The Widow's Son

by Thomas Shawver

  It was a point that could have been made by any Christian, Muslim, or Jew.

  “Yeah, Joe. Amen to that.”

  I let the topic drop and ordered another rum from Pegeen.

  About then, a few of the Bombers challenged the Blues to match them in rugby songs. The onset of obscene lyrics was Joe’s cue to go home to his wife and five kids. Before leaving, however, he placed a massive hand on my shoulder and said, “Just so you know, Mike. There’s a man come to town askin’ about this Emery fella. Calls himself a Saint, but my ta’ma”—father—“says he has the look of a Destroying Angel. You watch your back.”

  Joe was gone before I could get specifics, but by then I’d noticed someone else peripherally connected to Stagg’s book.

  Buford Higgins sat at the end of the bar looking more than a little disgruntled at the antics of the mud-bedecked hooligans who had invaded his favorite watering hole. I wrapped the last of the chicken wings in a napkin and made my way past the choristers who had just begun to belt out “Charlotte the Harlot” at the top of their leathery lungs.

  “Aren’t you a little old to be playing in the mud?” Buford shouted as I bellied up to the bar next to him.

  “ ‘Tho’ much is taken, much abides,’ ” I intoned, “ ‘and tho’ we are not now that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are…’ ”

  He looked at me quizzically until a light went on under his hat and he responded in kind. “ ‘One equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will…’ ”

  I joined with him on the last line: “ ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.’ ”

  The lines we’d recited were from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s “Ulysses,” which Josie had read at Buford’s retirement party from the police force. I knew that ever since then he’d carried the poem in his wallet, but I was surprised to find he’d actually memorized it.

  Not for the first time did I realize there was more to the crusty former cop than I’d given credit.

  “I saw you on the news the other day,” I mentioned after we had clinked glasses.

  “The Lawrence fire?”

  “Yeah. What were you doing up there?”

  “I’d been at the university’s pathology lab that afternoon. Dropped by to offer help when I heard the sirens.” He drained his beer. “What a cock-up that investigation was.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The male didn’t die as a result of the fire. While I was helping to body-bag him I noticed a small round indentation at the back of his skull. I mentioned this to the Douglas County coroner, but he brushed it off at first, claiming the cause of death was from burns. He insisted the head injury was a result of failing lumber or some such shit. Finally one of his assistants checked the lungs.”

  “And there was no evidence of smoke inhalation,” I volunteered uneasily.

  “Bingo. The man had to have been killed by a blow to the head before the fire reached him.”

  “Damn. That sure puts a different light on things. What about Miss Darp?”

  “Smoke probably killed her while she slept, then the flames. Not pretty, in either case. The police aren’t getting the word out until they’ve finished the on-site investigation…Hey, you look a little green. Are you okay?”

  No. Not by a long shot and this time it wasn’t my bowels. I should have finished my drink, paid the bill, and, after telling Buford I’d be in touch, headed for home.

  Instead I smiled and emptied my glass.

  Perhaps one day I’ll learn that temperance is a bridle of gold, passion’s bride and the strength of the soul. But this unwelcome news had scared the bejesus out of me and alcohol seemed a more reasonable antidote to my fear than pulling bedcovers over my head next to Josie.

  So I ordered another round after Buford left and joined my rugby mates in a rousing rendition of “Zulu Warrior.” When following that the Blues’ captain declared me Man of the Match, I was happy enough to be twins and only too ready to acknowledge the honor by the traditional chugging of ale from an old boot. The effort magically erased, for a few hours at least, all the problems in the universe.

  Two hours later, I handed the keys of my Jeep to the bartender for safe keeping and walked home as legless as a cow on roller skates.

  Victor ludorum—champion athlete—indeed.

  Chapter 16

  Emery and I sat in Café Provence’s front room at nine o’clock the next morning. My body ached from the bashing on the rugby pitch the day before, but not as badly as my head from the postgame festivities. It wasn’t the first time I’d asked myself why the hell I played the game. Two hours earlier, still stinking of liniment and stale beer, I’d taken a good long look in the mirror.

  It wasn’t the nose that had taken a sideways detour or the damaged cartilage in the right ear making it resemble a squashed potato that concerned me. I’d become accustomed to the battle scars a long time ago and, as Josie liked to say, they added character to a face that would otherwise have been a little too winsome. Rather, it was the realization that I might be two or three head knocks from becoming a case study for early dementia.

  Between cautious sips of hot chocolate, I struggled to focus on what Emery had to say regarding the meeting he’d had with Denny Dietz while I was whooping it up at The Peanut. Apparently, he and his cousin had gotten along like cream cheese and a bagel. I decided not to tell him, for the moment at least, that the fire in Lawrence had become a homicide investigation.

  “I should have offered the book to him first,” Emery said, still smarting over the way I’d lost his treasure.

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “I had no idea Denny had the kind of money you said the book would be worth. But I also wanted to keep my distance from him because of our pact.”

  “I thought you said his father was a rich car dealer.”

  “He was when Denny was growing up. But the old man lost his shirt after trading his Toyota dealerships for Hummer franchises and died from a heart attack when Dennis was in college.”

  “But Eula Darp said book dealers out West vouched for his ability to pay?”

  “My cousin always had grit to go with his brains,” Emery answered. “He not only survived emotionally from his horrific injuries, but he invested a small inheritance from his father to start a venture capital firm in Silicon Valley. Made a bundle.”

  “Why was he so interested in getting your Book of Mormon?”

  “He wanted to keep an important piece of Stagg history in family hands. But that wasn’t all of it. He saw it as an opportunity to reconnect with me.”

  “To question why you hadn’t complied with your oath?”

  “That’s what I feared. But when we met yesterday his first words were that blood atonement was contrary to all that the LDS Church represents. He realized it the day he awoke in the triage unit on the outskirts of Musa Qala.”

  “You’re sure he was sincere?”

  “You don’t go through what Denny experienced and not have a different, clearer perspective on things.”

  “If that was the case, why didn’t he contact you before?”

  “He didn’t know how to get in touch with me until he noticed the Stagg Book of Mormon had come on the market in Kansas. He’d also planned to warn Natalie, but he lost track of her when she moved from Boston. Finally, he believed that as long as he, Denny, remained alive, Uncle Lamar would not demand that the cudgel be passed to me.”

  “Sounds pretty naïve for a successful businessman.”

  “Perhaps. But Lamar thought a great deal of him. Looking back on it, I think far more than he did of me and Porter. It wasn’t until our uncle informed him personally that he realized I’d become the chosen avenger.”

  “So the matter is resolved.”

  “Hardly.”

  “I thought you might say that,” I said grimly. “The fire in Lawrence was no accident. It’s been reclassified as arson and double homici
de.”

  Emery caught his breath, then said, “Toward the end of our conversation, Denny asked—almost in passing—if I was aware Porter Grint had been released from prison.”

  “When?”

  “Two weeks ago. Six months before that, a barmaid linking Porter to the murder recanted her testimony, claiming he’d acted in self-defense. The case had been set for a retrial when it looked like she’d changed her mind again, but then her corpse showed up in a shallow grave. The prosecutor had no choice but to drop charges.”

  “So Porter still has friends who think like he does?”

  “It would appear so. And they obviously got to that barmaid.”

  I told him what Joe Tuitama had said.

  “It’s got to be Porter looking for me,” Emery said. “I’m taking Natalie and Claire away from here.”

  “That’s no good,” I said. “He’ll find you eventually. You must go to the police with this. If you don’t call them today, I will.”

  He didn’t see it that way.

  “We’re leaving. I’m going to need that money you promised right away.”

  “But I’ve told you, it will take at least three months to sell enough of my stock to pay you.”

  Emery gave me a level stare and said, almost apologetically, “I suggest, then, that you take out a loan from your favorite banker. Given Riverrun’s impressive inventory, I’m sure Edward Worth would grant your request.”

  He was using the same words I’d given to Natalie for raising funds at the Celtic Center.

  I answered with a sour grin. Paying the bill, I made a mental note: If any of us survived the wrath of blood atonement I’d cut Emery and Natalie’s wedding gift by half.

  Chapter 17

  Back in the shop I glumly explained to Josie what had transpired.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “A convicted murderer who intends to kill Natalie is on the loose? And you’re worried about having to get a loan?”

  “It’s not the loan itself, so much as the new time frame. Anyway, they shouldn’t be thinking of leaving. The guy will find them wherever they go. Better to be among friends.”

  “Okay, I totally agree with that last part,” Josie said, “but you still need to come up with the dough. Might as well get it over with right now.”

  “What d’ya mean ‘right now’?”

  Josie tilted her head toward the sidewalk where a handsome couple strolled hand in hand toward the bistro.

  Bloody hell, as my daughter would say. It was none other than Edward Stuyvesant Worth IV and Sandra Epstein exchanging goo-goo eyes at each other. It wasn’t enough that Eddie was richer than Croesus or that his bank held the note to my store; he had nearly stolen Josie from me two years earlier and now he was going after my favorite second-chair symphony flautist.

  It was churlishly absurd of me to feel jealous, seeing as how I was engaged to Ms. Wonderful, but I couldn’t help the rush of blood to my cheeks when I saw them so obviously enamored of each other. Sandra and I had never consummated our relationship, but that’s only because she had somebody when I didn’t and vice versa. She was cute as a button with pouty lips, dimpled cheeks, silky black hair, and Liz Taylor eyes. And while her body didn’t match Majansik’s (outside a certain trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil, whose does?), had circumstances been otherwise I wouldn’t have kicked her out of bed for eating crackers.

  But I’m glad I never got the chance.

  We were pals, you see, Sandra and I— mutual admirers who laughed at each other’s jokes and loved to perform together during impromptu Friday night sessions at Fitzpatrick’s Galway Pub, she on the tin whistle and me with my tonsils, which, as I may have modestly said somewhere before, can make the angels gnaw their wing tips with envy. Why ruin all that with carnal knowledge?

  I was halfway through a fit of coughing when I noticed that my fiancée had the same high color in her face. And she hadn’t even bothered to hide it.

  “Hey,” I said indignantly, “you still have the hots for him.”

  “Oh, and your tongue wasn’t hanging out when you saw Sandra?”

  “Wanna see if they’ll swap?” I teased.

  “You are disgusting, Bevan.” Then, as if reconsidering, she added, “Okay, yeah. But I don’t think they’ll go for it.”

  “You sure?”

  Josie studied me for a second, like the proverbial bird eyeing a worm.

  “I hate to dash your fantasies, Michael, but I really am joking. Are you?”

  I pretended to ponder the question—helps to keep ’em off-balance, you know—before pledging my eternal fidelity.

  “In that case, lover boy, I suggest you ask Eddie right now to add a few more zeros to what we already owe his bank.”

  “All right, but I’m not going in there alone. You come with me, to help me avoid temptation.”

  —

  Worth and Epstein—under the circumstances it helped to think of them objectively by their surnames—had settled in a far corner of the bistro, sitting side by side with their backs against the wall, eyes only for each other. Josie and I trudged toward them feeling like Russian serfs come to seek impossible concessions from the village commissar.

  It took a few moments standing in front of their table before Worth arched his sleek head in my direction. I could smell the Eucris pomade in his slicked-back hair. That was Eddy all right: a real dandy, cut from the same Eastern prep-school cloth of his forebears. He was a good-looking man, a decade or so younger than me. Tall, fit, and an immaculate dresser who traveled to London’s Jermyn Street each year to be fitted for his ten-thousand-dollar bespoke suits. Even women who were unaware of his immense family wealth and Mayflower pedigree were attracted to him.

  I gave him points for courage as well, having watched his unflappable performance assisting Josie when she worked undercover for the FBI. I would have liked him better if he hadn’t asked her to marry him after it. At least he hadn’t hit on Pegeen Flynn. I’m not so sure about Alice Winter, however.

  “Hiya, Ed.”

  “Hello, Mike.” He turned to Josie with a smile altogether too big. “And it’s great to see you, Josephine.”

  Sandra saw their eye contact and didn’t like it. She glided her gun turrets at me. Her lips remained tightly shut, but Why are you interrupting us? seeped from her pores.

  “Will you be in the office tomorrow?” I asked the banker.

  “Why, you need more money?”

  “A hundred fifty thousand. Perhaps more in three months.”

  “No way, Bevan. I may be a coldhearted financier, but I don’t want to be the one who pulls the plug on Riverrun when you can’t repay. The community would never forgive me.”

  “My house is paid for.”

  His look softened. “You’d mortgage that?”

  “For this, I would.”

  Worth looked at Josie. She nodded.

  “All right. Come by at nine-thirty tomorrow. I’ve no problem kicking you out of your home, if need be.”

  “Thank you, Eddie,” Josie responded. “What a sweetheart you are.”

  Ms. Epstein emitted the slightest “harrumph.”

  “Sandra,” I said, hoping to relieve the tension, “have you played any gigs at Fitzpatrick’s lately?”

  She rubbed her throat provocatively and said, “Yeah, but I haven’t performed ’The Wind That Shakes the Barley’ for months. Maybe we can get together for old times’ sake. We were good together, weren’t we? Music-wise, that is.”

  This time it was Josie’s turn to harrumph while surreptitiously pinching me on the butt.

  Nary a word was exchanged when we returned to the store. Eye contact remained nil while we settled into a domestic implosion that had as much to do with exhaustion from stress as anything else.

  Affection is a lot like melancholy, in which trifles can sometimes get magnified. Our sarcastic jousting had suddenly become way too serious in our desperate attempt to forget our troubles, financial and otherwise. But more than that, I’d for
gotten how insecure Josie could be when it came to our relationship.

  Later, at home, even our demon cat sensed the frigidity. But instead of keeping his distance from either of us, Feklar made it a point to circle one then the other’s legs, accompanied by a piteous meowing even after he’d gone through two cans of tuna.

  It was enough to break Bluebeard’s heart. I muttered some inanities to Josie from time to time, hoping to rekindle that ineffable spark in our relationship, but my attempts were met with impassive silence. Around ten, she headed up the stairs with the cat hanging over her shoulder. I tentatively followed, keeping a cautionary four steps behind.

  The blood of Attila did not course through Ms. Majansik for nothing. She could be as cruel as any rampaging Hun when it came to making my nervous system approach meltdown with the thought of losing her.

  And yet…

  In the bedroom I watched from the door as she set Feklar on a chair and began to shed her clothes unhurriedly. When she was down to her underwear she turned to face me. She had a gymnast’s body, about middle height, slender but muscular, with firm breasts, a tiny waist, and sinewy thighs that looked as if they could crush walnuts. But it was the look of forgiveness on that beautiful, gamine face that made me realize what she truly meant to me.

  “Before we get some sleep,” she said, “I thought…”

  Her unfinished sentence hung in the air and I was on her like a cougar in heat, tearing off my clothes, spouting endearments and forgoing all the preliminaries Alex Comfort used to preach about. Once we hit the sheets the pace was too hot to last long and soon we were languishing in each other’s arms, exhausted but blissful.

  It had been feverish work, but half an hour later Josie’s tickling fingers hinted at a more leisurely encore. Tuckered as I was, I set aside the paperback I’d been reading and manfully prepared to rise to the occasion.

  Just as the telephone rang.

  “Mike!” Natalie whispered desperately. “Thank God, you’re there. Emery isn’t answering his phone and I think someone is in—”

  She didn’t finish her sentence. I heard Claire’s high-pitched keen in the background before the line went dead.