“If you knew you couldn’t drive, why the hissy fit when I suggested Kate take you?” This I had to hear.
“Abby, there’s a hell of a difference between you telling me anything and regular people telling me.”
“Is that supposed to make sense?” I asked.
“Does to me,” he answered.
“I forgot. You’re different. Kate, would you help me make order out of this chaos?” I sat on the floor and gathered papers toward me, trying to ignore my anger. Just like the old days, I shoved my feelings down, and this led within minutes to a slow burn in my midsection. If only my familiarity with that sensation could have bred enough contempt for me to tell Steven to get lost—permanently.
Kate and I began our chore, while Steven, unable to remain still despite the head injury, stuck around and busied himself with his measuring tape, preparing for the job ahead.
An hour later, Kate and I had hardly made a wave in the paper ocean. I reached into my tea and removed the remnant of an ice cube, which I tossed to Webster. He crunched away, happy as a hog in a mud hole.
“Sorting through all this could take weeks,” I said. “Why would someone do this?”
“Maybe one of those homeless people decided to make a paper mattress.” Kate swiped a hand across her forehead. Despite the window air conditioner droning in the background—no central air in this old place—the room felt like a steam bath.
I held my cup against my temple and savored the chill. “Well, if the break-in is somehow connected to Ben, the intruder may have taken the evidence with him. All we’ve found are credit card bills dating back twenty years, canceled checks beginning in 1960, and bank statements galore. Vitally important, if you work for the IRS and need your daily fix of old financial records.”
Kate said, “We should start packing boxes, get rid of some of this stuff. What about that pile?” Tight-lipped, she nodded at a stack of medical records from our mother’s numerous hospitalizations.
I didn’t want to deal with those, and I could tell Kate didn’t either. Our mother, Elizabeth, had died from complications of cystic fibrosis when we were about three years old. Neither of us remembered her—she’d been too ill even to care for us—but Daddy spoke of her often, reminded us that she had loved us dearly and had been heartbroken when she became wheelchair-bound less than a year after our adoption. She’d died when we were three.
“I say we concentrate our efforts on anything that might be connected to Ben,” I said, glancing around.
“There may be nothing here,” Kate said. “This vandalism could be totally unrelated to his murder.”
“I wouldn’t place bets. Too coincidental.”
Kate picked up a folder and fanned her face. “You still think Daddy had Ben’s employment application? And why would you need that now? We know where he lived, know about his past.”
“I’m interested to learn whether Daddy knew Ben’s real identity. He could have been helping him find Cloris’s killer. If we uncover something to prove—”
“I’m still not convinced Daddy was helping Ben. And do you really believe Daddy could have kept that big a secret from us?” Kate asked.
She had a point. But maybe someone in Daddy’s past—an employee, perhaps—was somehow connected to Cloris Grayson’s death. “If Daddy didn’t share this secret with us,” I said, “he had a damn good reason. A good-hearted reason. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” she said.
“Okay. So our job is to find out why Ben was hunting for a killer at our house. What, if anything, did his presence have to do with Daddy?”
I was about to start sorting through more documents when I noticed something taped to the folder Kate was using as a fan. “What’s that?”
She returned my puzzled expression. “You mean this?” She held up the manila folder.
“It’s an envelope,” I said, crawling over beside her.
Kate peeled off the tape that attached a small envelope to the back of the folder. Inside was a key.
“Looks like a safe-deposit box key,” I said, searching for an identifying logo.
“I thought we emptied all the bank boxes after Daddy died,” Kate said.
“Apparently not. So how do we find out where this one is located?”
“I have no idea,” Kate said.
“Maybe this is the clue we need. By the way, Willis called me early this morning and said Ben’s funeral is tomorrow. Can you drive to Shade with me?”
“Tomorrow? No way. I have marathon family therapy sessions.”
“I guess it’s me and Willis, then. How exciting.” I rolled my eyes, thinking about riding up and back to Shade having to endure his company, listening as he carried on about how, if I’d only give him the chance, he could expertly run my life. For a small fee, of course.
8
As we drove the sixty miles to Shade in Willis’s Mercedes the next day, the blended scents of leather and aftershave threatened to tranquilize me. I’d have preferred we travel in my car, rather than his bragging machine, since I’ve always had a problem with driving around in an automobile worth the price of a college education. But Willis wouldn’t hear of making the trip in anything but his fully appointed Mercedes. I was certain that before we left Shade after the funeral, I’d hear some good old boy oohing and aahing over Willis’s car, saying things like, “That dog’ll hunt, and bring back the duck stuffed.” Then Willis would beam with satisfaction. After all, that was what he paid a small fortune for—those Mercedes Moments.
The hearse carrying Ben’s body stayed close behind us on the interstate. I’d had no problem forking over the money for Ben’s transportation home. He deserved what little I could offer in that department.
As if reading my thoughts, Willis said, “I still don’t understand why you’re paying a fortune to bury this man, Abby.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why foot the bill for his funeral? I say let the widow pay.”
“Like I can’t afford it.” I pushed the scan button on the radio, wishing I could turn the conversation in a different direction. I sensed a lecture in my imminent future.
“If you want to run your father’s business and make a profit, you’d best learn to thoroughly evaluate each charitable impulse. You can’t pay through the nose for every employee who experiences a stroke of bad luck.”
I looked at him, incredulous. “Is that what you call being murdered? A stroke of bad luck?”
The familiar strains of “Hotel California” filled the car, and I reclined the seat, closed my eyes, and hoped the conversation was over.
But no. He kept on talking. “Did you ever consider that the police might conclude you’re trying to ease a guilty conscience by going to all this trouble today?”
“I am wrestling with my conscience, but not because I murdered anyone.”
“But you don’t have an alibi, do you?”
I glared over at him. If he wanted my attention, he had it now. “Like I told Aunt Caroline, I don’t need an alibi.”
His heavy-lidded eyes held that legal glint I always saw when we’re reviewing contracts at CompuCan. He said, “If you say you don’t need an alibi, I believe you, Abby, but that doesn’t mean the police will.”
“I didn’t have a reason to murder Ben. I don’t have a reason to murder anyone.” If he’d turned my way he would have been blinded by my stare.
“Perhaps you should concentrate your efforts on your cash flow. Bail for murder is usually high. And you should be prepared to tell the police exactly what you were doing on the afternoon in question, should they ask.”
“They already asked and I already answered. If that detective has even half a brain, he’ll realize Kate and I had nothing to do with Ben’s death. Now could we please drop this? I’m sure I’ll be called to testify before a grand jury, but I promise to let you know before I go to court. Does that make you happy?”