Liar (9 page)

“Did you know Gwendolyn?” Rachel asked.

“Oh, no. But the family was wealthy and Los Alamitos isn’t so far away, after all. Irene’s grandfather used to like to go to the Los Alamitos Race Course, which is in Cypress, not Los Alamitos-but that’s another story.”

“What else do you know about Gwendolyn?” I asked, knowing where racetrack discussions could lead, and not especially inclined to have Rachel learn all about my grandfather’s various pastimes and diversions.

“Not too much. She was a very shy woman. A recluse, really.”

“Arthur was apparently attracted to shy women,” I said.

“Perhaps he was-what of it?” she snapped. I didn’t answer, and she scowled at me. “Maybe there are two pairs of Prissy Pants in the family.”

Rachel didn’t even try to hide her amusement.

I was saved further humiliation only because the doorbell rang. Mary answered it, and soon we heard our husbands’ voices and the sound of their laughter. Rachel’s face reflected nothing but pleasure when she heard it, and I hurried after her into the living room, where Frank and Pete were chatting with Mary.

“Caw,”
Rachel said, running a hand over Pete’s sunburned bald head. “You didn’t put the sunscreen on like I told you to!”

“See what happens when you don’t go with us?” Pete said.

I found myself wondering what on earth had ever made me think she was flirting with McCain.

Frank put an arm around my shoulders. “Thought you’d like a ride home.”

“That would be great,” I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I need to get a few things out of Rachel’s car.”

We divided up the rest of Briana’s belongings as planned, and Frank helped me to move the photos and desk papers from Rachel’s car to his.

Once, while Frank was out of earshot, Pete asked, “You want us to try to look up this cousin of yours in DMV records?”

I shook my head. “McCain has undoubtedly already tried that. And things have been bad enough for you two at work lately. You might get in trouble.”

He laughed at that and told me not to worry.

I thanked Rachel again, and we said good night to Mary and the Bairds. As we drove home, I made Frank tell me about his day first. He told me where they had sailed, about the dolphins they had seen, of a predictably futile but hilarious attempt by Pete to win an argument with Cassidy, of Jack’s surprising ability to actually get the better of Cassidy once or twice-which had made Pete look at Jack with new admiration. “I kept trying to figure out if Cassidy was orchestrating the whole thing-you know how Pete is sometimes a little jealous of Jack? Maybe not jealous-”

“Yeah, jealous.”

“Right, well, you know how Pete is-anyway, by the end of the day, Pete is treating Jack like he’s his best pal. Inviting him over for dinner, asking Jack to tell Cassidy about his days in the motorcycle gang-and through all this, Cassidy-” He glanced over at me, stopped his spirited narrative and said, “Missed you, though.”

“That was an afterthought if I’ve ever heard one.”

He laughed. “No, really. Jack’s talking about taking everyone to Catalina in a couple of weeks. You should come with us. I have the feeling your day wasn’t so relaxing.”

I shrugged.

“Tell me what happened.”

I did, but didn’t want to trouble him or bring down his mood, so I put the best face on it I could. He caught me at it. As we pulled into the driveway he said angrily, “You don’t have to treat me like I’m going to break into pieces, you know. It’s goddamned insulting. I’m tired of it. Bad enough to get it from the guys at work. Tiptoeing around me like I’m-like I’m a basket case or something.”

“Sorry,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say and only managed another lousy, “Sorry.”

He kept going on about it for another ten minutes or so, long enough for me to stop feeling apologetic. Maybe I would have kept my cool if I hadn’t spent the last two or three days looking at the ends of fingers pointed in my direction. I did manage to stay silent. At some point it must have dawned on him that I wasn’t participating in the conversation, though, because he broke off and asked, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You’re treated like a leper at work and coddled at home. You want it to stop. I can’t do anything about what happens to you at work, but it will be a damned pleasure to stop coddling you. Will a bell ring at the end of this lecture period, or will you dismiss class in some other way?”

He didn’t answer, just swore under his breath and got out of the car. I sat there staring at the glove compartment as he opened the trunk, got the boxes out, and took them into the house, greeting the dogs as they ran outside. He came back out, walked over to my side of the car and lifted his hand, as if he were going to tap on the window. He hesitated, put his hand in his pocket and stood there. I went back to staring straight ahead, even when the dogs jumped up against the passenger door. I heard Frank tell them to get down, and they ran off to wrestle with one another in the front yard.

After a minute, Frank tapped his knuckles against the glass. I rolled the window down. He leaned over, so that his face was level with mine.

“Come inside,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“Please.”

“For most of the weekend,” I said, “I’ve been doing whatever someone else wanted me to do. The results have not been great. Childish though it undoubtedly is, right now I just want to have a really terrific pout.”

He moved a short distance away, but didn’t go inside the house. He played with the dogs until they lay panting in the grass. Then he came over to the car again, but stood a few feet away. He squatted down, resting his elbows on his thighs. He plucked a piece of grass from the lawn, fiddled with it.

“Cassidy said something strange to me today,” he said.

“No kidding.”

He ignored that and said, “Yeah. He asked me if you and I had been fighting lately.”

I looked over at him.

“I told him, no, we hadn’t. He said he was sorry to hear that.”

“What did he mean by… oh,” I said.

“Right. All this peace and harmony-not exactly natural for us, is it?”

“No.”

“Not one fight. Not once since… not since the morning I was taken hostage.”

I opened the car door, rolled up the window and stepped out. He stood up and I moved closer to him.

“Put up your dukes,” I said, and he pulled me into an embrace.

We stood there together for a while, then he glanced at his watch. “There are about four hours of Saturday left,” he said. “What would
you
like to do?”

I told him. In detail.

I got everything I wanted, my way, and still had no reason to feel selfish.

I didn’t have much time to sort through Briana’s belongings on Sunday; there were household chores that couldn’t be put off, and just after one o’clock I was called into work to help write a memorial piece on a civic leader. The man had had the discourtesy to die of a heart attack after deadline on Saturday night. Having no suspicion of his health problems, the paper didn’t have one of its instant obits ready to go.

If I had only needed to write a history of his generosity to the community, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but I had to get comments. As a result, several times I was placed in the unpleasant position of being the first person to tell one of his friends that he had died. I would wait for the stunned silence or shout of disbelief to pass, express condolences, tell the friend that I knew he or she had worked closely with him, and coax comments. I did get one break-another reporter was sent to talk to the widow.

By the time I got home, I was emotionally drained. Frank was making dinner. I was changing into more casual clothes when Aunt Mary called.

“Did you go to Mass today?” she asked.

“You’ve been hounding me about my sense of duty to my family,” I said, ready to tell her straight out that I was in no mood to talk about the dead. “Are you going to start pestering me on the subject of religion, too?”

“Hmm. I probably should. But here I’ve started out all wrong again. I called to apologize. Realized I needed to when I went to Mass this morning.”

“You don’t owe me any apologies,” I said.

“Yes, I do. Don’t interrupt. I went to Mass this morning, and afterwards, I spoke with Mr. Grady-the gentleman you met at the cemetery?”

“Yes, the one who is redesigning the grounds there for your personal comfort.”

“Now, don’t get smart with me or I’ll lose sight of my purpose. Sean-er, Mr. Grady-told me that I was cruel, and he’s right. He told me-well, I didn’t realize you had been so upset. You should have said something. Better yet, I never should have let things come to such a pass. I should have just called and asked for your help. That’s all.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m all right,” I said. “You weren’t trying to hurt me.

“No, but I did, and I wouldn’t for the world. You know that, don’t you?

“Yes, Aunt Mary.”

Frank, who was only hearing my half of the conversation, said, “Invite her over for dinner. There’s plenty.”

I made a face, but issued the invitation.

“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I’m already engaged for the evening.”

“Mr. Grady?” I asked.

“None of your beeswax. But you listen to me. Just enjoy your time with Frank this evening. Forget about all your horrible relatives and take care of him.”

I was happy to obey this directive.

I hadn’t been in the office long on Monday when the intercom line buzzed. John Walters, now the managing editor of the
News-Express,
commanded me to come into his office. The workload ahead of me was routine stuff-I knew I would be spending most of the day on the phone, trying to track down some out-of-town contributors to a local campaign fund-so I answered his summons with a sense of anticipation. Maybe he had a more exciting story in mind.

He answered my knock with a scowl and waved me in. He now had a slightly bigger office and a bigger desk and chair, but he’s a large man who seems to crowd any room he’s in.

“Shut the door,” he growled, and used his meaty fist to jab his ballpoint pen into his desk blotter.

He was pissed off. Didn’t look like I was in for anything good after all. But his usual level of sweetness is nearly that of a lemon, so the mood itself didn’t faze me. His next words did.

“I thought we agreed that since you insist on bedding a cop, Mark Baker covers crime stories around here.”

“Right,” I snapped, “whom you bed makes a difference around here- although if it’s Wrigley, you still get to write about jackasses. And did anyone question the guy who wrote about the wool-”

“Enough!” He looked away, and if I hadn’t known him for so long, I might not have understood that he was calming himself down. “One of these days, Wrigley’s going to hear what kind of remarks you make about him, and he’ll can your ass.”

I shrugged. “You haven’t always complimented your boss’s judgment. But you didn’t call me in here because I’m making nasty remarks about Wrigley. What have I done to make you accuse me of trying to butt in on Mark Baker’s territory?”

“I got a call this morning,” he said. “A Los Angeles homicide cop. Guy named McCain. Said he just needed to verify your whereabouts on Wednesday the eighteenth. Wouldn’t tell me anything more.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“John!”

“I told him that without more information from him, I wasn’t ready to talk to the LAPD about what my reporters were up to. I don’t make a habit of telling the police everything I know-unlike some people around here.”

“You have no right to imply that I talk to Frank about what goes on here at the paper.”

He scowled down at his desk, but eventually said, “No, no, I don’t. I’ll give you that.”

But I had already started thinking of the more important implications of what he had said. “God, I wish you had just talked to McCain! Now you’ve probably made things worse.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“He suspects me…” I discovered it wasn’t so easy to say. “It sounds ridiculous, I know, but he suspects me of murdering my aunt. Or arranging her murder.”

“What?!”

I explained as best I could.

He was silent for a long time, then said, “You have a lawyer?”

“If you had let McCain know I was here that Wednesday morning, I wouldn’t need a lawyer.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Feeling I get about this guy. He isn’t going to give up easily. Seems like he’s not short on dogged determination.”

“Then he’ll learn that I didn’t have anything to do with Briana’s death. Besides, I can’t afford to hire an attorney just because McCain’s asking questions.”

“Frank aware of this situation?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm. I suppose he’ll be able to tell when this guy McCain represents a threat to you. Anyway, I’ll tell Morey to be more cooperative with McCain than I was.”

Until John’s former position could be filled, Morey was our acting news editor. I wasn’t sure that Morey, with his far from forceful personality, would be able to convince McCain of the truth after John had been so evasive.

John and I talked a little longer, then I went back to my desk. I tried to concentrate on finding people who would talk to me about the campaign funding story. I didn’t have much luck, even though I was carrying the holy card of St. Anthony (who’s supposed to help one find that which is lost) in my pocket. The few out-of-area contributors I did locate were either former Las Piernas residents or relatives of the candidate. A few questions to the latter group made it clear that they were completely uninterested in Las Piernas politics. Four hours of phone calls and I had nothing worth putting into print.