by Jeff Abbott
“You should be careful sneaking around, Cousin Philip,”
I offered dryly. “There's an armed cop on the porch. He looked like he might have a twitchy trigger finger to me.”
Philip ignored my jab, sidled to the bookshelves, and began a detailed perusal of the offerings. Uncle Mutt regained his seat. “The books on personal responsibility are on the upper shelf, Philip. Reading those should cure your insomnia.”
If the barb stung Philip, he didn't wince. “I actually wish I had more time to read all these books on Texas history. It's a fascinating subject. Has Mutt given you his lecture on the ill-fated Reliant, Jordan? It can keep one entertained for, oh, just countless hours upon hours.” Philip didn't seem concerned about sucking up before any new wills were drafted.
“Little asshole,” I heard Uncle Mutt whisper, rolling his eyes. I glanced over at Philip—and saw him, deftly, pull a book from the folds of his robe and slide it back into its place on the shelf. I didn't let my gaze linger as he glanced back at me.
“Ah, here's a good one.” Philip waved a nondescript tome; I could see knights on the cover. “A nice book on European history. That'll do the trick.” He drew close to Uncle Mutt. “You holding up okay, Uncle? Anything I can do?”
“I'm fine, Philip, thanks for your concern,” Uncle Mutt answered, his voice tight. “Go on to bed, get some rest. I don't mean to be short with you. I'm just tired.”
“I know,” Philip said, his voice a bit softer. “Get some rest, Uncle Mutt. Good night, Jordan.” I ignored the slightly snide tone his voice had taken in bidding me farewell. Philip didn't like me one bit, I surmised.
Uncle Mutt was silent until we heard the soft tread of Philip's footsteps on the stairs. “I'd best get to bed, Jordan. I got to go into Port Lavaca tomorrow and start the arrangements for Lolly's funeral. God, I didn't think I'd be burying anyone else before me.”
“Would you like me to go with you tomorrow?”
A soft smile touched his face, and for one terribly naked moment I saw my own face in his. “No, Jordan, but I appreciate the offer. Maybe you can keep my relations from robbing me blind while I'm gone.”
I didn't want the conversation to end quite yet. “Did Lieutenant Mendez say anything more about—about the investigation?”
Mutt shook his head. “Just have to wait on the autopsy, he says.” His eyes narrowed at me. “Why? You know something you ain't sharing, son?”
“Yes.” My voice sounded miserable. I told him about the cards, the vicious messages they'd conveyed, and my discussion with Mendez and Yarbrough.
Mutt didn't speak, his hands cupped before his face. I felt desperately afraid I'd driven myself out of his budding affections. He took a bracing breath.
“Are you suggesting—to the police—someone wanted to kill you and killed my sister by mistake?”
“I don't know. If Lolly didn't die by natural causes—I might've been the target. Would anyone want to kill her?”
“No. No. There is no murderer in this family. No, son, no.”
“Uncle Mutt—”
“If anyone's killed here tonight, it's me. Breaking the news like that. I couldn't be subtle. I had to be as loud as a fart in church. I brought on Lolly's heart attack.”
“You can't know that, Uncle Mutt. Don't do this to yourself.”
He didn't speak for a full minute. “You've met the family now. Who do you suspect of sending you those cards?”
“I don't know.”
His mouth worked, but no words came out. “I want to see these letters.”
“I gave them to Lieutenant Mendez.”
“And I want to know why the hell Lieutenant Mendez didn't inform me about the threats to a member of my family. I believe I'll phone him now. I'll do that from my office. Good night, Jordan.”
“But, Uncle Mutt.”
For the second time that evening, I was dismissed from a conversation. “Good night, Jordan.” His scowl softened.
“Get some sleep. And rest assured no harm will come to you while I live in this house.”
“Good night,” I said. “I'm just going to pick out another book, in case I don't like this one.” I proffered the Lamar biography. “After all, like you said, he wasn't much fun.”
He grabbed me into another of his bear hugs, his breath warm against my neck. I felt his shudder of exhausted grief, the sadness he wouldn't truly share with any of us. He released me without a word and left the den.
I didn't dawdle. I went straight to the bookshelf to see which volume Philip had so secretively and dexterously replaced. The book, Bitter Money, was notched carefully back into the heart of the true-crime section.
I remembered Bitter Money being a best-seller ten years ago: the lurid tale of a noted New York financier who'd murdered his socialite wife. It was the kind of torridly written saga that was the literary equivalent of driving slowly past a fatal car collision. I opened the book and scanned the copy on the inside of the jacket.
Yes, of course. The eminent banker had poisoned his wife of thirty years. With a deadly overdose of her own digitalis-based heart medication.
MY DREAMS WERE UNKIND. IN THE DARKNESS OF night and slumber, I swam through the shattered hulk of the sunken Reliant, the current piloting me along. I drifted, breathing the murky water like air, among the tattered corpses dressed in makeshift uniforms. One revolved toward me in the ebb of moving sea and I saw with horror the decaying face was Uncle Mutt's. I jerked away from the sight, and the corpses began to close around me in an icy fellowship. I could see their faces clearly now—a misshapen Deborah; Jake, his countenance pecked by fish; a one-eyed Sass; and worst, a Bob Don who looked like a demon from some nether region, the lower half of his face rotted away. His arms stretched out to me in an obscene embrace, and I roused from the nightmare with a shudder.
I felt the momentary disorientation of waking in an unfamiliar place, then remembered where I was and the contorted look on Lolly's face as she died. I was thirsty, but a small boy's fear held me and I didn't want to get up from the bed to venture into darkness. I suddenly missed my parents very badly. Finally I fell asleep again, the bedding wrapped around me like a shroud.
I awoke with the sun. Rather than concentrate on my disturbing dream, I set my mind to replaying Philip stealthily replacing that book about digitalis poisoning among its less meaningful colleagues. Had I made a mistake? What if I'd spotted the wrong book? But I didn't think that I was wrong. I thought dear Cousin Philip might have some serious explaining to do, but I had no proof. Borrowing a book wasn't a crime.
The first rays of dawn shot through my window, and with no Candace to snuggle up to, the bed seemed a cold place. I pulled myself up, donned a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and stumbled down to the kitchen in search of caffeine.
I wasn't the earliest riser in the house. I found Wendy bustling about in the kitchen, getting ready to prepare a large breakfast for the family. Food always seems so inextricably linked with death; I remembered vast buffets of food brought by neighbors when my father died … but there were no neighbors on Sangre Island. Did anyone else share this family's grief? I knocked timidly on the door I'd already opened.
I had met her very briefly last night, but we'd hardly exchanged more than hellos. “Good morning, Wendy. I don't want to disturb your work, I just wanted to get some coffee….”
“Oh, hi, c'mon in,” she said. Her voice sounded tired, as though she hadn't slept well. I saw she'd already poured herself a large cup of cream-laced coffee and a cigarette sat burning in an ashtray, a plume of smoke rising from its cin-dery end. “Did you sleep okay, Jordan?”
“Not really.” I started looking in cupboards for a cup. Wendy quickly produced one, an old-fashioned big white mug. She filled it for me, offered me cream and sugar. The rich, comforting smell of French roast wafted over me like airborne nectar.
“The beach is beautiful in the morning, if you're of a mind for a walk. And this is one of the nicest times of the year to see
all the wildflowers,” she said. I wasn't sure if that was a polite way of ushering me out of the kitchen, but I didn't want to leave.
“Thanks, but if you don't mind, I'd like to stay here and drink my coffee.”
“Suit yourself.” Wendy sat back down at the table, took a long draw off her cigarette, and sipped at her coffee. She regarded me with frank eyes. I remained quiet, sipping at the hot brew. She hadn't seemed inclined to engage in idle conversation, but since I'd made myself comfortable, she deigned to speak.
“Hard day for Mutt ahead.”
“I think he has harder—and fewer—days ahead,” I pointed out.
Wendy stared down at her coffee. “Each day brings us one day closer to our deaths. He's not going to think much about his own problems today. Dying people still grieve.” She shook her head and took a long draw on her cigarette. I thought her too young to have such a dark outlook; but I had no idea where life had taken her. Her journeys might have been far tougher than mine.
“He's a good employer?” I kept my voice neutral.
“The best. He's been a kind friend to me, and I will miss him terribly when he's gone.” She stubbed out her cigarette and quickly lit another. “I don't usually chain-smoke, but these aren't usual days.”
I studied her over the rim of my coffee cup. She puzzled me. She didn't speak with a noticeable Vietnamese accent, and she didn't have an easy Southern drawl like the rest of the household. I'd wondered if she was from one of the hundreds of Vietnamese families that had settled in fishing towns along the Texas coast.
I ventured forward with dark humor: “I guess not. An illegitimate son turns up, the family patriarch announces he's terminally ill, and his sister dies. If this is usual, get me the hell out of here.”
She didn't grin and I saw her face was vacant of the wear of laugh lines. Wendy Tran suddenly struck me as a woman who would smile sparingly.
“I'm curious,” she asked. “Just why are you here? Bob Don says you're his son, but you don't seem to act like a father and son yet.”
“We're not quite there yet.” I stirred my coffee.
“I figured he hadn't acknowledged you before because you were too embarrassing to him.”
“You must not know Bob Don well,” I countered. “He's a very fine man.” I felt a quickening anger fill my face. How dare she sit in judgment of Bob Don? “I'm here because I do care about Bob Don. He asked me to come, so I did.”
Wendy didn't comment immediately, but got up, refilled her cup, and offered the pot to me. I shook my head. “I seem to have hit your sore spot,” she observed without further comment. I had an uncomfortable feeling that said sore spot had been filed away for future reference.
“I take it you don't care much for Mutt's family,” I bludgeoned back in response. I shouldn't have felt ticked at her, but I did. She glided back to her chair and sat down, curling one leg beneath her.
“It doesn't matter what I think of the Goertzes. They're Mutt's family, he's my employer.”
“My charming aunt Sass wasn't kind toward you last night.”
“Sass drinks too much, and what she does is of no concern to me.” Wendy poured a dollop of cream in her coffee and watched the milky swirl for a moment before destroying it with a vigorous stir of her spoon. “Do you think I would pay one bit of attention to anything that woman says?”
My personal opinion was that Wendy would not forget a single utterance against her; even if her implacable face never gave a moment's reaction. I didn't venture that opinion, however. I glanced up to see that she was carefully studying my face, as though cataloguing each individual element in it. She caught my eye and didn't blink or look away.
I took a comforting sip of coffee. “How long have you worked here?”
“About a year. I was working as a cook for a caf6 in Port Lavaca and I hated it—it was a disgusting, greasy place. Mutt came in one day, had my meat loaf for lunch, and offered me a job on the spot.”
“Are you from the coastal bend originally?”
“No. From here and there. I wandered around a lot as a kid.” She stood. “If you don't mind, I need to get breakfast started. I've got biscuits to make and Jake likes his orange juice fresh-squeezed.”
“Sure,” I said, taking the hint. I quickly refilled my coffee and left Wendy to her work. I found the study deserted and used the phone to call Sister.
“How's it going?” was her first question.
I explained the night's events, interrupted only by Sister's occasional “oh my Lord.” When I was done, she sputtered, “Well, when do y'all get to come back home?”
“Don't know. Depends on what the autopsy shows. I can't figure it out, Sister. The authorities here know Mutt Goertz, know his family—and seem to think that maybe something's up. I can't put my finger on it.”
“Come home,” she said immediately. “They can't possibly think you had any involvement with this, you don't even know these folks.”
“Sister, I can't. Bob Don needs me and anyway, none of us can leave the county until the autopsy results are back. So says the justice of the peace.”
“This wasn't a good idea,” Sister blurted. “I knew it wasn't.”
“You were all for me coming here—” I fumed. “At least, you were after you and Candace confabbed in the cafe.”
“Well—” She sounded shamed. “Candace told me that Bob Don's uncle was awful wealthy, and we decided it couldn't hurt for you to get to know him….” Her voice trailed off.
“Sister. I can't believe this!”
“Oh, for God's sake. We didn't mean any harm. We just figured it was just as easy to love your new family if they were rich instead of poor. Don't get your drawers in a knot. And be mad at me, don't be mad at Candace.”
I promised her I'd call back soon, assured her again we were all fine, and hung up. Good Lord. I'd thought Candace had unblemished motivations in encouraging me to take this trip. She and I were due for a little chat when she arose this morning.
I ambled out to the porch. I heard a voice—unmistakably Uncle Jake's raspy whine. At the corner of the wraparound porch to the left of the front door, Aubrey had settled Uncle Jake down into a high-backed wicker chair. Or at least I thought Jake was settled down. No sooner did I step out onto the porch than Jake whacked at Aubrey's white-trousered leg and bellowed, “Goddamn it, Aubrey, let me be. You're fixing to give me a spell.”
Aubrey wasn't put off by a smack with a cane. I saw he was also holding the bereaved Sweetie close to his cheek, and he cuddled the hapless Chihuahua closer. “That's okay, Uncle Jake. Give in to your anger. You've lost your primary caretaker—,”
“And I'm about to lose the most irritating relative God gave breath to!” Uncle Jake poked at Aubrey again. “I don't want to hold Sweetie right now. And I don't want to get in touch with my wounded self or whatever blather it is you're spouting. I want you to leave me alone!”
“That's it, Uncle Jake. Vent. Then breathe. Then vent again.”
“Aubrey.” I came up and gently touched his shoulder. “Let's not get Uncle Jake excited. He's got a heart condition, remember?”
“Yeah! And no medication!” Uncle Jake added. “Are you trying to shove me into the grave, Aubrey?” He palpated his hand against his chest, as though suffering from the vapors.
“Uncle Jake's heart condition,” Aubrey answered icily, “is that he's forgotten what it is to have a heart!”
“Thffffffffffffft,” Uncle Jake replied, with his lips and tongue and dentures.
“Uncle Jake, you always hurt those who try to help you.” Aubrey crossed his arms, squeezing Sweetie protectively. The little dog's eyes rolled.
“Aubrey, you're a pain. Let me sit here and enjoy the morning. I probably got fewer than a thousand of 'em left to savor. You ain't helping my mood, 'cause I didn't sleep well.”
“Sleeplessness is common in a loss like this,” Aubrey said. “Especially when one is in denial of grief. Why, if you'd just let yourself cry, Uncle Jake, you'd dream wit
h the angels.”
“Somebody gonna be acquiring angel wings real soon,” Uncle Jake replied.
“Listen, y'all!” I demanded. They glanced at me with real surprise. “Aubrey, why don't you go get Sweetie some breakfast? I'm sure he's feeling lonely for Lolly and I know he'd respond to you paying him lots of attention.”
Aubrey mulled over this new opportunity for therapy, murmured a polite “What a wonderful suggestion, Cousin Jordan,” and retreated from the porch, the unfortunate Sweetie in tow.
“Well, ain't you a smart one,” Uncle Jake chortled. “Better that damn dog than me have to suffer Aubrey's foolishness.” He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Oh, that plumb wore me out. I'm feeling a tad peaked. Do you think you could go fetch me some orange juice, nephew?” His voice had taken on a whine I freely admit to not caring for. But I wasn't about to deny an old man his morning pick-me-up. Even if I suspected his use of an endearment toward me was just to propel me faster toward the kitchen.
“Sure, Uncle Jake. I'll be right back.” I ducked back into the house, found Wendy hadn't started on the juice yet, fixed it myself with fresh oranges, and brought a glass back to Uncle Jake. He snatched it from me as soon as I handed it to him.
“Took you long enough,” he snapped, downing half the glass in a long swallow.
“Well, those oranges don't squeeze themselves,” I responded, a bit peeved. I don't mind doing jobs for folks, but I at least like to be appreciated. I reminded myself that Aunt Lolly had nursed Jake and that he needed watching over.
Uncle Jake watched me over the pulp-smeared rim of his glass. His eyes were a dark hazel, framed with sagging flesh. His mouth worked as he wiped the bits of orange from his teeth with his tongue. His face was gaunt and narrow; I thought he must have been loose-limbed and athletic in his youth. “You ever in the military, boy?”
“No, sir.”
“I'm a World War One vet. Whaddaya think of that, huh?”