by Jonni Good
They were still reporting the death as a possible suicide and the bigger sites were delving into Sonje’s life—her books, her marriage to the musician, and the rumors about their divorce. No mention was made of her former life in West Elmer, as Gwyneth Price.
I closed the laptop and stuck it back on the bookcase when I heard footsteps on the back porch. Josie came through the back door. She didn’t have the baby.
“Gabe and Sam are showing the chickens to Grace,” she said.
She headed towards the sink and looked for something to wash. She didn’t find anything. It was time for our little talk.
I said, “You didn’t want me to figure out that Sam is Gabe’s father.”
She stiffened and put her hand on the edge of the counter, holding herself up.
I could see Sam and Gabe walking back through the garden with the baby. I herded Josie out the other door, into the museum. I took her arm and led her to the little loveseat beside the camel. We sat.
I made a guess. “You overheard something at the diner, about thirteen years ago, and you think Sam is going to be mad at you for not telling him.”
She nodded. “You know that old pay phone we had back in the hallway, by the restroom doors?”
That pay phone was there all the years I was growing up. They only took it out a few years ago. Tears started leaking out of her eyes, and she reached into her sweater pocket for a tissue.
“I was in the office, doing the books,” she said, “when Carol Kramer called Gwyneth Price on that phone. Carol was making sure the paperwork was all set up, and she was making arrangements to go to the city so the baby could be born in a hospital where nobody knew her. It was the only way she could claim it came early, and stillborn, without the truth getting out all over town. I didn’t want to hear it, but I was trapped.”
She looked so miserable, it broke my heart. “You thought Carol told him? Did you think Sam has been pretending all day that he doesn’t know Gabe is his son?”
She shook her head, looking again at the crumpled, soggy tissue in her hands. “I knew Carol didn’t tell him. Way back then, I knew she didn’t. But what could I do?“
I said, “Carol Kramer lied to Sam, but that was her, not you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“He’s going to hate me if he finds out I knew. And he’ll be so miserable, knowing he has a son after all these years, and then he’ll have to watch him drive away with that other man. It will kill him. And he’ll blame me for it.”
I was starting to feel like a priest listening to a confession. Maybe the worst secrets are the ones you’re not supposed to know.
She looked at the dire wolf in front of us, and nodded. “That man means the world to me. He’ll be so hurt, he might never speak to me again, and I can’t bear it. Or what if he decides to go back with Carol Kramer so they can make a proper home for their son? Her other boys are old enough now, and she got all that money. There’s no reason for her to stay with that awful husband of hers.”
I had a momentary vision of Sam moving his clothes out of my closet and watching him leave—but I shook it out of my head. It might happen someday, for some reason, but not because he wanted to live with Carol Kramer.
“Josie,” I said, “Gabe needs his family, and we’re his family. Not just Sam, but all of us. The boy is afraid he’ll end up in foster care. He needs people who will fight for him, the way you always fought for me. I have to tell Sam. It’s only fair. And besides, look at it this way—you’ll get a grandson out of the deal.”
She smiled at that, but it quickly faded. “Are your maternal instincts finally kicking in, at your age?”
“The hormones kicked in a long time ago. Joe and I started talking about having kids just before he died.”
“You never told me.”
I looked at her, and put my hand over hers. “Some things are too private to share. Even with your mother.”
She pulled her hand out from under mine. “Why can’t you just leave it alone? If you hurt that man, I’ll never speak to you again.”
Mort pulled into the parking lot.
I said. “You’re going to pull a Mildred on me? Seriously?” I didn’t believe it for a second.
Her wry smile told me that she didn’t believe it either.
When Mort came through the front door, he saw the state of Josie’s face and glared at me. I patted Josie’s knee and got up. He took my place and pulled Josie to him, enveloping her in his arms. He glared at me again over Josie’s head. I left my mother in good hands.
SEVENTEEN
Sam and Gabe were in the kitchen when I came in. Gabe was sitting on a kitchen chair with the baby on his lap. He was telling Grace all about the proper care of chickens.
My phone rang. It was Mort, calling me from the other side of the wall. “I’m taking your mother to Angie’s,” he said. “You need to go talk to Emma again, see if she’s any more coherent than she was this morning. I’m not going. Take Sam. And send Gabe and the baby over to the diner. Angie will make him a hamburger.” He hung up.
Sam was surprised when I deputized him, but he was happy to go. Gabe was happy about the hamburger. Molly and Jocko both stayed home, where it was warm. Molly was happy about that. Jocko wasn’t. Gabe bundled up the baby, put his own coat and hat back on, and left.
Sam changed into his green plaid Pendleton shirt, and when he was back downstairs he did a quick turn for me, like a fashion model at the end of a catwalk. He got a quick kiss for his trouble.
We took Sam’s red Silverado, with him at the wheel. During the drive, I tried to get my mind back to the possible murder, and away from the fact that Sam had a son. I was still shaking a little from the confrontation with my mother.
Sam said, “Did Josie tell you we talked to Conrad on the way back from Sally Morgan’s?”
I looked at him, waiting for the rest. “He said he remembered something after you and Josie left the station. He wasn’t paying a lot of attention, but he’s sure he saw Sonje’s black SUV drive out of the parking lot going north, towards town. Not south across the bridge.”
I thought about it for a few beats. “Did Conrad see anyone following her?”
Sam shook his head. “I asked him. He didn’t notice. Carol started helping him with his crossword.”
We didn’t speak for a few minutes. All of the streets had been plowed so it was an easy drive. The sky was clearing, and the sun was setting, turning the western horizon bright orange.
Then Sam said, “The usual motive is money, isn’t it? Gwyneth was pretty well off, from what I can gather. Has the sheriff found out who’s going to inherit the money?”
“Probably not. We can ask Gavril when he gets here.”
He nodded. “I hear Mark’s been having money problems. He got laid off from his job at the technical college in Randall a few months back, and he’s paying child support. They laid him off so he could collect unemployment, but I hear they should have fired him. He came to work drunk a couple of times. If he’s in the will, he might have a motive.”
I thought about that idea. I didn’t find painkillers in Mark’s bathroom cabinet, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have some stashed out of sight.
I said. “If Mort’s right about somebody giving Mildred the same painkillers that were used to kill Sonje, it wouldn’t be Mark. Even if he is in Sonje’s will, he’d have no motive for killing his mother.”
“But maybe Mort’s wrong. It happens occasionally.”
How true—we both smiled at the thought.
We didn’t say much more until we got to Emma’s place. She lives in a cute little green cottage on the east end of Little Perch Drive, one block past the high school.
When Sam pulled into her driveway, he moved to open his door, but he stopped when he noticed that I wasn’t getting out. He reached over and touched my arm. “Are you mad at me?” he said.
“Of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”
Tears threatened to spill out of my eyes, and I
wiped them away with my sleeve.
He pulled me to him, and said into my wool hat, “You’ve been acting strange the whole drive over here, and before that your mother was mad at me. Even my wool shirt isn’t doing its magic. Tell me what I can do?”
I took a deep breathe, then another one. This was not the right time. “Let’s go talk to Emma and get it over with so we can go home. It’s been a very stressful day. Nobody is mad at you, I promise.”
When we got out of the truck, I was ambushed by a happy Springer spaniel, all skin and bones. It was another stray—a lot of them were showing up since the recession started, dropped off by people from other towns who couldn’t afford to feed their pets because of all the layoffs.
Emma came out onto the porch and invited us in. Her hazel eyes were rimmed with red. Up until that day, I’d never seen her when she wasn’t smiling. That’s probably why her students love her so much.
I asked her if the dog was hers, to make sure.
“She’s been hanging around the last few days. I keep intending to call the animal welfare committee, but with everything that’s been going on—”
I pulled the phone out of my pocket. “You two go on in. I have a call to make.” Emma and Sam both stayed on the porch and waited for me as I looked up the number for Ernest Rupertsson on my cell phone. He’s the man with the barking spaniel who lives next door to Ian Tavish. He picked up.
“Ernest, this is Utah O’Brien. I’m over here at Emma Dawson’s house, past the high school, and there’s a Springer spaniel hanging around here. You haven’t lost your spaniel, have you?” I already knew the answer to that, because I could hear his lonely mutt barking in the background. In fact, when I pulled the phone away from my ear, I could still hear it. Rupertsson lives on the other side of the school grounds.
“Let me look,” he said. He actually took a few minutes to look—the man must be going deaf. “No, he’s here. You found a Springer, you say?”
“Yes, but don’t worry. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t yours before we call the animal welfare committee. They’ll take her to Randall, to the pound. Of course, the shelter is really full right now so she doesn’t have much of a chance. It’s too bad, too. She’s a purebred, nice lines, friendly. Probably a real good bird dog. But, I don’t see what else we could—”
“I’ll come on over to get her. It’s a little green house, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And Sam’s red pickup is sitting right outside. You can’t miss it.”
I put the phone back in my pocket and walked up the steps to the porch. I was feeling rather proud of myself. Sam grinned and said, “You’re going to make a good politician after all.”
Emma looked confused, so I told her about Ernest Rupertsson’ dog, and the calls I kept getting from Ian Tavish. It made her smile.
“Dogs shouldn’t be kept alone like that,” she said. “No wonder the poor thing barks all the time. I hope he gives her a nice name.”
She asked us to sit on the sofa in her small living room, and we sat. The dining room table was covered with half-finished art projects suitable for third-grade students, and workbooks were piled up on one of the chairs. The furniture was well-used, but comfortable, with flowered slipcovers that brightened up the room.
Emma excused herself to go make us tea. I didn’t really want tea, but she didn’t ask. Sam and I sat next to each other on the couch for several minutes, waiting. An herbal scent came into the room before Emma did, and she put two cups on the coffee table. Then she went back for a cup for herself. She sat on an overstuffed beige chair, and waited for us to speak.
I picked up my cup and took a whiff. Chamomile and mint—and something else that didn’t smell quite so good. I looked at Emma.
“Echinacea root and goldenrod. I grow them myself. I always put it in my tea during the winter because it’s good for your immune system. You would not believe the number of kids who come to school with colds and the flu. If I didn’t drink this stuff, I think I’d have to stay home more days than I worked.” She took a big sip, and relaxed against the back of her chair. She looked exhausted. “It doesn’t taste very good, but you get used to it.”
I sipped at my tea. So did Sam. It tasted like the Sleepytime brand tea mixed with dirt, and with a slightly bitter aftertaste.
Emma picked at the front of her sweater, not looking at us. “They said on the news that Gwyneth killed herself. It made the national news, because of her books and because of that musician she married. They still haven’t said her real name yet, but I’m sure they’ll find it, and then the reporters will be camped outside Mother’s house. But you don’t think it was suicide, do you? I know you don’t, because you came here to ask me questions, didn’t you? Why isn’t Mort with you?”
“He’s working on the case, unofficially, but he needed a break. He delegated this visit to us,” I said, “And no, he doesn’t believe it was suicide. What do you think?”
She shrugged. “I can’t believe the girl I used to know would do such a thing, but people change. I saw her on one of those community service commercials a few months ago, right after little Grace was born. It was about postpartum depression. She didn’t look depressed to me, but maybe that’s why she volunteered to do it. I don’t think they pay people to appear in those ads.”
“They found a note in her purse,” I said. “It wasn’t signed, and I didn’t get to read it, but there was enough in it to make the sheriff think it might have been a suicide note. It said something like ‘I can’t go on like this…’”
Emma’s eyes opened wide. “She said that in one of the letters she sent to Mother a few months ago. But she was talking about the economy and how much crime there is in the city. That was the letter when she told Mother she intended to move back here. After that, we realized we had to talk to her. If she lived here we couldn’t walk down the street and pretend we didn’t see her, after all.”
I asked Sam if he had his smart phone with him. He did. I borrowed it to call the sheriff. When he answered, I asked if he could send a photo of that note to Sam’s phone. It must have been sitting on his desk, because it came right through. I handed the phone to Emma.
“Yes, that’s it. See how the first word isn’t capitalized? And there’s no period here at the end, so it was right in the middle of a sentence. I’m sure it’s that letter she sent. She used little notepaper and wrote big, so she had to use a lot of pages. And she didn’t fold them—she stuck the whole pile in a big envelope and mailed it that way. I’m sure Mother still has it.”
“Do you have any idea who could have wanted Sonje dead? I mean Gwyneth? Somebody with a motive, or a grudge?”
She looked at the white cotton socks on her feet and shook her head. “I can’t imagine. She left town when I was eight years old. I was so hurt. I lost my father and my sister at the same time, and it ripped my world apart. Dad almost never visited after that, and after a while he stopped coming. He kept paying child support, so at least my mother couldn’t complain about that. She said really horrible things about them after they left, and I was so young. Gwyneth tried to contact me, a lot of times, and I didn’t—”
She wiped a tear from her cheek and sank a little lower in her chair.
Sam said, “Someone called her yesterday when she was talking with Carol Kramer in the diner. Are you the one who called her?”
“No. I called her earlier, though, before she left the city.”
Sam waited respectfully for her to continue. When it was obvious she was finished with her thought, he asked, “Why did you call her? Why didn’t you wait to talk to her this morning at Mildred’s house?”
I took another sip of the tea while I waited for her to answer. It was really bad. I glanced at Sam, who was looking suspiciously into his own mug. He shrugged, and tipped the mug back, and drank, trying to get it over with fast.
Emma set her cup on the coffee table. She sat forward, with her forearms on her thighs and her hands between her knees, thinking.
; “You’ll think it’s silly. I’ve been buying the tabloids at Walmart in Randall every week or two and reading the entertainment news on the Internet at school. Mother told me to stop it because they make things up, but it was the only way for me to know what was going on with my sister.”
She gave us a wry smile. “Except for picking up the phone and calling her, of course, which I was too proud to do. And I know a lot of it is lies. Gwyneth was more famous than her husband, but he’s the one they’re always writing about. They probably wouldn’t, if he wasn’t married to her. And if he wasn’t supposed to be a Christian.”
That didn’t answer Sam’s question. I looked at him, and he raised his right shoulder. I tried again.
“So, did you want to talk to Sonje about the stories in the news?”
“Sort of. I kind of used them as an excuse to tell her that I was glad she was coming to town. I apologized for not answering her letters, and I said that I would help her in any way I could, if she needed it. She thanked me, and said she’d already filed for divorce. I knew that, of course. And she said she hardly ever saw her husband, and they weren’t angry at each other or anything, but I didn’t really believe that part.”
Sam put his hand on my knee and raised an eyebrow. I nodded.
“Do you have any idea who will inherit her estate?” I said.
“I do, actually. Gwyneth didn’t tell me, but Mark did. He always stayed in touch with her. He went to Dad’s funeral. It was four months ago. When he came home, he was really angry. He expected to be included in Dad’s will, but he wasn’t. Dad left everything to his wife. He had every right to, but Mark was counting on something coming to him, because of him getting laid off, and his child support payments, and the mortgage. So he point-blank asked Gwyneth if he would inherit anything from her if she died. I can’t believe he did that.”
We waited a few beats. Finally, I couldn’t stand the suspense. “What did she say?”