Mason's Daughter (7 page)

Mike’s eyes widen. “Did you see who it is?”

“Mystery client, I guess,” I call over my shoulder. “He wouldn’t open the door.” I feel the upheaval in my heart again when I pass the office.

I locate Mr. Donatello in the front of the gallery. Brett and Angelique have propped several paintings together against the wall where the light shines brightest.

“Here’s my first payment, sir.” I hold out the check. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

He holds his hands up and flutters them as if shooing a fly. “No, no. It’s all been taken care of.”

“Who paid you?” My voice is loud enough for Angelique and Brett to turn and look at me.

“I . . . I cannot say.” He takes out a handkerchief and mops his forehead. “Please,” he says to Angelique, “go get Officer Avery.”

“Mike paid you?” I circle him like a panther stalking prey.

He moves a sculptured figurine from its pedestal to the floor, and then scoots it behind a cabinet. When he backs up a few paces, I follow, cornering him.

“Mike doesn’t have that much money,” I say. “Who paid my share?”

Angelique returns with Mike and the Cromwells. Mike’s face looks stern, while Judith and Charlie stare at me, evidently puzzled by my loud voice.

“What going on?” I ask Mike. “Have you taken up money laundering?”

“Sally, someone is looking out for you, now that Jack and Big Jack–”

“What does this have to do with either of them? I can take care of myself. Always have.” I poke him in the chest. “You went behind my back. Who? I want a name!”

He sighs and looks at his loafers, then glances toward the limo parked outside.

I whirl around just in time to see a well-dressed man wait for the uniformed driver to open the passenger door on the far side of the limo. He appears as dark-haired and handsome as I remember. The years have not lined his face. I watch my father duck his head and climb into the back seat.

My heart starts spinning once more, rolling through a sea of emotions. Caught between the urge to make him face my accusations and the exhaustion from keeping my hostility well fed, I can’t tell which way to turn. Even if I might want to start fresh with him, there is nothing I can do about it. Mother is no help to me at all.

My feet might as well have grown roots through the gallery floor. I stand motionless until the limo backs out of the parking space and heads north on Mason Boulevard. It carries the one man I despise more than Big Jack. I can picture my father, seated in the back on comfortable padded leather, counting his millions and congratulating himself on how he manipulated my life again.

Does he always have a hand in something involving loss and death? My mother and I have endured enough. Why doesn’t she send him a message to leave me alone?

Angelique puts a hand on my shoulder. “Sally, are you feeling all right?” She hugs me sideways and gestures for Brett to bring me a drink of water.

The moment I shake my head and shrug off her consoling touch, my ingratitude smacks me. “I’m fine. Can we speak later?”

I paste on a smile and turn my attention to Mike Avery. Better if I take a few deep breaths first, otherwise I’ll do more than poke him in the chest. When I look at Mr. Donatello, he takes a step backward. “Sir, may we use your office?”

He mops his brow with his linen handkerchief and waves us toward the hallway, as if he is a maitre d’ seating his favorite customers. Perhaps nothing in his office needs protection.

I scowl at Mike and turn to stomp down the hallway.

Mike scampers to catch up with me. “Sally, Nate only wants–”

“In here.” I yank the office door open and march inside. A mixture of cigar smoke and fresh carnations lingers, and my father’s presence twines around my senses like ivy. I struggle not to feel like a helpless child.

A pair of large overstuffed Queen Annes, exactly the right size for my six-foot-four father, partner with two smaller straight-backed chairs. Mike waits in the doorway until I select a wooden chair, not comfortable but also recently unoccupied.

“Well?” I cross my arms and wait.

Mike drops to the edge of one of the Queen Annes and lays his hat upside down on the marble coffee table. Leaning forward, he gently rubs his palms on his khaki knees. “After Jack died last year, Nate asked me to let him know if you or Colton ever needed anything.”

“So you’ve been ratting on my son and me to my father?” I sit up straight and glare at his face, almost wishing I could blister his skin.

“He doesn’t want to interfere, just help out.”

“How?”

“By relieving you of the necessity to pay for certain things.”

“What things?”

“Colton’s accidents, mostly. And the damages.”

I stand up and pace toward the antique roll-top desk against the opposite wall. “So whenever Colton gets into trouble, you call my father and he sends a check to cover the cost.”

As I turn to face Mike, he leans back into the folds of the chair. I tick off the damages on my fingers. “He paid for some guy’s fence, another man’s roof, the ice cream parlor, and the cabin at the church summer camp. Everywhere Colton gets a little destructive, Daddy steps in to fix it. Buy people off.”

“Also the sprained ankle.” His Adam’s apple bounces up and down. “He paid for most of the hospital bill.”

“He owns the land under our little hospital and sits on the board. I guess they’ll take his money.” I return to the wooden chair.

“Are you even madder at me now?”

“Is that what you’re worried about?” I sit down and fold my hands in my lap, trying to remember where my fury belongs. “I’m not angry with you, but I want you to promise communication with my father will stop. Concerning Colton and me, that is.”

Mike takes his time explaining how and why he owes allegiance to my father. “My mother always claimed she couldn’t have raised me without Nate’s care and protection. She was a widow, you know.” The late Mrs. Avery worked in an insurance office, her long-term employment procured by my father’s influence.

I study the man across from me, near my same age. Tall, dark hair, no extra weight, just like my father. “Mike, are we related?”

He laughs. “No, but I wouldn’t mind if we were.”

I detect a slight blush on his cheeks, but his tanned olive skin makes it difficult to be certain.

“I found out my own father died a few years after I started college,” Mike says. “You knew him, better than I did. Clyde Farraday.”

Since their days together laboring in the cotton mill and all through my father’s climb to millionaire status, Clyde Farraday had served as best friend, bodyguard, major-domo, and probably hit man. Throughout my father’s business empire, Clyde passed down word from Nate and it stood for absolute law. He was tough as ox hide, scarred from knife fights, fearless down to his toes, and loyal as a Bluetick Coonhound.

At the sound of his name, I don’t know which tightens up more, my lungs or my throat. I’d give anything to see Clyde Farraday again. “So that’s where you got all those cute freckles. Did your mother confess before she died that Clyde was your father?”

“Nate told me. Last year, when all this mess started.” He strokes the stubble on his chin. “Sally, may I ask you something?”

I nod.

“Why don’t you ever see Nate? What did he do to make you dislike him so much?”

If I share with Mike Avery what I repeated to myself a thousand times, will it ease the hurt that sticks in my heart like a splinter? Or will it fan the hot coals of my hatred? Either way, I have no control over how I feel about my father, but I know the pain can’t get any worse by answering Mike’s questions.

“When I was younger than Colton, he sent my mother away, and then she died. He could have kept her at home, where I needed her. He hired housekeepers, nurses, drivers, nannies, always a huge staff. Okay, she was a little
touched
, even manic at times, but she died of a broken heart in that hospital, I know it. He might as well have killed her.”

When Mike reaches for my hand, I feel the splinter in my heart move. Maybe it will work its way out all by itself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Brett loads his new painting into his vehicle and departs the gallery. Within twenty minutes, Angelique says her goodbyes as well. Mike leaves to begin his afternoon rounds, and I return to the alley to help supervise. By one o’clock, Mr. Donatello decides Max and Colton have fulfilled their obligation, and the Cromwells and I thank him for his generous treatment of our sons. As we stroll out together with their noisy brood, I decline their offer of a trip to the movies. No fun allowed since Colton is grounded until further notice.

Colton and I climb into my car. I let the keys dangle in the ignition without starting the engine. “Let’s go visit Big Jack.” I want to see if that shameless old man has the guts to admit what he’s done to Jack and hope the sight of his grandson will make him feel twice as guilty.

Ready to witness an explanation, I drive to the hospital. “Yesterday Big Jack showed signs of improvement, but you’ll notice his appearance is slightly altered. If he isn’t awake, we don’t have to stay.”

Colton shrugs. “Guess we’ll see.”

I should quit expecting more reaction from Colton. If it’s his way of punishing me, I can’t figure out what I’ve done to deserve it. Silence doesn’t always feel better than anger.

The head nurse at the
ICU
station informs us Big Jack has been moved to a regular room. “We don’t call the families. Perhaps his doctor’s office tried to reach you.”

“I’m not sure he has one.” I blink several times. “But maybe I should look into getting one of those new telephone answering machines anyway.”

She snaps the hinge on her clipboard. “Pretty expensive, aren’t they?”

On the elevator, only the hum of the cables accompanies our silence. When the door opens, I point to a sign on the opposite wall. “Six thirty-eight, to the right.” Down the hall a short distance, I push the door open and stand back while a Candy Striper passes us carrying a tray. “He’s all yours,” she says.

Big Jack reclines at an angle in the bed, his bandaged left arm hooked up to an
IV
. Even with the extra swaddling of white surgical pads, he appears pale and shrunken.

Seeing him with his eyes closed makes me push my hostility aside. If I’d found him sitting up after a big lunch, watching sports on TV or flirting with the nurses, I would confront him with a list of his sins and ask how he could justify his final abuse to his son, harsh enough to break Jack’s spirit forever. Perhaps it’s better that Colton doesn’t see anything except an injured grandfather.

“Big Jack, are you awake? We’ve come to see you, Colton and I.”

He opens his eyes and his gaze jumps around the ceiling. “Eh?’

I touch the sheet covering his ankle. “Here we are. How are you feeling?”

Big Jack frowns and stares at me. His face muscles twitch, as if he’s trying to keep his mouth closed. After several seconds, he says, “Oh, Sally, it’s you.”

Considering everything he’s endured in the past few days, it’s unrealistic of me to expect to hear his usual “Sally-Girl.” The bump on his head provides the most color anywhere above his neck, and I wonder if the pain medicine works well enough. Maybe repetition will help his alertness. “I’ve brought Colton.” I nudge my son forward in range of Big Jack’s view.

“Who?” He closes his eyes again.

“We should go,” Colton whispers.

I take a few steps closer, until I stand even with Big Jack’s head. “Don’t worry.” I lean over next to his ear. “I’m taking care of your business now until you recover. I’ll handle the lease contract and everything else.”

His eyes pop open. “Sally?” They roll back in his head before settling on a framed print on the wall. “I . . . something important to tell you.”

“Yes?” Poised to hear him admit his treachery, I stand up straight and glance at my son. Colton stares at Big Jack’s face, hard enough to bore a hole. He looks away when my father-in-law reaches for my hand.

Big Jack takes several labored breaths, as if gathering his strength. “Tell Jack to stop by to see me on his way home from work.”

As I gasp, Colton bolts from the room.

“Go back to sleep,” I say and leave.

Saint Trixie, this guy is yours for the taking.

ON THE DRIVE HOME
from the hospital, I anticipate Big Jack’s questions to increase as his condition improves. Since his fall has rattled his brain about Jack’s death, no telling what else he might not remember. Armed with power of attorney, I can delve into his business dealings over Harlene’s objections and hope for answers elsewhere.

Unless his mind can knit itself back together like his bones, he will be no help in reconstructing the events of Jack’s last days. I can demand an explanation for Big Jack’s sudden sale of his business, but what good will it do? If they argued and one of them stomped out, Big Jack might be unable, or unwilling, to relive those moments. I dread breaking the terrible news to him a second time that his only son is dead and probably committed suicide.

Caught in the middle, I can’t prove Jack’s death was unintentional without getting more information, but Big Jack will likely tell me something to confirm a motive for suicide. Did Jack kill himself because his son-of-a-bitch father sold the business out from under him? I pray I can get the whole story from another source.

Colton’s voice breaks into my thoughts. “Do you blame Big Jack for Dad’s death?”

“Why do you ask such a silly question?”

“You’ve been griping out loud for the last two minutes.”

“What?”

“You shouldn’t speak that way about Big Jack.”

“Colton, there are things you don’t know about Dad and your grandfather. I’m trying to sort out how Big Jack reacted after Dad tried to do something new with the business.”

“You always make everything too complicated. Can’t you just leave all of us alone?”

I feel like slamming on the brakes, just for the jolt it will give him. “Look, I have to find out why your father died. I
know
it wasn’t suicide.”

He snorts. “Can you prove it?”

“Not yet, but I’m getting closer to the truth.”

“And you’re driving everyone else crazy.”

I suck in my breath and hold it. No matter how much Colton or anyone else might try to persuade me, I can’t give up. No one will go crazy by my search for the truth. I am
not
my mother.

Once we arrive at home, it occurs to me if Jack had a secret contract drawn up for Brett Kennedy, the last place he’d leave it would have been the store or the office. He wasn’t stupid enough to risk that Harlene or his father might see it.

After a quick snack, Colton withdraws to his room, giving me freedom to explore Jack’s desk. He’d never been much of a correspondent, not even birthday cards to immediate family. Jack didn’t save much paper either, but I pray to uncover documents or even helpful notes.

In less than a week, everyone in my family has gotten angry with me for asking questions about Jack. Colton is partly right. Things are complicated, but through no fault of mine.

Last spring, I’d searched his desk to retrieve property tax records and his checking account statements. Why hadn’t I emptied out his desk and gotten rid of it? Or discarded everything in his office? But then, I never would have found the appointment book a few days ago.

The third drawer held what few files he kept, but nothing else except a handful of receipts and the expired insurance card for his truck. As I slide the hanging file folders toward the back, I notice a paper lying flat against the bottom of the drawer.

Saint Trixie, what kind of disorganized boy did you raise?

Without daring to blink, I turn the paper over and shuffle through legal-size pages stapled together. In several lines of the contract, Kennedy’s name appears as a major investor. The proposal shows intention to relocate the sporting goods business to one of Kennedy’s warehouses in a commercial area undergoing a facelift, situated between Mason’s Crossing and Austin. Contracts with athletic departments of several school districts and universities provide the basis for the marketing plans. On page four, Charlie Cromwell’s name pops up as the representative of the local bank to provide any necessary financing.

The last sheet contains lines for signatures, but no one can complete it with that big black
“X”
streaked through the page. At the bottom Jack had scrawled, “Call Nate Wallace.”

According to Brett Kennedy, Big Jack called him immediately after Brett refused my husband’s proposal. Easy to imagine how my father-in-law had learned what Jack planned. His office walls had ears, eyes, and tentacles, all named Harlene. Once she disclosed Jack’s plot, Big Jack took his revenge for his son’s disloyalty.

At first, Brett showed wisdom to turn them both down. Who would want to get caught in a family crossfire?

I rub my forehead. I can picture my husband telling his father to stuff it up his rear end sideways, like he’d wanted to for years, but he had no safety net in place, no signed contract. When confronted by his father, Jack must have spilled his ideas like a bag of pinto beans.

Adding my father to the equation makes it more difficult to interpret. I fan the pages of the contract again until I reread Nate Wallace’s name on the last page. It’s enough to make me drop the contract on the desk.

Now that Mike Avery has assumed the role of white knight, I wonder if he knows about Brett Kennedy. When I introduced them to each other at the art gallery at few hours ago, they gave no indication they had already met.

I stop and chastise myself. So many names make it sound like a conspiracy theory. News travels fast in Mason’s Crossing. It won’t help to contact my lawyer or my pastor. I need to speak to someone who knows all the players, but can remain neutral.

I pick up the phone and dial.

“Of course, dear girl,” Angelique answers. “Come right over.”

“I want to get your impression of Brett Kennedy.”

“That will be quite easy. He’s sitting right here on my terrace.”

For Angelique to give him the time of her day, he must be a well-mannered Southern gentleman, for starters. That much I had observed myself. But for her to invite him over probably means neutrality is already a lost cause.

Upstairs, I knock on Colton’s door. No answer, but thumping vibrates the walls. I rap again harder and ease the door open, just enough to peek around the edge. With his back to me, he reclines on his bed, his bare feet propped against the wall. No wonder he can’t hear me through his headphones, with “Eli’s Coming” at full throttle.

Last year, I would have tousled his hair and he would have laughed, but I can’t risk such affection now. The time has come for me to assert my parental authority. I cross my wrists behind my back and step over the pile of discarded clothes and books until I turn to face him. Like Big Jack, he lies there with his eyes closed, but he’s enraptured by the joy of the music, and I hate to break the spell.

My heart is heavy. Everybody in Mason’s Crossing knew how well I handled the death of a parent, but I would have given anything to save Colton from learning the same excruciating lesson.

Before I can shake him by the knee, he opens his eyes and stares at me. No surprised expression, as if he anticipated my presence. I tap my ear, and he pulls one side of the headphones toward the top of his head.

“I’m going out for a short visit to Angelique’s. Can you manage to stay put until I get back?”

“I don’t drive, remember?”

As if I am ready to draw a pistol, I shove my hands on my hips. “Why don’t you get started on your homework? Isn’t something due on Monday?”

“It’s spring break, remember?”

“Well, try to do something productive while I’m gone.” I turn to go, but spin around. “By the way, I found something else that might help prove Dad didn’t kill himself.”

I can save my breath. He puts his headphones back on and closes his eyes. His right foot thumps the wall like a bass drum. Our interview is over, and I am dismissed. The little shit.

Fuming all the way, I drive to Angelique’s. Two vehicles, one I don’t recognize, sit parked in the driveway. The other belongs to Raúl, her occasional live-in restaurateur boyfriend. As I enter the front door, he is putting on a chef’s coat. “Off to the kitchen. Busy night ahead.” He flits past me, jingling his car keys.

“Of course, it’s Saturday. Good luck.” I wander through the house and find Angelique and Brett on the terrace, a tray of margaritas on the table near them. They huddle against the far wall, heads leaning together. Angelique’s earrings swing to and fro, close enough to graze Brett’s cheek. His hand grips her elbow.

“Don’t say anything to Raúl,” Angelique says.

I hesitate. Do I detect electricity in the air, or is it my imagination? When they see me, they both stand erect and smile.

“What’s up?” I try to sound cheerful.

Angelique holds out a bowl. “Try some of Raúl’s new mango salsa, too. Just the right combination of sweet and spicy to sweep you off your feet.” She gives Brett what I interpret as a meaningful glance, and I’m not sure if she means food or men.

“Talented guy,” Brett says.

I hope my face doesn’t register surprise, as I look from one to the other. Maybe Raúl should skip the restaurant and see what’s cooking here.

By patting the cushions, Angelique chooses our seats, placing Brett in between us. When she disappears to the kitchen for more drinks, I turn toward him. “I’ve been thinking about what you told me the other day.”

“Regarding your husband?”

“Also his father.” I set down my glass. “And my father.”

“I’m sorry if I made it difficult for you.”

“Not at all.” I take a deep breath. “You told me Nate Wallace contacted you the same day you refused to buy my father-in-law’s business. Big Jack never would have revealed his intentions to anyone. How did my father know to call you?”

“He didn’t call me. He–”

Is he trying to trick me, or is my mind doing the job instead? “But you said–”

“Nate Wallace dropped by my office, same as you did. Very impressive gentleman, I must say.”