Distant Blood

by Jeff Abbott

  Lolly kept her room ornately decorated. A plush dog's bed with SWEETIE stenciled on the downy pillow sat in a corner, a small water bowl and food dish nearby. On one bureau a box of doggie treats stood, open. I could envision Lolly sitting on her bed, cajoling her precious pet with a treat and giggling with delight when she dropped it and Sweetie jumped in midair. Of course, this was entirely my own conjecture; she might have just dropped the morsel on the floor while Sweetie sauntered over and gobbled it at his own pace. But I thought that Lolly, who did not seem to take much pleasure in other people, and her pet must've shared many happy moments together in this room.

  Linen curtains decorated the window, and the furniture looked antique. A side table held a lamp, a worn back issue of Southern Living, and an intercom system—probably to summon her to Uncle Jake's first-floor room if he needed help. A notepad sat by the combination phone/answering machine, with scribblings such as Philip—arrives 2:00 PM, Call Jake's doctor, and Call Aubrey (713) 555-2344.

  Photos covered much of the floral wallpaper. Old pictures, their edges brownish with age, mixed in with newer snapshots. There was a photo of a far younger Lolly and Mutt, wind blowing their hair as they leaned against a car that looked like a '40s Ford. Lolly's smile was lazy and sweet, full of promise. She had been a decidedly pretty girl, with darker features than I'd come to think of as being classically Goertz. Mutt looked handsome and tough. I would not have tangled with him in a bar fight; and I'm sure that women found him exceedingly attractive. Sandwiched between the two of them was a handsome woman with lightish brown hair and a merry grin. Their mother, I guessed. I recalled from one of Gretchen's interminable monologues that her name was Claudia and she was from Louisiana, my great-grandfather's second wife. Her teeth were beautiful, framed in a touching smile. She was enjoying a good day with her beautiful children. Why shouldn't she be happy?

  A photo next to this contented picture was of a rakish fellow with dark hair and eyes, his hair slicked back and his shirt collar not entirely clean. He did not look like a Goertz or a Zimmerhanzel or a Bedrich; I guessed that he might be Charles Throckmorton, Lolly's deceased husband. He smiled pleasantly, as though having a picture taken for his wife was a right likable chore. My great-uncle. I felt an inexplicable relief that he had not seen Lolly, her face purpling, her chest shuddering. He looked like the kind of man who would never recover from such a deepening shock; he would have held her dying body in his arms and cursed the gods for taking her from him, grief molding an anger that would never relent.

  I shook my head; I was filling my mind full of nonsensical fantasies based simply on old photographs. Claudia Toussaint Goertz could have been an unfeeling witch who posed well for the camera and Charles Throckmorton might've been a bear of a man who never showed a glimmer of real affection to his wife. I had to stop inventing stories to go with faces; such flights were stumbling blocks to truth. I glanced back at both photos and found I couldn't shake my initial impressions.

  The next picture made me pause. It was yellowed with age, taken perhaps in the early twentieth century. The gentleman's clothes certainly suggested the time of World War I. The face was very much like my own: wide-set, pale eyes, high cheekbones, a lock of heavy blond hair falling across the temple, much like that damnable curl that I could never keep combed back. The jaw was heavier, stronger than mine, and the nose wider, but the smirkish half smile the subject allowed himself was one I'd seen on my own face. I touched my finger to the cool glass that covered his countenance.

  This, I felt sure, was my great-grandfather, Thomas Goertz. He had been born over a hundred years ago and he'd died years before I was born. His eyes stared into mine, the arch grin he wore wrinkling the corners. I felt his smile's twin creep into its familiar bed on my face. I let fancy take my mind again; had he had a raspy drawl like mine, one that charmed ladies and befriended a rambunctious rebel like Uncle Jake? He had died, I remembered, when Bob Don was twelve or thirteen. Had he hugged his grandson, dreamed great dreams for him, let him play with his pipe?

  I suddenly felt dizzy and I sat on the springiness of Aunt Lolly's cold bed. What on earth was I doing, strolling along this rogues' gallery of photos and inventing stories to go with each picture? These people were my family, but they were also strangers.

  It didn't matter that I was Bob Don's bastard child.

  Thomas Goertz had died years before I first drew breath. He never would have known me, legitimate or illegitimate. And I knew nothing of him; my childhood had not been filled with amusing or tragic stories about Thomas Goertz. I was composing my own family history for these faces too achingly like mine. I realized, with a soft laugh, that I did not even know what his grandchildren and greatgrandchildren called him: Papaw Tom, Pop-Pop, Granddad, Gramps, Big Daddy, or any of the other mutated endearments I'd heard uttered for a patriarch. I studied his face for a moment and decided I would have called him Pop-Pop. Don't ask me why.

  This was stupid. I ignored the other pictures: I could see some were of the twins, Bob Don and Gretchen, Aubrey and Sass, and Deborah, in various ages and stages. Those folks I knew enough about not to linger on. Only two other photos made me pause. The first was a picture of a rather plain young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, with straw-colored hair and wire-rim glasses. He sat on a stool, food piled up on a table behind him, a beer bottle in his hand; no doubt some family function from years ago. His clothes were of the Sixties (a copper peace necklace adorned his neck) and he did not want his photo taken. His reluctance was obvious, a half sneer marring his mouth as the flashcube detonated in his face. I wondered who he was and why he earned a spot on Lolly's wall. His picture frame was grimed with dust, the others were clean.

  The other photo was of a young boy, buck-toothed, perhaps nine or ten, with blondish bangs and a wide smile. His clothes suggested the photo was from the early Eighties. A distant cousin, perhaps.

  I looked for photos of Deborah with her dead parents, but I did not see any. There were only two photos of Deborah, one as a skinny but pretty teenager, and another from her graduation from nursing school. Deborah looked miserable in every photo, as if that was the only way Lolly wanted to remember her face.

  I gave the rest of the room a cursory glance, wondering what Deborah had done in here. Nothing seemed to be dis-turbed, although I'd never been in the room before and had no point of reference. But Lolly seemed a tidy woman (unless someone had neatened up her room since she died, which appeared unlikely) and no object called attention to itself by being glaringly out of place. Why had Deborah come in? What had she taken? Or had she possibly returned some item?

  Feeling uneasily like a burglar, I opened one of the drawers; Aunt Lolly's underwear. This I could not do. I shut the drawer and opened the one below it. Pullovers and sweatshirts. I ran my fingers through the garments, not sure of what I was looking for. Nothing.

  The third drawer also offered no items of interest—it was mostly folded-up slacks and shorts, along with an assortment of decorative collars for the well-dressed Chihuahua. I stood, shaking my head. I was jumping at shadows here. Deborah probably had some completely justifiable reason for coming into Aunt Lolly's room.

  Then why the sneakiness?

  I glanced quickly through her closet. Nothing hung there but orderly rows of dresses, all ironed. I wondered how Lolly's mind could have lent itself to such groomed order while embracing the ludicrous fiction that Sweetie possessed her husband's spirit. Compare that childish confection of fantasy with the hard-edged voice that had dissected Deborah so vengefully at the dinner table. Or the slowly maddening woman that Jake described. What kind of woman had Lolly Throckmorton truly been?

  A shelf above the dresses held a menagerie of colorful shoe boxes. A quick exploration of these revealed nothing but paper and worn shoes. She'd had small, delicate feet, befitting the smiling, pretty girl in the weathered photo. The next-to-the-last box I took down contained letters. Lots of them. They were postmarked from Port Arthur, Texas, and the name on the
return address was that of Charles Throckmorton and the letters were addressed to Lolly Goertz. The dates on the faded, whisper-thin envelopes suggested this was their courtship correspondence. I felt the sharp distaste of having pawed through someone else's memories, dirtying them, and I did not open any of the letters. I quickly returned the box to the shelf, pushing it back with my fingers, nearly turning the box on its end to boost it up. I was clumsy, though, and the box tumbled end over end, spraying out a fan of old, weathered papers.

  I cursed myself and began to gather them quickly, feeling even more like an intruder. The aging paper felt dusty and smooth at the same time, crusted with its presence near the sea and worn with handling. I abandoned sorting the letters, gathered them in a fist, and shoved them back into the box. I stood to replace the box on the shelf and only gasped when I looked down at the ground to see if I'd missed any correspondence.

  A couple of stray words, pruned from magazines, lay on the floor. I knelt down on the ground again and began to paw through the box, my breath feeling tight in my chest. I found the first card wedged in a rubber-banded mass of old love letters to her husband.

  The card was a festive one, a gaggle of puppies and kittens gathered around a humongous birthday cake. The preprinted message on the inside read:

  YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE A SPECIAL BIRTHDAY!

  Words culled from other sources spelled out an additional wish below:

  CAUSE IT'S GOING TO BE YOUR LAST ONE

  My hands trembled as I replaced the card. A quick survey through the rest of the box provided no further evidence of Lolly's peculiar pastime.

  She had been sending me this hateful mail? Why? And what did this have to do with her death? I stood—I had to call Mendez.

  That's when the door to Lolly's room opened. Or rather, I heard it open. I'd shut the closet door behind me when I'd come in as a precaution (this makes me sound like a professional prowler, but I did it without overmuch thought) and I jerked my hand back from the closet door as though it were a hot stove. I tried to think of an explanation for what I'd done, and unfortunately, my imagination dried up. I reached for the light pull, thinking that whoever it was might notice that the closet light was on. But the snap of the string and the sudden quenching of the light would be a sure indicator of my presence. I quickly replaced—with careful quiet—the box of letters on Lolly's shelf. I hunkered down on the floor and tried to peep through the narrow crack of the closet door. It was too thin to permit viewing into the room. I cursed silently and listened carefully.

  I could hear someone moving around the room with stealth. Had Deborah returned? Gentle footsteps sounded from different parts of the room. I wondered what the reaction would be if I suddenly leaped out from the closet—but I had no explanation for my own presence. I could hardly demand it from someone else. I tried to breathe quietly through my mouth, thirsty for any sound that might tip off the other intruder's identity.

  Silence held for a long moment and then I heard a soft, tearing sound, like fabric being gently ripped. The noise lasted about five seconds then stopped. I heard excited breathing—and I would guess that it belonged to a man, sounding deeper and raspier—then hurrying footsteps, the door to Lolly's room opening, then silence.

  I pressed my fingertips against the cool wood of the closet door. I decided not to give immediate chase. What reason would I have to confront someone? I bit at my lip and decided to count to ten before creaking open the closet door and getting the hell out.

  I didn't get that long. As I reached eight I heard bustling noise come into the room and the closet door swung open hard. Still crouched on the floor, I found myself staring at Wendy Tran's shapely knees.

  “And just what do you think you're doing?” she demanded.

  HER KNEES WERE AS GORGEOUS AS THE REST OF her, cups along the perfect curves of her dark legs. I slowly stood, wondering just how stupid I looked. It's disconcerting to be caught with your whole body in the cookie jar.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Wendy moved past me to hang two embroidered, peasant-style dresses on the rack. She smoothed them out with a practiced hand. “Poor Lolly loved these dresses. She got them in Mexico on a trip with Mutt. Well?”

  Her sangfroid at my presence in a closet where I had no business made me believe I could fib my way out of my predicament. “If I were Aunt Sass,” I began softly, “I'd probably just say that whatever I was doing here was none of your beeswax.”

  Wendy glanced back at me. “I'm sure it's none of my business. But if you think I'm not going to mention this to Mutt, you're mistaken.”

  Let her tell Mutt. I'd give him the real explanation later. Good news, Uncle—it was your dead sister sending me psychotic, threatening letters. All cleared up now. Maybe the wrong tack. I decided to bluff until I could think straight and plan a course of action. Smiling at Wendy, I held up my hands in mock surrender. “You've got me. I was snooping, but only sort of.”

  “Only sort of?” One perfectly sculpted eyebrow went up.

  I weighed my options, which took very little time as I seemed to have very few. Just bolting past Wendy was sure to result in an unfavorable report to Mutt, and I'd have to explain my presence to him—of that I had no doubt.

  Spilling every bean I had didn't seem to be an option either; I didn't know where Wendy stood in the odd spiderweb of relationships that seemed to link the various members of this family. She was hired help, but I knew she was also far more.

  “Listen, Wendy, I'll be straight with you.”

  She crossed her arms, prepared to listen.

  “I saw a member of the family sneak in here a few minutes ago. I was curious as to why someone would be prowling around in Aunt Lolly's room, so after said prowler left, I came in to investigate. I was looking in the closet when another person—or maybe the original prowler— came back. I hid in the closet. Whoever it was just left right before you came in.”

  She didn't answer for a moment, then she looked at me with her smoke-dark eyes.

  “Did you see anyone in the hallway right before you came in?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Who'd you see skulking in here in the first place?”

  I considered declining—being a tattletale was sure to land me in trouble. But I'd been caught red-handed, so I might as well confess. “It was Deborah. I wouldn't have been suspicious if she'd just walked into Aunt Lolly's room and walked out, but she obviously didn't want to be seen.”

  Wendy looked surprised. “Well, it wasn't Deborah I ran into when I was coming down the hall to bring back these dresses. It was your father.”

  I went straight back to my room and lay down. Playing detective is damned hard on the nerves. I closed my eyes. This was one of those mornings when I should have stayed in the proverbial bed. In short order I'd been bullied by Uncle Jake, fought with Aunt Sass, gotten slapped by Gretchen, bickered with Candace, spied on Deborah, and been caught sniffing around a dead woman's closet by Wendy. Perhaps I could fit in shooting myself in the foot before lunch, or perhaps I should just make a list of the clan members I hadn't alienated and proceed to tick them off in alphabetical order. Good—that would make Aubrey first.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, rubbing my eyelids gently, trying to stem the rising headache I felt. First traumas first. Lolly had been my persecutor—why? What did she hope to gain by keeping me away from the reunion? Why did she hate me so, sight unseen?

  I thought of her, snipping words from magazines and forming them into poems of hate, while the affable Sweetie looked on, tail wagging. I shuddered. I'd seen an unpleasant side to my great-aunt at the dinner before she died—the harshness of her tone, the unnecessary humiliation of Deborah, the blatant disregard for propriety as she spilled venom toward her family. Perhaps she was insane. Her odd insistence about her pet being her husband reborn might have been more than an amusing affectation. A cold anger began to course through me. I'd been scared witless by Lolly? It was a tribute to the power of words, wielded by a mad fury.

  But why?
Even insanity has its root reasons. Why had this woman perceived me as such a threat? And had she menaced anyone else?

  Of course, there was the possibility, however remote, that my secret admirer wasn't Lolly at all. Someone could have planted the unpleasant handiwork among the dead woman's harmless love letters. If so, did that mean there was a connection between Lolly's death and the threats I'd received?

  Those questions had no easy answers, so I concentrated on what Wendy told me. Bob Don was snooping in Lolly's room. I considered normal, everyday reasons first. Well, she was his aunt, and he had far more reason to be tiptoeing around her room than I did. Perhaps there was a keepsake of hers he'd wanted, or perhaps he was returning something he borrowed. After a moment's reflection, I favored the first explanation. Lolly left no children to squabble over her legacy, but I knew from personal experience family members sometimes helped themselves to particular belongings, without waiting for the will to be read. Perhaps Bob Don retrieved a gift he'd bestowed on Lolly long ago. That made sense.

  That ripping noise of fabric I'd heard while he was allegedly in the room, however, didn't bolster that theory.

  Or had he known—or suspected—that Lolly was a danger or a threat? I hadn't confided in him about the letters I'd received, but I had told Mutt and Candace. One of them might have mentioned my troubles to Bob Don.

  And could Wendy have fibbed? What if she'd seen someone else in the hallway and was protecting that person from suspicion? But why?

  I moaned to myself. Once again, as was my wont, I was spinning fantasies out of bare facts and suppositions. All I could say with certainty was that I'd seen Deborah enter and leave the room, that I'd found another piece of hate mail among Lolly's effects, and that I'd heard someone come in and out of that same room when I hid in the closet. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Wendy had not said much after telling me she'd run into Bob Don in the hallway, and I had quickly left the room, my snooping career the victim of early retirement. I figured Wendy would fill Uncle Mutt's ear with my misadventure and I'd have to hem and haw my way through an explanation. I'd rely on my defense of having contributed previously to the successful resolution of murder cases.