ShadowsintheMist (29 page)

When everything was said and done, what did I really know
about my father’s character or ethics?

I shivered. I wasn’t willing to accept this sinister
portrait of the man I loved. “I thought the mob had more succinct ways of
disposing of people,” I argued. “Jimmy Hoffa’s body still hasn’t been found.
People disappear everyday without a trace. And Dad wasn’t exactly unknown. A
blow over the head in his own house isn’t my idea of a contract murder.”

“No.” Grant’s lips twisted in irony. “That’s what doesn’t
fit. It appears Leo was killed by an underling—that’s assuming it was a
mob-related murder. Someone got scared and decided to take matters into his own
hands.”

“And this underling was someone close to Dad? Someone at
Beacon?”

“Very likely.”

I shuddered. Up until now, my ignorance had acted as a
cocoon protecting me from the immensity of the situation. Avoiding the
unpredictable whims of a lone lunatic was one thing but a lunatic coupled with
the vast resources of a huge crime syndicate was quite another.

My mind flitted from one Beacon inhabitant to the next,
slotting each too well into the role of drug dealer. Logically, anyone might
fit. Alicia, with her addiction, Colin, sympathetic to his wife’s weakness and
desperate for independence, David, in need of more and more money to keep his
business alive, Rudy Coleman…well, who knew what motivated him?

And Grant. Despite his calm narration of the situation, it
didn’t make me feel any easier about his position. He had a trained
mind—trained to shadow or enhance guilt or innocence. If he could perform so
admirably in court, how much better might he do in real life, where
imagination, misconception and innuendo need not be overruled?

Then there was Lottie, who if stereotyped, could very
possibly have a friend or relative involved in the drug trade. They could be
using Lottie’s position to advance their own sinister purposes.

Martha? I smiled. Somehow I couldn’t see her smuggling
packets of white powder or syringes around in her dressing gown. But who knew?
Sometimes the least obvious ones were the most deadly.

“I think my mother may have been murdered.” I don’t know why
I blurted it out. Perhaps to see what sort of effect it would have. I felt
better for having voiced it aloud but I was surprised that aside, from a sideways
glance and the play of muscles in his jaw, Grant barely flinched.

“What makes you think so?”

I didn’t want to go on. Now I wished I’d never opened my
mouth but it was too late. I couldn’t brush it aside.

“I think she was frightened of someone in the house.”

“How do you know?”

“I was reading her journals and—”

“Journals?”

“Yes, diaries, sort of. She used to write in them often.
Anyway, it seemed to me that she was frightened, especially just prior to the
accident.”

Grant was very interested. Too interested. I felt his
tension and the air fairly sizzled with anticipation. My palms were sweating
and I cursed my stupidity.

“Do you still have them?” he asked. “I’d like to see them.
And I’m sure the…uh…police would be interested.”

“No! I mean, you can’t. I—I got rid of them.”

“You what?” He was incredulous and angry. It reinforced my
suspicion that it’d been a mistake to tell him.

“They were too…painful,” I lied, theatrically rubbing a hand
across my eyes to hide the truth I was sure flashed like neon in them.

“I suppose you—”

“Burned them.” I nodded sadly.

He cursed and riveted his eyes on the winding road ahead. I
slowly let out my breath, satisfied he didn’t suspect.

“I don’t suppose your mother said who it was she was afraid
of?”

“No.”

Did he look relieved or exasperated? I didn’t offer to
explain about the missing pages. Instead, I veered the conversation back to
where he’d left off.

“Tell me more about the operation. Do your colleagues have
any other leads? What’s their next step?”

“I can’t. I don’t know. I don’t know,” he replied in clipped
tones.

“You’re despicable!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why? Because I don’t have all the
answers?”

“Because you tantalize me with tidbits, then leave me
hanging.”

“And I suppose you don’t do the same?”

He was right. We were both holding back, keeping that safe
distance. I wished I could take the plunge and tell him everything but my
instinct for self-preservation was too strong to ignore.

“You’re not being fair,” I complained. “You’re still under
suspicion. I’m not.”

He smiled. “Is that what they told you?”

I blinked. “As a matter of fact…”

“You’ve been around, Suzie. You could easily have fallen in
with unsavory characters. You’ve always wanted to make a name for yourself
without Daddy’s help. What better way to build up your own assets than—”

“Jesus, Grant! You know I can barely handle two glasses of
wine let alone…”

“I’m not saying you’re using the stuff.” He shot me a
meaningful look.

I clamped my mouth shut, fuming.

We were silent for some time before he finally relented.

“How’s it feel?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“Being on the receiving end of suspicion? Especially from
someone you’ve known most of your life?”

I considered this and finally nodded. “Point taken. Let’s
drop it.”

“Fine,” he said and slowed the car as we approached
civilization.

We ate lunch at the harbor restaurant in Leland. It was very
quiet, with only a few other couples and a handful of salesmen sharing the
split-level establishment.

We discussed the business. Grant shared some of the problems
of his new position with me and seemed interested in my thoughts on the
matters. By unspoken agreement, we didn’t bring up the investigation again. I
had some very serious thinking to do and I got the impression Grant was
regretting opening up to me, as much as I was regretting telling him about my
mother’s journals. At least the interlude helped to lessen the tension that
hung over me by forcing me to concentrate on less volatile issues.

After lunch, Grant humored me by tagging along as I poked
among the little shops nearby, examining silver and turquoise jewelry purported
to have been handmade by Navajo Indians and admiring a display of carved
candles created on the spot by an aging hippie. We strolled along the dock and
Grant pointed out the various differences in the yachts anchored there, his
voice full of fondness for the subject. I listened with intent, aware of how
little I knew about his personal likes and dislikes.

At one point, a woman pointed at us covertly and whispered
something to her male companion. I realized they must’ve recognized us from one
of the newspaper reports. It occurred to me that, to the rest of the world, we
were newlyweds and the brunt of all kinds of media speculation. I felt exposed
and vulnerable, angry that even in this quiet, isolated spot there was no
escaping public scrutiny.

When we finally made our way back to the car, it was with a
sense of regret. Our freedom was short-lived and we both knew Beacon awaited us
like a tomb.

* * * * *

That night, I tossed all the latest revelations around in my
head until I was thoroughly agitated. It seemed there were never any answers,
only new questions. By morning, I was more determined than ever to investigate
theories of my own.

The first investigation concerned my mother’s fall. I wanted
to believe her death was an accident but I was becoming more and more
suspicious and knew there was only one person who might shed light on what
happened that day.

I found Rudy outside the old stables, half-hidden beneath
the ancient tractor used to tend the vacant field between the main house and
the disused horse sheds. He took his time emerging, tossing out a wrench and an
oilcan and wiping his grimy hands on his already-stained overalls.

I didn’t know how to broach the subject, so decided on
directness. “Rudy, what do you know about the day my mother died?”

If expected him to be shocked or surprised, I was
disappointed. He assessed me from under his shaggy brows and allowed the
glimmer of a smile to touch the corners of his mouth. “That’s a mighty long
time ago, Miss Suzanna. Seems t’ me there’s enough goin’ on ’round here right
now without disturbin’ th’ dead.”

I steeled myself, determined not to let his casual attitude
daunt me. “Who saddled Mother’s horse that day?”

He studied me intently and apparently concluding I wouldn’t
be swayed, shrugged. “I did. I always saddled up fer yer ma and pa.”

I nodded. “Did anyone else come down to the stables before
they left on their ride?”

He turned his head and squinted across the open pasture. “Don’t
really recall. Seems like there was someone… Yep, I remember. Mr. Grant came
down. He sometimes liked t’ help me groom th’ horses. Never was one t’ think he
was too good t’ get his hands dirty.”

“Was there anyone else?”

“Well, I don’t think so. But th’ other two boys was always
scamperin’ in and out. Never knew where they’d be hidin’. Always up t’ some
mischief those two.” He chuckled.

“You mean, Colin and David,” I said half to myself. Rudy
turned back to the tractor and lifted a cover to expose the engine.

“Rudy, do you think it’s possible someone might have caused
my mother’s accident?”

This time he was surprised and he turned to stare at me, his
face puckered in a frown. “What makes y’ ask that, Miss Suzanna?”

“I don’t know. It’s just that we’ve had three deaths here at
Beacon and the police are investigating Giles’. I’m beginning to wonder if any
of them were accidents.” I hurried on, knowing Rudy wouldn’t confide in me
unless I made him see my reasoning.

I told him about Anna’s diaries and her uneasiness. I knew
Rudy was dedicated to my mother and took her death quite hard. Certainly he’d
want to expose any foul play—unless he was somehow involved.

When I finished, he pulled the cap from his head and ran a
hand over his shaggy hair, considering. “P’raps you better come inside, missy,”
he said. “We’ll have a cuppa.”

The small apartment over the stables had been home to Rudy
since he’d come to Beacon many years before. The last time I could remember
visiting was as a child in the company of my mother. For some unknown reason,
Anna felt comfortable with Rudy and often came for a cup of tea and a chat. I
became bored easily, as young children do and ran off to play among the
haystacks or wander about in search of wild flowers.

The apartment hadn’t changed much since those days, except
it seemed smaller than I remembered. The main room was bare of unnecessary
furnishings with only a few threadbare mats scattered about to warm the worn
wooden floor. An old, square television stood against one wall with a huge
sagging armchair pulled up in front. Over in one corner was a kitchenette with
a small refrigerator, an electric oven and a sink. A small drop-leaf laminate
table stood in front of the only window that looked out across the pasture and
framed Beacon.

There were curtains of a sort, also threadbare and of an
indistinct color bordering on brown. Two straight-back chairs were drawn up to
the table, their yellow vinyl seats cracked and randomly patched with aged
tape. I sat down on one of these while Rudy switched on an electric kettle and
placed two chipped, mismatched mugs on the table.

Everything was surprisingly clean. Even the floors looked as
though they were freshly mopped. It made me wonder about the eccentric old
character before me. What sort of background did he come from? As far as I
knew, Rudy had no family or close friends. He lived as a recluse in this small
set of rooms and if he had any hobbies or special interests, they weren’t
shared with any of us at Beacon.

After making the coffee, he sat down and studied me, his eyes
sharp, waiting for me to speak. Now that I’d come this far, though, I was
hesitant to continue.

“I remember,” Rudy said at last, taking pity on my loss for
words, “when you was a scrap of a thing. Your mother thought th’ world o’ you.
She’d sit in that very place where y’ are now and watch you out th’ winder—an’
she’d smile. She had a beautiful smile.” He took a slurp of his coffee and
gazed out the window, as though seeing the past spread out before him.

“What was she like?” I asked, trying to capture the image.

“Oh, she was purty—natural, though, not all painted up—and
gentle. I don’ think I’ve ever met anyone so gentle. She even spoke gentle, y’
know. Never raised her voice. Listenin’ to her was like puttin’ lotion on a
sunburn.” Rudy took another slurp of his coffee and frowned. “She come to see
me after my Connie died. She was good t’ me then.”

“Who was Connie?” I asked, interested.

He paused momentarily, then gave a quirky smile. “She was my
missus.”

“Rudy, I never realized you were married! Did she live here
with you? How come I don’t remember her?”

“No, you never met her, missy. Y’ see, Connie had a problem
with her brain. They called it schizophrenia. She was okay for the first few
years we was together but she got worse an’, well, I had to take her t’
Kalamazoo t’ the hospital. And that’s where she died.”

I stared at him, realizing how blind I’d been to this man
who was a peripheral part of our family.

“How?” I couldn’t finish the question. I suddenly felt nosy,
as if I’d come across a packet of love letters hidden away in someone else’s
room.

Rudy didn’t seem to notice and answered without emotion. “Killed
’erself, she did.”

I didn’t ask any more. Couldn’t. We were both silent and I
could see Rudy’s eyes were moist.

“My…my mother helped you?” I asked quietly.

He nodded. “She was a good woman, yer ma. If I was t’ think
that anyone harmed her a-purpose…” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The
steel edge of his voice and clenched fist said it all. Without warning, the
vision of him scooping the steaming entrails from the freshly killed rabbit,
gun slung easy on his shoulder, flashed before my eyes.