A Secondhand Lie

by Pamela Crane

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said, unsure how emotionally fresh the loss was for the woman. “My name’s Landon Worthington. My father was the one arrested for robbing her house a little over twenty years ago.”

  “Uh-huh.” A curt nod accompanied her clipped reply.

  “Some recent developments revealed that he might not be the one who did it, so I’m just trying to find out who may have.”

  The woman chuckled and muttered a barely audible “good luck with that” under her breath.

  “I had hoped to ask Ruby some questions about that night, but it seems I’m too late.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you. And quite frankly, I don’t know if Aunt Ruby could’ve helped much anyways. She was going a little… senile in her old age. But just so you know, technically your dad—or whoever it was—didn’t rob the place. Nothing was missing, from what I heard. The idiot knocked over a vase—an original fifteenth-century Ming Dynasty vase, mind you—when he was bumbling around in the dark. That’s the only reason Aunt Ruby woke up in the first place—to find a million-dollar vase shattered to pieces. Any smart burglar would have been a little more careful. Regardless, nothing was stolen.”

  “Huh,” I mumbled, dumbfounded. Now, my dad wouldn’t know a priceless antique from an Ollie’s Bargain Outlet special, but clumsily knocking it over? Not even if he was blitzed was he that ungainly. Despite his temper outbursts, he was generally a high-functioning drunk.

  “And the guy who shot Aunt Ruby was a coward—no offense, her words,” she continued. “Aunt Ruby got herself a gun after her husband, Uncle Howie, died because she felt unsafe by herself in this big old house. Uncle Howie collected shotguns and had taught her to shoot, so she had always felt comfortable with ‘em. Got pretty good at it, and never went anywhere without her trusty pistol. She always joked about how she was a better shot than that joke of a burglar. As if he didn’t even know how to hold or fire a gun.”

  “Really?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, Aunt Ruby would tell the story at family gatherings of how the robber was fiddling with the safety when it went off—a total accident. And he was a klutz, tripping over things on his way out. Clearly a novice, and he actually apologized as he fled. She kind of felt bad for your dad all those years since she didn’t think he could be a real criminal based on—her words again—his piss-poor burglary skills.”

  An interesting—and humiliating—take on my dad, to say the least. Though, while Dad hadn’t owned a gun after I was born, he wasn’t a novice with them. He practically grew up on the shooting range, and hunting was a prerequisite to be considered a man in his family. I doubted a few years would have stripped him of fundamental gun handling competence.

  “Thanks, that actually helps a lot. The more I’m looking into this, the more I’m convinced it wasn’t my dad. I’m just glad your aunt survived the shooting and lived to laugh about it.”

  “Oh yeah, we all got a chuckle. My aunt was a tough bird. God broke the mold with Aunt Ruby. Ask the neighbors—especially Bob. After her accident, he really stepped up to help take care of her, and basically did so up until her death. He probably knows more about her life than her own family does. Can’t find neighbors like that anymore. Speaking of, you may want to ask him about that night. He was the only person who saw the getaway car, and probably the only neighbor who’s still around here.”

  She pointed his house out, sweeping a finger toward the red brick manse next door. I thanked her before exchanging a lighthearted good-bye, doubting Bob would be of any more help than what the police report offered, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt.

  **

  Five minutes later and about three hundred feet away, I stood face to face with a sixty-year-old version of Dwight Schrute from The Office. Friendly blue eyes peered out from behind 1980s-inspired silver wire-rimmed glasses, which lent him a bookish air. His greasy blond hair, shot through with streaks of gray, hung in his eyes, and he pushed it away as he greeted me warmly.

  I introduced myself and my purpose for stopping by, and to my surprise, Robert Dillon—his friends and family called him Bob—invited me in.

  “Thanks, Bob. A beautiful place you got here.” My eyes couldn’t help but widen with awe as I entered a marble-tiled entryway that led to a central staircase with a girth wide enough to fit three elephants side by side. Beyond the entrance was what appeared to be a living room I could play football in—if I had an athletic bone in my body, which I didn’t.

  “I feel like I was just ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door,’” I said with a forced laugh.

  He stared at me, stone-faced, until my bad Bob Dylan pun finally registered with Bob Dillon, then he suffered a grin.

  “Ah, I get it, you’re having a little fun with my name. Lots of folks do,” he said with a chuckle, then waved me to follow him to the living room.

  “Have a seat,” he offered.

  I accepted, sinking into the cushions and suddenly ready for a nap. How could upholstery so fancy also be so comfortable? At first glance, I had imagined the contemporary style to be stiff and rigid—also what I assumed most rich people to be like—but so far I had been proven wrong twice in one visit. Shame colored my cheeks as Bob offered me a beer.

  Ten minutes later we were chatting like two old college roomies, and when the mood felt comfortable, I segued into ancient history—the robbery he witnessed next door.

  He sighed. “Boy, that was a long time ago. Never thought I’d be revisiting that night again. But I’m happy to tell you what I remember…”

  Chapter 10

  1992

  Wednesday, February 12

  11:23 p.m.

  Ruby Parker had grown used to the low squeak of floorboards shifting at night. Even the thump in the living room downstairs could have been shrugged off as the whoomph of the heat pump kicking on this cold night. But the jarring sound of glass shattering—that was enough to wake Ruby from her usual shallow slumber as a news broadcast about a local Durham teacher droned on in the background of her bedroom.

  She glanced at the television as a picture of Jeremy Mason popped up in the corner and the news reporter elaborated on the breaking news of charges being pressed against the science teacher for child molestation. Turning away from the television, she slipped out of bed, her ears attentive.

  Ruby was a smart old gal, and she wasn’t about to announce her presence to what she assumed had to be an intruder. After donning her robe, she reached for her Smith & Wesson .22 tucked under the edge of her mattress and wordlessly tiptoed to the bedroom door and listened. Somebody bumbling around. The squeal of a chair scraping along her hardwood floor. A low grunt.

  It wasn’t the stealthiest of intruders.

  Pressing the gun to her thigh, she crept along the wall and decided to take a peek before shooting.

  Her nimble steps descended the stairs, then padded around the landing toward the living room, which brought her face-to-backside with a masked intruder. Using his gloved hand, he was bent over sweeping up shards of pottery from the floor—pieces of her very original and very valuable Ming vase.

  Of all the things in her house to break, he stumbled into the priceless one…

  Her sudden and emphatic “ahem” startled the mystery man, who bolted upright and pivoted around to face her in surprise. Tall and lean, he would have posed a fearsome threat, if only he didn’t seem so awkward as he staggered backward.

  In his right hand was a revolver, which she stared at with wide eyes. His gaze followed hers to his trembling hand, then slowly strayed to her much steadier hand where her own gun was firmly clenched… much more confidently than his own. With an apologetic “please don’t shoot me,” he fumbled with his piece, attempting to turn on the safety. Only, the fabric of his gloved fingers caught on the trigger, sending a shot into the room just as Ruby pivoted to shield her body with crossed arms.

  A split second later, pain from the bullet’s impact sent her to the floor, where she clutched the throb
bing flesh of her shoulder. She stared incredulously at the ragged hole in her robe and nightgown, then at the neat, precise hole in her skin that was starting to bubble with blood.

  “You ass!” she yelled. “You shot me!”

  “Oh my God!” he yelped. “Are you okay?” He ran to her side, and seeing that the bullet only caught her in the shoulder, he scampered to the front door like a scared rabbit. “I’m so sorry!” he called behind him as the door swung open, a burst of cold air marking his disappearance into the darkness.

  Ruby fought off her panic, willing herself to be calm.

  “You’re okay,” she whispered, eyeing the flesh wound. “Just a little scratch.”

  Although the blood seeping down her arm warned that it was more serious than that.

  She hoisted herself up and toward the open door, searching the street for a vehicle that might identify the intruder—a make, model, license plate number, anything at all. But there was no getaway car in sight, and the would-be burglar was long gone, apparently having escaped on foot.

  Nursing her injury with a makeshift dishtowel tourniquet, she headed to the rotary phone and began to dial.

  “What the hell just happened?” she murmured to herself as the line began to ring. She winced from the pain shooting across her shoulder. “And who was that masked man?” Ruby joked to herself, quoting the Lone Ranger, one of her deceased husband’s all-time favorite TV shows.

  Good ol’ Ruby—always able to find the humor in any situation.

  Chapter 11

  2014

  Except that’s not how Bob remembered it.

  History often rewrites itself based on who is doing the telling.

  Which doesn’t make things simple when trying to dig beneath the fiction to find the facts.

  “So you remember seeing my dad’s vehicle pull away from the house after you heard the gunshot?” I clarified with a heavy sigh as Bob finished recounting his long-ago memory.

  “That’s right, I definitely saw a car haul ass outta there,” Bob confirmed.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You didn’t see anybody flee on foot, just a car leaving the scene—a car with only one person inside, and no getaway driver?”

  “Yup. That’s about the size of it.”

  Skepticism squeezed my gut. I wondered how the assailant could flee the scene undetected after firing a gunshot in a ritzy neighborhood like this. According the police report Evan had showed me, no other neighbors saw the car… or saw anything, for that matter.

  My investigation was getting me nowhere closer to finding out who was behind it, or why. If it was indeed a random act, how did my dad’s name get mixed in with it? All the missing links were only running me into more question marks.

  “It just doesn’t add up. My dad knew how to handle a gun, and he’d have been smart enough not to drive his own car, I’m sure. I just wish I could help him. He’s innocent, and he’s lost a daughter and so much of his life over something I don’t think he did.”

  “Lost a daughter?” Bob asked.

  “Yeah, my sister was murdered around the same time of this robbery. In fact, we’re still trying to find her killer. I believe he may be responsible for other murders since then. It was a long time ago, but my dad was convicted of the robbery right after losing a daughter. I don’t know how he’s been able to survive what he’s been through. I just want to help clear him so that he can get whatever’s left of his life back before it’s all wasted.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I kind of lost a child too. Not nearly the same thing, but the most painful experience I’ve ever endured, regardless.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Bob shook his head, as if warding the buried memory away from pulling him into its grave. Silence reached up with skeletal fingers, clutching us both in a tense grip.

  “Just a really bad divorce after I lost my job many years ago. My ex thought I was unfit to be a father so she took the kids and headed across the country, pretty much making it impossible for me to see them. Back then, in the early nineties, the mother always got full rights. She bad-mouthed me to everyone so much my kids didn’t even want a relationship with me. It’s been twenty years since I heard from them. I try to keep tabs on them online, but what I can find isn’t much. I haven’t even met any of my grandkids…” His words trailed off to a hoarse whisper of regret that couldn’t capture the ache.

  “I hear divorces can get ugly…” I said empathetically, knowing how broken my own parents’ separation had left me and my sister.

  “You have no idea. I almost lost my house and went bankrupt over it. Only reason I survived was because of Ruby’s generosity. But my kids… I could never salvage a relationship with them no matter how much I tried.” He lowered his head and fell silent.

  “Is that why you helped Ruby so much after her injury?” I asked after a respectful moment.

  Recalled from his hellish reverie, Bob’s chin popped up defiantly. “What? Who told you that?” he asked guardedly.

  The sudden shift in tone didn’t escape my attention. He was clearly perturbed, but why? My suspicions piqued, I wanted to know more, but I’d need to probe deeper without scaring him off. “Ruby’s niece said you were kind enough to help her recover after the shooting, and pretty much ever since. That was nice of you.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess. It was the neighborly thing to do, right? I think maybe helping me with my debt was her way of thanking me after all the years.”

  Now, I wasn’t one to scrutinize why people did what they did, but it seemed awfully coincidental to me that Bob, out of the kindness of his oversized heart, would suddenly assist an old lady for years on end with no reward except the collective admiration of the neighborhood. My sixth sense—and years of trust issues—told me there was more to Bob’s story.

  “Wow, years of service with no payment? I only wish I could claim such nobility. You should be knighted,” I joked with a light chuckle, hoping to pull out more information.

  “Nah, nothing noble. I just had a lot of free time… jobless and all that.” With that, Bob slapped his thighs and rose from the couch, prompting me to do the same… without the answers I needed. “But clearly things worked out. I ended up starting my own company, and life ain’t too bad,” he continued with a shift toward the foyer.

  “Thanks for all your time,” I said, following him to the front door. “And I hope things with your kids work out. My dad never got that chance, but you never know what might happen. I’m clinging to that hope for my own family—that I free my dad and find my sister’s killer. My family’s been so destroyed, I need some kind of hope for justice, you know?”

  “Don’t we all want justice?” he asked. The hypothetical question lingered in the air as I thanked him again for his time and left, unsure where to go, what to do.

  A minute later I sat in my car replaying the conversation, wondering what secrets Bob clung to. Then again, apparently everyone I knew harbored secrets these days—my mom, my dad… perhaps Uncle Derek?

  With that thought tickling my mind, I pulled up my maps feature on my cell phone and typed in an address.

  It was time to pay Uncle Derek a visit.

  **

  Uncle Derek’s ramshackle house was an eyesore from the outside—requisite derelict car up on cement blocks in a front yard whose knee-high grass desperately needed cutting, rotting love seat and La-Z-Boy chair decorating the cattywampus front porch—and an assault on all the senses once you entered. The foul reek of mildew and B.O.—and maybe even an unflushed toilet—made me catch my breath. The outdated olive carpet, a shaggy 1970s relic, was raggedy and stained with God knows what, and there were jagged spider-webbed cracks all over the plaster walls, where Derek had likely vented his rage in one of his booze- or meth-fueled binges. Roaches as tame as housecats, and almost as big, to my wondering eyes, made themselves at home among the heaps of beer cans and takeout containers. I was surprised the city hadn’t condemned the place long ago.
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  “Hey, kiddo,” Uncle Derek greeted me. “Can I git you somethin’—a beer? Coffee?”

  “No thanks. I can’t stay long, but I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Everything a’right?” he said, grabbing a can of Coors before falling into the sofa with a groan. He patted the filthy cushion next to him and said, “Take a load off, kiddo.”

  “No thanks, I’ll stand.” There was no point beating around the bush. “I wanted to know if you remember anything about the robbery my dad’s doing time for.”

  He took a swig of beer, his eyes narrowing at me. “Why you askin’? That’s ancient history, son.”

  “I don’t think he did it, but I think someone close to him might have.”

  “You callin’ me out on that there crime?” he asked, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his bony knees that wobbled under the weight.

  By this point I was tired of the mental chess game. I knew the facts, and the facts pointed to the wiry, weaselly redneck sitting in front of me. “I know you owed money to some bad people. I also know the robbery was your idea. So please just tell me the truth, Uncle Derek. Did you let my dad take the fall for you?”

  Uncle Derek’s head bobbed slowly, as if assessing my motives. “Alls what you said is true. But your dad called it off, and…” he sighed heavily, then continued, “and I’m too chickenshit to pull off something like that by my lonesome.”

  It was the most sense Uncle Derek had ever spoken, and almost believable. That much was true—Uncle Derek was a coward. And the robbery was a solo endeavor. Even though it was an epic failure, I knew Uncle Derek. He’d never had the guts to take matters into his own hands… unless his life was endangered. Death was a pretty powerful motivator.