by Joan Hess
“Thanks for showing me around,” I said to Ethan. He was still amiable, if a bit distracted. I wanted to get his opinion about Winston’s death before he returned to harangue some employees who were sprawled in the shade. I’d seen two women working in the greenhouses. The rest of the forty employees were marginally kempt men of varied ages. I’d received a few impudent stares and leers during the tour, but I knew I could handle them by myself, if the occasion arose. Which it wouldn’t, unless I was overpowered by a fern-fueled compulsion to steal hanging baskets for the porch.
“Nattie should be home any minute,” Ethan said as he started to turn away.
“Ethan,” I said in a charmingly innocent voice, “could I ask you something? I realize you’re very busy, but if you could give me a minute or two…”
“I can spare a few minutes. What’s your question, Ms. Malloy?”
“There appear to be different stories about Winston’s death, none of them verifiable. Do you know what happened?”
He sat down on a nearby stone. “Nattie said you were interested in buying his house. Are you afraid it might be haunted?”
I gritted my teeth at his condescending tone but decided to play along. “Why would the house be haunted? He drowned in the stream. Did somebody die inside the house?”
“Somebody must have. What little remains of the original house is more than a hundred and twenty years old. It was a family home filled with grandparents, babies, children, parents, teenagers, and aunts and uncles and cousins, and until the road was paved, it must have taken a long time for a horse-drawn carriage to reach a hospital. You don’t have to worry about Winston rattling his chains, though; you need to worry about the title to the property. It’s going to take several years before anyone can buy or sell the house.”
“Terry mentioned a lease,” I said, watching his pale blue eyes.
They narrowed, although his smile stayed firmly planted. “So you spoke to Terry. Where is he these days? He left town in such a rush that he didn’t leave a forwarding address. Did you get hold of him through his lawyer?”
I was a paragon of proficiency in the field of evasion; even Peter had acknowledged as much. “I have no idea which lawyer in Farberville is handling his affairs. Do you?”
Ethan shook his head. “Our lawyer has that information, but I haven’t had a reason to ask him. Terry was … well, really upset when he got back from his trip and heard the sad news. He became so enraged that Nattie had to lock herself in the bathroom until he left. The legal business is best left to the lawyers until we go to court. I hope that she’s able to testify with him sitting in the courtroom.”
Nattie might not be capable of pinning Terry to the mat, but she had not implied that she was afraid of him. I put that aside and said to Ethan, “Do you believe that Winston committed suicide?”
“I don’t know,” he said as he tugged on his wispy beard. “When we were little kids, we hung around together. As he got older, he kept to himself. I’d see him sitting on the swing with a book, totally engrossed in it. The only cousin he really talked to was Nattie, and only because she followed him like a puppy. By the time he went off to boarding school, he was a vague nobody who came and went. When we heard that he was moving back to Hollow Valley, I was kind of excited to see him. I’d escaped to California, and he’d escaped to New York. We had that in common.” He stood up and stared at the distant bridge, his arms crossed. I was about to prompt him when he said, “It was tense. Winston acted like he was pleased to see me again, but I could tell that he remembered some of the childish pranks we played on him. It was like his face was behind a pane of glass. Make that bulletproof glass, and installed by none other than Terry himself. Every time I tried to get Winston aside so I could apologize, Terry was there with a snarky remark about me, like I was nothing more than a grimy redneck. It was humiliating.”
“Did you know that Winston was gay?”
Ethan relaxed but remained standing in case he needed to dodge my questions. “I figured it out before he was sent away. My parents never told me, but all of the adults had what they thought were private family councils. In the front room of the Old Tavern, with the windows open. Back then, I bought into their bigotry, but once I got to middle school, I started thinking for myself. By college, I’d shed all those malicious attitudes and learned to love without boundaries. My first significant partner was a thirty-year-old Malaysian woman with three children. My parents cut me off financially, so I had to wait tables.”
He may have been disappointed when I failed to applaud his act of defiance and the brutality of his parents’ retribution. “College is an eye-opener,” I said mildly. “The rest of the family must not share your tolerance for alternative lifestyles.”
“You’re talking about the party, aren’t you? It may have been awkward, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as Nattie remembers. Charles and Felicia—yeah, they were offended, but they’re offended by the local weather reports. They tolerate Pandora Butterfly and me because I manage production. We don’t socialize except for obligatory family meals on holidays, which are excruciatingly dull. They attend church without fail and then go out for Sunday dinner with their pet deacons. Charles told me that he never leaves a tip because the waiter’s committing a sin by working on Sunday.”
My face went from pink to red. “That’s—that’s repulsive! What a total hypocrite! I want to speak to him right this minute. How dare he stiff some working kid by—”
“He’s not going to listen to you,” Ethan said wryly. “You’re a woman, so your opinion has no value.”
“Go get him! I’ll show him—”
Ethan put his hand on my shoulder and kept pressure on it until I sat down. “I feel the same way. The first time Nattie collided with one of his right-wing convictions, she kicked him in the shin. She said it was a reflex.”
“My reflex might involve a fist,” I muttered, then forced myself to cool off. “It sounds as though you had a problem with Terry, not Winston.” When he shrugged, I added, “Did you think he was overly controlling?”
“From what I saw, yeah. Winston was always easy to manipulate, and Terry was a pro. I dropped by their house a couple of times with fresh vegetables, but Winston never came to the front door. It was always Terry, staring at me as if I were vermin. You’d think that after all the discrimination they’d encountered, they wouldn’t be so quick to judge me. I guess I wasn’t as well educated and as fond of the arts as their other friends. When Terry was away, Winston and I hung out sometimes, drinking beer on the terrace and talking. He remembered stuff from when we were kids. Once we hiked up the mountain to a cave that was our hideout during our train-robber days. Another time he wanted to go fishing. I found rods and a tackle box in the attic of the Old Tavern. We never caught anything, but it was nice. When Terry was around, I rarely saw them.”
Ethan sounded very sincere, and wounded as well. I now had three versions of the relationship between Winston and the other Hollows. It was confusing, despite my talents in intuition and my keen sense of perception. I bluntly asked Ethan if he believed that Winston had been depressed and suicidal.
“I don’t know. I do believe that Terry coerced Winston into signing the deed to the property. Winston was a Hollow by birthright, and he knew about the sanctity of his inheritance. My estate leaves my property to my children, just as all the past direct descendants made sure their estates went to their offspring. Other members of the family have always been welcome to live here, such as Nattie and that pain-in-the-butt Jordan. Have you seen her today? She vanished before she finished cutting back the japonicas.”
“Jordan was here earlier,” I said. “She went in the direction of the mill.”
He growled under his breath. “She acts as if she were in a gulag, subsisting on crusts of bread and turnip soup. Did she try to sell you that yesterday? I’ll bet she didn’t tell you why her parents sent her here. She was arrested in Philadelphia for loitering in a park known for drugs and underage drinking�
�for the third time. She barely showed her face at school all year and was in danger of expulsion in April. Her parents pulled her out of school before anything was official. Uncle Sheldon and Aunt Joanne were ready to give up on her, but they called Nattie and she came up with the idea. Not that I think anything short of boot camp can turn Jordan around. Charles and Felicia forced her to go to church with them, but she was so disruptive that they had to slink out in the middle of the sermon.” His lips curled slightly. “They never suggested that again.”
“I imagine not.” I felt a small twinge of trepidation, having sent the miscreant off to meet Inez. Inez’s parents would not be pleased if their daughter came home with a pierced navel and a Kafkaesque tattoo.
He gave me a final pat on the shoulder and then walked in the direction of the greenhouses et al. I had no particular reason to think Nattie would show up in the immediate future, so I drove back to my house to see if Terry had returned. His rental car was parked in front of the house. Feeling much better, I got out of my car and walked toward the porch. The sound of laughter from the back of the house caught my attention, so I detoured accordingly. Terry, Inez, and Jordan were sitting on the edge of the swimming pool, their bare feet in the water. Terry said something inaudible to them. They both responded with whoops of amusement. Even Jordan had forsaken her perpetual sneer, at least for the moment.
“Hello,” I called, delighted that Terry appeared to be in a jovial mood. The obvious reason would be good news from his lawyer, which meant good news for me.
“Ms. Malloy,” Inez said, “did you know that there was an off-Broadway show called Abraham Lincoln’s Big, Gay Dance Party?”
Jordan giggled. “That’s the sort of thing we need to lighten up life around here. Ethan’s already got the beard, so he can be at the front in the dance numbers. Can you see Uncle Charles and Aunt Felicia prancing onstage? Terry says we can stage the production on the front porch.”
“Sounds divine,” I said. “Terry, can we talk?”
Inez and Jordan found this hilarious. They clutched each other and brayed like possessed donkeys, making rude noises and in danger of falling into the pool. Terry stood up and grinned at me. “Of course, Claire. Shall we go inside?”
I sat on a stool in the kitchen and watched him make a pitcher of lemonade. He poured two glasses, then held a bottle of vodka over one and gave me a questioning look. I shook my head. He poured himself a rather stout shot. “So what shall we talk about? The latest flops on and off Broadway? The production of The Sound of Music in which all parts were played by drag queens?”
“How about the house? Did you speak with your lawyer this morning?”
Terry tasted his lemonade, grimaced, and added another shot of vodka. “That was my plan when I drove into Farberville this morning. Well, I also wanted to get a copy of the New York Times from that little news store on Thurber Street, and maybe some fresh bagels. I was stricken to discover that the bakery next to the pool hall had gone out of business. Roberta and Juniper were veritable artistes in the culinary world. Did you ever try their cream puffs filled with caramel mousse? To die for.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Did you make it to your lawyer’s office?” If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from making a suggestion about what he could do with the cream puffs. It would not be to die for.
“I did,” he said. He took a drink of the much diluted lemonade. “Her name’s Link Cranberry. Isn’t that classic? She must have suffered in the schoolyard. ‘Cranberry, strawberry, gooseberry pie, here comes Link with a tear in her eye.’” He noticed that I wasn’t appreciating his drollness. “She said that I shouldn’t sell the house until the Hollows’ lawsuit is finalized. I can, however, lease it with the stipulation that the lease might be terminated.”
“What did she say about the probable outcome of the lawsuit?”
“It’s baseless, but the chancery judge is a die-hard conservative. If he’s antigay, he may side with the Hollows out of spite. They’ll all swear that Winston was not of sound mind, and that I forced him to sign the deed. Our friends will all swear that Winston was perfectly sane at the time. Who’s he going to believe—a family that’s been here since the nineteenth century or a bunch of faggots? The fact that Winston and I were legally married may annoy the judge all the more.”
I had a feeling that his dire prediction might be right. The presence of Farber College added an element of liberal ambience, but it was only a teaspoon of water in a dark sea of social conservatism. “Green” was not an ecological movement; it was the color of money. “So Ms. Cranberry is not optimistic?”
Terry smiled. “I have unlimited financial resources to fight them, and for Winston’s sake, I will. He wanted me to have the house if something happened to him. Murder may not have crossed his mind, but it should have.” He drained his drink. “Damn, I forgot to pick up tonic water this morning. My official summer drink is vodka and tonic, with a squeeze of lime juice.”
“I’ll bring you a case of tonic water and dozens of limes after I’ve signed the lease,” I said. “We agree to the stipulation. Do you have a pen?”
“Ms. Cranberry has to be in court this afternoon, but she’ll draw it up first thing Monday morning. I can drop by your house and—” He broke off abruptly and put both hands on the edge of the island. “Something’s wrong. I think I’m going to—” He concluded the sentence by vomiting on his hands. He tried to straighten up, but his arms began to twitch spasmodically. He vomited again.
With all due respect to Florence Nightingale, I have an aversion to sickness. I went to the sink and dampened a dish towel. “Here,” I said as I averted my eyes. Had it been possible, I would have averted my nose as well.
Terry waved me back as he continued to retch. He lost his grip and slithered to the floor, moaning piteously. “I need help,” he rasped.
I’d left my cell phone in my car. “Be right back,” I said, then ran out the front door. I called nine-one-one, did my best to describe his symptoms, and gave directions.
“Is he on any medications?” the dispatcher asked.
“I have no idea! Just send an ambulance!”
“Does the victim have insurance? I’ll need the name of the provider and the number of his policy.”
My response was less than polite. Clutching the phone, I hurried back inside and crouched next to Terry. “An ambulance is on the way. Do you want some water?” I felt as useful as a flat tire on a rainy night. He was doubled up in a tight ball, his legs speckled with vomited debris. His moans were protracted. I put my hand on his back to keep him from banging his head on the low cabinet. I glanced up and saw Inez and Jordan in the doorway that led from the terrace. Their faces were white, their mouths open. Behind them, Moses’s face hovered like an unsightly helium balloon.
“I’ve called for an ambulance,” I said firmly, as if I were in control of some minor complication. “You’d better wait outside. Everything’s going to be okay.”
I didn’t fool anyone, including myself.
6
Paramedics stormed the house and surrounded Terry, who was alarmingly still. They were followed by a pair of uniformed policemen. Neither of the paramedics fell into Jordan’s category of “hunk,” but they were efficient and fast. I stood and watched as Terry was put on a gurney and taken to the ambulance parked outside. I followed to ask about Terry’s diagnosis, but a police officer, who appeared to be Caron’s age, stopped me in the entry hall.
“I need information about the patient, ma’am,” he said.
All I could give him was Terry’s last name and hometown. I described what had happened before the gastric attack. The officer eyed the vodka bottle on the floor. “So you both were drinking,” he said as if accusing us of rampant alcoholism, “while the girls were in the vicinity of the swimming pool. Did you plan to drive home in your condition?”
“I can handle lemonade on the rocks,” I said, “and the girls are hardly toddlers. You might want to
take a sample of the vodka.”
“Name and address, ma’am?”
“Claire Malloy, and my address is on record at the PD.”
“You’ve been arrested in the past?” His hand shifted closer to his gun, prepared to react if I admitted that I’d robbed convenience stores and gunned down grannies on the street—and battered young policemen with liquor bottles.
The second officer, J. Bingsley, put his hand on the younger officer’s arm. “Ms. Malloy is married to Deputy Chief Rosen. He’ll vouch for her.” He looked at me. “Do you think the vodka is responsible for the victim’s condition?”
I shrugged. “He seemed fine when we came inside to talk. I have no idea what he ate or drank earlier, but his symptoms began after he’d ingested several ounces of the vodka. I drank the lemonade and I’m okay.”
“Is he a friend?”
“I only met him in person yesterday. He came here from Key West to negotiate a lease for the property. My husband”—I pointedly did not add emphasis—“and I are hoping to buy it after a lawsuit is settled.”
After Bingsley sent his partner outside to question Inez and Jordan, he went into the living room and made a call. Although I tried my best, I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but I did catch my name—and I was pretty sure I heard a pained sigh from dear Jorgeson, who’d most likely planned to be sitting with his wife in their rose garden by late afternoon. I felt a pang of guilt for ruining his evening, but in no way was I responsible. “A policeman’s lot is not a happy one,” as Gilbert opined to Sullivan.
I went out to the terrace to escape the stench. Officer Teenager towered over Inez and Jordan, barking questions at them. I presumed Jordan had enough sense to refrain from mouthing off or bragging about her rap sheet. Moses had disappeared.