Death of an Irish Diva (12 page)

Beatrice didn't think she'd ever been so scared in all her life. And that included when she lost Ed. To see her grandbaby so small, so weak, so sick was only part of it. As if it weren't enough. But there was Vera, who was acting oddly. It was as if she had something to hide. And what could that be?

Beatrice looked up and saw a doctor walking in the room. Good Lord, he looked familiar. Could it be? Now, wait. Doc Green passed away last year. Didn't he?

“Hi there,” he said, Bill trailing him. “I'm Dr. Green,” he said to Vera.

As she turned to face him, his face lit up.

“Vera?”

She smiled.

God, her daughter was pretty, Beatrice thought, and this Dr. Green knew it.

Bill noticed the attraction, too, and looked away, grimacing.

“You any relation to Doc Green from Bluestone?” Beatrice interrupted.

“Yes, Mama. This is his son,” Vera said. “I remember you from the investigation about the abandoned baby. How is she?”

“As far as we know, she's doing fine, Vera,” he said. “Her grandparents have taken right over.”

Bill cleared his throat.

“Ah, yes,” said Dr. Green. “I have news about Elizabeth.”

“I just hope it's not meningitis,” Vera said.

“It's not. Believe it or not, it's the flu. I think she'll be all right. According to her chart, her temp is coming down. I'm glad you brought her in. The flu in small children can be deadly, but she's going to be fine.”

Vera grabbed him and flung her arms around him. “Thank you,” she said, then pulled away, looking slightly embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Anytime a beautiful woman wants to hug me, that's quite all right with me,” Dr. Green said, his face red. “I do have some other news for you,” he added. “We ran blood tests, of course, and the tox report suggests that Elizabeth has been exposed to lead. Any ideas about that?”

“Lead?” Bill said. “What?”

“Have you moved recently?”

“Yes, Elizabeth and I live in an apartment over my business,” Vera said.

“Could that place have lead in the paint?”

“Vera! You didn't test it?” Bill said.

“It must have slipped my mind. . . .”

“Damn,” Bill said.

“Now, just hold on a minute,” Beatrice said to him. “You didn't test it, either, now did you? You were too busy in Charlottesville with your new hussy to help Vera move at all.”

Bill's face turned angry red. He stormed out of the room.

“The truth is, I thought about it. The place is old. It just slipped my mind,” Vera said.

“Don't beat yourself up over it,” Dr. Green said. “The exposure has been minimal, but you need to find another place to stay and get that taken care of.”

“Stay with us,” Jon said, getting out of his chair next to the window. “No arguments! No!” He stuck his finger in her face.

“Yes, sir,” Vera said and smiled.

“Here's a list of contractors for you,” Dr. Green said, handing her a paper.

“I knew your daddy,” Beatrice suddenly said. “My Lawd, you look just like him. He must have been proud of you.”

“I like to think so,” Dr. Green said, straightening up. “I remember Ed, too. Dad and Ed had a lot in common, were pretty tight.”

Beatrice nodded. “Indeed. Well, I'm glad you're taking care of Elizabeth.”

“We'll try our best,” he said, his beeper going off. “I have to run,” he told them, looking back over his shoulder at Vera. “See you later?”

She nodded. “I'm not going anywhere.” Their eyes met in an awkward moment. Elizabeth stirred and mumbled.

Oh, those little cooing baby noises. Beatrice loved to hear them.

Sheila appeared in the doorway. “Brought you something to eat,” she said, her arm full of containers.

“We all did,” DeeAnn said, coming up behind her.

The next thing Beatrice knew, Sheila, DeeAnn, and Paige were bringing food into the room. Beatrice helped herself to some corn bread, beans, and rice. And, oh my, that potato salad was good.

Elizabeth rolled over onto her side as DeeAnn's laughter sounded through the room. Paige told a funny story. Beatrice wasn't paying attention. She was suddenly thinking about Willa Rose and her memory book, which she'd left sitting on her dining room table.

Bill and Kelsey sat on the fringes of the room, not taking any food offered.

“Wonder where Annie is?” Paige said.

“I tried to call her,” DeeAnn said. “Voice mail.”

Beatrice looked up and nearly gasped when she saw him in the doorway. “What are you doing here, Bryant?”

“Hello, Beatrice,” he said, standing against the doorjamb. “Vera, we need to talk.”

“Okay,” Vera said. “In private? Or is this okay?” She gestured.

“This is fine,” he said, walking into the room “Your neighbor was robbed last night, and we're talking to all the neighbors to see if they noticed anything suspicious.”

“Robbed?” Sheila squealed. “First murder, now robbery. What's this town coming to?”

“But remember,” Vera said, “Emily McGlashen was robbed before she was killed.”

The room was in a stunned silence.

“True,” Bryant said after a few minutes. “That's one reason I need to know if you saw or heard anything strange.”

Vera bit her lip.

“Vera?” Beatrice said. Yes. Vera was definitely hiding something. “If you know something . . .”

“Look, it may not be anything . . . but I could have sworn I never opened Elizabeth's window, and it was open when I went into her room this morning.”

“Let's get someone over to your place immediately just on the off chance. We can't be too careful,” Bryant said, reaching for his cell phone.

Suddenly, Bill was standing at Vera's side. Kelsey sank back, looking smaller than before, a rumpled heap on the chair. Beatrice sat back down next to Jon and wondered what would happen next.

“Annie, I've known you my whole life, you know? You're my sister. I know there's something wrong. Spill,” Josh said.

Annie was scrubbing out the kitchen sink, phone to her ear. The boys were off to school, and Mike was off to work. If she didn't get an objective opinion about this Adam thing, she thought she might lose her mind. But could her brother be objective?

He was a trained listener, a psychiatrist. But he was also her brother, her brother the “swinger,” who branded monogamy unnatural. She always thought it was an excuse for an extended adolescence. But here she was. She still loved her husband but was lusting after Detective Bryant.

“Annie, you gonna make me guess?” he asked.

“It's just that, um, it's so personal. I'm a little uncomfortable about it. It's so not like me,” she said.

“Does this have to do with Mike? Is he, um, having problems?”

“I wouldn't know about that.... I mean, there has not been time for us . . . , so, um, I just don't know,” she said.

Josh breathed into the phone. He was losing patience.

“It's just that I'm finding that I'm attracted to someone else,” Annie said finally.

Silence.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

She heard him breathe out. He was smoking. He had never even tried to quit.

“Yeah,” he said. “So? You're attracted to someone else. You haven't acted on that, have you?”

“Not really, but he has. I mean, he's kissed me twice,” she said with a stab of regret or shame or something else dark and bitter moving through the center of her.

“And you let him?” His voice was raised.

“Yes. But I ran off both times, um, after . . .” Her voice quavered. God, was she going to cry? Throw up?

“Take a deep breath, Annie. Calm down,” her brother said. “Okay, look. You know I don't go for monogamy. But I also don't go for cheating. I don't think you do, either. But I can see your situation. Mike and you are off your game. In walks this other guy. You find him attractive. He homes in on it. Happens every day. Tell me more about this man.”

“Well . . . let's just say he's around a lot. I see him frequently.”

“It's that Adam Bryant, isn't it?” he said.

Damn, he was smart.

“I told you about the way he was watching you at the Super Bowl party. I knew it.”

“So?” she responded. If he could see it, could Mike? If so, why was he still having Bryant over?

“I know you've got to see him professionally sometimes, but does he need to be at your house almost every weekend?” Josh asked.

“I can't think of a good reason for Mike not to invite him. I mean, without telling Mike.”

“This guy is a jerk. I'm just putting that out there,” he said. Annie could picture him holding back with his “professional” face, his tight-lipped, smooth, practiced face.

Annie laughed. “Is that your professional opinion?”

“Yes. And my brotherly opinion,” he replied.

Annie started cleaning the kitchen counter. Squirt. Wipe. Squirt. Wipe. She loved her pink kitchen but hated cleaning it.

“He's really not as jerkish as he seems. He's all bristly on the outside, but it's a show. You know the type,” she said.

“Humph, do I. Thank God for them, or I wouldn't have a job,” he said.

She pictured him rolling his eyes and flicking his cigarette ashes into one of his huge ashtrays, which were always in need of cleaning.

“Okay, so statistically speaking, say, if you were to leave Mike for this guy, nine chances out of ten, it would not work. Could you ever really trust a man who is a cheater, even if it's with you?” he said, ignoring her statement about Bryant.

“I don't know. And I really don't want to leave Mike.”

“But Mike is being kind of an asshole, too,” Josh said.

“Yeah, kind of,” she replied, her heart sinking. She took a deep breath.

“Here's what you do,” he said after a minute. “Stay as far away from Bryant as you can. When he comes over, you go out. In the meantime, make plans for a romantic getaway with Mike. I'll spend the weekend with the boys. Let me know when. Okay?”

“Sure. I think that's a workable plan,” she said, feeling a little better.

“I think you have to fight for your marriage. It's still worth something,” he said.

Annie took a deep breath. Did Mike realize that? “You're right,” she said.

“If things don't get back on track with Mike, you have no choice but to tell him, you know?” Josh said with a note of forcefulness.

“Yes,” she said. But imagining that conversation made her stomach churn. Maybe it was possible to get things back on track with Mike and to ignore Bryant as much as possible. Maybe it was.

Kitchen wiped and clean. She stood back, looking over her clean kitchen, wondering how long it would last. Well, at least until the boys returned. She smiled. Now she needed to look over those transcripts of her interviews with the members of the New Mountain Order.

She picked up the stack of papers on her desk.

Annie pursed her lips. People were so gullible.

“So when Bryant went through her financial records, he said he was amazed by how much money she had,” Annie said. “So I started looking into it. She made good money, but a lot of it, in big chunks, was going to this person in Switzerland, and you just can't access those records quickly. No wonder she could afford to charge next to nothing for dance lessons.”

“Switzerland? Who did she know in Switzerland?” Vera said, putting her glass of wine down next to her ever-brimming Elizabeth scrapbook. She'd have to start another one soon. Now that she was staying with Jon and Beatrice, she had a bit more time to scrapbook.

“Yeah, I don't know, but she knew people from all over the world,” Annie said and shrugged. “Strange. Maybe someone was blackmailing her. But for what?”

“DeeAnn, move that plate over. You are going spill that dip on your album,” Sheila said, looking up from her computer screen.

“For God's sake,” DeeAnn said. “I'm a big girl. I can handle my dip.” But she moved her plate over, anyway.

The women sat quietly and listened to Adele singing in the background. Adele was Paige's new passion. The next thing they knew, Paige would start to sing her heart out as she was scrapbooking. Looks of amusement were exchanged.

A scratching noise interrupted the moment. Then a doorbell sounded.

“Who could that be?”

“Not Bea. She'd walk right in,” Annie said to Vera.

“Yes?” they heard Sheila say.

And then a melodic, beautiful voice. “Hey, is this where the party is? Oh, dear, I'm sorry.” She laughed. “I thought I'd gotten all the leaves off.”

The woman was draped in leaves and dirt.

“It's quite all right,” Sheila said. “Please sit down. I'm so glad you could make it.”

Rachel laughed.

What was she laughing at?

“Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “I'm Rachel Greenberg. Emily McGlashen's mother.”

Vera looked at the other women, who were all looking at the person who had just waltzed into their crop. DeeAnn's eyebrows were in a crisscrossed worried line. Paige's head was tilted in curiosity. Annie sat back with her arms crossed. And Sheila looked uncomfortable.

“Oh, where are my manners? Can I get you something?” Sheila said. “Beer? Wine?”

Rachel wrinkled her nose. “No, I don't drink, but thanks. This is the place, correct?” She looked around at the women. “This is the crop you told me about?”

The women were confounded.

Sheila's hand went to her mouth, her eyebrows hitched.

“Don't worry, Sheila. You are too much of a worrier. A perfectionist is never really happy,” the woman said, her voice softening a bit.

How would she know?
Vera wondered.

“And you must be Vera, Elizabeth's mother?” Rachel extended her hand to her. “I understand our Emily was difficult.”

Vera felt as if the air had been knocked out of her lungs. She couldn't remember how to speak.

“And Annie. The intellectual and hard-ass.”

“What?” Annie said. “Rachel!”

“We found these journals of Emily's, you see. She wrote all about you all.”

Her voice now had more than a hint of weariness. She frowned. Her eyes drooped with sorrow but had a look of hollowness to them. As Vera studied her more, a sudden shot of fear spun through her. How would she survive if something awful happened to Elizabeth?

Rachel had no bra on underneath that purple cotton shirt. And her eyes were lined with wrinkles. She wore a long pink cotton skirt with purple flowers.

“As I told you, none of us really knew her,” Annie finally said.

“You know, I've wondered how much
I
knew her,” she told them. “She was my daughter. I raised her. But she was always very different, and when she found out she was adopted, it was very hard, you know? I tried to stay close with her. But you can't push these things, man. She just wanted us to leave her alone. I had to respect that. I feel like I'm finally getting to know my daughter through her journals.”

“I looked for family records—”Annie began.

Rachel cackled. “Oh, dear, we've never recorded anything. Modern life is full of such ridiculous time sucks. In the grand scheme of things, these things don't matter.”

Annie leaned in close to her and noticed her glazed eyes, could smell the pot on her. How old was this woman? Fifty? Sixty?

“That's why I don't really get scrapbooking. I mean, who cares?”

“Those of us who are straight, that's who,” Sheila said. “I've invited you into my home. This is what I do. I record memories. It matters to me.”

“Does the recording matter? Or does the memory matter? Which is it? Because I have memories. Rich memories. But I don't think recording them means a thing to anybody, least of all me.”

“Why did you come?” Vera said.

Rachel shrugged. “I wanted to meet you all after reading about you. So we feel differently about this memory-keeping thing. It's cool. I mean we are grown-ups and can disagree, right?”

Vera laughed. “You remind me of my mother. You should meet her soon. When will you be leaving town?”

Rachel shrugged. “We are in no hurry to get back. As I say, I'm beginning to feel close to my girl. I don't want to go. Not just yet.”

Sheila snapped her laptop shut. “Let me show you some things, Rachel.”

“Okay,” she said gesturing with her hands up, as if to say, “Why not?”

Sheila walked over to a bookcase that was full of scrapbooks of all colors and sizes. Some were vertically aligned. Others were in horizontal stacks.

“I've recorded my children's lives in these books,” Sheila said. “Pick any one of them, and it will tell you about them, what was happening in their lives, and it will also tell you a bit about me.”

Rachel chose a mauve book and slid it out of the shelf. “And to what end?” she asked. “I mean, you have all these lovely books and photos, but what will happen to them?”

She opened the book and saw the label JONATHON.

“My youngest son,” Sheila said. “I guess the ‘end' of it all is that someday Jonathon and his children will have a touchstone to his past. Something that was made by his mother.”

“Now, I do like
that
thought,” Rachel said. “I have this quilt that my grandmother made out of dresses that belonged to her and her sisters when they were young. I love that thing, man. I love wrapping myself up in it and imagining which piece of cloth touched whose skin and what occasion they wore it on.”

‘It's really the same kind of thing,” Vera said, coming up behind the two women as they looked over the book. “Except if you scrapbook, you can answer those questions for your kids. You have photos, of course, but you also can write about what was going on the day the photo was taken, or what was on your mind that day. We call it journaling. So you leave behind footprints through your scrapbooks,” Vera explained, then paused. “I hope that Elizabeth will keep the scrapbooks I've made for her, and will find the same comfort you do in your grandmother's quilt.”

Rachel turned the page on the book. “Your son likes music?”

“Yes,” Sheila said. “Very different from the rest of my family. He plays the violin, as you can see.”

“And whoa . . . those are some glittery, sparkly pages,” Rachel said.

Sheila and Vera laughed. “Remember how I said my pages will tell you a little about me? Well, those years were what I call the glitter years.”

“Oh yeah, how could we forget?” DeeAnn said and groaned.