Tribute

like your whore of a grandmother. But it was vodka for her.”
    Queasiness rose up to her throat. Fear, knowledge, the mix of drugs and wine. “The couch wasn’t pink; the dress wasn’t blue.”
    “Drink some more wine, Cilla. You’re babbling now.”
    “You saw the couch, the dress the night . . . the night you killed her. That’s what you remember—that night, not the Christmas party. Tom wrote the letters, is that it? Tom was her lover, the father of the child she carried.”
    “He was my husband, and the father of my child, and the child I carried. Did she care about that?” Fury blasted across her face. Not madness, Cilla thought, not like Hennessy. Sheer burning fury.
    “Did she give one thought to what marriage and family meant before she tried to take what was mine? She had everything. Everything. But it wasn’t enough. It never is for women like her. She was nearly ten years older than he was. She made a fool of me, and even that wasn’t enough. He went to her, left me to go to her that night while I rocked our daughter to sleep, while our baby kicked in my womb. He went to her, and to the bastard she made with him. Drink the wine, Cilla.”
    “Did you hold a gun on her, too?”
    “I didn’t have to. She’d been drinking already. I slipped the pills into her glass. My pills,” she added. “Ones I thought I needed when I first learned she had her hooks in him.”
    “How long? How long did you know?”
    “Months. He came home and I smelled her perfume. Soir de Paris. Her scent. I saw her in his eyes. I knew he went to her, again and again. And only touched me when I begged . But it changed, it started to change when I got pregnant. When I made sure I did. He was coming back to me. She wouldn’t allow it. Kept luring him back. I would not be pitied. I would not see myself compared to her and laughed at.
    “I’ll shoot you if you don’t drink. They’ll call it another break-in. A tragic one this time.” She reached back into her purse, pulled out the large plastic bag, and the doll trapped inside it. “In case you’d rather go with the bullet, I’ll leave this behind. I bought several of them years ago. I couldn’t resist. I never knew why until you came here.”
    Struggling against the dizziness, Cilla lifted the glass, wet her lips. “You staged her suicide.”
    “She made it easy. She invited me in, like an old friend. Apologized for what she’d done. She was sorry she’d hurt me, or caused me any pain. She couldn’t undo it, wouldn’t if she could. Because that would undo the baby. All she wanted now was the baby and a chance to make up for past mistakes. Of course, she’d never reveal the name of the father. Lying bitch.”
    “You drugged her.”
    “When she started to slide, I helped her upstairs. I felt so strong then. I nearly had to carry her, but I was strong. I undressed her. I wanted her naked, exposed. And I gave her more pills, gave her more vodka. And I sat and I watched her die. I sat and I watched until she stopped breathing. Then I left.
    “I’d drive by here. After they’d taken her away to where she never belonged, I’d drive by. I liked watching it decay while I . . . emerged. I starved myself. I exercised until every muscle trembled. Beauty salons, spas, liposuction, face-lifts. He would never look at me and want her. No one would ever look at me with pity.”
    An image, Cilla thought. An illusion. “I’ve done nothing to you.”
    “You came here.” With her free hand, Cathy added more pills to Cilla’s glass, topped it off with wine. “Cheers!”
    “I was wrong,” Cilla mumbled. “You’re as crazy as Hennessy after all.”
    “No, just a lot more focused. This house deserved to die its slow, miserable death. She only went to sleep. That was my mistake. You brought her back by coming here, shoved it all in my face again. You had my own son plant roses for her. You seduced Ford, who deserves so much better. I’d have let you live if you’d gone away. If you’d let this house die. But you kept throwing it in my face. I won’t have that, Cilla. I see what you are. Hennessy and I are the only ones.”
    “I’m not Janet. They’ll never believe I killed myself.”
    “She did. Your mother attempted it—or pretended to—twice. You’re fruit from the tree.” Casually, Cathy tucked back her swing of hair with her free hand. “Pressured into becoming engaged, distraught over causing the death of a man whose life your grandmother