by Jeff Abbott
Tricia Yarbrough cleared her throat. “We still don't know that digitalis was involved. Mrs. Throckmorton could have simply had a heart attack.” She scanned faces: mine, Mutt's, Deborah's, Jake's, Philip's. “Aren't y'all getting a little ahead of yourselves in casting accusations? Anyone here got something they want to share?”
I felt a sick tug in my gut. They're casting accusations because they 're sure the digitalis will show up in her body. Why wouldn 't they just glue their lips shut if they had any real doubt? They're covering their butts.
Philip stared at Jake, still stinging from his uncle's accusation. He then whirled to face his twin brother. “Tom? Tell them, tell them I couldn't do it!”
Tom Bedrich leaned against the corner bookshelf, his haggard face drawn into a frown. “I don't know, Philip. I don't know you anymore. Any of you.”
“You're my brother, for God's sake!”
“That ceased to count for much years ago, Philip.” Tom's voice chilled me, devoid of fraternal affection.
Aubrey interjected, “I don't think any accusations should be leveled at my cousin without an attorney present. Philip, let's get a lawyer here if you're going to be questioned by the police.”
Philip didn't take Aubrey's advice as support. His appeals crescendoed in anger and fear as he jumped to his feet. “I don't need any damned lawyer. Because I didn't do it, and there's no evidence to support a claim that I killed Lolly, or tried to kill anybody.”
I forced myself to speak again, dread making an accommodation in my heart. I was playing every trump card I had, and I wasn't even sure of the game. I wanted to whisk Bob Don out of the study, squire him away to a private room, and shake the truth out of him about whatever demons haunted this family. Instead I forged ahead, exposing the fractures in our family tree. “Philip. I heard you and Wendy talking. Out at the cemetery.”
The quiet in the room was as dense as the quiet of those tombs. Philip glared at me with a shining light of pure hatred. It shone for one sickening moment, then he safely eclipsed it by closing his eyes. Wendy stood from where she'd squatted by the grieving Mutt, an insensate lump to the arguments raging around him.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Wendy said flatly.
“I went for a hike. I was by the crypts when y'all came down there and had a little confab. About getting hold of some of Uncle Mutt's money.”
Wendy laid a possessive hand on Mutt's crown of gray hair. He seemed to hear my words, but he hadn't yet formed a reply to them, looking at me slack-jawed.
“I still don't know what you're talking about, Jordan,” Wendy said.
“I don't talk to Wendy but to say hello and ask what's for supper,” Philip offered, after a quick sidelong glance at his partner in crime. “Why the hell would I be jawing with her out in a goddamned cemetery?”
“So no one would hear or see you,” I replied, determined not to let them evade me.
Wendy shook her head. She reminded me of a chessboard's queen, idly glancing down at a helpless pawn. “Your facility for lying is amazing. But since none of us know you, I don't suppose we should be surprised.”
“Know me? What does anyone know about you, Wendy?” I countered.
My challenge didn't faze her. “Perhaps you'd explain to Lieutenant Mendez and Judge Yarbrough why you were sneaking around Lolly's bedroom this morning.”
She was right about my facility for lying. “I suspected Lolly might be sending me the hate mail. I wanted to find some evidence to support my theory.” The fib slid out of my mouth with surprising smoothness. I closed my mouth before I could elaborate further on my falsehood. I didn't glance at Deborah. Or at Bob Don, who Wendy claimed to have spotted as he exited from prowling the room while I hid in the closet. Until I knew why Bob Don was in that room-what secret did he have? I could hardly ask him about it in this room full of accusing faces.
“And just why did you suspect Lolly?” Wendy continued. Her hand played insolently in the gray of Mutt's hair, like she was stroking a pet. Mutt watched me with stony eyes.
Great. My mind fumbled for an answer.
“Well, I saw how hateful she was to several of you at the dinner when she died-” I began, but then an unexpected ally leaped to my defense.
“I asked Jordan to go into Lolly's room,” Gretchen said, standing on shaky feet, her eyes crimson rings in her face.
“Well, it speaks,” Philip muttered. “Who uncorked the bottle?” Real venom stained his voice.
“Philip, shut up and sit down,” Mutt ordered. Some of the regular steel was back in his tone. Philip attempted a brief scowl but sank onto the ottoman by Uncle Jake. I glanced at Bob Don, who glowered at Philip with undisguised loathing.
“I didn't know then Lolly had been sending those hateful scribblings to Jordan. But after she died, I was so upset, and I wanted a keepsake of Lolly's. I asked Jordan to fetch it for me. It was then that he found the other card that Lolly intended to send him.” Gretchen smiled winningly at Lieutenant Mendez. I had practically forgotten he was in the room. “He didn't tell me about it until this afternoon.”
“What keepsake did you want?” Mutt asked. “I don't like the idea of someone pawing through my poor dead sister's belongings…”
Gretchen raised her hands in mock supplication. “I know, Mutt, I know it's tacky of me. But Lolly told me once she'd kept the wedding photos of my first husband Paul and me, and I wanted them back. I asked Jordan to look for them.”
“Why didn't you fetch the photos yourself?” This, surprisingly, from Deborah. She looked scared to death, her hands folded tightly against her chest, as though ready to shiver in the July heat.
“Probably too fucking drunk to do it herself,” Philip said, and Bob Don launched himself off the couch. I hadn't known he could move quite so fast. For a big man he bolted like lightning. He seized Philip's already much-handled shirt in his hands and shoved his cousin over the ottoman. Philip went down like a fallen oak, splaying out at Uncle Jake's feet and cane.
“Mr. Goertz!” Lieutenant Mendez shouted, pulling Bob Don back. I reached for Bob Don's arm, but he flinched violently away from my touch. I slowly lowered my hand, feeling Aunt Sass's eyes mock me.
“You did it, you spiked her drink. Goddamn scheming punk!” Bob Don pointed down at Philip, who was trying ineffectually to scramble to his feet. Finally Tom assisted him.
“Great,” Philip snapped. “Now you're blaming me for Gretchen's binges.” He glared at the assemblage. “She's hit the sauce again. Dead drunk this afternoon, and Bob Don and Jordan and Sass and Candace would just as soon we all not know.”
“My soda was spiked.” Gretchen leaned against Sass and Sass put a protective arm around her. “I didn't intend to drink.”
“Aunt Gretchen, you should probably avoid confrontation right now. Let's you and I go discuss your relapse,” Aubrey offered, but no one paid him any heed.
“Crooning the same old tired song of the boozer, Aunt Gretchen,” Philip taunted, undaunted by Bob Don's anger.
“Philip. Use your brain,” Gretchen said, her tone eerily calm. “If Lolly was poisoned, someone slipped it into her food or drink. Someone basically tried to poison me the same way. Except with alcohol.”
Silence cocooned the room as the family weighed the implication. I wanted to sink down onto the couch-my head throbbed with tension-but my feet felt coated in concrete.
Gretchen turned to Mendez, a half smile lighting her face. Her lips trembled. “We're not a very nice family, Lieutenant, full of shiftless bums, mean old men, crazy women, and my first husband was a murderer. So where you gonna start?”
16
We'd each been banished to our rooms as Lieutenant Mendez and Judge Yarbrough continued their investigation and interviews. I could only imagine what game plan their minds had concocted after hearing such poisonous talk. Accusations, counteraccusations, slander, grief, hatred-we all needed to be flown to the nearest tabloid talk show and unleashed on the audience. They wouldn't know what
the hell hit them. Or perhaps we could become sponsors for a lozenge company as we screamed our throats raw at each other.
At least Mendez had seen fit to begin his interrogations with Philip, everyone's most likely suspect. I stood against the window, watching the sun begin its decline toward the sea. Clouds surged above the ocean, as dark and foreboding as the fear in my heart. It was as if the weather reflected our moods. The light no longer dappled the waves; the air smelled sour with the rank odors of the sea. The sky, so unsullied earlier, had shrouded itself with heavy black thun-derheads. Rumbles, growing closer, made the wood beneath my feet shiver. If you don't like the weather in Texas- especially on the coast-wait five minutes, because it's sure to change. The Gulf is a cauldron for sudden, harsh storms. I watched as a flurry of boats hurried toward Port Lavaca and Port O'Connor.
The smudge that marked land's end, across Matagorda Bay, beckoned. I wanted to leave and I could not. Yarbrough had declared a quarantine on travel and none of us were daring to break it. Her words had made it clear that while no one was getting their Miranda rights read, no one was above suspicion. And what would flight suggest aside from guilt? Anyone who knew truth in this sordid matter would do well to come forward and not hide it. I wondered if a family as sundered as this one seemed could still cloak each other. The Goertz family huddled together against truth like it was a cold, driving rain.
I felt a sharp tang of fear for Bob Don. He wasn't going to trust me with his secrets; he wasn't going to let me help him.
A knock sounded at my door, softly. “Come in,” I called.
Gretchen entered, shutting the door firmly behind her. “I wanted to see if you're okay,” she said.
“You surprised me. Lying like you did to protect me.”
She didn't answer at first. She sat on the corner of my bed, curling her legs beneath her like a cat. “You and I have to stick together, Jordan. We're the outsiders here.”
“Outsiders?”
She smiled a half smile of shaky resolve. “We're Goertzes, all right, but we're not quite up to snuff. Didn't you hear how hard Lolly was on everyone at dinner? And those are the real family. How do you think you and I ranked in her eyes-the family drunk and the unexpected illegitimate child?” She ran a hand through her permed, graying hair. “We're distant blood-not quite part of the family, but still there.”
“When Lolly was ragging on Aubrey about his book- about the various characters he could discuss-she said the family slut, and she looked right at you.” I sat down next to her on the soft quilt. “Why is that?”
“Jordan, I-” she started, then stopped. “I've caused a lot of grief to this family. I'm sure most of them wished I'd never come along.”
“I'm sure that's not true,” I offered. “Deborah and Sass obviously care about you.”
“Do they? I marry a Goertz and leave him for his brother. I drove a wedge between two men who should have been the closest of friends but who became the most bitter of enemies. I destroyed Paul's life, and Lolly could never forgive me for it. She was always hateful toward me. She told me once it was fitting I was a drunk. I deserved it.”
“You can't feel guilty about leaving Paul. You had to do what was right for you.” I touched her shoulder, and she didn't flinch away. “No one can begrudge you your happiness.”
“Happiness? I've given little joy to myself or to anyone else.” She massaged her forehead, a tired expression furrowing her brow. “Do you know what guilt is, Jordy? Real guilt, the kind that never lets you sleep or eat or think for a long stretch of time. It hovers near your shoulder, like a little devil whispering in your ear.”
I attempted comfort. “You said you didn't give happiness to people. But you made me happy today. When you stuck up for me.”
Gretchen Goeitz looked hard into my eyes. All the old discord between us seemed to have happened a century ago as we sat together on the bed listening to the wind crescendo around us and the first patters of hard rain slammed against the windows.
She took my hand, for the very first time, and her palm felt cold against mine. A thin sheen of damp covered her fingers and they trembled in my grasp.
“You must know. You must know how much he loves you.” Her voice sounded small, like a child's whisper.
“He doesn't want me here. He won't trust me-”
“He's so afraid of losing you. He knows now, what with Lolly's threats against you, her death-he should never have brought you here. He doesn't want you to pay for our sins.”
“Sins?” I leaned in closer to her, our noses and mouths nearly touching. Our voices were mere murmurs.
“Do you love your father, Jordan? Do you?”
I took a long, shuddery breath. “I'm still not used to thinking of him as my father-”
She stilled my talk with her cold fingertips. “Enough analysis. Enough posturing. Enough denial. Push has come to shove. His life may depend on this. Tell me. Do you love him?”
His life may depend on this. Her fingers felt icy against my lips, her palm smooth against my jaw. I pressed my tongue hard against the roof of my mouth. “Yes,” I managed to croak. “Yes, I love him.”
Gretchen closed her hand around my face and for one moment I thought she would kiss me. Her eyes were half-closed and she breathed slowly, her mouth open, her breath smelling of mint gum.
“I want to help him, but he won't let me. Why?” I whispered.
She pressed her lips together and regarded me again with surprising frankness.
“I was afraid-because I'd been such a bitch-you could never love him. Could never accept him. I used to want that, I wanted you never to want him as your daddy. But no more.” She clasped both my hands in hers. “You've got to help me, Jordan. Help me protect him. I don't think I can do it alone.”
“Tell me.”
“You have to promise me. You'll help protect Bob Don. Please.”
I wavered for a moment. “Just what did he do?”
“Promise me!” she insisted.
“I promise. I'll do everything I can to protect him.” I kept my words barely louder than a soft breath. “He and I aren't distant blood, right?”
She shuddered. “Blood again. This has been a place of needless death ever since those sailors were butchered on the beach. I want to leave here and never come back.”
“Tell me.” I squeezed her hands.
Long silences-the ones that last years and graft themselves into your very bones-are the hardest to break. She tensed, like steel had hardened in her arms and legs, and she didn't look at me for minutes. I held her and waited. The outside squall roared and the rain went from drops to solid sheets, enveloping the house in rattles and hums.
“Paul. He killed Paul.” She forced the words out like a dying cough.
“But Paul committed suicide,” I whispered. “That's what Deborah said…”
“Ruled suicide. The body was never recovered.” Now that she'd made the dreaded admission, the words came a little easier. Tears dribbled from the corner of her eyes and she smeared them across her face with the back of her hand.
“Deborah said Paul left a suicide note-left it on the front door. Said he walked into the ocean because he couldn't live with the guilt of shooting Nora. But Deborah's sure her father didn't kill her mother.”
“I am,” Gretchen said. “Oh, I am. Because after Paul killed Nora, he came here to kill me.”
Down the hall, a door slammed, and I heard a sharply angry Deborah bickering with Aubrey that he had to go talk to Mendez next. Aubrey sounded reluctant and morose. Deborah urged him along, and shortly their voices faded down the stairs. Lightning flashed its hard light in my window, and I oddly imagined God taking a snapshot of Gretchen and me clutching each other's hands.
Her tongue flicked over her lips. “There's a taint in every family, something in the blood that can warp any poor soul that gets too much of the bad ingredient. In mine it's loving booze. My brother was a drunk, too. And our grandmother before us, although no one ever wanted t
o admit it.”
“Yeah. In my family it's being sharp-tongued and nosy,” I whispered back.
She laughed then, briefly, and I felt the first true connection between us take shaky life. I watched her wipe away another tear.
“So what's the taint of the Goertz blood?”
“Silence. And a horrible, horrible pride. The kind of pride that forces an entire family to its knees in its service. A pride that leads to insanity because it shackles you so. Paul suffered from it, and Lolly did, too. That's why they're dead.”
“Tell me what happened.”
She spoke now without hesitation, relieved to have her needed ally. “Paul was an artist, a gifted sculptor. When I left him he quit working. He became terribly depressed.
Mutt and Lolly insisted-Lolly and Paul were always close, they were cut from the same cheap bolt of cloth-that he go into treatment. He met Nora when he started work again; she was his favorite model. They married soon after.” She paused. “Deborah's so like her mother-trusting, kind-hearted, smart, but maybe too book smart. And Nora was sweet. It would have been easy for her to hate me, considering what I'd done to Paul. But she never did. At least she didn't ever show me anything but kindness. I loved her, too, and she didn't deserve such a terrible death.” A sob broke her words and I stayed quiet while she composed herself.
“We all thought Paul was finally happy. Deborah and Brian were born in fairly quick order and he seemed to settle down. He and Bob Don didn't speak-the resentment, the hatred between them went too deep. They'd loved each other once, but no more. My fault.”
“No, not your fault. Their choice,” I said.
She ignored my attempt at consolation. “It wasn't over. Paul started sending me these.” She pulled from her pocket a creased and yellowed envelope, worn with handling. She offered it to me and I carefully removed a card.
It was an old-style greeting, discolored with years. The paper felt coarse but fragile beneath my fingers and smelled of a dusty closet. The cover of the card showed a huge round yellow smiling face, the eternal grin of the 1970s. No text was written on the front, but when I opened the card, I saw the preprinted greeting: YOU MAKE ME SMILE. Scored in faded words beneath the kindliness was an ugly intimation: