There is a silence and then Mr Zacarro gives a long, low whistle.
‘Homicide. For Chrissake! Homicide! Oh Lucy, Lucy, that’s just garbage. Homicide’s garbage.’
There’s a long pause. I watch him. He is silent but his lips form the word homicide again and again.
‘Can you think… is there anyone you can think of who might have some reason to kill Daddy?’
‘Kill Eric!’ he roars. ‘No one would kill Eric! I mean, exactly what are the forensic geeks saying?’
I shrug. ‘That he didn’t drown. He died first and then his body somehow got into the water.’
‘Oh shit, shit, this is awful.’
His lips form more silent words.
‘Daddy’s clothes were left at Big Brim beach. But no one knows how he got there because his car was found over at San Strana.’
He stares at me with big, liquid eyes so the wrinkles on his face look like ripples.
‘The San Strana valley for heaven’s sake!’
‘Lowis, to be precise.’
He is bellowing. ‘Lowis? Lowis!’
‘Did he know anyone there? Did he have any reason to go to San Strana?’
‘No, no, no, he never mentioned anyone up at Lowis.’
He shakes his head. His lips move in silent conversation with someone.
‘Did he say on Sunday that he planned to swim the next day? Did he mention some new fitness programme he was following with his friend Seymour?’
‘No, no, he didn’t say anything about swimming. We talked about a lot of things, you know how old guys like to chew the fat, Lucy, hell, we talk a lot of garbage, probably we talked garbage on Sunday but he never mentioned fitness, or Seymour or swimming or Lowis or…’ His voice falls away and he looks hard at the pool’s glassy surface, trying to remember Sunday night, trying to remember everything Daddy said.
‘Did he tell you he was meeting anyone?’
‘No, no, no…’
‘Did he give any indication what he planned to do on Monday?’
‘No, no.’
‘Did he say he was worried about anything in particular? Did he seem like a man who worried a lot?’
‘Eric, nah. He wasn’t worried.’
I watch him, a land mass in the shimmering pool. His mouth is turned down, his eyes droop. I’m sorry I’ve made him so unhappy today. He’s had enough unhappiness.
I say softly: ‘Joe, there’s a big dent in the front of Daddy’s car…’
‘There is?’
‘I thought the dent might already have been there.’
‘Never mentioned it.’
‘Did he have any car problems?’
‘Yeah, one big problem called an Oldsmobile. He could afford a new car. But did he buy a new car? No. He liked to spend the whole time fixing the Oldsmobile, that’s why.’
‘Did it break down recently?’
‘He never would have told me because he knew I’d have said: get rid of that heap of garbage.’
‘Did anyone tow it recently?’
Joe shakes his head. He is not looking at me. Under his breath he mutters: ‘Homicide.’
I get up to go.
‘I guess the police will probably be interviewing you soon. Mr Holler too.’
His big, doughy face studies mine sadly. When I leave he calls after me: ‘You come swimming here any time you like. D’you hear? Any time, whether I’m home or not, you swim here and not on some goddamn dangerous beach.’
I try not to look at the padlocked trunk of Mr Zacarro’s car but now I’ve seen it I can’t pass it without remembering Lindy, stroking that toy horse which she said would be just like her real horse one day. And as I walk down the crumbling drive, sliding a little on the loose asphalt, as small creatures scuttle in the bushes at my side and I notice that Mrs Zacarro’s pink, perfumed flowers must nearly all have died after she left, replaced now by weeds, it seems to me that at one time there was a real horse and he was chestnut. Lindy cantered him, her blonde hair bouncing with his stride, her back straight, leaning forward briefly to run a hand down his neck. The horse’s flanks shone in the sun and you could see his muscles working like shadows under his gleaming coat. I skirt carefully around the one remaining sticky-leaved plant. I don’t want to smell its drugging aroma again. Lindy on a horse. Was this a memory of an actual event? Or the memory of a daydream, and not even my own daydream but Lindy Zacarro’s?
17
Larry and Jane suspect that someone visited Daddy’s house again last night. I find them in his bedroom, removing anything that might be valuable.
‘I’m furious that the locksmith didn’t come yesterday like he promised,’ Jane tells me, examining a small, silver box.
‘Even with the locks changed we should take this stuff away,’ Larry says.
I shut the closet door because I don’t like the way it gapes at me. Some of the drawers in the dressing-table are open too and in the middle of the big blue bed is a tangle of silver objects and small, sparkling rocks.
Over on the bureau are the pictures I like of Mother and Daddy’s wedding and the four of us on the beach. I place them carefully on the bed with the other items.
‘Those frames aren’t real silver,’ Larry informs me.
I smile. ‘It’s the pictures which are valuable.’ I show him the beach snapshot. ‘I like to remember Daddy laughing that way.’
Jane pauses to look at the picture.
‘Except, he hardly ever did,’ she says.
Larry strokes his beard. He says: ‘Lucy, will you check the den to see if it’s just the way you left it?’
I spent several hours working in Daddy’s den yesterday afternoon, sorting out files for Scott.
‘You think someone was in there last night?’
‘We think someone was in the house because Jane double-locked the door and this morning it was only single-locked. But we can’t find any other place they’ve been.’
I am relieved to find that my tidy piles of paperwork are still arranged across the desk and floor just as I left them. But when I examine the files more closely I find small discrepancies in their organization. Inside the drawers, two files have been removed and replaced back to front. Jane was right. Someone has been here.
Jane and Larry see this from my face when I get back up to the blue bedroom. They look at one another and then back to me.
‘They tried to put it back just the way it was but they didn’t get it exactly right,’ I say.
‘Whoever it was doesn’t want us to know they were here,’ says Larry, sitting down on the bed.
‘But they left the lights on and the doors open yesterday,’ Jane reminds him.
‘Maybe they were disturbed,’ I suggest.
‘By what?’
‘By the guys bringing the car back?’
‘Maybe,’ concedes Jane. She picks up an ornate silver photo frame and puts it on the bed. I wonder who the mysterious, faded faces inside it can belong to.
Jane turns to me. ‘What do we have in that den which someone could want? I mean, they’re obviously looking for something. They could have taken any of this silver, but they didn’t. There’s some kind of a file or a document which is worth more to them. Are you sure nothing’s missing down there?’
‘Of course I’m not sure. But I looked at most of the files yesterday and, apart from a few I took back to Aunt Zina’s with me, I can’t immediately see any are missing.’
I continue working in the den. Two men arrive wearing red shirts on which are emblazened the words Buddy, you’re safe with us. I can hear the hum of their voices and the rasp of their tools as they change the locks. Afterwards they walk around the house with Jane telling her how vulnerable it is to intruders.
‘We can’t possibly do everything they’re suggesting,’ says Jane when they’ve gone, sinking on to the chair in the den. I look up at her. I am working on the floor now, files all around me.
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, at best alarms and CCTV an
d automatic gates, at the very least window locks and some shrub clearance so the place is more exposed. Let’s just empty the house and sell it fast and leave whoever buys it to worry about security.’
She gets up and picks her way across the floor through the files.
‘You’re sure making progress here.’
‘Those are all closed,’ I say, pointing to the big green files that she has just stepped over. ‘That means I’ve informed anyone necessary of Daddy’s death and finished all the paperwork. I should be able to close these by tomorrow. The files on the desk and in the drawers will take a little longer.’
‘Is everything straightforward?’ she asks.
I enjoy working with Daddy’s files, finding notes in his small, intelligent writing, analysing his figures, checking his investments. It feels like an act of homage.
‘Daddy had a good system here. There’s just one minor anomaly so far, but I’m sure I can sort that out with a few telephone calls.’
‘What is it?’
‘Oil well stuff. Maybe I was too tired when I was working on it last night at Aunt Zina’s. I’m going to take another look today.’
‘Oil?’ Jane asks.
I nod. Daddy did oil exploration work in the vacations sometimes. Before he married and then again many years later, when I was still home and Jane had gone to college. I used to go with him but, unlike rock specimens, oil seemed to be found in flat, dull places. The only thing to do was sit around by the motel pool all day reading and waiting for Daddy to come back.
‘But he hasn’t done any of that kind of work for years.’
‘When he did he was smart enough to take a part of his payment in royalties. Which means he was entitled to his percentage as long as the wells he found were still producing. Believe it or not, a couple of those wells are still active.’
‘He was still taking an income from the oil companies? Was it much?’
‘I haven’t checked the most recent statements but certainly until a few years ago it would have been about enough for him to live on, if he lived frugally.’
Jane whistles. ‘And he never even mentioned it!’
I say: ‘I guess I’m crossing too many t’s and dotting too many i’s here but I sort of like to check things until they work every which way…’ Jane smiles affectionately. She used to laugh at me for doing my math homework twice, to make sure I got the same answers both times. ‘So I’ve tried to work back from his bank and other statements to the oil revenues. And I can’t find them.’
She looks at me in surprise.
‘You can’t find the money?’
‘Not so far.’
‘What did he do with it?’
‘He collected the earliest payments, the ones that go way back to before we were born. Then, suddenly, after a few years, he stopped.’
‘Were these regular payments?’
‘Annual.’
‘And every year it just sort of… disappears?’
‘Well, I haven’t found it yet.’
She looks thoughtful.
‘I’ll bet Seymour can help.’
Seymour was Daddy’s closest friend, a retired petroleum geologist.
‘I’m going to call him,’ I agree. ‘And he’ll probably explain it right away.’
‘Don’t forget to tell him the funeral’s on Tuesday,’ she says over her shoulder.
I open the desk drawer to look for Daddy’s address book so I can call Seymour. The address book isn’t there, just a lot of the kind of junk you keep in your desk drawer. Pincers for removing staples and old airline boarding passes and bad photos of the ones you love. One picture shows Stevie and me. I am holding him loosely and my smile is uneasy. Stevie’s face, as usual, is curled into a small, red ball and his mouth is open wide to scream. Behind us, a part of Scott’s body is visible, hunched, hands stuffed helplessly into his jeans pockets.
I put back the picture and withdraw some browning newspaper cuttings. The typeface of the Valley Gazette is instantly recognizable. Incredible, It’s Snow at Hollow Grove! How The City Sends Its Pollution To Our Valley. Wedding News.
Curiously, I unwrap Wedding News. It is so carefully folded that I rip it a little. I flatten it on the desk with the side of my hand. It reports the marriage of Robert Joseph to Karen Sylvester.
Although I haven’t been in love with Robert Joseph for many years, the newspaper article seems to bubble and swell. I stare hard at the grey picture. His hair is clipped shorter and his face is thinner but the smiling groom is unmistakable.
I search for a date, do not find one, then read the report. The groom is a doctor. The bride is a banker. The groom’s mother hosted a party at their beautiful home in the valley. The bride wore historic lace which a forebear worked while her husband was away fighting the Confederates. The bridesmaids wore yellow. There is a list of guests.
I go out to the deck and look down at the quiet order of the valley. I enjoy the symmetry between the fruit trees and their shadows. The tidy quadrangles please me, my eye rests on the right angles of the intersection.
The bridesmaids wore yellow. The bride is a banker, just like me. His mother hosted the party: maybe his father is dead, just like mine. And Robert, who wanted to be a movie director, became a doctor. Maybe the car crash altered him. Maybe spending so much time in hospital and nearly losing his leg changed his ambitions. Maybe he didn’t like movies any more. For me he stopped being at eighteen but since then he grew and changed and married and probably had children and I am just a tiny grain of his history.
If I look south, I can fool myself that I see the Joseph farm, although I know it’s only visible from further around the dirt road, a speck of bright green as vivid and surprising as spinach stuck in your teeth. You can easily fry down in the valley but the aqueduct runs right by the Joseph farmstead and their yard is an oasis, green and cool and shady. That summer I spent with Robert Joseph we lay locked together in a hammock swinging beneath two big, stout-trunked trees talking about everything and being in love. Teenage love. Easy to ridicule afterwards but it felt real enough at the time. And all that talking. Robert’s mother said she liked to hear our voices buzzing away in the hammock. She was nice and she had nice friends. I sometimes wished she was my mother and then felt guilty about it. Once I mentioned Mother and Mrs Joseph said, surprisingly: ‘Oh yes, I remember her from Cornington.’ Cornington was a grade school Robert and I both went to before they reorganized the county. Mrs Joseph said: ‘We had the Cornington Country Cook-Out and your mother helped with the food.’ And I knew from the way she said it, although her tone was even, that Mother had done something hideous: brought the wrong kind of frankfurters or no frankfurters at all or frankfurters that were glazed with green mould and that perhaps, when she had realized her mistake, she had cried pitifully in front of Mrs Joseph and the principal and all my teachers. I waited for Mrs Joseph to say something more about Mother and the Cornington Country Cook-Out. I was glad when she didn’t.
Back in the den I find Seymour’s number and he answers the phone right away, as though he’s working at his desk.
‘Lucy, hey Lucy, good to hear from you,’ he says but his voice cracks suddenly. ‘Boy, do I miss Eric. I miss him already and he’s only been dead a few days, I don’t know what it’s going to be like in a month or a year. And I keep cutting items out of the newspaper for him. You know, this morning I tore something out of The Rock Hammer which I knew would make him real mad. I mean, apoplectic. I was chuckling to myself at how mad he’d get and I put it in an envelope and wrote his address on it! Can you believe that? Glad I realized before I bought a stamp.’
I smile. In Seymour I can capture a little of Daddy. It’s like finding a photo of the beach house right after the ocean has washed it away. He and Daddy had an antagonistic relationship, mostly because Seymour became a Christian and Daddy liked to argue with him. At the end of a long day’s disputing Seymour used to say: ‘Well, Eric, I guess you have to fundamentally agree with someone before yo
u can argue with them for all this time.’
‘I don’t agree with you!’ protested Daddy. ‘I don’t agree with one word you say!’
I could tell they enjoyed this routine.
We talk a little about Tuesday’s funeral. He approves when I say we’ve decided on a secular ceremony. Then I tell Seymour about Daddy’s oil royalties.
‘Simms-Roeder still producing, eh? Well, I’m jealous. What a great find that was for Eric.’
‘But Seymour, I can’t find any record of the money. Where it came in and where it went out. There’s just the oil company’s statement that it was paid. Did Daddy ever tell you what he did with it?’
‘Nope. It must show on his bank statements, Lucy.’
‘It doesn’t. It doesn’t show on any statements anywhere. I called the oil company and they were unhelpful… do you have any contacts there now?’
‘Oh boy. Most of the people I knew there have retired. But I guess I could try… let me work at it for a day or so. Will you come by for the answer? Katherine would sure love to see you too.’
I promise to stop by at Seymour’s on Friday evening.
Hours later, when I look up and see that the square of sky beyond the small overhead window has turned the inky blue of late afternoon, I wonder why Daddy cut out the article about Robert Joseph’s wedding. Did he intend to give it to me, then forgot or did he change his mind?
The two detectives, Kirsty and Rougemont, arrive. Rougemont greets me as though we know each other well, smiling too broadly. Jane is friendly. She and Larry make coffee and she tells how we think the intruder came again last night.
‘I really don’t like it. I’m relieved the locksmith’s been,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I get the feeling we’re being watched.’
I look at her in surprise. It’s hard to imagine anyone less inclined to paranoia than Jane.
‘I’ve seen this guy outside our apartment,’ adds Larry. ‘He doesn’t seem to be doing anything. Just sort of hanging around out there.’
‘Uh-huh,’ says Rougemont. He’s sceptical but he’s hiding it well. ‘How many times have you seen him?’
Summertime Page 17