by Jan Burke
I stayed with Claire and her aunt and sister throughout the rest of the ceremonies, even through the brief and subdued gathering at the Watterson home. During that time, her aunt would simply suggest something and add “won’t you?” and I’d follow along.
I had balked at one point. Claire had been seated at the graveside. Out of Claire’s earshot, Aunt Emeline encouraged me to sit next to her niece. This seemed to me a place for family or very good friends of the deceased.
“Please,” I protested, “there must be someone who was closer to Ben, or who is closer to Claire.”
She eyed me for a moment, then said, “Sugar, sometimes after a man dies, he just pulls the ladder right down with him.”
“The ladder?”
“All those people who were climbing up after him are brought low. You know, like the Bible says, ‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased; and he that humbleth himself shall be exalted.’”
“Still — some of these people truly were his friends.”
She nodded. “Yes, sugar, they were. But she’s the one that’s living now, not Ben. And of all those friends of his, wasn’t a one of them happened to be there with her on the night he died. You were. Come sit by her now, won’t you?”
IN THE WATTERSON HOUSE, Claire said little more than “thank you” or, “yes, a shock” to her guests, who generally took the hint fairly quickly. Even Alana left early on. When I mentioned leaving, I was “won’t you”-ed into staying by Aunt Emeline.
When only the three of us remained in the house, Aunt Emeline brought a silver tray into the room where I sat with Claire, the study where Ben had left his note. The tray held strong black coffee in two fragile white cups. Emeline set it down and left, closing the door behind her.
Obviously, plans had been laid between the two of them to keep me there after the others had left. I waited.
Claire took her cup and stood, idly touching the spines of the books with her long, graceful fingers. “I’m glad it didn’t rain,” she said.
“Me, too. It was even a little warmer today.”
“Not much.” She stopped touching the books. “Not much.” She looked over at me. “I’ve imposed upon you all day.”
“Not at all. If it helped you in any way, I’m glad.”
“It did. I — I still need your help.”
“Like I said, glad to offer any help I can.”
“You can say no. I would understand. You may even feel angry with me…”
“Claire, ask.”
She nodded, and sipped her coffee.
I waited.
“I need — I need to understand why this happened. As much as I will ever understand it.”
“Of course. But I’m not sure I’m the best person to—”
“Forgive me. I’m not making myself clear.” She sat down, drew a steadying breath, and said, “I want you to contact your old friend.”
“My old friend?”
“Lucas Monroe.”
I was dumbstruck.
“That night…” she went on haltingly. “The night of the meeting — the night when Ben — when Ben died. You were talking about him. About Lucas Monroe. That’s why I asked you about him when we were in the car. On the way out, I overheard people saying that Roberta had seen him — and you had seen him, too. I could go to Roberta, perhaps, but—” She shrugged. “Roberta means well, but — I always feel as if she’s trying to make a project out of me.”
“I know what you mean,” I said. “I’m sure there’s some psychological diagnostic term for people who have her problem. Theraputis Interminus.”
That earned a small smile, the first I’d seen from her in some time.
“So why do you need to talk to Lucas?” I asked. “What does he have to do with Ben?”
She walked over to the desk and opened a drawer. She pulled out two envelopes.
She handed one to me. “This arrived in Ben’s office about two weeks before he died. He brought it home the day he told me he wanted to retire.”
It was a plain envelope postmarked from Riverside, with a typewritten address to Mr. Ben Watterson, President, Bank of Las Piernas. Although it had been sent to Ben at the bank, it was marked “personal and confidential.”
It contained a single black-and-white photograph. I saw the back side of the photo first. “Be in touch soon” was inscribed in a delicate handwriting. I turned the photo over.
A young African American man was smiling proudly, holding an oversized check — the type that are mocked-up for publicity shots. Ben Watterson was also smiling, his arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Bank of Las Piernas Scholarship Fund” was printed at the top of the check, which was signed by Ben. The date was June 1, 1969. The amount was $2,500. The payee was the young man — Lucas Monroe.
11
THE ENVELOPE WAS addressed to Ben’s office,” I said. “How did you get this?”
“Ben was in here one night, staring at it. He seemed unsettled. I asked him about it, and he said, ‘Oh, this is just a young man who won a scholarship from the bank a long time ago. Probably wants to see me about a job.’ There was a fire in the fireplace that night, and he reached over as if he were going to burn the photograph. That time, I was able to stop him.”
She looked over to the fireplace, as if she could still see Ben reaching toward it. That blessed numbness of hers seemed to give way a little. She closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a trembling hand, as if her emotions were right there, right at her lips, being held in by the pressure of her fingers. But after a moment or two, she drew in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and dropped her hand. Although her voice was a little less steady than before, she went on.
“I took it from Ben, and told him that it looked like someone had saved that photograph for a long time, and that he ought to return it. After all, there was the note, ‘Be in touch soon.’”
“You said, ‘that time.’ What did you mean?”
“There were at least two pictures sent to Ben by this Lucas Monroe.” She handed me the second envelope, postmarked the day after the first one.
It was empty.
“Do you know what was in it?” I asked, turning it over in my hand.
“Yes. A color photocopy.”
A color photocopy. Andre Selman, who had certainly known Lucas, had recently received one, too. “A photocopy of what?”
“Some people on a boat. I only saw part of the page, and only for a few seconds. Ben succeeded in burning that one.”
“Did he say why?”
“No. Just that it was something someone had sent him to remind him of old times. He said it was a picture of our old boat. But I didn’t actually get a good look at it, so maybe that wasn’t true.”
“Was he in the habit of burning papers he didn’t need?”
She shook her head. “No, in fact, I think he was embarrassed when I caught him burning that one. He shoved the envelope into his desk drawer and tried to change the subject. I was mildly curious, but knowing how much Ben hated boats, it didn’t surprise me that he burned a picture of one.”
“Hated boats? I thought you just said you owned one.”
“For a time. Ben became completely disenchanted with it — in fact, he never went out in any kind of boat after we sold that one to Andre. That was years ago.”
“Andre Selman?”
“Yes. Anyway, knowing how he felt about being out on the water, you can understand why I didn’t question him when he burned the photocopy. It didn’t seem important at the time.” She closed her eyes, then added in a shaky voice, “Famous last words, right?”
I decided to keep the discussion on neutral ground. “Nothing else in the envelope?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think so. But maybe there was — maybe something was in it before he showed it to me, before he came home with it. All I know is, when Ben received these letters, something started eating at him. He started talking about retiring, about getting away from Las Piernas all together.”
“Ben talked about leaving Las Piernas?”
“Yes. Unbelievable, isn’t it? Things only got worse from there. I should have tried to get him to talk to me more. I should have seen this coming. Looking back—”
“Looking back is useless. I remember what you said to me on the ride home, Claire. You had been trying to get him to talk to you. He wouldn’t.”
She bit her lower lip, hard. “I think Ben was being blackmailed,” she said. “I think he was being blackmailed by your friend Lucas Monroe.”
“Hold on, Claire. I admit there are some suspicious circumstances here—”
“Suspicious! I would say so!”
“Please hear me out.”
“Ben…” She was shaking now. The tears started flowing. I stood up and reached out to her. She could have turned from me, but perhaps because I had been in this house with her the last time this happened, she let me hold her while she cried.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.
“It’s okay.”
She pulled some tissues out of a pocket and tried to dry her face, the tears continuing to thwart the effort. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “it wasn’t fair to call him your friend. You told me you haven’t seen him in years.”
“Uh… that’s not exactly true.”
That stopped the tears. She looked at me over the tissue.
“I saw Lucas. I just didn’t know it was Lucas when I saw him. And I want to believe that I am still his friend.”
“You aren’t making any sense.”
“No,” I agreed. I briefly told her the story of my encounter with Lucas, and of Roberta’s conversations with me at the Cliffside and in the church. “I want to hear Lucas’s side of all of this before I jump to any conclusions. There’s a logical explanation for his contact with Ben.” And Andre, I added silently. “Lucas is trying to straighten out his life. He’s probably looking for a job. Ben is obviously someone who knew him in better days.”
“I understand you want to feel compassion for him,” Claire said slowly. “You’re a compassionate person. But—”
“Claire, please don’t go into a lecture about alcoholics and what a hopeless sap I’m being. I got that one from Roberta. But think about it as calmly as you can. Please just try to do that. There are so many unanswered questions about Ben — and about Lucas Monroe. You said you wanted to try to understand what happened to Ben. Did you mean it?”
She nodded, fighting tears again.
Her struggle got to me. “As I said earlier, Claire — perhaps I’m not the person you need to talk to about this. You may not want to trust my judgment on something like this.”
“No, you’re wrong. I trust you,” she said. “That’s why I came to you for help. But I’m trusting you to be fair, Irene. If you discover that Lucas Monroe is guilty of blackmailing my husband…”
“I can’t be his judge and jury. But if I find proof that he was blackmailing Ben, then I’ll admit I was wrong about him. It will be a matter for the police at that point. Are we agreed?”
“Yes.” She looked away for a moment, then said, “I have to do something anyway, don’t you see? Ben’s reputation meant everything to him. The things that are being said about him now…” Her voice trailed off.
“Look, nothing can stop that entirely. I’ll be blunt. Here in Las Piernas, Ben was too rich and too powerful to be ignored when he was alive — and he won’t be ignored in death.”
“Of course not,” she said, the numbness coming back. “So what should we do next?”
“Let’s go over what we have so far. Let’s start with the photocopy. You said there was a group of people on the boat. Did you recognize any of them?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t get to look at it, really. I might have recognized them if I had been able to catch more than a glimpse of it. I have an impression of a group of men, but that’s all. There could have been a woman in the picture. I’m not sure.”
“Did Ben take other people out in the boat very often?”
“It was a long time ago…”
“Try to remember.”
“Well, yes, lots of people.”
“Anyone who went out on it often?”
“Andre Selman, of course. Andre loved fishing, so Ben took him along. Sometimes it was just the two of us. Sometimes he took business associates.”
“Roland Hill?”
“Yes.”
“Booter Hodges?”
She smiled a little. “Yes. I remember that, because the first time Booter went out with them, the sea was a little rough. Booter became violently ill and they had to turn back. They made fun of him, because he ruined Corbin Tyler’s brand-new deck shoes. The others all said that Booter couldn’t come along after that, but Ben wouldn’t let them pick on him. He just made sure Booter took a pill for motion sickness before he came aboard.”
“Somehow the story about Booter’s seasickness doesn’t surprise me.”
“Actually, Booter was braver than Ben about that. At least Booter took the medication and had the courage to try it again. The last time Ben went out on the boat, he got a bad case of seasickness. Came back from a fishing trip with Andre, looking awful. Ben said he didn’t want to set foot on it again, that he was going to sell the boat to Andre. He sold it, but he was in a blue mood about it for weeks. I remember that much.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Hmm. Ten, fifteen years ago? I don’t know.”
“Let’s work on that for a moment. We’ll assume that Ben told you the truth, that the color photocopy really was a picture of people on your boat, and not some other boating party. Did Ben already own the boat when you married him?”
She shook her head. “We bought the boat after we were married.” Her brows drew together. “Not long after we were married, so about seventeen years ago? And we didn’t own it for very long.”
“Would you still have records on it?”
“Yes, somewhere around here. Why?”
“If we figure out which years you owned the boat, that may help us learn when the photograph was taken. So that’s your first assignment.”
“Okay. But about this Lucas Monroe—” she began.
“I know he’s in the other one, but that doesn’t mean he sent the photograph. Lucas is homeless. He’s unlikely to be walking around with photo albums.”
“But who else would send them?”
I started studying the envelopes. The postmarks caught my eye. “Riverside! Why didn’t I think of that before? There is no easy way to get to Riverside from Las Piernas on public transportation,” I said. “Grey-hound might take you there. Not much else without lots and lots of transfers.”
“You’ve lost me,” Claire replied.
“These are postmarked Riverside. Lucas wouldn’t go all the way to Riverside just to mail a couple of letters, would he? Why? To hide an address? He doesn’t have an address.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed, then said, “Well, he might go to Riverside — or anywhere else, for that matter — if he could make a lot of money by doing it.” Seeing my look of obstinacy, she added, “You don’t know who he has become over the years, or how desperate he may be now.”
“No. I need to talk to him. But for now, let’s not jump to conclusions.”
She was silent as I kept looking at the envelopes and the photo. Finally she said, “That’s not a man’s handwriting on the back of the photo.”
“Probably not.” Something else occurred to me. “It’s certainly not Lucas’s.”
“Certainly?”
“He was one of my favorite teachers, remember? I took one of his classes. His handwriting was terrible. We used to tease him unmercifully every time he put something up on the blackboard. No one could read anything but his numbers and stat symbols. He usually used an overhead projector with typed transparencies for anything else that had to be written. Sometimes he taught the whole class period using transparencies. No way is this his handwriting.”
/> “I suppose a person would remember something like that.” She sighed. “It’s sounding less and less like Lucas Monroe sent the photos. But if he didn’t, who did?”
“I don’t know. And we don’t know that he isn’t in some kind of partnership with whoever sent these. Give me a few days to try to find him.”
“You’re going to go looking through the skid row area alone?”
“Oh no, not alone. I’ve got an excellent partner in mind.”
12
“YOU’VE GOT a really great ass.”
“So you’ve told me,” he said.
I sighed. “Ah, the bloom is already off the newlywed rose. I tell him he has a great ass—”
“A really great ass,” he corrected.
“A really great ass, and he just acts bored.”
“Hmm. A little more to the left.”
I moved my hands to the right.
He peered over his shoulder, smiled at me. “Okay, okay. I apologize.” He didn’t mean it.
I was giving Frank a back massage, trying to get him to relax a little before I told him my plans. Running my hands over his muscles, I was having trouble concentrating on what those plans were. I moved to the left, gently working out the tension.
“Hmm. Yeah, right there,” he said. “Oh God, yes! Yes, yes!”
“No need to overdo it, Frank.”
I felt him shaking beneath me. There was a little snort into his pillow. I slapped that ass I was so fond of and climbed out of bed.
“Ouch. Hey, where are you going?” he asked. For all his size, he can move like lightning; before I was out of reach, he had pulled me back into bed.
“To find Cody. He purrs when I rub him.”
“Hmm. But Cody doesn’t know that you’re hatching some scheme.”
Busted. Well, hell.
“You’re turning red. Does that mean I’m right?”
“Yes, Frank. Feel free to gloat a little more.”
He didn’t, just rested his chin on top of my head, rubbed his hand along my neck. “Nothing to gloat over,” he said after a moment. “I just did something really stupid. Only a fool would have interrupted a backrub like that. I should have at least collected my bribe.”