Mason's Daughter (13 page)

Mike shuffles his papers. “Did you and Jack discuss anything else that last evening, Nate?”

I didn’t know he is allowed to address my father by his first name. Besides Mother, Clyde was the only other person I ever heard call him Nate. Perhaps logical, since Clyde was Mike’s father.

“He expressed concern over telling his wife about the sale of his father’s company. He worried Sally would leave him.” He glances toward me and speaks more softly. “Again.”

Mike’s eyebrows shoot up and his eyes shift sideways at me.

I swallow hard and wonder how red my face has turned. “It was only once . . . before Colton was born.” Does my father also know I returned because I discovered I was pregnant? He has no idea what it requires to keep a marriage together for the sake of a child. His fortune let him take the easy way out.

Mike returns his gaze to Nate’s face. “You mean because her husband would be working for her estranged father?”

Is Mike trying to pin Jack’s state of mind on me? My husband and I never discussed any of his arrangements concerning Brett or my father.

As Nate nods, Mike purses his lips. “Did he mention Big Jack’s reaction to finding his son and his company under new management?”

Nate inclines his head toward Big Jack. “He told me they almost came to blows. His father fired him, then kicked him out of the office.”

Big Jack stirs in his wheelchair. “He was
my
employee. It was strictly business between us. I had every right to . . .”

So that’s what Big Jack has been hiding. He will never be anything but a vicious, malevolent bastard who deserves to die alone. How could he make his son suffer so?

Mike rubs his palms together and takes a deep breath. “It seems we have several reasons why Jack may have felt despondent, despite the benefits of new ownership. Possibly the good news didn’t outweigh the bad, at least in
his
mind.” He looks at me and hands me Jack’s book. “Unless you can give me any other insight, I’ll have to stick with the original ruling from the county coroner.”

Gasping, I grab the edge of the table until my knuckles hurt. “But Mike, the appointment book–”

“Doesn’t prove anything.” His voice softens. “It seems like Jack became overwhelmed at the impact of such a big change. Sally, please accept that.” He puts his hand on my arm, but I jerk it away. “That’s not to say anyone’s to blame. Jack probably just didn’t see a way through. The money situation, or whatever you want to call it, was extra pressure. He went out after his last day at work, had a few too many drinks, came home late, and left the motor running when he shut the garage door.”

“You’re wrong. Jack made plans for later. Days after he . . .” I wave Jack’s book at him, while my thoughts choke off my air and I can’t get a breath.

“May I see that, please?” says Nate.

Brett asks my permission and then hands it to Nate. Not even our fingertips touch.

After flipping a few pages, Nate looks at me. “Jack wrote Colton’s name on the Sunday following the day of his death, maybe for a father-son event.” He holds out the appointment book toward me. “Is it possible your son could add something?”

Brett intercepts it for me and I pass the book to Mike. “You’ve got to speak to Colton. You can make it part of his probation.”

Mike doesn’t move. “Are you suggesting I try to trick him?”

“He won’t discuss anything with me. Maybe you can get him to tell you what he and Jack talked about that night.”

Mike glowers at me. “Have you forgotten that he knocked me down at the festival, or did you think he was playing tackle?”

“Use your official powers of persuasion. Tell him he can’t evade your questions or pretend he doesn’t remember.”

“What makes you believe he might know anything?”

“I already mentioned, Colton told me Jack called home around nine o’clock that night, but he wouldn’t tell me what he said, except that he’d be late.” I gulp and try not to hiccough. “Please, Mike.” While he strokes the stubble on his chin, I go numb all over.

Mike shoots a look at Nate, who gives a tiny nod of his head. If I had blinked, I would have missed it.

“Okay,” Mike says. “Tell Colton I’ll need to see him at the station tomorrow.”

A rush of warm air flows over me and my muscles relax, but I refuse to acknowledge it as gratitude. If my father manipulates Mike to dig deeper, I can’t object.

Everyone in the room seems to sigh in relief, but a knock at the door makes me jump. Brett rises from his chair and pulls it open. He answers a question from a uniformed person in the hallway, and then motions to Mike. “Someone to see you.”

Mike excuses himself and steps out into the hallway. The rest of us wait in silence, gazing anywhere but at each other.

When Mike returns, he seems shaken. “Colton called the hospital looking for us.”

I grab my throat. “Is he all right?”

“Angelique fainted. He says she’s still woozy, but she won’t let him call an ambulance. Unless anyone has something to add . . .” He takes his keys out of his pocket.

“I’m coming with you.” I pick up my purse and head toward the door.

I count on Big Jack’s relief to have us out of his way, and on Brett to understand our hurry to reach my son. My father shouldn’t expect me to treat him any differently than he acts toward me. I don’t say good-bye as I leave the room.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mike and I speak very little during the ride down the hospital elevator. Since he already agreed to interview Colton, I figure I’ll wait for the outcome before badgering him further. Later I’ll sic both Saint Trixie and my mother on Colton if their powers can do any good. For now, I have to count on Mike to probe the stubborn reaches of my son’s memory.

Mike presses his palm against the rubber seal as the elevator doors part. “I wonder if Angelique has put on more makeup so we won’t notice she’s turned pale and weak.” He tries to smile. “Can’t you just see her flopped on her fainting couch?”

“I’m not sure what to expect.”

He nods, and we fall in step together out the elevator doors and down the first floor hallway. Our strides match in length and pace.

Images gallop through my mind, getting worse by the moment. What if Angelique has fallen and Colton can’t lift her up? Did she stop breathing? “I’m just hoping Colton hasn’t, well, maybe he kept his cool.” I grab Mike by the arm. “What if we dispatch an ambulance before leaving the hospital and–”

“She’d send it back without setting foot in it.” He holds the emergency entrance door open and we cross the parking lot. “Look, we have to join forces and persuade her to get a checkup.”

Mike is more worried than I first thought. He climbs into his cruiser, leaving me to stand next to my unopened car door and wonder how on earth we will ever talk Angelique into seeing a doctor for professional purposes only.

After following him across town, I park next to his squad car in her driveway. Her front door stands wide open, while laughter ricochets from the back of the house, interrupted by an electronic whirring noise.

Angelique looks up as we peek through the kitchen door. “There you are, darlings. How about a virgin daiquiri?” A long, slim cigarette dangles from her fuchsia-tinted lips.

“New gadget?” Mike asks.

Colton flicks the toggle switch to Angelique’s stainless Hamilton Beach blender, and frenzied pink slush comes to a standstill in the glass container. He sips from a large stemmed goblet, his eyes daring me to stop him.

“Isn’t Colton a little young to tend bar?” I scan the counters for a bottle of rum, not that I suspect Angelique of corrupting my son. But in her condition, whatever it might be, he can easily sneak something past her. I check the ashtray to be sure all the butts wear pink lipstick.

“Strictly in training.” Angelique’s throaty laugh collapses into a deep cough. For a moment her face turns the same shade as her lips, then she says, “We’ll add the alcohol after he goes to bed.”

“Thanks, but I have to work tonight,” Mike says. “Where’s your phone book?”

She directs him to the drawer in the corner, and he waves through the pages like a traffic cop during rush hour. When his hand rests near the center of the book, he picks up her phone.

Angelique sets her glass on the table. “What are you looking for?”

“A specialist.”

“I don’t know what for.” She throws her head back and glances away, arms crossed over her chest.

I sit next to her at the kitchen table and put my hand on her arm. With a slight wince, I realize it is the same appeasing gesture Mike tried on me at the hospital. “We’re concerned about your health, Angelique. You need to get a checkup to find out why you’re short of breath so often.”

My luck fares no better with Angelique than his had with me. She pulls loose. “Let’s all go to dinner. My treat.”

“Here we are,” Mike says. “Cardiopulmonary.” He dials the number and drags the phone into the hallway. After a few muttered negotiations, he returns to the kitchen, phone cradled on his shoulder. “They have a cancellation tomorrow at eleven.”

“I’m not going.”

He speaks into the receiver, “Yes, that will be fine,” and hangs up. “Sally, Raúl is out of town for a few days. Can you take her to the medical center or shall I?”

Angelique shakes her index finger toward Mike. “You call them right back and cancel that appointment.”

For a split second, I peer at Mike and speculate whether he learned from my father how to finesse such bossy interference. “I can drive her.”

Mike sits on the other side of Angelique and takes her hand in his. “Sally and I are ganged up on you this time. No more pretending or hiding your symptoms. We need you to take better care of yourself. You’re too young to–”

At the sound of glass crashing to the Saltillo tile floor, I turn around to stare at Colton.

He ignores the broken container at his feet and the glass shards sticking up like icebergs in a frozen pink lake. His face looks suspended, as though he fears Angelique will disappear if he blinks. “You can’t die.” His lip quivers. “You can’t leave me.”

All their argument, the clink of stemmed glassware, even the ticking of her kitchen clock melds together into a whisper. Then absolute silence commands the room, until all I can hear is the thudding of my own heart.

Has all I lost and suffered at his age given me a hard shell? I should be able to express those fears to Angelique, but his feelings bubble up faster than I can sort my thoughts. Maybe I tamp my own emotions below the surface, where they won’t impede my actions. If only I had spoken similar words to my mother when I was Colton’s age. Would it have made a difference?

Mike stands up. “Colton has a–”

“Oh, hush.” As if a young lieutenant has asked her to dance, Angelique rises from her chair and steps over the spilled daiquiri and broken glass. She puts her arm around Colton’s shoulder and squeezes him close enough to kiss him on the cheek. “You precious boy. Of course I’m not going to leave you. Don’t you worry.” She glares at Mike and me. “The doctor won’t find a single thing wrong with me.”

Mike and I look at each other and sigh in tandem. How did a thirteen-year-old boy succeed where two adults hit a brick wall? Maybe my mother worked her spell through Colton this time.

AFTER MIKE DECLINES HER OFFER
for dinner, he leaves to make his rounds, while Angelique, Colton, and I beat the evening crowd to the Hot Crossed Buns Diner. Our favorite waitress Lois drops menus at our booth, out of habit more than the possibility we need to view the selection. Colton’s double grilled cheese sandwich, a peach half stuffed with cottage cheese, with French fries on the side, makes up his standard order for perhaps the thousandth time since he learned to read.

“When are you graduating to chicken fried steak?” Angelique asks him.

“As soon as I’m big enough to play football.”

“Basketball isn’t satisfying enough?”

“You can’t knock people down in basketball. Not without getting a penalty.”

She cackles while they exchange more quips, and I envy their camaraderie. How did I lose touch with my son, even when he sits across the table from me? Jack’s death came between us instead of driving us closer. Changing the ruling from suicide to accident will be the best thing for us. I need no more proof.

I sit through dinner without saying much, as they chat about their favorite TV shows. He likes “Rockford Files” and “MASH,” while she prefers “Mary Tyler Moore” and “Police Woman.” She assures him he can stay up late at her house and watch “Mannix” or “S.W.A.T.” Although she smiles at me, I dodge the issue of parental permission. It is easier to avoid Colton’s ire by keeping silent than endure his angry outbursts and huffy demeanor. Good thing the parking lot activity picks up soon. Observing people arrive gives me something to do.

Angelique motions for Lois to bring her coffee. “Colton, are you staying with me again tonight?”

With a grin, he nods.

“I don’t know about that,” I say.

His smile disappears as if I unplugged it, and Angelique twists sideways toward me, one eyebrow raised a smidgeon.

“Why don’t
you
come spend the night with Colton and me instead?” I ask. “The guest room is ready, clean sheets already on the bed.” While Angelique sips her coffee, I wait. “That way, I can drop Colton at Officer Avery’s headquarters before I take you to the specialist in the morning.”

“How come I have to go there?” His face freezes.

“He wants to ask you some things about Dad’s final week. What you remember, what Dad talked about, how his mood seemed to you.” I can’t bring myself to mention the cash Jack took, despite that Colton overheard Jack’s conversation and probably knows more than I do about it.

“Are you coming, too?”

I hate to give my son another chance to reject me or take his hostility out on me. Perhaps I should tell him he will remember and talk more if he and Mike meet alone. Yet I can’t interpret the feelings behind his question. “Legally I might have to. Do you
want
me to be there?”

“No.” He grows fidgety and runs his fingers along the edge of the table. “This is your stupid idea. I don’t want to go at all.”

“You have no choice. It’s part of your probation, even if it’s unofficial. Maybe you can be part of the solution and help make things better for us. Besides, I already gave Mike permission to speak to you as a family friend.”

He collapses against the cushioned divider and stares at his empty plate. His breathing grows shallow and labored, and for a minute I think he might vomit.

“Colton,” Angelique says. “Why don’t you go to the bakery and pick out some cinnamon buns for us for breakfast? Get whatever you want and tell Lois to put it on my ticket.”

He bolts from the table like a bobcat escaping from a cage.

I sigh and wonder how long before Colton and I can speak about teenager problems and fun stuff, go to the new mall or a movie together, and decorate eggs for Easter. Will everything awful that happens always be my fault?

Angelique emits a dainty cough while I drum my fingers on the tabletop, staring straight in front of me. I squirm. “You want to say something. Go ahead.”

“It’s hard for Colton to feel like you’re listening to him.”

“I hear every single word he utters.” I unfold and refold my napkin. “Especially the hateful ones.”

“You’re only listening with your ears. What does your heart tell you?”

“Colton is angry that Jack’s dead, and somehow I’m to blame.”

“Quit focusing on yourself for a minute and take a good look at Colton. Do you think he feels responsible somehow for Jack’s suicide?”

“We don’t
know
it’s suicide, not yet. I’m trying to find a way for us both to feel better, despite losing Jack in such a dreadful way.” I frown. “How can Colton be responsible for Jack’s actions that night? He was in bed asleep.”

“I don’t mean he had anything to
do
with it, but sometimes children believe they can or should be able to prevent something from happening to their parents.” The spoon clinks twice as she stirs her coffee. “It’s their childish fantasy, an unrealistic view of their powers. Like children of divorced parents feel it’s their fault, or that maybe they can get their parents back together again.”

I study my fingernails, as my breathing grows shallow. I know what that kind of responsibility feels like.

I put on a clean frock and pulled my hair back neatly in a ponytail. If my father saw how well I managed, maybe I could persuade him to bring Mother home. He already noticed I was tall for the age of ten.

The grandfather clock in the entry hall chimed six times. I sat on the bottom step of the main staircase and waited. He’d realize that she was better off at home because I could take care of her. He’d change his mind and believe I would never again do anything to upset her.

While my finger traced the pattern in the Persian carpet, I planned her meals and selected her clothes. I scheduled outings to our gardens, with the pond and the tempietto beyond. She would sit resting on the terrace and I’d pick her favorite flowers and lay them in her lap. She’d wear white, always white, with a wide-brimmed straw hat. I really liked it when she smiled at me and patted my cheek.

By seven o’clock, Mrs. Gussmann bustled into the hall. “There you are, child,” she fretted. “Did you know I’ve been keeping your dinner warm for you?”

“Sorry. I wanted to wait here for Daddy.”

“What’s that red streak on your face?” She rubbed my forehead with her thumb. “You must have been leaning against the newel post.”

“Is Daddy home yet?” There was a chance he might have entered the house from the side door leading to the courtyard by the garage. “It’s getting dark outside.”

“Come along to the small dining room and have your supper. Your father won’t be home for a while longer.”

I trudged behind her, practicing my speech under my breath.

“What’s that?” Mrs. Gussmann’s hearing has gotten worse lately. She forgot to ask me to repeat myself. Maybe her memory has slipped as well.

In the informal dining room, she pulled a chair out for me and I sat at one end of the huge oak table. From the kitchen, she brought a plate of roast beef with mashed potatoes and green peas and set it in front of me. I wondered how Mother would like the gravy. After my third bite, I strained my ears toward the front of the house. A door slammed, and I jumped up and dashed back to the entry hall.