Apples For Vinegar

by R J Fournier

  “But I don’t understand why Robert told us about it in the first place,” Helen said. “We thought he wanted to draw attention away from himself or some of his colleagues.” She explained for Howard’s and Sam’s benefit, “At the time, we suspected he was involved with the drugs, Ajnabee’s distributor or something like that.”

  Delyth said, “He may well have been, and he didn’t want police digging around his operation. Or, he’s a concerned citizen, and it was just a coincidence that he waited until one of Foley’s neighbors was killed before telling anyone.”

  Helen again looked toward Josh for an answer, but he pursed his lips and said nothing.

  “I have one question that’s been bugging me,” Howard said. “What did Keir say to Emily? Why’d he rush in like that?”

  Emily was the only one charged. Officially, Keir was unaware of his wife’s actions, something Helen found hard to believe.

  “That she couldn’t kill innocent children,” Jerzy answered.

  “But how did he know she’d be there?” Howard directed the question to Josh.

  “That’s a good question,” Delyth said. “When Emily confessed, she said he wasn’t involved. And, there’s no evidence that he was. He said he happened to be driving by and heard the gunshots. Of course, that’s contradicted by what we saw, but the DA decided there wasn’t enough evidence to pursue it. So, again, Emily is the loyal enabler, taking responsibility for his messes.”

  “Well, she’s the one who killed Ajnabee,” Sam objected. “Even if he didn’t pull the trigger, he’s still an accessory or a co-conspirator or something. Doesn’t that make him just as guilty?”

  “Not if he didn’t know she’d killed Ajnabee,” Delyth said. “No matter how hard that is to believe.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang. “Who could that be?” Helen asked of no one in particular. She opened the door to find Bette Lee, Suzanne Dussault, and Shawn Cunningham. “I didn’t know Frank invited you,” Helen blurted out, then realizing it must have sounded rude, she quickly added, “Welcome. Come in. Frank is still in the garage doing… well, I’m not sure what he’s doing. But you’re right on time.”

  Bette handed her a bottle of champagne, Suzanne a cardboard clamshell. “Humus from the Haven. One of the specialties,” she explained. Shawn smiled charmingly.

  Conversation stopped when they entered the dining room. Some of the other guests nodded, others averted their eyes as if intent on the contents of their glasses. “Would you like something to drink?” Helen asked. “Should I open the champagne?”

  “I thought we could toast the sculpture,” Bette said.

  “What a good idea,” Helen gushed. “I’ll get us some flutes. Delyth, would you mind helping?”

  “What are they doing here?” Delyth asked as soon as the kitchen door swung shut.

  “I have no idea.”

  When they got back, the others had separated into their original groupings: the Duddas, including Karen and Kyla who’d returned from petting the dog; Josh, Howard and Sam; Bette, Suzanne and Shawn. Helen despaired of ever getting them together again. She was spared the effort by Frank coming in and announcing that everyone should come out to the garage, he was ready to show the sculpture.

  “We were just going to pour champagne to toast your new creation,” Helen said. “It was Bette’s idea.”

  Frank clapped his hands. “That’s grand. Just the thing.”

  Helen loved that he could still get excited at every new piece of his art, like a young boy demanding that you look and see what he’d done.

  Josh arranged the eight flutes in a line. Three people would have to make do with regular wine glasses.

  “Just a sip for me,” Karen told him.

  “That’s all everyone is going to get.” Divided twelve ways, a bottle of champagne yielded two ounces each.

  Karen took a breath when Josh handed a glass to Ben as if about to object, but Jerzy stopped her with a gesture. When everyone was served, they moved to the open garage, glasses in hand. Frank had hung a large piece of canvas across the open doorway, held down by a long dowel at the base. Strings hung from i-hooks secured into the head jamb at each side and in the center, then ran along the top to form a pull cord on one side.

  Standing in front, Frank said, “I want to thank you all for coming. Originally, I intended to represent Karen’s ancestors and her current family in a literal interpretation of a family tree. But events shifted my thinking. I realized that you are all rooted in the land as much as the tree was and as much as Karen and her family. But what do we mean when we say ‘the land?’ All humans are rooted in the land, the earth, the planet. At least until we start living on Mars.”

  Helen raised her glass a little, a signal that he was in danger of digressing, and he should get on with it.

  With a quick smile in her direction, he continued. “What joins all the people here—well most of the people—is an arbitrary, legal definition of a particular plot of land. You’ve all lived on it. You’ve all been shaped by it. You are all rooted in it by law.” He paused, seeming to expect applause. When none erupted, he added, “That’s why I call my sculpture Rooted In-Laws.”

  He stepped to the side. “Oh, I should tell you it’s not finished yet.” He grabbed an end of the cord and pulled. The cloth remained puddled at the bottom. Josh rushed up and turned the dowel, getting the cloth started. But one side didn’t draw evenly, causing the dowel to dip to the left. Frank turned toward the people standing, waiting. “You can tell I’m an artist, not a draper.” With more assistance from Josh and a powerful yank on the cord, the cloth finally wound to the top.

  Helen advanced into the garage with everyone else. The root ball was transformed since the last time she’d seen it. More lateral roots had been removed from below—giving a flatter surface to rest on—and from above, revealing the tap- and sinker-roots. Other roots had been cut away leaving a simpler structure. Somehow Frank had accomplished it without obvious cuts and gashes; Helen guessed he’d painted or stained them to match the raw roots. Four generations of Baileys lined the taproot, bas-relief portraits of their faces emerging from the wood like knots miraculously grown into people. From the viewer’s vantage point, Karen’s great grandparents were farthest away, at the base of the trunk; Karen and Kyla were closest in, toward the end of the roots facing out.

  Delyth, who’d been there when Frank was puzzling how he wanted to position the generations, said, “Why did you decide on putting the oldest at the top?”

  “It’s not a family tree. If it were, you would expect just opposite. But this represents how deeply each person is imbedded in the land. Karen is four-generations deep.”

  Jerzy and Ben were on a lateral root close to Karen and Kyla. Ajnabee was on a sinker root opposite them, and with him Bette, Suzanne, and Shawn. Above them were side branches with Howard and Sam. Although the faces were rough, like sketches rather than detailed drawings, they weren’t caricatures. Each person was recognizable, at least the people Helen knew. She was continually amazed how Frank could convey so much with so little.

  Howard touched the figures of an older couple and a younger woman below his image. “Look. It’s Cindy and my in-laws. How’d you get the photos?”

  ”I called and asked your daughter.”

  “Is she coming?”

  “I invited her, but she couldn’t make it.”

  “I don’t get it,” Jerzy objected. “You said you were going to do our family. Karen’s family.”

  “I was. The analogy of the roots of a tree to a family tree is obvious. You might even say clichéd.” He glanced at Helen and smiled. “But, you know, all the stuff that happened started me thinking how all of you are related based on that piece of paper that goes back to your great grandparents.” He nodded toward Karen.

  “But did you have to include a drug dealer?” Jerzy demanded.

  “Yeah, well, he sort of died for the land. He might not have known it when he refused Foley’s offer, but that was the e
ffect.”

  Jerzy puffed himself up to make another objection when Karen placed a hand on his arm. “Let it be,” she said quietly. “If it weren’t for these people, Kyla would be an orphan.”

  Jerzy looked at the others gathered around Frank’s sculpture, then dropped his shoulders and let out a breath. Whether from acceptance of what Karen said or out of frustration that she’d said it in front of others, Helen couldn’t tell.

  “I think it’s fabulous,” Sam announced. He pointed at two short cylinders of wood poking from one of the sinker roots. “Who’s that going to be?”

  “That’s saved for the first owner of Zad’s place. Karen tells me it was a Mr. Rizzo. I’m still trying to track down photos of him and his wife.”

  The uninsulated garage was growing warm in the afternoon sun, especially with so many people crowded around trying to get a closer look at Frank’s work. Despite his attempts at cleaning the root ball, it still emitted an overpowering smell of raw wood and damp earth. Helen decided to step outside for some air. She could, after all, study the sculpture in more detail later by herself.

  She was pleased when Delyth and Josh followed her out. Although she hadn’t intended to go back into the house, Helen offered them more wine.

  “No, thanks,” Josh said. “I have to stop by the office. Thanks for the party. Frank’s piece is something.”

  “Indeed, it is,” Helen agreed without asking if it was a good something or a bad something in Josh’s mind. “I’m amazed he managed to do it in just over a month.”

  “You solved Ajnabee’s murder in less time than that,” Delyth said.

  Helen smiled at the compliment. “We solved it together. But having all the people here did remind me of a question I’ve been intending to ask Josh.”

  He smiled encouragement. “I’ll make an exception to my rule against talking about ongoing cases. You deserve to know.”

  Helen felt honored, as if Josh was accepting her into the club. Before he could change his mind, she asked, “Who did you suspect?”

  “To be honest, I didn’t know. Jerzy would’ve had time to do it when he came home from the hospital, but just barely. I couldn’t see him rushing back, grabbing the gun, shooting Ajnabee, then calmly returning to his daughter’s bedside. I hadn’t even suspected Foley until Delyth’s guy pointed a finger in that direction, but he was having dinner with an investor that night. He could’ve snuck out of the building without anyone else seeing him, but that didn’t seem likely either. You know about Lee and Dussault. All of them had leaky alibis.”

  “How about Ben? I know you questioned him.”

  “He was watching porn. We got the ISP records. Someone was switching from one site to another. It could have been anyone, of course. And, if he were really clever, he could have programmed his computer to do it on its own. But you met the kid. His watching porn while his parents were away seemed the more likely scenario.”

  “And the drug connection?”

  “We couldn’t find a connection. At least, not after Ben told us he was the one who ransacked Ajnabee’s operation.”

  “Ben did that?” Helen hadn’t expected that.

  “Yeah, he was getting back at Ajnabee for humiliating his father. That’s how he saw it. I don’t know if revenge would ever have gotten him to commit murder. A lot of anger in that kid, though.”

  “He was on good behavior today,” Helen said.

  “Who knows?” Josh said. “Maybe almost getting shot set him straight.” Delyth didn’t pull away when he leaned in and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I got to go. We’re getting together later, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “A public display of affection,” Helen said when he’d left. “I’m impressed.”

  “I’m getting used to it.”

  “What’s he working on that he has to go in on a Saturday.”

  “He hasn’t told me. Of course! But I suspect it’s that murder at the casino.”

  Helen nodded. “More wine?” Walking toward the house, she mused, “I’ve never been to an Indian casino. Perhaps we should drive out there tomorrow.” She held the door open for Delyth to enter the house. “I wonder why they don’t call them Native American casinos.”