Nervous Water (17 page)

“You think she doesn't love you?”

“I wish I could think of some other way to explain what she's done.”

“Why do you suppose she didn't take her car?”

He shrugged. “Maybe she figured if she had her car with her, someone could use it to trace her, find her. Cassie's a very shrewd person.”

She didn't take her cell phone with her, either, I almost said. But then I'd have to explain how I knew that, and I didn't want to get into it with this guy.

The waiter arrived with my martini on his tray. He set it in front of me and looked at Hurley. “Another, sir?”

Hurley shook his head. “Not now.”

The waiter slid away. Hurley leaned across the table toward me. “I know you've been looking for her. Have you had any luck? Do you know where she is?”

I shook my head. He could take that to mean I didn't know, or that I wasn't going to tell him. I didn't care.

“I imagine you've thought about what might've prompted her to leave when she did,” I said.

“Oh, I've thought about it. I've thought, if I just didn't go to that damn convention in the first place, or if I decided to come home Saturday night rather than staying over for the Sunday-morning brunch…”

That didn't answer my question, but I let it go. There was no reason to expect he'd answer it truthfully anyway.

Neither of us said anything for a minute. Then Hurley said, “My first wife committed suicide. I didn't see it coming. Didn't understand it. Still don't. And then Ellen, my second wife…she died. An asthma attack. Just a…a random thing. I didn't really understand that, either. Now Cassie…”

“You've bad luck with marriages,” I said.

He looked at me and laughed quickly. “That's it,” he said. “Bad luck.”

I took a sip of my martini. “Cassie's a lot younger than you,” I said.

He smiled. “Believe me, I was as shocked as anybody when she agreed to go to dinner with me that first time. And then when she said she'd marry me?” He shook his head. “I guess I shouldn't be surprised that she decided to move on. She's a beautiful woman, Mr. Coyne, as you know. She's extremely smart. She's got a wonderful, earthy sense of humor. She's had a lot of life experience. She's worldly. Cosmopolitan, you might say. She reads. She likes art. She knows how to dress.”

“What do you mean, life experience?” I said.

“Oh, just that she's traveled a lot, lived in many different places. You know Cassie. She's one of those people who's instantly comfortable, makes friends no matter where she is.”

Actually, I didn't know Cassie. I hadn't seen her in about thirty years. All I knew about her was what other people told me, and I knew enough to take all of that with a grain of salt.

I leaned forward on my elbows and said, “Has it occurred to you that something might've happened to her?”

Hurley blinked. “Of course,” he said. “Anybody would.”

“What do you think might've happened to her?” I said.

He shook his head. “I don't know. I don't like to think about it.”

“For example.”

He sat there breathing for a few seconds. “For example,” he said softly, “she might've left me for another man. She had a boyfriend when we met. I know she was…very fond of him.”

“Okay,” I said. “A boyfriend. Any other thoughts?”

He waved his hand in the air. “Of course. Awful thoughts. You can imagine.”

“Yes,” I said. “I can imagine.” I leaned back in my seat and sipped my martini.

“I do wish you hadn't brought my daughter into this,” Hurley said after a minute.

I shrugged. “I didn't bring her into anything. She answered the door when I knocked on it. She invited me in.”

“What did she tell you?”

I shrugged.

“Rebecca doesn't know anything,” he said.

“Did you ask her?”

“If she knew anything, she'd tell me.”

“She seems to be a good mother,” I said.

“It's rough on her,” he said. “Her husband's away all the time.”

“A foreign correspondent, she told me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “That's right.”

I didn't tell him that James had revealed to me that Becca had no husband, that she didn't even know who had fathered her child.

Clearly, Richard Hurley wasn't going to mention it, either.

He was swirling his martini in his glass, studying it. “You also came around the house the other morning.” He looked up at me. “Tuesday, I believe. When no one was home.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was looking for Cassie.”

He cocked his head and peered at me. Then he smiled. “You're not going to tell me a thing, are you?”

“No.”

“You're not even going to tell me whether there is something to tell me.”

I shook my head.

He blew out a breath. “Okay. Fair enough. Maybe I can ask you to do one thing for me.”

“You can always ask.”

“If you find Cassie,” he said, “ask her to call me? That's all I want. I want to talk to her.”

You and Uncle Moze, I thought.

“I'll tell her that,” I said. “Next time I see her.”

 

Evie and I were sitting out in the garden. The sun had set behind the town houses that surrounded us, and the evening air was cool. Henry was standing beside me with his chin planted on my thigh, lest I forget that he hadn't eaten yet.

We were sipping gin and tonics and sharing the events of our days, as we did most evenings when we got home. Evie's day had been a series of meetings which she called boring and stressful. She didn't want to think about them.

I told her I was interested in her work.

She said please, she really didn't want to talk about it.

I told her they were moving Uncle Moze out of ICU. It looked like he was going to be all right.

She said that was wonderful news and wondered if I planned to go back and visit him.

I told her I intended to see him as soon as they had him settled in his new room.

She asked if there was any news on the man who had kicked Henry and hit me on the head and killed Grantham Webster.

I told her that I hadn't heard anything, but there was no reason why I would. It was Horowitz's case. If it ever came to trial, I'd probably have to testify. Otherwise, it was none of my business.

I told her how the Sanborns, my mediation couple, had decided to give their marriage another try. I told her how they both had secrets, how mistrust had corroded their relationship, and how, now that they had told each other their secrets, they thought maybe they could put things back together.

And as I told Evie about the Sanborns, I finally realized what I had not been allowing myself to think: Evie had a secret, and it was causing me to mistrust her, and it threatened to corrode our relationship.

I watched her face as I talked.

She gave nothing away.

I got up and refilled our gin-and-tonic glasses. When I returned, I told her about meeting Cassie's husband at the Oak Bar.

“So you didn't tell him anything?” said Evie.

“Hurley?” I said. “Nope. He wanted me to, but I didn't. Not that I had much to tell him anyway. He told me some things, but I have no idea which of those things, if any, are true.”

“So what are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking,” I said, “that he's pretty damn philosophical about the whole thing. Hey, he goes. She left me. Oh, I was angry at first. But I understand. Can't blame her. Good luck to her.”

“Like he's accepted it. Like he's moving on.”

“Like that's what he wants me to think.”

“You're not buying it.”

I shrugged. “His first wife committed suicide. His second wife fell off a ladder and died of an asthma attack. Uncle Moze got punched in the chest and ended up in the ICU. Grannie Webster got shot. I got whacked on the head. Henry got kicked in the ribs. It all seems to revolve around Cassie.”

Evie was peering at me. “You think this Hurley…?”

“I don't know. Yeah, maybe. I don't trust him, I know that.”

We sipped our drinks in silence for a few minutes. Then Evie said, “So that couple, they're going to give it another try?”

“Looks like it.”

She smiled. “Good for you.”

“Me? I didn't do anything.”

“But if it hadn't been for the mediation…”

“I'd like to take credit for it,” I said. “But I really can't.”

“You should,” said Evie. “It's lovely story.”

“What,” I said, “two people going behind each other's backs, cheating on each other?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Julie reacted the same way.”

“It's a happy ending,” Evie said. “Boy wins girl, boy loses girl, boy wins girl back. We women love those stories.”

I watched Evie's face as she talked about love and happy endings, and I didn't detect the slightest hint of irony.

“Hard to say where they're going to end up,” I said. “But you're right. It's a nice story so far. They've suspended the mediation, which is more than okay by me. They're going to work on the marriage. They're going to try to rebuild trust. Good luck to 'em.”

Evie lifted her glass. “Good luck to them,” she repeated.

I clicked my glass against hers. I wanted to say, “Good luck to us.” But I didn't.

My father was sprawled on his Barcalounger in the living room of my boyhood house. His chest was soaked in blood, and his eyes were open and empty, and I was thinking that if I could just drag his body down to the basement everything would be all right, and that's when the red and blue lights suddenly started flashing and a siren began bleating right outside the window. I put my arms around my father's chest and tried to lift him from his chair, but he was a dead weight, and I had no strength in my arms, and I ended up lying on top of him with my arms around him and my head on his shoulder and my legs wrapped around his waist, exactly the way I held on to him when Daddy would carry me upstairs to bed after I fell asleep in the car. And then the siren went off again, and I knew I was going to get caught, and then I woke up and the phone beside the bed was ringing.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The specific images from the dream dissipated almost immediately. But the feeling—it was desperation, the fear of being caught, not guilt or sadness or grief—lingered.

The phone rang again.

Beside me, Evie thrashed around. “Answer the damn telephone,” she mumbled.

I picked it up and said, “Hello?”

“Mr. Coyne?”

“Yes.”

“It's Wilton Drury here at Maine Medical.”

It took me a minute to realize who Wilton Drury was. “Oh, Doctor. Yes. Hi.” I sat the edge of the bed with my back to Evie. “What time is it?”

“It's, um, six twenty.”

“Bad news, right?” I said. “You wouldn't be calling at six twenty in the morning unless—”

“Your uncle is going to be all right,” he said quickly. “He's just had a little setback is all.”

“Setback? What do you mean, setback?”

Beside me, Evie had rolled onto her side. She put her hand on my arm.

“I believe it's a reaction to the medication. We've been trying to wean him off the strong stuff, and maybe we moved too fast on that. Every patient's a little different.”

“The medication, huh?”

“We believe so. Yes.”

“But it might be something else?”

“I'm quite sure,” the doctor said, “once we get his medications worked out—”

“What exactly is wrong with him?” I said. “This setback? Is he unconscious? Did his heart stop beating?”

“He's, um, a little fuzzy. That's all.” Dr. Drury chuckled. “Technical term. Fuzzy.”

“Mentally, you mean? Fuzzy mentally?”

“Yes. Mentally. He was quite alert yesterday. Sitting up, eating, joking with the nurses, walking around a little. His vital signs were all good. When I told him we were going to move him over to the floor, he became quite animated, started talking about going home, driving his truck, hauling his lobster pots. He joked about smoking cigarettes and drinking beer.”

“He probably wasn't joking,” I said.

Dr. Drury laughed quickly. “I suppose you're right. Anyway, last night—”

“Is it permanent?” I said. “This fuzziness?”

“I don't think so,” he said. “I think it was just a reaction to the new regimen of medication. I think he's going to be all right.”

“Explain fuzziness to me,” I said.

“The nurses had trouble rousing him,” he said. “And when they did, he didn't seem to know where he was.”

“A stroke,” I said. “It sounds to me like he had a stroke.”

“I'm quite sure it was the meds, Mr. Coyne.”

“It's temporary then, right?”

“I think so, yes. Temporary.”

“So you've seen improvement since you adjusted his meds?” I said. “Is that what makes you think it's temporary?”

“It's, um, premature to say that,” he said. “We'll certainly know a lot more in the next twenty-four hours.”

“I was hoping to visit him today.”

“It would be better to give him a day or two,” said the doctor. “Let us get him adjusted to his meds, get reoriented. I don't think it would do either of you any good to see him today.”

“I'll be up tomorrow regardless,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Don't blame you.”

“What can I expect when I see him?” I said. “What about his memory?”

“That's hard to say, Mr. Coyne.”

“You'll let me know if anything changes?”

“I will,” he said. “You know you can call anytime. I've instructed the nurses to share information with you.”

I thanked Dr. Drury, hung up the phone, and sat there on the edge of the bed. A setback. That didn't sound good, no matter how Dr. Drury spun it. Moze was old. He had an aortic aneurysm. He'd already had one heart attack. It didn't sound good at all.

I thought about Cassie. If Uncle Moze was going to die, I thought it was very important to get him and Cassie together. Important for him, and important for her, too.

Evie slid her hand under my T-shirt and rubbed my back. “What's going on?” she said.

I told her what Dr. Drury had told me.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “What are your plans today?”

“I thought I told you. I've got to go to the office.”

“You didn't. It's Saturday.”

She shrugged. “What about you?”

“I'm going to drive down to Rhode Island and visit my aunt. Aunt Faith. My only surviving aunt.”

“That's nice,” said Evie. “Reconnecting with your family.”

“Sure you don't want to come along?”

“Like I said,” she said. “I've got to go to the office.”

 

I went on the Internet, accessed the white pages for Tiverton, Rhode Island, and found Orville Thurlow at 20 Shade Street, listed with the same phone number as the one for Faith in Cassie's cell phone.

MapQuest told me how to drive from Mount Vernon Street in Boston to Shade Street in Tiverton. It was a straight shot down Route 24. It would take one hour and four minutes. On a Saturday morning, with no commuting traffic, I thought that estimate would be about right.

I waited until after lunch, sort of hoping that Evie might spend only half of this Saturday in July at her office and that she'd come home for lunch and agree to ride with me to Rhode Island.

But she didn't.

I asked Henry if he wanted to go for a ride. He jerked up his head, scrambled to his feet, sprinted to the door, and sat there with his ears cocked.

I took that for a yes.

It actually took a little less than an hour to drive from my parking garage on Charles Street to Shade Street in Tiverton. Number 20 was a little Cape with two dormers, cedar shingles weathered silvery, and pink rugosa roses sprawling over a split-rail fence in front. Spiky grass grew in sparse clumps in the sandy yard. A Jeep Liberty wagon—a fairly new model—was parked in the driveway. A mailbox at the end of the driveway had Thurlow and the number 20 painted on it.

These were decisive clues. I figured I'd found Aunt Faith's place.

I pulled in behind the Jeep, told Henry to sit tight, got out, and went to the front door.

There appeared to be no bell, but a brass knocker shaped like a pineapple was attached to the door. I'd heard somewhere that the pineapple was a symbol of hospitality. I lifted the pineapple and let it fall onto its brass base. It made a loud, rude bang that echoed inside the house.

After a minute the door opened.

I had to blink. Aunt Faith was a fatter, more wrinkled twin of my mother as I remembered her. It was my mother's washed-out blue eyes that peered suspiciously at me, my mother's thin mouth that was pursed in her trademark expression of disapproval, my mother's good cheekbones, aristocratic nose, generous jaw.

And when Aunt Faith spoke, it was my mother's leftover Down East accent that said, “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Aunt Faith,” I said, “I'm Brady Coyne. Your sister Hope's boy. Your nephew.”

She frowned at me, studied my face. Then she patted her chest. “Good Lord,” she said. “Brady. Nephew. I haven't seen you since…”

“I know,” I said. “It's been a long time. My mother's funeral, I think.”

“Well, come in, come in.” She pulled the door open wide and stepped aside.

I went in. It appeared to be a typical Cape Cod. Living room on the left, bedroom or den or something on the right, narrow staircase up the middle, kitchen and dining room along the back of the house.

Aunt Faith was shorter and plumper than my mother had been. She sort of shuffled, but she did it without a cane or a walker. She had to be in her early, or maybe even mid, eighties. She was the oldest Crandall sibling. Then came my mother, Hope. Then Moses, then Jake, then Charity, and last Mary, the baby.

In the Crandall family, the women died before the men. All except Faith.

She asked if I'd like a Coke or a beer or something. I said a Coke would be great. She went into the kitchen. I sat on the sofa. There was a brick fireplace against the side wall with an oil painting of a clipper ship hanging over the mantel. A large thin-screen television perched in the corner. A braided rug covered the floor. A large bay window looked out onto the street. It was a small, square, pleasant room that betrayed little about the people who lived in it.

Aunt Faith came back a minute later with a can of Coke for me and one for herself. She sat in an upholstered wingback chair across from me.

“What a nice suprise,” she said.

“You're wondering what brings me here,” I said.

“Of course I am.” She smiled, and I detected a shrewd, appraising glitter in her eyes. This, I thought, was not somebody to underestimate. “It's nice to see you, of course,” she said. “I still remember you as a little boy who was always climbing trees. But I've got the feeling that this isn't just a friendly visit with your old aunt, after all this time.”

“Uncle Moze is in the hospital,” I said. “I didn't know if you'd heard.”

She shook her head. “No, I didn't know. How would I know?”

“I thought maybe Uncle Jake—”

“Jacob?” She waved the back of her hand at me, dismissing Jacob. “I ain't talked with him since…since I don't know when. He's so busy makin' money, he got no time for his family.” She blinked at me. “So what hapened to Moses? He's somebody else who don't keep in touch with his old sister.”

“He had a heart attack. He's in intensive care at Maine Medical in Portland.”

“Intensive care,” she said. “Is he going to be all right?”

“I don't know.”

Aunt Faith took a sip from her Coke can. “Is that why you come all the way down here? To tell me about Moses?”

I shrugged. “I thought you'd want to know.”

“I guess if you found my house,” she said, “you probably could've found my phone number.”

“I wanted to see you.”

“Well,” she said, “don't get me wrong. It's nice. I'm glad to see you again, too, and I don't mean to be inhospitable. But you can't blame an old lady for being a little skeptical.”

I smiled at her. “I'm looking for Cassie,” I said. “Moze's daughter. Cassandra. I thought maybe—”

“Cassandra was here,” she said. “Surprised me one day the same way you did here today. I didn't figure she was just wanting to visit with her old aunt any more than you are.”

“When was that?” I said.

She looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “It must've been more'n a year ago. Time goes by awful fast when you get old. I'm trying to remember what the weather was like. Chilly, I think. Cassie was wearing gloves, I recall. Expensive gloves, I remember thinking. Thin leather with fur lining. Winter before last. Or maybe it was last winter. That was a cold one, wasn't it? Cassie sat right there where you're sitting, drinkin' a Coke just like you are.”

“Was that the only time you talked to her?”

“Yes. Just that once.”

“What did she want?”

“Cassandra always was a clever child,” said Aunt Faith. “And she thought she was being clever with me. She started reminiscing about her childhood, growing up in Moulton, Lillian being sick and then dying, growing up with Moses. And all the time she's talking, I'm thinking, So what do you want? Why don't you just get to it?”

“Did she get to it?”

“She was pretty roundabout,” she said. “Finally she says something like, ‘So I just started wondering if Moses and Lillian really were my parents.' ”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her the truth. I told her that Moses and Lillian were the best parents she could've had, but that it was Mary who gave birth to her and Norman Dillman who was her actual father.”

“Was she surprised?”

“Nope. Not at all. She already knew it. She told me as much. She said she had recently got ahold of her birth certificate—she was getting married—and she was taken aback when she saw Mary Crandall listed as her mother and Norman Dillman as her father. Evidently Moze and Lil, they never bothered to mention that to Cassie, and if they weren't going to, it was nobody else's business. When she was growing up in Moulton, folks were too polite to say anything to her about it. Mary deserting Cassie and running off with that ballplayer, Norman gettin' himself murdered, all that was pretty scandalous.

“It's surprising Cassie never heard them stories. But evidently she didn't. Or if she did, she chose not to believe them. All along she thought Moses and Lillian were her parents. She seemed pretty upset about it.”

“Upset because…?”

“Upset because Moses never said nothing about it to her. Upset because there was this secret about her. Upset because everything she thought she knew about herself wasn't true.” Aunt Faith looked at me. “That child has every right to be upset, if you ask me. What in the world was Moses thinking?” She shook her head. “So naturally, she wanted to know all about Mary and that no-good Norman.”