Mortal Remains

by Mary Ann Fraser

  “He told me the scars were from playing with a campfire when he was a boy,” said Adam.

  “It was no campfire.” She shook her head. “Neil always did have a tenuous relationship with the truth—and yet he demanded nothing else from others.”

  Adam touched his shirt as if verifying the inscription beneath. “Yes, he did.”

  “Was the accident ever reported?” I asked, still trying to account for the missing death certificate.

  “Because of the nature of his work, Neil refused. He told the authorities we sent Adam to stay with relatives. After he buried Adam in the orchard, he buried himself in research. He changed. We both did. I shut myself off from the pain of my loss, from him, and from the world. I was as close to dead as a person can be and still have a breath in their body. Without Adam to keep us together, our marriage dissolved. It’s taken me years to pull myself back from that dark place, but you never fully recover from the loss of a child. You learn to endure.” She reached for her wine. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you all of this. I’ve told no one before now. It’s just, you look so much like him—or how I imagine he would have looked if he’d . . .”

  Veronica drank her glass dry, and waved down the server for another, which quickly arrived along with her salad and our sandwich. She immediately lifted the glass to her lips and threw it back.

  Watching her, I realized my own mouth was dry. I reached for my iced tea and noticed how the ice cubes distorted the view. This conversation was not so different. Everything I thought I knew about Adam and about Neil Lassiter’s death was turning out to be a warped version of the truth. And how odd that Neil never mentioned to Veronica that he adopted a son. Maybe he wanted Adam all to himself. Adam had warned me that his father was unusually possessive. Strangest of all was that Adam recognized this woman the moment he saw her. None of it added up. Someone was lying.

  “So what do you want from me? Money?” she asked.

  Adam looked up from his folded hands. “No. I don’t want money. The police closed the case. Federal investigators are calling it an accident. I want to know who is responsible for Neil’s death. You’re my only hope.”

  “The feds are involved in this?” She shoved an avocado slice across her plate, then stabbed a tomato wedge with her fork. “That’s not good.”

  “Give me a name,” said Adam. “Is it this Miles person you mentioned in your letter?”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Actually he does,” I said, recalling the night he was jumped on the way to Zmira’s. “We have reason to believe that whoever killed Neil may be looking for Adam. We need to know who and why.”

  She glanced about the room. “Look, I’ve spent years in hiding thanks to what Neil did, and now you’ve put us all in danger.”

  Adam was losing his patience. His fist hit the table “I—want—his—name!”

  The people nearest us gawked and whispered at the sudden outburst.

  “All right. Keep your voice down.” Veronica didn’t speak again until the guests at the surrounding tables returned to their conversations. “I’ll tell you what I can, but it isn’t much.” Her voice went so soft, Adam and I had to lean across the table to hear her. “A couple months ago, I received a phone call. The caller didn’t give me his name, but I knew it was Miles.” She sighed. “The name you want is Miles Devlin.” She downed the rest of the wine and pushed the glass to the edge of the table for a server to collect.

  “Who is Miles Devlin?” I asked.

  She studied Adam. “You swear he didn’t send you to find me?”

  “We swear,” Adam assured her. “I’ve never heard of him before.”

  “I suppose that’s no surprise. Neil kept his secrets for a good reason. Years ago, Neil, Miles, and I worked for Arman Research. Technically it’s an independent government defense contractor, but Neil, Miles, and another man were hired to work on what was referred to as the Seed of Life Project. Or so we thought.”

  I looked up from the twisted napkin in my hands. “The Seed of Life Project?”

  “It had to do with soil.”

  I felt Adam tense beside me. “Oh, like, for growing things,” I said, recalling his earlier words.

  “That’s right. They . . .” She hesitated. “Well, the truth is I was never privy to the specifics other than the project had to do with soil properties.”

  I think she knew more than she was telling us. I remembered all those barrels of dirt stored in the fallout shelter. Maybe Neil was conducting studies independently. The orchard could very easily have been a natural extension of his research. “But what does dirt have to do with defense other than bulwarks and trenches?”

  Again her attention fell to Adam. There was something in her stare. She rocked back in her seat, wary. “Look, you asked for a name and the reason why. I’ve given you the name. The why is what Neil did to Miles. Neil was lead scientist, but then there was talk of handing the project over to Miles, who was not only Neil’s subordinate but also his closest friend. Neil was incensed. He felt he’d been betrayed by the corporation, by Miles, by . . . well, by me.”

  “Why you?” asked Adam.

  She took a deep breath and briefly closed her eyes. “Miles and I had a . . .”

  “Relationship?” I guessed.

  She nodded. “It was before Neil and I were married.”

  “So what happened to the Seed of Life Project?” I asked.

  “Shortly after Miles took over, some important research documents went missing. Evidence pointed to Miles because he was the only person authorized to work on the project at that point. When news of the scandal broke, Arman attempted damage control. The stolen documents were never found. Funding was diverted, Miles went to prison, and the program was scrapped.”

  “Is it true what you said in the letter about Neil framing Miles?” asked Adam.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “So Neil stole the documents,” I guessed.

  She shrugged but didn’t deny it.

  “Did you have to testify?”

  “No. I refused. I wanted my son to have a father. As a result, Devlin got ten years. Then, three months ago, my lawyer called to tell me Miles had been released early for good behavior. Naturally I was nervous. Miles had more-than-good reason to hold a grudge against Neil and me, and I was afraid of how far he’d take it. Shortly after that he called me. He said he forgave me for what I did, but I didn’t believe him. How does someone forgive something like that? But he was looking for Neil. They had business to settle. I felt I should warn Neil. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him directly, so I wrote the letter.”

  Veronica jabbed her fork at Adam’s face. “Now. I’ve answered your questions. Time for you to answer mine.”

  At that precise moment, Adam knocked over his glass. A stream of iced tea cascaded off the edge of the table and into my lap. “Ahh!” I screeched as liquid and ice met skin.

  A server rushed over with a towel to sop up the mess. Adam kept repeating, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  “Excuse me.” I wound my way through the restaurant to the ladies’ room, as much to dry off as to collect myself. Veronica had more or less confirmed my suspicions: Adam was not Neil’s son. He wasn’t even a Lassiter. I wasn’t convinced he’d been adopted, either. There should have been records, but I’d found nothing. If he wasn’t Adam Lassiter, then who was he and how was it that he remembered Veronica and the day I fell from the walnut tree?

  After a few minutes under the hand dryer, my skirt was still damp, but if I stood there any longer, my thighs would blister. I left the restroom just as two city inspectors entered the restaurant through a back door. The taller of the two turned slightly as he scouted the place, and a chill passed through me that had nothing to do with my damp clothing. It was the briefcase man from the train, only he’d changed clothes and ditched the case. And his cohort was none other than bad-dye-job guy, who was now sporting a cap.

  Head lowered, I took a roun
dabout route back to the booth. Veronica and Adam were so deep in conversation, neither heard me approach.

  “ . . . that my suspicions are wrong,” Veronica was saying, her voice stern, her tone grave. “But if I’m right, God save us all, and if you care anything for that girl, which I see you do, then you will get as far away from her as you can.”

  Adam’s eyes gave me away, and Veronica abruptly fell silent and began searching for her clutch, which had fallen to the floor.

  I slumped into my seat, still processing her words but with one eye on the two supposed city inspectors, who were still sizing up the restaurant.

  “You’ve gone pale. Well, paler,” observed Adam. “Something wrong?”

  “See those two men by the condiments?” I said. “They were on the train with us. The one’s briefcase kept swinging into my leg. Could they be the men from the alley?”

  “I didn’t get a good look that night, but they could be.”

  Veronica snuck a peek, then masked her face with a handy dessert menu.

  “You know them, don’t you?” I accused.

  “Not personally. Neil used to have drinks with them occasionally when we were both at Arman. They were with the FBI back then.”

  “Suppose they’re investigating Neil’s death?”

  “Hardly. They both left the bureau not long after the scandal broke. I must warn you—soon after Miles was arrested, the one other researcher working on the project was found strung up in his apartment. It was ruled a suicide, but I’ve always had my doubts. Then, during his trial, Miles slipped me a note via his lawyer telling me to watch my back. I never knew if the note was a threat or a warning. Looks like they followed you here. I want to know why.”

  Veronica and I both turned to Adam. “Don’t look at me!” he said. “I don’t know—”

  “They’re coming this way,” hissed Veronica. She dropped a wad of cash next to her salad plate, then gestured with her head toward a chorus of servers delivering a birthday sundae to the booth behind us. The moment the servers burst into song, she scooted out of the booth and motioned for us to follow.

  We walked casually through the restaurant, avoiding any undue attention and keeping our backs to the two men. We didn’t stop until we’d made it to the corner half a block away. By then my heart was pounding.

  “Veronica, where are you taking us?” Adam asked.

  “I’m not taking you anywhere. By coming here, you put me at risk now, too. You’re going back to wherever you came from and never contacting me again. Understand?”

  We both nodded.

  The signal to cross the street turned green just as the two men appeared outside the restaurant. “Go,” she ordered with a sharp wave of her hand. Adam and I needed no more encouragement. We merged into the crowd of pedestrians surging across the street. Halfway across, I glanced back. Veronica had vanished.

  I led us the long way back to the station on the off chance the ex-feds spotted us crossing the street. The throbbing in my hip grew sharper with every jog, but I didn’t dare slow down. We jumped aboard the next BART train, and to our relief our only company was an old woman seated across from us, her Reader’s Digest rising and falling with each snore.

  We’d lost our pursuers—unless they knew where we lived.

  RULE #24

  WHEN ALL ELSE FAILS, WASH THE HEARSE.

  “It’s impossible,” I told Adam. “I’ve tried.”

  “But you found Veronica Forbes,” he argued.

  I plunked the bucket down. Liquid sloshed over the rim, making a sudsy mess. “She wasn’t a murder suspect. For all we know Miles Devlin is miles away by now and using an assumed name. I don’t know what else I can do. Maybe it’s time to move on.”

  I expected him to yell back or hit something. That’s what the Adam I found in the fallout shelter two months ago might have done. Instead he retreated to the garden to weed whack away his frustration while I finished washing the hearse.

  Later that afternoon I found a set of gold teeth in a plastic bag on my desk, accompanied by a note from Tony asking me to log them (welcome to my world), and a potted pansy from Adam. A pansy, to mean “think of me.” As if I didn’t already do that 24-7. I viewed his pathetic offering as a plea to continue the search for Miles Devlin. He was obsessed with finding the man he blamed for his father’s death, and nothing I said could convince him he was asking the impossible.

  Still, the plant with its perky green leaves and crimson-and-gold blossoms was a cheery thing, full of vigor and optimism, so I carried the pot up to my room and placed it on my dresser, beneath my window. I gave it a healthy drink, accidentally dripping some water on the napkin holding the mystery caller’s number. Some of the ink blurred, but whatever. The guy was either hoping to worm some tabloid-worthy info on Adam out of me or was working for Sturbridge. With all that had happened recently, I wasn’t about to trust anyone right now—not even Adam.

  Dad called for me. “Be right there,” I hollered back. I wadded up the napkin and tossed it in the trash.

  Dad was propped up in his bed, surrounded by a half dozen pillows and nearly as many remotes. The room smelled of stale coffee and ointments, furniture polish and Rachel’s favorite body spray—something called Patience. He muted the cooking show on the small flatscreen we brought up from the office. “If you’re not busy, would you mind bringing up the paper?” He was probably the last person on our block who still got his news the old-fashioned way.

  “Sure.” I trudged downstairs, where Nana was pinching clay onto a small human-shaped armature. “That for your sculpture class?” I asked.

  “Yes. I need it for tonight, but I can’t get the head right. It’s either too big or too small. I asked Adam to model for me, but you’d think I asked him to pose nude by the way he raced out of here.”

  That was odd. Adam never struck me as being particularly modest. “Did you try Evan? Oh wait, his head’s too big.” I laughed at my own joke all the way to the porch, where I spied Mr. Zmira on the sidewalk. He was wrestling with his snarling, soggy mop dog and cursing our broken sprinkler.

  Immediately I felt the familiar prickling up and down my arms but was determined to override my fear. In that singsong voice I reserved for teachers, I said, “Hello, Mr. Zmira.”

  He grumbled a stream of obscenities and stormed off.

  With the all clear, I went curbside to fetch the damp paper. Nana Jo intercepted me on my way back in and offered an exchange—today’s mail for the entertainment section.

  “Done,” I said, and hustled upstairs, arms loaded.

  I handed Dad the stack. “Nana hijacked the entertainment section. Sorry.”

  “Al Pacino?”

  “Yup. A whole retrospective piece on his career.” Nana had a thing for Al Pacino. It went back to the first time she saw The Godfather. She watched Scent of a Woman so many times, she wore out the DVD.

  Dad fished out the classifieds.

  “Looking for anything in particular?” I poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the bureau.

  “I want to see if our ad ran.”

  I set down the pitcher with a clunk. “What ad?”

  “Our ad for the business. We’ve decided the time has come to sell.”

  We? I stood there, my jaw slack. I didn’t bother arguing that we could find new vendors. I didn’t suggest we build our own crematorium, advertise more, or try any of the ideas I’d come up with on my own. It was too late for that.

  “Don’t feel too bad,” said Dad, misreading my stunned silence. “Although I’ll never understand why you refuse to take over the reins. Our profession is an honorable one, and you may not see it, but you have a gift for it, more than I ever did.”

  “But you always say I’m too sensitive for this line of work. You never like my ideas.”

  “I know I can be a bit hard on you, but it’s because I want you to be better than me. Believe it or not, when I first started out, I struggled to hold myself together, too. My father’s solution w
as to knock me upside the head. Be grateful times have changed.”

  “I never knew that,” I said, unable to picture my grim-faced father with so much as a moist eye. All this time I thought I was letting him down. “You can’t sell, Dad. You’ve worked too hard for so long.”

  “Rachel, the doctors . . . they all tell me it’s time I retire, and, much as I hate to admit it, I’m done. I don’t have it in me anymore. Holding it together takes a lot out of you.”

  Don’t I know.

  “I only hung in there this long because I hoped you’d stay on.” Dad’s voice softened. “Truth is I don’t want to lose you, kiddo.”

  So much for not letting him down. “I’m not Mom. You’re not going to lose me. I just want to lead my own life and do what suits me best. I know I’ve said it before, but what about Evan?”

  “I love that boy, but he’s about as compassionate as a watermelon. Besides, he’s decided on game design. Not my choice for him, but I guess it isn’t mine to make. So we’re selling. Nana Jo’s a bit disappointed, of course, but she’ll get over it. And as she’s always said, life is short. I’ve seen that firsthand.” He patted his chest and cast a weak smile I couldn’t return. “Oh, cheer up. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? To get out of the mortuary business?” Dad rubbed his eyes. “Of course, it’s going to be a challenge finding a buyer in this market, but with any luck, Sturbridge is still interested.”

  “Please tell me you won’t sell to that sleaze.”

  “Let him have it. He can deal with the headaches. Would serve him right.”

  “But he doesn’t care about people. It’s all about business to him.”

  “I can’t worry about that. I can only do what’s best for our family. Rachel and I want to open that bakery we’ve always talked about.” He flapped a hand weakly. “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, the ‘dismal trade’ is all I’ve ever known, but I’m ready for a new adventure. And if we don’t do it now, we might miss our chance. I even have a business name: Dawn of the Bread.”