Idaho Code

by Joan Opyr

  “And that,” my mother said, “was exactly what they wanted to hear. For all intents and purposes, the case is now closed.”

  We all sat there, letting this sink in.

  “Wait,” Sylvie said quietly, “what about Frank? I want to know why you didn’t tell them it was him. After all this time, Mom, why did you tell such a dangerous lie?”

  Kate stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray and regarded her daughter seriously. “At first, it was because I panicked. Young asked me if I could identify the man, and without thinking I said, ‘Yes.’ Then I realized that he meant Burt, and I was confused and scared. That’s when I thought, why shouldn’t he be Burt? Frank didn’t have any living relatives. I didn’t know then that he’d been poisoned, or that he’d died in a jail cell with Sam. I didn’t know about any of that until afterwards, when it was too late.”

  “Sylvie,” she took her daughter’s hand and leaned forward until they were face to face, “I was selfish. I thought it would make things easier for us. If we finally had a corpse to bury in Cowslip Cemetery, then we’d be free. Your father was a bad man. I was sorry for the way things happened, but I wasn’t sorry that he was dead. I was relieved—God help me, I was glad. As it turned out, he still managed to blight our lives. We’ve spent nearly twenty years in a kind of limbo. I thought if I could just lay claim to being a widow, an obvious widow, then we could shut the door on Burt Wood and start talking freely to one another. I’m a lesbian who’s spent most of her life hiding behind rumors and lies, and I wanted to stop. One last big lie, and then it could all be over.”

  Sylvie had been staring down at her hands, wrapped tightly around her mother’s. Now she looked up. “It wasn’t the lies, I understood those. It was the fact that you never told me that the rumors about my father and Frank weren’t true. Being a widow isn’t the solution, Mom. You’ve got to be who you are, someone completely apart from my father. I’ve known for a long time that I was a lesbian, and I’ve known about you, but I could never talk about it. That made me feel more lonely than you can possibly imagine.”

  Kate stood up and reached out to her daughter, who embraced her without hesitation. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “I hope you’re taking notes,” I said to Emma.

  She looked shocked. “I’m not hugging you.”

  “I meant that you could learn to say you’re sorry once in a while. It wouldn’t kill you.”

  “I’ll consult my physician and get back to you.”

  Chapter 32

  The next day was beautiful, and the evening looked set to be fair as well. Tipper had invited us over to Fort Sister for a game of softball, and we’d managed to convince Kate to come along.

  Sylvie was in her bedroom changing clothes while her mother and I waited in the kitchen. Kate sat at the table, and I leaned against the counter next to the back door. My head was much better than it had been the day before, though for some reason, I felt dizzier when I sat down than when I stood up.

  “Was Frank gay?” I asked.

  Kate shook her head. “I don’t know; we never discussed it. I suspect he was more of an opportunist. Whatever his sexual orientation was, I just thought of him as greedy.”

  “Radix malorum cupiditas est.”

  Kate smiled. “The love of money is the root of all evil—high school Latin?” I nodded. She tapped herself on the chest with an index finger. “Catholic school. The one thing I can say with certainty is that Frank was a pathological liar. I remember him lying for no reason at all about things that didn’t really matter. He made up stories, and then he seemed to believe them. After Emmet Rutherford died, Frank told people that Millicent was paying him to have sex with her.” She laughed at the look on my face. “Millicent was more attractive thirty years ago.”

  “If you say so. Did anyone believe him?”

  “It didn’t matter if they believed him or not, they passed the stories on.”

  “No smoke without fire?”

  “Exactly.”

  The clock struck five.

  She said, “I wonder what’s keeping Sylvie.”

  “I’ll go check.” Before I could move, there was a knock on the back door.

  It was Fairfax. Kate frowned and got up to let him in. He looked a little the worse for wear. His hair was uncombed, and his clothes didn’t have their usual freshly pressed look. He walked in the door and right past me without seeming to notice that I was there.

  “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Be my guest,” Kate said. “We’re leaving in a few minutes, though.”

  He sat down heavily and licked his lips.

  “I think I’ll go upstairs now,” I said, excusing myself. He waved a hand at me.

  “Don’t bother. I’m sure none of this will come as a surprise to you.”

  I looked at Kate, who just shook her head. I had a feeling that my grenade had exploded, but I hadn’t expected this man, who seemed resigned and defeated before he’d even begun.

  He said, “I know that I’m not your favorite person, Kate, but neither of us wants to see Agnes hurt. I didn’t kill Frank, and I don’t know who did. I understand that you’ve been cleared. All of that was such a long time ago. Please, let it go.”

  “Fairfax,” Kate said seriously, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He looked at me. I just shrugged. Some of the life seemed to come back into him now, and his voice became animated. “But the other night at the cast party, you asked me about Frank. I thought you knew.”

  “So you did see him,” Kate said, her voice low and even. “I knew you had to be lying. You two were always hand in glove. I suppose he wanted money.”

  Fairfax looked nervous, but he said nothing.

  Kate went on, “So, why should I believe that you didn’t kill him?”

  “Because I didn’t.”

  I sat down at the table, not wanting to leave Kate alone with him. The long hairs he usually combed over his bald spot were hanging down loosely to one side, and his face was a nasty gray color. He was equal parts pitiful and disgusting. For a long moment, he stared at a spot on the wall behind Kate’s head, and then he turned to me. I noticed for the first time that his eyes were the same washed-out gray as his skin.

  “Then you must have done it,” he said. “You’re clever. You called the bank, gave the teller the right information, dug around in a few records that were none of your business. What do you care, Bil? Your brother is out of harm’s way, and I’m just a little man in a little bank in a little backwater town. I’m not innocent, but I think I’ve paid enough.”

  “I didn’t call the bank,” I began. Then I stopped. Reggie Brown called the bank; Reggie Brown dug around. And what if Fairfax had the folder from my truck?

  He waited for me to continue. I shook my head. In desperation, he turned back to Kate. “You should understand. We’ve both made mistakes. Tell her,” he said, pointing at me. “This is my life—it’s not a game.”

  “Boom,” I said suddenly. They both stared at me, and I continued, “You’re talking about embezzling, Fairfax. Sixteen years ago, you helped Frank park some stolen money from the county in some dummy bank accounts, possibly a dummy corporation. You aided and abetted. He paid you some percentage, but after four years of wild living and twelve years in a New York prison, he didn’t have anything left. So, he decided to hit you up for some hush money. Is that right?”

  He didn’t look away. “Someone has been poking around in my wife’s bank records, and,” he pointed at Kate, “in hers. It was someone who claimed to be with a brokerage firm. Lying about that sort of thing is a federal offense, Bil.”

  “Really?”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. “Really.”

  “Well,” I shrugged, “it wasn’t me. It takes a professional sleaze-bag to get that kind of information.”

  “Who was it, Bil?” he asked quietly, the menace now gone from his voice. “It wasn’t anyone from the sheriff’s department. They’d just get
a subpoena. Why would anyone else care?”

  I thought about trying to string him along, maybe extracting a complete confession, but I was no Reginald Brown. It was true that Fairfax Merwin was a crook. At that moment, however, he just looked like a sad old fuck-up.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I was just trying to clear my brother. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. If you say you didn’t kill Frank, then I believe you. The question now is who did? Someone ran Sylvie and me off the road two nights ago, and then they chased us through the woods with a crowbar. Whoever it was also stole a folder full of information off the front seat of my truck, information about Frank and Burt and you.”

  He scratched the palm of his left hand and stared at me. Kate, who had been watching in silence, lit a cigarette. Almost as an afterthought, she offered him one. He took it, sucking about half of it up in one long drag, and stubbing out the rest in the ashtray.

  “I wasn’t born rich,” he said. “I worked my way through college, and I worked my way up in the bank. Then, I married a rich girl. Her father hated me on sight, wouldn’t even give me a chance. When he died, he cut her out of his will with a thousand spite dollars. He left all the rest to her younger sister, Kate.”

  “I’ve made that up to her,” Kate said, her face tense. “I’ve given her twenty thousand a year for the past twenty years.”

  “In quarterly transfers,” I said.

  Kate looked at me. “How did you know that?”

  I shrugged. “I heard it from a hacker. I’ll explain later.”

  Fairfax went on as if neither of us had spoken. “You could have given us half then, not kept us on like a charity case. If I’d had two hundred thousand, I’d have a fortune now.” He paused and glared at her bitterly. “I’d be as rich as you are.”

  “I did what I thought was best,” she said.

  He laughed. “You didn’t like me any more than your father did. My wife’s family, the McAfees, are one of the first families of Cowslip,” he said to me, waving his hand in the air. “They’re the descendants of homesteaders. That’s all that counts for anything around here. The Merwins have a very distinguished pedigree, as a matter of fact. I’ve got ancestors who came over on the Mayflower.”

  “And gambled or drank away what little they brought with them,” Kate cut in. “No one cared about your family, Fairfax. It was you—you were the problem. You married my sister because you wanted money. When you didn’t get it, you became a crook. I’m tired of lying to save your feelings. If you want to know why I didn’t give my sister a lump sum, you’ll have to ask her.”

  “I know why you didn’t give it to her,” he said, angrily. “Because you’re greedy.”

  “I didn’t give it to her,” Kate said, her voice cold with fury, “because she asked me not to.”

  He slammed both hands down on the table, knocking the ashtray to the floor.

  “That’s a lie! If your father had known what you are . . .”

  “Don’t hesitate,” Kate said. “You can say lesbian. I am out now, and things are going to change around here. No more secrets. Agnes didn’t get the money because our father knew that was why you married her. Your failures are your own, Fairfax. You can’t blame them on me.”

  Beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he was breathing heavily. His cheeks, which had been so gray, were now flushed an angry purple. I waited for the explosion, but none came. Instead, he put his head in his hands and sobbed.

  Kate said, “How much did you get for hiding Frank’s money? Half? A quarter? Did you even get as much as you had to pay him later?”

  Fairfax didn’t answer. I felt someone move behind me. I’d been sitting with my back to the living room, and I turned around now, expecting to see Sylvie. She was there, but directly behind her stood Helen Merwin. I knew something was wrong. Sylvie caught my eye, and I followed her gaze down and back. It was then that I saw the gun in Helen’s hand.

  Kate caught sight of the pistol at the same time I did. “My god.”

  Helen ignored her. “Sit down,” she said, shoving Sylvie into the remaining kitchen chair.

  Fairfax shook his head slowly. “Helen, where did you get that?”

  “From your dresser, of course.”

  “But why?”

  “Why?” Helen said, as if the reason she was waving a gun around was self-evident. “I’ve done my best to keep you out of jail, and there you sit, telling them everything.”

  “Helen,” Fairfax said again. “What are you doing?”

  “You killed Frank. I’m keeping you from going to prison.”

  “But I didn’t kill him.”

  Helen just shook her head, as if she were talking to a deluded child. “Of course you did; there’s no one else. Frank was a blackmailer. You helped him with the embezzling, and he knew about Mother and Uncle Burt. I’ve figured it out, Dad. Mother doesn’t have the presence of mind to kill anyone, and besides, she’s too selfish to think of saving you.”

  Fairfax put his hands up in defeat, as if this wasn’t the first time she’d pointed a gun at him. I stared at Helen in amazement. It’s one thing to joke about someone being a lunatic; it’s another to know for certain.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked. “You can’t just shoot us.”

  She laughed. “Why not? Let’s see—that’s one, two, three lesbians. No great loss.”

  This would have been my moment to charge her, but I was no Captain Schwartz. I didn’t want to be shot. All I wanted was for Sylvie, Kate, and me to leave that kitchen alive. I thought about Sylvie and her karate lessons and hoped she wouldn’t do something stupid. I looked at her, trying silently to convey this. She inclined her head slightly but made no other sign.

  “Honey,” Fairfax said, “you have to listen to me. I did not kill Frank.”

  Helen smiled sadly. “You killed him just like you killed Uncle Burt. I saw him on Thursday, coming out of the bank, and when I heard he was dead, I knew what had happened. You don’t need to lie to me. Let me help you.”

  I was having a hard time looking anywhere but at the gun. When I did, I realized that everyone was staring at Fairfax. He licked his lips again.

  “You?” Kate said. “You killed Burt?”

  Fairfax didn’t answer. Helen was giving us a look of pure hatred, and the gun was shaking in her hand.

  “You were wrong,” she said to Kate. “He married my mother because he loved her. The poor fool still loves her, despite the fact that she never thinks of anyone but herself. You know she was meeting your husband for that July the Fourth weekend? At the time, I thought you must be an idiot. I was fourteen, and I could see what was going on. They were doing it right under your nose, in cars, in cheap hotels, in our living room. My mother is a drunken whore.”

  “Shut up,” Fairfax said.

  “What?”

  “Please,” he said, “don’t talk about your mother like that.”

  Helen closed her eyes, and still, none of us moved.

  “He came out here to confront your husband,” she held up the pistol, “and he brought this to help persuade him. When he got here, you were out cold on the kitchen floor, and you,” she pointed at Sylvie, “were lying on the kitchen table. My father thought you were both dead. When Uncle Burt walked through that kitchen door, he shot him. Imagine what he must have felt, thinking that my mother was planning to spend the weekend fucking a man who’d killed her own sister.”

  “Helen,” Kate said. “How do you know this?”

  “Because I was here. I hid on the floor behind the front seat of our car, and when he drove out here, I came with him. The same way I came out today.”

  No one said anything. The dogs were now barking, but no one paid them any mind. Fairfax was staring at the table, and Kate and Sylvie were looking at one another. I’d been praying for Captain Schwartz to come storming through the back door, guns blazing, but that was beginning to seem increasingly unlikely. In the end, she was just like every other survivalist
—her guns were only good for winning potatoes and turkeys.

  It was now or never. I stood up slowly. “Put the gun down, Helen. You’ve got the folder, go ahead and destroy it. It’s in our best interests to forget about this.”

  She laughed. “A budding psychologist—I’m so lucky that you’re here to talk me out of shooting you. You might even save me from the firing squad. You can get me some help, a good therapist, and everything will be fine. Sit down and shut up, Wilhelmina.”

  I sat down. As slowly and carefully as I could, I said, “You can’t shoot all of us, Helen. As soon as you’ve fired one bullet, the rest will be on you.”

  She gave me the same look now that she’d given me at my grandmother’s dining-room table.

  “Fine,” she said. “Why don’t I just shoot you?”

  It was then that my miracle arrived. The screen door flew open with a bang, and there she stood, five feet tall, a half-eaten hamburger in her hand and ketchup dripping down the front of her purple sweatshirt. Her voice exploded across the kitchen like a cannonball.

  “Put that gun down, Helen Merwin—you are not in a fucking movie!”

  In another second, my mother was across the room. She took the gun out of Helen’s hand, emptied the bullets into the trashcan, and handed the empty weapon to me.

  “Now,” she said, “who wants to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  After Fairfax took Helen away, I described the chain of events to my mother as best I could. She was still having trouble grasping the details.

  “Okay, I see how, but why?”

  “Agnes,” I said.

  “He was jealous?” My mother shook her head as if this were some alien emotion. “He just shot him dead and left him there on the kitchen floor? What did he think was going to happen?”

  “He didn’t know. You heard him—he went home, and he sat and waited. Agnes came back from Spokane and told some lie about where she’d been. He pretended to believe her. I’m sure he had a nasty couple of days, but the next thing he knew, Burt had been reported missing. Then, he started to wonder. Maybe Burt wasn’t really dead. Maybe someone else finished him off. I think he guessed what happened, and he just kept his mouth shut. When the rumors started flying about Frank and Burt, he did his best to fan them along. Once something becomes common knowledge, it’s nearly impossible to convince people that it isn’t true.”