Mystery

Victor took her arm and walked her out of the dining room. Tom heard them going up the stairs. The bedroom door closed, and his mother began screaming at a steady unhurried pulse. Tom walked twice around the dining room, then took the plates into the kitchen, wrapped the uneaten steaks in baggies and put them in the refrigerator. After Tom had washed the dishes, he walked out into the front hall and listened for a moment to his mother’s screams, which now sounded oddly remembered, disconnected from any real rage or pain. He went to the front door and leaned his head against it.

Less than half an hour later a carriage rolled up in front of the house. The doorbell rang. Tom left the television room, opened the front door, and let in Dr. Milton.

Victor stood on the lowest step of the staircase. A red wine stain shaped like the state of Florida covered the front of his shirt. Dr. Milton, who was dressed in the same outfit of cutaway and striped pants that he had worn for the picture in Lamont von Heilitz’s journal, smiled at Tom and carried his black bag toward the stairs. “Is she better now?”

“I guess,” Victor said.

Dr. Milton turned his ponderous face to Tom. “Your mother’s a little high-strung, son. Nothing to worry about.” He looked as if he wished to ruffle Tom’s hair. “You’ll see a big improvement in her tomorrow.”

Tom said something noncommittal, and the doctor carried his bag upstairs after Victor Pasmore.

By ten o’clock Tom felt as if he were all alone in the house. The doctor had left hours before, and his parents had never come back downstairs. He turned on the television to watch the news and sat on the armrest of his father’s recliner, tapping his foot.

“Dramatic conclusion to search for Marita Hasselgard’s killer,” said the reliable-looking man in the heavy glasses. “Finance Minister feared missing. Complete details after these messages.”

Tom slid onto the seat and moved the recliner into its upright position. He waited through a string of commercials.

Then came color film of what looked like the entire police force of Mill Walk, equipped with automatic rifles and bulletproof vests, firing from behind cars and police vans at a familiar wooden house in Weasel Hollow. “The hunt for Foxhall Edwardes, suspected murderer of Marita Hasselgard, came to a dramatic conclusion late this afternoon after shots were fired inside a Mogrom Street bungalow early this evening. Two officers, Michael Mendenhall and Roman Klink, were injured in the early exchange of fire. Reinforcements quickly arrived on the scene, and Captain Fulton Bishop, who had been led to identify Edwardes as the murderer of Miss Hasselgard by an anonymous tip, spoke to the suspect through a bullhorn. Edwardes chose to shoot rather than surrender, and was killed in the resulting exchange of gunfire. The two injured policemen remain in critical condition.”

On the screen, the windows and window frames of the little house splintered apart under the gunfire, and chips of stone flew away from the front of the house. Black holes like wounds appeared in the walls. Smoke boiled from the ruined door. Flames shot out onto the roof, and one side of the house collapsed in a roil of smoke and dust.

The announcer appeared again. “In a related story, Finance Minister Friedrich Hasselgard, reported earlier as lost in a squall in the Devil’s Pool, was listed an hour ago as officially missing. His luxury sailing vessel is being towed back to Mill Walk harbor by members of Mill Walk’s Maritime Patrol, who found the Mogrom’s Fortune adrift at sea. It is presumed that Minister Hasselgard was swept overboard during the storm. Searches continue, but there is little hope for Minister Hasselgard’s survival.” The announcer looked down, as if in sorrow, then up again, upbeat and neutral at once. “After the break, the latest weather reports and Joe Ruddler’s updated sports report. Stay with us.”

Tom turned off the television, picked up the telephone, and dialed the number of the house across the street. He let it ring ten times before hanging up.

The next day, his mother floated down the stairs at noon, fully dressed, hair brushed so it shone, her face carefully and expertly made up, and came into the television room almost girlishly. The miracle had happened again. She was even wearing pearls and high heels, as if she planned to go out. “Goodness,” she said, “I’m not used to sleeping so much, but I guess I needed the rest.” She smiled at them both as she went across the room and sat on the arm of her husband’s chair. “I think I just tried to do too much yesterday.”

“That’s right,” Victor said, and patted her back.

Tried to do too much? Tom wondered. Coming downstairs twice, listening to records, smoking about three packs of cigarettes? She sat on the arm of the chair with her legs drawn up. “What are we all so engrossed in?”