by Jeff Abbott
But the end came quickly. Louisa Goertz Throckmorton heaved and turned red. She spasmed and fell back against the floor, as though drifting into sleep.
I heard Gretchen murmur, “No. Oh, no,” behind me, and perhaps she was the next to realize that it was over. I felt numb to the bone and reached for the back of a chair to stand. I became aware that I reeked of Lolly's vomit.
Surprisingly, Aubrey helped me up, as though I were an old friend. A smile of disbelief played along his face.
Uncle Mutt kept repeating “No, no, no” as though it were some incantation to turn back time. Wendy drew close to him and took his hand. I looked over at Bob Don; he stared back at me, shock twisting his features into an empty glaze.
Deborah and Candace still worked feverishly over her, Deborah leaning on Lolly's chest. Only when Candace touched her shoulder and said, “I think she's gone,” did Deborah stop and listen to the silence in the throat and the chest. Despite the unpleasantness that had passed between them at dinner, Deborah began to cry softly over her aunt's body.
I sank into ray chair. A horrific quiet, like the still of the grave, permeated the house. It was as though we were all frozen into place. Except for Torn Bedrich, who quickly set down the empty Digoxin bottle as if it scalded his skin.
Nobody who has not been in the interior of a family can say what the difficulties of any individual of that family may be.
—Jane Austen,
Emma
“YOU'RE SUGGESTING MURDER?” CALHOUN County Lieutenant Victor Mendez tented his fingers and looked at me. I felt a hot flush creep up my skin. “And just why would anyone want to kill Mrs. Throckmorton?”
“I'm not sure she was the target. I might have been.” My throat felt like dried papier-mache; I coughed and took a hard gulp of water.
Justice of the Peace Tricia Yarbrough, sitting behind Uncle Mutt's desk, frowned. “And why would anyone want to kill you, Mr. Poteet?” She was a good-looking woman, in her late fifties, chubby, with smart brown eyes and reddish hair laced with a shock of gray. I thought she seemed a tremendously good listener.
Lieutenant Mendez, Judge Yarbrough, and I sat in Uncle Mutt's private office, near the back of the sprawling house. Mendez and Judge Yarbrough had quickly appropriated the space from the stunned and grieving Mutt to get each of our statements. I was the last one to be questioned and apparently the first to suggest foul play. At least, that's how I read Mendez's expression—interested but slightly scoffing. Yarbrough seemed a tad more concerned.
Mendez was only a bit older than me, clean-cut, with night-dark eyes and rapidly receding hair. Otherwise, his face was boyish, a bit unformed, like a pudding that hadn't quite set. He was one of those men who never quite seem to shed their baby fat—some morsel of youth remains eternally on their face or frame. He was professional, to the point, and I felt thoroughly intimidated by him.
Not to mention my own emotional state at having had Aunt Lolly die right next to me. I should have been trembling and incoherent; instead I felt a vast numbness seep into my pores, anesthetizing my muscles, dulling my mind.
I realized suddenly, I hadn't answered Tricia Yarbrough's question.
“Mr. Poteet? Judge Yarbrough asked why would someone want to kill you.” Lieutenant Mendez decamped his tent of fingers and instead settled back further on Uncle Mutt's sofa. Yarbrough tapped her nails against the glass covering Uncle Mutt's desk.
“I've been receiving threatening cards ever since I agreed to come to this reunion,” I said, producing the cards and laying them on the desk in front of the justice of the peace. Mendez got up to eye them as well. I let them look through the malicious missives in silence. Mendez carefully handled them with a handkerchief, easing them out of the protective Baggies I kept them in.
Tricia Yarbrough made a choked noise of disgust.
“Jesus H. Christ,” Mendez finally mumbled. He leaned back from the cards, as if their hate was contagious. He glanced up at me. “Any idea who's been sending these?”
“A member of the family is my guess. But I don't know who.”
“When I questioned your father—Bob Don Goertz, right?” Mendez rustled through his notes and I nodded. “He said he'd brought you here to meet the rest of your family for the first time. So you've never seen any of these folks before, right?”
“That's correct. I discovered last year that… Mr. Goertz and my mother had an affair and I was … the product. We've been getting to know each other and determine whether or not—whether I could accept him as my father.” My chest tightened. What the hell was wrong with me? I'd never spluttered while talking. “I believe someone in the family isn't very happy about me being recognized as a member.”
“Why would that be, Mr. Poteet?” Yarbrough asked.
“Please, call me Jordan.” Her face didn't waver, so I reckoned she'd keep relations nice and formal. “Anyway, look at this place. Uncle Mutt's loaded to the gills—his net worth is around ten million or so. I think someone's unhappy with me being a potential heir.”
“Ten million would be a lot to spread around the family anyway,” Mendez mused. Yarbrough gave him a sharp glance.
“Yes, it would be. If Uncle Mutt is of a mind to be equitable.”
“And killing you would make Mr. Emmett more equitable in dishing out the funds?”
Mr. Emmett? “I don't know.” I shrugged and rested my fingers against my eyebrows. “All I know is someone doesn't want me here. And my aunt died, unexpectedly, right next to me.” I lowered my hands, but I didn't look at Mendez or Yarbrough.
“If you feel you're in danger, Mr. Poteet, we can get you off the island,” Yarbrough said softly. “I've asked the others to all remain here at the house until our investigation's complete.”
“Thank you, but no. I'd prefer to remain with my—with Bob Don. I think he'll need me now.”
Mendez leaned forward. “You know, the lady might've simply had a heart attack. She'd just been told her only brother was terminally ill.”
I nodded. “And Uncle Jake's medication being gone? I suppose he'd just conveniently run out? It's digitalis-based. Doesn't that cause heart attacks?” I knew next to nothing about medicine, but I could connect Digoxin with digitalis.
“Even so—could be suicide. I understand Mrs. Throck-morton wasn't entirely stable.” Mendez sounded bored.
“Good Lord, Victor,” Yarbrough said. “I've known Lolly Throckmorton for years. She wasn't crazy.”
“She seemed to have serious mood swings,” I offered. “When we arrived, she seemed rather happy, in good spirits. But at dinner, she was belligerent, even abusive to the family.” Neither blinked at my announcement. “Still, to kill herself, in front of her family? That seems wrong.”
“I've ordered an autopsy.” Judge Yarbrough spoke after a moment's silence. “We don't have a medical examiner here in Calhoun County, so I'll have Lolly's body shipped to Austin. We could have the results by tomorrow.”
“And if poison's involved? How quickly could we know?” I challenged.
She shifted in her chair, perhaps a little uncomfortable with my directness. “Toxicology tests take longer to get— sometimes up to ten days. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Like Lieutenant Mendez says, poor Lolly may have just had a heart attack.”
“You said you'd known her a long time, Judge. Did you ever know if she had a heart condition?”
Yarbrough tugged at her bottom lip. “No. She never mentioned one. But I didn't know before tonight that Mutt—Mr. Goertz—was ill either. The Goertzes aren't a family to broadcast their private lives.” I detected a tinge of—pain? sadness?—in her voice, then she became all business again. “You said the deceased vomited on your clothes. We'd like them for analysis as well.”
“Of course.” Stomach contents, I thought. So she's not dismissing the possibility of poison. But I wondered how her apparent knowledge of the family might color her view of the case. Yarbrough looked tough and professional, though.
Mendez shifted gears.
“So you're new to this family. Any impressions of them? What kind of people do they strike you as?”
I fostered a smile. “You both obviously know the Goertzes. How many people in your county are worth ten million dollars?”
Mendez didn't return my smile. He leaned back in the creaky leather sofa. “Just answer the question, please, Jordan.”
His use of my first name suddenly changed the air in the room—and I felt the need to vent and was glad Mendez had picked up on my frustration. “Fine. Something's wrong here. First I get these abusive letters. Then I get to sit through a dinner that's so thick with tension it's practically on the menu. Lolly verbally attacks the entire family, Mutt tells us he's dying, and Lolly drops dead.” I shook my head.
“I keep thinking this family isn't exactly knit together right. Something's off in the weave, so to speak. And Uncle Mutt—”
“Mr. Emmett's done lots of good works for folks in this county,” Mendez interrupted. His expression hardened. “There's no need to cry murder until we get the autopsy results. I assure you, if someone's murdered his sister, we'll find out who did it.”
“Even if it was a family member?” I asked.
“Especially if it was a family member,” Yarbrough interjected. “Thank you for your statement, Jordan.” She gathered her papers up and rattled them into order.
Mendez stood and gestured toward the cards. “I'd like to keep these for evidence.”
I nodded. “And I'll bag up my clothes for you.”
“Let me know if you get any more threatening messages, Mr. Poteet,” Mendez said. The interview was over.
I stood to leave. “One question—are y'all going to tell people my uncle's dying?”
Mendez's eyes met mine and I saw sadness in them. “Mr. Emmett's business is his own. Not mine, as long as he's not breaking the law.”
“Absolutely,” Yarbrough chimed in. Real pain flashed across her face briefly, as though news of Mutt's death was a physical prod to her. I wanted to ask Tricia Yarbrough what Mutt was to her—but I didn't.
I dabbed my tongue on my dry lips. What I was about to say might make me a traitor in Bob Don's eyes, but I couldn't hold my silence. “Tonight—at the dinner table— Aunt Lolly mentioned there'd been another murder in this family. Years ago, Bob Don's brother killed his wife. Did you know?”
Mendez's expression told me he hadn't. Yarbrough's told me she had. Neither commented—I saw Yarbrough give Mendez one of those I'll tell you later looks.
Dismissed, I left the room feeling just as ill as when I'd arrived. I went upstairs, pulled off my sour-smelling garments, donned a robe, and hurried back downstairs to the front porch. One of Mendez's investigators bagged my clothes and gave me a receipt for them. I could see a dark body bag being loaded on the Coast Guard helicopter. Lolly.
Mendez came up behind me. “One of my men will be spending the night here, Mr. Poteet.” He gestured toward a compactly built officer who stood near the porch swing, all spit and polish. “You let Deputy Praisner know if you need anything, all right?”
“Of course.” I paused. “Your leaving an officer here overnight suggests maybe you don't think Lolly's death was of natural causes.”
“Don't conjecture so much, Jordan. Leave that to us.” Mendez turned abruptly and went back inside. I stood for a moment, watching the helicopter in which they'd placed Lolly's remains.
Deputy Praisner fixed a baleful eye on me. I bade him good night and went back inside, desperate for a shower. As I passed Mutt's study I could hear his voice raised in anger, followed by Tricia Yarbrough's calm alto. Mendez spoke a few indistinct words, then Mutt railed again. I headed up the stairs, suddenly and tremendously tired.
On the way up to my room, I stopped by Bob Don and Gretchen's room—everyone had turned in for the night, dulled with shock over Lolly's death. I knocked. I heard someone shuffling out of bed and then the door opened a hair.
“Son,” Bob Don said, opening the door and stepping outside. He eased the door shut behind him, but not before I saw Gretchen curled into a fetal ball under the covers. “How you?”
“I'm fine. Okay. How are you?”
“Holding up.” He gestured at the shut door. “Gretchen's awful upset. You can imagine.” He shrugged. “Just can't believe that Lolly's gone. Just can't believe it.” His voice shook. “And Uncle Mutt's dying—” He didn't finish his sentence.
He almost looked like a little boy, his usually perfectly big-styled blond hair a messy mop, his blue eyes baggy with restlessness. I reached out, awkwardly, for him. I pressed my fingers against the fabric of his pajama top, feeling the roundness of his broad shoulder beneath. Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone. That was from some old poem about family, wasn't it? “I am so sorry, Bob Don. So very sorry.”
He touched the back of my hand with his own. “Thanks, son. It means the world to me that you're here. I'm so grateful.”
I wanted to tell him about my conversation with Mendez—about my fears, about my suspicions, about the hateful diatribes I'd received in the mail. But I couldn't, not now. His grief was too fresh to bear further wounding. Morning would be here soon enough. And I still reeked of Lolly's puke.
“Uh, do you want to talk?” I offered. I did not reach out to him often, but I could hardly be reticent now.
“I need to get some rest,” he muttered, and broke away from my grip. “I'll see you in the morning, okay?”
“All right. In the morning.” He retreated to the bedroom and shut the door. I stared at the doorknob, listening to the quiet of the old house. My imagination made me hear a footfall along the darkened hallway, and I hurried to the stairs, to the comfort of my own room and a long hot shower.
From my bedroom window, I listened to the waves lapping across the bay. The helicopter had risen like a gargantuan bug several minutes ago, arrowing toward land. Moonlight silvered the water, making the wind-gusted swells resemble trenches of metal. I thought again of those brave Texans aboard the Reliant, their ghosts entombed beneath the waters. I felt isolated.
I wondered, for a brief moment, if this was how someone surrounded by a moat felt if they didn't have a key to the drawbridge.
A knock rapped at my door and I murmured, “Come in.”
Candace came in, bedecked in cutoffs and a T-shirt from the Bonaparte County Fair. She looked absolutely adorable in them and I felt a grin, for the first time in hours, tug at my mouth.
“Hey.” I kissed her softly. “How you?”
“Okay. Awful tired. How are you feeling, sweetie?”
“Don't use that word, please.” I shuddered.
Candace clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God. Sorry.”
I wanted to go a few minutes without thinking about Aunt Lolly. Horribly selfish of me, but I'm only being honest. I tried lightening the conversation. “Look at you, running around kissing boys at midnight. It might be a family scandal. You might get your own chapter in Aubrey's book now. And whatever would dear Aunt Sass say?”
She brushed a tendril of her chestnut-dark hair off her face. “I don't care what that old biddy says. What a terribly cold woman she is, Jordy.” She sat down cross-legged on my bed. “Her own aunt dies and she hardly changes expression.”
I shrugged. “People show grief in different ways. You want to stay with me tonight after all?”
“Is that how you show grief, mister?” She smiled, then frowned. “Oh, God, I didn't mean that the way it sounded. How are you really feeling, sug?”
I lay down on the bed and she cradled my head into her lap. I closed my eyes. “I don't know what I should feel. Bob Don seems shocked, Gretchen's acting devastated. I know that Lolly was my great-aunt, but she came into and left my life in a matter of hours. I don't feel sad so much as shocked. She was pretty awful to Deborah.”
“Yes, she was.” Candace gently stroked my hair. “She didn't strike me as a happy woman.”
I groaned. “Poor old thing.”
“So you think she just had a heart attack
?” Candace's voice was measured.
“I don't know. The medical examiner'll tell us, I suppose.” I explained to her about Lolly's body being shipped to Travis County for autopsy. I closed my eyes again, trying not to picture Aunt Lolly struggling, her face turning purple with the effort to draw breath. “If she just had a heart attack, why is a deputy spending the night on the island? They're certainly treating it as a suspicious death.”
“You aren't the least bit curious? I find it decidedly odd that Uncle Jake's heart medication was gone and Aunt Lolly has a sudden heart attack,” Candace said. Great minds do tend to think alike, cliches aside. I didn't answer and she thunked me on the forehead with her finger.
I decided to play devil's advocate, just as Mendez had done. “Maybe we shouldn't see murder everywhere we look. She'd just been told her brother only has a short time to live. Besides, why would anyone want to kill that poor old lady? She wasn't right in the head, as mean as that sounds. She couldn't have been a real threat to anyone, Candace.”
Candace was quiet for a moment. “I don't know. It just bothers me. Jake seemed awful surprised that all his medicine was gone.”
“Okay, let's say someone did poison Aunt Lolly. Who? Why? It seems to me far more likely that she died over shock brought on by Uncle Mutt's announcement than that someone slipped her a Digoxin overdose. And why wouldn't the rest of us be sick? She ate and drank everything that we did.”
“That's not true,” Candace said. “I think she was the only one who had red wine. Everyone else had white wine or beer or hard liquor. Except Gretchen. And Aubrey, who made such a big deal about being a nondrinker. And me. He and I both drank mineral water.”
I bit my lip in thought. “You're right. I wonder if the police know that—”
“They took what was left of her dinner and put it into an evidence bag,” Candace said bluntly. “I saw diem. Unless they were just foraging for leftovers. And they'll have her stomach contents to analyze—”