by Karen Ranney
I'd thought anorexia, not heroin.
Tom had talked with her, reassuring me that she'd seen the error of her ways, that she would put aside her experimentation. He'd brushed aside my worries.
On that last morning, I went to her room and found her on the bathroom floor, euphoric and dazed from her recent hit. Very calmly, I'd walked back into my sitting room, called my office, and took the day off. Then I began calling rehab facilities, not stopping until I found one. Money was no object. Neither was distance. Whatever I needed to do, I'd do. An hour later, I called the number Talbot had given me, a clinic halfway between San Antonio and Austin. They could admit her that day.
Somehow, I'd gotten her to my car, buckled her in, all the while explaining that I loved her. I'd cried and prayed as I drove.
I'd thought, with the hope of those who love the drug impaired, that she'd come to see how her drug use was destroying her life, was hurting us. How she would want to be clean and sober. How she might even be grateful in future years we'd loved her enough to stop her.
Instead, she'd begun to surface from her high just north of New Braunfels and started screaming at me, banshee shrieks of rage nearly bursting my eardrums. She unbuckled her seat belt, hands clawing in the air as she got on her knees, lunging for me.
As I told Tom later, she must have grabbed the wheel in our struggle. I was screaming; she was screaming. What I remember next is sailing off the overpass. I felt weightless for an eternity of moments. Sound had stopped, the interior of the car coated in white, heavenly, silence.
I was going to die and I couldn't do anything about it.
The car didn't land like it's portrayed on television or in the movies. There was no explosion. There was no bouncing on all four tires as if the car had hit an unseen trampoline. The car simply crashed into the concrete nose first, pancaking the engine into the front seat, then coming to rest on the driver's side amidst steam, bleeding hoses, and the death groans of metal.
I kept trying to tell the emergency crew to help Barbara. Instead, they focused their attention on getting me out of the car. I learned, later, that Barbara had been thrown clear and died instantly. They found her body nearly a hundred feet down the embankment.
My daughter was sixteen years old when she died. Old enough to have done some dangerous things. Too young to realize they could kill her.
According to Tom, however, I was her murderer.
Now, I stared at my plate, at the spears of asparagus aligned in military precision.
I was never eating asparagus again.
I stood, making my way to my office. I didn't even bother with the light, just sat at my desk in the dark.
The pain I felt was like a giant black hole inside me, the edges of it limned with gold. The gold of guilt. I would probably have this black hole with me for the rest of my life. The trick was living with it.
How the hell did I live with it?
How did I live with Tom?
I lay my head on my folded arms, closed my eyes, and just concentrated on the silence. A long time later, I switched on the light, then pulled open the bottom right hand drawer of my desk. Slowly, I took out the frame resting there picture side down.
I turned it over and stared into Barbara's fifteen year old face.
The portrait was done by a friend of Tom's, a year before her death. A month or so before we first noticed the drug paraphernalia. Six months before my first fight with Tom.
I'd tried to save my daughter, only to kill her.
Tom really didn't have to say a word. I've known what he felt from the moment I saw him in the hospital.
I put the picture back, knowing if I never saw it again, I'd always remember Barbara's smile, the twinkle in blue eyes matching Tom's. I'd never be able to forget her image, or another - the sight of the yellow plastic tarp over the body of my child.
Turning on the computer, I decided to work for awhile. The GSA got a bargain with me. I only put in my time as forty hours a week, but I often exceeded that. Work saved me, kept me sane.
In a little while, I'd figure out where I was going to sleep tonight. Still later, I'd figure out the rest of my life.
7
Most of my neighbors like to entertain more than I do. I have the space and the equipment, but lack the joie de vivre or even the interest. When we do have a party, it's for members of Tom’s law firm.
The younger associates and junior partners think attendance is mandatory at any Thomas R. Roberts function. No one ever declines. Some truly ill people have showed up on our doorstep, wobbly and weak-kneed, but smiling gamely through the whole ordeal.
More than once I wanted to tell the sick person to go home but I didn’t because on some corporate scorecard, somewhere, his name was written in red ink with the word "Trooper!" beside it.
I was not a trooper.
I knew my faults only too well. At times I was whiny, self-absorbed, and annoying, but I was also loyal, dependable, and tenacious.
For the last two nights, I slept in the guest room and not once had I mentioned it. I didn’t have a hissy fit. Nor had I screamed or even raised my voice. When Tom and I encountered each other, I only smiled and continued on my way.
I was a friggin' lady.
Add the ability to be endlessly polite in difficult circumstances to my character profile, but I'm not sure if it should be listed on the plus or minus column.
For two nights, Tom had worked late, and so had I, squirreling myself away in my office and pretending a love of contract specifications for furniture.
Once, Maude made a point of asking if I'd needed the sheets changed. A not-so-veiled hint that she knew where I was sleeping and was prepared to hear confidences. I said no, wondering if her expression was disappointment.
Another character trait: I kept to myself those things that really disturbed me. Witness Barbara's drug use. I should have gotten help earlier. I should have reached out to someone else when it was obvious Tom wasn't going to do anything. Two things had stopped me - an ingrained need for privacy (add that one to the list) and the thought that I could step in, get help, and Barbara would forever be grateful to Mommy.
Add arrogance to the minus side.
However, I do learn from my mistakes.
As I paced back and forth in the sunroom, Sally was growling low in her throat. She hated when I disturbed our routine. But I was worried and when I was worried I couldn't sit still.
Gullibility might have been one of my character traits in the past. But I was no longer that trusting.
I couldn't, for Evelyn's sake, ignore my feelings about Paul. At the same time, I didn't have any reason to go to the police, especially if it meant I had to talk to Talbot.
In my job, I was familiar with analyzing discrepancies, and making final determinations. I had to be logical and decisive.
My internal logic meter was in the red zone. Evelyn had confided in me. She talked to me about personal things. Everything she said was counter to what Mr. Fehr had told me.
My mind made up, I left the sunroom, Sally following.
I took her outside before I left on my errand. Sally refused to do her thing unless she had a human companion in attendance, as if her bodily functions were so precious they needed an audience. I can't count the number of times I’ve stood in the rain with her while she did her thing. This was the same dog who loved her monthly bath. Go figure.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” I told Maude when I put Sally back in the house.
“Where are you going?”
“I have an errand to do.”
“Where?” She put down the lemon oil and frowned at me. The dining room smelled wonderful, and the large mahogany table gleamed in the sunlight.
“Just somewhere,” I said, feeling about ten years old. Did I really need to tell her my plans?
“You’re going to wear yourself out again, aren’t you? You’re going to be walking around when you shouldn’t, and not resting until you can barely move your leg to
morrow." She planted her fists on her hips and glared at me. “You’ll be looking at me with those big blue eyes like you're going to die.”
"My eyes aren't blue," I said. "They're hazel."
"They're blue if you wear blue."
They were my eyes. Why was she arguing with me about the color of my eyes?
I kept my smile plastered to my face. “I won't overdo,” I said.
“Hmm.” For the uninitiated, that was Maude-speak for: “I don’t believe you, but I’m not going to continue in this vein because, after all, you do pay my salary. But rest assured, I disapprove.”
Just exactly what had Tom said when he hired her?
Keep her on a short leash. Don't give her cookies or cupcakes. Treat her as if she's a child. Or maybe that was just Maude being Maude.
I smiled my acceptance of her gauntlet and left the house.
I'd been to Mr. Fehr’s house for numerous events, the last one about a year ago. Several of us had decided to try a progressive supper as an experiment, resulting in each neighbor trying to outdo the other gastronomically. Mr. Fehr had offered Alka-Seltzer and after dinner wine at his house.
It was the most popular stop.
His house was four stories tall, a Victorian painted an odd color that looked like purple in the rain. He called it a name I promptly forgot.
Two large holly bushes guarded the front door. I carefully sidestepped them and rang the bell. Unlike the other houses on the block, there was no impressive entranceway, no wide steps or large screened front porch. Only a cobbled walk leading to a white door with brass fixtures and a small fanlight.
The door opened and Mr. Fehr stood there, bare chested, wearing only a pair of sweat pants and sneakers. I stared, shocked, at the large scar running down his sternum.
“Sorry,” he said nonchalantly, planting his hand flat against his chest. “I forget it bothers people. I consider it my badge of courage.”
I managed a smile and mumbled something about not giving him any warning.
He opened the door fully, motioning me inside with a wave of his hand. “Did you know that, as common as bypasses are, a great many people don’t survive them?”
I shook my head, thinking I’d lost the ability to verbally joust over the last few months. Lately, I've found comfort in silence more often than not.
I did wish, however, that he'd get dressed.
As if he’d heard my thoughts he said, “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll put a shirt on.”
I nodded, and smiled. Always effective when you don't know what to say.
The front door opened onto a large rectangular foyer. Directly ahead was a wide staircase winding up to the upper floors. On either side of the black-and-white tiled entranceway were public rooms: what Mr. Fehr called his parlor to the left, and to the right an impressive formal dining room with corbeled ceiling and a table big enough to sit twenty.
Behind the staircase was a hall leading to the rear of the house. I'd been to the kitchen, but nowhere else.
Mr. Fehr changed the decor as often as Maude changed aprons. The last time I was here, his house had been decorated in an African theme, complete with large stuffed footstools in the shape of lions, tigers, and elephants. Everywhere I looked there had been striped animal skins he'd been quick to assure me were faux.
He'd gone in for a Japanese theme this time. A large red lacquered chest sat against the wall of the foyer. Above it hung a black silk kimono mounted in a matted silver frame.
Within moments, he was back. He'd donned a crimson and black yukata, a Japanese robe embroidered with fire-breathing, prancing dragons.
He motioned me into the parlor. Here, too, the furniture had been changed to match the new theme. Low sectional couches in shades of crimson, black, and white leather were arranged in a U-shaped pattern around a low square rosewood table. Against the walls were tall, translucent white screens lit from behind. The large mantle had been replaced by a thick slab of black lacquered wood on which rested a selection of netsuke figurines.
The Japanese simplicity oddly suited him.
“I’ve intrigued you, haven't I?” he asked, sitting next to me on one of the low slung couches. “You want to ask all these questions about the Murder Club. I can see it in your eyes.”
He nodded, as if my silence was agreement. Most people read into silence whatever they want. Or maybe it was simply a male trait. The women I know will ask someone what he’s thinking rather than make a mistake in assuming.
Tom says that women always want to know what men are thinking and it’s the one question that irritates men more than any other. I’ve learned not to ask what’s on Tom’s mind. I made that mistake the other night but I haven’t asked since.
“We're always on the lookout for new members. People who are interested and might bring some talent to the group.”
“I'm not certain what ability I could bring.”
“You might be surprised. We have a priest fascinated with the study of people and a real-estate salesman who knows his way around the courthouse. Don't you work for the government? Who knows when that expertise might come in handy?”
"I frankly doubt my work with the GSA would prove helpful to you," I said.
A faint whistle blew.
“I was just about to make myself some tea,” Mr. Fehr said. "You'll join me, of course."
I didn’t know how to get to the reason why I was here, so I found myself nodding.
He left the room to return a few moments later, carrying a large bronze tray that looked as if it had once served as a dinner gong.
I helped him place it on the table, and watched as he sat on the floor at my feet.
There was no way in hell I was going to join him. I might get down there, but I wasn't sure I could get back up. I sat down on the couch while he arranged the teapot and cups.
“I'm studying Japanese, you know.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did you realize there is an entire ceremony just for tea? I haven't learned it, as yet, but my Japanese teacher has promised to demonstrate during our next lesson.”
Mr. Fehr was interested in everything. Maybe the bypass scar had something to do with his zest for life.
He poured some yellow tea into a small round cup and passed it to me. I wrapped my hands around the cup, sniffed appreciatively, and guessed either chamomile or jasmine.
“I haven't come here about your club, Mr. Fehr,” I said. “Something else is bothering me."
"Why are you so formal with me? You call Frank by his first name. But you've never called me Armand," he said.
He was old enough to be my father, but so was Frank. There was something about Mr. Fehr, however, Frank didn't possess, a restrained and almost severe propriety.
"Frank's daughter calls me Army."
At my look, he sent me a surprisingly sweet smile.
"Frank was conflicted."
"I might be able to manage Army," I said, smiling. I took a breath and just dove in. “Remember at Evelyn’s funeral, when you mentioned the home equity loan on her house?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Evelyn wouldn't have done that. She'd paid off the house, and it was a big achievement. She was really proud of the fact she didn't have any debt.”
“Situations change, Jennifer. Maybe the guest cottage cost her more to renovate than she estimated. Maybe Paul was an expensive trinket.”
I shook my head.
"Not even for a large chunk of cash?" he asked.
"No. Not even for a large chunk of cash."
“I didn’t know her as well as you, Jennifer,” Army said. “But she was always pleasant to us. More than I can say about Paul.” His features looked pinched, as if he were controlling his words.
“He’s an ass,” I said, remembering his loud sobs.
I really didn't believe Paul was grieving, not after his display of ego on the day of Evelyn's funeral. Or the fact he'd arranged for renovations on the guest cottage a week after she di
ed.
Army's expression lightened. “Possibly even a murderous ass. Regardless of what Evelyn said, there's a mortgage on the house."
"But that doesn't make any sense," I said.
We sat in silence, before I had the courage to say what else was on my mind. “Would it be possible for someone other than Evelyn to take out a mortgage?”
"You mean identity theft?"
I nodded.
“White-collar crime, the most fascinating larceny," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Just think of the possibilities. A hundred thousand here, a hundred thousand there. Someone in the Murder Club must know more about mortgages than we do.”
“Is that wise, involving other people?” I asked.
He frowned at me. “But we have to,” he said. “Or haven’t you realized what this means?”
I shook my head.
“Why, it's the perfect motive for murder,” he said, smiling happily.
8
Murder seemed a gruesome hobby, but it evidently entertained Army. So did the idea of identity theft. I left him after finishing my tea and reluctantly promising to attend the meeting of his Murder Club.
Wouldn't Evelyn have known if someone took out a mortgage on her house? As careful as she was about her credit, wouldn't she have monitored her credit report?
Was that why Evelyn died? Because she discovered she’d been robbed?
I wasn't even sure it was murder except for the feeling I had.
I was almost to my house when an explosion knocked me to the ground. Before I could register the pain of the fall, an orange and red fireball erupted in the sky behind Evelyn's house. A rolling black cloud mushroomed above me.
Between one breath and the next, another blast sucked the breath out of my lungs. My ears were cushioned in cotton as I threw my arms over my head. The asphalt trembled beneath me. A chunk of brick the size of my fist slammed into the pavement not six feet away.
I scuttled to the nearest tree, curling myself behind the trunk as the curious sound of wind chimes filled the air. A second later, I realized it was raining thousands of glass fragments. I had visions of a shard hurtling from the sky to decapitate me. When a branch landed on the ground a few inches away, I screamed.