Requiem Murder Part 12

Upstairs, I spilled a little dry food into his dish. He believed he must eat every time he returned from a jaunt. I've learned how much food to add to his dish so he eats it all and leaves nothing for the ants who struggle to the second floor every summer.

Marcie sat at the table. I poured mugs of mint tea and waited for her to speak about what clouded her dark eyes. She sipped and stared into the distance.

Finally she spoke. "Is it possible to be happy, sad, angry and pleased at the same time?"

"Sounds about normal. They're all very human emotions. Do you want to talk about something in particular?"

"Maybe." She cupped her hands around the mug. "I think Mom hates me."

Hatred wasn't what I'd call Judith's att.i.tude toward her daughter. Jealousy and envy was my reading.

"Why do you say that?"

She released the mug and propped her elbows on the table. "It's like...I'm taking voice lessons with Roger. He's pleased with my progress and he told Mom. She was absolutely cold."

I held back a groan. Judith believes she's the only one worthy of praise. Someone should warn Roger.

"When I practice she makes awful remarks. My voice hurts her ears. I sound like a cat on the back fence. She doesn't like sopranos. Their voices are thin, not rich like hers. She's not fair. I've kept quiet, but someday, I'm going to tell her just how I feel."

Though I agreed with Marcie, I feared Judith's reaction if the child expressed her anger. "Will it help if you speak up?"

"I don't know, but her att.i.tude hurts. When I'm at my lessons I put myself down. Roger yells at me for doing that." She sighed. "I hate to disappoint him. He's showing me how to tap my inner creative power.

He's so wonderful." Her voice trailed away.

Having been affected by Roger's magic, her sighs were understood. I'm sure his effect on her had twice the potency as I felt. "Could you practice when she's not home?"

"I tried and she jumped all over me. 'If you think I'm paying good money for you to goof off, think again.

I want to hear what I'm paying for.'"

Judith's strident tones invaded Marcie's lighter voice. Something had to be done, but what?

"Sounds like you're in a bind."

"She wants me to quit the Julliard program. She and Dad argued about how much it costs. I feel guilty.

What if I'm not as good as I think?"

"You're very, very good."

"I hope so. Poor Dad. He always ends up being wrong. He apologizes. She sulks. Then she starts drinking. She has an alcohol problem, but she won't get help. How can she admit to being less than

perfect?"

Tears filled her eyes. I rose and put my hands on her shoulders. "It's not forever."

"Sure seems that way. Sometimes I don't like my parents."

Though I understood her pain, her revelation made me uncomfortable. I didn't know what to say and I

felt grateful she had music as an escape.

"Dad's not so bad when she's not around. You know, the

other day she overheard him complimenting me. She was totally nasty to him. Do you think she acts that way with Roger?"

"I doubt it. Not when she wants to impress him."

"She sure does. She's taking voice lessons and he's picked her as the alto soloist for the Evensong."

A groan escaped. Judith! She has a great sense of timing and she reads music well, but her voice is flat.

Not in pitch but in tonal quality and there's a harshness that carries over from her speaking voice.

"Maybe the lessons will help."

Marcie shook her head. "If she practiced, but she doesn't think she needs lessons. She only takes them

to spend time with him. She's such a prima donna. I think she expects us to bow."

To Judith, please. For the first time since Roger had asked, I regretted my decision to a.s.sist with the

Evensong. Spending time with the choir and the emotionally draining dynamics of the group would take a toll.

"She makes me play when she decides to practice. Her voice hurts my ears. I don't think she likes music.

Dad's the one who wanted to join the choir. She tagged along because she didn't want him to have friends she didn't pick." Marcie pushed the mug away. "Thanks for listening. I used to talk to Beth about Mom, but she doesn't ask me to sit as often. Why is everything such a mess?"

"Haven't the slightest idea, but you must do what's best for you. Right now that's finis.h.i.+ng high school and finding a good college. You have a talent for making music. Don't let her steal your joy. In two years you'll be able to leave."

"If she lets me go."

"Your father will insist."

She shrugged. "He's as mixed up as I am. I love Mom, but I don't like her."

What could I say in response to such a statement? "Set a practice schedule and give it to her. Then, no

matter what she says, follow it."

"That's exactly what Roger said. He's so wonderful and so totally understanding."

Once again her expression became dreamy. Anger drained away; her mouth lost the tight line. She had a

crush on Roger and she hadn't the social skills or the emotional maturity to handle her feelings.

"Don't mix your love of music with his person. When you work extensively with a someone that's easy to do. Andrew calls it transference, and it's a kind of love easily mistaken for something deeper."

"I'll be careful." The wall clock chimed the hour. She jumped up. "I've got to go. Roger's coming to

dinner and Mom'll want everything perfect. Less than two years. You're right, I can do it."

After she left I decided I'd have to speak to Martin and maybe Roger. Finding the right words would be hard and even then, would either of them do a thing to change the situation? Especially Martin. His

protectiveness of his wife seemed to be the ruling force of his life.*The next day as often happens in September, a steady drizzle fell. As I started dinner preparations, the

doorbell rang. Robespierre and I reached the door at the same time. Beth and Robby, clad in identical yellow slickers, stood on the stairs.

"Hope you don't mind," Beth said. "I need to talk to someone."

Her voice was tight and controlled, but her eyes made me think she was about to cry.

"Glad to see you. Can Robby have some milk and cookies?"

"Mommy, please, her cookies are sooo good."

"Two and a small gla.s.s of milk. Then you can play with Robespierre."

After Robby was settled at the table with his snack and Robespierre as his companion, Beth followed me to the living room. I switched the radio to my favorite cla.s.sical station so the music would blur our conversation.

"I guess you've heard."

"I hear a lot of things. Just which bit of gossip do you mean?"

"About Roger and me."

"That you're a couple."

She made a face. "Not any more. Last evening, after he had dinner at the Simpson's, he dropped by. I'm

not to wait after choir for him. I'm too possessive. He needs breathing room. When I told him that was