Snapshot

by Lis Wiehl

  “We lost those two trees by the gates early winter. I e-mailed you about it in, oh, late January, I believe.”

  Stanley frowned, barely remembering. Usually he was on top of everything related to his family’s land, but the issue with Arroyo had kept him busy until he finally resolved it. Or thought he’d resolved it. That Detective Martin was still digging and prying. Somehow his name had even become associated with the case in one newspaper report.

  “Where’s Martha?” Stanley asked.

  “She’s taken sick. Her daughter wouldn’t let her leave her bed, she’s too bad off. Got the cancer, you know.”

  “She what?”

  “Found out just a month or so ago. Late cancer, I can’t remember what stage they said.”

  “Why didn’t someone tell me?” Stanley tried to tally the woman’s age. She’d been only sixteen when he was born, and later she cared for Gwen. At least before his divorce.

  Stanley loved that woman, even though she was black. And she loved him despite everything. She’d retired decades earlier from her housekeeper duties, but Martha always greeted him on his visits and often barked out orders to the current housecleaning staff when they didn’t do things quite right.

  Hollis shrugged. “I assumed Martha or her daughter would have told you. She wants you to stop by before you leave.”

  “Maybe.” Stanley turned away from Hollis, no longer wanting to see the man’s ruddy face or hear his voice. He stormed into the house, through the entry that danced with light from the glimmering chandelier overhead.

  Just like his predecessors, Stanley had changed little about the house except to keep it in top shape and to modernize a few features. The plantation looked as if time had stopped in the 1860s. He’d had numerous requests to display the house as a historic monument, but Stanley would never allow it to become a tourist stop. His family was buried in the small cemetery, and generations of Blackstones had lived within these walls from the time it was built in the early 1800s and grew into a thriving cotton and tobacco plantation.

  Stanley heard Hollis’s footsteps trudging up the stairway toward the bedrooms where he would deliver Stanley’s bag.

  There was a fruit and cheese plate prepared by Hollis’s wife on the table in the dining room, but Stanley made a clean path toward the library. He unlocked the door as he heard Hollis’s footsteps returning from upstairs.

  Stanley opened the top drawer of his desk and reviewed the contents. Then he examined the other drawers and took in every inch of the room. He moved to the fireplace and hit the tiny latch hidden under the ornately carved oak mantel.

  “Has anyone been in here?” Stanley called to Hollis.

  The man came to the doorway. “What, sir?”

  “Who’s allowed in this room?”

  “We have the housecleaning staff come in once a month. But no one else.” Hollis shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

  “Same staff as always?”

  “They have a new girl, but I’m not sure if she cleaned this room or not. I leave them to their work.”

  “After today, keep the key to this room put away. Only allow them to clean when you or Peg can supervise. It doesn’t need cleaning very often anyway.”

  “All right, sir. You got it.” Hollis stood in the doorway as Stanley made his way to the desk. “Supper will be served at six as usual. Are there any other instructions, Mr. Stanley?”

  “That’s all.”

  Hollis closed the library door behind him.

  Stanley walked to the built-in bar along the back wall of the room. He poured himself a small swig of aged Scotch, raised it in a toast to his father, and downed it—a practice from the days when his father was alive and they’d drink a shot of Scotch every morning and right before bed.

  He opened the double doors above the bar. The shelf was neatly lined with glasses and bottles. There was no dust on the shelf, he noted. No fingerprints or anything out of place. Stanley took hold of a shelf and carefully slid it to the left, the glasses barely moving as the shelf disappeared into the wall. Behind the shelf, an old safe came into view. Stanley turned the combination and heard the click of the lock, then he opened the door.

  Beneath several tight stacks of hundred-dollar bills sat a collection of 8 × 10 photographs. He moved the money aside and took the pile to his desk with the face of Arroyo on top staring at him. From his messenger bag Stanley retrieved a new image, a picture of Arroyo’s bloody corpse in the ice cooler.

  Stanley had collected the stack of photographs over the decades. They were reminders of the men he’d faced as opponents, all of whom he’d defeated. The bottom photograph was of Benjamin Gray sprawled out on the pavement.

  There was not one image missing. But if the photos were here, how had they gotten onto the Internet from a computer at Blackstone Corp in Miami?

  At the very bottom of the safe, Stanley saw the dry, crumbled remains of wildflowers that had once been woven into a crown. Lena. Lena with a crown of wildflowers sitting in the tall green grass and smiling up at him. Until recently she’d nearly disappeared from memory, or so he convinced himself. But Stanley remembered a time when he couldn’t go an hour without her filling his head.

  He wondered where she was now. Had she ever married? Perhaps she was a grandmother by now. Stanley couldn’t picture Lena with a brood of grandchildren climbing all over her, or baking cookies or sewing quilts. The grandmother image didn’t work with a woman of such refined sophistication. But she was no longer young, despite the image in his head.

  Last he’d heard, Lena had returned to New Orleans and was running the small jazz house her mother had owned. He knew she had never forgiven him. Lena kept such promises.

  Stanley returned the images to the safe. He slid back the shelf and clicked the lock under the mantel. Then he walked out to find Hollis.

  His caretaker was in the backyard digging a hole beside an automatic sprinkler. He jumped when he saw Stanley.

  “Has anyone stayed over or visited the house in the past few months?”

  “There was a guy from the Louisiana Historical Society, but I didn’t let him through the gate. And, well, Marcus and that woman came up one weekend. He called for me to prep the rooms, but they didn’t stay. I think he brought her out to impress her, but she didn’t like it.”

  “Didn’t like it? Why?”

  “She kept saying how creepy the place was, thought it was full of ghosts and bad karma. Where does he find these women?” Hollis shook his head in disgust.

  “When was this?” Stanley asked.

  Hollis scrunched his forehead. “Um, guess maybe late autumn. Or no, it was after the holidays.”

  Stanley knew of several times Marcus had used the private jet. Once he’d taken a short-lived girlfriend to New Orleans for a weekend. But he hadn’t mentioned driving her by Red Wolf Manor.

  “Did Marcus go into the library?”

  “I wouldn’t know. They spent the day here, but as I said, she wouldn’t stay the night.”

  “And nobody else?” Stanley said, studying Hollis for any hint of a lie.

  “No, nobody.”

  That evening Stanley sat in a high-back chair beside the huge parlor fireplace, his feet resting on a stool. As he watched the fire crackle, he smoked a cigar and sipped his Scotch, remembering his father in this exact pose. Thoughts of his father never failed to renew Stanley’s own strength. The house carried a legacy of ruthless, determined men who cowered to no one and nothing.

  His nephew was not made from that stock. And Stanley wouldn’t play games with Marcus much longer. He had no patience for mysteries or unanswered questions. The company’s computers had been hacked and his private collection of photographs released for the world to see. And Marcus had come by Red Wolf Manor. His nephew hadn’t offered that information when they talked on the rooftop. But Marcus would soon come clean about everything, including how he’d found out about the hidden safe.

  “Mr. Stanley?”

  “What
is it?” he growled as Hollis peered into the room.

  “You had a visitor at the gate. It’s Miss Gwendolyn,” Hollis said, sounding pleased.

  Stanley dropped his feet to the floor and swung around. “Gwen is here?”

  “Yes, sir. I opened the gate, hope that was all right. She’ll be driving up now.”

  Stanley set down his glass and smashed the cigar into an ashtray.

  “Should I go wake Peg to cook something? Or I can make some tea or coffee.”

  “Tea, I think. Yes, make us some tea.”

  Stanley flipped on lights as he moved to the entry, then swung open the double doors as a car drove into the circle driveway and parked. He glanced down the long driveway for sign of any other vehicles, including Lancaster, the bodyguard he had paid to protect her, but she had apparently come alone.

  “Gwendolyn,” Stanley said as she got out of the car.

  “Daddy,” she said with no hint of warmth in her tone. “I called you at your office. They said you were here.”

  “And you flew down to meet me?” Stanley couldn’t believe his daughter was actually standing in front of him. He hadn’t spoken with her face-to-face in over a decade.

  “I was in Baton Rouge for an event. When I heard you were near, I decided to drive out.”

  “Come inside. When was the last time you were here, the 1990s?”

  “I’m not staying.”

  “Well, come have a cup of tea. Hollis is making it.”

  “Hollis is still here?” Gwen asked. She walked up the stairway with hesitant steps, seeming to inspect the house.

  “Hollis Jr. took over for his father. But you remember him too. He wasn’t that much older than you.”

  “Creepy guy, as I remember.”

  “Come inside and let’s sit down properly,” Stanley said, moving toward her. She pulled away when he reached for her arm.

  Gwen walked through the open doors and stopped. She looked up the double stairway to the giant chandelier hanging from the open third story down toward the entry.

  “It looked like a castle to me as a child,” Gwen said.

  He watched her as she looked around. His daughter was dressed casually, yet she always possessed a poise and confidence that made him proud.

  “Do you want to walk through? Your room is still there.”

  “My room?”

  “Not much changes here.”

  Her eyes settled back on Stanley. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure, come to the parlor. I have the fire going, though tonight is hardly cool enough for it. Remember when you’d roast marshmallows in that fireplace?”

  Gwen followed as they passed rooms until reaching the grand parlor. Stanley quickly pulled up a chair near the one he’d been sitting in, but Gwen didn’t sit down.

  “Earlier today I remembered when you and Marcus were playing down at the river. You weren’t even ten years old, and you came running home with leeches all over you. Marcus was crying, but you were only furious at the leeches.” Stanley laughed loudly at the memory of Gwen’s face as she ripped off the leeches that left bloody marks all over her body.

  Gwen didn’t respond; she just stood there as if weighing his words.

  “I’ve always been proud of you.”

  She shook her head. “Dad, you never wanted a daughter.”

  Stanley shook his head and slapped the back of the chair. “Your mother told you that. And sure, before you were born, I wanted a son, because I wanted a child who was strong. But you being a girl and so strong, it made me prouder than if you were a boy.”

  Gwen stared at him with something he couldn’t define in her eyes. Stanley had never had the chance to tell his daughter much of anything. She’d been warped by her mother and stepfather.

  “You’re here. Sit down and talk to me,” he said.

  “I’m not here for a visit,” Gwen said. She remained standing and crossed her arms. “I know what you’ve been doing.”

  “What have I been doing?”

  “When the same guy kept hanging out at all of my speeches around Missouri, and then I saw you in Jefferson City, I knew you’d sent him to watch me.”

  “To protect you. There are a lot of crazy people out there. Look at that woman in Arizona. Shot while she was giving her speech.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  “I’ve kept my distance. Your career wouldn’t benefit from my association. I get that.”

  “You don’t listen to me. You’ve donated to my political fund. How will it look when that comes out?” Gwen said.

  “It won’t come out. How do you know about it anyway?”

  “I have an accountant. We investigate where our donations come from.”

  “We used a shell company.” His daughter was smarter than he thought, or smarter than Marcus, which was no real surprise.

  “It wasn’t that hard for him to pull up.”

  “This family has always fought rumors. But I run a clean, legal business. Ask your cousin Marcus.”

  “Daddy,” Gwen said in a tone that reminded him of her mother.

  “Listen, darling, I wouldn’t lie to you. You’re my flesh and blood.”

  “What about that Arroyo guy who disappeared last month?”

  “Arroyo?” Stanley felt a jolt of surprise. How could his daughter possibly know about Arroyo or his connection to the man?

  “There’s usually some truth in rumors. And you have too many to be completely innocent. Aren’t the police investigating you?”

  “Gwen, sit down and listen to me.” Stanley walked to the doorway. “Hollis, what are you doing in there?”

  He heard a dish shatter in the kitchen and Hollis mumble an apology.

  “Do you like Scotch?” he asked his daughter, moving toward the bottle on the end table.

  “Don’t you understand that I don’t want to be a part of all this? Our family history disgusts me. I’m trying to dedicate my life to righting those wrongs.”

  Stanley felt his anger bubble up. Gwen stared at him evenly, and it soothed the anger, making him want to laugh out loud.

  “You are my daughter, through and through. Let me tell you a story.”

  “I don’t want a story.”

  “Back in the early days of Red Wolf—”

  “When this place was a slave plantation,” she said.

  “Yes,” Stanley said without shame. “Your great-great-grandfather Crawford Blackstone had a strong-willed daughter named Margaret. She loved reading and studying, and Crawford allowed her to travel extensively. But all those books and experiences put ideas into her head. Then on one of her travels she fell in love with a Northerner, some young man against everything that represented the Southern way of life. Crawford forbade his daughter to see the young man again, so of course she ran away.”

  Gwen stared at Stanley, looking frustrated. But she was listening.

  “Margaret’s brothers went up north and brought her home. She swore she’d never forgive her father, and for a long time she didn’t. Years later Margaret married a Southerner and moved to a plantation just some miles down the road. On her father’s deathbed, Margaret thanked him for what he’d done. She’d come to understand that life isn’t as clear as it appears when we’re young. And in the end, family is all we really have.”

  Gwen sighed and shook her head. “You wanted nothing to do with me except for, what, a few weeks during a few summers. Why do you want to know me now? Why protect me and help me, especially when I’m asking you to leave me alone?”

  “I always wanted you. Your mother told you lies. She didn’t want me around.”

  “Because she didn’t trust you. Because you kill people. Because you beat her.”

  Stanley stared at his daughter, then spoke slowly. “I had a problem with anger, this is true, and I don’t tolerate betrayal. But I’m your father. And I’ve always loved you. People change.”

  “Not that much.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re all about, helping
people change? Improve their lives, rise out of poverty, build solid households and communities? I’ve listened to your speeches, I read your platform.”

  He could see Gwen’s anger dissipating with his words.

  “You are doing good things. You’ll make a great senator, or anything you aspire to be. I’ll keep my distance, but know that I’m here for you if you need anything, and I mean anything. I swear that to you.”

  “I may not have a political future, with all of this. Maybe I don’t deserve it. The more I find out about my family history, all that this plantation embodies, the more I’m ashamed. Everything has been built by the price of someone else’s blood. There comes a reckoning for that.”

  “This is your heritage, Gwen. Someday you’ll see.”

  Gwen closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “And you will never change.”

  His daughter left without having tea or Scotch. She walked out just as she’d walked in. Stanley stood at the doorway watching the red taillights disappear down the long driveway.

  She’d be back; he could feel it in his bones. Gwen would stand in this very place, and at long last she’d thank him for all of it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  James walked along a meandering pathway in Central Park. The city skyscrapers lined the edges of the more than eight hundred wooded acres, rising above the trees like steel mountain peaks.

  James had never explored the park. His few trips to New York were work related, but with several hours until his flight, he’d decided to make his phone calls beneath a blue sky instead of back in the stuffy hotel room.

  After checking his phone to be sure the ringer was on, he unfolded a bag of fresh roasted peanuts and put one in his mouth.

  Finally, the call from the Texas State Prison came in. While James and his daughter had different investigative methods, they both knew when to use their contacts in a pinch. James had cashed in several favors to get this phone call.

  “Hang on the line and we’ll connect you once we have him here.”