by Joan Opyr
“What was the story?” I asked.
“We kept it simple,” Emma said. “He left for Spokane. He never got there. Kate waited until the day after he was due back, and she reported him missing.” She looked at me, her gaze firm and unwavering. “If I had to do it over again, I’d do the same thing.”
“How did you know Frank wouldn’t report him missing? He was expecting him in Spokane.”
My mother shrugged. “We didn’t think that far ahead. Sometimes, you just get lucky. Frank was long gone. Someone in the assessor’s office noticed the money was missing about the same time they noticed Frank was. That was on Monday, July . . . what? The tenth, I think. Anyhow, within a week, the rumors were flying all over town. We couldn’t have guessed that people would link the disappearances, but we knew Frank wasn’t going to be calling the police to report anything. He’d stolen two hundred and fifty thousand of Lewis County’s dollars.”
“If Burt wasn’t going to Spokane to meet Frank . . .”
“He was going to meet someone else,” my mother said. “Someone who wasn’t all that eager to step forward and report that Burt was a no-show.”
“I think I know,” Sylvie said. “He was meeting Agnes. She said she saw his motorcycle that night at a rest stop on Highway 95.”
Neither my mother nor Kate seemed surprised by this.
“What about his motorcycle?” I asked.
Emma smiled ruefully. “You do think of everything, don’t you? How long have you known about this, or guessed about it, anyway?”
“About three weeks. What did you do with the motorcycle?”
“She rode it up to Spokane,” Kate said. “We waited until Sylvie was asleep. I put her in the back seat and followed in my car. When we came to a quiet, out-of-the-way bridge, we pushed it into the Spokane River.” She looked at my mother. “You were right about seeing Agnes.”
Emma nodded. “I thought so. I saw someone standing next to the bike when I looked out the men’s room door. It looked like her, and I wondered what she was doing there at four o’clock in the morning.”
“You were in the men’s room?” I said.
“Of course I was in the men’s room. I was supposed to be Burt. What would I have been doing in the ladies’ room? Agnes was on her way back from Spokane, thinking no doubt that Burt had stood her up. It’s a wonder she didn’t hang around—she was brazen enough. We were lucky she didn’t notice the car.”
“She did,” Kate said. Emma, Sylvie, and I all stared at her. “She told me about a week after I’d reported him missing. I made up a lie about having a fight and following him to Spokane. I said I thought he was having an affair, and that meeting Frank was just a sham.”
“What did she say?” Emma asked.
“She laughed. In her own way, I think she really did hate him.”
“Hmmph,” said my mother. “Funny way of showing it.”
“No,” Kate said slowly. “She doesn’t like me, but she’s my sister. I’m sure he picked her just to punish me. He probably thought it was funny. He can’t have been kind to her.”
“Did she say what she was doing at that rest stop in the middle of the night?” Sylvie asked.
“She said she was on her way home from Spokane. I didn’t ask questions. It was clear to her that I knew she and Burt were having an affair.”
I was no longer interested in the travails of Agnes. She made me sick. Against Sylvie’s objections, I pulled myself to a sitting position, resting my back against the pillows.
“So you shot him,” I said.
No one answered. Kate seemed stricken by a sudden pain, and my mother looked at the ceiling. Sylvie, who had been holding her mother’s hand, let it go now and came over to sit by me on the bed. I put my arm around her.
“No,” Kate said at last. “I didn’t. I meant to, but I didn’t. When he saw the gun, he charged at me. I panicked. He hit me, and I knocked the back of my head against the kitchen floor. I remember him grabbing my throat, just like he had Sylvie. Then I passed out. When I woke up, he was lying on his back in the kitchen doorway. Sylvie was sitting next to me, crying, and he was dead.”
“Then who . . .”
Kate and my mother both looked at Sylvie.
Ruth came and pronounced me bruised but not concussed. My ankle was also badly bruised, but likewise neither sprained nor broken. I couldn’t stop the Captain from calling the sheriff’s department, and that meant I had to answer a lot of questions about what had happened. They inspected the truck and then came back and tried to get me to blow into a Breathalyzer bag. This infuriated everyone, especially my mother.
Emma went home just after midnight. I convinced Kate and Sylvie to spend the night at Fort Sister. The Captain gave up her bed for them, but sometime in the night, Sylvie crept out and joined me upstairs. Though Tipper was asleep on the floor beside me and I had a hell of a headache, I was glad to have her close to me.
“I planned all of this just so you’d have to stay with me tonight,” I said.
She said, “Shut up, you fool,” and she kissed me.
I woke with a start just after seven in the morning.
“Oh fuck!”
Sylvie and Tipper both sat bolt upright.
“What?”
“The pages from the telephone book. I left them and the folder of newspaper clippings in the truck. And,” I turned to Sylvie, “all of that stuff from Reginald Brown. It’s on the front seat. What if the cops found it last night?”
“So?” Tipper said. “It’s just research. Your brother was a suspect. You’ve got a right to be curious.”
Sylvie and I exchanged significant looks.
“They’ll get the wrong idea,” I explained quickly. “And they’ll start looking somewhere they shouldn’t. I’ve got to know if they found it.”
“Well,” Tipper said, lying back down on the floor, “you don’t have to know right this minute. There’s nothing you can do about it, so why don’t you go back to sleep.”
“I’m getting up,” I said.
“Bil,” Sylvie laid a hand on my arm. “That’s not a good idea. I’ll walk out and check.” She stood up.
“Not by yourself, you won’t. I’m going with you.”
“I don’t want to fight with you, Bil.”
Tipper sat up and sighed heavily. “Who the hell can sleep with you two in the room? I’ll go.”
He shoved me back down roughly.
“Ouch.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” he said.
As soon as he’d gone down the stairs, I said, “Do you remember now?”
Sylvie shook her head. “I don’t remember anything, not yet, but I must have pulled the trigger, Bil. That’s what my mother and Emma think happened.”
“You were only six,” I began, but she shook her head.
“It’s okay, I don’t blame myself, maybe because I don’t remember it. I’m relieved to know that my mother didn’t kill him. My mother’s not a murderer.”
“And neither are you,” I said, forcing her to look at me. “I hope you know that.”
“I wanted him dead,” she said quietly. “I used to lie in my bed sometimes, listening to him fighting with my mother, and my whole body would shake. I thought if I could just concentrate hard enough, I could kill him by wishing.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never felt rage like that; I’d never had to. I pulled her close to me and stroked her hair. She said nothing for a few moments and then, “I wish I could remember.”
“No you don’t,” I murmured against her ear. “Please don’t think about it.”
“I don’t even remember waking up and going to sit by my mother.”
“You were terrified; you’ve blocked it all out.” I rested my hand on the thin, soft curve of her stomach. “It’ll come back to you soon enough, and when it does, I’ll be there.”
She laid her hand on top of mine. “If they’d reported it for what it was, even if there’d been a trial, it would all be over an
d done with now. It would all be in the past, and I could forget about it. I know they thought they were doing the right thing, but I wish . . .”
I said, “I think they thought that you’d been through enough, and that it would be better if he just disappeared. You do things when you’re upset and confused that you wouldn’t ordinarily do. Maybe if she’d been thinking clearly, your mother would have called the police, though they might not have believed that a six-year-old could have pulled the trigger. An overzealous prosecutor, a difficult sheriff, there were any number of things for your mother to be afraid of, and she’d been afraid for a very long time. And,” I added, “this is a small town.”
She looked at me, puzzled.
“People know everyone’s business here,” I said, “and they never forget anything. Your mother had to send you to a private school in Washington because people were whispering that your father ran off with another man.”
She said, “Imagine if they’d known that his own daughter killed him.”
It took Tipper half an hour to walk to the truck and back. Sylvie and I watched him cross the softball diamond from the bedroom window. I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to my neck.
“That’s a very nice impersonation of a person doing what she knows is good for her,” he said, flinging the door open, “but I saw you in the window. You’re impossible.”
“Did you find the folder?” I said, sitting up.
“It wasn’t there.”
“Then the cops have it.” Sylvie looked resigned.
Tipper shook his head, reached into his shirt, and pulled out his cell phone. He waved it at us for emphasis. “No, they don’t. I called them.”
“You what? What did you say?”
“What do you think I said? I asked them if they’d taken a folder out of your truck.”
“You . . .”
“Don’t be stupid, Bil—what could it hurt? If they had found the folder, the damage was already done. If they didn’t have it, why would it be suspicious to ask? I didn’t tell them what was in it. It might have been your homework, for all they knew.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said.
“So what we have now,” Tipper observed, “is a murderer with a folder full of photocopies.”
“And a 1966 copy of the Cowslipper. I’m going to be really popular with Sarah if I’ve lost a book that she’s checked out to herself.”
Chapter 30
I called Emma and told her that Tipper would be driving me home. I said good-bye to Kate, who was sitting on the living-room sofa, and to Captain Schwartz, who was sitting next to her. Howitzer Jane sat across the room in a rocking chair, pretending to read the newspaper while casting worried glances at the Captain and Kate. I said good-bye to her as well.
The Captain told me she’d keep an eye on Sylvie and Kate, and that she’d tow my truck back to her place. Cedar Tree knew something about bodywork, and the Captain was sure she wouldn’t mind taking a look at it.
The Radical Faeries were, of course, not yet awake. Sylvie walked me out to the car, where Tipper was already waiting behind the wheel with the engine running.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she asked.
“Of course I do, but I expect the whole family is there. I’d like to have them all sorted out before I bring you home for the first official visit.” Lowering my voice so Tipper wouldn’t hear, I said, “We’ll talk about everything this afternoon. Go take care of your mother.”
“And you take care of yours. Will you call when you’re done? I can come pick you up.”
“If my head feels better, I’ll just borrow Emma’s car. She owes me.”
I got into the car and rolled the window down. Sylvie leaned in and kissed me.
“Drive slowly,” she said. Tipper saluted, and she laughed. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours?”
I nodded. “I’m just putting in an appearance to show them all that I’m still alive. I’ll get out as soon as I’ve showered and changed.”
When we pulled in at home, all the cars were in the driveway.
Tipper said, “Shall I wait out here in case you need to make a fast getaway?”
“No, you go on home. I can handle them.”
He kissed me on the top of my head and waved good-bye.
Ruth, Sarah, and Emma were on the sofa, Hugh was in Archie Bunker, and Naomi sat in Edith. Sam was parked on the floor in front of my mother, and she was scratching his back.
“Here, Bil,” Hugh said, standing up. “Sit here.”
“Thanks.”
“You look okay,” Ruth said. “How do you feel?”
“I need a shower and some clean clothes, then I’ll be right as rain.”
“You should take it easy. Spend the day in bed, sleeping.”
“I can’t—I’ve got things to do.” I turned to look at Emma. “Can I borrow the car?”
“Of course,” she said, “but I think Ruth is right. You need to lie down today, not run all over the place like nothing’s the matter.”
“Can I have the keys?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“I need them now,” I insisted.
She shook her head, but she fished them out of her pocket and tossed them to me.
“Hugh,” I said, avoiding Emma’s eye. “If you were going to embezzle some money from a county office, how would you do it? I mean, where would you put it if you didn’t want to get caught? You couldn’t just deposit it into your own bank account.”
“I’m assuming this is hypothetical?”
I nodded.
“Well,” he took his pipe out of his front pocket and tapped the bowl against his palm, “It would depend on how much money was involved, where it had come from, and who might notice it was missing. You’d need to be someone or know someone with a lot of financial experience and resources, someone who knew how to hide money. That’s not all that rare; people hide money from the tax man every day.”
“Where would you hide it?”
“I’d hide it in my mattress,” he said, “but I’m not much of an embezzler. In a stock account, different bank accounts, dummy corporations, that sort of thing.”
I could feel Emma watching me.
“Thanks. Time for that shower,” I said, getting up.
Naomi cleared her throat. “One more thing. Granny called me. She wants everyone to know that she’ll no longer be working for Proposition One.”
“What prompted this change of heart?” Hugh asked. “Was she struck by lightning?”
“No such luck,” Emma complained.
“What she said was that she would never understand the gay lifestyle, but she didn’t believe in stoning people to death, particularly not members of her family.”
“Christ,” Emma said. “To her, gay-bashing is just bad manners.”
“I’ll settle for that,” I replied.
I drove carefully, though with little regard for the speed limit. I had planned to drive straight to Kate’s; instead, I took the turn off into town. Sylvie needed some time alone with her mother, and I thought I had a good idea of what had become of that folder. I pulled into Granny’s driveway just before eleven o’clock.
Granny’s car was there, an old, orange Volkswagen Beetle. She’d had it as long as I could remember. My grandmother was one of those drivers who caused accidents but never had one herself. She might drive out into a busy intersection without looking, create a five-car pile-up behind her, and cruise on as if nothing had happened.
I knocked on her door before walking in. This was standard practice in my family, and I was unlikely to disturb Granny in anything illicit, not at eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning. After last night’s debate, she might decide to skip church, but she wouldn’t miss having morning tea with her weirdo friend.
My grandmother’s house smelled strongly of old widow lady, a pungent combination of ancient carpet, slow-running drains, and boiled cabbage. I reeled a little in the doorway. However, I had a job to do, even if it re
quired breathing through my mouth. Sure enough, there were Granny and Helen sitting at the dining room table with a deck of playing cards laid out before them. Helen and her old lady friends—she might have been sitting in a field of lavender for all the notice she paid. I got myself a glass of iced tea and sat down at the table.
“We’re playing gin rummy,” Granny said. “Can I deal you a hand?”
“I prefer poker.”
Helen pointed at the bandage on my forehead. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Someone tried to kill me last night,” I answered nonchalantly. Her eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second. I turned back to my grandmother, who was shuffling the cards in her hand.
“You and your stories,” Granny said. “You were always making things up as a child. I told your mother it was just plain lying, but she said you were being creative. You know I never read fiction, only biography. Why would I want to read something someone else has made up? Millicent is always reading those trashy romance novels. I picked one up—it was pornographic, full of Venus mounds and men’s members and . . .”
“I get the picture,” I said. “I’m glad to see you’re your old self again, Granny. Naomi says you’re no longer working for Proposition One.”
The look Granny gave me was almost coherent. “I was very shocked last night. Imagine declaring that the Bible told you to kill people. It’s blasphemy.”
I shrugged. “It’s true.”
“Don’t argue with me, Wilhelmina. That’s your mother’s bad influence.”
“Sorry. Maybe I’ve got the wrong Bible.”
“It could be,” she said. “The Catholics have their own Bible, and then there’s that red-letter version. Your grandfather bought me one of those, but I refused to use it. That red lettering looked, well . . .”
“Satanic?” I suggested.
“I didn’t like to say it.”
“So,” I said, sipping my tea, “did you know that the man who died in Sam’s jail cell wasn’t Burt Wood after all? It was actually Frank Frost.”
“I heard a rumor,” Granny said, putting down her cards and gazing at me eagerly. “It hasn’t been in the newspaper yet.”