He stepped back, still holding my shoulders, and gave me his “it can’t be that bad” look. I wasn’t to be comforted. “What about the button I found next to the body?” I protested. “I think it came off her sweater. And there’s the fight she had with Bert at the Jubilee.”
“A spat is one thing, murder is another. As for the button, it could be anybody’s. The cops will sort it out.”
I looked down at the floor.
Toby rolled his eyes. “You did give them the button, didn’t you?” Pause. “Nora, didn’t you?”
I produced the button from the pocket of my jacket.
Toby took it, held it in his open palm, and stared at it. He had something to say, and he was taking his time to prepare it. “This is wrong,” he started. “It’s withholding evidence. You could be arrested for it. Over here they call it perverting the course of justice.”
I gulped. “You’re not going to turn me in, are you?”
“Don’t be melodramatic.”
“Well, I’m not turning Mom in, either. She’s my mother.”
“You can’t hide evidence from the police. Eventually the truth will come out, and then there’ll be worse trouble than there is now.”
“You said yourself, the button might not be hers.”
“Yes. But the cops would try to trace who it belongs to, wouldn’t they?” reasoned Toby. “If they knew about it.”
There was a standoff, just a few moments, but it felt awful. I broke the silence. “The guards are coming soon. What are we going to do?”
“So it’s ‘we’ now, huh?” Toby leaned his head sideways, pretending wariness. “Okay, it’s ‘we.’ What we better do is find out as much as we can before they arrive. Let’s go talk to your mother.” He started moving toward the door.
“Like that?” I pointed.
“Hmm?” He looked down and realized that he was in his bathrobe, with nothing underneath. “Right. I’ll get dressed. You, write that statement. Keep it brief and factual.”
I didn’t like being bossed around, but I knew I needed it, and I got the job done.
Mom and Dad’s cottage lay across a gravel parking area that we shared. Their car was missing, but the door to their cottage was open. We found Mom in the front room of the house, a wood-paneled kitchen dominated by a large table and six chairs. She was at the sink doing the breakfast dishes. A man’s barbecue apron covered the cotton robe she had bought on mail order from the Vermont Country Store. Even in that homely outfit, she looked as fresh as nature, ready to star in an ad for organic dish soap. “There you are,” she greeted us, flashing her wide, welcoming smile. “Take a chair,” she offered. “I’m making tea.” The electric kettle was indeed growling and popping.
“Not for me, thanks,” said Toby. “I’ve just had coffee.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “Where’s Dad? I have something to tell him, and you.”
“Dad and Angie went to the store,” Mom said. “They should be back soon.” She dropped three tea bags into a family-sized teapot. “It looks like another beautiful day.”
“Yup, we’ve been lucky with the weather,” said Toby. He eyed me, as if to say, Go on. Get to the point.
“You have something to tell us?” asked Mom. I studied her face as she placed two mugs on the table. She looked her everyday self.
“It’s bad news.”
She started. “About Grammy?” My grandmother on Dad’s side had stayed in Hull, in the beach house, nursing the pneumonia she had had for months.
“No. It’s Uncle Bert. I’m sorry to bring the news. He’s dead, Mom.” Her eyes locked on mine. “I was the one who found him,” I went on. “I was walking in the Deserted Village and saw him lying on the ground. The police are there now. I called them.”
“What happened?” whispered Mom, her fingers covering her lips in a gesture of disbelief.
“I don’t know. Maybe he fell, but he might have been assaulted,” I said. “I saw blood on his head.”
“Assaulted?” Her voice was cracking now. She sat down and closed her eyes. In a moment, she opened them and asked, “What about Laura and Emily? Do they know?”
“I’m sure they’re being told,” I replied. I wanted to say, You didn’t do it, did you, Mom? But I couldn’t bring myself to blurt it out.
“Your father will be devastated.” She abruptly stood and went to the window. She swept her unruly hair back from her face, as if to see more clearly. Then she paced back and forth. “He’ll be back any minute now.” She slumped down on her chair again.
I poured the tea and doctored our cups with milk and sugar. “Mom,” I said, “the guards are coming to get a write-up of my statement. They may want to talk to you. They’ll be here soon.”
“The guards?”
“The police,” I said.
“Why would they want to talk to me?”
“Not just you. Everyone in the family,” Toby clarified. “But you might start thinking about it, to get ready.”
“What do you mean, get ready?”
“Just so you’ll be prepared,” I said.
“Why do I have to prepare?” she asked. She put her cup down harder than she meant to, splashing tea into the saucer.
“You did get into an argument with Bert at the Jubilee,” I pointed out. “They’re bound to ask you about that.”
She made a little scoffing noise, looked down, and slowly shook her head. Then she raised her face defiantly and said, “Well, let them ask all they want. It’s no secret I didn’t like him, but plenty of others felt the same way. I’m not the only one.” She thought for a moment. “It would be like Laura to blame me, though. What sort of questions do you think they’ll ask, these guards?”
“For one thing,” said Toby, “when was the last time you saw Bert?”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “At the Jubilee, when I told him what I thought of him.” She rubbed her knuckles in her lap.
“In Galway,” said Toby. “Keep it simple.”
“In Galway.” She was looking at Toby, and her whole body seemed to be saying, Thank God—he’s on my side. She took a sip of tea.
“And what about last night?” I probed. “You didn’t go out or anything?”
“Out where? Where’s there to go at night, around here?”
“Well, there are pubs,” I said.
Her hands made a V in front of her face, a gesture that meant patience was running out. “If we were going to a pub, we would have asked you to join us, don’t you think? We went to bed early. Angie did too. We were tired after the drive.”
“So you were in all night after we came back from supper?”
“That’s right. I might have stepped outside for a few minutes, to get some air, but I didn’t go far.”
Did I detect evasion, or was that my imagination? “And this morning? When did Dad and Angie go out, and have you been here all morning?”
“Of course I have. Look, I’m not even dressed yet. Angie and Dad went out about an hour ago, just over to the store.” She turned toward Toby. “What else?”
“I don’t know,” said Toby. He looked at me. I looked at him. Neither of us had the nerve to say what was on our minds.
“Anyhow, why should I be worried about the police?” said Mom. “It’s Dad I’m worried about. When he finds out about Bert.”
“Do you want to tell him?” I asked.
She covered her chin with her palm. “It might be better if you did,” she said. She drained her cup and got up from the table. “I’ll get dressed.”
Her bedroom door closed only moments before Angie and Dad arrived, carrying grocery bags.
“You’d better sit down,” Toby said, cutting short their greetings. He wasn’t going to let me waste time with small talk. They were still putting the bags on the counter when he put me on the spot. “Nora has some bad news.” They sat, and looked at me expectantly.
“Dad,” I said, reaching for his hand and holding it in both of mine. “I’m sorry to have t
o tell you this, but Uncle Bert is dead.”
Dad drew back his hand. “What happened?”
Angie reached to put her hand on his shoulder, as if to keep him from collapsing forward. I gave him the facts quickly, watching as his face sank, blurring every feature that made him handsome. His blue eyes grew watery, his square jaw slacked, and his ivory skin turned gray. The transformation frightened me.
I searched for words and came out with, “I’m really sorry, Dad. I know that Uncle Bert wasn’t always what he should have been, but—”
He lunged forward, slipping out of Angie’s grip to grab at my arm. “Don’t you start bad-mouthing him too,” he growled. “Whatever he was, Bert was my brother.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “You and your mother never could stand him. You’ve made that very clear. Can’t you see how much that hurts me? He’s my brother. It’s the same as if I insulted Angie. How would that make you feel?”
Angie recoiled into the back of her chair. She looked as frightened as I felt ashamed. Dad could insult his brother if he chose to—which he didn’t. But Mom or I or Angie couldn’t, according to some universal kinship rule. Angie had never transgressed that rule. Why had I? In desperation I said, “I don’t know what I’m saying, Dad. Please forgive me.”
His face reddened and he tucked his head on his chest. He started to cry, silently. Angie put her hand on the table in front of Dad and waited. He took her hand and held it as he composed himself. Then he asked, “Does Mom know?”
I nodded. “She’s getting dressed.”
Dad pushed himself back from the table and went to their room.
Toby sat down in Dad’s place, and Angie refreshed the teapot. For the next quarter hour, Angie peppered me with questions and I replied mechanically. Toby listened but said nothing.
Murmurs from down the hall became louder, then softer, in waves. I looked toward the bedroom, hoping Mom and Dad would emerge united, ready to cope with the death in the family. But in order to help Dad mourn, Mom would have to alter her stance toward Bert, and I couldn’t see that happening.
Mom came out of the bedroom alone, dressed now but looking even less composed than when she had left the kitchen. “Dad wants to see Bert’s body. Can you arrange that?”
“But Mom,” I objected. “The guards will arrive soon. We’d better all wait here. We can find out about seeing the body when they arrive.”
She shot back, “Your father just lost his brother. He needs what he needs.”
I apologized and left the room with as little fuss as possible. Mom had one thing right: it was Dad’s tragedy. And she was clearly mad at me. What had I done? I had been insensitive with Dad. I wondered if our exchange had loosened Dad’s resentment of how Mom had treated Bert. Had he lit into her, and did Mom think I had encouraged him to do so?
I walked out through the living room to the terrace, where lawn chairs beckoned. I needed a sit-down to calm myself and seek good sense. The strong sun of Midsummer Day was blocked by the house, which faced toward sunrise. The terrace in the back of the cottage faced west, overlooking a field that pitched for a mile, all the way to the sparkling ocean. At that moment, I felt like burrowing under a rock, but I settled into a lawn chair and tried not to think.
The door from the living room creaked, and I tensed. To my relief, it was Toby. He took the chair next to mine. He looked out at the sea for a long time and eventually closed his eyes. When I copied him, tears came. I let them wet my face. As quiet breathing returned, I opened my eyes, and Toby handed me a tissue. He always keeps one, folded into a small square, in his left-hand pocket. It’s annoying when I find one shredded in the washing machine, but now it was much appreciated.
“I’m such a jerk,” I said, patting at my cheeks. “I didn’t mean to offend Dad. But what can I do? Bert’s death is going to hurt him more than I would have thought. He wants me to act like I respected Uncle Bert, but that’s not going to be easy. Mom knows how I feel.” A choked laugh came out of me. “I feel just the way she taught me to feel.”
“Your mother may be regretting that.”
“Maybe she’s regretting that I let Dad see it. She’ll blame me for letting it show how we feel about him.”
“Look, none of this is your fault. We’ve got more to deal with here than family dynamics. What about the button that you found? We didn’t get very far pursuing it with your mother, did we?”
“No. I couldn’t ask her point blank.”
“Maybe you should try.”
“Look, could you ask your mother point blank if she was a killer?”
“I guess not,” Toby admitted.
It was a purely hypothetical question. Susan Sandler was a well-turned-out housewife from Mill Valley whose days were filled with tennis lessons, committee meetings, and charity work in Marin County. The only thing I could picture her murdering was a gin and tonic. In fact, I had often heard her make that avowal after a round of golf. How could I expect Toby to understand my relationship with my mother when we had been raised in such different circumstances? His cool and cultured parents rarely expressed their emotions and never raised their voices. Despite his upbringing, Toby was warmhearted and open. He tried to be sensitive to my needs. I was grateful for his even temperament, which was a Sandler family trait, but the tensions within my family eluded his grasp.
Suddenly I felt alone. No one, not even Toby, understood my dilemma. Only I had seen Bert’s mangled body. Only I had found a sign that Mom had been at the scene of the crime. Only I had heard years of Mom’s anger against him. Actually, she had given Dad an earful; but there were days when she talked with me endlessly, replaying scenes and analyzing Bert’s psychology and Dad’s in terms I don’t think she would have shared with Dad. She wasn’t exactly discreet with Angie and Eddie either, but for frank complaints against Bert the bastard, Mom had turned to me.
The crunch of tires on gravel announced the arrival of the detectives. We held back a few minutes before going in. By the time we crossed the living room to the kitchen, Detective Inspector O’Donnell and Sergeant Flynn were standing near the front door; so was Dad, as if barring their entry. Mom and Angie were seated at the table. Dad had been speaking, but he was interrupted by our arrival. I quickly introduced Toby to O’Donnell and Flynn. Dad, irritated with the men, continued: “So when can we see him, then? I have the right to see my brother’s body.”
O’Donnell discreetly eyed his mild-mannered colleague, who spoke gently to Dad. “I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t be possible for a few days. He’s been identified by his wife as well as by your daughter, and the body is now on the way to the morgue for autopsy.”
“And where will that take place?” demanded Dad.
“At Mayo General Hospital in Castlebar. We’ll notify you, sir, as soon as the body can be released.”
Dad shook his head.
O’Donnell turned to me and spoke in a firmer tone. “Do you have your statement for me?”
I pulled it out of my pocket and gave it to him. Looking preoccupied, he handed it over to Flynn and turned back to Dad.
“We’re aware this is a hard time for your family, but there are questions that must be asked.” His eyes swept the small quarters. “It might be better if we did this at the station. Would you be willing to come with us, please? Just Mr. and Mrs. Barnes for now,” he clarified, pointing to Mom and Dad. “It shouldn’t take long.”
“Where are we going?” asked Mom.
“To the garda station here on Achill,” the inspector replied. “Just a few minutes away.”
“Are we under arrest?” asked Mom, now agitated.
“Is there any reason you should be?” countered O’Donnell.
“Of course not!” she replied hotly.
“No one is under arrest,” Sergeant Flynn said in a conciliatory tone. “Coming to the station is purely voluntary.” At least for now, I told myself.
“Sergeant Flynn here will
drive you,” said the inspector.
“I’ll get your coat,” Dad said. In a moment, he was helping Mom into her raincoat, with the tenderness of a caress. They left the cottage silently.
It sounds like they’ll be a while, then,” Toby said. “I think Angie wants to talk to you alone.” He gave Angie an encouraging look.
“You wouldn’t mind?” asked Angie.
“Of course not. You two, talk.” To me he said, “I haven’t showered yet. I’ll see you back at the cottage.” I took his nod of the chin as encouragement to bare all to Angie.
She reached out to hug me. “You’ve been through the wringer,” she said. (It was one of Grammy’s sayings—Grammy was old enough to remember her grandmother putting washed clothes through the wringer before putting them out to dry.) Angie patted my shoulder before releasing me. “First you found the body, and then you had to break the news to Dad. I’m sorry it didn’t go well.” That’s as close as Angie ever comes to reproach. She isn’t blind to human error. She looks it in the face and feels nothing but dismay.
Angie is the “little sister” I treasure. She was born when I was twelve and my maternal hormones were newly released. It was just the right age to have a baby to hold. These days I try to treat her as my friend, my sister, not my “little” anything. She’s six feet tall, gorgeous, funny, and full of love. She has a lot to teach me, even though I taught her the basics: riding a bicycle, baking a cake, getting on with Mom when she’s in a mood. She now does all these things better than I ever did.
Angie has explored a world that I withdrew from as a teen, the world of the Catholic Church. She’s religious enough to have entered a convent for a trial period, but she recently put off taking vows, much to the family’s relief. I have a hard time picturing Angie as a nun. The list of her former boyfriends isn’t short. At this moment, though, she had the bearing of a pensive saint, her eyes cast down and to the side.
“I’m worried about Mom and Dad,” she said.
“Yes, this brings up all the old stuff about Uncle Bert.” I decided to level with her. “It’s the one conflict they’ve never resolved. You know Mom can’t stand him. And she has good reason.”
The Dead of Achill Island Page 3