"The real estate agent came by as I was leaving Caroline's house," she explained.

"What's your question?" Rod's voice was as taut as the muscles beneath Bonnie's fingers.

"I was just wondering why you were having someone look at the house...."

"Why shouldn't I have someone look at it?"

"It just seems a little...premature," Bonnie ventured.

Rod sat up, impatiently pushed the covers off him, got out of bed. "Premature? The house is mine, for G.o.d's sake. I've been paying the mortgage on it for over ten years. It belongs to me and my children. It's their future we're talking about, and I want what's best for them. Is there something wrong with that? Don't you think I should have some idea what the house is worth and what my options are?"

"I was just worried what the police might think...."

"I don't give a d.a.m.n what the police think. It's what you're thinking that's concerning me."

"I just wondered why you hadn't said anything to me about it, that's all."

"Probably because I've been working my tail off trying to get ready for this d.a.m.n conference in Miami, and I haven't had two minutes to think, let alone fill you in on every little insignificant detail that's been going on in my life." He threw his hands up in the air, paced back and forth in front of the bed, naked except for a pair of light blue boxer shorts. "You want details? Okay, here's details. I'm up to my eyeb.a.l.l.s at work, Marla's got her back up about something, and I get a phone call from some real estate agent who says I should be thinking about selling the house now while the market is back on its feet, because who knows how long that's going to last. Is this detailed enough for you?"

"Rod-"

"So, I said that I thought it was probably too early to be thinking about selling at this point, and she said, what harm would it do to go in and have a look around, give me some idea of what we could get for the place? I said that sounded reasonable, but then, what do I know? I'm just some philandering SOB who deserted his ex-wife and kids." He stopped pacing, faced Bonnie directly. "Maybe I even arranged to have the woman killed." He paused. "Is that what you're thinking, Bonnie? Is that what these questions are really all about?"

Bonnie said nothing. Was he right? Could that really have been what she'd been thinking?

Rod's features suddenly softened, saddened. His voice trailed after him, like a small child searching for an adult's hand. "Bonnie, answer me. Do you honestly think that I could have had anything to do with Joan's death? Because if you do...I mean, what are we doing here? How can you bear to be in the same room with me, let alone the same bed?"

He was right, Bonnie thought, her head spinning. What was the matter with her? Had she not realized the way her questions would be interpreted? What other way could they be interpreted, for G.o.d's sake? "Rod, I'm so sorry," Bonnie said, wanting to touch him, but afraid she'd be rebuffed. "I don't know what to say. I know you had nothing to do with Joan's death. I never meant to imply..."

Rod shook his head slowly from side to side. "Okay, okay. It's okay. It'll be okay," he repeated, as if it were a mantra, as if the very repet.i.tion of the word would make it so. "Let's just get some sleep." He climbed back into bed. "I'm tired. I'm not thinking straight. I'm probably overreacting. I'm sorry if I jumped down your throat. It'll be okay. I'll be all right in the morning. All I need is a good night's sleep. We'll talk in the morning."

But by the time Bonnie got out of the shower, he'd already left for work. The note on the kitchen table said he'd be late again, she shouldn't wait up.

"So, what is it I hope to accomplish?" Bonnie asked, walking toward the sprawling premises of the Melrose Mental Health Center. "Am I trying to clear my name, to put this family together? Just what do I hope to find out from some poor old drunk who lives in her own little world?" So now she was talking to herself, she thought, cutting across the front lawn. "I'll fit right in."

An elderly woman sitting on a nearby bench waved her over. "I know you," the woman declared, as Bonnie approached, trying to place the woman's wrinkled-lined face. "You're that famous actress. The one who died."

Wonderful, Bonnie thought, quickly spinning around on her heels, feeling them sink into the gra.s.s, as she made her way to the front entrance.

Inside, the place a.s.sumed the air of forced joviality common to most such inst.i.tutions. Wide hallways, peach-colored walls, Pica.s.so lithographs of flowers and harlequins, an attractive middle-aged woman behind a large ivory-colored desk in the s.p.a.cious, well-lit reception area. Bonnie approached the desk cautiously.

"Yes," the woman said, her wide smile revealing her entire upper gum. "Can I help you?"

You can tell me to turn around and go home, Bonnie thought, fixing on the woman's violet eyes, wondering if they were real or contacts. You never knew these days. Things weren't always what they seemed. Wasn't that what Rod had said? "Where would I find Elsa Langer?" she heard herself ask.

The receptionist referred to her computer. "Langer, you said?"

"Yes. Elsa Langer."

"Elsa Langer. Yes, here she is. Room three twelve in the south wing. The elevators are over there." She pointed to her right.

"Thank you." Bonnie didn't move.

"You can go right up."

Bonnie nodded, willing her legs to move. They didn't.

"Is something wrong?"

"It's just that I haven't seen Mrs. Langer in a long time," she lied, wondering if the receptionist could read her as easily as Caroline Gossett had, "and I'm not sure what to expect." That part, at least, was the truth.

Bonnie stepped off the elevator at the third floor and took a slow look around. The walls were blue; Matisse had replaced Pica.s.so as the artist of choice. A visitors lounge was located several steps to the right, situated across from a nurses station. Several large arrangements of flowers sat on the counter waiting to be delivered. Maybe she should have brought Elsa Langer some flowers, Bonnie thought, tucking two newly purchased magazines under her arm. Vogue and Bazaar. The latest in spring fashions. Just what the woman needed.

Several nurses were busy chatting as Bonnie approached the station. They looked up, noted her presence, returned to their conversation. Clearly, customer service wasn't a high priority. Bonnie waited, glancing toward the visitors lounge, noting a young woman seated silently between a middle-aged man and woman, probably her parents, the mother in tears, the father staring absently into s.p.a.ce, as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening to him. Another woman sat with her arm around a young man who was ferociously picking invisible lint off his clothing. "There, there," the woman kept muttering. "There, there."

Bonnie turned back to the nurses. "Excuse me, but could you direct me to room three twelve?"

"That way," one of the nurses pointed, without bothering to look up.

"Thank you."

In the next instant, Bonnie was standing in front of the closed door to room 312. What was she supposed to do now? Knock? Barge right in? How about turning around and going home?

"Come in," a voice called out before Bonnie could choose.

Bonnie took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

A woman sat in a wheelchair by the window. Her hair was dyed dark brown, although at least an inch of gray roots was showing, and her skin was dotted with the a.s.sorted moles and liver spots of the elderly. Shapeless legs, like two large blocks of wood, protruded from underneath a quilted pink housecoat. Even sitting down, she was an imposing figure. Like mother, like daughter, Bonnie thought uncomfortably, although there was little other resemblance to Joan that Bonnie could see.

"How did you know I was there?" Bonnie stepped into the room, feeling the whoosh of the door as it closed behind her. Had the woman been able to sense her presence? Had she somehow known she was coming?

"I heard footsteps," the woman said. "They stopped in front of the door."

Bonnie laughed. So, it was as simple as that. How quick we are, she thought, to overlook the obvious. "Are you Elsa Langer?"

"Maybe." The woman smoothed her housecoat across her wide knees. "Who's asking?"

"Bonnie...Bonnie Wheeler."

The woman's thin eyebrows furrowed, moved closer together across the top of her wide nose.

"I have something for you." Bonnie took several tentative steps toward the woman, laid the magazines across her lap.

The woman glanced down, looked back up at Bonnie. "Thank you. What did you say your name was again?"

"Bonnie. Bonnie Wheeler," Bonnie said, emphasizing her last name, hoping it might twig the woman's memory, continuing when it elicited no response. "I knew Joan."

"Did you?"

"Yes." Bonnie wondered what to say next. Did the woman know her daughter was dead? Had anyone told her?

"I knew a Joan once too."

Bonnie nodded.

The woman began making strange motions with her mouth, as if struggling with an errant piece of food, twisting her lips back and forth, in and out, ultimately popping a top set of dentures out of her mouth, balancing them on the tip of her tongue, then snapping them back in place with a sharp click.

"Has anyone spoken to you about Joan?" Bonnie ventured, trying to avoid looking at the woman, who was once again trying to push her dentures into the open air.

"Joan is dead," the woman said, her words slurring together as she struggled with her dentures.

"Yes," Bonnie said, her eyes casually absorbing the blue walls, the small dresser, the twin hospital beds. One of the beds had been neatly made, the other left untended, its covers bunched at the end and piled high in the center, as if there were still someone in it. "My G.o.d, there's someone there," Bonnie said, drawing closer to the bed, the shapeless lump in the center of it slowly a.s.suming human form. Bonnie held her breath, trying not to remember her mother in the days before her death, afraid to look too closely at the still figure in the center of the bed.

The woman's skin and hair were both ash-gray, her cheeks sunken, her brown eyes open and blank, unseeing, as if she were blind. For a minute, Bonnie thought the woman might be dead, but she suddenly emitted a strange little sound, a rippled cry that disappeared upon contact with the air. "This is Mrs. Langer, isn't it?" Bonnie asked the woman in the wheelchair.

"Maybe," the woman said. "Who's asking?"

"Bonnie," Bonnie repeated. "Bonnie Wheeler. Do you know the name, Mrs. Langer?" she asked the woman lying in bed.

"She won't talk to you," the woman in the wheelchair said. "She won't talk to anyone since they told her Joan is dead."

"I'm so sorry about your daughter," Bonnie continued, gently touching Elsa Langer's shoulder.

"She used to visit every month. Now, no one comes to visit."

"Mrs. Langer, can you hear me?"

"She won't talk to you." Again, Bonnie heard the sound of dentures clicking back and forth.

Bonnie knelt down beside the bed until her eyes were level with Elsa Langer's. "I'm Bonnie Wheeler," she told her. "Rod's wife." The woman's eyes blinked rapidly several times. Bonnie inched her body closer. "Did Joan ever mention me?"

"Joan's dead," the woman in the wheelchair p.r.o.nounced.

"Joan was worried about me," Bonnie continued. "She said she had something to tell me, but she died before we had a chance to talk. I was wondering if maybe she'd ever said anything to you...." Bonnie broke off. What was she doing? The woman was a breath away from death, for G.o.d's sake. She probably couldn't even see her, let alone hear her, let alone understand what she was talking about. "I just want you to know that Sam and Lauren are okay. They're living with Rod and me now, and we'll take good care of them. Maybe I can even bring them up one afternoon to visit you, if you'd like. I'm sure they'd like to see their grandmother." Why had she said that? They'd never so much as mentioned her.

Elsa Langer said nothing.

Bonnie rose unsteadily to her feet. "I guess I should get going."

"I told you she wouldn't talk to you," the woman in the wheelchair said, a note of triumph in her voice.

"Did she ever talk to you?" Bonnie asked, glancing at the woman, whose dentures continued flicking in and out of her mouth, like the tongue of a snake.

"Maybe. Who's asking?"

Bonnie closed her eyes in defeat. "Bonnie," she said. "Bonnie Wheeler."

"The name is familiar," the woman told her. She brushed her hand across her lap, knocking the magazines to the floor.

"Is it?"

"Maybe. Who's asking?"

Bonnie retrieved the magazines from the floor and deposited them on Elsa Langer's bed, glancing furtively at the woman buried inside the crisp white sheets. A lone tear was running the length of Elsa Langer's cheek. It curved toward her lip, dribbled down her chin, like drool, then disappeared into the pillow. "Mrs. Langer? Mrs. Langer, can you hear me? Did you hear what I said before? Can you understand me? Can you talk to me, Mrs. Langer? Is there something you want to tell me?"

"She won't talk to you," the woman in the wheelchair said.

"But she's crying."

"She's always crying."

"Is she?"

"Maybe. Who's asking?"

Bonnie exhaled a deep breath of air. "Don't cry, Mrs. Langer," she told Joan's mother. "Please, I didn't mean to upset you. I'm going to go now, but I'll leave my phone number with the nurses in case you ever want to reach me." She leaned forward, touched the woman's soft gray hair. "Good-bye."

"It's been nice meeting you," the woman in the wheelchair said.

"It's been nice meeting you too," Bonnie told her.

"Liar, liar, pants on fire," the woman sang out as Bonnie fled the room.

14.

As soon as Bonnie got home, she called the office of Walter Greenspoon.

"Dr. Greenspoon's office." The secretary's voice was husky and smoke-filled, as if Bonnie had caught her in midpuff.

"I'd like to make an appointment to see Dr. Greenspoon as soon as possible," Bonnie told her, trying to understand what she was doing. She hadn't intended to make this call. She'd spent the better part of the drive home from Sudbury convincing herself to let the police deal with Joan's murder, to stay out of it. Except how could she stay out of it when she was right in the middle of it, when she and her daughter might be in mortal danger?

"Are you a patient of Dr. Greenspoon's?"

"What? Oh, no, no, I'm not."

"I see. Well, then the first appointment we have available for new patients is on July the tenth."

"July the tenth? That's more than two months from now."

"The doctor is very busy."

"I'm sure he is, but I can't wait that long. I have to see him right away."