by Cameron Dane
The woman shrugged her linebacker shoulders. “Nothing concrete. Except that Rich was less involved in the church than Elaine. Not that he didn’t want to go or that Elaine dragged him there every week. I just know Elaine volunteered for a lot more of the church-sponsored outreach programs than Rich did. Plus, Rich took a fair number of fishing and hunting weekends that men are like to do.” Martha’s voice rose in speculative tones with each sentence she spoke. “He could have just as easily been shacking up with some gal in a motel off the interstate for two days as to be at a camp in the woods or sitting in a boat on the river.” She reached across the table and petted Abby’s hand. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m not saying that it is so, just that I’d be more likely to believe it from him than your mother.”
A lump Abby had sworn she wouldn’t let herself build up to anymore once again sat in her throat, and she hated the weakness. “No, it’s all right. I came to hear your thoughts; that’s what you’re giving me. I can’t throw stones at you just because I might not like what you say.” She took a fortifying sip of her water to cover the strain in her voice. “About either one of them.”
Martha’s ample bosom lifted and fell as she sighed. “Heck, Abby, sweetheart. I don’t know if what I’m saying is right or not.” A mothering softness filled her hazel eyes, and she offered a gentle smile as she ran two fingers down Abby’s cheek. “Everything happened such a long time ago. Maybe it’s just that you look so much like your mama but I can’t look at your face without thinking of Elaine and then feeling like I’d be a sinner if I ever thought she could cheat on her marriage vows. I don’t believe she did. But I suppose more importantly to you, I definitely do not have any evidence that she did. If there were troubles, she never confided in me about them.” Martha squeezed Abby’s hand one more time and then withdrew to her side of the table. “Nor did your daddy, for that matter. I was just speculating, as I often tend to do.”
“It’s okay,” Abby answered, smiling tightly. “Sometimes speculations turn out to be correct.”
Braden soothed Abby’s thigh under the table with the steady weight of his hand. “And you, sir?” He shifted to Anthony. “I’ve read your official statement of that night, but I have to ask again if you remember anything else from when you entered the house to find Abby. The smallest detail might prove very useful.”
His lips pursed, Anthony shook his head. “Not more than what I told those detectives all those years ago. The den and the bedroom were ransacked. I passed the den and peeked in; I was looking for somebody when nobody answered my knock. Everything that had been on the desk was on the floor, like it had been swiped, which made me think there might have been a fight that started in there and ended in the bedroom.” Anthony’s focus slid to Abby, and obvious pity filled his gaze. “Once I saw that bedroom and Abby folded up next to her mother, I couldn’t think or remember much more than that. A scene like that fills up your mind and takes over everything else.”
“Yes, it does,” Braden said. “You’re right.” He reached across the table and engulfed Anthony’s hand in a fast shake. “Thank you for your help. Both of you.”
“Yes, thank you.” Abby stood as Braden did. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”
Martha quickly rounded the table and gave Abby a fast, suffocating hug. “It was good to see you again, sweetheart.” She took Abby’s shoulders in hand and held her at arms length. “I know it probably won’t do you any good to hear it now, but I’d have taken you in if we didn’t already have the six boys of our own. We were barely holding our heads above water. That’s why we ended up having to sell the orchard about two years after your parents passed away.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Bruno. I did okay.” The stupid choking sensation made Abby’s chest burn again. “I promise.”
“You’re all grown up.” The woman touched her fingertips to Abby’s face, tilting it up into the light. “I guess you can call me Martha now.”
This formidable woman looked exactly as she had eighteen years ago. “That might feel weird. I’ll always think of you as Mrs. Bruno.”
“Whatever gets you picking up the phone, I’ll answer,” Martha said. “Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.” Abby felt Rodrigo move in to protect her back, and with Braden at her side, it allowed the strangling in her throat to ease some. “Thank you again. I appreciate your thoughts.”
Martha linked her arm in Abby’s and led her to the door. “I hope you find out who did it but don’t let it hold up your life anymore if you don’t.”
Inviting heat from the two men closing ranks around her made Abby’s answer an easy one. “No, I won’t, Mrs. Bruno.” As she followed Braden and Rodrigo into the hallway, she offered her old neighbor a little wave. “You have a good day.”
Martha lifted her hand in return. “Bye.”
In silence, Abby walked between Braden and Rodrigo to the elevator, her mind a jumble of more confusing half pieces of speculative information than ever. She didn’t know what the heck to believe or where to turn anymore to find the truth.
Once inside the elevator, as soon as the door dinged closed, Rodrigo faced Abby and Braden, his shoulder braced against the wall. “I’m just the observer here. What did you guys think?”
What do I think? As the elevator started its descent, Abby sifted through the handful of people she’d spoken to in person thus far and tried to sort the wheat from the chaff. “I think the edge in insight still has to go to Lorene,” she finally answered. “Lorene knew my mother a lot better than Martha did, even though Martha might have been at my house more, due to being closer by.”
The elevator opened to the apartment lobby; Braden held his hand against the doors, letting Abby and Rodrigo out first. “And you can’t discount that Martha openly admits she’s just chucking curveballs based on her gut,” Braden said. He walked backward out of the building and through the parking lot, facing Abby and Rodrigo. “It was pure speculation in a different way from the careful suspicions Lorene presented when I talked to her.”
“I agree.” Abby’s mind wandered ahead to their next destination, and an excited tickle made her belly do a flip-flop. “But I wonder if I could throw Martha’s suspicions about my father in Father Jim’s face. Maybe I can get him to react and accidentally admit to something about my mother in his efforts to defend my father the way he tried to do with my mother the other day.”
Rodrigo barked a sharp laugh that filled the open air. “You have one hell of a twisted mind, Bit.” He curled his hand around her nape and pulled her to his side. “Not only did I somehow understand what you just said, but the element of surprise is probably a good idea. Not that I’m the expert or anything.” Rodrigo’s focus shifted to Braden. “Because I gotta say, I didn’t think Mr. Bruno’s idea about the fight starting in the den and ending in the bedroom made that much sense.”
They reached Braden’s car, but rather than get in, Rodrigo leaned against the rear door, his arms crossed. “I mean, I’ve been in some fights in my life, and while I’m not saying this with pride, one or two actually involved a knife. In all the fights I’ve been in, I’ve never moved around one room enough to make a mess, down a hallway, and then into another room where we tussled enough for me to make another mess, all before someone not only slashed at my neck, but then another person too.” His mouth twisted, and his dark brows pulled so tightly together they looked like one line. “A real fight doesn’t happen in the way they choreograph fights in the movies. You just don’t cover that much territory when you’re taking swings at each other. It’s a very focused act. At least it always was for me.”
“The precise nature of the fatal wounds, as well as the lack of significant bruising on any other parts of the victims, doesn’t suggest a drawn-out battle,” Braden responded. “The kind of fight you’re talking about is not what I think happened here. A surprise attack on the killer’s part could have feasibly started out in the den. He isn’t successful. Richard ends up running for t
he bedroom with the assailant in pursuit. Maybe it draws Elaine’s attention in a way it hadn’t before, and she comes into the room. I don’t know. That doesn’t seem entirely plausible to me either, based on Abby’s assessment that her mother was attacked first, but we have to keep putting scenarios together until we find one that makes sense with the evidence we have.”
Rodrigo nodded. “Got it.”
Now that Abby had started having these confusing dreams and flashbacks, she spent the better part of every day trying to find the right pieces to fit together and make a complete puzzle. “We do know my father was having that fight in the den, though,” she said, her focus on Braden as she tried to work a scenario out on her own. “So let’s assume for a moment it was with the man my mom was having an affair with. Maybe that shout I heard was from a short while earlier in the day or even the day before or week before, and the guy left but then came back? Maybe he figured if my father found out and my mother confessed, then he would be exposed? So maybe he decided to come back and eliminate the threat?”
“It’s definitely possible.” Braden unlocked the car doors from his keychain and moved around the front of the vehicle to the driver’s side. “It makes total sense that the person she was cheating with could have as much to lose as she did if everything came out in the open. He easily could have been married too. Would your mother have left the den in disarray for more than an evening?”
Abby shot Braden a little glare from over the hood of the car. “My mother was a traditional homemaker, so I’m not going to assume that was a broadly sexist question about women cleaning up after men but rather one specified to her life.”
Braden swung back around the vehicle and loomed over Abby, his hand planted on the hood of the car by her head. “Honey, I’ve had an apartment and have been cleaning up after myself for a dozen years.” A fingertip from his free hand slid down her sternum and belly to land at her belt buckle. “I’m not making any assumptions that you’re going to become my maid just because I’ve seen you naked.”
Rodrigo joined Braden and caged Abby in, his eyes as dark on her as Braden’s were light. “Me either, Bit. I’ve been taking care of myself for even longer than he has. Shit.” He licked his fuller lower lip. “I have a whole house that I keep clean on my own.”
Something in the way Rodrigo mentioned his home stirred Abby’s blood and made her mouth go dry. “I have never seen your mystery house, Rodrigo. You keep it very private.”
“You can see it tonight, if you want,” Rodrigo responded. “I can make you both dinner.” His hand joined Braden’s on Abby’s waist. “We can spend the night there too.” He glanced at Braden and held on him for a moment before coming back to Abby. “If you both want to.”
Abby couldn’t believe how ridiculously fast her heart raced. “Really?”
The intensity in Rodrigo’s black stare only increased. “Yep.”
“Damn, Santiago.” Braden pushed off from the car and turned away to adjust a visible bulge forming in his jeans. “Apparently there are things other than seeing you naked and hearing you say shit that make me hot.”
Abby’s skin warmed under the exchange. “Amen to that.”
“Wait till you see it.” Rodrigo’s gaze went from Abby to Braden, and the smile that accompanied it was downright full of sinful pride. “It’ll have you wet and you hard without my ever having to say a word.”
“Stop talking about it, then,” Braden said as he moved back to the driver’s side and climbed in behind the wheel. “I don’t want to walk into a church with an erection.”
Abby kept mum. Nobody had to know Rodrigo’s invitation to spend time in his home had already made her very, very damp.
* * *
Sitting a dozen rows back in the church, Abby found herself sinking into the peace and safety this building used to envelop her in as a little girl. The sunlight streaming in through the myriad of stained-glass windows cast colorful shadows on the hardwood flooring and pews. Abby could remember sitting in this place with her father, trying to catch the different colors on the back of her hand, and her mother whispering at them to pay attention to Father Jim. Her mother always smiled over Abby’s head at her father when she said it, though, so Abby knew her mom wasn’t truly upset.
After service, Abby sometimes ran around with the other kids in the grassy area behind the church. Most times, though, when her shyness overwhelmed her, Abby would stick to either her mom or dad and navigate the after-church socializing that happened between the adults. Even that left her warm and comforted inside. She rarely understood what the big people were actually saying; Abby had just liked listening to all the laughter and seeing the hugs and slaps on the back and occasional group cheer. Most of the time, Sundays were the best days because her father didn’t have to go to work and her mother didn’t have some charity duty that Abby couldn’t attend with her. They all stayed together. From the moment Abby crawled out of bed and they all ate breakfast, until her eyes were so droopy her dad would scoop her off her mom’s lap and carry her to bed, they spent it as a family.
Then they died, and it all went away.
As Abby sat here now, frustrated that she couldn’t find a single person in this place who would say anything more than that her mother was a fine Christian woman and her dad a hardworking provider and family man, Abby wondered when she’d stopped believing in church and God. Then she wondered if her parents were up in heaven sad and disappointed that she’d let go of her faith.
Maybe I was tired of hanging on after it let go of me.
Hearing the cynicism in her thoughts now, Abby knew what her parents would say: Faith didn’t let go of you, baby, nor did God. People did. We’re all imperfect, and you have to learn to forgive.
Rustling sounds and the squeak of wood tickled Abby’s ears, making her open her eyes. Father Jim now sat in the pew in front of her. He had his body shifted sideways so that he could look back at her.
“Your detective friend is persistent,” he said. “If you’d like to question me in the same relentless manner, let me know so that I can rehydrate myself first.”
Abby looked over her shoulder and found Braden sitting next to Rodrigo at the back of the church. He wore his best poker face, but Abby had started to learn how to read the subtle lines that formed around his mouth and the unblinking, alpha, straight-ahead stare that said he wanted to tear something apart. She knew without a doubt he had not succeeded with his questioning of the church’s employees or Father Jim.
That leaves one final shot with me.
Bringing her attention back to the priest, Abby asked, “Would it matter if I changed my approach with you?”
The father settled his elbow on the back of the pew and rested the side of his face against his palm. “My answers would be the same, no matter how you frame your questions. I am not your enemy.” Father Jim’s voice gentled in a way that grated all Abby’s exposed nerves. “I want to help.”
“But not at the expense of my mother’s memory,” she fired back at him quickly.
“That is a trick question, Abigail.” Father Jim might as well have said ah-ah-ah and wagged his finger. “You really have been spending time with Detective Crenshaw. He’s rubbing off on you.”
“You have no idea,” she muttered under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” Here goes nothing. “I’ve thought about it some more anyway, and I think my dad might have been cheating on my mom just as hard as my mom was on him.” Abby spread her arms against the back of the pew and tapped her fingers in a lackadaisical beat against the wood. “Just a couple of Christian cheaters living a big old marriage lie.”
That got Father Jim pushing out of his casual position. “Don’t say that.” Professional distance slipped from his tone. “Don’t sully your parents’ image. It would sadden them, and it’s beneath you.”
“Beneath me?” Abby shoved forward to the edge of the seat and dropped her voice to a hiss. “Suddenly you know me again? You sudd
enly think we have such a connection between us? You presume to know my mind and heart and believe you can use guilt on me?”
“Your parents loved you. That. Is. All. That. Matters.” The priest thumped his fingertips into the pew with each word. “They would have wanted you to have a good, fulfilling life. Nothing else—”
“You mean like they did?” Abby cut down the father’s pandering lecture. “Where my mom was cheating, but hey, my dad was probably neglecting her with his fishing and hunting trips, so he probably deserved it. But then again, my mother probably came to you and confessed her sins every week, and you told her to say some Hail Marys, so that absolved her, so everything is good in the eyes of God for another week. Right?” She felt her mouth twist with judgment but couldn’t halt the oncoming crash. “Is a life like that what you think would make them proud of me, Father?”
“Look at what this investigation is doing to you, Abigail. You’re destroying every good memory you had of your parents. You don’t want to do that. You’ll be lesser for it.” Ruddy coloring pulled to the surface of Father Jim’s face, and he scratched his fingers through his blond hair, mussing the clean style. “Come to Mass this Sunday. Come let the people who knew them tell you what good members of this church community they were. Let them tell you stories that will remind you how much they loved you.” He took a deep, visible breath, and when he spoke again, he once more sounded and looked like a kindly, sympathetic priest. “Come spend time in this house and let God help you begin to heal.”
I want to smack that perfection off his face.
“You want me to come to your church again?” Abby licked her lips as dryness took over her mouth. She could barely keep herself tied to her seat.
“Yes.”
“Can my friends come with me?” she asked, as a full realization that this man would never tell her anything substantive about her parents sank in and pushed her core past its tipping point.