by Chris Culver
Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, I saw something of the girl I knew in the woman before me, but then she disappeared.
“What’s wrong with you?”
She looked off into the distance. “I don’t know any more.”
“You killed Simon.”
She nodded, almost absently. “Moses did, but only because I asked.” She shrugged. “I used to love that dog, too.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say? Simon never hurt anybody in his life. He was helpless.”
Tess put her hand on my chin, directing me to lift my head. I jerked my head away and stood.
“I wish you could see yourself right now, the way the light seems to have slipped away from your eyes. It’s like a dark cloud passing in front of the sun. I didn’t know if I made the right choice until now, but I think I did.”
“What choice?”
Her lips curled into a smile, but her eyes were a window to something twisted and gnarled, something deeply, deeply wicked. I backed away from her, but she stood and matched my movements step for step.
“What do you really want, Tess?” I asked.
She put her arms behind my neck, like she was going to kiss me.
“I want you to feel what I feel every day I wake up.”
“Psychotic?”
“Righteous. Of all the people in the world I could give this to, I choose you, the one person in the world I love more than myself.”
I reached behind me and pulled her hands apart. Prior to the past few days, I’ve never wanted to hurt Tess in my life, but for one split second, one eternity in my mind’s eye, I could see myself wrapping my fingers around her neck and squeezing.
“Was your journal even real?”
“Of course,” she said, looking me straight in the eye. “Everything in it was the truth. I almost broke up with you over it because I didn’t want Dominique going after you once he killed me.”
My hands trembled in my pockets. “I wish I could believe that.”
“You don’t have to believe it. Look at me. You’ll know it’s the truth.”
And I did know. As I looked into her pale blue eyes, no guile stared back. Just regret.
“I’m very sorry.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I left my journal out on purpose where you’d see it. I used you. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Looking back, it did seem convenient to find it sitting on her desk when I had never seen it there before.
“You knew I’d do something when I read it.”
“Not just something,” she said, shaking her head. “ I wanted you to kill him. He deserved it.” She looked away. “I know now that I shouldn’t have put you in that position. It was unfair of me, but I thought . . . I thought maybe the journal would give you the strength to do what’s right. I wanted him dead, that’s all. And afterwards, after you killed Dominique, we could have killed your father. He deserved it, too. If you wanted, I would have even pulled the trigger. That would seem only fair.”
“I see,” I said, nodding. “Did you plan to go to prison with me, too?”
She smiled and looked away from me. “Of course not. I had some money stashed away. As soon as we did what we needed to do, we could have used it and run before anyone knew what had happened. We wouldn’t have wanted for anything. I only went with your plan because I never expected Dominique to go to jail. I thought he’d get out, and you’d finally live up to your responsibility.”
“What I did was wrong, but killing him would have been infinitely worse.”
She ignored me. Her eyes took on a distant gaze. “I even had a place chosen. It’s called Ko Lipe. It’s an island in southern Thailand. It’s gorgeous. We could get a place on the beach, and it wouldn’t be too expensive. The locals catch fish and bring it right to you.”
“I’m not a murderer.”
She smiled at me, almost wistfully. “I know. You’re too sweet.” She paused, and the smile slipped off her face. “I really do love you, you know. That’s why I came back. That’s why I need your help now.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Kill my mother and change her will so that she gives ten percent of everything she owns to St. Nicholas’s Food Pantry of Goshen, Utah.”
“Is that a charity?”
Tess shrugged. “Sure. We’ll call it that.”
“Why do you think I can change her will?”
“Because your father wrote it, and I’m willing to bet it’s still in his office.”
I shook my head. “Before Dad died, he sold his practice to another lawyer. Our file cabinets are empty.”
She reached over and patted me on the cheek. “Then I guess you’re going to have to do some work, aren’t you?”
“And this is why you really came back. For money.”
She smiled. “You remember when you asked me that same question at the gun range? I was honest. I came back to give you a second chance. Do the right thing this time.” She stood up and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll call you later. Bye, love.”
She turned and started walking toward the Art Museum and its parking lot.
“Tess,” I said. She turned and looked at me. “Because of you, Isaac, one of my best friends, is dead. I’m not going to kill your mother, but if you don’t leave town, I will not hesitate to kill you.”
Tess didn’t react at first, but then a smile cracked her lips. “This is going to be so much fun.”
33
I watched Tess’s car leave the parking lot and only after that did I stand to leave myself. There were two or three dozen things I should have done that morning, but two trumped them all. I needed to track down Annette Girard and tell her that her previously deceased daughter wanted to kill her, and I needed to tell my wife to get out of town. Katherine would be reasonable, but the former was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
I called Katherine first and told her about Tess’s demands, her demeanor, her utter psychosis, everything I could think of that would convince her to leave town in a hurry. Ashley hadn’t met Katherine’s parents before, but she knew of them and they knew of her. Katherine said it’d be a good time for them to get acquainted. The two of them, along with Vince, would leave as soon as Ashley finished school.
That left Annette to deal with. She lived in an historic private neighborhood called Portland Place in the Central West End. St. Louis never had a Rockefeller or an Astor, but in the early twentieth century, we had our share of millionaire families. They created Portland Place as their own private sanctuary in the midst of the city and erected wrought iron and stone gates to separate them from the unwashed rabble that lived in the surrounding blocks. Most of the homes on the street could comfortably house fifteen or twenty people, and cost more than the average man would make in a lifetime. Dominique Girard had fit in quite well.
Since I couldn’t drive into the neighborhood without permission, I parked on Union Boulevard, a block away from the entrance, and started walking. Stepping through the pedestrian gate that led into the neighborhood felt like stepping into a bygone world. Where the streets outside bustled with all the noises of a major city, Portland Place had the understated elegance of a country park.
I walked until I came to a brick home slightly larger than the others. Ivy covered most of the first floor, but it had been cut away from the stonework on the second, showcasing the baroque scrollwork cut into the gray granite surrounding the windows. The front door hung open, and a moving truck waited in the driveway.
I heard Annette inside yelling something, but before I could get close enough to understand what she said, two men carrying a brown leather couch emerged. I waited and watched as they shuffled toward their truck, swearing under their breaths. One saw me go in and nodded, mouthing good luck. I had the feeling I would need it.
“Annette?” I called, walking through the front door. “It’s Steve Hale.”
Annette stumbled through an archway on the right side of the room and slumped agai
nst the staircase, nearly spilling the drink in her hand. A black sheath dress clung to her hips and chest. Her attire was a tad formal for eleven in the morning, but then, judging by her drunken swagger, she may not have yet made it to bed.
“I thought you’d come by,” she said, her voice slurred to the point that I could barely understand her, and her hips and shoulders swaying so that the staircase’s newel post was the only thing holding her upright.
“Did you, now?” I asked, looking around the room. The last time I was in the house, Dominique had just purchased a series of Andy Warhol screen prints of Mao Zedong in psychedelic colors. Even though I’m not an Andy Warhol fan, they had looked good on the walls—somehow modern, sophisticated, and still charming. Now those paintings, along with the Persian rugs that once adorned the parquet floors, had disappeared. “Are you moving?”
“Downsizing,” she said.
If the lethal injection hadn’t killed Dominique, that knowledge certainly would have.
“It’s a gorgeous house. I’m sure you’ll find a buyer soon.”
“The bank is taking it,” she said. “Came to gloat about my husband’s demise?”
“No,” I said. “I’m here to talk to you. And Sam, if she’s around.”
“My daughter is unavailable for the moment,” she said, flourishing her hand and nearly falling again.
I waited until Annette regained her balance. “Is there somewhere we can sit down?”
She pursed her lips and then nodded. “I need another drink anyway.”
I followed her through the drawing room, through the kitchen, and then finally to the breakfast room overlooking the back patio.
Annette disappeared into the kitchen as I sat down on a floral-print sofa. When she came back, she carried a bottle of vodka and two glasses into which she poured generous shots.
“I don’t like to drink alone,” she said, handing a glass to me.
You seemed to be doing fine before I got here.
“Thank you.” The liquor felt like sandpaper on my tongue. After a sip, I put it on an end table beside me while Annette downed hers and then poured herself another. “It’s been a while. You look good.”
Annette swayed and pursed her lips, almost like she was suppressing a belch or maybe even vomit, all the while admonishing me with a wag of her finger. “I’m not interested in being charmed by my deceased daughter’s. . .” She looked me up and down before waving a hand at me dismissively. “Whatever you are. What do you want?”
“I’m here to talk. Tess has been on my mind a lot lately.”
Annette started to speak, but then she picked her drink up, tipped it down her throat, and swallowed. I could smell her breath from across the sofa. “She’s dead.”
I looked at her then, and tried to get a handle on her mood, but I couldn’t see past the booze.
“They never found her body.”
Annette tried to stand, but she couldn’t find her balance and fell back into the couch. When she pushed herself upright again, she glared at me as if her fall was my fault.
“My husband evidently hid it well.”
“Why would he murder your daughter?
Annette looked right at me, the sudden anger sharpening her eyes so that she almost seemed sober. “The only thing my husband shared with me was his bed. I have no idea what that man did or why.”
“What would you say if I told you Tess was alive?”
“I’d ask you to leave.” I looked at her without saying anything until she blinked. “Are you telling me Tess is alive?”
“I just saw her. She’s staying at the Omni downtown. Or at least she was. She’s probably left by now.”
Annette crossed her arms. “That’s preposterous.”
“She asked me to kill you.”
“Now I know you’re lying,” she said, turning her nose up and reaching for the bottle of vodka. “My daughter would never try to hurt me.”
“I know how she helped Dominique close his business deal in Angola. Or, I should say how she was forced to help Dominique close a deal.”
She turned her nose up, looking almost like a cartoon character snubbing another. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Think back. Dominique’s business was in trouble, and he needed a new contract. The family went to Angola and met with Mr. Cardoza.”
Annette’s mouth opened and then closed. When she put her glass down, I noticed that her hands were trembling. If they were before, I hadn’t noticed.
“You’re not making any sense.”
“She wrote in her journal what happened to her,” I said.
“I don’t know what you read, but it’s a lie. Everything my daughter said about this family was a lie.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I came here to warn you. Tess is alive, and she wants you dead. She’s killed a couple of people already, so it wouldn’t surprise me if she came after you.”
Annette leaned forward. “My daughter died nine years ago.”
“Believe me or not, I really don’t care. Tess asked me to kill you, but I turned her down. She will find someone willing.”
Annette staggered upright. “Anything else you want to tell me about my family?”
“No, but where’s Samantha? She needs a friend right now.”
“She’s not your friend. Nobody in this family is.”
“Now you’re the liar, and we both know it.”
“Hmph.” Annette spit it out and then flung her arms to the side, nearly turning the remnants of her drink over on the couch. “The tramp’s in one of her clinics. She’s supposed to stay for four weeks this time, but they’ll kick her out after two.”
One of her clinics meant rehab. After Tess’s disappearance and her stepfather’s murder trial, Sam fell apart. She became a building without structural support: outwardly fine, beautiful even, but inwardly unsound. She couldn’t hold herself together any more than her mother could when the storms lashed at her.
“Which one’s she at?”
“How the hell should I know?” asked Annette. “She didn’t tell me a thing. My darling husband set her up for life with a trust. He didn’t give me shit, so I have to move into the same neighborhood as my maid. It isn’t fair.”
Tell that to your maid.
“Mind what I said. Tess is going to try to kill you.”
Annette rolled her eyes. “I’m quaking.”
34
I took my leave, and when I got into my car, I flopped down and took out my cell phone.
St. Louis isn’t big enough to have many in-patient rehab centers, so it didn’t take me long to call around and find the one Sam was staying at. The receptionist explained the regular visiting schedule to me, but once I told her that Sam’s boyfriend had died, that she didn’t know yet, and that I was a family member—I might have stretched the truth on that account—the woman transferred my call to the physician in charge of the facility. We set up an appointment for me to tell her the news that afternoon, giving me just enough time to head home, grab some lunch, and change into an outfit a little more somber.
CenterPointe Hospital, Samantha’s rehab of choice, occupied an old brick building in St. Charles, an exurb of St. Louis. The well-kept grounds surrounding the building rolled pleasantly, reminding me of a golf course, while a breeze from a wooded area to the south carried all the earthy, smoky scents of fall. It was peaceful, and I could see why Samantha had chosen it for her treatment.
I parked in the main lot and kicked mud off my shoes before walking inside. A nurse sat behind a wooden receptionist’s desk on the left side of the room.
“Can I help you?”
I introduced myself and then showed her my ID. After I filled out paperwork promising to be a positive influence in Sam’s continuing recovery, the receptionist asked me to turn out my pockets and then check my jacket in the coat room before calling another nurse to escort me back.
My escort took me to a therapy room overlooking a basketball court besi
de the parking lot. Samantha waited for me in a wingback chair beside the window. She had her mother’s high cheekbones and pale complexion. When she saw me, she stood, crossed the room in two strides, and threw her arms around my neck. She was all hard edges, bone and skin, but her smile could have lit the sky.
“I’m glad to see you,” I whispered.
She took a step back and looked me in the eye. “I’ve missed you.” She looked down at my outfit. “And you’re wearing a shirt and slacks. Seems my standing has moved up in the world.”
“You’ve always been pretty high in my book.”
The nurse who escorted me in smiled and then closed the door while Sam gestured to a pair of upholstered wingback chairs near the window. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
We crossed the room and sat. Samantha curled her knees to her chest, allowing the chair to envelop her in its pilled, maroon fabric.
“How have you been?” I asked.
Sam shrugged. “Some days are good, some days are bad. It’s a cliché, but I take things one day at a time and hope for the best.”
“That’s all anybody can do.”
Samantha smiled. “I hear Ashley moved in with you and Katherine.”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Father Michael told me. He drove in and gave the Mass on Sunday. Is she in school?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Mary Queen of Peace. Sister Marie-Rose is still the principal, if you believe that.”
“Does she still see everything?”
I nodded and smiled. “That’s what Ashley tells me.”
“I’m glad some things don’t change.”
“Me, too.”
She reached forward and touched my arm, smiling. “I’m so glad you came. How have you been?”
“Good,” I said, nodding. “Busy, but good.”
“I’m glad,” she said, smiling. “How’d you find me?”
“Your mom. She told me you checked into a clinic somewhere, so I called around until I found the right one.”
“Was she drunk when you talked to her?”
“Yeah.”
She pursed her lips and exhaled slowly. “My mom is poison. You didn’t give her any money, did you?”