by Jan Burke
He fell silent for a while. By then we had reached San Bernadino. Soon we would be in the mountains themselves.
“Once in a while he would have a bad day,” he said, coming out of his reverie, “and on those days, he’d ask me not to come over. I’d protest, and tell him that I wanted to be with him no matter what, but he could be stubborn.
“When there started to be more bad days, he sat me down and told me—well, many things. He said that the two of us had more than enough painful memories between us, that he preferred this reunion of ours not to include my seeing him helpless and sick. He said he would always feel he had taken horrible advantage of me if he had only brought me to his side to watch him die. He wanted life with me, he said, not death, and nothing but good memories of our time together to sustain him through whatever was to come.”
He was silent again. He reached for the envelope of photographs, pulled out one of the ones of the purple camper and smiled wistfully.
“During one of my earlier visits,” he said, “my father had learned that I had studied to be a reading specialist, and asked me about it. He encouraged me to talk about the things I enjoyed doing—and about the things I dreamed of doing. I told him about storytelling, which I had been involved in locally for a number of years. And another time, I told him that I had this urge to travel. That’s when I learned more about the hobo side of the family—he said I couldn’t help being a nomad, it was the Spanning vagabond in me.
“This last time I saw him, he called in Mr. Brennan, whom I had met when I was younger, but hadn’t seen in many years. My father and Mr. Brennan told me about the provisions my father had made for me. I was astounded, to tell you the truth.
“My father told me he was worried that making me this wealthy would put me in danger, and not just from the DeMonts, but he figured I would understand that, and take care of myself. He said there were members of the family who would try to convince me that I owed them big portions if not all of his money, and he wished I would tell them to go to hell, but if I wanted to hand it over to them, fine. For now, he said, he was the one who had earned it, and so it was his decision to make himself happy by imagining me doing what I wanted to do, making my own choices.
“He asked if I ever thought of taking my storytelling act on the road for a time—and as he went on to describe some of his ideas about it, it wasn’t as if he was pushing me to conform to something he wanted. It was—it was as if I had told my most secret dreams to someone, and he had not only not laughed at them, but he had understood them perfectly.”
“And given you the power to make them come true.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”
“But your mother didn’t like the idea?”
He shook his head. “Hated it. She would have been angry at me for taking a dime from him. She saw it as a betrayal. She even moved to that one-bedroom apartment—a way of saying I wasn’t going to find a room for myself when I came back. I guess— I had lived with her for so long, beyond the time when I wanted to move out, because I knew—I knew!—how lonely she’d be…”
“So for once in your life, you did something for yourself.”
“Oh, not for once,” he said. “She made a lot of sacrifices for me.”
“Your wanting to leave the nest—it was the natural course of things, Travis. I remember how my father—well, never mind.”
“Your father didn’t want you to move out?”
“No. But at that time, I felt as if we’d end up hating each other if I stayed. And I think we would have.”
“But you came back.”
“That’s true. It was what he wanted, what he asked for. For me to be there. I did what he asked. Your father asked for something different. You did what he asked.”
He was silent.
Ghosts, I thought, then suddenly remembered Travis’s e-mail address. “Was he your George Kerby?”
He smiled. “Topper. My dad and I watched a videotape of that film one day. He threatened to start calling me ‘Toppie’ because he said I was just like Cosmo Topper, confined to routine and taking life far too seriously. He said I needed to get out and do the things I wanted to do. He said he’d come back and haunt me if I didn’t start living a little. So Cosmo became my storyteller name.”
“I wonder if he was also trying to take you out of harm’s way for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe by sending you on the road, making it difficult for people to find you after his death, your father saved your life.”
He was thinking that over when his cell phone rang.
“It’s Rachel,” he said, “but she said I should ask you to pull over before I give you the phone.”
“Oh, brother. Once a cop—” I said lightly.
“She sounds upset,” he said.
31
I had just started up Highway 18, so I pulled over and took the phone from Travis.
“Rachel? Is Mary all right?”
“Mary’s fine. Her house is fine, too, although there was a fire.”
“A fire! Her house caught on fire?”
“No, the Karmann Ghia.”
“The…” I couldn’t say it.
“Jack and I went over there to pick it up, there was already a fire truck on the scene.”
“Not my Karmann Ghia…”
“I’m so sorry, Irene. I know you loved that little car. I know you’ve had it for a long time—”
“Since college,” I said blankly. “Since college.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you?”
“If I had gone straight over there, after I talked to you—”
“Oh, Rachel. Don’t do that to yourself. I’m the one who left it there. What happened?”
“Molotov cocktail.”
“We must be rushing him. The bomb on Travis’s camper was much more sophisticated.”
“Let Travis drive—you’re upset.”
“Steer a van up mountain roads with one hand? Not if you aren’t used to it. But now he’s wondering what has happened. Explain it to him, will you?”
I handed the phone to Travis and started up Waterman Canyon. He spoke briefly with Rachel, hung up, then said, “I’m sorry, Irene.”
“Just a car,” I said, which was such total bullshit, I’m surprised he didn’t call me on it. But he fell silent, which is what I needed.
I was grateful for the mountain roads; they required my absolute concentration. The sun was setting, and by the time we reached Mr. Brennan’s large, lake-view mountain home, it was dark. I parked along the road, took out a large flashlight that Jack had apparently included in the price of the van, and Travis and I stepped outside. I felt the chill mountain air, heard the crickets sing, smelled the pine fragrance and saw the stars overhead. I promptly bent over double and started throwing up.
“Irene!” Travis rushed over to me.
“Some water, please,” I said between dry heaves. “Bottle in the van fridge.”
He brought it to me. I rinsed my mouth out. “Is it because of your car?”
“No.”
“The curving road?”
“No.”
“The altitude?”
“No. The mountains,” I said.
“The mountains?”
“I’m—I’m afraid of the mountains.”
He stopped asking questions.
“I was taken to a place not far from here once,” I said. “Against my will. Locked me in a little dark room. Spent three days beating the shit out me. Haven’t been to the mountains since. And if you ever want to see me go nuts, lock me inside any confined space.”
He reached over, took my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had enough on your mind. Besides, I have to try to get over this sooner or later.” I laughed. “Frank is going to be so pissed.”
“At me? I won’t blame him.”
“No, me. He owns property up here. I always make him go without me.”
&nbs
p; I stood up, took a little bit of time to get myself back together, or what I hoped would pass for together. It was an act, of course, but sometimes you have to make do with an act.
There was a dignity about Ezekiel Brennan that made one approach him calmly and quietly. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full head of perfectly combed white hair, watchful gray eyes—slightly enlarged by the lenses in his pewter-rimmed glasses—a strong nose and chin, a firm mouth. He wore casual clothes when he greeted us at the front door—a light sweater and jeans—but it wasn’t hard to picture him in a finely tailored suit, carrying a leather briefcase.
Brennan was gracious to both of us, a perfect host. Travis obviously meant more to him than the average client. It would be easy to assume it was the millions, but even before he started talking about Arthur Spanning, I knew that he looked upon Travis as he might a grandson.
When he first saw my cousin, his smile became much warmer. “Travis!” he said in his deep voice, embracing him with an arm around the shoulder.
“Thank you for allowing us to come to your home on such short notice, Mr. Brennan,” he said, returning the embrace.
“What has happened to your hand?!” he asked.
“Oh—that’s a long story,” Travis said, then added, “I’m so glad to see you!
The hand on Travis’s shoulder gave it another squeeze. “An extremely difficult time for you, I know. I am so very sorry.”
“My dad—your friendship was so important to him. He was grateful for all you did to help him over the years.”
“That was my pleasure. And his friendship was equally important to me,” Brennan said. “I find myself somewhat at loose ends these days—I do miss him.”
He showed us into a spacious living room, where a small fire burned in a brick fireplace. Large windows and sliding-glass doors looked out on the lake below. It was too dark to see much more than the outline of the shore, but in daylight, it would be a beautiful view. Travis was watching me nervously. “I’m okay,” I said softly.
We declined the offer of a drink. With nothing more than a raised eyebrow, Mr. Brennan indicated to me that he expected to have a private conversation with Travis.
“I want her here,” Travis said, reading the look. “She may hear anything you have to say to me.”
“Whatever you wish, of course,” Brennan said, “but wouldn’t it be better—”
“When my father warned me about being bothered by the family,” Travis interrupted, “was he referring to the Kellys?”
“No,” Brennan admitted. “Your father was referring to your uncle Gerald and his other in-laws, the DeMonts.”
Travis studied the lawyer for a moment, then said, “I am willing to explain why I want Irene to be here, but I don’t want to upset you—”
“My boy, I am old, but I am healthy, and working in law has strengthened my nerves remarkably. Say what you have to say.”
“Irene is helping me to discover who murdered my mother. She needs to hear everything. And she’ll have some questions of her own.”
But Brennan was still caught on one word. “Murdered?”
“Yes.” Travis seemed unable for a moment to go on, and said, “Irene— will you please tell him?”
Brennan listened in silence as I told him what we had learned about the hit-and-run accident. He offered condolences to Travis, and seemed genuinely shaken.
“I was there when she married him again,” he said. “I was their witness. They were both very happy, despite the circumstances—Arthur was in the hospital, of course. But I must say, Travis, that your mother’s presence gave him strength.” He paused, then said, “Once, when she had left the room for a few moments, your father spoke of you and your mother coming back into his life, and of—of forgiveness. He said, ”Zeke, never doubt that I will die a happy man.“”
His voice caught on this last and he stopped speaking for a moment while he pulled out a handkerchief, ostensibly to wipe his glasses. He took a few minutes to do this, then said, “She never wanted his money, of course, but he made sure that she would be provided for. When she learned of it, I think her first thought was of you, because she asked me to make a new will for her.”
“Tell me that she signed it,” I said.
He looked surprised, then said, “Why, yes, she did.”
“Oh, thank God!” I said. They both looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Please call Detective McCain of the LAPD for me,” I said. “Although he’ll probably tell you that I couldn’t have known about the new will.”
Travis understood then, and explained to Mr. Brennan, adding, “Most people wouldn’t be so happy over losing half a million dollars.”
“Peanuts, if it gets McCain off my back.”
“I’ll have a talk with him, if you like,” Brennan said.
“Thank you. Would you please help Travis make out a new will tonight?”
“A new will.”
“Yes—and for godsakes, leave me out of it. Travis’s will is made in favor of his mother, and I’m afraid there is at least one person who would like to see him die intestate.”
“Good Lord.”
“In fact, perhaps you could clear something up for us. Do Robert or Horace DeMont have any claim on any portion of Arthur’s estate?”
“Absolutely not. But a mere matter of law won’t stop those two. Robert and Horace are imbeciles. Their only genius is in their tenacity.”
“Perhaps not their only genius,” Travis said, and told him of my experiences at Robert’s home.
“I should have liked to see that window go!” he said. “But I still say Robert and his father are fools. And I was wrong—they have an additional ability to make the worst investment choices on earth. They have not, either one of them, realized that if it hadn’t been for Arthur, there would have been absolutely nothing left of the DeMont fortune by the time Gwendolyn died. There was damned little as it was.”
“Leda said something like that,” I said.
“Leda,” said Brennan, “is so sensible, I believe she must be a changeling. But Robert and Horace! Gwendolyn’s naive trust of them caused a great deal of harm.”
“But she was still wealthy when my father married her, wasn’t she?” Travis asked.
“When he married her? Oh, yes. Even the DeMonts could not destroy that much money in so short a time. Her fortune was rapidly being decimated, but there was wealth. It was still some time before he took a hand in matters; after all, he was only sixteen when he married her. And there were extenuating circumstances…” He looked over at me, then said, “Travis, your father instructed me to tell you the whole story, should you wish to hear it, but I cannot believe he intended—”
“I think he would have trusted me to make this decision, don’t you?”
Brennan smiled. “Yes, of course.”
“She knows my father couldn’t read or write,” Travis said, and seeing Brennan’s dismay, quickly added, “and I don’t believe she thinks less of him for that. If anything”—he glanced at me—“we’ve cleared up an old family misunderstanding.”
“How old was Arthur when he told you, Mr. Brennan?” I asked.
“Near his eighteenth birthday. I shall never, as long as I live, forget that day. I had already become fond of your father, but when he admitted his problem, I thought he showed remarkable courage.”
“He told me about that,” Travis said. “That was when you found Ulkins for him—oh, my God! You don’t know about him either!”
This news greatly upset him; they spoke for a long time about Ulkins.
“My father said W changed everything for him,” Travis said.
“Ulkins was well-paid,” Brennan said, “and liked your father immensely. As Ulkins himself often said, he only made information accessible to your father. It remained for your father—without the aid of notes, relying strictly on his memory—to process that information and make decisions. He built a fortune. Never doubt that your father was a very intelligent man.”
> “Did Gerald do all of your father’s reading before that?” I asked.
“Gerald or Gwendolyn. Mostly Gwendolyn, by then.”
“Mr. Brennan,” I asked, “was there any sort of prenuptial agreement signed when Arthur married Gwendolyn?”
“Only as concerned Gerald. He was not to inherit or receive from Arthur any of the DeMont money. Gerald claimed to be happy about it; he said it would prove that his—insistence, shall we say?—on the marriage was not motivated by greed.”