambered to her feet and stumbled for the front door. Looking back, she saw the intruder flee across the backyard.

She threw open the front door. “Help.”