Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  “I’m not unsociable.”

  His smile creased his eyes. “You thought I meant you?”

  She scowled. “Would you go away? I have work to do.”

  “You won’t faint on the scaffolding, will you?”

  “I never faint.” Though she’d been all but catatonic by the time the emergency vehicles reached the cabin. She would not think of that now. Certainly not before Lance left her in peace. She crossed over and climbed the scaffolding like a monkey. Faint. Hah. He would faint before she did.

  Rese lifted the hand sander, but just before she continued on the spot where she’d left off, a sound like a muffled gunshot came through the wall.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Momma smells of verbena and summer roses.

  A rustle of taffeta. Small white hands.

  Skin like unskimmed milk, fresh and smooth,

  but lacking sweetness.

  Beautiful, but I find no comfort there,

  for discontent clings to her like a hungry urchin.

  Lance fondled Baxter’s ears as the dog begged a ride. Mounting the bike, he glanced back toward the house. He’d have to take Rese at her word. Her wrenching tears had stopped the moment he touched her. She wanted to grieve alone. And he had enough to think about.

  A murder in the villa had to be significant. Even though other people had lived in the house, Nonna’s silence suggested a past tragedy, and her urgency now indicated a wrong she wanted to right. What greater wrong was there than a life cut short? A thrill of anticipation. What else did Rese’s neighbor know? As old as she sounded, she might know quite a bit. Maybe all of it.

  What had Rese said her name was? Potter. Eve Potter. He glanced at the smaller house next to the villa, its sloping roof ending in a trellis of verbena and a garden almost as untended as theirs. It must have been built after the DiGratia vineyards were gone, or perhaps it was an addition for an in-law or married offspring.

  Lance hesitated. Should he talk to its occupant now? Too obvious. As he started the bike, Baxter jumped aboard, determined not to be left behind. They went into town and bought the supplies. The dog was glad for the drive, short as it was. It had been too long since they’d had some open road. Soon, buddy. Soon.

  He couldn’t ignore Nonna’s charge, and his fresh concern for Rese added to it. But once he’d done what he came for, he and Baxter would hit the road. Wouldn’t they?

  Back on the property, Lance went to work on the carriage house roof, the sun heating the back of his neck and shoulders as he hammered the plywood. His muscles pulled and bunched, remembering and responding to the work. His hands had hardened.

  From below, Baxter whined a soft welcome. Resting one knee on the rafter, Lance paused and looked down. Sybil. His first thought was to hide, but that was a little hard on the roof. Then he considered how Rese would handle it—up front and in your face. He’d just tell her he wasn’t interested.

  He set the hammer on a crosspiece and climbed down while she fondled the dog. Then she stood up, showing six inches between her low-slung shorts and the paisley shirt that matched her lavender naval ornament. He could not keep his eyes from going there, but thankfully Baxter demanded her attention again.

  Laughing, she petted the dog’s neck. “Been riding your Harley, Baxter?”

  Lance answered for him. “He’s mostly hung around here.”

  She looked up. “Why don’t we take him somewhere?”

  He leaned on the doorjamb. “I can only manage one passenger at a time.” Though, technically, with Baxter in front, Sybil could have the back seat.

  She straightened, pressing her palms to her lower back, the sun glinting on the beads and silver that accented her sun-tanned navel and sharp hip bones. “It’s a great day for a ride. Seen the vineyards yet?”

  He dragged his gaze back to her face. “No, but that’ll have to wait. I’ve got a lot to do.”

  “She doesn’t give you a break?” Sybil stepped inside and looked around.

  He could blame it on Rese, but that wasn’t true. He’d crafted the deal.

  “It’s my time, but it’s short.”

  “You’re going to live in this?”

  He looked around the space, three times the size of his cell at the Italian convent and, unlike his apartment at home, shared with no one. It felt more his than many places he’d stayed. Yeah, he could live there. “It’s got character, maybe even history.” Murder and mayhem.

  She rolled her eyes. “There you go again.”

  He spread his hands. “A neighbor told Rese someone was murdered in the villa.”

  Sybil tipped her head to the side. “Still angling for that story?”

  “Well…”

  She rested her finger on her cheek. “Is this for Rese or you?”

  Rese would want any information he got, but would he tell her? He shrugged. “I’m just ’satiably curious.”

  She smiled. “You know what happened to the Elephant’s child.”

  He’d pegged her for an avid reader.

  She eyed him now. “I tell you what. I’ll apply my journalistic expertise.” She smiled. “And you join me at the jazz fest tonight.”

  “Jazz fest?”

  “A female jazz ensemble at the park. Six o’clock.”

  Lance rubbed the back of his hand across his chin, damp with sweat. He could handle jazz in the park, especially to get information he might not find himself. There had to be more than he’d come up with, especially if the neighbor’s tale was true. Nonna’s letter to Conchessa suggested a tragedy, and now this neighbor claimed murder, but he’d found nothing in his local search—not that he really knew how to go about it.

  Maybe Sybil was the key. “Sure.” He smiled. “Find me something good.”

  Sybil patted Baxter, then tossed her hair over her shoulder. “See you at the park.”

  Some of his best friends were women. Some of his worst nightmares too. He could always let Sybil know what a screw-up he was. In spite of her flagrance, she had class and pedigree. She’d dump him in a minute.

  ————

  The moment Star walked in, Rese knew the escapade was finished and the aftermath imminent. She climbed down from the scaffolding and led her up the stairs to the Rain Forest room, guessing they had only moments before it hit.

  “I know it was stupid. I don’t even care.” Star’s eyes grew glassy fragile, then tears washed out. “I was only trying to forget.”

  Rese stroked her matted and tousled hair, the spirals twisted into knots. Star always trashed her hair. But they would brush it out, strand by strand. The rest wasn’t so easy to untangle.

  Star gulped. “It hurts, Rese.”

  “I know.” Sometimes she wished she could let the hurt out the way Star did. But it didn’t seem to help, and she already regretted her own quick bout of tears.

  “He said I needed medication.”

  “Who did?”

  “Maury.”

  Rese didn’t suppose they were talking about the vintner of the past two days. That would have been backlash, not the cause of Star’s sudden appearance and subsequent collapse. She should have assumed impending crisis. “Who’s Maury?”

  Star clenched her teeth. “We shared a studio.”

  And more, Rese guessed. Star had no barriers and no discrimination. But it was significant that she’d pursued her painting with the guy. Significant and risky.

  Star grabbed her sides and wailed. “I could have broken through—done something more than play parts at … fairs and festivals—if he hadn’t…” She squeezed a fist, then pressed it to her chest with a cry. “ ‘And where th’ offense is, let the great axe fall!’ ”

  Figurative language, Rese hoped but was … not completely convinced. Star in a fury took on mythical proportion. She collapsed onto the bed sobbing. “I believed him.”

  Rese sat down beside her. “What did you believe?”

  “He had the contacts. He said once they saw my work—” Star clenched her teeth. “He l
oved me until he realized …” She rolled to her side. “I challenged him at first. His style changed, improved. But he couldn’t stand that.” She raised upon one elbow. “ ‘Company, villainous company, hath been the spoil of me.’ I can never paint again.”

  Rese worked a red, knotted strand of hair free with her fingers. “Don’t say that, Star.”

  “My muse is dead. He strangled her.” Star’s head collapsed to her shoulder.

  Rese drew the tangled sections out and let them fall. “She’ll come back. You’ll see.”

  “Why can’t I be like you?” Star sprang up and grabbed her shoulders. “You don’t need anything.”

  Right. The only perfectly autonomous person on the planet.

  “It’s because your mother died, while mine…” Star blinked away the tears. “I wish mine had died.”

  “I know.” This was old ground. Star found Mom’s death miraculous, a freedom from hardship, while Star’s had continued. No explaining would change that view.

  “Can I stay here?” Star smeared her palm under her nose.

  Rese stroked her shoulder. “I’m hardly going to kick you out.”

  “I’ll clean or something.” Star wiped her face with her shirt.

  “You might find a different job.”

  “I can’t look yet. I just can’t.”

  “Okay.”

  Star moaned, rocking. “I wanted to be through with this. The Looney Toons.”

  Rese stiffened. She hadn’t thought of that in a long time. Maybe Mom’s death had freed her from some of it. “We’re not Looney Toons.” Rese made Star look at her and bored the truth in. “We’re no crazier than anyone else. Everyone has junk.”

  Star hugged her fiercely. “I can’t live without you.”

  “Yes, you can. You’re stronger than you think.”

  Star tipped her head back. “I am strong as the earth, high as the sky, deep as the sea.”

  Rese smiled. “Yeah.”

  Star laughed. “Hoh—I needed that cry.”

  Rese sobered. She had needed to cry for too long, but until this morning with Lance … and even then she’d cut it short. Well, she and Star were different people.

  “Let me brush your hair.” Rese took the brush tines gently through Star’s hair until the curls came free. They were the same age, but Star had always seemed the little sister. “Now rest. You’ll feel better.” Rese wished she had something better to offer, something that might wash away the years of selfdestruction, or at the very least offer hope and peace. But what was there? As Star drifted off to sleep, Rese stood carefully from the bed and returned to her work.

  ————

  The evening was warm and clear, the lawn sun dappled through the draping eucalyptus, oaks, and conifers. Nearly six, and already the park plaza was filled with families and couples and seniors clustered around tables or on blankets spread with picnic food and wine. Italian influence; Lance smiled.

  He walked between Rese and Star, who was surprisingly still and cogent. Cogent mainly because she hadn’t opened her mouth. From the look of her eyes she was either coming down from something or deeply upset. Rese acted as though nothing had changed, so maybe Tinkerbell had these fluctuations.

  He glanced about for Sybil, but didn’t see her yet. Technically, he shouldn’t have asked Rese and Star along. He had expected Rese to refuse, but she said, “That’s perfect for Star.” And she had driven them all in her truck.

  They reached the little amphitheater and Lance found a space for four. “Want something to eat or drink?” There were vendors on the other side of the city hall in the square. A farmers’ market was set up there, though he couldn’t tell specifically what the booths held. He did see a corn dog kiosk, but didn’t mention it.

  Rese turned to Star. “Do you want something?”

  Star’s hands rose and fell in her lap like injured birds, but she didn’t answer.

  “I’ll see what there is.” Lance left them there and strolled toward the booths. Bouquets of vibrant sweet peas caught his eye on one side while another booth held poppies, daisies, peonies, and buttercups. Fresh vegetables, peaches, strawberries, and honeycomb scented the evening. An ostrich farmer set out baskets of feathers, eggs, and packages of ostrich jerky.

  He came to a booth with a long line for homemade gumbo. Where he came from that was always a good sign. Rico would not frequent any place where he didn’t have to wait. Lance got two bowls of gumbo and two Italian sodas from a neighboring kiosk and carried them back in a shallow cardboard box.

  Rese handed a bowl and a cup to Star, then took her own from the box. “What about you?”

  He glanced around. “I’ll wait awhile.” No sign of Sybil yet. Maybe she was looking for him somewhere else. “I’ll be back.” He headed up the concrete steps and out around the pond. Ducks assessed him for food, but when his hand was not forthcoming, they turned to better prospects.

  The sweet scent of kettle corn wafted on the air as he rounded the pond and saw Sybil. Her blue ankle-length skirt was slit all the way up one thigh, but she managed to look glamorous, not trashy. Her toe-strap sandals slapped the sidewalk lightly as she approached, and he caught a whiff of perfume. But what interested him most was the folder she carried.

  “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t really expect to find something.”

  “But you did?”

  She flicked the silky hair back over her shoulder and opened the folder. “I’m not sure what to make of this.” She took out a copy of an Index Tribune article and gave it to him.

  He checked the date and his pulse quickened.

  Local Man Shot Down

  Late Monday night Vito Shepard was gunned down in his home.

  Vito Shepard. Quillan’s son Vittorio?

  Neighbors were jolted from their sleep as shots rang out “like war” in the early hours. “I never heard a Tommy gun before, and hope to never hear it again,” said neighbor Joseph Martino. “It’s a tragedy.”

  Others feel the victim got no more than he deserved. “The Italian element has thumbed its nose at the law too long,” said one prominent citizen who wished to remain unnamed.

  Police found Mr. Shepard dead in his home, amidst rumors of illgained wealth. A search of the property revealed no such cache. No witness to the slaying has come forward. Authorities are looking for Mr. Shepard’s daughter and request any information as to Antonia Shepard’s whereabouts.

  Vito killed; Antonia missing. Lance lowered the paper as sorrow and a sense of injustice seeped in. Disappointment as well, with the mention of illgained wealth and the “Italian element.” Organized crime had grown out of Prohibition, and San Francisco had its own mob. It was possible members of his family had become involved, especially when the law seemed so unreasonable to people who had grown and created wine all their lives. It wasn’t about getting a cheap drunk, it was celebrating the bounty, the essence of their lives and the fruitfulness of the land.

  People understood that now, with the flourishing Napa and Sonoma Valley vineyards. But in the thirteen years when Prohibition had changed the genteel inclusion of wine into the get-drunk-fast mentality of the speakeasy, people were not so understanding. Power mongers on both sides used the issue to gain control. But the feds did not gun down operators in their homes. This was a private execution.

  He had joked about the guy in cement, but it wasn’t funny. That Italian stereotype lingered into the PC age, and now it seemed possible there was truth to it.

  Lance looked up. “Well, that’s interesting.”

  “If you like that, try this.” She handed him another copied sheet.

  He recognized it as an obituary.

  Vittorio DiGratia Shepard died quietly in his home Sunday night. He is succeeded by esteemed poet Quillan Shepard, father, and a daughter, Antonia. Funeral Mass, family only.

  Lance checked the date, but it matched the first one. He looked up. “Died quietly?”

  “It seems that was the official version.”

 
His chest squeezed.

  Sybil flicked the first sheet. “This was never published. I found it in the archives, but it was not printed in the paper.”

  Lance frowned. “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “Someone didn’t want it there.”

  “So they ran the obituary and left it at that?”

  “That’s how it seems. I checked the police files.”

  He couldn’t help a look of surprise and respect. “And?”

  She shook her head. “No smoking Tommy gun.”

  Lance looked from one sheet to the other. “Could the first story be wrong? Some zealous reporter looking for a beat?”

  Sybil caught her hair back and let it fall. “Possible, I guess. But I doubt it. Especially if it was archived. And your neighbor had heard it rumored. I’ve gone with less than that.”

  Lance considered the information. If he raised awareness of a past wrong, would it help his case? Nothing connected him directly—yet. Rese would still not … A serious twinge seized him. He didn’t like keeping secrets. But how could he not? He needed answers, then he’d decide what to do with what he learned.

  “So is there a story here?”

  Sybil shook her head. “Old news.” She smiled. “Now if Vito’s ghost starts to roam…”

  “How do you know it’s not?”

  She slipped her hand into his arm. “Is it?”

  “Rese heard moans the other night.”

  By her expression, Sybil’s mind had taken that statement and run. But she just smirked and said, “Well, when she sees the bullet-ridden body let me know.” She tugged him forward. “The music’s starting. We won’t get a seat.”

  “I have places already.”

  “How?”

  “Rese and her friend.”

  Sybil stopped and looked into his face. “You brought Rese?”

  So it had been cheating. “She needed to get out.”

  “Are you two together?”

  He could say yes and end her pursuit, but it was also one of the only areas he could be honest. “Strictly business.” Though Rese’s expression when he sat down with Sybil was interesting. Star was still in another world and hardly responded when he introduced her. Sybil’s reaction to both women would have amused him if Rese wasn’t suddenly looking brittle. He was not getting this right, and the aftermath might be more than he wanted to face.