Picture Them Dead (16 page)

“You were a child, Luke,” I said.

“I was a kid, but I was never really a child,” he said. “Not the way we grew up. I knew something bad would happen. I didn't figure on how bad, but I should have at least tried to stop them.”

“How did Sherry feel about it?” I asked. “Afterward, I mean, with the ways things turned out.”

Luke shrugged. “Didn't seem to affect her at all. I wouldn't say she was happy about what happened to Claire; she wasn't that vindictive, but she didn't seem to think she had any responsibility in it. That's how she claimed she felt anyhow, though I suspect it bothered her more than she let on and that the weight of it got heavier over the years, because she'd mentioned it from time to time.”

A million thoughts were rushing through my head about how this involved Gavin, Bryan Mason and, oh, dear God, Laney.

“Sherry was running away from something,” Luke said, “that's for sure. But she could have run to anywhere. I think she made a beeline for this place because she wanted to make amends. She'd been working to clean up her act, or so she said in the letters she left me. She was pretty much a mess when I left a year ago and I couldn't get routine mail during that time, but she sent a few letters to my old apartment and I read them after I got back. There was stuff in there about making things right, nothing specific, but she said she wanted a clean slate. I think maybe she was in one of those recovery programs. And she told my old roommate she was getting ready to start a new life.”

“Did she mention anything specifically about Claire or the incident?” I asked.

“No, like I said, just general stuff, but I think what happened back then must have been high on her list.”

“Did you tell Jennifer any of this? Or River?”

“No,” Luke said with a sigh. “I wanted to, but I couldn't figure out how to get into it. And then River offered to let me stay with him and I really like the guy and I didn't want to rock the boat. Selfish, I know. And Jennifer? Man, she always seems like she's ready to tear into me about something. I guess we got off on the wrong foot with me breaking into the house, but I mean, what's a break-in or two between friends, right?”

“Would you mind if I told her about it? Or told Denny Carlson? You met him; he's the other detective on your sister's case. This might be important to the investigation.”

“You tell him, if you think it might lead to something. I don't quite see how it could, but I guess you never know, right? I'll try to screw up my courage and talk to Jennifer about it afterward; maybe she'll have had a chance to cool down by then.”

“Do you think your grandmother knew about any of it?” I asked.

“She might have suspected,” Luke said. “I heard she gave some money to the Literacy Council when she sold the place to River. Grandma Lottie was not exactly the philanthropic sort. I'd say that was guilt money, not that she probably thought she did anything wrong, but maybe because she felt the weight of family obligation or whatever. She was weird that way.”

“It doesn't bother you that she didn't leave the place to you and Sherry?” I asked.

“I wouldn't have expected it,” Luke said. “I doubt it would have occurred to her to do that. As I said, we weren't really a family unit. I grew up not having a clue about what it meant to belong to a family.”

“If it's any consolation,” I said, “most of the families I research have gone through some bad spells. And no matter how things have gone in generations past, you'll be the kind of father you make up your mind to be when you have your own family.”

“So you don't think I'm doomed to keep repeating all this misery?” Luke asked with a wry smile. “How about you, what was your family like?”

“My parents were fantastic,” I said. “I always felt loved and supported and they were both great role models. A generation back, though, things were a little dodgier. There's a part of my biological heritage I don't know anything about, since my mother was adopted, and it was a closed adoption, a locked-and-bolted closed adoption.”

“But your mother was a happy person?” Luke asked.

“Oh, yes, she was very happy and comfortable with herself, though she always did wonder about the people she came from. That's actually why I got into the business.”

“I've sometimes wondered,” Luke said, “if it was because she was adopted that Grandma Lottie was always such an insecure person, but I know that's too simplistic.”

“Yes, it is,” I said. “I've known lots of adoptees and I'm sure you have, too. As a group, they're no more or less screwed up than the rest of us. But I don't doubt it could be a factor, depending on the circumstances. I need to warn you, Luke, I'm going to push to get your grandmother to tell me what happened to your great-grandfather. It may not be pretty.”

“I'd like to know,” Luke said. “And maybe it's twisted, but I feel closer to him after looking at that photo album than I ever did to my grandmother, who is still alive. Is that strange?”

I smiled. “I just trace 'em; you have to figure out how to feel about 'em.”

*   *   *

I spent the rest of the drive to Cottonwood on the phone with Denny, relating what Luke had told me about Sherry and her cohorts making the phone call to Quentin Calvert all those years ago.

“I see,” Denny had said. “I'd say that needs some looking into. Would you ask the young lad if he might have a few minutes tonight to talk to me about this?”

I did, and though Luke flinched, he said, “Sure.”

“Is Jennifer there with you?” I asked, wondering if she had indeed gone straight to Denny to tell him what she'd overheard Esme say at River's place.

“Nope, it's her day off, why?”

“No reason,” I said. “I just figured she needs to know about this, too.”

“We're partners, Sophreena. What I know, she'll know.”

“And vice versa,” I whispered under my breath.

*   *   *

Miss Lottie was her usual uncharming self. On my previous visits I'd thought of her demeanor as amusingly eccentric, but after all I'd learned about her, there was nothing amusing about her. She was just an old, embittered human being.

Still, there's this little Pollyanna streak in me that believes it's never too late for redemption. Not as long as a person is drawing breath, which in Miss Lottie's case meant she'd better get a move on.

Luke approached her bedside as he might a buzzing hornet's nest. “Hello, Grandma, it's me, Luke. Luke Mitchell.”

It wasn't lost on me that a grandson oughtn't be required to give his full name for a grandmother to know who he was, but this situation seemed to require it, and possibly a photo ID as well.

“Oh, no sir,” Miss Lottie said, her lips pinching into a thin line across her sallow face. “I told your mother, I'm too old for this. I can't be chasing younguns all over creation. My knee hurts and I've got canning to do. The garden's coming in. She's the one that tramped around and got you, let her look after you.”

Luke raised his eyebrows at me and turned up both palms.

I felt terrible. Blithe as he was about his grandmother, I could tell it was hurtful, even now as an adult whose education had doubtless taught him much about human interactions and dysfunctions.

“Miss Lottie,” I said, forcing some insincere sweetness into my voice, “I brought you some root beer.” I put the frosted glass I'd requested from the lunchroom on her tray and filled it to the brim. She grabbed the glass before I could finish pouring and put it to her rubbery lips.

“This is awful,” she pronounced. “You call this root beer? It's weak as water.”

“Best I can do,” I said. “Drink a few more sips and maybe it will get better. Then we can look at these things I've brought you. I have an album here with some pictures of your father and your mother.”

“Pictures?” she asked, her interest seeming to pick up. “Where'd you get pictures of my folks?”

“From the attic at your old house,” I said. “I found the album in a bundle Sadie left for you.”

“Sadie?” she said. “You don't say one ill word about Sadie. You dare not or I'll climb right out of this bed and thrash you.”

Luke threw up his hands and stepped back, distancing himself from the woman.

“Everybody who ever knew her said she was a wonderful woman,” I said soothingly. “And she wanted to make sure you had these pictures and letters.” I held up the stack. “See? And there are some little diaries here. Miss Sadie wrote down everything—”

“Wrote down?” Miss Lottie croaked, her voice coming out like a donkey bray. “She wrote down what happened? Why in creation would she do that?”

I looked at Luke and he gave me a “go on” motion. “I don't know,” I said to Miss Lottie, “maybe she wanted to make sure you remembered.”

“How could I forget? That's not something you forget, ever. Don't mistake me, there's lots I don't remember. I'm old and I know my mind's going. But I remember every single second of that night.”

Luke opened his mouth, but I shook my head at him. I'd seen how the old woman's spine had stiffened and I knew she was gathering her resolve. Better to go slow and see if we could soften her up some more.

I opened the photo album. “I especially like this picture of your parents on their wedding day,” I said, smoothing out her bedcovers and putting the album in her lap. I handed her the eyeglasses from the bedside table and helped her get them hooked over her ears. She adjusted them with shaking hands and then looked at the picture, lifting her head to see through her bifocals.

“That's them?” she said, more a question than a statement. “I never seen this picture before. That looks like my daddy, all right, but I don't know if that's my mother.”

“You never saw this picture?” I asked.

“That's what I said,” Miss Lottie snapped. She started to turn the pages, her blue-veined hands still shaking. She examined each picture for a long time. “I never saw any of these before, but that one, that's for sure my daddy,” she said as she stopped at a card cabinet photo of Samuel Wright in his uniform. She ran her hand over the page in a gesture that could have been loving remembrance or else a check to see if the photo was real. “Where'd you get these?” she asked, squinting her rheumy eyes.

“From the attic at your old house. Sadie left them for you,” I repeated, trying to summon some patience. “They were wrapped up in a bundle of cloth, with your name written on it.”

“Then why have you got 'em?” Lottie asked, jabbing a clawlike finger at me. “You stole 'em.”

“She didn't steal anything, Grandma,” Luke said with a long-suffering sigh. “You sold the house and everything in it, remember? These things don't belong to you anymore. And the new owner and Sophreena were both nice enough to make sure you got them back because they thought you might enjoy seeing them.” He gave me a sidelong glance and muttered, “As if you could enjoy anything.”

“You haven't seen these things before?” I asked her again.

“I never went up in that attic after Sadie died,” Lottie said. “I couldn't have got up there even if I'd wanted to. I told you, my knees are bad. I couldn't manage those steps. Wasn't nothing up there but junk anyways.”

I didn't bother to tell her one man's trash was another man's treasure. How I wished I had an attic full of stuff that could help tell my family story. The few things that had come down to me from my mother's family could fit easily into a shoe box.

We spent the next hour going through the items with the old woman, and gradually, oh so gradually, she began to soften.

I read her a few of the letters and showed her the little memo books Sadie had written in like a diary. I read the entries from when she and her father came to live at the Harper place, and Lottie got a dreamy look.

“Sadie was a mama to me from then on out,” she said. “And a better one nobody could ask for. I don't hold her to account for what happened. Not a bit of it.”

“ 'Course not,” Luke said. “I think she knew that. Didn't she say that in her diary?” he asked, giving me a wink.

Okay, this was thin ethical ice, but I really, ­really wanted to know what Sadie Harper wasn't being blamed for. “I think I do remember that,” I said vaguely, flipping through one of the memo books.

“Didn't she write down all that happened that night?” Luke asked.

The ice was getting thinner, but there was no going back now. “I don't know if she wrote down everything,” I said, which was true as far as it went. “But from what she wrote it was clear she was troubled about it,” I said, framing the comment carefully.

There was dead silence in the room and Lottie was looking tired. I was exhausted and about to throw in the towel, when Luke spoke, his voice soft.

“I never asked much of you, Grandma,” Luke said. “But the man was my great-grandfather, and I'd like to know what happened. Would you tell me?”

“I said I'd never tell,” Lottie said, lifting her chin. “And I never did.”

“You never did, as long as Sadie was alive,” Luke said. “But you can tell me now. I'm family.”

“Family!” Lottie snorted. “Accidents, that's what Marla calls you, both of you. If I tell you what happened, you'll tell Sherry and then it'll be all over town. Then what'll become of Sadie?”

“I won't tell Sherry,” Luke said, drawing a ragged breath. “You have my word.”

“Well,” Lottie said, considering, “you're not one much to lie, I'll give you that. Not like your sister, who'd lie when the truth would do just as well.”

“That night?” Luke said, trying to nudge her back on track. “What happened?”

Lottie squinted at the window where the slanting sun was coming in through the blinds, casting the room in golden light. I got up to close it but stopped when she spoke. “Leave it,” she said. “I want the light for as long as I can get it.”