Deadly Grace. Taylor Smith

about it.”

      “What about family and friends?”

      “Her mother was the last of her family. Jillian was an only child. Her grandparents helped raise her, but they’ve been gone for years. As for friends…” Berglund shrugged. “You know how it is. You lose touch. Seventeen years is a long time.”

      A long time, Cruz noted, but a very precise number—one that Berglund hadn’t even paused to calculate. Was that only because Jillian’s whereabouts had been on his mind since this business with the fire and her mother’s death? Or was there more to it than that? He studied the deputy out of the corner of his eye. Berglund couldn’t be much older than Jillian Meade, and like the man said, it was a small town. They had to have known each other since they were kids. How well? Obviously well enough for Berglund to have counted every year since she’d been gone.

      “What about her father?” he asked.

      “She never knew him. He was a flyer, killed during the war. Her mother was English. They met over there. Apparently she was working for British special ops, and Joe Meade was flying for the OSS. You know what that was?”

      Cruz nodded. “The Office of Strategic Services, forerunner of the CIA.”

      “That’s the one. They say Grace was quite the bombshell in those days, like some kind of Mata Hari, I guess. I don’t know. Anyway, the Brits had sent her behind the lines into France, and Joe was flying secret supply missions to the Resistance. His plane got shot down and the Resistance hid him from the Germans for a couple of months or so while they looked for an opportunity to smuggle him out of the country. That’s how the two of them met. Kinda like a movie, you know. Got married in secret by a French priest and were together long enough that Grace got pregnant, but then they were separated. Joe Meade was killed trying to get back to England, and Grace got stuck in France till the end of the war.”

      “So that’s how Jillian ended up being born there,” Cruz said. When Berglund gave him a curious look, he explained, “I saw it on the passport details that were sent over to the Bureau.”

      “Oh, right. Anyway, that’s about it. Joe’s folks sent for Grace and the baby after the war, invited them to come and live here in Havenwood with them.”

      “And Mrs. Meade never remarried?”

      Berglund shook his head.

      “You sure know a lot about the family’s history,” Cruz noted.

      “Everybody in Havenwood knows that story. Joe Meade’s a local war hero. My kids go to Joseph Meade Elementary School. So did I, for that matter. As for Grace, well, she made her own mark on the town. It can’t have been easy for her, I guess, leaving everything and everyone she knew and coming out here to live. But by the time she died, there wasn’t a thing went on here she didn’t have a hand in. Ran half the town, for that matter. Her funeral’s probably going to be the biggest one the town’s ever seen. I can’t imagine many who won’t be there.”

      Except her daughter, Cruz thought.

      Muffled voices sounded behind the glassed-in reception area, and they looked over to see an older woman speaking to the orderly.

      “This must be the psychiatrist,” Berglund said, pushing himself off the window ledge.

      Cruz had to agree. The woman wore no white coat, just a long, belted navy cardigan and slacks, but there was no mistaking the authoritative bearing of someone used to having her way. Sure enough, the orderly nodded in the direction of the two men in the waiting room. The woman disappeared behind a partition, then reappeared, frowning and pushing her way though the heavy door that separated the waiting area from the ward beyond.

      Tall and heavyset, she had frizzled, steel-gray hair coiled in a knot on top of her head.A pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses dangled from a chain slung around the collar of the brightly colored blouse she wore under the navy cardigan, a riotous Rorschach test pattern of pinks, white and oranges. As she strode toward them, hands jammed in the pockets of her sweater, the crepe soles of her brown Hush Puppies squeaked on the tiled floor.

      “I’m Dr. Helen Kandinsky. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

      Her irritable expression put Cruz in mind of Miss Nugent, his junior high English teacher, whose habit it was to send all the “Mexicans” in her classes to seats at the back of the room. They could do what they wanted back there, she said, as long as they kept quiet, because she had no intention of wasting her time on bean pickers. Somewhere in America, people were marching for civil rights, but Miss Nugent obviously hadn’t heard the news. The fact that Cruz’s family had been in California nearly two hundred years cut no ice with her, either. No amount of effort ever earned him more than the standard “C” she handed out to every student with a Spanish-sounding last name, the minimum required to ensure that there would be no repeat appearances in her class.

      Berglund introduced himself and Cruz, explaining why they were there. The doctor pulled her hands out of her pockets to shake theirs in turn. When she turned her clear-eyed gaze on Cruz, she held on to his hand for an extended moment, her expression softening, less irritated now than curious. In that split second, Cruz saw Miss Nugent slink away into that dank mental corner where all his anger and self-doubt lived and festered.

      “An FBI agent?” she said. “I can see why the deputy here would need to speak to my patient, but why would you people be taking an interest in a local tragedy like this?”

      “I’m working on another case where Miss Meade may be a material witness,” he told her. “I’d been trying to track her down in Washington, and when I heard what had happened here, I decided to fly out.”

      “I see. Well, I’m sorry to say you’ve probably made a trip for nothing. I doubt Jillian’s going to be in a position to answer your questions anytime soon. I’m trying to get her to open up and talk about what happened to her mother, but it’s slow going, and I think it could take a while.”

      “Has she said anything at all about what happened that night?” Berglund asked.

      “She hasn’t uttered a single word since being brought in, not about that or anything else. Mind you, she was heavily sedated for the first twenty-four hours. I’ve backed her off the meds today, but she’s still largely unresponsive. She seems to be in shock.”

      “She hasn’t tried…you know, to hurt herself again or anything, has she?” Berglund asked.

      “No. We’re monitoring her very closely, mind you, but she’s been quiet. Too quiet, in fact. I’m getting concerned about the fact that she’s not eating or drinking. If she doesn’t start taking something in the next few hours, I may have to put her on an intravenous line. I’m hoping to avoid that, because it’s bound to upset her. If she resists and has to be restrained, physically or chemically, then we’re going to end up right back at square one.”

      “Are you saying she has made some progress since coming in?” Cruz asked.

      “Maybe just a little. She was completely unresponsive at first. A lot of that was the drugs, of course. And while she still hasn’t spoken, she has taken a tentative step out of her self-isolation.”

      “How so?”

      “I was in to see her a little while ago. She’s still not talking, but she’s listening, I can tell. I left her with a notebook and some markers. It seemed like a worthwhile gambit. I was told she’s a historian by profession and that she’s written for publication. Some writers can’t resist a blank page.”

      “And that worked?”

      The doctor nodded. “I think so. Sure enough, when I peeked in on her just a few minutes ago, she was writing feverishly. It’s very strange. It almost looks as if she were undergoing some kind of exorcism. Frankly, though, it’s an encouraging sign. Something is bothering her deeply, and she’s trying to communicate in the way she’s most comfortable. If that’s all she can manage for now, it’s fine with me.”

      “So, what’s she writing?”