Sorrow's crown afgm-2

by Tom Piccirilli

I tried to find that rage I'd felt that day in their yard, but all I could come up with was the sickness of seeing that family so tied to their own losses, the busted glass in their overgrown grass like the regrets and broken expectations of their lives. "Yeah, I suppose I do, though I'm not sure why."

  "Because you must follow an honorable course," my grandmother said, "even if it brings you into contact with miscreants."

  My head began to throb worse, sending a surf of pain into the back of my eyes. Everything we talked about seemed to be merely preamble.

  "Deputy Tully may be in a better position to cool him off," she said.

  "That would involve walloping, I think."

  "Maybe not."

  I thought of calling Katie, but about now she'd be in the throes of morning sickness and heading back to bed for another hour of sleep. Anna read the Williams novel, tugging too hard on the frail pages so that every so often I heard the soft snap of paper peeling free from the spine. My stomach spun in time with the thrumming behind my eyes. I cared too much about books. I should've been capable enough to stick them on the shelves of the flower shop and watch over an infant crawling across the carpet. I should've been bold enough to go out to lunch at Pembleton's and eat purple stuff every day like the rest of them. So where did all the resistance come from? The kind I hadn't even felt last night while Shanks stood this close to beating me to death.

  Anna said, "We must talk."

  "Okay."

  We kept silent for a few more minutes.

  She shifted in her wheelchair and Go Home, Stranger fell from her lap and struck Anubis across his toenails. As if he was playing the shell game, he immediately moved his paw and covered the title.

  "You apparently feel at odds with me. Or worse, you feel I am in conflict with you. That isn't the case, Jonathan, nor could it ever be. You're concerned that I am not being completely open with you about this investigation."

  Like "plotted" and "case," my grandmother enjoyed the word "investigation," even though all I'd learned so far was how little I knew. I no longer accepted the possibility that Wallace had been bribed or duped by a fake passport-an idea that had drifted like smoke, like the life of Teddy himself. I still had no idea why Teddy had been murdered, or why Crummler had been set up, or what Harnes planned to do with him, especially now that Shanks had been killed as well. Above all that, more meaningful to me at this minute, remained the fact that I was extremely worried about all my grandmother wasn't telling me.

  "Yes," I said. "I'm concerned."

  Anna pinched her chin between thumb and forefinger and I realized we were going to skirt that issue entirely and get into the rest of it instead. Maybe she'd picked up enough from Harnes to make sense of the situation. I remained torn. I didn't want to get into all of this now. Brent would be scared as hell today. I looked at my watch again. I should get down to the shop and check out Roy's patch-up job before Katie saw the mess. Lowell would be learning everything he could about Shanks and Nick Crummler. I slid forward on the couch and the crick in my neck caused more crackling noises. Sharp pains skittered up and down my skull. I should have stayed for the CAT scan last night; my brain felt slung over to one side of my head. The ice pack dropped to the floor. Anubis saw the bladder and started wagging his tail and doing a fair imitation of the flamenco, kicking further hell out of the book.

  "Brian Frost, perhaps in an effort to protect Alice Conway, may have murdered Teddy," Anna said.

  "I thought of that myself."

  "The possibility also exists that Alice is lying. She may have, in fact, orchestrated the entire blackmail scheme."

  "Yes," I agreed. I believed Alice's sorrow, but that didn't mean she hadn't killed her own boyfriend.

  "Or unbeknownst to her, Teddy may still be alive."

  The face. Why had they…?

  I'd gone to the house to hunt for Teddy or find proof of whoever might have taken his place, but I'd never even made it up the stairs. "I had a hunch, but after being in that house last night, I'm leaning against it. If Teddy had been there he would have either been working with them in blackmailing his own father, or Frost and Alice would've had to keep him under lock and key. If he was with them, he'd have helped Frost. If not, I'm assuming Shanks would have let him go."

  "Did you search the house?"

  "No."

  "So Teddy, if he truly is the hand behind these ugly circumstances, might possibly still be there. Or there may be evidence of some other sort that Alice is concealing. I am not positive that she told us the complete truth about her relation-ship with Teddy."

  "Neither am I. Lowell must've searched the place thoroughly, though. Since we don't know anything about Teddy, and there's been no real evidence that he's still alive, maybe we'd do better to concentrate on only one line of reasoning."

  "I agree."

  "He's dead."

  "Why would they have mutilated his features?"

  Once again I felt something from her life seeping from her. I wanted to find those invisible wounds and cover them with my hands, and keep her from dissipating into the air around me.

  "Do you trust Nick Crummler?" she asked.

  "He saved my life."

  "By murdering Freddy Shanks. And why would Shanks involve himself directly in such a manner?"

  "I don't know, it seems out of character."

  "For such a brute."

  "And for Harnes, as well. Harnes is way too smooth to let things get so messy. He could have simply given Alice a little money. Or more to the point, Harnes could have allowed Teddy to be with Alice and accept his responsibility where the child was concerned."

  I had no doubt that Anna would be amused by my saying that, and wonder just how much of it was intended as a parallel to my own situation with Katie and our baby. The conversation could have easily shifted, but I knew she wouldn't harp on it.

  "You fear I am in love with Theodore Harnes," she said.

  "No," I answered honestly. "That's the only thing I'm sure about, that you're not in love with him. At least not anymore. But you're holding something back, and that chafes me, Anna."

  "Not only held back from you, but perhaps from myself.”

  “Oh cripes, what does that mean?" She didn't seem to know. "What did you and he talk about?"

  "Very little of consequence, actually."

  "You were with him alone all night."

  "In the library, yes. I was, foolish as it may sound… studying him. I find it fascinating that he has no moral convictions whatsoever, and yet is capable of great feats of merit, at least where his accumulation of wealth and entrepreneurial deeds are concerned. He talked of his business ventures, his wives, and even his more notorious affairs. He is forthright about such matters. He spoke of his son at length, yet offered nothing that might shed a new perspective on Teddy's death and Crummler's implication in the crime. He sentimentalized without any real sentiment. He adored his son, but in a way that a man might prize a car. He offers up all the authenticity of a poor actor in a bad play, and yet he's honest in his lack of sincerity."

  "Could he have killed Teddy?"

  "Certainly."

  I'd asked her once before if she thought he'd murdered Diane Cruthers-I couldn't call her Diane Harnes, she remained too alive in the photos, outside his influence now-and she hadn't answered. I asked again.

  Anna said, "I know he did. And I realize now how very close I came to having been her. It could easily have been me left behind dead."

  Anubis, keyed to my grandmother's nuances after so many years, picked up on any subtle shifting in mood and tone. The air thickened with attitude and history. He stirred and began to whine.

  I started to get up and said, "Oh no."

  "You see," she said. "I once tried to kill Theodore Harnes."

  I fell off the couch.

  Coming up the Leones' walkway, I caught an odd, sharp perfume rising from around the trellis. Only tangled dead vines remained twisted between the slats, and I was convinced Katie would do the
pruning this year. I saw no rose buds but maybe hidden in the gutters of the shrubs some wildflowers were already blossoming. I didn't want to think that a concussion might actually be filling my brain with phantom scents.

  As I entered the boarding house, I could smell the heavier, savory, more substantial aromas from the Orchard Inn's kitchen. Mr. and Mrs. Leone banged pots and pans and sang alternating stanzas of "Funiculi, Funicula," sounding just slightly more in tune than my father and Keaton Wallace had when parading around town without their shirts. I turned and leaned in the doorway, watching leaves scuffle in the breeze. I looked out at the rest of the street.

  The weather had taken a contradictory turn again, bypassing mild and heading straight into summer heat. People took advantage of the day. I heard lawnmowers and hedge clippers from down the block. A paperboy on a four-hundred-dollar bicycle with tires so thick they looked like they were belted flung copies of the Gazette onto the neighborhood lawns, the way I used to do. The house next door actually had a couple of whiffle balls and bats lying in the grass, and a plastic pitching machine grounded in the center of the yard. I wondered if I could ever get used to living in the Grove again.

  I shut the door and a draft spun the floral chintz curtains. Mr. Leone, still singing, walked into the day room and turned on the television, where he grew entranced by one of the Italian soap operas: two men in the middle of a knife fight snorted at each other, while a woman wept and prayed and tried to keep them apart. The choreography had a true operatic quality, the guys tussling without really touching, staring wide-eyed with pursed lips. I figured she'd be accidentally stabbed by one of her lovers. Maybe they'd wring every bit of melodrama out of the scene like the American soaps and have her get it in the belly from both men.

  Mr. Leone sat and scuttled forward to the edge of his seat. The woman threw her arms out and the camera came in for a close-up on her shocked face; the men shrieked and held her dying in their arms. They were all covered with a thick red liquid that looked more like tomato paste than blood. Mr. Leone let out a loud, "Madonna!" The dead girl tried hard not to blink. The two men started to cry, and Mr. Leone looked like he might do the same any second.

  I took a step inside. He turned and said, "Uyh, Jonny, you don't look so good. You kids and all your stress, it'll kill you. Relax, drink some vino, it's good for your heart, you listen to me. You and Katie, why don't you go have fun, like go bowling? Or better, you stay in tonight and let me cook a good meal for you. I was right, wasn't I? That fish in that goddamn Frank's Bistro, it makes you sick. I'll get some breakfast, okay? And you make your girl eat."

  "I'll do my best."

  "We still got the pasta fagioli. It doesn't go bad, you listen to me. You want that?"

  "Maybe something a little lighter," I said. "She hasn't been feeling well lately."

  "Yeah, yeah, she looks pale to me all the time, I told you." He nodded knowingly, and I caught him glancing at the crucifixes and statues of saints as if praying for my soul. "Aspetta minuto, I make some peppers and eggs. Biscotti et caffe, it sounds like a spicy meal, but it's not. It'll help. A little. I have three sons, I been through this before."

  "Thank you."

  "And it'll help you, too, you must have one big headache. I saw the news on the television early this morning. I'm not gonna ask about it, you tell me later when you want. All right?"

  "All right."

  "Well, okay then."

  I watched some more of the Italian soap opera. Soon the dead woman roused and the men crossed themselves and thanked God and everybody appeared to be friends again. In ten minutes Mr. Leone brought out a tray of coffee and cookie-like biscuits, two plates of fluffy omelet with thinly sliced red and green bell peppers. "You can bowl a two-thirty easy when you eat this. Jonny, the back of your head looks like you got an eggplant growing out of it."

  I took the tray upstairs trying not to think of that image, knocked lightly on Katie's door and opened it. She stood at the mirror doing her hair and let out a heavy sigh when she saw me, perhaps like an exasperated mother, perhaps as if she'd been holding her breath for the past two days. I noticed how all her muscles slacked at once. She dropped back on the bed, and I sat beside her and put the tray on my lap.

  "Here, we're going to bowl at least a two-thirty now."

  "Oh my, and just when I'd given up hope."

  I brushed the hair from her face, and drew my thumbs across her dimples. The set of her lips remained the same, and then slowly the lines around her mouth deepened, the frown causing a trench between her eyes. She sounded trapped between annoyance and relief. "I've been worried as hell, you know."

  "I know. Did you see the news earlier?"

  She nodded, and the light in her eyes glowed and dimmed and glowed. "There's a lot of conjecture about you and why you're always getting into trouble."

  "I'd like to know the answer to that myself," I said.

  Only half-finished, her hair rolled out to one side and twisted down across her face into her mouth. She kept brushing it behind her ear. "Is Crummler out of danger with this sadist gone?"

  "Maybe out of immediate physical danger, although his brother told me they wouldn't have touched him for a while anyway. Still, I don't trust the doctor in charge of Panecraft."

  "Do you trust the brother?"

  I gave the same answer as before. "He saved my life.”

  “God, you're lucky that maniac Shanks didn't fracture your skull. Let me see."

  She touched the back of my head with talented, trained fingers. She could have been a doctor if only she'd loved the profession enough to continue with medical school; I thought about all the hospitalized men who would never get a cheap thrill out of her touch. I looked around her room. She'd chosen this-she'd preferred Felicity Grove over southern California, where most of us used to dream of moving to after high school.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Nothing."

  "Come on, you seemed a little flustered. Is Jesus bothering you again?"

  I took her in my arms. "Let's go back to bed for a while."

  She grinned and the light in her jade eyes flashed more brightly. "Those Italian love songs always get you in the mood."

  "If you're lucky I'll serenade you with my rendition of ‘Summertime in Venice.' "

  "You devil."

  "Do you feel up to some breakfast?"

  "Yes, I'm starved, actually," she said. "Are you going to tell me about it?"

  "Uh … let's eat first, then."

  I'd stopped at the flower shop earlier. Lowell had been right-not much damage had been done to the place, and Ray had done a solid job of patching up the small side window. I'd cleaned up a few broken pots and scattered bags of plantgrowth. The cash register hadn't been worked on though it looked like a couple of flowers had been lifted from the refrigeration unit. Devington hadn't had much of a fight left in him. Maybe he stole a corsage for his new girlfriend. Maybe this would be the end of it, or at least the end for another ten years before his mid-life crisis or his bitch of a mother spurred him back after me.

  It came as a surprise that Katie had an appetite, and that her face had a pleasant pink shade to it. Like most bachelors, and a vast percentage of married men, I was woefully ignorant about the arcane workings of female biology in general, and about pregnancy in particular. Though she'd stressed that morning sickness was common, it worried me to see her so ill so often. I'd batted around the idea of abortion for her health's sake, which made it even worse to think about.

  She waved me on with her free hand while she scooped peppers into her mouth. I told her about the shop and she froze in mid-bite. "Tell me it's not bad."

  "It's not bad."

  "Tell me you're not just telling me that."

  "I'm not just telling you that. Almost nothing was touched."

  "Who did it?"

  "Arnie Devington."

  "That bastard, why'd he have to pick on me? Did they catch him?"

  "No, there's no proof it was him. L
owell might go out there to roust him a little, or maybe he won't."

  "Well, how nice for everybody." Her sarcasm didn't have much sharpness to it, maybe because she didn't want to look bad in front of Jesus. "I know this might seem a peculiar time to bring this up, seeing as how I've just been vandalized, but have you thought any more about moving the bookstore?"

  "Yes," I said. "I have."

  She scanned my face, trying to glimpse lies or terror or desperation. I didn't know myself what might be showing in there, but she grinned, apparently appeased, and nibbled on the biscotta. "Okay, so back to last night and you getting attacked by this psycho. You think Theodore Harnes sent him?"

  "I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe Sparky thought he would get in better with the boss if he took some initiative."

  "That's generally not the way to get in better with the boss."

  "That's why it doesn't feel right to me."

  "So what did Anna have to say about all this?"

  I told her what Anna had explained to me back at the house. I tried to keep my voice steady but wound up sounding like a crotchety old man who'd been having trouble with his regularity. Katie took it in stride, and continued eating until the plate was empty. Everyone had a much calmer demeanor than I did, and it was pissing me off.

  "You look surprised," she said.

  "Aren't you?"

  "That she nearly ran him down? Hell no. Don't you know anything at all about your grandmother? It's not like it was a conspiracy to commit murder. Anna was only nineteen or twenty years old, her friend comes to her distraught, wanting to leave Harnes, who, as we've already established, has got some serious issues, and asks for help."

  "She might've killed him."

  "She was trying to help her friend get free from a bad situation, and the son of a bitch wouldn't get out of the way."

  Katie hadn't seen the expression on Anna's face: the self-righteous glint in her eye, but with some doubts surfacing even after all these years. "Still . . ."

  "Still nothing. I think it was wonderfully brave of her, and you should be proud of what she did. You know what it was like back then, women terrified to leave their husbands, the stigma that went along with divorce."