“And that will be a huge embarrassment to you, won’t it, baby sister?” Thea spat back. “More embarrassing than getting divorced for the third time.”
Eyes narrowed to slits, Beryl pronounced, “I don’t want any part of this.” With that, she slipped out of the breakfast nook. “I’m going to bed,” she said, and headed toward the back stairs.
Thea’s mouth twisted into a frown as she watched her sister stomp away. “I don’t know why we do that,” she said in a low voice. “We just can’t seem to help sniping at each other.”
Aunt Dorothy sighed. “You’ve done that since you were little girls. You can hardly be expected to change now.”
“She’s right, you know,” Thea said. “If I do try to investigate what really happened to George, I’m liable to run into a brick wall.”
“Oh, pish,” Aunt Dorothy said. “Are you going to let that stop you?”
Thea’s lips twitched as she suppressed a smile at her aunt’s colorful language. “Easy for you to say.” She hesitated, then added, “I don’t even know where to start.”
A fleeting look of triumph lit up Auntie D.’s eyes, then became more down-to-earth. “Your friend Annie can help you there, I’m sure.”
Thea nodded. Annie Biggs was her best friend since they were five years old. She was also married to an alderman and knew a lot of the politicians that George had hobnobbed with. Annie was coming over in a couple of days for coffee. Now, Thea would make a point of picking her friend’s information-packed brain for the ins and outs of the local political scene.
“I’m glad you’re going to do this,” Aunt Dorothy said. She reached across the table to grab her niece’s hands and hold them.
Thea leaned toward her aunt, interlacing their fingers. “I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into something so…so outrageous. Whatever prompted you to do this to me?”
Aunt Dorothy’s gaze was intense, challenging. “It’s what you were meant to do.”
Surprised, Thea said, “You think so?”
“Your father and I always said that you could never hide the truth from little Dorothea.” A wispy smile moved across her face. “You made him tell you the truth about Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny long before any of your playmates were even curious.”
“Really?” Thea mused. “I don’t remember that.”
“Oh, yes,” her aunt responded. “Your mother was ticked off at your dad for telling you, but I was proud of you—and so was he.” She grinned. “I still am.”
Thea blinked as her eyes grew watery. With her fingers entwined with her aunt’s, she could feel where arthritis had thickened Auntie D.’s knuckles. This woman that she loved like a mother had diminished somewhat physically, but not at all mentally, unlike her real mother, even though they were the same age of seventy-nine.
Thea was touched that her aunt believed in her so much. But she had so many doubts and questions. Did she believe in herself enough to carry this investigation out? Did she still have her reporter’s instinct for the truth? Or had that instinct been blunted by time and fears of her own inadequacies? Could she investigate and be the caregiver, too? And the toughest question of all: What would happen to Mother if she failed?
CHAPTER 3
George’s funeral was the next day, a day that was unseasonably warm for March in Northern Illinois, with temperatures in the forties. The winds had relented, and the sun played peek-a-boo behind some cottony clouds. Thea was relieved, as she had feared that even with a winter coat the sound of her chattering teeth would intrude on the minister’s prayers as she stood outdoors at the grave site. Back home in L.A. it was in the balmy seventies.
More than anything, she wished she were there. Not in Los Angeles as it actually existed today. No, not that one. Rather, the one of memory, the one where her stuntman husband Sam was still alive.
Nineteen months ago she had worn the same black suit she was wearing today and had gazed on Sam’s coffin before it was lowered into the ground, much like she was doing now with George’s. Sam had died in a horseback riding accident. So ironic. All those years of spectacular car crashes and being set on fire or dropped from buildings and he dies in an almost ignominious fall from his horse.
“Dot, Dot—”
Thea stiffened. She hated that old name. But at least Mother still seemed to remember who she was.
“What, Mother?” she whispered.
“George is going to be sorry he’s missing this big party. All his friends are here.” Her voice was pitched at a level that very possibly even George could hear. Then she looked up at Thea and let out a girlish giggle.
Most of George’s friends were seated on the opposite side of the coffin. A couple of them actually managed a smile at Mother’s words. Right behind them was a small group, mainly women, who had the opposite reaction, fixing Mother with disapproving glares.
“Well, you can tell him all about it later,” Thea said, lowering her own voice even more. She grabbed her mother’s hand as if to emphasize their camaraderie.
Mother simply nodded. She had already moved on and was now preoccupied with outlining the buttons on the front of her coat.
“George was going to tell,” Mother said after a few moments; her voice muffled.
Thea looked at her sharply. She wasn’t sure she had heard right. “What was George going to tell?”
“A secret.” Mother gave her an enigmatic smile. “I’ll never tell.”
Thea squeezed her hand harder. “Tell what?”
Mother winced. “You’re hurting me.” And then louder, “Stop it!”
Everyone turned to look. Thea let go of her mother’s hand. Before Thea could react, Mother abruptly stood up and sidled over to the casket and began stroking its polished metal surface as if she were fondly petting a cat. “Nice,” she was saying, “pretty.”
The minister broke off, his concentration thrown. He cleared his throat, “Daphne…er, Mrs. Prentice,” he said, his voice wavering.
Thea started to rise out of her chair, but Beryl beat her to it. She moved to Mother and grabbed her around the waist. Whispering soothingly in Mother’s ear, she gently guided her back to her seat, giving Thea a baleful glance as their eyes met over their mother’s bewigged head.
Thea wasn’t about to take the bait from her sister. She was too caught up in puzzling over what Mother had said, that George was “going to tell.” What did that mean? It was something that her mother knew—or thought she knew—but was it real, or a made-up thing that only existed in her increasingly Byzantine mind?
Who might know other than Mother and George? Thea glanced over at the figures dressed in dark overcoats and hats. George’s friends. His golf and poker-playing buddies. Most of them would be coming back to the house following the interment. It shouldn’t be too hard to get them in a room together and get them talking about their old pal George and what he’d been up to in the days before he died.
“It’s all there on his computer,” Phil Herbert said, his tone more than slightly self-important. Phil had described himself to Thea as one of the “Fearsome Foursome” of George’s golfing partners. “George told me he was writing his memoirs—”
“Oh, that’s a bunch of bull doody, Phil!” another man in the group had piped up. His name was Andy; Thea wasn’t sure he had given her his last name. “George wasn’t writing any memoirs, he just had a sort of daily diary. He wrote about Daphne—” he shot an apologetic glance at Thea, “and what was happening to her. I think he wrote some stuff about his family history and the town’s history. Oh, and maybe a little bit about all those years he worked for the Collins family.”
“The Collins family?” Thea repeated, the name dredging up more than a few memories.
“Sure,” Andy responded. “You probably know the son, Whit. He must be about the same age as you. Well, he’s running the show now at the Collins factory. They’re not just making tractors anymore, got a line of riding mowers. Cute little things. George has got one out back in his she
d.”
Thea nodded. “Of course, I remember Whit. I went to school with him for a couple of years—before he got packed off to military school.”
Andy chuckled. “Yeah, that was a Collins family tradition. I think Whit was at George’s service, near the back. He came in late. I’m surprised he’s not here now. His old man and George were pretty tight.”
“Is Whit’s father dead?”
“Nah. Retired. Although word is that he still keeps a pretty tight rein on the company,” Andy said.
“You know they’ve come all the way back and are doing so good that some big international company is looking to buy them out,” another man spoke up. Thea thought his name was Brady. Whether that was his first or last name, she wasn’t certain.
“It’s all kind of hush-hush,” he went on. “Whit had talked to George about it, though, ‘cause you know George used to be the Chief Financial Officer at Collins.”
They were congregated in George’s office, Thea sitting in the leather-cushioned captain’s chair at George’s ancient, massive, mahogany desk. Off to the side was a smaller table for the computer components. She stared at the blank monitor now, certain that once she got into her stepfather’s files she would find some fascinating material there. Maybe even a motive for murder.
CHAPTER 4
After a suitable interlude, Thea excused herself and left George’s friends in his office. They had started pouring drinks from a hidden cache in George’s desk and their reminiscences about him had begun to turn a bit maudlin. Before she left, she had gotten assurances from all that she could call on them if she had any questions about George. She had more or less implied that—as a journalist—she was thinking about writing some kind of tribute to George and all that he had done for the town of Rockridge. That’s all they needed to know, for now.
Closing the door to George’s office, she turned and smacked into a six-foot wall of rusty black gabardine that reeked of mothballs and ancient, rancid body odors. She backed away and stared up at a gray-haired, bespectacled woman who stood her ground and shook her finger at Thea.
“Don’t believe anything they tell you about George,” she said. “They didn’t really know him. Not the way I did.”
Thea had the distinct impression that this physically imposing woman had been listening at the door to George’s office—and was not even trying to hide it. The lenses of the woman’s glasses were smeared, making her eyes impenetrable and muddy behind them.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Thea said, deciding to take the polite approach rather than a confrontational one. She extended her hand, “I’m Thea Browne, George’s stepdaughter.”
The woman ignored Thea’s hand and waved her own in the air as if she were dismissing a pest. “I know who you are,” she said. “In fact, I know all about you. You live in California. Your husband was a Hollywood stuntman. He’s dead, too.”
Startled, Thea withdrew her hand. “Who are you?” she blurted out.
“My name isn’t important,” the woman said, lowering her voice to a level that forced Thea to lean toward her. “But just remember that I knew the real George, not like those country-club, plaid-pants jerks who only thought they knew him. When you want to find out the truth about George, you come to me.”
Thea was about to ask her how that would be possible without knowing her name, when another woman, also gray-haired but wearing no spectacles to hide the brightness of her azure blue eyes, came around the corner.
“Oh, Mattie, there you are,” she said to Thea’s unknown companion. “I’ve been looking for you. I see you’ve been talking to Thea. How nice.” She smiled at Thea and extended her hand. “Pardon me for being so casual, but we all really feel that we know you. George has told us so much about you. I’m Luanne Varner.”
Thea shook hands with her, but was still puzzled about exactly who these women were. Apparently it showed in her expression.
“Oh,” Luanne went on, “I can see that Mattie kept you in the dark, didn’t she?” She cast a glance at Mattie, who glared back at her. “She probably didn’t even tell you her name, and I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that we were in George’s Alzheimer’s support group, did she?”
Ah, the light dawned. George had talked to Thea about this support group—although he had never mentioned any of them by name. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Of course. George told me about the group. He said it had helped him a lot.”
Luanne smiled. “I’m glad to hear that, but it was more like George helped the rest of us. He was our real leader. We’re going to miss him.”
Suddenly Mattie either burst into tears or started choking. Thea couldn’t tell which as the woman covered her face, then wheeled around and lurched off in the direction of the bathroom at the end of the hall.
Thea and Luanne watched as Mattie jerked open the closed door and thrust herself inside. Thea hoped that no one was in the middle of any private functions in there. They would have encountered quite a shock at Mattie’s sudden intrusion.
Luanne sighed. “She’s taken George’s death very hard. He was always there for her when she needed advice on dealing with her mother. I don’t know what she’s going to do now.”
Thea directed her gaze back to Luanne and gave her a searching look. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
A faint crease appeared on Luanne’s brow. “What is it?”
“Well, I’d love to get together with some of the members of the group to talk about George,” Thea said. “He was so wonderful with my mother and it would help me to know how I should deal with her, since it looks like I’m going to become the primary caregiver. Do you think that would be possible?”
“Oh, my dear.” Luanne’s eyes misted up. “We’ll do everything we can to help you. In fact, why don’t you plan to attend one of our meetings? Come to think of it, you might even want to join the group. Take George’s place, as it were.”
“I’ll have to think about that,” Thea said, not wanting to commit herself to anything long-term just yet.
Luanne nodded. “I understand. It’s probably all a bit overwhelming for you right now. Not exactly what you had planned for yourself, I would imagine.”
“No, it’s not,” Thea said. For a moment she thought about confiding in Luanne what the police had revealed, but decided to hold back. It was still so fresh and painful she wasn’t even sure she could talk about it to anyone outside the family. Besides, with the way gossip spread in a small town, it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew just what the coroner had discovered in George’s postmortem.
Luanne leaned toward Thea, her blue eyes blinking rapidly, and seemed about to open her mouth to say something when her eyes clouded up and she sent a nervous glance toward the closed door at the end of the hall. She evidently had thought better of what she was about to say. “I should go see to Mattie,” she said and scurried off in that direction. Calling back over her shoulder, she said, “I’ll phone you later with specifics about the meeting.”
Thea was left wondering just what it was Luanne had been about to confide in her. A good guess would be that it had something to do with the mysterious Mattie. Or did she, too, have something to reveal about the “real” George?
CHAPTER 5
The house was still crammed with people. All of them doing their best to be kind. They were saying the right words and looking appropriately sad, but none of them were getting through to Thea anymore. Her mind had been overtaken by doubts: Could she really do this? She had often said to George that she thought he was a saint, a martyr even, to devote his life to taking care of her mother the way he had.
His response was sometimes a chuckle if it hadn’t been too bad a day, but usually it was a profound sigh. Then he would always say, “I love her. I’ll be here for as long as she needs me.”
Thea had gone back into the den where Mother was once again occupying George’s recliner, much as Grant had occupied Richmond. Luckily, some kind soul had distracted her and gotten the remote control out o
f her grasp, so the ear-blasting TV soundtrack was gone. The TV was still on, but the sound was muted. The images on the screen appeared to be part of a documentary on the Weather Channel. Amazingly enough, Mother seemed to be fascinated by it.
Beryl was being buttonholed by someone in the corner, but her gaze was wandering the room. As her glance came to rest on her big sister, Beryl’s eyes hardened in some sort of accusation. Thea wondered which one it was, the one about wanting to play detective or, even worse, one that she had thought about herself: Did she want to investigate George’s death as a way of avoiding the primary caregiver’s role?
Thea’s thoughts had taken her out of the moment, but she was suddenly roused back to the present by a commotion. Taking place in the other room, it sounded as if it was headed her way. A man appeared in the doorway, someone she didn’t know, yet was oddly familiar. He was disheveled in an “absent-minded professor” sort of way. Maybe it was the tortoise-shell glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, or the well-worn tweed jacket with the elbow patches. There was also something eerie about him, and it took Thea several moments to figure it out: he was a few years younger than George’s late-seventies, but he bore a striking resemblance to George, if her stepfather had ever dared go without his toupee and let his side hair grow over his ears.
The man was shouting and not making much sense. There was a slurred quality to his voice as if he was drunk or drugged. He seemed to be saying something about the house, but other than “house” the rest of his words sounded like gibberish.
As he advanced into the room, everyone stopped their conversations and turned to stare at him. The room had been buzzing, but no one said a word to him as he stumbled forward. Beryl got up from where she was sitting and took a hesitant step toward him, but as she did, the most god-awful scream rent the air.
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