Secrets

by Kristen Heitzmann

  Chaz raised his brows.

  “She couldn’t tell me what she wants me to find or learn or do. But she sent me to Conchessa, a relative in an Italian convent who told me about this part of the family, their vineyard and villa. So I came here to find it and whatever else Nonna has kept secret all these years.”

  Chaz rocked slightly, still holding to his knee. “Does Rese know this?”

  Not “what have you found” or “what have you learned.” Chaz always went to the heart of it. Lance shook his head. “I need answers first. I took the job she had open so I could search the property.”

  Chaz released his knee and leaned forward. “It looks like more than a job.”

  Lance rubbed his face. “Yeah, well, it is, now.” He knew how weak that sounded.

  Chaz shook his head. “And what have you found?”

  “Pieces.” Lance glanced at the hatch involuntarily. “But everything’s gotten so complicated I haven’t put them together.” His gaze went to the portrait behind Chaz. “That’s Vittorio Shepard, my great-grandfather.”

  Chaz turned.

  “He was murdered in the villa, and I think Antonia disappeared at the same time. I guess she went to New York, but I need to know why. I need to know who forced her out. I think she wants the truth to be known.”

  Chaz turned back. “Truth is a good thing.” The words stung as Chaz knew they would—he wasn’t talking about Antonia.

  “I intend to tell Rese, but I need all the pieces first.” Lance forked his fingers into his hair. “And everything I get just leaves me with more questions. The message Nonna sent—Jack’s son. What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Chaz tipped his head. “I think maybe Rico didn’t hear it right.”

  Lance lowered his hand and met Chaz’s eyes with a quickening in his spirit. “What did you hear?”

  “ ‘Jack son.’ ”

  Lance sat still as the subtle difference transformed in his mind. Jack son. Jackson. A cold chill passed through him. Sybil? That couldn’t be right. How would she know about Sybil? Another Jackson, a previous generation? What was it Sybil had said? “The police don’t have this; the paper doesn’t have it. Only I do.” Because it was a personal matter? A family matter? A letter, she told him, that corroborated Vito’s murder—and included Nonno Marco’s name.

  Lance sagged to the floor. Had Marco Michelli killed Nonna’s father? He shook his head, dazed.

  “You don’t look too good.”

  Lance stared at the hatch to the stairs leading down, the tunnel where Quillan lay, racks of wine bottled in a year that forbade its sale. He thought of Marco, a cop, the grandfather who’d inspired Tony to join the force. Had he taken out a gangster?

  Maybe the letter spelled it out. Was it the proof he needed? Who else besides Sybil might know? Ralph, but he was gone, and his knowledge had been muddled already. Evvy? There had to be someone. Because if there was only Sybil…

  Rico came out of the bathroom looking like a rock star, wearing Lance’s cologne. He beat a rhythm on the wooden edge of the sofa. “So, what’s happenin’?”

  Lance rested his head back against the wall. “Too much.”

  Rico stopped tapping. “What’d I miss?”

  Lance looked from one to the other. Rese had an appointment with her mother’s doctor and had left a short while ago. He had tried hard to go with her, but she wasn’t willing to let him in, not where it mattered, not where it hurt. And maybe that was right. Maybe now was the time to deal with the rest. He wasn’t going to sleep with Sybil to get the letter, so there had to be another way. Possibilities. He needed to think in possibilities.

  He got up from the floor, crossed the room and opened the hatch, raising the quadrant of tiles to reveal the stairs.

  “Whoa.” Rico stared. “What’s that?”

  “One of the pieces.” Lance recapped what he’d told Chaz and swore Rico to secrecy. That didn’t go without saying. “Not a word to Star.” Spelling it out was also required. He gave Rico a pointed look.

  Rico cocked his head. “Now how can I use this?”

  “You can’t. If you want to be part of it, you’ll keep your mouth shut. My situation is precarious enough.”

  “It doesn’t have to be.” Chaz spoke softly, as he always did when illuminating the truth.

  Lance went to the bedroom for the flashlight. Baxter whined, but Lance ordered him to stay, then led the way down the steep wooden stairs to the tunnel where Quillan lay. They squeezed through the metal gate, and Rico jolted to a halt and crossed himself as the light’s beam touched the skeleton.

  “Watch your step,” Lance said as he passed his great-great-grandfather.

  Chaz muttered something, and both men stayed close, passing between the wine racks with hushed exclamations. Rico dusted a label with his fingers. “Wonder what you’d get for one of these at auction.”

  “I won’t get anything if it belongs to Rese.”

  Chaz raised his brows. “If?”

  Lance shrugged. “If my great-grandfather was killed and Antonia forced off, there might be interesting property issues.”

  Rico caught his drift. “You’d sue her?”

  Lance shook his head. “I’m trying to see how to put it all together.”

  His friends shared a look.

  “Listen, I didn’t mean to get personal with Rese.”

  Rico cocked a brow.

  Lance raised his hands. “I know. But this time I intend to do it right.”

  Chaz shook his head. “You’re not off to a very good start, mon.”

  “I thought I could work for her until I found what Nonna needed, then…” Then what? The next part had never been clear. “This thing with Rese snuck up on me.” But there was no undoing it. She meant too much to him.

  “You can’t be double-minded.” Chaz spread his hand. “You’ll love the one and hate the other.”

  Lance hated how Chaz applied Scripture sometimes. “Well, I love Nonna, and I love Rese.” His friends would know he didn’t say it lightly. “I have to find a way to make them both happy.”

  “Let’s take the show on the road.” Rico grinned.

  Lance gave that a short laugh. “The answer to everything.”

  “You stay here, you got trouble, any way you cut it.”

  Rico was right. But he was tied to the inn for more reasons than one. Lance looked around the ghostly shelves, shadows crowding in. “I have to do this. There’s something here, something that’s stayed too long in darkness.”

  Rico looked over his shoulder to where the skeleton lay invisible now. “You’re creepin’ me out.”

  “You have to tell her,” Chaz said.

  “I will. I just need the right time.”

  “Who’s the stiff?” Rico jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  “My great-great-grandfather Quillan.”

  “Gee. Nice burial.”

  Lance gripped the edge of the rack. “That’s all part of it. Maybe the most important part, I don’t know. But I can’t do anything about that until I know the rest.”

  “You think there’s something down here? More than bones.” Rico shuddered dramatically.

  “Maybe now’s the time to find out.” Lance swung the flashlight over the walls. A mouse scuttled along an edge.

  “I got a light on my keys.” Rico tugged a mini flashlight from his pocket. “What are we looking for?”

  “I have no idea.” Chaz walked one way with Rico, Lance went the other, starting down the racks one by one. They were as orderly as a modern warehouse, but something felt wrong in their quiet repose. Something more than a Prohibition vintage and a skeleton in the tunnel.

  Rico had reached the end of one row and was pushing on the wall.

  “What are you doing?”

  Rico shrugged. “Loose stones, secret passages, more skeletons. I keep an open mind.”

  Lance smiled, pushing on the wall at his end. Solid. He moved on to the next row and the next. There was probably nothing there bu
t wine waiting to be sold. If Marco had busted Vito … then there’d be police files. Unless it went bad and got hushed up. Lance shook his head, unwilling to believe that. Nonno Marco would take responsibility. There had to be another explanation for his connection to Vito’s death. And where did Antonia fit? He chafed at the aggravation of too many questions too late.

  “Shake, rattle and roll,” Rico sang as he rapped and pressed the wall. “Knockin’, knockin’ knockin’ on death’s kitchen door.”

  Chaz shook his head. “You shouldn’t mock the dead.”

  Lance frowned. That was too true. At any rate the wall had proved solid all the way to the end of the racks. But as he turned around the last corner, he stopped. Another staircase. They must be at the house.

  Pulse pounding, he climbed the stairs and found a wall instead of a trapdoor. A metal bar was wedged into the mechanism and braced into the corner. It didn’t budge when he tugged. Lance ran the light’s beam around the edge, trying to guess where he was. The beam caught a piece of something sticking out near the bottom.

  He leaned close and recognized the chunk of wood he’d wedged into the hole in the pantry. So that explained Rese’s mouse. The mice weren’t in the wall; they were in the wine cellar. A scraping noise behind brought him around.

  “Hello.” Rico whistled.

  “What is it?” Lance hurried down the stairs to where Chaz and Rico stood.

  His flashlight beam shown on the floor where Rico had pushed aside the end of a rack. Lance’s breath stopped. A gap in the floor was filled with bundled bills. He dropped to a squat, feeling weak. Who had that kind of money during the Great Depression?

  Rico raised a wine bottle and tossed it lightly. “Thought the empties might mean something.”

  Lance looked from that bottle to the ones in the next section. He could see the wine in them. The ones at this end were labeled and dated as well, but held no vintage. As this rack held white wine, only someone looking would have noticed. Lance reached into the hole and dug through the bundles. The cache was almost as deep as his forearm, but that wasn’t what mattered. There had to be an explanation, something other than the one that came to mind.

  Rico picked up a packet and flipped the bills. “Would this be ill-gotten gains?”

  “Not necessarily.” Lance straightened. “People distrusted banks during the Depression. They buried stuff all the time.”

  “Right.” Rico nodded.

  Lance dug down through the money once more. Cash was one thing; what he hoped for was a ledger or some other records. His fingers felt something rough and cracked. The bottom?

  Grabbing stacks of bills, he tossed them aside onto the floor. “Shine the light down here.” It looked like wood, and he could just make out a handle crammed against the side. He reached in and worked it loose, then dragged a briefcase out of the hole.

  His heart hammered. Whatever lay inside might explain everything. So why did he hesitate to open it? From a distance, he heard Baxter bark and jerked his head around. Was someone upstairs? He shot his friends a look, then swept the money back into the hole.

  Chaz and Rico put a shoulder to the rack and slid it into place just as Star’s shriek echoed in the tunnel.

  Rese studied the man before her. Dr. Jonas had spaces between each of his four front teeth, and his silver mustache stood out like a bottle cleaner ready to spin over his lip and scour the brown stains between them. His eyes were green orbs imbedded in flaps of crinkled flesh beneath two more bottlebrush eyebrows. In spite of his terrifying appearance, he exuded tranquility.

  “Very pleased to meet you.” He pressed her hand in a warm, spongy clasp. “Elaine is one of my favorites.” He leaned close. “Don’t tell.”

  His breath smelled of butter mints, and the smile sprang from her with no intention at all. She had not expected her mother’s doctor to be this bristly little Santa Claus. But he sat her down and glanced at the folder she had brought back for this meeting.

  “Entertaining reading?”

  How was she supposed to answer that? The distress and anxiety, the horror of looking into her mother’s reality and her own possible future had hit her afresh as she faced the appointment today. She had thought it would be different, but when Lance had asked to come with her, she realized all the panic and shame was still there. She was supposed to be responsible for the woman who wanted her dead, and she felt hardly capable of caring for herself.

  “At least now I know what schizophrenia is.”

  “I wish you did. I wish I did.”

  Okay. She had to stop being stunned by everything that came out of his mouth.

  “The truth is we look at a mind like your mother’s with wonder.” Again that wave of perfect calm. He was telling her he had no idea what was wrong with Mom, and it didn’t matter at all. She didn’t know how to respond.

  “We can see anomalies, assume causative or at least connective factors, but the brain is truly an uncharted terrain. I don’t understand my own. Do you?”

  Rese shook her head, uncertain whether he meant understanding hers or his. This was not at all what she’d expected—a cold, thorough individual who had collaborated with Dad to keep Mom incarcerated.

  “We talk about normal, and for legal and practical reasons set a bar for expected societal norms. But can any of us really claim normality?”

  Rese had never thought of herself as anything but normal. She had fought for that right, then had it demolished by the paperwork in the file. But as Dr. Jonas expounded on the shadowy landscape of the mind and admitted the limitations in the theories of its science, her tension diminished. At least if he told her she was crazy, she’d fall in with his opinion of the rest of humanity.

  He finally came back to Elaine Barrett and the particulars of her condition that had earned her lodging at the mental health hospital. “With the new family of drugs recently developed, we’ve had greater success in her case than before. She was showing marked improvement until Vernon stopped visiting.”

  Rese jolted. “Dad visited her?”

  “Every week. She looked forward to it. But then he stopped coming. We learned from his office that he had passed away. My condolences.”

  Her head spun. From his office? And then the tsunami struck—Dad had visited Mom all through the years. And she had never known. How narrow and blind she’d been, like a turtle in its cage. It might be glass through which to view the whole wide world, but only what was inside had mattered.

  “Who told you Dad had died?”

  Her question seemed to take him by surprise. He shrugged. “I can check, if you want.”

  She nodded. He opened a file cabinet, withdrew an expanding folder and fingered through the pages. “Death confirmed online with Social Security, that’s when we turned her case over to the state…. Oh, here it is. We tried unsuccessfully to contact Mr. Barrett by mail—”

  “I never got anything.”

  He read off a post office box she had known nothing about, obviously used to keep her in the dark. “Then we called the work number he’d listed for emergencies and spoke with Brad Plockmen.”

  “Plocken,” she corrected. Brad must have informed them while she was incommunicado. “Did you tell him about my mother?”

  Dr. Jonas shook his head. “That’s private information. The secretary would have asked to speak with Mr. Barrett and been informed of his death.”

  But they might have identified the hospital. Had Brad put it together? Or maybe he’d known already. Dad had told Brad things he kept hidden from her, Brad whose deepest moments were spent with a beer and David Letterman.

  That was unfair. He had his good points; for a while they’d captured more than her interest. He had probably been a comfort to Dad. Rese chewed her lip, seeing the emptiness of her own relationship outside their work. It was the only thing they’d shared. But if he was keeping something like weekly visits with Mom from her, that might limit conversation. And if he loved Mom enough to see her every week after putting her awa
y, it might cause a sorrow too deep to share with a daughter whose fault it was.

  Rese swallowed. “So Mom noticed when he stopped coming?”

  “Of course. She has perfectly lucid moments. In fact, the new drugs have provided sustained periods without psychotic episodes. We’re very excited.”

  “Was she on medication before? I mean before she was hospitalized?”

  “Dopamine blockers were prescribed, but with little effect. They don’t work for everyone. That’s why we’re constantly seeking new treatments, new understandings.”

  So they had tried to medicate Mom without success. Dad must have known the danger in leaving his daughter with someone so unstable, but maybe he didn’t want to see it any more than Rese had. Maybe that was why the times with Alanna upset him so much. And she had contributed to his blindness by covering for Mom, by denying the things he asked her. They had both tried to love Mom by denying the truth instead of facing the reality before them. But it was time to face it now.

  “May I see her?”

  “Yes. But you have to realize it’s been a number of years, and…”

  “My memories are faded at best. I just want to see my mother.”

  He nodded. “We can discuss guardianship and make decisions later. I’ve told Elaine that you were asking about her. I didn’t want this visit to be a complete surprise. Surprises aren’t good for her.”

  “Me neither.”

  He laughed. “This way.”

  Just outside the double doors he paused. “She may be thrown by this. Don’t expect too much.”

  The visiting room was warm and comfortable, pale ochre walls with woven yarn hangings and sage corduroy chairs. Rese was not sure what period or effect they were trying for, but it was pleasant anyway. A woman sat at a table, hands folded, watching a bird at the feeder outside the window. An electrical jolt coursed Rese’s limbs as she realized it was her mother.

  “Here she is, Elaine. See who I’ve brought you? Your daughter, Theresa.”

  Mom turned and there was no mistaking her eyes, though her hair was mostly white and her skin pale and slack. She was thin, but not emaciated, yet her skin hung as though it had been draped over her face and neck as an afterthought. Rese wondered if she’d lost weight or if the tissue had simply tired of holding itself firm.