Entitled to Kill

by A C F Bookens

  Mom’s lower legs dangled over the edge of the loveseat, and Dad was stretched out with his face to the back of the sofa. But while Dad had won the space lottery, Mom had taken the prize for blankets. Dad was under a single sheet – I would not tell them that was Aslan’s sheet, the one she used to make a bed wherever in the house she so desired. Dad would be covered in black and white fur when he woke up. Mom, however, was under the quilt from my reading chair and an afghan she’d pilfered from the foot of my bed. For a minute, I wondered why they hadn’t lit the fire since it was a chilly night, but the box of matches next to the auto-lighting gas fireplace gave me my answer.

  In that moment, I felt pretty tender to them, there on our sofas, sleeping. I decided to hold on to that feeling until morning and gave Daniel a gentle kiss before watching him and Taco go up the drive toward home and turning to see my dear friends quietly retiring to their own rooms. I felt at peace for the first time in a long time.

  9

  The next morning, I woke from a beautifully good sleep and managed to stay peaceful even when I heard my mother’s voice in the kitchen. “I cannot make this coffee. It comes pre-ground in a huge bag. Who buys coffee like this?”

  “Apparently, our daughter buys coffee like this, honey.” I could almost see him smoothing a hair back from her face. “I’ll buy you real coffee in town. For now, let’s just do this thing and make the kids breakfast.”

  “The kids.” I sighed. That was how they saw me, wasn’t it? Still their kid. There was that tender feeling again. I couldn’t decide if I liked it or not.

  I took a quick look at myself in the mirror and despaired. This hair was going to garner some commentary, but I just couldn’t care this morning. Honestly, I simply wanted to be with mom and dad. So I took a deep breath, pulled the tie on my Doctor Who robe tight, and went in.

  To my mom’s credit, she did not say anything about my hair – she gave it a long, withering look, but she did not speak. Instead, she held her arms wide open and pulled me into a hug. Then, I went to Dad and hugged him, too. Classic Beckett behavior here – pretend like everything is alright, even when it’s not. Still, I was not yet ready to talk about our falling out from earlier in the week.

  “Did I hear something about breakfast?” I asked with what I hoped sounded like child-like enthusiasm.

  “You did, kiddo. Pancakes with blueberries and chocolate chips sound good?” Dad was already at the griddle with spatula in hand.

  That had been my favorite breakfast as a child. Okay, my favorite favorite was minus the blueberries, but this was the compromise my family came to – chocolate and fresh fruit. “Yes, sir. I’d love that. Can we make enough for six? Mart is home, and Stephen and Walter are staying with us for a few days while they house hunt.”

  Mom smacked her hand on the counter. “Well, I love that. They’re moving to town. How wonderful.” She smiled. “And I know you’ll love having them here, won’t you? Especially with all this—“

  “Sharon, maybe we can save the hard stuff for after pancakes?” Dad’s voice had just the touch of a whine to it.

  “No, it’s okay, Dad.” I climbed up onto a barstool. “I really am glad they’re moving here, especially with all the goings on lately. I guess it must had made the Baltimore papers.”

  Mom sat down next to me and let Dad take over the pancake mix she’d been making from memory. “It did. Did you know that Lewis fellow?”

  “I met him once.” I shuddered. “He was pretty awful.”

  “So we gathered,” Dad said as he cracked an egg. “I guess he was a wife beat—Sorry, an abuser is the more appropriate term, I think.”

  “He was. We saw his handiwork, Mart and I.”

  “Oh honey.” Mom put her hand on mine. “So you know his wife?”

  “Only a little. But she and her daughters have been in the shop. They’re wonderful girls.”

  Mart came out of the back and stretched. She, unlike me, looked like she’d just stepped out of a mattress advertisement. Her hair was perfect, and she didn’t have even a single sleep wrinkle. Sigh. “Did I hear something about pancakes?”

  “How many do you want, girl?” Dad said. “One? Two?”

  “Are you kidding me?” She looked at me. “Is he kidding? Clearly, Mr. Beckett, you have not seen me eat pancakes. Make mine a six-pack please. Heavy on the chocolate,” she said as she scooped a few chips from the bag on the counter.

  “She looks like a model, but she eats like a lumberjack. My kind of woman,” Dad said as he winked at Mom.

  I laughed. This felt good. Really good. But still, I braced myself for this sweet familial moment to dissolve at any moment. I hated that I wasn’t able to just enjoy this time, but past experience with my parents made me leery.

  A few minutes later, Stephen and Walter came in, freshly showered and shaved, and they did exactly what my dad expected them to do, go to him for a firm handshake. They followed that up with a strong but short hug for mom. I wondered if there was some school that taught people how to be good children. If so, I probably needed to go.

  But despite my slight wariness, breakfast was delightful. We ate gathered around the island and used far too much syrup for our pancakes. The conversation was light and centered on what the Arritt-Hitchcocks were looking for in their new home – water view, lots of light, a home office. When all of the pancakes were devoured – Mart conquered her small monument to carbs without a problem – we worked together to clean up. Then, Mom and Dad used my bathroom and bedroom to get ready for the day, and I tucked my clothes under my arm like I was in college again and trotted over to Mart’s space to do the same.

  By nine fifteen, we were all loaded up in Mart’s car and Mom and Dad’s car to caravan to the shop. We’d all decided we wanted to visit this house that Stephen and Walter had seen the day before and really loved. I just needed to stop by work to be sure everything was set, and then we’d be off for a rendezvous with their real estate agent.

  Of course, Marcus and Rocky had the shop well in hand, and from the quiet smiles they were giving each other across the shop, it looked like they were relishing the chance to run the store alone. I, for one, was relishing the gift of letting them, and climbed back into Mart’s car with a flourish.

  “Feels good to have help, doesn’t it?” Mart said as she pulled away from the curb to follow Walter, who Dad had trusted to drive his brand new Tesla.

  I smiled. “Always. I just wish I was better at accepting it.”

  She didn’t look over at me, but I saw a small smile grace her lips.

  I squeezed her arm and said, “You have time for this? I know Saturdays are busy at the winery.”

  “They are, but we discourage drinking before noon by not opening. I’ll be there late tonight to prep for a wedding tomorrow on-site, so it’s fine if I get in a little later. I’m dying to see this house.”

  Mart and I had hoped to find a little place on the water when we’d moved the fall before, but our budget and my desire to be within walking distance of work didn’t make that feasible. The places we could afford on the water in town came with roommates of the rodent and reptile variety. No thank you.

  But having Stephen and Walter get a place on the water, that was basically the next best thing. As we drove out of town, I slipped into visions of having evenings on their pier with a Mai Tai in my hand. Never mind that I had never had a Mai Tai and had no idea what was in one, but it felt luxurious. Especially if it had an umbrella.

  I was so deep in my reverie that I almost missed it when we passed the gates to the Harris ranch. I lurched forward, scaring Mart, as I tried to get a better look inside. “Gracious, Harvey. What’s going on?” she asked.

  I sat back. “That was the Harris place. I was just trying to get a peek.”

  She snuck a look at me out of the corner of her eye, but then turned on her signal and followed Walter into the next driveway down 33. The house Walter and Stephen liked was next door to the Harris’ place. Excitement and foreboding
settled on me, even though next door out here meant that there was almost a mile between driveways.

  I quickly decided not to say anything further – I didn’t want anyone distracted by the loose, geographical connection to the murders, and I didn’t want to distract myself by pondering what this might mean for more sleuthing.

  Fortunately, the house was so gorgeous I didn’t have to worry. It was a brand-new build with dusky blue siding with white trim and a small set of stairs leading to a front porch that was perfect for a potted plant and a shoe rack to keep people from tracking sand into the house – Stephen and Walter had been influenced by the Chinese culture of San Francisco and preferred everyone remove their shoes when coming in, even when sand wasn’t involved. They had a beautiful array of slippers for guests, and frequent visitors got their own pair. Mine were leopard print with hot-pink fuzz because my friends thought they were hilarious. Hot pink is not my preference in anything but icing.

  We took a walk around the outside of the house while we waited for the real estate agent to arrive, and I stopped short on the water side of the building. It was almost all windows in a not-quite symmetrical layout that somehow gave the house a feeling of balance against the gentle curve of the shoreline below. The house was relatively private, with tall trees on each side to create a screen from the neighbors.

  But the water, the water was the real showstopper. The brackish waters were deep aqua, and the pier was wide, perfect for fishing and sitting. With a Mai Tai of course.

  I could barely wait to get inside, and when the agent came and unlocked the house, I was not disappointed. The front door opened into a small foyer and then beyond was a huge room with a fireplace centered on that wall of windows looking over the water. The view was so spectacular that it took me a while to look around the rest of the space.

  But when I did, I knew this was the future home of Stephen and Walter Arritt-Hitchcock. From the chef’s kitchen to the charming guest bedrooms and bathroom just off the living space to the master suite upstairs that was a loft but with a beautiful, sliding wall of frosted glass for more privacy, it was gorgeous. Just enough space for them to enjoy, but not so much that they’d be overwhelmed by their own desire to keep their residence pristine.

  I knew the house had to cost far more than I could afford – I had avoided the real estate apps out of respect for my friends’ privacy – but they were selling their house in The Haight in San Francisco. Let’s just say they probably could have bought two of these houses for what they’d get for that one property on the West Coast.

  We all wandered the house for a while, opening cabinet doors and closets, snooping with abandon since it was new construction and we weren’t violating anyone’s privacy (although let’s be honest, I might have opened everything anyway.) The agent was remarkably gracious, especially since we had crashed her showing and were not shy with our questions about everything from HOAs to noise ordinances. (Mayhem was not always good at using her inside voice, and I knew she’d be visiting a lot, especially after I convinced Stephen and Walter to get a miniature Pomeranian named Lola – a pet I desperately wanted someone else to own.)

  By the time we went back outside, I was convinced they should buy, and from the way my two friends were talking quietly throughout the house, it seemed they were, too. I distinctly heard a “our sectional will fit perfectly here” comment from Walter.

  Back in the driveway, Mart took off for work, and Mom, Dad, and I told Stephen and Walter we were going to take a stroll up the road so that they could have some time with their agent. I was actually glad to have a moment to talk to my parents alone. I had avoided the hard conversation long enough. I needed to apologize.

  We hung a right onto 33 and kept to the shoulder to give the traffic plenty of space to go around us. “That house is gorgeous, isn’t it?” I asked, warming up to the harder topic.

  “Amazing,” Mom said. “Those windows.”

  I nodded. “I can’t wait to sit in there and watch thunderstorms.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Mom said. “The lightning on the water.” We had watched a lot of storms from our Baltimore front porch when I was a kid. It was one of the few times we were peacefully together.

  The silence started to feel heavy as we walked, and I started to say, “Mom, I’m sorry—“ at the exact same moment, she said, “I’m sorry, Harvey.”

  We looked at each other and each chuckled nervously. “I am sorry, Mom. You were right. I lied, and that wasn’t a kind thing to do.”

  “And I’m sorry for not being more thoughtful about your time. We should have let you know we were coming and worked with your schedule.” She looked down at her hands and then over at me. “We did it again this time, but I just couldn’t handle the way we’d left things.”

  Mom reached over and took my hand, and I felt the tears pool in my eyes. She had not held my hand in a very long time. I gave her fingers a squeeze.

  “I haven’t been,” she looked over at Dad, “we haven’t always been very good at understanding what you do and why you do it. You’re very different than I am. I know you know that. You just don’t want the same things I want, the things I wanted for you. It’s taken me a long time to realize that. I’m sorry.”

  I was crying for real now. “I’m sorry, too, Mom. I tried for a long time to be the person you wanted me to be, and I was wrong to do that, but not because what you want is bad. It’s not. It’s just not me. Maybe if I’d been honest more often, it wouldn’t have taken us this long to understand each other.”

  My dad scooted closer and put his arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, too,” he whispered. My dad wasn’t a man who used words frivolously, so his apology, as brief as it was, made me cry even harder.

  Eventually, though, my tears stopped, and I enjoyed the stroll. It was only when I started looking around that I realized we’d wandered to Huckabee Harris’s place. I knew Daniel would probably note that my subconscious was sleuthing, but I really hadn’t made a conscious choice at all. We’d just ended up here, by the gate, the gate that only blocked cars but not people on foot because, really, who walks all the way out here.

  I shot Stephen a text to see how they were doing.

  “Writing up an offer. You okay?” he replied.

  “Just fine. Enjoying our walk. Take your time.”

  I looked at my mom and dad who were admiring the very impressive, very sturdy, very tall gate in front of us and asked, “Who’s up for a little sleuthing?”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other and grinned. “We do have this in common.”

  “What, nosiness?”

  “I like to call it curiosity,” Mom said, and I laughed. We had that in common, too, I guess.

  For a minute, it felt like we were in one of those films where a group of heroes walks forward slowly while a wind blows our hair. The breeze off the water wasn’t quite as dramatic, but as we all moved toward the gate, I imagined us snapping gloves into place and brandishing our weapons.

  My fantasy dissolved a bit when I tripped over the scrub brush around the gate, but still, within seconds, we walked onto Harris’s driveway. I didn’t think anyone would even notice us, but if they did, the “they” was probably going to be Homer, and I could just tell him the truth – that we’d been visiting the house next door with friends and thought we’d stop over.

  As we walked, I caught Mom and Dad up on what had happened since they were here last. Dad was very unhappy that Mart and I had gone over to see Miranda, but Mom came to my defense. “Burt, what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t let that poor woman suffer if there was any way she could help.” I gaped at my mother for a few seconds, pleasantly surprised at her compassion, but made sure to study my face back to serious before she caught me. No need to destroy our shaky peace and tenderness.

  Rafe’s death puzzled them, though. “But neither you nor the sheriff thinks Miranda killed him?” Dad said.

  “No. I know she seems the most likely suspect – and I w
ouldn’t blame her at all if she’d done it – but no one thinks she did. But then, that leaves us without a real suspect.”

  “Right.” Mom was pensive. “But isn’t she the one that falsely accused that young man Marcus of killing her father?”

  I had totally forgotten about the way she’d attacked Marcus because I was focusing on her suffering at the attacks of her husband. Ugh. I had to apologize to Marcus for that when I got back. “Yes, that’s right. That was her.” Now I had another curveball to figure out. “Why would she do that?”

  “The obvious reason is that she committed the murder and was looking to draw attention away from herself,” Dad said. He was clearly not as quick to accept Miranda’s innocence, and while I didn’t like it, I wondered if his willingness to believe her a killer might not be a good thing. It might just push us to study the angles a bit more.

  “That’s true,” Mom’s voice was thoughtful. “Or maybe she was trying to draw attention away from someone else?”

  That was an interesting thought, and it made me wonder if Miranda’s racist statements about Marcus were genuine or part of a distraction. If that was the case, though, who was she trying to keep us from seeing? “Do you think she’d do that if her husband killed her dad?”

  Mom tilted her head. “Maybe. You’d hope she’d have some loyalty to her father, or at least think about the potential escape that her husband’s arrest could mean for her and her girls.”

  I thought about that as we walked down the lane. “But what if he made her play the witness? What if she didn’t have a choice?”

  Dad rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say anything.

  Mom said, “Could be. Worth checking out, don’t you think?”

  I sighed. It was worth checking out, but the more we talked about this and the further we walked down the driveway of the Harris Ranch, the more guilty I felt. I was clearly breaking my promise to the sheriff, and yet, here I was having this conversation with my parents – the first, non-bickering conversation we’d had in a long time. I sighed and tried to think of other things besides my own guilt.