by Amy Isaman
Physically, she healed. She moved from a walker to a cane by the end of the first week. But emotionally, she fell apart.
And I couldn’t leave until I knew she’d be okay. There was no way she’d leave her home now, especially because of Madi, who was having the hardest time of all. I tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t even look at me. She stayed in her room, crying. It was easier to blame me than her mother or brother which made me sad. After a week of my mother taking meals to her room, Madi ventured out. She started to ask me questions, wanting the details, and I shared what I could about what happened. I told stories about her mom when she was little. I tried to focus on how much Anne loved her, even though Anne’s love for Madi’s brother steered her so wrong.
Despite Brian’s attempts to get Madi to come home, she refused. So, she stayed with us. And I think she blamed her dad for her mother’s break. I offered to go to her house with her to get some clothes. She finally agreed, and when we went back, she packed her entire closet and desk and moved it all into her mother’s childhood room. From what she brought with her, it didn’t look like she had any intention of returning to her childhood home. She also refused to go back to school.
Chapter 28
WE SAT ON THE COUCH one afternoon a week after the arrest when Madi’s phone pinged with a text. “My brother’s on his way,” she said. “He says he wants to get the rest of it.” Madi looked up at me. “What does that mean?”
I glanced over at my mom who nodded slightly.
“Well, it means that we still have some of the gold. The cops only got probably half of it out of your mom’s car.”
Madi’s mouth fell open. “But how? Wasn’t it all in there? I thought she took it all when she found it in your room?”
I shook my head. “I guess she didn’t get it all.” I decided not to tell her that we took it back when Anne was running away from Brian. “There’s still some here. We can use it to help pay for your mom’s legal fees, for your college, your Grandma Ruth’s care, and the rest is for Carly and Kat.”
“Well, is Dad coming over?”
“You’ll have to ask Logan. I don’t know if he’s told your dad or not.”
“I hope not,” Madi muttered.
An hour later, Madi and Logan were on their hands and knees, sifting through the soft dirt of Mom’s crawlspace, searching for any coins that scattered when Logan dropped them down the hole.
Brian had not been invited.
They passed the coins up to me and Mom. She rinsed them off and stacked them on the bathroom counter.
“Madi, you can’t tell anyone about this,” Logan said for at least the tenth time.
“Oh, my God, I know. Who would I tell anyway? It’s not like I have any friends anymore.” She reached up and handed me another coin.
They stayed down there for another good hour, searching through the dirt. We had quite a pile by the time they decided they found it all.
Logan was quite the expert in coin valuation over the past four years, and between the two of us, we figured there was at least another two to three million sitting on my mother’s bathroom counter.
“Where are we going to keep this?” Madi asked. “And how do we turn it into money?”
“Well, first, we’re going to divide it in half and take half to Carly. The rest of it, we’re going to cash out super slowly like I have been to help pay for Mom and Grandma, and the rest of it will go to your college fund.”
“Can I have some now?” Madi reached for one of the coins and held it up, studying it.
“Why do you want some now?” Logan raised one eyebrow in her direction.
“California’s expensive. I’m going to live with Aunt Trish. Um, if that’s okay with her.” She glanced over at me.
“Oh, of course. I’d love to have you. And so would your cousins. But are you sure? I, well, I wasn’t expecting that.” At all. Madi refused to visit her mother, though I hoped we could maybe arrange a phone call or something.
“I’m sure.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I don’t really want to spend the last two years of high school as the girl whose mom is a murderer.” At that, her voice hitched, and she broke down sobbing. Logan awkwardly patted her back, and my Mom and I left to give them some space and time to talk.
♦♦♦
Logan came back to Elk Creek the Saturday morning that Madi and I were planning to head out. We met at Carly’s house.
Carly knelt on her pathway tending to her flowers when we pulled up. She stood and wiped her hands on her jeans.
“I was wondering if you’d stop by,” she said to Logan.
Logan reached into the back seat and grabbed a duffel bag. “I’m sorry for everything, Carly. We were trying to do the right thing.”
“By stealing from family? By not telling me how Alex died? Or that you were there?” Mike assured us that Alex was dead on the first roll of the 4-wheeler. His neck snapped, and he died instantly. There was nothing Logan could have done, other than be up front about what happened originally, which nobody really knew. Logan didn’t have any memory of the accident.
“Carly, I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t change anything, but Alex and I thought we were doing the right thing when we took the gold. Alex didn’t want Frank to gamble it all away. And my grandpa would have done the same thing. You know how they were. And if my parents got any of it, my mom would have spent it all.”
“Logan, you have no idea what they would have done with it,” Carly said, turning away and blinking back the tears that began to spill down her cheeks.
“I know. You’re right. We shouldn’t have done it. We pretty much figured that out within a week, but by then it was too late. And as for the accident, we were drunk. I don’t know who was driving. Believe me, if I could go back and change things, I would.”
“But you can’t, Logan. Nobody can bring him back. But I do have a question, why was he drunk? Alex didn’t drink.”
“Well, he did. We weren’t part of the hard-core partying crowd, but we weren’t perfect. And, after we took the gold, we both felt pretty guilty. We didn’t realize how bad everyone would take it. We both started partying more after that.”
“You taking it? It ruined them, in so many ways,” Carly said quietly. “And Alex dying, that ruined me.”
“I know. We both figured that out after we took it. And I’m sorry.” He set the duffel bag on the ground at her feet. “This is for you and Kat. The cops didn’t get it all, but they don’t know that. You’ve been getting half for years. That’s how Frank paid off the rig, your car, and I think even the house. Alex would give Frank coins before he left on long hauls. Alex would give him notes with specific shops to cash in coins at and instructions on what to pay off. Frank would send copies of the payoff receipts to an anonymous email account if he wanted any more gold. And as soon as he did that, Alex would give him another coin.”
At that Carly laughed. “Damn that kid knew his father.”
“He did. And I kept it up after Alex died. I didn’t know what else to do.” Logan nodded at the bag at her feet. “There’s the rest of it. Minus what’s in police custody. But you should get that, too, when this is all over.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I suppose you’re going to tell me not to spend it all in one place or something. That’s what Alex would have said.”
“Yeah. He would have, but honestly, I don’t give a shit what you do with it or where you spend it. It’s yours. And I’d give anything to have Alex or Frank back rather than that gold.”
“Did you give the rest to Del?”
“No, I’m going to keep doing what I’ve already been doing. I’ve been paying for all of my Grandma’s care with it. I set that up with the administrator at the care place. Grandpa used the money from their original haul to pay for a lot of her care. Now he thinks the insurance is paying for most of it. He only pays a few hundred a month. I pay the rest, so I kept enough to cover that. It’s just easier that way. And I gave a chunk to Tricia to help
with my sister’s college.”
“So, none for your Dad or Mom?”
“Well, I’ll help out with my mom’s legal fees, and I suppose they’ll get whatever’s left when my grandpa goes, but no. I’m not giving them a reward. Not after what my mom’s done. And my dad too. There’s a reason I don’t come back here. He’s, well, you know how he is.”
Carly nodded. “Yeah. I’m aware. And I owe you an apology too. For, all of that.” Carly glanced at the car where Madi sat watching her. “I’m sorry, too. When Alex died, your dad, well, I didn’t have anyone, especially Frank. And I made a big mistake there. I know what it’s like to regret, Logan. That was wrong.”
Madi looked down and wiped tears from her cheeks. Brian and Carly had for sure been a thing. I wondered how much that contributed to my sister’s rage. Probably a lot.
Carly turned to me. “Thanks. For finding this. And figuring it all out.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. “It wasn’t part of the plan when I got here. I hate that my sister’s in prison, and I pretty much put her there.”
Carly stared up at the tops of the trees. “No, you didn’t put her there. She did that. You just happened to find Frank. And it’s better that she’s there than in the ground with Frank and Alex. She’s alive. I’d rather they were here, but at least now I know what happened to them.” Carly picked up the duffel bag. “You know, when Alex died, I felt like I lost you too. I always thought of you as my second son.”
Logan nodded, silently. “I know. I’m sorry. There’s no excuse. When I sobered up and realized what happened, I was so scared. I didn’t know what to do, and my mom, she told me I’d ruin my life and hers if I said anything, so I stayed silent and didn’t do one damn thing. I felt so bad, I couldn’t come see you. And then, well, all the rest happened. I’m sorry, Carly.”
“Well, we can’t change anything. Logan, I hate to admit it, but I’d like one of my boys back. And Kat would like that too.”
“My mom used to be a good person, or she tried. She cracked when she found out about you and my dad. Alex and I destroyed everything when we took the gold, and her killing Frank wasn’t just about the gold. It was to get back at you for my Dad. She says she did it to protect me, but that wasn’t it at all. It was about getting even. You know, I’ll be back to visit my Grams, but after she goes, I won’t ever come back here. Ever. But,” he paused and stared off, “I’d like to see you and Kat if you ever come to Boise.”
“I’ll bring her as soon as I can. I’ll text you,” she said as she took a few strides toward him and wrapped her arms around him. They both began sobbing. So much loss. So much unnecessary loss. I leaned against the car and swiped at my own tears.
Finally, Logan dropped his arms and came over to give me and Madi hugs.
“I guess you won’t be back in Idaho much either, will you Aunt Trish?”
“Oh, I’ll be here for my mom and whenever your sister wants to come back for a visit, but other than that, I’m like you. Not a lot to bring me back here.”
He patted my back before giving his sister an extended hug.
We climbed into my rental car and followed Logan down the dirt driveway to the street. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, Carly stood and watched us go, standing right in front of her iris flowers. I’d thought of digging up that bed when I first visited her. But the gold had been in my backyard the whole time. I laughed at the irony.
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About the Author
Amy Isaman has always loved stories and history, and she’s combined both of these loves in her fiction with historical elements playing key roles in contemporary stories. Cold Hard Cache is her third novel, and the second in the Tricia Seaver mystery series.
The Overlander’s Daughter is her first novel. It has a dual-timeline narrative with two women who lived 150 years apart but share a quilt.
Amy lives in rural Nevada and is married to her beloved high school sweetheart with whom she’s raised their amazing but not-so-little-anymore son and daughter.
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Also by Amy Isaman
The Overlander’s Series
The Overlander’s Daughter
Tricia Seaver Mystery Series
In the Cards (book 1)
Cold Hard Cache (book 2)
Read on for an excerpt of The Overlander’s Daughter
Chapter 1
I HAVE BEEN TO visit Agnes over a thousand times, but never to a place like this. I hug the ancient quilt she insisted I bring close to my chest, my steps slow and measured through the lobby. Despite the Manor’s somewhat desperate advertising showing exuberant senior citizens, this is a place people come to die, not live, and I wonder what her room in this living morgue will look like. Eighty-nine or not, Agnes isn’t ready to die, and I’m not ready for her to leave either. I’ve already lost one family. She’s it, all I have left. And she should be next door, where I can run over for quick visit and check in on her. But, not surprisingly, her witch of a daughter didn’t ask for my opinion when she moved Agnes.
The receptionist hands me the clipboard to sign-in, then points me to her room, 141. I feel like I should be tiptoeing down the elegant hallway. For Agnes’ sake, I hope there’s more life than death here, but it doesn’t feel that way. Golden, gilt-framed pictures hang above tables claimed by giant sprays of silk flowers, like some sort of morbid funeral display. The color palette is soft: lavender, pale green, light blue. Nothing harsh or ugly that might in some way offend the senses, but also nothing to make it feel homey. Agnes’ house is filled to the brim with knick-knacks displayed on crocheted doilies, not huge fake bouquets.
I knock on her door. No response, so I gently push it open. Agnes sits in a giant recliner. Even though she’s tall, almost five foot eight and towers about six inches over me, the chair dwarfs her, and for the first time I can see her age. She looks frail, but I’ve never thought of her as old…until right now.
She’s dozing, her chin resting softly on her chest. Her white hair has thinned and looks especially wispy today, but she’s dressed, even if it is in one of her hideous color coordinated sweat suits she loves so much. This one is bright turquoise with purple trim.
“Agnes?” I whisper. I set the quilt down on the coffee table, perch on the edge of the loveseat, and gently rest my hand on hers. Her skin feels paper thin, loose with wrinkles, and covered with dark blue veins, a sharp contrast to the taut, pink skin on my twenty-four-year-old hands. “Agnes, it’s Harper. I brought your quilt, the old one from your cedar chest.”
She sighs softly and opens her eyes, tensing as she tries to orient herself. Confusion clouds her eyes, and I wonder if they would notice if I kidnapped her and took her home, where she at least knows where she is when she wakes. I squeeze her hand softly. Without speaking, she surveys her room, a small studio, with a twin bed up against the wall, her chair and loveseat in the middle, a TV and a few shelves with some of her favorite mementos and photos. I wonder when she last slept in a twin bed, and shake my head. Couldn’t her daughter even get her a real apartment? With a kitchen, a bedroom, and a normal size bed?
My heart breaks a little more with each passing second. She seems so small, so lost, trying to get her bearings. She lived in her old house for sixty years, and now…this. Finally, her eyes meet mine and she places her other hand over our entwined fingers, squeezing and creating a hand sandwich with mine in the middle. “I brought your quilt,” I repeat and withdraw my hand.
I stand and pick it off the coffee table. The worn
fibers are rough yet yielding against my fingertips as I unfold the material and prepare to shake it out.
She sits up straighter and eyes the quilt. “Gently, now. It’s old!” She orders me, her voice sounding strong.
“Are you gonna let me do this?” I retort, lifting one eyebrow, but relieved that she at least sounds like herself.
She glares at me as I gently lay her quilt across her knees, but her eyes constantly flick toward the colors on her lap. I try to smooth out one of the fold creases as I spread it over her, but it seems permanent. Agnes runs her fingers across the flowery center design, and her entire body melts under the material.
The quilt is old. Ancient old. The cream colored fabric is yellowed in some spots, and some hues have faded, but patterns of squares and the triangles of color somehow seem to dance across the surface. A large middle square has some sort of flower design sewn onto its top. A large star and a whole bunch of different brown, green, blue and pink blocks surround it. When I squint at it, I can barely see tiny, washed out signatures in the corners of some, but the writing has faded to almost nothing.
“Who made this, Agnes? It’s amazing.” I don’t have an artistic cell in my body when it comes to creating anything visually appealing, but even I can tell this took a ton of work to create—and way more time than I’d ever have. I’d probably get one or two tiny triangles cut out before I got bored, gave up and moved onto something else.
“My great-grandmother made it when she was sixteen years old. She … Her name was …” A familiar crease forms across her brow, and I try not to show sympathy. Though she sometimes forgets words, she hasn’t yet forgotten who she is. “Damn.” She sits up straight, holding herself almost regally, then she lifts her chin and studies the ceiling as if the name is written there—except her eyes are closed as she thinks. “It’s . . .”