Page 94 of Unnatural Death

“Let’s get you settled in the kitchen, and then I’m going to take care of you,” Dorothy says, her mood darkly shadowed.

“Are you all right?”

“We’re focused on you at the moment, and I’ve got something guaranteed to make you feel as good as new.”

“Not sure that’s possible, but I’m game. I’m glad you’re here and appreciate your thoughtfulness, Dorothy.” As I’m saying it I realize I mean it. “Did you pick Pachelbel’s Canon or did Benton? As sappy as it may be, you know how much I love it.”

“If I’d picked the music, we’d be listening to Lady Gaga or Pink. This was playing when I got here, which is rather odd since Benton wasn’t home yet. And of course, Lucy isn’t here. I’ve been hearing the canon over and over again and assume something’s wrong with your audio system.”

“I have no idea but whatever you’re making smells wonderful.” My stomach growls again.

“Poor man’s pizza compared to yours, and somewhat plagiarized. I admit to pinching some of your sauce from your freezer, thawing it in the microwave, doctoring it a bit with fresh basil, more garlic and wine.” My sister touches a button on her strobing glowstick choker, turning it off, thank God. “Because one can never have too much garlic or wine, now isn’t that true?” For an instant, she looks as if she might dissolve into tears. “Mostly, I just assembled.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, we’ll get around to me soon enough,” she says with a forced smile.

“Is Benton okay? I noticed footprints in the snow. Hopefully they’re his. If not, we’ve got a problem.”

“He’s in Lucy’s cottage.”

“Doing what?”

“For one thing making sure Merlin is safe and sound.” My sister is despondent, hardly looking me in the eye.

“Why wouldn’t Merlin be okay?” As I’m asking, I’m looking around for him out of habit.

“Unfortunately, he was out in the elements for a while,” she says as we walk into the living room, the exposed beams hung with electrified ships lanterns. “He’s fine, but it could have been very bad. Benton will have to tell you the details, but it would seem the cat doors aren’t working properly.”

Nautical lights in the paneling illuminate maritime paintings of storms and moonlit seas. Over the sofa are two Miró watercolors, the fine art from Benton’s New England family, the Wesleys tracing back to theMayflower. His early years were spent in a Boston brownstone when he wasn’t traveling the world or in boarding school. Later he attended various universities where he earned graduate degrees his parents considered frivolous.

Dead by the time Benton and I met, they wouldn’t have approved of our relationship. My ancestors were mostly farmers and artisans in northern Italy, my parents first-generation Americans. Little English was spoken at home when I was growing up in a rough area of Miami. Papa ran a small neighborhood grocery while physically well enough to manage, and at an early age I was working the stockroom and cash register.

He died when Dorothy and I were young, and life was a struggle. One might assume that Benton and I wouldn’t have much in common. But we’re more alike than different in the ways that matter.

“A little while ago I was watching Anderson Cooper,” Dorothy says as we walk past the TV. It’s playing CNN, the volume muted. “He was talking about the deaths inside Buckingham Run.”

“You know I can’t discuss it,” I remind her as she starts her inevitable prying.

“The theories range from a takedown by organized criminals to an attack by a large wild animal,” she says. “Apparently, the victims weren’t visually recognizable? They might have been partially eaten? How ghastly! Is any of this true …?”

“I’m sorry but I can’t get into it, Dorothy.”

“I expect you must know what killed the couple by now. It sounds like the worst of nightmares. Remind me not to go hiking in the woods again anytime soon.”

* * *

Inside the dining room the Murano blown-glass chandelier glows over the Queen Anne table that Benton and I found in London. The rheostat is turned low, the soft light picked up by exposed red bricks in whitewashed walls. Dorothy opens the antique hutch, finding three cut glass tumblers I bought in Ireland years ago.

“One for Benton when he gets here.” She carries the glasses through swinging saloon doors.

The kitchen is where I spend much of my time when home, the walls exposed bricks, the ceiling low. Copper pots and pans hang from exposed oak beams over the butcher’s block. The brick fireplace is deep, and embers burn hot and bright on the grate. I walk in my stocking feet across terra-cotta tiles to the brass kindling box, tossing in a split log. Sparks storming up the chimney remind me of the swarming drones.

“Scotch on the rocks coming up.” Dorothy opens the freezer, ice clinking as she fills two glasses.

“It’s nice of you to bring dinner and wait on me.” I sit down at the breakfast table. Beyond the window is the garden, the closed blinds blocking out the snowy night.

“A green salad with pepperoncini and sprinkles of feta. And pizza with artichoke hearts, peppers and mushrooms.” My sister tells me what’s on the menu, and she’s noticeably rattled. “How does that sound?”

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