Interior Motives

by Ginny Aiken

  I sensed her need to speak, to release some pain, so I murmured a vague “hmm . . .”

  “She did listen when the oncologist urged her to seek counseling. For a while the depression went so deep that I . . . I thought it would take her rather than the cancer.”

  She glanced at the house and sighed. “I can’t believe she’s gone. Especially now. She was doing so much better. She was ready to fight the malignancy, and her spirits . . . well, you know? It’s been years since I’ve seen her as excited as she was about working with you. She loves—loved—this house.”

  My throat knotted up. Why, Lord? Why now?

  We studied Darlene’s home, each consumed by private thoughts. Then, down the street, a car horn honked. I dragged in a gulp of air, and Cissy shook her head.

  “Oh, would you just look at me?” She wiped her eyes with shaky fingers. “I didn’t want to believe it, but somewhere inside I knew it was just a matter of time. Now that it’s happened, I’ve turned into a blubbery old woman. And I’m holding you back. I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to a silly old fool bawl over something that can’t be changed.”

  “Oh, no! Please don’t think that. I only met Darlene that one time, but she made a huge impression on me. I doubt anyone could’ve met her and not admired her. I wanted to work with her, and I’m so sad I won’t have the chance to know her better.”

  It must’ve been what Cissy needed to hear. She gave me a watery smile. “Everyone loves—loved—her. Even the nurses and lab techs at the doctor’s office, and they don’t speak much English.”

  “That’s strange. I’ve never heard that the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Institute staffs that many non-English speakers.”

  Cissy bit her bottom lip. She glanced again at the house, then shrugged. “I guess I don’t need to keep her secret any longer. Darlene supplemented her standard chemo from the oncologist at the institute with HGH—human growth hormone. She believed, as lots of researchers do, that it’s the key to healing and longevity.”

  “Human growth hormone? I don’t know a whole lot about the stuff. I did skim through a couple of stories in the paper about it coming in from Mexico, but that was a while ago.”

  “Darlene didn’t use smuggled serum—that’s dangerous. We went down to Dr. Díaz, a specialist in HGH therapy, just over the border in Tijuana. He’d sell us a six-week supply, and I’d inject her here at home.”

  “She really thought it would work?”

  Cissy squared her shoulders. “You have to look at the research before you can make up your mind. I came to my own conclusions after I read a large number of clinical studies.”

  “I suppose you agree with Darlene—and that Dr. Díaz.” “There’s a lot to HGH therapy. And after only five months, Darlene began to improve daily. That’s why her death comes as such a blow. She’d even gained some weight.”

  “But I heard her say she had to start chemo again.”

  Cissy sniffed. “I think the orthodox medical community has too great an interest in boosting the sale of chemo drugs. They keep patients scared almost to death by a cancer diagnosis. But most of those doctors own stock in drug companies. I’m not sure Darlene had relapsed. Besides, the so-called legit guys don’t bother to tell anyone there’s hope elsewhere.”

  “Okay.” Fanatics come in all flavors.

  “And what’s more, those of us who have looked into it are certain there’s more potential for HGH than even as a cure for cancer. We believe it’s the real fountain of youth. Sooner or later a researcher’s going to unravel its secret and provide humanity with eternal life.”

  Visions of The Twilight Zone danced in my head. Time to split. “Well, Cissy. That’s very interesting, of course, but you’re right. I do have to hurry back to work.”

  The look on her face said she had my number. “Don’t forget,” she added. “Everyone thought the world was flat once too.”

  Oh boy. “That’s a good point, and I’ll give it some more thought. But I gotta go.” I opened the car door and slipped in behind the wheel. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  Her inner fire fizzled out. “There’s not much anyone can do. Darlene’s dead.”

  And that was that.

  Or so I thought.

  At dinner that night, Dad seemed quieter than usual. “What’s on your mind?” I asked.

  He put down his fork. “I know I’m absentminded, but I’ve never forgotten a church member before.”

  “What makes you think you have now?”

  “I had an odd call right before I left the office. It delayed me a little.”

  “I wondered.”

  “It was the strangest thing, Haley. A young man called to ask me to perform his mother’s funeral, said she spoke highly of my sermons. But I don’t know him, and I can’t remember her either.”

  “Maybe something kept her from coming the last few years, and she’s slipped your mind.”

  “Then she must have slipped our roster too. I couldn’t find record of her membership, tithing, or even a random donation over the last eight years. And I do take those matters seriously.”

  Dad obsesses about the accuracy of the church’s finances.

  “That is strange,” I said. “But maybe the son was mistaken. Maybe she attended a different church.”

  “I thought of that, so I called him back. And that call’s what made me late. He insisted ours is the one, said she used to walk to services, that it has to be the Wilmont River Church because there’s none other that close to the home.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, I suppose I’ll perform the service, even though I don’t feel right about it. I mean . . . I don’t know the woman, and I hate to deliver a generic, meaningless message.”

  I reached across the table to pat his hand. “Don’t worry, Dad. You could never give a meaningless sermon. You have a way of teaching God’s Word that reaches at least one little corner of your listeners’ hearts.”

  “Seems to me you spent years with all those little corners of your heart closed to my preaching.”

  “Yes, but if you’ll remember, I had to stay away to do it.” “So that’s why you participated in the congregation’s activities but avoided Sunday services.”

  “It was the only way I could stay angry with God.”

  He lowered his gaze, and I knew it wasn’t the remains of his meatloaf and mashed potatoes that had him in thrall. When he looked up again, I saw the moisture in his eyes.

  “I’m very thankful you’ve come back, Haley.”

  “So am I, Dad. So am I.”

  I took our plates to the dishwasher, then gathered bowls, spoons, mugs, the coffeepot, and a carton of mocha chip ice cream. By the time I plunked it all on the table, my mouth watered in anticipation of my favorite ice cream.

  “I see you stopped by the store,” Dad said with a grin. “No strawberry?”

  “Hey! You know the rules. He—or she—who buys gets to choose. Got a problem with that rule, Daddy-o?” I winked. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t have a problem with it—you’re the one who made it!”

  “Dish it up, honey. Just dish it up.”

  After the first spoonful or ten of frozen bliss, I returned to our earlier topic. “Hey, you never told me the name of the woman. I might remember her. You never know what kind of fuzz might stick to my mental Velcro.”

  “It’s Darlene Weikert—”

  The clatter of the spoon against my ice cream bowl cut off whatever else Dad might have said. My shock painted a frown on his face.

  “Haley? Are you all right?”

  “No way are you going to believe this,” I said after a handful of deep, measured breaths. “Recently Darlene asked me to do her parlor and dining room. We had an appointment for this afternoon, but when I got there—”

  “Oh no. Haley! Not again.”

  “What can I say? I got there at four like we’d agreed, and their live-in nurse—Mr. Weikert has what I
think is Alzheimer’s—went to tell her I was there. Cissy, the nurse, couldn’t wake Darlene, and she started to yell, asked me to get an ambulance. The rest is history.”

  He closed his eyes in what I knew from experience was silent prayer. Then, “How was this poor woman murdered?”

  “Good grief, Dad! Not you too!”

  “What do you mean, not you too?”

  I blew a curl off my left eyebrow. “The minute she showed up, Lila Tsu started up with this totally bogus ‘old house in Wilmont plus interior designer plus dead female equals Haley Farrell’ deal.”

  “You have to admit you have a strong track record.”

  “Not! But guess what? Nobody killed Darlene. She had cancer.”

  His relief mirrored mine of this afternoon—but I operate on a need-to-know basis, and he didn’t need to know that.

  “There’s one bit of good news,” he said.

  “Yepper. So what did you tell the son? Oh, and which one called? Tommy or Larry?”

  “You know her children? My goodness, Haley! You’ve become another Bella.”

  I took a boxer’s stance. “Wanna go a round or two, Rev?”

  He grinned. “You’re the one who says Bella knows everyone. Now it turns out you know this woman, and even her sons. That sounds a lot like Bella Cahill.”

  “Okay. Scratch that. Forget I mentioned the younger Weikerts. What’d you say to the son who called?”

  “I told him I’d officiate, but only if he could give me a list of her favorite hymns and a couple of Scripture verses that meant something to her.”

  The Tommy and Larry I’d met didn’t seem as if they’d know how to track down hymns or verses.

  “What did he say to that?”

  “Oh, he took his time, hemmed and hawed, but I wouldn’t agree until he accepted my conditions. I have to know something about the woman’s faith.”

  “Don’t be surprised if you get a list with stuff like ‘Hymn for the Cyberwhiz’ and quotes from The Slimy Auto Salesman’s Bible.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You do know Mrs. Weikert’s sons.”

  “More than I want to.”

  “When did you meet them?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “And you’ve already formed a negative opinion of them?” He shook his head. “That’s not like you. Why?”

  I raised one shoulder. “They showed up at Darlene’s house when I was on my way out. They were angry, in the middle of an argument about Tommy’s business ethics— or lack thereof—and seemed only surprised to hear their mother had died. Neither one looked particularly sad at the news.”

  “It was probably the shock of the moment, honey.”

  “She’d fought liver cancer for years, Dad. I don’t know how much shock comes with that kind of death.”

  He still looked doubtful.

  “Tell you what,” I offered. “When will you meet with them?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Let’s compare notes at dinner. Give me your take then.”

  “You have yourself a deal.”

  And with that, I put the Weikert family out of my mind. I had a Latina shrink’s office to south-of-the-borderize.

  By two o’clock the next day, my curiosity made it impossible to pin another curtain or sew another cushion for Tedd’s office. I had to know how the Weikert brothers showed up at the church. I also wanted to see Dad’s reaction when they did.

  Since I usually sew at home rather than on-site, it was no big deal to pop into the church and find the time for Dad’s appointment—he posts his schedule on a blackboard by his office door. So by three fifteen I’d made myself comfortable with a book on color choices for the new millennium in a pew with a straight shot at Dad’s office. I settled in to wait for the grieving siblings.

  If I’d really wanted to see them, I would’ve had to wait nigh unto forever. They didn’t show. It was Cissy who came to meet with Dad. I heard her murmured excuses for the brothers—work for Tommy and a broken-down car for Larry.

  When Dad ushered Cissy inside, I got the worst itch to go listen at the door. To my credit, I didn’t do it. But I did have to scrape up all my willpower to stay put and wait until the meeting was over.

  When I saw Cissy emerge from the office and shake Dad’s hand, I hurried to get to the church door before she stepped out to the parking lot.

  “Cissy!” I cried. “What a surprise. I never expected to see you here.” True—I’d expected the brothers. “How’s Jacob? How are you?”

  “This is a surprise, Haley. I came to make arrangements for . . . for Darlene’s final farewell.” She glanced up at the sky, as if to look for her friend among the clouds. “And Jacob’s the same. I’m not sure he’s aware of Darlene’s passing.”

  “That’s sad, but understandable.” The dark circles under her eyes tattled on her. “You haven’t slept much, have you?”

  She shook her head, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “She was my closest friend. Yes, I worked for her, but she hired me because we’d been friends for so long. I really miss her.”

  “I understand. I lost a close friend about a year and a half ago, and I still miss her.”

  “Please tell me it doesn’t hurt this much anymore.”

  She didn’t shake off the arm I wrapped around her shoulders. “The loss is still there.” I tried to put into words what had been feelings and sensations too private to expose. “But that hole the death leaves behind . . . it never fills back up. The pain? It’s not as sharp anymore. It’s kind of . . . like when your hammer smacks your thumb. The first wham really hurts, but then it turns . . .”

  Cissy gave a weak chuckle. “I understand. Of course, I’ve lost my parents, my husband, and my daughter . . . my daughter died back in the sixties. Losing Darlene is different. I don’t have anyone left.”

  “My dad and one of our neighbors have said something like that. They use their work to fight the loneliness.” If you could call Bella’s fads work.

  Cissy stepped back, and I didn’t try to hold her. “I’ve tried to do that since yesterday. Work, work, and more work. I had no idea how complex Darlene’s business matters would turn out to be.”

  “You’re handling her . . . what? Is it the estate?”

  “She named me executrix, if you can believe it. To be honest, I don’t understand the half of it. I do know I have to keep those two sons from getting their greedy paws on her funds.”

  “I don’t understand. Don’t they inherit her estate?”

  “Not at all. Nine years ago they demanded she turn over their trust funds, and she did just that. They went through the money as fast as I expected, and they’ve mooched off her ever since.”

  “So if the sons don’t inherit, then I suppose she left everything to Jacob—for his care, I’d imagine.”

  “Something like that.” She nodded toward the parking lot. “Walk with me to the car. It’s hard to drive it. I can still see Darlene behind the wheel of her brand-new silver baby—that’s what she called it. But I still can’t get used to all that luxury.”

  Luxury? Uh-oh. “You were saying about the sons . . . ?” Cissy nodded. “Darlene loved her sons, but she knew them too. Can you believe she left me the house, her investments— everything—so I can care for Jacob until . . . until . . .”

  My mind freaked at all the bizarre input. Flashing red alerts went off. You’d have thought I had an ambulance, complete with siren and spinning lights, way up there.

  Suddenly Darlene’s death didn’t hit me as natural, caused by cancer. Greedy sons cut from the will; a husband lost in the mist of Alzheimer’s; a best friend who inherits everything, everything but what it costs to care for the terminally ill widower.

  But Darlene had suffered from liver cancer.

  I couldn’t get away from that.

  “. . . and I even have to meet with the president of the Wilmont People’s Bank tomorrow. Something about the transfer of loan payments into my name.”

  The word bank s
tuck on my freaked-out mind. “Huh?” “Oh, more about the estate. It’s what Darlene arranged with Roberto Díaz.”

  “Díaz? Is that the same Díaz who sold her the HGH?”

  “The same.”

  I felt like Alice in my very own, hyperloopy Wonderland. Things grew curiouser and curiouser by the minute. “Loan payments? Darlene owed the doctor for her treatment?”

  “Of course not. She made him a loan so he could buy the lab that manufactures the HGH serum. He’s been paying her back on a steady basis. He only has another fifty thousand dollars to go.”

  I staggered back. Fifty grand! That looked like a whole lot of motive going on. What if . . . ? “Is he current with his payments?”

  Cissy averted her gaze. “Oh, Dr. Díaz is a very honorable man, Haley. He has only his patients’ best interests at heart. Darlene thought the world of him. She had total faith in his work. And him. Him too.”

  Those sirens in my head were making me deaf. “I didn’t ask you that, Cissy. Did Dr. Díaz fall behind on his payments?”

  She tucked her black leather purse tighter under her arm; she smoothed her short, pewter-colored hair over her right ear; she shifted her weight from her right foot to the left. “Um . . .”

  “So Darlene’s good doctor isn’t really all that good.”

  The new heiress wouldn’t face me but instead started toward the beautiful silver Mercedes, so new that it glowed in the rare Pacific Northwest sunlight—Darlene’s new silver baby. Luxury all the way.

  Hmm . . .

  “Cissy,” I said in my sternest voice. “Are you certain Darlene died of cancer?”

  Her eyes widened, and she hurried to the car. “I—”

  I never heard what she started to say, but I sure wished I had. She pulled into the street with the screech of tires and the roar of a monster German engine.

  Billy Shakespeare said it best way back when: something smelled rotten in the state of Denmark . . . Washington.

  Whatever.

  4

  So did I call Lila, or did I check things out first?

  The question rumbled in my head the whole night. I tossed and turned with pillows and blankets. But all these thoughts made sleep impossible.