Ice Shear (10 page)

“He told us,” Dave said.

“Yeah, well, I was tired, tired from moving, tired from trying to manage my business from across the country, tired from the whole thing, and with Danielle screaming blue murder about how I was beating her, I decided to let her go, cool her jets. I certainly didn't expect her to show up six months later married to the mover.”

“Her marriage was a surprise to you?”

“We lost touch for a while,” said Amanda. “She got a new cell phone number, and it took a bit of time for me to track her down. By the time I did, well, she barely mentioned Marty, honestly. She told me she missed me. She said she wanted to come home, and I told her she would always be welcome.”

“And that was when?” Dave asked.

“October,” she said. “And she was back two weeks later.”

“Husband in tow, and she expected us to take him in with open arms. No way was I letting him and his deadbeat brother in the door.” Phil corralled himself, but his anger was seeping through the seams. Hale moved right up with us, perching on the arm of our couch. “Danielle was angry. My little girl wasn't afraid to speak up.” Phil Brouillette paused, his hand on his forehead like he was pushing the information out. “That husband was just cold, though. He just left, pulled her out the door behind him without a word. A couple of days later he sent us a wedding album and a letter, a letter on paper, telling us he would do everything he could to make her happy.”

Interesting. The picture of Marty I was getting didn't quite jell with his background as a hardened biker. I had no doubt that he had the rage and skill to hurt someone, even kill someone, but it seemed to be paired with an old-fashioned courtliness. He used coasters, took care of those he loved, and sent letters—on paper no less—to his true love's parents.

“Do you have a copy of that letter?” I asked.

“No, I was pissed off. I burned it.”

“And the album?”

“Threw it out,” Phil said. He balled his hands into fists. “Last pictures of our daughter, alive, and we threw them out.”

“No,” Amanda said. “We didn't.”

She walked over to an oak filing cabinet, the fine wood giving off a warm glow. I would have identified it as an antique until she ran her finger along the edge and punched a security code into some well-hidden keys, releasing the drawer.

She handed us the cream satin album. I slid next to Dave and we flipped through the pages together: Marty and Danielle standing under the entrance to a white tent garlanded with flowers, Marty in a tux and Danielle wearing the same dress that I had seen on Ray's Facebook page. I could see the expensive detail in the fabric and the stitching of her gown, and with the camera not shooting down her cleavage and no flask in her hand, she looked almost demure.

The rest of the shots depicted a pretty traditional wedding, albeit a DIY version. Supermarket flowers stuck in mason jars with ribbon tied around them dotted the tables, and Christmas lights gave the tent a gentle glow. There was no bar, but the food looked amazing: a salad garnished with brightly colored edible flowers, and shrimp skewers resting on rice studded with almonds.

“Looks like they spent their whole budget on food,” commented Dave.

“Or her dress,” I said. “I didn't see the gown in her closet.”

“She returned it,” Phil Brouillette said. While we were studying the photos he had moved around the back of the couch, looking at the album over our shoulders. “She bragged to me about it, how she took the seventeen-thousand-dollar dress for one day and returned it, like I would be proud of her for swindling the dress shop.”

“And Marty's friend—his sponsor, Marty said in the note—he was a caterer, and did the food for free,” Amanda added quickly. “Alcohol was not served.”

Thus Danielle and Ray sharing a flask out back. We flipped ahead, to shots of people dancing, the bridesmaids clutching matching sequined bags, Marty with his groomsmen, including Ray, holding out the Leatherman tools that had been their gifts. There was a photo of Ray, his grin sloppy, spinning a white garter on his finger. In the final picture Danielle leaned against Marty's chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her tiny waist, face half hidden in the cascade of her golden hair. They were alone on the dance floor, saying good-bye to their guests.

As we flipped the album closed, Phil Brouillette took it from Dave's hands and walked back to his wife, placing the album behind them. We agreed to let them keep it, for now.

“So you haven't talked to your daughter since then?” Dave asked.

“I saw her on the street a few times,” Phil said. “She was a cashier over at the pharmacy. She thought we'd be embarrassed seeing her working for a living.” Phil shook his head. “She didn't last. She claimed they didn't have the money to
pay
her. I gave everyone a work ethic except my
daughter
. She fucked everything—”

Amanda Brouillette talked over her husband. “The boy she dated in high school. His parents own the pharmacy.”

“Jason Byrne,” Hale said.

“Yes.” Amanda Brouillette pointed out the west window. “His family lives on the next property over. Good people.”

“Yeah, sure, Jason Byrne,” Phil said. “That kid's got hustle—you gotta when you're broke. I throw him a few bucks to come over, check on the place when we're in DC.”

“Congresswoman, when was the last time
you
saw your daughter?” Dave asked.

“Eight days ago, over at the capitol. Marty worked there as a security guard.” Amanda removed her glasses and put them on the desk next to her. Seconds ticked by. “
I
got him the job.” The congresswoman picked at an invisible piece of lint on her skirt, waiting for her husband to react. When he didn't she continued. “It had benefits for both of them, medical, dental, everything they needed, so if something happened. . . . That morning I was meeting the state senate majority whip for a strategy breakfast. I had to run to the meeting, so I invited them to dinner.” Again she paused, giving her husband a chance to blow. “Danielle made me promise to make my lasagna, but . . . they never showed.”

All was silent. Phil traced the rug pattern with his toe.

“That sounds nice,” he said finally.

“It does.” Amanda reached up, and he took her hand in both of his, cradling it.

Dave flipped back and forth between pages of his notebook, letting the Brouillettes collect themselves. Finally he said, “So do the two of you have any enemies? Any threats come in?”

The congresswoman let go of her husband's hand, reached behind her, and grabbed a stack of papers. She assumed that her daughter's death was about her, which, I realized, it very well might be. “I had Gloria pull together the kook list for you. These people are more than concerned constituents. Agent Bascom, is the FBI aware of any viable threats?”

Hale shook his head, a sharp no. “But we are going over additional intelligence.”

“As for my enemies,” Phillip Brouillette said, “I'm really goddamned rich. Someone always wants to kill me. I'll call our head of HR, see if we have any pissed-off ex-employees. The crazy environmentalist groups have lain off us since we got out of the paper production business.”

“And your daughter?” I asked. “Any enemies?”

“Oh, no,” Amanda said. “In high school there were always girls with grudges—they were either best friends or mortal enemies.” She dropped her voice, as if sharing a secret. “Danielle was a beautiful girl, you know. But honestly, she was a little young to have provoked serious enemies.”

“Except she's dead,” Phil said. He pointed his finger at Dave and me. “Thanks to that husband of hers. Why aren't you interviewing him?”

“We did,” Dave said.

“Yes, sir,” Hale said before I could back up Dave. “He's a person of interest.”

“But not an active suspect,” I quickly added. The last thing we needed was Phil Brouillette going vigilante. “Can we see her room?”

“It's empty,” Phil said.

“There may still be something interesting there, we—”

“As I said, it's empty. I had movers take everything from the room and drop it at their apartment.” He raised one arm, as if to make a point, and then a second, as if in supplication. “Look, are we done? We've dragged out all our dirty laundry. Just . . . just, she wasn't a bad girl. Not really. She pushed. She always pushed. But she would have turned things around.”

The congresswoman nodded in agreement, and sat forward on her chair. I sat forward as well, trying to bridge the gap across the broad fine-weave carpet.

“She was such a bright, lovable little girl. She would hold teas for me and her stuffed animals, and then play school next to me while I prepared lesson plans, teaching me math and giving me pop quizzes.” I smiled at this, as Lucy was currently in a similar phase.

Amanda continued: “She said she wanted to be just like me. Then she hit her teens, and it seemed like nothing was going to make her happy. Maybe I could have paid more attention—I was in the middle of my first national campaign and a little distracted—but I thought, ‘Oh, right. Sixteen.' I remembered breaking little rules, rebelling against my parents, and I guess I missed the point when she crossed the line.” Her voice broke, and she hesitated. When she spoke again, she had her politician's voice back. “But she would have turned things around. She never had the chance.”

I
DIDN'T WANT TO GO IN.
I wasn't cold on the porch of McKellison's Funeral Home—it's always warmer when it snows—and the less time I spent at wakes, the better. Kevin's funeral had been more than enough for this lifetime. Mourners arrived: local politicians and a few from the state level, employees from Brouillette Paper Company, and any number of Hopewell Falls residents. My second grade teacher from Saint Patrick's stopped and chatted with me. It turned out she'd taught Phillip Brouillette, too. Hale joined me, and I introduced him to the people who paused to talk. Nobody seemed to realize that I was there on official business, and their glances at Hale probably had more to do with thinking he was my new boyfriend than that he was FBI.

“How 'bout we head inside?” Hale asked, clapping his hands together. Hale's cashmere coat and lined leather gloves had to be warm, but his head was bare, and he was wearing his wingtip shoes. Even the most proper of church ladies and obsequious political toadies knew enough to wear boots in this weather.

Four racks were set up for coats, and the funeral home folks wheeled out a fifth to handle the overflow. The mortuary was a converted house, built over a hundred years earlier for one of the lace-curtain Irish families who managed to clamber out of the mills and make a place for themselves.

People still liked the big houses—the Brouillettes' place proved that—but now the functions were different: instead of sitting rooms and bedrooms, the Brouillettes had offices and home gyms. Still, the size of the Brouillettes' house meant that it had been early afternoon before we completed our search.

Dave and Jerry arrived at McKellison's together. A tired Dave dragged, but Jerry's eager step offset his grave expression: he loved everything this case was doing for his career. Jerry beelined for the Brouillettes. He didn't get far. The condolence line spilled out of the room and snaked into the opposite sitting room and toward the back door. In addition to the friends and neighbors, the lobbyists were there, wanting to make a good impression on the congresswoman. The guy from the dairy industry was first in line. He'd arrived at noon.

I joined the line with Hale and Dave, several people removed from Jerry. Phil wore a gray suit, and in the face of people's grief, he stared at the ground or over their shoulders. Amanda wore a black dress with a small circle pin glinting on her lapel. She pulled people in, accepting their condolences with a warm handshake, never breaking eye contact. Most people made a brief stop in front of Danielle's open casket, and from back in the line she appeared uninjured: She wore a pink dress and artfully applied makeup, making her look young and alive. They'd styled her hair to cover the bruise on her head, and she held a rosary in her left hand. If I hadn't seen the earlier wreckage I would have thought her death had been natural and peaceful.

Dave nudged me, tilting his head to the corner of the room where Marty and Ray sat. Marty wore a suit, and I was very aware that underneath his navy wool and cuff links a flaming skull was traced on his arm. Ray was again playing dress-up in his brother's clothes: belted chinos, a white shirt that hung halfway down his shoulders, and a tie. In fact, Ray wasn't that small—he was only a few inches shorter than his brother—but he had no substance to him. His body was shooting up, but soon age would settle weight on his frame, bulking him up with muscle or fat. Marty had that solidity—all muscle—and I don't know whether it was his years in the Abominations or Danielle's death that gave him a heaviness of spirit that tethered him tightly to the ground. I bet Marty believed that everything in life had to be hard. I felt the same way after Kevin died, but it seemed an unfair burden for a twenty-five-year-old.

No one talked to the brothers. No one got within three chairs of them. Ray stared at the crowd, his mouth set in a straight line like Lucy figuring out one of her spelling problems. When Ray saw us he elbowed Marty, who nodded and returned to gazing out the window.

Dave, Hale, and I stood at the front of the line now. Dave shook Amanda's hand, and I reached out to Phil.

“I'm here in an official capacity,” I said, “but I wanted to say how sorry I am about your daughter, personally.”

Phillip nodded, never breaking eye contact with my wrist. I imagine I looked the same after Kevin died. A banking lobbyist shouldered himself in front of Amanda, and we found ourselves pushed in front of the casket.