by Neil Olson
“I’ll call her,” Teresa said, wondering where her phone was. “Thanks for doing all that. For taking care of everything.”
“That’s what I do.”
“Yeah?” Teresa said, her mind elsewhere.
“You thought I just made messes that my father had to clean up,” Audrey replied, a hard edge beneath her light tone.
“I didn’t mean anything.”
“I admit that’s been true too often,” Audrey went on. “But I also watch out for everyone. Don’t you be surprised if—”
She was interrupted by the front door opening.
“What now?” Audrey complained, jumping up. “Did he forget his plastic badge?”
It was not Waldron but their uncle Philip. The very man who was to terrorize the Langford police force, in Audrey’s overblown threat. The attorney’s face was more lined, and his hair grayer than when Teresa last saw him. He wore a suit, though it was Sunday. No tie, loafers without socks, and a deeper tan than his niece, though he never took a vacation. Through the lenses of his designer glasses, his eyes looked startled.
“Audrey,” he said softly. “You poor thing.”
The words rang false. Perhaps because Teresa had never heard gentleness from her uncle’s lips. Or perhaps because she was a fault-finding bitch who had swallowed her mother’s hatred for her family whole. And yet she did not mistake the distaste with which her cousin recoiled from their uncle’s embrace.
“Hey, Philip,” Audrey said. “Sorry about Grandpa.”
“Yes,” he said distractedly. “Yes, it’s... Teresa, look at you.”
Not wanting to embarrass the man twice, Teresa gave him a quick hug. He was tall, like all the Morse men. Philip patted her back perfunctorily, then took her by the shoulders.
“Are you all right?” he asked. How many times would she have to answer that today? Not this time, anyway, since he went on immediately. “Have you called your mother?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ve spoken to her already, but you should call. She’s worried about you. Audrey, where is your father?”
“Don’t know,” she said with shrug.
“You don’t know? You told me you talked.”
“He was in an airport. In the States, I think. Said he would get here as soon as he could.”
Philip shook his head in annoyance. Audrey’s father did some kind of international finance, or maybe it was mergers and acquisitions. Teresa could not keep it straight. But he was always flying around the world. Making and losing fortunes, but mostly losing them. Philip turned back to Teresa.
“You found his body?”
“Yes,” she said.
“That must have been terrible. Terrible. I’m so sorry. Where are the police?” he asked Audrey accusingly. As if she had made up their presence. Or as if she had chased them away, which was in fact the case.
“The detective just left,” Audrey replied. “I told him he would be hearing from you.”
“Damn right he will,” the attorney said, though what he meant was unclear. True to form, Philip seemed supercharged with purpose. Yet in these circumstances, uncertain where to direct it. “He was in the study?”
“We’re not supposed to go in there,” Teresa said automatically.
“Girl Scout,” Audrey snarked.
“Why not?” asked Philip. “Did they say there was an investigation?”
“No, but they’re worried about Ilsa.”
“As we all are,” he said, moving swiftly down the hall. “I don’t see what that has to do with sealing off rooms. The study is where Father keeps his papers.”
“Action Man is here,” Audrey announced, as they listened to Philip rattle the handle to the study door.
“What in God’s name,” he called. “They locked it? Where is the key?”
Audrey reached into her pocket and pulled out a key, dangling it before her cousin and putting a finger to her lips. Audrey was always stealing keys when they were young. She even claimed to have been in the forbidden study. Teresa shook her head in puzzlement.
“You’re Waldron’s watchdog now?”
“Nah, I just enjoy pissing off Philip. But it’s funny,” Audrey mused. “I don’t remember telling him that Grandpa was in the study.”
3
Miranda surprised her. Teresa’s mother had done nothing but disparage her father for years, and was all business when Teresa finally called. Caring only that her daughter was well. But her arrival at Owl’s Point that evening told a different story. Her eyes were red and damp, her face haggard. She clutched Teresa fiercely and would not let go for a long time. They were not a warm family. Neither Grandpa Morse nor Ramón Marías were physically demonstrative. Yet there had once been this kind of strong affection between mother and daughter, so long ago that Teresa had nearly forgotten. When did it stop? And which of them had been the one to pull away?
“He loved you very much,” Miranda said as she drew back. “I’m sorry he didn’t get to tell you. I’m sorry I kept the two of you apart all these years.”
Her tone was matter-of-fact. No hair-pulling theatrics from Miranda; that was not her style. But Teresa heard the depth of grief in those few words.
“He told me,” she said. Had he? In one of those occasional phone calls? If he had not used the word, he had surely conveyed love in the ways of which he was capable. In his curiosity about Teresa’s life, her studies, her desires and fears. “I could have gone to see him anytime. I spent four years half an hour away from here.”
“You knew it would upset me,” her mother countered. Which was true, but not the whole truth.
“It doesn’t matter now. I’m sorry for you. You must have been close to him once.”
“No.” Miranda dabbed her face with an overworked tissue. “I don’t know, maybe when I was small. Mostly he was this faraway figure. Always traveling, or locked in the study. Then he would come crashing over us like a storm. Poor Phil got the worst of it.”
“Never heard you sound sorry for Philip,” Teresa said.
“Yes, well. These last few hours some things have come back to me. Memories.”
After briefly enjoying her uncle’s torment, Audrey “found” the study key and gave it to Philip. He searched the room at length, not finding whatever he sought. Later he was on the telephone, barking at lawyers and law enforcement types, talking to the newspapers. Now he sat at the dining room table, speaking quietly with his sister. Audrey’s father—Alfred Arthur Morse III, called Fred—was flying in the following day, and James and Kenny were both on the train from New York. Audrey was phoning friends and family, and pouring drinks. Mostly for herself. Teresa kept falling asleep. All it took was sitting down and she went right out. Shock, the others kept telling her. Rest, we have it all covered. But she would not be under more than a few minutes before that dead gray face came swirling out of the void. Jolting her awake. It was going to be a bad night.
A good smell drew her to the kitchen, where she was treated to the sight of Audrey in a frayed pink apron. Stirring the contents of a large pot.
“Don’t laugh,” Audrey warned.
“I wasn’t going to,” said Teresa. “Okay, I was.”
“Rick used to say I could burn water.”
“Is that why you divorced him?”
“Try this.”
“What is it?”
“Ilsa’s famous beef stew. There’s a vat of it in the fridge.”
Teresa did not remember the famous stew, nor did she usually touch beef. But she had eaten nothing since an apple on the train, and slurped the spoon greedily.
“Delicious, count me in.”
“Find some bowls.”
Teresa served while Audrey got a bottle from the cellar. A dark, complex French red. Teresa did not know wine, but it seemed too fancy for a grieving family eating lefto
vers. Then again, maybe there was no better occasion.
“This hasn’t had time to breathe,” Philip complained.
“Neither have I,” Audrey shot back. There were a few minutes of peace while they ate, but Audrey could not endure peace for long. “I wonder if this is poisoned. Like if that’s how Ilsa knocked off Grandpa?”
Everyone stopped eating but Miranda. Teresa felt her stomach turn over.
“Ilsa did not poison your grandfather,” Philip said. “She was devoted to him.”
“Sure she was,” Audrey agreed. “But who knows what all those years of abuse can do. How it can twist a person. You know what I mean?”
Philip would not meet her gaze.
“Stop it,” Miranda said, dropping the spoon into her empty bowl. “Father didn’t abuse Ilsa. She was the one person he always treated with respect.” Then she began to laugh. “Sorry, I’m imagining poor Freddie coming in and finding us slumped over our bowls.”
“Oh yeah, that’s really funny, Mom,” Teresa said, but Audrey was also laughing. Look at you two, Teresa thought, not for the first time. There was no love lost between them. Audrey thought Miranda was pretentious, and Miranda found Audrey a bad influence on her cousins. Yet they were similar in so many ways. Same dirty blond hair, bleached gold. Same round face and high cheekbones, same curvy build. Same sense of humor and raucous laugh. If you had to guess the mother and daughter at this table, Teresa would not be in the equation. As a teenager she used to ask, who is my real mother? Of course Miranda was not reckless like Audrey. Or not anymore, but Teresa had heard stories of her youth. Crashing her mother’s car on Long Hill Road. Calling home from a Mexican jail during spring break. Sleeping with her professors, including the one she married: the handsome, penniless, half-mad philosopher from Madrid. What a disappointment it must have been when her father ended up loving Ramón. Teresa herself had heard Grandpa Morse say, “He is more of a son to me than my sons.”
“Dead soldier,” Audrey announced, tipping the last of the bottle into her glass. “Tay-ray, help me pick out another.”
“You’re still calling her that ridiculous nickname?” Philip said in dismay. “She’s a grown woman.”
“At least I know how to pronounce her real name,” Audrey replied, sauntering off.
“I’m useless about wine,” Teresa said, but she got up and followed.
The door to the wine cellar was between the kitchen and study. She got shaky even approaching the latter room, but made it down the wooden steps without incident. The cellar was dimly lit, yet brighter and cleaner than Teresa remembered. The cracked stone walls had been smoothed over and it appeared that some racks had been replaced, as well. She had once known this chamber intimately—it was James’ favorite hiding place—but now it felt alien.
Rather than examine bottles, Audrey leaned against the wall and slipped something out of her pocket.
“Sorry,” she said, unwrapping a baggy and removing a bent joint. “Had to get away from the grown-ups.”
“Aren’t we grown-ups?”
“Speak for yourself.” She patted her pockets, looking for a lighter, no doubt. “I’m holding out ’til my forties.”
“Good plan.”
“You’ve always been an old lady.”
“I guess,” Teresa said, leaning against the wall beside her. “Or just a weird one.”
“You and James,” Audrey scoffed, finding a tiny blue lighter. It had to be tiny to fit into those jeans. “You’re so invested in being different.”
“More like resigned.”
“I love my brother to death.” Audrey lit the joint and inhaled. “He’s a good kid,” she squeaked, holding in the smoke. Then exhaled forcefully. “But nobody could dispute that he’s a little off, you know? You’re not like that. You get other people. You see the world straight on. I always feel like you’re faking the weird girl act.”
“I’m not faking anything,” Teresa said. She knew better than to let Audrey rile her, but she was feeling vulnerable. “I promise you, I spent years trying to be like everybody else. To like the clothes or the music or the movies they liked. To have friends. To fit in.”
“Poor little Tay.”
“Fuck you. You call me a fake and I don’t get to answer?”
“Hey, we’re just talking.”
“It’s not just talk,” Teresa insisted. “Words can do damage. You don’t say whatever you like to someone.”
“Why not?” Audrey replied evenly. “You can say whatever you like to me.”
“Can I? So if I called you a talentless, overweight drunk with a mean streak, that would be okay?”
The flicker of shock moved over her cousin’s face so swiftly that Teresa nearly missed it.
“Whoa,” said Audrey, fixing her cracked smile back in place. She took another hit off the joint and immediately began coughing.
“I’m sorry,” Teresa sighed.
“No, no,” Audrey said between coughs. “I asked for it. Forgot how well you read people’s weakness. Know exactly where to stick the knife.”
“It’s not a skill I cultivate.”
“Guess you’re a natural, then.”
Teresa slid down until she was sitting on the cold concrete floor. A few moments later, Audrey slid down alongside her and passed the joint. Teresa held it for too long, sniffing the pungent smoke. Tempted. Then she handed it back.
“I can’t, my brain’s too messed up.”
“This will smooth you out,” Audrey replied. “But suit yourself.”
“I’m sorry I said that.”
“Let it go. It’s all... Do I really look overweight?”
Teresa laughed.
“What?” Audrey asked, but she wore a sly smirk.
“That would be the one word you focused on,” said Teresa. She had remembered how Audrey always hurt her feelings, but forgotten how she could make you laugh at anything. Not a bad talent to possess in the current circumstances. “You look gorgeous. You always look gorgeous, I’m just jealous.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute,” Audrey quipped.
“Go ahead, let me have it,” said Teresa. “I’m too short, I’m too skinny. I’m either too shy or all snotty and superior. I have a blank expression on my face because I’m always stuck in my own brain. What else?”
“That’s pretty good. I think that about covers it.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Well.” Audrey considered. “You have kind of a martyr complex. And your clothes are pretty awful. You do have a nice face. Your dad’s face.”
“Certainly not my mom’s.”
“Your dad was hot.”
“Please, Audrey.”
“What? He was. You can’t help being short, and being skinny isn’t against the law.” She took another hit on the almost vanished joint. “It should be, but it’s not.”
“I’m glad we got that straight,” Teresa said, feeling calmer. “We should go back up.”
“Nah, let’s hide down here. You and James used to do that, remember?”
“I do. There was a crawl space. Like an alcove they walled up partway and forgot. It was a tight squeeze.”
“Too tight for me,” Audrey recalled. “James showed me once, but my hips wouldn’t fit. You’re shocked, I know.”
“It was bigger inside. Not much.” Enough for two nine-year-olds to sit side by side, Teresa thought. Holding hands, whispering. All the space we needed.
“Where was it?”
“I think,” Teresa said, starting to crawl on her hands and knees, “back along this wall somewhere.”
“Back here?” Audrey came shuffling after her. “There’s a rack in the way.”
“I know, but that’s new. They’ve moved things around. It was near a corner, I’m pretty sure it was this one.”
They both peere
d through wooden slats and over dusty bottles. There was nothing to see but wall.
“Wrong place,” Audrey decided.
“No, it was here. They’ve plastered it over.”
“What?” Audrey seemed outraged. “Your kiddie hideaway—how could they do that?”
“Might have even filled it in.” Teresa stood, bracing herself against a momentary dizziness. “It was strange that it was there at all.”
“Huh.” Audrey remained crouched by the rack, biting her thumbnail. Then she stood also. “Let’s drink more of Grandpa’s wine. Though I guess it’s not really his anymore.”
“Whose is it?”
“That’s what we all want to know, right?” Audrey said with a wicked laugh. “First we have to get through the fake expressions of grief. Then stick him in the ground.”
“Jesus, Audie, do you have to be so...”
“What? Okay, you were shocked, that was a rough thing to see. But are you really upset that he’s dead? Couldn’t you use a few bucks for school, or whatever?”
“I didn’t think there was any money,” Teresa said, which was the wrong response. Yes, I am upset that he is dead. I seem to be the only one who is. But Audrey would not believe her, nor believe that Teresa didn’t care about the money one way or another. “He couldn’t even pay his help, and the house is a wreck.”
“Dad thinks he was just cheap. He’s sure the old guy was sitting on a pile of cash.”
“He told you that?”
“Of course not,” Audrey snorted. “I hear things. But I’m with you. He never paid the help enough, that’s why Jenny and Pete stole from him. But he wouldn’t be selling paintings or letting the place fall down if he had the money to fix it.”
“He was selling paintings?”
“You don’t keep track of any family stuff, do you?” Audrey seemed half appalled and half impressed. “Don’t worry, there are plenty left, and the property is worth millions. He was cash poor, but there’s money in the estate. Question is, who gets it?”
That was not Teresa’s question.
“What do you think happened to him?”
“Heart attack,” Audrey guessed, wandering down a dim aisle between racks. “These are the Rhônes.”