She stared past the old lady, her gaze settling on the music box. It was big, ungainly, the craftsmanship rough. Her dad had made other music boxes, better ones, but this was the one she’d had to keep because it was his first. It would have been upstairs by her bed, but it was a heavy little s.o.b. The sight of it anchored her to Dad. It connected her to her past as she turned her gaze back to his mother.
For a couple of seconds, she didn’t know what to say, but then went with the obvious.
“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”
The brows arched imperiously. “Are you?”
Nell didn’t care if she didn’t believe her. The old lady could—and would—believe what she wanted anyway.
“I must suppose that my son is dead.” A pause. “Again.”
The voice was distant, detached. It kind of made sense. She’d lost him, probably mourned him thirty years ago. The fact that he’d died again didn’t change that much for her now.
Nell nodded. It felt weird, it was disturbing, how much she was like Dad. And how very much she wasn’t at all like him. It was hard to see her getting warmed up enough to get pregnant. And now she needed to wash her brain out with soap.
“Where did…” Her nose quivered like she smelled something off.
It took Nell a moment to figure out the question. “Wyoming. Northern Wyoming.”
A pause. “How extraordinary.”
Okay. She did not know what that meant. It was like those nightmares where you had a test you weren’t ready for.
“I did not think there was a large city in Northern Wyoming.”
“There isn’t.” There were more people in New Orleans than the whole state.
Another longer pause. “How—I see.”
What did she see? Since the old lady had no trouble staring, Nell stared back, trying to connect her dad with this woman in some way besides superficial appearance.
“What was—Phil like?” It was easier for Nell to call him that for some reason.
The precisely shaped brows lifted. The pause long before she offered, “Phillip was a handsome boy. Bright. Charming.”
Nell felt the implied not at all like you and wondered why his mother had stopped. Her dad had been more, so much more than handsome and bright and charming. Maybe if she could have sketched her…that’s how she figured people out—what would her dad have wanted her to do? Besides never meet his mother? It had happened and couldn’t be undone. So now what?
“I tried to save him.”
The words didn’t feel meant for Nell for some reason. She sure wasn’t looking at Nell.
“You did save him.” Or someone had. The gaze slammed into hers and she suspected that—Nell couldn’t think of her as a grandma, not really, so she defaulted back to Mrs. St. Cyr—probably hadn’t meant to save him for Wyoming, but for herself. Nell changed position and managed to sneak a look at her watch. Only three minutes? Seriously? It felt like she’d been in this room a lot longer than that.
“How did he die? When—” Not a muscle quivered in that regal face.
Did she really not know or was this some kind of wise gal game? “Drunk driver.” For the first time, Nell felt the irony that his second death was also in a car. “Two years.” And some change, but the old lady wouldn’t care about change.
The silence felt longer this time. The old lady avoided looking at her, her gaze apparently fixed on a vase that needed flowers, sitting on a table that needed dusting. Why was she here? What did she want? The disconnect between her dad and his mother was almost intergalactic. It was hard to believe there’d been a time when both her parents must have sort of fit into this world.
Nell studied the chilly mask of a face. She wasn’t here to bond with Nell. There’d been no questions of a personal nature. So what issue was still hanging?
“What did he tell you?”
Everything and nothing. Not that it was any of the old lady’s business.
The elegant lips thinned into a sneer. “Were you hoping there’d be money? An inheritance?”
“No.” Nell didn’t hesitate. Hard to hope for something she hadn’t known existed and knowing now, yeah, didn’t plan to line up for the blood money. She met the skepticism in the old lady’s eyes without flinching. Not exactly the cozy grandmother she’d wished for once or twice. Not the grandma her parents had wanted her to have, Nell reminded herself. Had she known what she was getting into when she married St. Cyr? She didn’t look like the kind to not know what she was getting into.
“Then why are you here?” The old lady turned to give the room a disparaging look. “One hears things, of course.”
She somehow managed to make Nell feel like she’d been tacky to get talked about. Neat trick from the widow of a wise geezer. She waited for the gaze to make its way back to hers, then arched her brows. Just a bit. It had worked for her mom when people were nosy.
“Canapés and drinks?”
Sneer mixed with disdain. No, not cozy.
“Sarah took me off drink service, so just canapés these days.” She also chopped and cooked, but that didn’t seem relevant to the moment. Wow, if her parents hadn’t booked it, she might have been on the other side of the trays. Would she have been as snotty? Nell couldn’t imagine that, or the person she might have been. Assuming she’d managed to get born, she reminded herself. There were those crypts where her parents weren’t buried. But why had it taken all of two years—Sarah’s business had only started to make headway into the type of clientele the St. Cyrs most likely frequented. That had to be it. Her visage on her book jacket was as a green bean. If they recognized her from that—ouch. Unless they’d been watching her for two years? That was a creepy thought, though it seemed unlikely they’d be that patient. Nell met Mrs. St. Cyr’s gaze and retracted that thought. This old lady could be more than that patient. Nell had a sudden sense of a spider spinning a web—
Her cool gaze swept Nell’s face. “You’re very like her.”
“My mom—” Nell began.
“Your grandmother.”
Nell had not known that. She hadn’t known Mom looked like her mother. It wasn’t exactly a shock. Kids did look like their parents. It just felt weird to find out her face was a double hand-me-down. “You…knew her?”
For some reason she’d thought that the families were armed, hostile camps. Wasn’t that Wise Guys 101?
The old lady blinked. “I knew her, yes.” She did not sounded thrilled, so it was a surprise when she added, “We were friends.”
“Is she—”
“She died before you were born.”
There was something there, a hint of an acid leak, though nothing showed on her face or in her eyes. Was it the family connection that bothered her? The fact that her beautiful son had fallen for the ordinary girl? Some kind of twisted version of housewives of wise guys? It was weird to realize one could have too much family. Was this how Alex felt? Of course, he didn’t have Family. Nor did his trail clouds of goons.
The silence was a bit fraught. Not even the hum of a clock and the curtains muffled any street sounds brassy enough to attempt entry. Dim and a bit close, the ever-present humidity made the cool feel less so. The old lady’s scent had to be expensive and was on the strong side in the still air. Rather grande dame of crime-ish. Was she a power behind the throne or more splendidly oblivious? The spinning spider image came back, stronger and more creepy than before. Nell’s finger tips quivered. She closed them into fists. She’d been known to make air drawings when the urge hit at paperless moments.
Nell still couldn’t figure out what the old lady wanted. She replayed their conversation so far. It didn’t take long, but she’d missed something. She wasn’t sure how she knew, she just did.
Nell’s head to tipped to the side. “You’re angry at him—them.” Or just Mom?
It was hard to believe her eyes could get more arctic, but she managed it.
“He was a fool to run away, just because he and Phin didn’t see eye to eye a
bout the business.”
“The business?” Would that be the murdering and stealing and who knew what else business?
The cold gaze regarded her. “Phillip would have come around.”
Nell doubted that. Since he hadn’t.
“Toni was naive and idealistic and Phillip—”
“—loved her,” Nell cut in.
The old hands may have tightened on the cane head. “So he said.”
Nell mainlined her mom’s unflinching look. Her dad had proved he loved her mom. The eyes shifted back toward Nell, dark, deep and disturbing. Nell didn’t know her well enough to know what stirred down in her depths. She didn’t want to know her that well. She looked like dad but—wow, the apple hadn’t fallen close to that tree at all.
Nell wanted to ask stuff but didn’t know how to do it without giving away what she did and didn’t know, or that she had that ring. She had a fervent hope that this woman never found out about that. The silence stretched like spandex and was about as comfortable.
Had the scary matriarch really not known her husband was watching Nell? How long had he watched before Nell noticed? What had he planned to do about it? When had the old lady found out about Nell? The timing of St. Cyr’s death—Nell realized where her thoughts were going and put on the brakes. If grandma had taken out grandpa, she did not want to know it. Or think it in her presence.
“Has Bett been to see you?”
“Bett?”
“Your mother’s father.”
She didn’t see any reason not to admit he hadn’t, so Nell shook her head.
“He will.”
“Unless he’s the one trying to kill me,” Nell said, though she probably shouldn’t have. Unless being in someone’s gun sights boosted her creds with the fam. The old lady’s brows arched. No sign of sorrow or worry. Oh well, wasn’t really looking to boost the creds with this particular fam.
“Why would you matter enough to kill?”
Nell shrugged, not sure why that stung. Yeah, no cozy grandma there. And she only mattered if someone knew about the ring, didn’t she? Which they shouldn’t. But someone might know it was missing? Nell shifted uneasily.
“I suppose Aleksi Afoniki might see you as a threat.”
“Why—” Because she was the granddaughter of two wise geezers? She briefly considered the notion, but she wasn’t any more suited to be a wise person than her parents.
“Phin thought Aleksi was the one who—” she stopped. “It was never proved.”
She did not know wise guys needed proof. Was it a Hatfields and McCoys deal? He might not have liked the two families joining DNA, leaving him standing alone, but it didn’t happen. So what, revenge visited on the next generation? It was not a happy thought. When mafia types got you in the cross-hairs, they didn’t tend to back off. She was a bit hazy on the conditions of Witness Protection, but it seemed logical to assume that she’d need something to trade for protection. So far, all she had was a ring she couldn’t admit she had. And DNA she didn’t want. Annoyed did a spike. “Why are you here?”
She brows arched. “You’re my granddaughter.”
Nell did skeptical. Grannie not-dearest looked away. Then Nell got it. This visit wasn’t about her. It was about Dad. Her son. That she hadn’t seen for thirty-plus years. Who she’d never see again. Was it longing she sensed beneath the anger? Or the old lady could be trying to play her, find out what she knew.
“Did he make music boxes…before?” Nell asked.
That put some surprise on her face. “No…” She blinked. “He…no.”
“Oh.” Nell hesitated. “Maybe it was his way to sing without singing.” Or a way to distract himself from missing what he’d left behind? “He was terrible. When he wanted to make us laugh, he’d do this lounge singer routine—” Nell stopped as the surprise grew, removing some of the scary matriarch vibes. “Did he sing a lot when he was little?”
A pause. “I suppose he might have in school.”
Where did he come from, she wanted to ask. Instead she tried again. “He fixed cars.”
“He always liked cars.” For a second the old lady almost looked relieved.
She hesitated, but decided Dad would want her to know. “They were happy. Everyone said so at,” she took a steadying breath, “the funeral.” The dark gaze had gone back to giving nothing away. Nell didn’t know if this mattered to grandma not-dearest, but she felt the need to say it. “They said it was fast. They didn’t suffer.” Nell looked away, staring at the dust motes drifting in a tiny ray of light that had snuck past the drapes. Remembering laying on the rug next to her dad while he spun her a tale about the mote fairies. It was as bad as his singing. She’d edited it as he told it. Her fingers tried to break out of fists as images began to take shape in the sunbeam. She’d need to sketch another mental dump and soon.
The chair creaked as the old lady shifted position, scattering the images into the shadows again. The silence drew out, but not as uncomfortable. Nell stole a look. Not much had changed in how she looked, but…
“Can I ask you something?”
The old lady stiffened some. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t say no.
“Do you have any pictures of him? When he was young?”
The slow turn of her head toward Nell was interesting, though Nell wasn’t sure why. A slight nod.
“I’ll arrange something.” She paused. “I don’t have any of…your mother.”
Not exactly a shock. Or maybe she did have one but she had used it for dart practice. “Would you like a photo of—”
A pause, followed by a slow, an almost imperceptible, somewhat grudging nod. This time the silence wasn’t as comfortable, though not in a bad way. Just kind of itchy. She wished she knew how to end the meeting. She was sure there wouldn’t be any hugging. Probably no “call me” or a “let’s do lunch.” The dark gaze, not quite so chilly, studied her for what felt like a long time.
“You’re very like your mother.”
Oddly enough, it didn’t sound like an insult. Though it probably was.
It wasn’t much, Alex thought, looking at the meager pile that—other than a daughter and a butt load of questions—was all that remained of Nell’s parents. Very few papers. The letters were from Nell. Either no one else wrote them, or they didn’t keep anything but her letters. Their wills. Some photo albums, a Wal-Mart apron, a wrench, a goofy Halloween tie.
“Is this all—everything?” Ben asked.
“There’s the music box,” Sarah said, giving her a grin.
The two men looked at Nell. “It was my dad’s not-so-secret vice.”
“Not a vice, Nell,” Sarah protested, “more like an endearing quirk. And he got quite good at the carving. It was just—” She stopped with an impish look.
“What?” Alex asked, suspiciously.
Nell grinned. “His music choices were so cliché. It was—”
“Cute,” Sarah insisted. “I gave his Christmas tree box to my Aunt Carol Sueanne a few years ago. It still works great.”
“O Christmas Tree?” Ben guessed.
“At least that player doesn’t make your teeth hurt.” Nell looked rueful. “Mine is his first. It’s just awful, but,” she looked from one to the other of them. “I had to keep it. No one else would love it. He called it Old Bertha. Mom called it The Horror.”
“Where is it?” Alex asked.
Nell said a bit guiltily, “It started in the office, but clients would lift the lid.”
“We were trying to build the business, not drive clients away,” Sarah put in with a grin. “Their eyes would twitch and then get a little wild, because it doesn’t stop until its played a complete refrain.”
“So we moved it to a place of honor in the sitting room,” Nell finished.
Sarah stiffened. “Did the old lady notice it? Say anything?”
Nell shook her head. “I guess Dad started making them after the flit.”
Alex exchanged a look with Ben.
“Min
d if I grab it?” Ben asked. “I promise not to lift the lid.”
Nell shrugged and nodded but warned, “It’s heavy.”
Alex sorted the papers into types. He was relieved to turn his attention to the music box when Ben lugged it in. Though Alex was no expert on music boxes, this one did seem to be a bit unusual by any standards. For one thing, it was big. And square. The craftsmanship was rough. Not that he was an expert in woodworking, but it looked rustic. Almost crude. He wouldn’t call it a horror, but it wasn’t pretty.
Nell traced one line of the minimal scroll work etched into the top. “Dad said it relaxed him to make them. Mom had a kind of love-hate thing going for them. Some days she was happy to send him off to tinker, others she wanted to hit him with one.”
If they were all as big, that was a serious threat. He and Ben studied it, taking care not to lift the lid, but there wasn’t much to learn from its exterior. It was rough hewn, but tight. No warping at the seams. With an apologetic look, he lifted the lid and peered inside, releasing a painfully tinny rendition of Memories. Not just a cliché, but a bad cliché. There was not much space under the lid, maybe a couple of inches of nothing. The base seemed solidly fitted in there, too. Again, no warping, suspicious or otherwise. He felt all the way around the interior. He’d opened it and he needed to look like he had a reason for causing them pain. All he got was a sliver for his trouble. He shut the lid and let it finish the refrain, then tipped it gently one way, then the other. No sound of anything shifting. He looked at Ben and shrugged.
“I’ll put it back.”
Nell touched the top of the box, then sat back as Ben returned it to the sitting room, a worried crease between her brows.
How would he feel if he found out his dad wasn’t who he thought he was? It sometimes boggled him to think about who his dad actually was. Being part of his Baker’s dozen had not exactly been a cake walk through the years. Thanks to his friends he’d found out where babies came from too soon for comfort.
When Ben returned, they went through the papers. It didn’t take long. Alex lingered a bit over the photos, looking—he told himself—for clues or cues. She had been a cute kid. In the end, they both leaned back, defeated by how innocuous and ordinary it all was. If they’d brought anything but Nell from their previous lives, it wasn’t obvious. If it was hard for him to connect them with the wise kids, how much harder must it be for Nell?
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