Blood Bond (19 page)

Marva had said that Gail insisted on serving the catered food on her own plates. That she had been getting ready to serve the dessert. What if these were actually
Marva's
tasks, the job of the second-rate sister—the handmaiden? If she'd been disappearing into the kitchen throughout the evening, serving appetizers, refreshing drinks, then it might not have seemed to the Gillettes to be worth mentioning.

He went to his notes and found their contact information. Tried Harold first; the message picked up right away. Harold, building developer and agent of political change, was no doubt on an important call.

He called Sheree's number next, and she picked up on the third ring. He could hear women's voices in the background.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Gillette? This is Detective Jamshed Bashir from the Montair Police Department. We met—”

“Of course, Detective. One second, please.” Joe heard the background voices recede. “I'm sorry about that, I just needed to excuse myself, I'm having lunch with some friends.”

“I'm sorry about the interruption.”

“No. No, not at all. Have you found something out? Something about Gail? Or about Tom?”

Joe avoided answering. “Actually I wanted to go over a detail with you,” he said instead. “Just filling in some blanks. At the moment when Gail came into the room to say she had found Bergman's body, was Marva at the table with you?”

There was a short silence. “Well, I'm sure she was . . . no, wait a minute. I remember she had said that she might as well go help Gail because it was taking so long. That's right, she went to help out with the dessert.”

“When you say it was taking so long, how long would you say it was between when Gail left the table and when Marva did?”

“Oh. I don't know. After what happened, the dinner seems like such a blur. Ah, I would have to say that Gail had been gone for five or ten minutes and then Marva went to help her, and it was probably another five minutes or so before Gail came back.”

“And where was Marva then?”

Another pause; Joe could sense Sheree Gillette struggling to remember.

“Well, she must have been in the kitchen, I guess. I mean, she hadn't come out, and so Gail must have run in that back door straight through the kitchen to the dining room.”

“Without stopping to tell her sister? Doesn't that seem kind of strange?”

“Maybe she didn't see Marva, she must have been in shock—”

“But Marva would have been at the counter with the dessert and the coffee. She would have been pretty hard to miss.”

“You know, Detective, it's strange. I don't know how to describe it, the way those two were together—Gail and Marva—I mean I had only just met Marva and I don't, didn't know Gail well. But it was strange between them, like Gail almost didn't acknowledge her sister was there. During the introductions, or during the dinner conversation. Like—like her personality was so big it just sucked up the energy from Marva, too, until she sort of. I don't know. Just, took up space. That's a terrible thing to say, isn't it?” she added hastily.

“No, no. This is helpful,” Joe assured her. “You still have my card? If there's anything you want to add later?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful. And what I said—I hope you don't think I'm awful. Marva seemed like a nice person. I just never quite got a fix on her, you know?”

Joe thanked her and hung up. He sat for a moment, staring at the bagel that was no longer the least bit appetizing, considering the implications of Sheree's information.

One thing was clear: he and Marva needed to talk. But he didn't trust himself to do it alone.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

MARVA STRUGGLED TO PRESS
the doorbell with her elbow. She was carrying two large, heavy bags from the Chinese restaurant: dinner for Bryce and the kids, and her mother.

It was several moments before she heard activity on the other side of the door, the sound of the lock being thrown, but the door didn't open and Marva could detect her mother's muttering. Exasperated, she put the bags down on the stoop and got her own key out of her purse, and let herself in.

Her mother looked up, frustration evident in her expression. Marva was startled to see that the lines in her mother's face seemed to have deepened just in the short time since she had arrived.

“That ridiculous lock they have,” her mother said, by way of greeting. “There's something wrong with it.”

“No, it's just—” Marva stopped herself. Just the dead bolt and the second lock, she was going to say; the same key worked for both of them. But her mother's drawn face stopped her.

And then a thought, unwelcome, sharp:
Mother's starting to lose it. She's getting Alzheimer's
.

And coming so fast on the heels of that thought that they arrived practically at the same time:
I can't deal with her without Gail.

But that was the stupidest thought of all, wasn't it, because Gail would be useless; Gail would make it somehow about
her,
would channel her worry into self-pity and paralyzing indecision and Marva would end up taking care of both of them.

“Mom,” she snapped. “Could you please help me with these bags?”

In the kitchen they got plates and napkins and serving pieces and silverware. They worked wordlessly, avoiding each other around the granite island, each of them knowing exactly where everything was located. One of Gail's legacies was a perfectly organized kitchen.

How long would it stay that way now? How long until Bryce forgot to put the juice pitcher, the cereal bowls, the roasting pan back in the proper places?

How long until this kitchen belonged to another woman?

“I'll go get Bryce and the kids,” her mother said, her tone frosty, clearly offended by the way Marva had snapped at her. Now she'd hold a grudge and be snippy for the rest of the day. It was the way things had always worked between the three of them, the women of the Groesbeck family, her father watching in bewilderment as they acted out entire dramas of resentment and unmet expectations while saying almost nothing to each other.

Marva squared the stack of napkins and the knives and forks on the island so they were straight and neat. She stared at her handiwork and her thoughts went again to the future, to Bryce and to wondering how long it would take him to find someone.

On the one hand she had to admit it would be good for the children. Isabel couldn't manage them on her own, and was it really feasible for Marva to come every day and make sure they were eating, that their homework was finished, that they were wearing their jackets to school? No; some woman, younger than Gail perhaps, would come along to assume the reins. Marshall and Lainey were still young. They'd adapt. Perhaps there would be a new baby eventually, a brother or a sister.

A cold sense of loss washed over Marva at the knowledge that she'd recede from the children's lives. Not now, maybe not this year, or next. But eventually. Her mother, too; they'd be invited to the kids' birthday parties and concerts, but they'd miss the day-to-day events, the things Marva saw all the time when she stopped by the house, never calling ahead, maybe not always appreciated, but always invited.

Bryce came into the room still talking on his cell phone, a work call. Marva tuned him out after a few words, hating the way he made everything sound urgent, the way he sprinkled the conversation with acronyms and that ridiculous business jargon.

Her mother fussed over the children, loading their plates; Marva itched to take the spoon from her hand and do it herself. She knew what the children liked; she knew to separate out the cashews because they both hated nuts, or to give Marshall extra broccoli and make sure there were no sprouts in Lainey's lo mein.

“Kung . . . Pao,” her mother said, enunciating the words carefully. “You won't like that. It's spicy. Spiiiicy.”

Marva poured cups of milk for the children, ice water for the adults. She glared at Bryce:
time to wrap up,
but he merely stuck a finger in his free ear and turned away from her.

Marva stared at his back and considered how much she truly loathed her brother-in-law. That she'd never allowed herself to indulge those thoughts before was no longer relevant: there was no marriage to Gail to preserve anymore.

He was selfish, naturally, luxuriantly so, without remorse or even awareness, taking everything he wanted from his surroundings, expecting everyone else to just accommodate him. And he was cold. Marva had always told herself that he and Gail deserved each other; they both had a cynical attitude about love, both put themselves before the other. But if it was Bryce who'd died, Gail would have put on at least a show of grief.

Could he have done it?

Marva slowly put the milk jug back in the refrigerator and closed the door, her gaze steady on Bryce. Could this man have killed her sister? She knew that the detectives hadn't ruled him out. By now they must know about Gail's money. Could that possibly be enough?

If not, that still left the affairs. Marva assumed that Gail had kept her assignations well hidden from her husband, but there would have been so many ways to make a mistake. What would Bryce do if he knew Gail was cheating? It seemed to her that a couple as callous as the two of them couldn't condemn each other with too much vigor, but who really knew, in matters like this? Marva had no experience with adultery.

“Okay, I'll shoot you that file,” Bryce said with finality. “Thanks, bud.”

He clicked off and turned to Marva as though noticing her for the first time, flashed her a smile.

“Thanks for bringing dinner,” he said, dishing food onto his plate. At the table, the kids stared at their father, their napkins in their laps the way their grandmother had showed them. “It's been so hectic, I don't know how we'd manage without you. And you too, Sharon. Times like this, you really realize how much your family means to you.” He joined them at the table without waiting for a response. “I really mean that. Since my own parents are dead, you know, it means more to me to have you here, Sharon.”

Marva watched her mother pick up her own napkin and dab it at the corner of her mouth, though she'd yet to take a bite. She nodded vaguely.

“How about grace,” Marva said, her voice sounding too loud to her. Where the thought had come from, she had no idea; maybe just to spite him.

Bryce lowered the fork he'd just picked up.

“Yes, of course. Grace.” He folded his hands piously under his chin; the children copied him. Marva kept her hands in her lap and watched.

“Dear Jesus Lord, thank You for Thy bounty and for bringing those we love together on this day of tragedy and of sadness. Please accept Gail into Your Kingdom and care for her in heaven as we have on earth.” After a moment, he peeked out for a second. “Anyone have something to add?”

“Amen,” Marshall said in a small voice.

“Amen, Daddy,” Lainey added.

“All right,” Marva said. “All right. You kids dig in.” She cast her eyes on her own plate and used her fork to push her food around, piling stalks of asparagus on top of the mound of steamed rice and separating out the hot black pepper pods. She could see in her peripheral vision that Bryce was eating, spearing chunks of meat and vegetables.

“We'll need to press the children's clothes,” her mother said, not touching her food. “I've laid them out on the ironing board.”

“All right, Mother, I can do that after dinner.”

“I'm wearing my black Castleberry.”

Marva nodded; she had no idea which of her mother's prim suits she was referring to, but in her opinion they all looked funereal with their stodgy skirts and high-necked jackets.

“What about you, dear?”

Marva realized she hadn't thought about it. “I guess what I wore the other day. My purple outfit.”

“Not the same one . . . ?”

Marva felt a vague stirring of annoyance. “The same one I've had for a few years, yes. I wore it to Uncle Des's service.”

Her mother frowned. “I don't like that on you.”

Marva sighed. “Sorry, Mother, but I'm not going to spend the morning of my sister's funeral going to the mall.”

“But you called the caterers?”

“Not since yesterday.”

“But I asked you to—remember? I want to make sure they put ice under the salads.”

Yes: among other things, her mother had developed a fear of E. coli in the last twenty-four hours. “It'll be fine. I'll make sure.”

“I've been thinking about parking,” her mother said. “Bryce, is it too late for you to call some neighborhood boys to help park cars? I imagine there will be quite a few mourners, and the lot over at Laroux is really much too small. At Mitchell Gold's funeral last month there was a backup all the way to the traffic light with people trying to get in the lot.”

Marva laid down her fork and watched her mother, focusing on her mouth, as the words receded and all that was left was the familiar tone, the cultured grating hum of dissatisfaction. Marva wondered when she herself would lose enough of her near vision that she'd apply her lipstick with more guesswork than certainty, on lips marred with fine lines, the evidence of her discontent.

JOE WORKED
his way slowly through the six
jing,
his movements necessarily economical in the small enclosed patio at the back of his condo. He'd chosen a ground-floor unit specifically because of the forceful stamping that went along with the upper body techniques; no neighbor could be expected to tolerate that overhead.

Somewhere in the neighborhood someone was grilling, and the smell of barbecue competed with cut grass and the bitter scent of marigolds and geraniums. With October well under way, the arrival of evening made Joe feel wistful—soon people would stay inside in the evenings, and dark would fall before many people returned from their jobs.

Joe finished his workout, and, breathing hard, let his eyes drift closed, a towel around his neck. He concentrated on feeling the pace of his heart slow. Focused on letting the tension drain slowly from his body, from his hands and feet first and then throughout his arms and legs. The sweat on his skin dried in the breeze and he licked salt from his lips.

All through his workout he had kept thoughts of Marva at bay, but now she was back. The gap in her story, her absence at the table—the implications twisted at the edge of his conscious mind, along with the sensory memories that constituted his dominant impression of her. The uncontainable hair, its subtle range of colors from deep chestnut to a faded wheat. The too-wide-set eyes in the unnatural shade. The faint overlay of anger that never left her face, leaving its imprint in the tiny vertical lines at her brow, the brackets at the corners of her mouth.

Joe's cell phone rang; he'd left it on the small glass-topped patio table that kept the single chair company in the small patio. He checked it, expecting Amaris—saw the 209 area code instead. Lodi.

“Hello, this is Detective Bashir.”

“Hey, Joe, Gordon Glazer here.”

“Gordon. Good to hear from you.”

“Got some interesting news from you. Checked out some of Deanne Mentis's neighbors this morning. Guess who took a trip last weekend?”

“Deanne?” Joe's senses, suspended moments before, came to alert.

“Yeah. She left on Saturday and returned Monday. Neighbor, woman name of Raquel Seavy, she watched Deanne's little girl. Said Deanne was taking a trip with her boyfriend to Napa. You know, a romantic weekend.”

Joe thought for a minute. “Deanne drove?”

“The neighbor thinks so. Didn't actually see her leave, didn't look in the garage or anything. Deanne didn't ask the neighbor to water any plants or feed a cat, so there wasn't any reason for her to check out the house.”

Joe took down the information and thanked Glazer. A couple of hours this time of day—he briefly considered making the trip now, after a quick shower; he could be there by eight or nine. That was too late, really, to see the neighbor.

But he didn't want to turn away now. The momentum of the case had him in his thrall. Last night's trip to Shalimar, the visit with his parents and his brother's family—it felt now like a mistake, a potentially costly distraction. Like he might have missed something critical, ignored some telling instinct as he joked with his brother and drank tea with his parents, and that fear caused his mind to race.

Joe knew that ordinary people—normal people—cherished their personal lives as solace, a salve against the boredom and disappointment of their lives, returning home at the end of the day seeking the comfort of a lover's embrace or a child's sticky hugs or even a beer and the evening news.

And Joe knew that, though he'd once felt ordinary, those days were over. The easy slipping in and out of the compartments of life that everyone else seemed to be able to do—this was as lost to him as was the easygoing indifference that had characterized his youth, that had allowed him to do well enough but protected him from the demands of ever achieving anything great.

Not that he had drive now. Not that greatness was in his future. What Joe had, he realized as he went into his darkening apartment and turned on the shower taps, was a permanent relationship with inevitability. Rather than a calling he now carried with him an inability to turn away. Things happened, dark and angry things, and they lodged inside him and stayed there, leading him on their own gnarled paths until events themselves called an end, and until that happened, he could only let himself be led.