You Made Your Bed: A Novel

by Cornelia Goddin

  “Hello there, good afternoon,” she says to Scotty Franks. She betrays no puzzlement about the connection between this man and her son because she is not paying much, or any, attention to the individuals as they go through the receiving line.

  “Detective Scotty Franks. Berkeley Police Department. So sorry for your loss, ma’am,” says Franks. He shakes her hand, thinking it feels like a bird in his palm, a soft chickadee, dead and beginning to stiffen.

  “Thank you so much for coming,” said Lillian, her eyes already sliding to the next person in line.

  Caroline stands by the door to the terrace surrounded by high school friends. More trickle in, some crying, and she endures hug after hug, forcing herself not to check the time continually. Professor Ticknor shows up, Marecita is helping the caterers in the kitchen. Caroline notices Scotty Franks talking to her mother and grimaces, wondering who he is.

  Gordon holds court by the bar. A dark-skinned man in a white coat and black bow tie is mixing drinks, and Gordon is drinking whiskey neat while making people laugh, telling stories about Wilson that aren’t necessarily flattering.

  The Black Forest clock strikes the hour, and Caroline flinches, jerking her head as though being assaulted from above.

  Amory Porter steps off the elevator with Rebecca. Caroline sees them and stands up extra straight, her face stony. He’s wearing that same suit for the umpteenth time and she allows contempt to swell up, blotting out the jealousy she feels seeing Amory’s hand on Rebecca’s shoulder.

  Caroline wants cocaine in the worst way. She would settle for alcohol, for weed, anything to take her someplace other than where she is. It’s barely noon, she tells herself. You can keep it together for another few hours.

  The apartment is beautifully set up for entertaining; though the crowd is large and growing, there is room to move, and places to sit and talk more intimately. The head caterer catches Gordon’s eye, Gordon nods, and in moments a fleet of servers emerges from the kitchen carrying silver platters of hors d’oeuvres.

  The mourners feast on grilled baby lamb chops, figs stuffed with foie gras, artichokes with whipped goat cheese. The line at the bar gets long enough that Gordon asks the caterer to get another bartender in, on the double.

  Caroline is pleased to see Rebecca break away from Amory and disappear down the corridor with one of Wilson’s college pals. But instead of coming to her, Amory scans the room, looking for someone.

  A high school friend is saying, “I just remember that time on the roof? When Wilson moonwalked on the ledge? Caroline—”

  “Would you please shut up for one second?” she snaps.

  The group of high school friends, acquaintances really, steps back. A few of them leave in search of more baby lamb chops.

  Caroline sees Amory talking to Franks. Who is that, she thinks, tapping her finger against the hem of her dress. Sweat springs up around her hairline and she feels a drip trickle between her breasts. She watches the two men walk away, out of sight. She is frozen in place, short of breath, and has no idea what to do next.

  Franks makes his way through the room, listening to snatches of conversation as he goes, taking his time on his way to where Caroline is standing. He’s made a plan with Porter to meet at a bar after the memorial service is over. He chats with various mourners along the way, sharing with some of them that he was in Tilden Park just after Wilson was found. He enjoys their wide eyes and flustered reactions. It’s like they live in a world without death, he’s thinking, keeping an eye on Caroline.

  More than a few times, he catches her watching him. It feels awesome. She turns her back to him, pretending to be involved in conversation, but he knows she won’t be able to sustain it, she’s going to turn back around, check to see—yep, there it is. Their eyes meet. For Franks, it’s better than sex, watching her anxiety ramp up in obvious, telling ways. Those tapping fingers—Franks sees them. The way she takes a handkerchief and wipes her upper lip, then her neck—he sees those too. The brittle smile, more tapping, more sweating…he watches it all.

  “Please excuse me,” Caroline blurts to the group, interrupting another story about Wilson doing something he shouldn’t have. Forcing herself not to look in Franks’s direction, she moves quickly through the crowd, still not knowing what to do but desperate to get out from under the man’s gaze.

  Franks follows, his eyes bright.

  She passes the library and ducks into Lillian’s room. Franks comes in after her, leaving the door open.

  “Excuse me?” says Caroline, as haughtily as she can muster. “This is my mother’s room, it’s private.”

  Franks smiles amiably. “How’s this whole thing gonna work? I’ve only ever been to actual funerals. People gonna make speeches about your brother and all that?”

  Caroline looks down at him, literally, as she is several inches taller than the detective. She has a wild urge to shove this strange man as hard as she can, or wrestle him to the ground and kick him, but he is blocky and solid and she is not quite delusional enough to try it.

  “My father’s in charge,” she says, shifting her tone. “I don’t actually know what he has in mind. Glad you could make it, I’m Caroline, Wilson’s sister.” She holds out her hand and Franks shakes it, giving her a warm smile.

  “So sorry. Must be a quite a shock.”

  Caroline nods, and tears gather in the corners of her eyes which she delicately wipes with the handkerchief.

  She’s good, thinks Franks. Not everyone can summon up the waterworks on cue like that. ‘Course, maybe she’s sorry she killed him, that’s a possibility too. Not a stone sociopath, but more complicated.

  “I wonder, how many murderers go to their victim’s funerals? Think that’s a high number, Miss Crowe?”

  Blood drains from her face. Her red lips open but no words come out.

  I’ve got her, he thinks. He is about to push harder when Caroline suddenly rushes past him. She waves a hand in the air and heads straight into the crowd in the living room, Franks in pursuit.

  He’s a nobody, she’s trying to tell herself. Where’s Amory? Where’s Daddy?

  She takes her place by the terrace door. Natalie has arrived and is making her way over; Franks catches up and stands next to Caroline, a little too close.

  Caroline turns away to greet Natalie, leaving Franks to look out the window to the terrace, its bare trees in pots looking stark in the January sunshine. She looks around for Gordon but doesn’t see him.

  “We’ll talk later,” he says, into her ear.

  He sees the shudder, and smiles broadly.

  There’s something of a hush over the crowd. A low murmur punctuated by the occasional sob or cackle of laughter cut short. The line at the bar has diminished now that a second bartender is on duty; the servers keep coming out of the kitchen with their platters. The mourners are hungry and thirsty as Gordon knew they would be.

  Finally he judges it’s time to get underway. “Good afternoon,” Gordon says, raising his voice as he strides into the living room. He steps up on a small wooden box. The crowd quiets quickly. “Thank you all so much for being here, for supporting our family during this terrible time.” He pauses and bows his head. Everyone watches intently.

  “My son was everything to me,” he says, his voice cracking.

  Caroline tenses up. Her left eyelid twitches. Detective Franks is watching her without making any attempt to hide it.

  Gordon speaks for ten minutes, stopping several times to regain composure. He is eloquent and the audience is eating out of his hand by the end, which is no surprise at all to anyone who knows him. Franks is unhappily impressed.

  Some of Wilson’s college friends speak next, telling stories, making the crowd laugh. Then Rebecca steps up on the box.

  “I’m Rebecca, Wilson’s wife, for those of you I haven’t met.” She’s got mascara running down her cheeks and does not wipe it away. “He was the storyteller in the family so I’m not going to go down that road. I just wanted to say, same as
I did on our wedding day: I love you, Wilson. Wherever you are, wherever your spirit lives, what we mean to each other will never die. Thank you.”

  “Kind of a hippie, his wife?” Franks says to Caroline, who pretends not to hear him. “You gonna say a few words?” he asks. When she does not acknowledge his question, he puts a hand on her shoulder. “Miss Crowe,” he says, leaning closer.

  “Don’t touch me,” Caroline snarls.

  Franks’s eyes are merry. This young woman, this heiress, is teetering on the edge. If he could have an hour alone with her, he’d get a confession. Half an hour. Hell, he’d take a bet on twenty minutes. Her nerves are so frayed she’s about to snap like a frozen twig.

  “I guess it’d be awkward, you making a speech,” he says into her ear.

  Caroline has turned her body away but she is leaning her head in his direction, too afraid to miss what he says.

  “Back to what I asked you earlier. How many murderers go to their victims’ funerals, much less give a eulogy? What would you say, Miss Crowe—think that’s a big number?”

  “Excuse me. I have other people I need to talk to right now.”

  “Oh, I’m sure. No doubt you do. I’m a patient man, Miss Crowe. I’ll wait.”

  Caroline reaches a hand out to a high-backed chair to steady herself. She searches for Gordon and sees him across the room, looking right at her. But she can’t hold his glance.

  “Excuse me,” she says to Franks again, and makes her way through the crowd, not toward her father or with any destination in mind except for getting away from this horrible stocky man who won’t leave her alone. With every step she is chased by the jeerlings, whose cries are so piercing she can hear nothing else.

  70

  Gordon Crowe has not gotten where he is by being unwilling to face unpleasantness, or by hoping that crises will pass on their own. He does the necessary work, whatever it is, no matter what it costs, in order to be prepared.

  He catches a glimpse of Franks talking to Caroline and quickly pushes through the crowd. By the time he gets there, Caroline has gone off somewhere. “I’d like a quick word,” he says to the detective.

  “Mr. Crowe. I’m Scotty Franks, with the Berkeley Police. Sorry for your loss.”

  “This way,” says Gordon, and leads Franks to the library.

  Franks wants to wrap this up quickly and get back to Caroline.

  “Come in, Detective,” says Gordon, gesturing into the room and closing the door behind them.

  Franks hears the honey in his voice. He notices that the fabric of Crowe’s suit is suppler and more luxurious than any fabric he’s ever seen before. His fingers curl in and he straightens them again, then puts his hands in his pants pockets.

  “I’m always glad to welcome someone in law enforcement to my home,” says Gordon. “You’re the backbone of our society, Detective Franks, as you no doubt realize. I thank you for your service.”

  Franks nods, waiting to find out what angle the man is going to take once the flattery is finished.

  “I confess I’m confused about why you came all this way, though. My son’s case…is not ongoing. The Berkeley PD must have higher standards of etiquette than I’m used to.”

  He hates me, thinks Franks. Feeling’s mutual, buddy, believe me. Does he know what his daughter’s done, or just suspect it?

  “I’m good friends with your captain,” continues Gordon. “He was kind enough to let me know you were coming. So I had a chance, even in midst of all this, to find out a little bit about you. Such a dedicated man you are, Scotty Franks. A real credit to the Berkeley force, by all accounts.”

  Franks steps away and takes a brief glance around at the room. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books, neatly organized. A fire crackling in the fireplace with a brass fender in front, newly shined up. The whole place reeking of more money than God.

  “Thank you, sir,” says Franks, glancing at the view towards midtown. He can see the New York skyline just like in the movies, clear as a postcard. He’s itchy to get through Crowe’s bullshit and get back to the girl. He could have her in custody by the end of the day—it’s gonna take just a tap in the right place and she’ll shatter in a million pieces—he’s seen it before and he knows just where to strike the hammer.

  “Walter Carney,” says Crowe, folding his arms across his chest and leaning up against the polished mahogany desk.

  Scotty Franks keeps his eyes on the Pam Am building. “What about him?”

  “You were good friends, I gather.”

  “He was my partner for fifteen years. Yeah, we were friends.”

  “It’s not like I don’t understand. I’d have done the same thing in your place, I’m almost sure.”

  Franks feels a wave of nausea start to lap against his lower belly. “What are you talking about?”

  Crowe sighs. “No need to drag this out, Detective Franks. We’re both busy men. I’ll just say…I believe the penalties for lying in relation to pension payouts are rather severe?”

  “You threatening me?”

  “You could call it that, if you like. I want to make the situation absolutely clear. Stay away from my family. I don’t want to see you say another word to my daughter.”

  Franks has to stop himself from rushing the big man and putting his hands around his throat.

  “We understand each other?” says Crowe.

  Franks cannot make himself say yes, or nod, or give Crowe any kind of satisfaction.

  Nobody knows about what happened with Walter. Nobody else was there. How the fuck does Gordon Crowe know anything about it?

  1998. Working a murder, drug dealers like it usually was. Walter had been going through a tough time, had twins and a new baby, he started dabbling in a little of the evidence. So much of it coming through the station in those days, drug busts every day it seemed like. The situation with Walter—it hadn’t gotten really serious, Franks had thought, but he was lying to himself. And of course, Walter had hidden how bad it was, how much he was doing.

  They’d been canvassing in a crummy neighborhood, looking for witnesses. Walter was high. They got jumped, he fired some wild shots. Killed a grandmother sitting at a window across the street.

  “You don’t know fuck-all about Walter Carney,” says Franks, taking a bet he doesn’t like the odds of.

  “I know you took the heat for the killing of that old lady. I know you were suspended for recklessness and took the punishment without a peep. They’d just implemented mandatory drug and alcohol testing after a fatal shooting, isn’t that right? And you didn’t want your junkie partner to fail and lose his benefits. So generous of you, Detective Franks, I admire that. How long after that did Carney die, anyway? Overdose, no doubt?”

  For a long moment, Franks stands very still, hands still in his pocket, eyes on midtown.

  “Hate to have that pension snatched away from his widow at this point. And all those children. I’m sure the twins would be grateful, if they knew,” said Gordon. “Family is the most important thing, I think we both agree on that.” He gives Scotty a little pat on the shoulder on his way out.

  71

  Caroline

  I don’t know why I agreed to meet him, given my heart’s about to jump out of my chest and start sprinting down Park Avenue, thanks to that fucking creep Scotty Franks. Well, actually, I do know. Because refusing—that would look suspicious, wouldn’t it? Like I was afraid?

  I am afraid. All the time. Why do you think I cannot sleep?

  But Amory…he’s a person you want to say yes to somehow, even if I know in my heart he is as much a threat to me as that detective.

  I spot him waiting right where he said he would be, by the statue of Alice in Wonderland standing by a large mushroom(!) with her pals The White Rabbit and The Mad Hatter. A bronze Lewis Carroll, everyone’s favorite child molester, is right alongside.

  I take a moment to gaze at Amory before he knows I’m there.

  “Hey,” he says, seeing me and walking towa
rds. For a second I think he’s going to kiss me on the cheek and I pull back. Then wish I hadn’t.

  “Hey.” I have told myself to say as little as possible without seeming like a weirdo. No mistakes. Fantasies aside, I can’t forget for an instant that he is investigating a murder that I happen to have committed.

  “Want to sit? That must have been pretty awful to get through,” he says, putting his hand on my arm and steering me to a bench.

  I sit down. Yes, of course it was awful. Harrowing, actually. Mummy would never allow herself a public breakdown, but it was almost worse having her on six hundred Xanax or whatever she took to make certain decorum was observed at all times. And Gordon. Well. He was acting like an emcee at a variety show, shaking hands and making introductions, being the best damn mourner anyone had ever seen. You half-expected him to pull out a cane and a boater and do the old soft shoe in between remembrances.

  The California detective? When I think about him, the jeerlings come in like fighter jets, dive-bombing my head and pecking my ears ragged. I should be packing a bag and figuring out how to leave the country. Gordon says he’s taken care of it, but Gordon says a lot of things.

  I take a deep breath, the kind Wilson used to do so annoyingly, to try to calm myself. It’s a familiar spot, this row of benches along the now-empty sailboat pond, with mothers (actually nannies mostly) pushing strollers, and young kids tearing around in the shrubbery making a lot of racket.

  “We used to come here as kids, Wilson and me and whatever nanny of the moment,” I say. I look across the empty pond and can practically see Wilson careening along on his bike, threatening to mow down any pedestrians in his path. I want to sob for my brother. I feel emotion welling up from someplace so deep I’m not sure there’s going to be any stopping it once it starts.