“Kinda,” she said, staring over my shoulder into her childhood.
She seemed unwilling to take it any further, so I shifted gears. “Did you know Simon?”
“Not really. He was a lot younger. And then, after the trial, he…went a little bit off the deep end.”
I nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, from what I heard, he took it pretty hard,” I said. I decided not to tell her just yet that Simon was dead. She’d learn soon enough, and the fewer people who knew, the better. I extended my hand. “I’m Rachel Knight.”
“Tracy Chernoff,” she replied, taking it. Bailey introduced herself, and they shook.
“Well,” Tracy said, “I’d better get back to it. Nice to meet you both.”
“You too,” I replied.
She put her hands into her jacket pockets and trudged up the walk, head down. I watched her for a moment, feeling her sadness…and something else I couldn’t put my finger on.
“So…?” Bailey asked.
We moved briskly up the short walk that was lined on both sides with healthy-looking rosebushes and rang the bell on the wall next to the screen door.
A tall, wide-shouldered man in a worn cardigan with wispy white hair answered the door. He called behind him, “They’re here, Claire,” then said to us, “Please come in.”
He stepped back and gestured toward two matching gold-velour chairs that faced a marble coffee table and a gold-and-brown-plaid couch.
Bailey made the introduction. “Fred Bayer, this is Rachel Knight, the deputy DA.”
As we shook, Claire came out wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She nervously touched her brown hair, which was tucked into a short pageboy cut, and held out an arthritis-gnarled hand. “Claire Bayer. Nice to meet you…”
I took her hand. “Rachel Knight, DA’s office.”
She turned to Bailey with a small, forced smile. “Detective Keller,” she said. “Good to see you.”
I knew it wasn’t, but I could already tell that Fred and Claire weren’t the type to take their misery out on others. Polite, kind, considerate, they were the sort of neighbors who’d bring in the paper for you without being asked, bake extra cookies to share with you, and loan you their lawn mower. In short, the kind of people who should never be mired in so much bizarre tragedy.
“Can I get you some tea?” Claire asked. “It’ll warm you up a little. I think I heard the rain start.”
“It did,” Bailey confirmed. “And I’d love some tea if it’s not too much trouble.”
Bailey actually hated tea, but I knew she was giving Claire something to do to help her relax. I took a glance around the room. There was an upright piano against the wall to my right, an entertainment center on the wall across from me, side tables on either end of the couch, and the obligatory coffee table. Other than that coffee table, every horizontal surface was covered with pictures of Simon and, I presumed, Zack, starting with their toddler years and climbing up through the milestones of games, graduations, and goals achieved. The coffee table was reserved for what I surmised were Simon’s creations: a vase in the shape of a mother holding a child, a bowl that was two hands clasping, and a candleholder in the shape of a robed woman. They had the same simplicity of line and elegance as the vase Simon had left with Johnnie Jasper.
While we waited for Claire to return, I made small talk with Fred. I pointed to the piano. “Do you play?”
“No, no,” he said. “That’s Claire. At least, it used to be…” He trailed off.
“Arthritis?” I asked, wishing I’d thought for just one moment before opening my yapper and reminding them of yet another sad loss.
He nodded.
“Simon did those?” I asked, gesturing to the statuary on the coffee table.
That elicited a pained but tender smile.
“He started working with clay practically from the time he was born,” Fred said. “He always had the gift.”
“His work is beautiful,” I said sincerely.
Fred cleared his throat. “Zack was good at making things too. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“I didn’t.” I did, but I wanted to let him tell me.
He nodded to himself. “Carpentry.”
Claire came in with a tray bearing a teapot and cups on saucers. For most people, this is an unusual formality. For me, who lives on room service, it was Tuesday. I knew Bailey would find this observation disgusting, and it was.
Claire joined Fred on the couch across from us. I decided to ease into things and start with a topic that didn’t directly involve the fresh loss of Simon.
“Do you know how Zack and Lilah met?” I asked.
Claire and Fred looked at each other for a moment, perplexed. Claire spoke first. “I’m not one hundred percent sure. I think at a party. Is that right, Fred?”
“That sounds right,” Fred replied.
“What did you think of Lilah?”
“I never liked her,” Claire said flatly. “From the very start, I thought she was a cold fish. I didn’t know what Zack saw in her-other than the obvious. Isn’t that right, Fred?”
“Claire never took to her,” he confirmed.
“And you, Fred?” I asked.
“’Course, now I think she should burn in hell, but at the time”-Fred shrugged-“I never really felt like I knew her, tell you the truth…” He paused and shrugged again. “And I’ll grant you, she wasn’t the warmest person I’d ever met, but I figured Zack saw more than just the pretty face.”
“Well, pretty is as pretty does,” Claire said in a firm voice. “And I never thought her ‘pretty’ went any further than her skin.” She continued, a harder edge now audible in her voice, “That damn jury just fell for her act.”
I nodded, though it seemed to me that calling Lilah “pretty” was like calling the Hope Diamond “shiny.”
“I’d like to ask you about Simon’s relationship with Zack,” I said, shifting gears.
Claire hunched forward, and Fred put a protective arm around her.
I took a deep breath and prayed we’d get through this as fast as possible.
33
“Were Simon and Zack close?” I asked.
Claire’s features softened. “Always,” she said quietly. “There was a fairly big age gap. But if Zack was around, he’d always take care of Simon. Anyone ever hurt Simon, they’d answer to Zack.”
“Did that happen a lot?” I asked. “I mean, Simon getting into trouble?”
“No,” she admitted. “Simon was never one to mix it up with other kids. He was a dreamer, lived in his world of creations. But when he was little, there’d be the occasional bully who saw Simon as easy pickings…” Claire paused and teared up. “Zack would step in whenever he could. Simon…well, he just worshipped Zack.”
I reached out to comfort her, and she patted my hand.
Claire continued, her voice shaking with the effort to hold back tears. “I remember how, when Simon was just in kindergarten, he’d sit on the stairs, waiting for Zack to come home from school so he could show his brother what he’d made.”
I groped for something to say to ease her pain, but I knew from my own hard experience that the wounds of loss would bleed for years to come. Then, one day, they’d find that a few seconds had gone by without some painful thought or memory; over time, the seconds would stretch into a minute, the minutes into an hour. Eventually they might be lucky enough to get a whole day. But that day would be a long time coming.
“Did Zack and Simon stay close as they got older?” I asked.
“As much as that was possible, living in different worlds,” Claire said.
Fred cleared his throat again. “You know, what with Zack being a police officer and Simon being an artist, they didn’t have the same group of friends or anything. But they loved each other.”
“And was Simon still the younger brother, if you know what I mean?” I asked.
Claire nodded. “Oh yes. Zack remained the exciting older brother. I think being a police officer actually made him even more of a hero to Simon.”