Tell Her No Lies

by Kelly Irvin

  He turned the ignition off. “I’m coming in.”

  “Don’t.”

  “You need me.”

  She’d needed him since the first day Rick took her exploring the southside neighborhood just beyond the bubble where she lived. They escaped while his mother cleaned and her mother wrote. He showed her the house where he lived with his four older sisters and a revolving door of “uncles” who sometimes paid the rent and took it out of his backside. He showed her the good, safe places to hide out. The parks where they could swim for free at the city pools, swing, and shoot baskets until the homies took over at dark. “Right now I need to sleep.”

  “You invited Aaron over.”

  “Rick, please.”

  “Can I come back tomorrow?”

  Her head pounded and her cheek throbbed. She could never shut him out completely. “Sure. That would be good.”

  He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. This time the kiss started below her right ear and made its way to her lips. The burn started slow, revved, and raced through Nina. She had no place to go. “Stop.”

  He stopped. “Always the good girl.” His rueful tone stopped short of critical.

  “I have to go.” Hand tight on her Leica, she let herself out. The whir of the window coming down kept her from turning away.

  He leaned forward and looked up at her. “I love you.”

  Finally, under duress, he said those longed-for words. They reverberated in the humid night air. A mockingbird sang. Car engines hummed in the distances. He would do this now. He had the car in Drive so he could make his escape. She turned. “Rick, can we just—?”

  He revved the engine and drove away.

  Rick never failed to meet expectation.

  She shivered, clutched her camera closer, and whirled toward the house.

  Grace pushed through the screen door. She wore a black silk blouse, black skirt, rubies in her ears and on her hands. Thick gold bracelets clanked on her right wrist. A heart-shaped watch encrusted with diamonds dangled from her other wrist. She still wore her spectacular diamond wedding ring. She looked like a romance novelist in mourning. “I just saw you on TV. You looked terrible. All beat up. Like one of those women who do interviews after their children have been killed in drive-by shootings. They were angels, so sweet, the best children ever. When they were gangbangers with tattoos of tears under their eyes and on their knuckles. What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking someone might come forward with useful information.”

  “The ME’s office called.” Grace’s voice quivered. “Your father’s body is being released in the morning. We can get on with the arrangements. I called the funeral home. We’ll have the service and burial on Friday morning.”

  She plopped onto the wrought-iron bench and put her head in her hands. Sobs shook her body.

  The romance novelist was gone, replaced by a grieving widow.

  23

  The police had done a number on her living quarters. Nina stood in the middle of the room and did a 360-degree turn. Books tumbled to the floor. Pillows tossed around. A stack of mail scattered across the coffee table. Heathens. Cleaning it up would help take her mind from the day’s event crowned with Grace’s meltdown. Getting her into her nightgown and into bed had been a torturous task filled with her mother’s tears and Nina’s own effort to maintain composure.

  Dad would’ve appreciated that. “Chin up, Nina. You’re a Fischer.”

  The letters and receipts. Rubbing her eyes, she stumbled into the darkroom. Her safe room, her haven, had suffered the same indignity. Bottles of chemicals shoved about. The filing cabinet drawers that held her photo archives stood open. What did it cost to shut them? Too much apparently.

  She put both hands on the cabinet and lowered her head. Pain pulsed where Rick had kissed her. Rick, then Aaron, then Rick. Drive-by kisses. They were so different as to be light and dark in her life. One who knew her before she knew who she was and the other who’d helped her find herself through her photography and her writing.

  To let go of Rick was to let go of her past. To open herself up to Aaron was to embrace the possibility of a future where she could be happy without fear of the other shoe dropping.

  It always dropped. Sooner or later.

  She touched her fingers to her lips. Exhaustion blew through her. She had no answers. Thinking about herself served no purpose. Right now, figuring out who killed Dad, Melanie, and Serena, sweet Serena, was paramount.

  First things first. She straightened the darkroom, removed the film from her camera, and went to work developing it. An hour later, she had her answer. The photos she shot at Melanie’s house revealed nothing about the killer. A shadowy, blurred figure in the hallway. Fuzzy, black nothingness. The photographer in her had continued to shoot, even after the struggle ended. The walls and the carpet.

  Nothing. She dumped the last photo in the fixer, swished it around, and let out her breath. “What now?”

  No one answered.

  The letters and receipts? She hadn’t finished reading the letters. She flipped on the light, whirled, and strode to the wooden table where Aaron had concealed them behind huge bottles of chemicals and boxes of photo paper. Still there. The receipts and the strange little neon notebooks. She took them out and stacked them on the counter. Read through them again, one by one. A secret life in Las Vegas. A secret source of income. Dad had been a walking sham. A feckless husband. Another man who couldn’t be trusted.

  Aaron insisted she could trust God. For his sake, she wanted to believe. But it didn’t work that way. To trust would be such a relief. To let someone else carry the load she’d carried all these years with Jan and now Brooklyn. Light-headed, she closed her eyes and leaned against the counter. God? God! How can I trust You when every father I’ve had has left me, deceived me, walked away from me, lied to me? You say You will always be there for me. Where are You now?

  No answer.

  She opened her eyes and took a long breath.

  What was the intruder looking for in Dad’s office? These receipts? What about the key to the safe-deposit box? She needed to get to it, find whatever Dad had hidden there. More secret life? How could there possibly be more?

  The letters were still there too. She grabbed them, turned, and slid down the wall on her back. She cradled them in her lap and counted. All sixteen missives.

  Fierce tears burned her eyes. They weren’t important to a police investigation, but they were important to her. She swallowed. Suck it up, Fischer. A variation on her Dad’s theme.

  The top letter on the stack had a Tampa postmark over the stamp. It was mailed six years after she and Jan came to San Antonio. No return address, of course. With shaking fingers, she pulled the letter from the yellowed envelope. A photo slid out with it. Jan and her in wet shorts and T-shirts standing on a beach, the ocean behind them. Neither of them was smiling. They both held up small seashells.

  Liz’s crabbed writing covered a single page from a Chief notebook with its green lines. The ink was purple and faded.

  I don’t know if you’ll ever see this. I understand if your uncle Geoff doesn’t want you to read it. But you’re fifteen and fourteen now. Old enough to make your own decisions. He should let you decide if you want to read my letters and write me back.

  I have good news. At least I think it’s good. I’m pregnant. You’ll have another little sister or brother. Pretty cool, right? I already stopped drinking and smoking. Well, I’m down to two cigs a day. Not bad for me, right?

  I didn’t drink or smoke when I was pregnant with you either. I’m not that stupid.

  I want you to come back to Florida and live with me.

  Your uncle Geoff doesn’t agree, I know.

  I could come to San Antonio. He could see how good I’m doing.

  We could go to the zoo. Are you too old for the zoo? We could do that laser quest thing. Or go to Fiesta, Texas. Whatever you want to do.

  You can convince Geoff. I bet you girl
s wrap him around your little fingers.

  You both loved Florida. You loved the beach. Nina, I remember how you spent all your time collecting seashells and building fancy sand castles. You hardly ever got in the water. The big waves scared you. Not you, Jannie. You were fearless. I had to drag you out of the water.

  You both cried because you wanted to keep the seashells and I wouldn’t let you. You each had to pick one. We didn’t have room for a bag of shells in the car.

  We could go to the beach again. You can collect all the shells you want and keep them all. I promise.

  Let me come get you. It’ll be great. It’ll be different. I’ll be different. I promise.

  I love you.

  She signed her name with a big heart over the i.

  They had gone to the beach once. With a man named Duane. He smelled like burnt car oil.

  They couldn’t keep the seashells because they were living in a Datsun.

  She had a thirteen-year-old brother or sister. What kind of life was Liz giving him or her?

  Had Dad known? How could he not tell her and Jan? How could he not let them meet their sibling?

  Because he knew what Nina knew.

  It’ll be different. I’ll be different. I promise.

  Love, Mommie.

  Liz’s promises were worth about as much as a VHS tape.

  Nina folded the letter. She stuck it back in the envelope. She scrambled to her feet and went into the back room where she slept. A varnished box covered with red, pink, and yellow roses sat on the dresser. A gift from Grace the day she moved into the house. A keepsake box, Grace had said, for good memories.

  Nina tipped the lid up and removed the seashell. She’d picked it despite broken, rough edges because it was hollow. She imagined hearing the ocean waves when she held it to her ear. It lulled her on dark nights full of boogeymen who were not figments of a little girl’s imagination.

  A long, long time ago. That scared little girl didn’t exist anymore. Nina laid the shell in the box and added the photo to her small stash.

  The other letters would have to wait. One at a time. Beautiful but toxic. Like life itself.

  Her phone vibrated from the depths of her back pocket. An unknown number. She flopped back on the Lone Star quilt pieced by Pearl years ago and stared at the wooden beams. On the third ring she answered.

  Strains of music. Crackling. Familiar. “Hello?”

  Nina Simone’s voice, husky, melodic, a symphony of instruments from a single source, filled her ear. “Who is this?”

  The words of “To Love Somebody” wafted from the phone.

  She never listened to Nina Simone, if only because the singer was her mother’s favorite. She preferred Janis Joplin’s rendition. “Liz?”

  The music faded. The song ended.

  So did the call.

  “Mommie?”

  Dead air.

  24

  His death might have left a sea of unanswered questions, but Nina’s dad had left no detail unaddressed regarding how he wanted to be laid to rest. The sight of his body in a casket only days after finding it on the floor of his study seemed only slightly more surreal than being a murder suspect in his death.

  The release of his body had propelled Grace into a frenzy of activity that alternated with bouts of unrestrained crying. Nina’s duties had been to plan and carry out all tasks related to the reception. A daunting task, given the number of people expected to attend. Grace wanted a harp player, a smorgasbord of her husband’s favorite beverages, servers, extra tables and chairs. A montage of photos representing his life—most of the later ones taken by Nina.

  Not an hour to slip away to the bank to reveal the contents of the safe-deposit box. Not a minute to grieve in private. Not a second to envision a future without her father. Only the time spent mounting the display of photos had given her an opportunity to reflect on his life and the hole his death left in hers.

  Teeth gritted, determined to hold back tears, Nina stood at the pulpit at the First Presbyterian Church and stared out on the mourners who filled the pews on a sunny Friday morning. The fierce urge to hold her camera surged through her. She’d been forbidden to take photos at her own father’s funeral. People looked so noble in moments 206 such as these, the darkest times in their lives. She wasn’t allowed to step behind a camera lens to separate herself from their anguish.

  Nina stared at the paper in front of her. Her hands shook as she smoothed the wrinkled pages of the eulogy. Even knowing Nina’s horror at public speaking, Grace had insisted Nina deliver her father’s eulogy. “You’re a poet,” she said, “and what is a eulogy, but a poem written to memorialize someone you love?”

  Dad’s desires for his funeral had been clear. None of that calling people up to tell their funny little stories, little anecdotes from his life. A dignified affair with the appropriate music. “In the Garden” and “How Great Thou Art” sung by a member of the church choir.

  And a proper eulogy. Not poetry. Nina tucked in a piece of hair that kept falling out of her bun and cleared her throat. Could they see the bruises and cuts on her face? Jan had tried to cover them with makeup, but they were there, right next to the cuts and bruises on her heart.

  People began to wiggle in their seats. Someone coughed. Ladies used memoriam booklets to fan their warm faces. Breathe. Just breathe. “Geoffrey Fischer was a hardworking man dedicated to the law and to his family.” The words blurred. She swallowed and fixed her gaze on Brooklyn for a second. Her niece held a stuffed giraffe her grandfather had given her when Will deployed the last time. Another animal for her collection, he said.

  “He was a man. He wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But Geoffrey Fischer did his best. He rescued my sister and me from a horrible situation and welcomed us into his home. He didn’t just adopt us. He was the only father I’ve ever known. Jan and I were the only daughters he had. He didn’t just put food on the table and clothes on our backs. He didn’t just pay for our educations, proms, and vacations. He protected us, he chided us, he pushed us to do better and be better people.

  “Sometimes we disappointed him. And he let us know it. Because he cared. That’s the bottom line. Whatever he did, he did because he cared. That’s why he spent more than twenty years as a district court judge—because he considered it his duty. Some might choose to remember his failings. I choose to remember his love. I forgive his shortcomings, just as he forgave mine. He never gave up on me or his desire for me to do well. Because he loved me. And I loved him.”

  She stepped down from the lectern and found her way to her seat despite tears that made the steps impossible to see. Grace folded her into a hug.

  One more song. One more benediction.

  Finally, it was over.

  Grace tucked her hand under Nina’s arm and wiped her face with a dainty embroidered hankie that was an incongruous, brilliant white against a black flowing dress that reached midcalf.

  The sound of Brooklyn’s bewildered sobs followed them. Nina slowed and took the little girl’s free hand. Jan held the other. Together they made their way down the aisle. Geoffrey Fischer’s girls. Followed by Trevor, looking lost in an ill-fitting suit.

  Two rows back Nina’s gaze locked with Rick’s. His sculpted face morose, he sat next to Peter Coggins and several other members of the firm. He’d attempted to sit with her in the family pew, but the look on her face led him to seek another spot without a word. Appearing contrite, he raised one hand and waved. Her heart refused to stay hardened over his behavior in his car. She waved back with two discreet fingers. He nodded and mouthed, See you later.

  She didn’t answer because her heart might have softened, but it was not quite the naive idiot it had once been.

  Aaron was outside with his camera locked down on a tripod. His single text the previous evening had said he drew the short straw. That and he would not be attending the reception because he planned to fly to San Diego to attend Melanie’s funeral, scheduled for Saturday morning. His usual evening and mor
ning texts had been missing. Nothing since their phone conversation in Rick’s car. It wasn’t like him. When she walked by into the church, he hadn’t met her gaze. Separating personal and professional?

  Serena Cochrane would be buried in her hometown of Port Arthur on Monday. Aaron had been excused from covering that funeral in order to make the trip to California.

  It was an unsettling time for everyone. Three people whose lives had been cut short in dramatic, unpoetic ways. Three different funerals reflecting how disparate those lives had been.

  Nina heaved a breath and took another look around as they plodded down the aisle. The wooden pews with cushy red pillows for seats were packed in the cavernous sanctuary. Dad’s colleagues from the judiciary and law enforcement had turned out en masse. Judges from the district courts, court reporters, bailiffs, and attorneys sat by county commissioners and city council members. How much was respect and how much curiosity remained a mystery. Still, Dad would be pleased with the turnout.

  Except for Detective Matt King, who sat fourth row from the back. His brown hair was slicked back. His blue suit stood at attention, not daring to wrinkle at a funeral. His expression inscrutable, he nodded as she passed.

  Checking out the crowd for suspects? Watching her every move? Reminding her she was still a suspect in at least two murders?

  Grace gasped and stumbled. Her grip tightened on Nina’s upper arm.

  “Hang in there. We’re almost done here,” Nina whispered as she put her arm around the other woman’s waist and leaned close. “You can rest on the drive to the burial ground.”

  Dad would be buried in a private ceremony next to his parents in the historic San Jose Burial Grounds south of downtown. Not much time to recover, but a little, for them all before the reception started.

  “I can’t believe she’s here.” Grace’s face turned white despite a layer of peach foundation already marred by tears. “After all these years.”