Mulroney could have helped me answer this question, I’m sure. I could have hired him to investigate Hugh. And now suddenly I’m also imagining Mulroney—lying dead in his car, blood spattered everywhere.
I jump up from the couch, cross the room to the hearth, and throw a fresh log on the fire that Roger had lit for me earlier. I squeeze my eyes closed, and when I reopen them,I try to simply absorb my surroundings. I’ve always loved this room, with its floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and shades of deep blue. The two windows, framed by silk curtains, offer a view of the side yard, ending with a row of majestic fir trees.
When I return to the couch, I finally compel myself to work, starting with a scan of the research notes that Sasha has forwarded me for the podcast. These prove to be about as scintillating as a recipe for boiling hot dogs. I shoot an email to thank her and say I have what I need, so there’s no reason to review anything by phone.
“I’m currently at my brother’s in New Jersey,” I add, “dealing with a small emergency. There’s a slim chance we’ll have to post an old podcast this week and reschedule the upcoming show for the following week.”
Next, I text Casey and pass along the same news, but flesh it out, asking her to alert the studio and also determine if the designated guest will be available at the same time a week later. I hate the idea of having to cancel the show—I don’t want to take a single chance with this venture—but I can’t imagine going back to the city as soon as Tuesday.
The door to the den swings all the way open and Roger, dressed in slim tan slacks and a cashmere cardigan, appears bearing a wooden tray.
“How was the therapy session?” he asks.
“I didn’t love doing it by Skype, but I guess that’s better than nothing. What’sreallyhelping is being here.”
“So glad you could come out.”
“I’m so grateful to you for having me,” I tell him. What I don’t say is that I know Marion wouldn’t want me here fora weekend, and that the only reason I accepted his invitation was that he mentioned she was away.
“Just so you’re aware,” he says, as if he read my mind, “I’ve realized lately that Marion has been boxing you out in little ways, and I’ve had blinders on about it. I’m not sure why, but she seems slightly threatened by my other relationships. Not only with you. But with Quinn, too. Even Dad. I’m going to address that with her.”
“I’d love to be back in your life more, Roger. Especially now.” I smile ruefully. “Everything seems to have gone to hell.”
“It will work out, Button. The cops will find this detective’s killer. And you’ll figure out what’s going on with Hugh. Maybe it’s not what you imagine.”
He sets the tray on the coffee table, where I see he’s loaded it with a lovely antique teapot, matching cups, starched white napkins, and a small plate of cookies, a superbuttery kind he knows I love.
“Oh, Rog, this is so sweet of you,” I say, moved by the gesture. “And my, what a tray you set.”
“My mother always seemed to enjoy laying out a tray of pretty things. I guess she passed the gene down.”
“I wish I could have met her. She looks so beautiful in her pictures.”
My own mother had been great about not only displaying photos of Quinn and Roger with their mom but also encouraging the boys to speak about her frequently.
“Well, that falls firmly into the realm of the impossible, doesn’t it?” he says, pouring a cup of tea.
There’s nothing about his tone that suggests bitterness,but for the first time in my life, I wonder if Roger harbors any resentment—over his mother’s death, his father’s remarriage, my bursting onto the scene.
“Yes, unfortunately,” I reply, for lack of anything better to say.
“You still take a smidgen of milk with your tea?”
“Please. You know, I’ve been so horribly preoccupied with my own troubles lately, I haven’t asked a single question about you. Everything okay?”
“Uh, fine. Nothing much to report. And we need to stay focused on you right now.”
“Fine?” I can’t always read people as well as Hugh can, but I caught the brief hesitation before his response.
“Ha, have you noticed all my new gray hairs?”
“Yes, though I admit they give you a very distinguished air.”
He sighs, passes over my cup of tea, and pours one for himself before settling near me on the couch.
“In all honesty, I had a bit of a financial concern earlier in the year. Not what you’d call a disaster but more than a hiccup, and it had me worried for a while.”
“What happened?”
