“I was thinking of the same thing,” Jake said with a grin.
“Well, I guess that proves we’re related. I’ll quit referring to you as my bastard half-brother from now on.”
“And I’ll quit telling everyone you’re a registered sex offender.” Jake said.
“Later, little brother. Stay out of trouble.” Jason said.
Jake watched his brother get into his Toyota 4runner and pull out of the driveway, the sound of the car scattering the crows on Leona Weinberg’s lawn.
Chapter Ten
Jake climbed the steps to the spare bedroom on the second floor to change the sheets on the bed. He pulled up the blind and jumped in surprise when one of the crows that had been hanging around Leona’s suddenly flew past, nearly smacking into the glass. Even more crows had gathered near the kitchen door. He wondered what was going on. Leona was famous for chasing off every kind of critter that dared get near her prize apple trees. She even harassed chipmunks. Why would she suddenly start feeding the crows?
Soon, though, he was lost in thought over the things his brother had told him. Neither Jake nor Sam had ever liked Jennifer O’Hara or Amelia Darrow or whatever her real name might have been. It wasn’t the homophobic litany she had launched into in their kitchen nearly three years ago, either. It was the way she had smiled. Her smiles had been robotic, barren of any feeling and had never touched her eyes.
He sighed and went about changing the sheets. At least it brought Jason back.
A cloud passed over the sun, dropping the temperature in the room. Jake shivered, a chill shooting up his spine. The hackneyed platitude about gooses and graves came to him before he could stop it. He shook his head and looked out the window at the darkening sky. He smiled as he watched another cartload of maple leaves scatter over Leona Weinberg’s yard. Down the road, a car door slammed shut, and the crows took flight again.
“Maybe it should be a crow walked over the grave, instead of a goose,” he said aloud to himself when the shiver had returned. He shook his head and left the room, not watching as one by one, the crows gathered around the back kitchen door to the Weinberg house.
* * *
Throughout the night, the wind had howled. Jake slept restlessly, unable to catch hold of any deep, curative slumber. Instead, he listened to Sam’s deep snores mingle with the wailing tempest until the gusts abated and the storm blew itself out about two.
At six, he pretended to be asleep while Sam crept out of the room. He then lay in the bed until the first tendrils of light crept across the ceiling from the gap in the blinds. Finally, he gave up. He dressed in sweats and bypassed the coffee, heading down to the basement to work out. It was his day off from the weights, so he opted for a good run on the treadmill.
While running, he glanced at the rain outside. It had been a fitting ending for a weekend involving their mother. Only the bomb she dropped had landed with a fizzle.
“Your father and I have been separated since last Christmas. I’ve decided to divorce him.”
“Gee Mom, try and temper the blow a little bit, why don’t you?” Jason said.
Jake said nothing and continued eating his salad. Ingrid Finnigan stared expectantly at her son. “Well? Don’t you have anything to say?”
“Well, honestly Mother, it’s about damn time. We all know about your little financial arrangement with a certain member of the Graham family—”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” huffed Ingrid Finnigan, arching an auburn eyebrow. “Your sister fell apart at the news.”
“Of course she did,” Jake and Jason said in unison.
“So, who’s the other guy?”
“Jason, you have always had a vulgar imagination,” Ingrid said.
“Come off it, Ma. New hairdo, new color for that matter—and I have to say the red suits you.”
“Thank you. And do not call me ‘Ma.’ You know how much I hate that.”
“—new dress, nails done up perfectly. You’re not putting on the dog for us.”
“If you must know, I have been seeing someone,” Ingrid said. “Fred Stanley. And before you give me that judgmental look, Jason David, your father and I have been living separate lives for years. He’s been having a relationship with someone else for quite some time, for the record.”
“That’s not a judgmental look, Ma. It’s shock and horror at your choice. Fred Stanley? He’s a car salesman.”
“Who looks like a porn star gone to seed,” Jake added, also aghast at his mother’s choice in companions.
Sam snorted and erupted into a coughing fit reaching for his water and chugging some down quickly to soothe his throat.
“Fred Stanley,” Ingrid Finnigan continued, acid dripping from each word, “is the most successful Mercedes-Benz dealer in the entire western United States. In fact—”
“Oh, come on, Ma!” Jason cried.
It had gone downhill from there. Ingrid complained about the meal, berated Jason’s choice of career, and intimated both Jake and Jason were freeloading on Sam’s income.
“Nothing could be farther from the truth, Ingrid,” Sam had said, his voice icy. “And furthermore, it’s none of your business.”
Jake had enjoyed seeing the stricken look on his mother’s face. When Ingrid had met Sam ten years ago, she’d been less than kind, but since then, Ingrid Finnigan had never crossed him. She had quickly grown to like him—better than she liked her sons, Jake figured—and had an annoying habit of taking Sam’s side, even when he was wrong. They hadn’t exchanged sharp words in a decade. She quickly changed the subject, unloading another bomb on them.
“I’ve decided to sell the business.”
“You’ve what?” Jake said.
“I’m going to sell the bookstore. If I can’t get someone to buy the business, I’ll sell out the inventory and just get rid of the building. You’ll need to come and get the books you’ve been putting aside for years in that steamer trunk in the attic.”
“But you can’t.”
“It’s my business. Of course I can.”
It was that news that had struck him hard, not the news of the pending split of his parents.
As he ran on the treadmill, sweat pouring down his face, he wondered why the idea of selling the bookstore bothered him so much when it finally dawned on him that it was one of the last connections he had to Chris Aponte. They had worked there together, spent a lot of time talking, joking, laughing. Jake realized it wasn’t the store itself that meant so much as the memories it represented.
He finished his workout and went upstairs. After his shower, he slipped down to the kitchen to find Sam and Jason talking away, Jason putting a plate of ham and eggs in front of Sam. Jake filled his coffee cup and joined Sam at the butcher’s block kitchen table as Jason placed a plate of steaming eggs and ham in front of him. Jake picked a small piece of ham off the plate and patted his leg, where Barnaby had already arrived. He handed the dog the ham, skritched his ears and then returned to his breakfast, digging into the eggs.
They ate in the stillness of the kitchen for quite a while, not wanting to bring up the events of the day before. Jake looked out the window as the rain clouds continued to break up, leaving patches of dark blue sky behind the gray clouds. The sun flickered through and hit the wet pavement of High Street, which began to steam.
“Huh?” Jake asked, having heard Jason direct something at him.
“I asked how you were.”
“Fine,” Jake said, returning to his eggs. “Should I not be?”
“Well, you did just find out your parents are getting divorced,” Sam pointed out.
“Oh, that’s nothing, Sammy, you know that. We’ve been making bets for years, actually,” Jason said.
“I’ve always wondered why they continued with it,” Jake said. “I figured once Amy was out of the house…”
“Me too.”
“Well, none of us were privy to the exacting details of the agreement around Amy,” Sam pointed
out.
“Thank God for that,” said Jason, shaking his head. “Do you think she meant it?”
“Which part?”
“About not knowing what you were talking about in reference to the Amy agreement.”
“Part of having borderline personality disorder is the ability to revise history to the point where you actually believe the revised history. It becomes the truth. Oh, she knows about it, but it’d be…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Like something she read in a book a long time ago.”
“When I hear your mother say things like that, knowing they’re not true, I’m always amazed you two turned out so well adjusted.”
“That’s because of Dad’s influence,” Jake said. “Speaking of, what’d Dad say?”
“That in typical fashion, Mom was making it all about her. He was the one that finally filed the paperwork.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“He also confirmed they’ve both been seeing other people for years, but we knew that.”
“Did Madge finally decide she wanted to be more than the other woman?”
“You know Madge. She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about that kind of thing,” Jason pointed out. “Dad said with it being a community property state, he didn’t want Ma interfering with the Finnigan family things.”
“Would she do that?” asked Sam, slightly aghast.
Jake and Jason merely looked at him.
“Sorry, sorry. My mistake. There’s me thinking Ingrid might have her lucid, human moments.”
“She does, but not when it comes to personal property,” said Jake. “Which is why it floors me she’s selling the store.”
“Frankly, I’m far more upset to hear Mom’s selling the bookstore than hearing she’s shacking up with Fred Stanley.”
“Me too,” Jake said. “So much of our lives were there.”
“I think the happiest parts of our childhood were spent in that bookstore,” Jason said, with a sigh. “I’ll miss it, but it isn’t as if I’ll ever be going back to live in Port Jefferson again. You?”
“Let’s see, pigs would have to take to the air, hell would have to turn arctic and I’d have to start voting Republican first,” said Jake.
“You know, you could have just said ‘no,’” said Jason, getting up from the table to rinse off his plate and place it in the dishwasher. “I’m off. The staff is still unofficially on strike after the stunt Reed Longhoffer pulled with Marion’s story last week. We’re meeting to see what our next move is. As far as I know, Longhoffer is still trying to run the thing single-handedly and not having much luck with it.”
“Good,” said Sam and Jake together.
“They’re putting together their own paper. Derek said they’re going to the printers today and will have it out by tomorrow, a day ahead of the Examiner. They’re calling it the Arrow Bay Protester and plan to run some not-too-nice things about Reed.”
“What about the brother, the one who’s really supposed to be running the thing?” asked Sam.
“David,” replied Jake.
“Leave it to Mr. Photographic Memory,” said Jason. “I wish I’d inherited that from Dad instead of the large—”
“J.D.,” Jake said, cocking an eyebrow at his brother.
“—feet,” said Jason. “What exactly did you think I was going to say, Jake?”
“Nothing, nothing,” said Jake, blushing furiously.
“Anyway,” said Jason, “David Longhoffer has had a flurry of emails sent to him and the Examiner’s lawyer has also been attempting to get a hold of him, basically insisting he come back to run things. Reed is on his way out for good at this point, I think.”
“He’s lucky he doesn’t get sued for libel. Did you read that article?”
“I don’t think anyone in town missed that,” said Sam. “Randy Burrows read it over KABW.”
“It could get very interesting,” said Jason, clearing the plates off the table.
“Indeed it could. Another town meeting like that one, and they’ll hang him from the nearest pole,” said Jake.
Jason grunted, lighting his pipe and blowing out a few smoke rings. “Just so long as I get to keep my job, I’ll be happy.”
“Ready to go back to work, eh?”
“And then some. Not that cleaning your toilets hasn’t been delightful,” Jason said with a wink. “Anyway I best be off. See you this evening sometime,” he said, and with a puff of cherry-scented tobacco, he was gone.
“Amazing what a little confession can do for the soul.”
“Spoken like a Catholic.”
“Ex-Catholic, and argue with me that he seems greatly relieved in just a few days since getting that off his chest.”
“I can’t, and you know it,” said Jake. “Now, how about we sketch out the backyard and take advantage of the weather while we’ve got it?”
Chapter Eleven
“Okay, so we’ve got the boulder area covered,” said Jake, while Sam marked some things down on a sketchpad. “And we can bulk up this side of the house.” The clematis was starting to die back and look ragged, the only thing about it that he didn’t like. “We’ll cut this back and let it thicken up next spring,” said Jake, making a notation on his steno pad as he wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, did I step in something? Has Barnaby been out here?”
“He never goes outside of his sand pit,” said Sam. “What the heck is that?”
“Smells like gone-over meat,” said Jake absently. He looked over at the Weinberg house, where the crows fluttered restlessly near the side door to the kitchen. “Oh shit!”
“Jake,” said Sam disapprovingly. “As a writer—what are you doing?”
Jake handed Sam his steno pad, heading over to the fence. Jake held on to the top of the chain link, vaulting himself over. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he murmured, covering his mouth and crossing himself with his left hand.
Jake shooed away the crows, heading for Leona’s back door. He peered through the panes of glass into the kitchen, where the lights were ablaze, illuminating pale pine tile and an island. Several apples lay scattered on the floor. Looking just beyond the island, Jake spotted a hand clutching an apple, a large, half-eaten section already brown. The fingers were purple and swollen, but the nail polish was just as shiny and perfectly done as always, and the same Jungle Red that Leona Weinberg always wore.
Jake didn’t bother trying the door. He called over the fence to Sam, “Call the police. Mrs. Weinberg’s dead.”
* * *
Two hours later, the police finally pulled the body out of the house covered with a sheet. The wind kicked up long enough to unfurl it from one end, revealing a set of purple, swollen ankles in iron-gray pumps. A corner of Leona’s fuchsia dress fluttered in the wind like a waving hand. Jake turned away, not wanting to remember the image, but knowing undoubtedly he would for a long time. Why in the hell they hadn’t loaded her into one of the black body bags that appeared on every crime show he’d ever seen?
Jake and Sam remained on their side of the fence, talking to officers periodically as the police tromped in and out of the house. The couple drifted back to the bench on the porch where they waited to be formally questioned.
After the body was pulled out, activity died down a bit. Jake and Sam had been sitting quietly with Barnaby between them when the tall, goateed detective Jake had remembered from the Elwha walked up their driveway.
“Mr. Finnigan and Mr. O’Conner? I’m Detective Adam Haggerty. I was wondering if I could get your statement.”
It was not a question. Jake looked Haggerty up and down. He stood about six feet, four inches tall and had a lithe swimmer’s build. Jake could tell Haggerty was no stranger to a gym, with ample biceps and well-defined pectoral muscles under his black dress shirt. His dark blue suit appeared tailored very carefully, though he was wearing a pair of practical black Doc Marten boots instead of regular dress shoes. Despite the cold, his suit jacket was slung over one arm. His dark brown hair was slightly shaggy, parted down
the middle, and swept back carelessly. His goatee was a shade lighter thanks to some reddish undertones, and neatly trimmed. Haggerty was clearly younger than Jake, but not much. The goatee, he suspected, was to combat a rather goofy grin and very boyish face. Detective Haggerty was a handsome man, but his dark eyes were very probing and sharp. Jake knew instinctively this was not a man to trifle with.
“Have we met before, Mr. Finnigan?” he asked, his brow creased.
“A little over a year ago. You responded to the corpse found on the Elwha before Kulshan County responded. If bulldozing their way in can be referred to as ‘responded.’”
“Ah, that,” replied Haggerty, as if wanting to avoid a particularly unpleasant memory.
“Do we need to come downtown?” Sam asked.
“Later to sign your statements, but it’s not necessary right now,” he said, still standing over them.
Jake motioned to the chair. “Please sit down, Detective.”
Barnaby leapt up from in between them, letting out a low growl as he approached the man, who sat down carefully.
“Pipe down, Barnaby,” scolded Sam. “He’s one of the good guys.”
Adam Haggerty held out his hand for the dog to sniff, which he did vigorously. He wagged his tail, and let Haggerty pat him on the head. Haggerty scratched his ears for a moment and, apparently satisfied, Barnaby trotted off the porch for back door and his food dish.
“I must have passed inspection.”
“He doesn’t trust just anyone,” Sam said. “He has an antagonistic relationship with a cocker spaniel in the park. And he’s not too fond of that kid with the unibrow down the road.”
“Can I get you something to drink, Detective?”
“Glass of water would be nice, thanks,” said Haggerty, producing a pad from his jacket while Jake got his water and rejoined them on the porch.
“There are how many people in the household?” Haggerty asked.
“Sam and I and my brother, Jason.”
“Okay. How long have you lived here?”
Sinister Justice Page 8