Last Scene Alive

Chapter Three

I didn't have to work that Thursday, so I didn't get up until about seven-thirty. Catherine Quick, the maid, was supposed to be coming in that afternoon, so I didn't have to make my bed; she'd be changing the sheets. I trotted down the stairs to put on the coffeepot, and I popped an English muffin in the toaster before I went to the living room at the front of the house to look out. Though the air was chilly that morning, making me glad I'd pulled on jeans and a sweater before I came downstairs, it was going to warm up and be a beautiful day. The air was crystal clear, the sky so blue it almost sparkled. I told myself I wouldn't worry that day, wouldn't think about the movie at all. Maybe I would call Sally Allison to see if she could have lunch with me. Since she was a reporter, Sally always knew what was going on in Lawrenceton.

The kitchen had two doors, the back one opening onto our patio, and the side one opening under the covered walkway leading to the garage. Madeleine's cat flap was in the patio door, and she made an entrance just about this time every morning, tired from her night's adventures and ready to eat her kibble. But this morning, though I filled her bowl and renewed her water, she didn't show. Maybe I'd see her when I went down the long driveway to fetch my newspaper.

I opened the side door and made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek. The young man sitting on the steps jumped up, dumping Madeleine off his lap in the process.

"Hello, Aurora," he said, and in that moment I recognized him.

"Hello, Barrett," I said, trying hard not to sound as anxious and angry as I felt. It was all I could do not to blurt out, "What do you want?" At six feet, Barrett was tall enough to cow me, and of course he was fit, since looking good was part of his stock in trade. His hair was a new color, a dark blond, and he was wearing glasses he didn't need.

It's an accurate measure of our relationship that I wondered, just in a flash, if Barrett had come disguised so no one would recognize him in the police lineup after my body was discovered.

"I didn't know you were in Lawrenceton," I said, my voice much more shaky than I liked.

"Oh, yes. And I came to see you first thing, Stepmom."

So it was going to be that way.

As if it had ever been any other way.

"Barrett, what are you doing here?" I was not stable enough emotionally to put up with all this parrying.

"Just wanted to come check in on you, see how you were enjoying my dad's money," he said casually. The actor. I wondered how often he'd rehearsed tossing that line over to me.

I sighed. I considered several responses, most based on my new policy of rudeness, but a sudden deep exhaustion quenched anything I might have said.

"Frankly, Barrett, I don't enjoy much of anything." My voice was as weary as I felt. It was time to speak plainly, and end this if it was possible. I stepped back and said, "Come in, if you have to, and say whatever you have to say. I'm sorry we misunderstood each other so badly after your father died. I just wasn't at my most intelligent or sensitive."

Barrett's face was already arranged to say something witty and cruel. But there was a subtle shift in his expression as he listened. He nearly relented, but at the last second his grievance settled back on his shoulders like a cape. "Did your lawyer tell you to say that?" he sneered.

I could think of no response. "Do you want some coffee? Have you had breakfast yet?" When in doubt, fall back on being a lady, as my mother had always advised me—though truly, it would feel better to kick Barrett in the butt.

Once again, Mother was proved right. Barrett had no idea how to pose himself. "I'd like a cup of coffee," he said after an appreciable pause. "I take it black." He looked around the kitchen with almost palpable surprise. What had he expected—marble countertops and a resident chef? It was just an ordinary kitchen. I got another cup from the cabinet and buttered my English muffin, which had popped up.

"So, what are you doing here in Lawrenceton?" I asked. "I guess you came to visit your dad's grave? I got the headstone in about four months ago. It looks real nice." I took a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to repress the tears that welled up. I grabbed a tissue and blotted my eyes. I glanced over at my stepson as I put his coffee on the table, to surprise a look of shame on his face.

"You didn't even think of going out to the cemetery," I said out loud. I was truly stu

"He's not really there," Barrett said, scrambling for a defense. He sat down at the table and looked sullen.

"No, of course not," I said numbly. I put half my muffin in front of Barrett. "And I know I shouldn't have spent so much time out there at first, but somehow you just want to be close ... I know that's stupid." I shook my head. I could feel the trembles and weepies looming, like unpleasant relatives due for a visit.

Barrett was staring at me like he'd never seen me before. He took a sip of his coffee. "You've lost weight," he said at last.

I shrugged. "Maybe a little." It was my turn to drink some coffee. My eyes ached with tears. But this, too, would pass. "I suppose your check got to you all right?" Martin's will had finally been probated; of course, money was at the root of Barrett's rancor.

"Yes," he said.

The silence dragged uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, again, about the—about the misunderstanding after Martin died."

"No," said Barrett sharply. "Let's not talk about that."

Which was fine with me. In the turmoil after Martin's death, I had simply forgotten that Martin's adult son had been in the habit of receiving handouts from Martin when acting jobs proved few and far between. For one thing, the largesse had been irregular; Martin had always thought it would be an insult to give Barrett a steady allowance, as though Barrett were still a child. So he waited until Barrett called and hinted that he needed a "loan," and then Martin would mail a check. Once I'd become aware of this practice, I'd bitten my tongue to prevent myself commenting.

Most importantly, it was none of my business. I had my own money, and Martin's checks to Barrett had not deprived me of anything at all. But in my opinion, if Martin thought it right to support an adult son, he should have made it a regular arrangement, so Barrett wouldn't have to ask.

My lips were sealed even more tightly because Barrett loathed me and always had. He'd dodged coming to our wedding, at family functions he never addressed me directly if he could avoid it, he'd only visited Lawrenceton when I was out of town, and he'd made it insultingly clear (out of his dad's hearing) that he thought I was marrying Martin for his money.

So in the months immediately after my husband's funeral, Barrett's financial state had been the last thing on my mind. But one night Barrett had called me, when he'd held out as long as he could for his legacy. Probate often takes much longer than it has any right to, and in the case of Martin's estate, which was a little complicated because of his diverse holdings—real estate, stock, insurance payments, and the retirement fund of Pan-Am Agra—well, settling Martin's affairs was a drawn-out process. That night, Barrett had stiffly demanded I mail him the money he was accustomed to getting.

I hadn't reacted well. I could tell how difficult it was for Barrett to call, but in my view, he should have been man enough to manage on his own rather than phone me. At the same time, I admit I was aware that Barrett must truly have his back to the wall financially to be driven to such a measure. But I was just too mired in my personal hell to care about Barrett's problems. He could have helped me in many ways when Martin had died—just being civil would have been a good way to start—and he had chosen not to do so. Now, I chose not to help him. I'd told him so, frankly and at length, being unable to think beyond the moment and see this from any other angle than the one in front of my face.