Iced Under

by Barbara Ross

  Rose paused, reacting to my expression. “Some of it was race. Some of it was class. They could never quite grasp that though Mom’s father was a plumber, she’d graduated in the same Stanford Law class as their son. When my parents married, there was a complete break with dad’s parents. My father worked at the law firm with his father every day, but according to my mother, the two couples never spent any family time together and my grandparents never even met me until after Dad died. At that point, they reached out to us. Once she got a job, my mom worked long hours and they filled in the gaps. To me, they were nothing but loving grandparents.

  “I was nineteen when Mom died. Aneurysm. Dad’s parents became even more important then. Their house was the place I went on school breaks, where I spent my summers. They stepped in for my mother.”

  Rose had spent her college vacations at the home where Hugh had refused to go for his. “My mother had the impression Hugh’s parents were difficult,” I said. An understatement.

  “I have that perspective from my mother,” Rose agreed. “I’d love to believe I turned them around with my sheer adorableness, but I think what really happened is they mellowed. Losing two sons knocked the edges off them. I was their last chance, all they had left. They weren’t drinking by the time I remember them, either, which Mom said was a huge part of the problem.”

  “I can’t figure out why Hugh never mentioned you to my mom.”

  Her brow creased. “He didn’t? He was in prep school by the time I moved into his parents’ house, and he hardly ever came back to San Francisco. Maybe a toddler wasn’t important to a teenaged boy.” Her voice sounded regretful, or resentful, but she continued her story. “My grandfather died during my first year in medical school, my grandmother in my third year.” She paused. “They left their entire estate to me. On the one hand, I never had to worry about medical school debt. On the other, it was a lot of responsibility for someone no older than Tallulah, and a lot of loss to absorb in a compressed amount of time. I arranged my grandmother’s funeral and not long after set about cleaning out the house. I was going to have to sell it. Normal people can’t live in a place that big. The task was enormous. There was four generations of stuff, some of it quite valuable, and some of it total junk. I was fitting the work in between my studies and trying to spend a little time with my husband-to-be. It was going to take years to do the job.

  “One day as I worked a man showed up on the front stoop. He said his name was Hugh Morales and he had known my grandparents. He wondered if I needed help.” She put the final dish, a ceramic creamer, into the dish rack and took off the flowered apron she wore. “I recognized who he really was right away. This was more than twenty years ago. He still looked similar enough to all the photos of him around the house. But I didn’t say anything. I was afraid it would scare him off and I really, really needed the help. I had to get back to my studies. In the end, he arranged everything. Had all the pieces appraised. Auctioned the valuables off, gave the rest away. The house was gleaming when I turned it over to the realtor. Hugh never asked for payment, except for a few small items I knew had been his. My grandparents had never changed a thing in his room. Or my father’s. That’s what comes of having too much money and space.”

  “When did Hugh tell you who he really was?”

  “At some point, he figured out I knew, but he never said anything and neither did I. He never said the words to me until a few days ago.” As she talked she put away the dishes I’d dried with the easy knowledge of someone in a familiar kitchen. “He came to San Francisco every other year to visit with me and my family. He was a particular favorite of my son’s. And I would visit him whenever I came to Boston for a medical conference. Eventually, he introduced me to Marguerite and I got to know the others, Vivian and Tallulah.”

  “How did Hugh find them? The connection was generations back.”

  “As I understand it, Marguerite found him. She remembered her two much older half brothers, even though there’d been no contact in years. As a little girl, she’d been at Windsholme with them. She tracked down my grandparents and contacted my dad when he was at Harvard. This house became his home away from home here in Boston. He stayed with her whenever he didn’t go to San Francisco for school breaks, and through him Marguerite met Hugh.”

  A wave of emotion broke over me and threatened to pull me under. I was delighted to have found my mother’s relatives, but she would be devastated to learn about all this family life that had been going on without her. These people knew where she was all this time. Why had no one reached out?

  “Tell me about the others,” I asked, pushing down the feelings.

  “Marguerite is amazing. She fought in Spain against Franco and married a Spaniard.”

  I nodded. That part I knew from Floradale Thayer back at the Busman’s Harbor Historical Society.

  “She’s a little frail now at ninety-six, as you’d expect, but sharp as a tack. She still attends the ballet and the theater, even if she’s no longer on the board of every arts organization in the city. She reads every day. Knowing her has enriched my life so much. She’s taught me by example how to be old.”

  I felt a pang, thinking how much my mother’s life would have been enriched if she too had a chance to know Marguerite.

  “Tallulah’s a good kid, as far as I can see. She and Jake are students at Berklee College of Music, here in Boston. They have a cabaret act. She sings, he accompanies her on the piano. They’ve played in clubs locally and are supposed to do a small tour this summer.”

  Musicians. “Was anyone else in the family musical?”

  “The only one I know of was Hugh. He used to play that grand piano in the living room and the sound would fill the house. I loved listening to him.”

  “And Vivian?”

  “Vivian is Vivian. I’m not sure how Marguerite ended up with a daughter like her. The kindest thing I can say is that Vivian has all of the romanticism that drove Marguerite to Spain, and none of the practicality that got her back alive.”

  “Clive isn’t Tallulah’s father.” I stated it as a fact.

  “Not hardly. Tallulah’s father was husband number three. Clive’s auditioning for the role of number six. Or seven. Like I said, Vivian’s a romantic. She loves falling in love, but she doesn’t have much staying power afterward. Clive is a ‘tech executive.’” Rose didn’t have to do the gesture for me to pick up on the air quotes.

  “I used to be in the venture capital business, investing mostly in technology,” I said.

  “I know. I found you on the web, remember? But I wouldn’t spread that information around or you’ll have to listen to his awful investor presentation.”

  “You don’t like him.”

  “No one here does. Besides Vivian, of course. She’s besotted.”

  “Tell me about Paolo.”

  “He’s a hospice nurse. Marguerite hired him so Hugh could die at home. He’s been here a little more than two months. I met him when I came out in January, after the holidays. I don’t know how Marguerite found him, but he’s a caring and compassionate man, and an able nurse. A godsend.”

  “He seems really broken up about Hugh. You’d think someone who does hospice work would be more detached.”

  “Medical people feel all the feelings,” Rose responded. “Sometimes it’s better to process them.”

  I hesitated. “Rose, what did Hugh die from?”

  “Prostate cancer, very aggressive and very advanced by the time it was diagnosed.”

  We had sat down at the rough kitchen table after we’d finished the dishes. Rose gazed out the kitchen door and down the hallway.

  “What happened a few days ago, when Hugh told you who he was?” I asked.

  “He said, ‘Rose, I am your uncle,’” she answered, using Darth Vader’s voice.

  I laughed and said, “No, really.”

  “He was sick and weak, but certain of what he wanted to say. ‘As you’ve always suspected, I am your uncle, Hugh Morrow. I’m sayi
ng that name now, a name I haven’t used in decades, because I need to tell you, I’ve left you nothing except a token amount in my will. I don’t want any misunderstandings later.’ I said, ‘Hugh, how could you think I would ever object? I’ve been well provided for by my grandparents. In fact, in addition to my father’s half, I got the part of the estate that should have been yours. I’m just grateful that I’ve known you and you’ve been in my life and brought Marguerite and her family into it too. Otherwise, I would have been alone.’ And he said, ‘I knew you’d understand.’”

  I thought again of my mother, who wasn’t well provided for, and who was left all alone. “Rose, did you send my mother a package last week? Either at Hugh’s request or on your own initiative?”

  “A what?” Rose looked as blank as blank could be. Unless I very much misjudged her, she had no idea what I was asking her about.

  The clatter of footsteps came down the stairs. Jake stuck his head through the kitchen door. “Lawyer’s here. He’s got some other guy with him.”

  “Coming.” Rose stood. “Let’s get this done.”

  Chapter 16

  Rose, Jake, and I were the last ones into the living room. Everyone was in his or her place from the night before. Even Paolo Paolini stood against the back living room wall, though he wasn’t in scrubs. Instead he wore khakis and a long-sleeved plaid shirt, both crisply ironed. I sat in my chair from the night before too, like it had already become my accustomed place.

  Two men stood at the front of the room. The middle-aged one with the salt-and-pepper hair, wearing gold wire-rimmed glasses and an expensive-looking gray suit, was clearly the lawyer. The man beside him stared at each of us, as if memorizing our faces. His sport coat was shiny and the bottom of his pants had stains from the salt on the sidewalks. I wondered for a second if he might be a paralegal, but he emanated authority as he stood, stance wide, shoulders slightly back.

  Uh oh. I’d seen that look before. He was a cop, I was certain. I tensed, waiting for him to say something about a missing two-million-dollar necklace.

  The lawyer took a seat in the dining chair that had been positioned next to Marguerite’s. He cleared his throat. “I’m Adam Dickison, attorney for the deceased, Hugh Morales. I believe I know all of you, except . . .” He hesitated, looking at me.

  “Pardon our manners, Adam,” Marguerite said. “This is our cousin, Julia Snowden, Jacqueline’s daughter.”

  “Jacqueline Snowden,” Mr. Dickison repeated. “The bequest of personal items.” The other man’s head snapped around to stare at me.

  Mr. Dickison cleared his throat a second time. He seemed reluctant to say whatever it was he needed to say. Finally, he began. “I know you had planned to have a memorial reception tomorrow in a private room at the Harvard Club, followed the next day by cremation and interment of the ashes, as per Mr. Morales’s final instructions.” He paused. “I’m afraid the latter will not be possible.”

  “Why not?” Vivian’s cheeks glowed pink through layers of foundation and powder. “It’s already been announced. The arrangements were in the obituary in the Globe this morning.”

  The lawyer turned to the man in the shiny coat. “Detective.”

  The man nodded and spoke. “Detective Salinsky, Boston police, Homicide. You will not be able to inter Mr. Morales the day after tomorrow because his remains have been removed from the funeral home to the state medical examiner’s office.”

  No one said a word until, finally, Marguerite spoke. “Detective, what does this mean? My son was terminally ill.” Son? Hugh wasn’t Marguerite’s son. Marguerite continued. “He died a long, lingering, horrible death, as every person in this room will tell you. I was grateful he could be home to be with us until the end. There is nothing for your medical examiner to investigate.”

  Salinsky’s eyes softened. Who wouldn’t feel for a woman in her nineties who had lost her son? “I am sorry, Mrs. Morales, but the department received information from a confidential source that Mr. Morales’s death, though expected, was not a result of his illness, as you might have supposed. He was murdered.”

  Whoa. That wasn’t the news I’d expected the cop to deliver. I felt like my body had taken a swift elevator ride and left my stomach at the top of the shaft.

  In the back of the room, Paolo, who never seemed far from tears, pressed an eye with his wrist.

  On the piano bench, Tallulah began to sniffle, and said, “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand, either.” Vivian’s voice was harsh with vexation. “What confidential source?”

  “If I told you,” Salinsky replied in a more reasonable tone than the question deserved, “it wouldn’t be confidential.”

  “Perhaps you’d best tell us,” Marguerite said, “what the medical examiner found that has brought you here.”

  “I’m not able to disclose that yet. Officially, I don’t have final results. I’m here because the department didn’t want you to hear from the funeral home that the body had been removed, and to let you know cremation will not go on as scheduled. That is all I can say at this moment.”

  Attorney Dickison rose, his mouth turned down in discomfort. “I think, in the circumstances, we shouldn’t go on with our discussion of the details of Mr. Morales’s final wishes and the disbursement of his estate. You all know, except perhaps you, Ms. Snowden, the provisions of Mr. Morales’s final will. He and Marguerite owned the town house as joint tenants, so that passes directly to her. She also gets his savings, stocks, and bonds. He expressed a wish that these assets be used for the upkeep and running of the house so that Marguerite could remain here as long as she wishes.” He turned again to me. “Aside from small bequests of money to Vivian, Tallulah and Rose, he left his personal property, his books, and everything else to Jacqueline Snowden.”

  Dickison picked up his fat leather briefcase in one fluid motion. “I’ll let you digest this news and discuss how you want to proceed with the memorial reception.” He walked slowly toward the archway into the front hall, then turned. “If there is anything I can do, anything at all, you know where to reach me.”

  Detective Salinsky pulled out a handful of business cards and left them on the table next to Marguerite’s chair. “These cards have my direct line. Call me if you have any questions or concerns.”

  “Concerns?” Vivian tossed her blond hair. “Concerns? I am way past concerns. I am furious.”

  “I’m sorry for your trouble, ma’am,” Salinsky murmured.

  “Not nearly as sorry as you are going to be.”

  Rose showed the two men out. The moment the door shut, there was a babble of voices, everyone talking over everyone else.

  “Quiet!” Marguerite commanded. “They can hear you from the street.”

  “Who called the police?” Vivian demanded. “Which one of you brought them into this?”

  “It might not have been one of us,” Clive protested. “It could have been a colleague from work or one of his friends.” It surprised me that of all of them, he was the one who took on Vivian.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Vivian snapped. “They said their good-byes weeks ago. There have been no visitors in this house, except her.” She pointed at Rose.

  Did all the others live here? I hadn’t quite understood that.

  “Rose is not a visitor,” Marguerite said firmly. “She is family.”

  “This is all your fault.” Vivian turned on Paolo. “If you had been with him at the end, as you should have been, his death wouldn’t have been ‘unattended’ and we wouldn’t be in this situation now.”

  “I told you,” Paolo started, in a rolling Italian accent, “I stepped out for just a little while, thirty minutes only, to eat a late snack, and he went while I was gone. This is not uncommon with dying people. When they love you, they take the energy from you, they want to stay alive to please you. You had all come in to say good-bye that day. Rose was here at last. I believe he waited for her. He was done with what he had to do in this life, and when I
left him, he let go and slipped into the next one. He was a very sick man.”

  “Exactly.” Rose stood up. “Let’s hope the medical examiner turns up nothing.”

  “If that’s your hope, why did you call the police?” Vivian asked.

  “I didn’t,” Rose protested.

  Tallulah jumped to her feet from the piano bench. “Mummy, you are awful!” She burst into noisy sobs and rushed from the room. Jake ran out after her.

  Marguerite sighed. “Let’s be practical for the moment. Hugh’s obituary ran in the paper this morning. Shall we go ahead with his memorial reception at the Harvard Club tomorrow and let the chips fall as they may on the interment? If we want to change things, we have very little time to get a notice to the Globe.”

  “I say, keep the reception,” Rose said. “It’s only the cremation and burial that’s affected.”

  “Vivian?” Marguerite asked.

  “Yes, yes. No point in calling any more attention to this mess than necessary. Maybe it will all blow over.”

  From the back of the room, Paolo nodded his agreement, not that anyone had asked him.

  Marguerite turned toward me. “Julia, you’ll stay for the reception?”

  “Of course, she’ll stay,” Vivian said. “She wants to see what Hugh left her mother.”

  Marguerite glared at her daughter. “Vivian, that’s beneath you.”

  I didn’t think it was.

  Vivian glanced at her watch. “Sorry,” she mumbled, like a scolded child. “I have to go.” She left the room, Clive following wordlessly.

  “I’ll go to the deli and get some sandwiches to share,” Rose said. “We need milk and cream as well.”

  “Thank you, dear, for your thoughtfulness at this difficult time,” Marguerite said. Salinsky’s revelations seemed to have knocked the stuffing out of her. She looked every bit of her ninety-six years, and exhausted.