Blue Moon Bay (33 page)

Accident . . .
Was there a chance that my father's shooting wasn't an accident or a suicide, but a murder?

“Couldn't get a plane out tonight after all, huh?” Uncle Charley stretched out an arm, pulling me in for a shoulder hug. “We've been having us a little school board meetin', right here during the community Valentine's shindig . . . sorta on the sly, so to speak. There's a bond issue about to pass, and we gotta figure out how to get Moses Lake ready for the twenty-first century without letting Claire Anne Underhill tear down this old place and put up some glass-and-metal crackerbox. Kids shouldn't go to school in something that feels like a hospital. A place oughta have history, and this old building's strong. It'll go another hundred years, if we treat it right.”

Lips curving upward contemplatively, he gazed into the eaves, small puffs of steam floating from his nostrils, the stars reflecting off his glasses. “Young boys mustered up to go to war in this old buildin', danced a last dance with their best gals, said good-bye to their folks, stole a kiss from their sweeties behind the bleachers. You can't replace history like that.”

I shifted impatiently from one foot to the other, Uncle Charley's arm weighing heavily on my shoulders, his vision clouding my mind. I pictured young men with duffel bags—a change of clothes, clean socks, and their parents' fears packed inside—their dreams on hold. I pictured Ruth and her sister coming to this school, the ladies of the community gathering around them, taking in those frightened, damaged Mennonite girls, telling them they were safe within these walls. I pictured my father and his friends running across the gymnasium during pep rallies, their blue-and-gold Moses Lake football jerseys loose with no shoulder pads underneath as they tore through paper signs reading
Smear the Spartans!
or
Beat the Bulldogs!

The images haunted me like unwanted ghosts, even as I tried to push them away. I couldn't think about that now. “Uncle Charley, there's a lot involved in rehabbing a building of this age. The existing structure would have to be closely studied and assessed, and plans drawn up to provide for an expansion that would blend with the historic structure. It's not impossible. The right person could do it. When I get back to Seattle, I could help you find—”

“We think you're the right person,” Uncle Charley interrupted, squeezing my shoulders and hanging on in a way that insisted I stay there. “We got a majority of the school board standin' right here. A quorum, so to speak. We wanna hire you. You got history here, and family. You know what this old buildin' means. Somebody who's not a Lakesider won't understand that.”

I was momentarily stunned silent, my mental dialog flowing in a half-dozen different directions.
Stay longer in Moses Lake? Design the new high school. Armidryn . . . Proxica . . . Did Dad know? Ruth has cancer. . . .

Inside the door, people passed by, a woman laughing as she tried to loop a chef's apron over the neck of a man carrying a bag of charcoal. He waved her off, ducked and turned, but I didn't have to see his face or hers to know their identities: Blaine and his secretary, Marilyn, having a little fun at the community Valentine's gathering.

I spotted my mother crossing the empty space in the center of the gym. My focus narrowed again. “I . . . I have to catch Mom right now,” I murmured, and then twisted out of Uncle Charley's grasp. I couldn't think about anything beyond the moment. I had to find out what Clay was into and figure out how to keep him from putting himself in danger.

Uncle Charley and the rest of them gave me strange looks as I turned and hurried to the door beneath the red glow of a Christmas-light star. Mom was walking toward the back of the gym, moving with a look of purpose as she disappeared behind a line of milling high-school kids at a carnival-style basketball-toss game. A tangle of women at the cakewalk, decked out for Valentine's Day in red sweaters and jackets appliquéd with fabric hearts, blocked my path across the floor. I recognized Blaine's stepmother among them. Unfortunately, she spotted me, too. I didn't have time for a catfight, but I could tell one was headed my way.

“Have you seen my mother or Clay?” I asked, trying to sidestep her as she moved to block my exit. I caught myself looking around the room for Blaine. Where was he, anyway? Marilyn was walking back across the gym now, looking bored and disappointed.

Mrs. Underhill's lips pursed, her perfectly penciled eyebrows arching together in an expression of sympathy and concern that surprised me. She turned a shoulder to the cakewalk activity, her hand coming to rest lightly on my arm. “Heather, I suppose you've heard about this silly plan of theirs.”

“Plan?” Did she know about the issues with Proxica?

“This foolishness about taking over Catfish Charley's and Harmony Shores.” She batted her free hand in the air, then fanned herself with it. “I mean, really. A bed-and-breakfast in a
funeral home
. Who in their right mind would want to stay there?”

I fidgeted, looking past her, trying to spot my mother. “Mrs. Underhill, I don't know what my family's plans are. I really don't have time to talk right now. Do you know where I can find my mother or my brother?”

A cursory look over her shoulder and a shrug answered my question, and then she homed in on me again. “You know, life in a remote place—a place like Moses Lake—isn't for everyone.” Her voice grew louder as a band warmed up on stage. Around the room, the carnival games were being taken down to allow a dance to begin. “Oh, people think it
seems
wonderful. Move to the lake, get away from it all. But things aren't always easy in a small community. It doesn't suit some people.”

“I'm sure it doesn't.” Where had my mother gone?

“Your father knew that. Goodness, he didn't want to admit it, of course, but he knew this place was wrong for your mother—too quiet, too slow-paced. That's why he never brought her back here to live after they married. He was afraid something would happen like . . . well . . . what happened.”

Suddenly she had my full attention. “What do you mean,
what happened
? Mrs. Underhill, if there's something you'd like to tell me, please just spit it out.”

She turned her face away slightly, touched manicured nail tips delicately just above her mouth, careful to avoid her lipstick. “I shouldn't say . . . but, well, there were rumors, of course. It was all over town. She wasn't very discreet.”

“Discreet about what?”

Her eyes darted from side to side, checking the perimeter. “Well, the man she was carrying on with, of course. Some out-of-towner staying in the rental cabins below the Waterbird. Your mother was seen around town with him back then. Your father found them out. The teller at the bank heard your parents fighting about it. There is an intercom in the drive-through lane, after all.”

She patted my arm, and I backed away from her, horrified. I didn't need this right now. I had to focus on the present, to dissuade Clay from his reckless need to save the world single-handedly.

Mrs. Underhill clucked her tongue. “Oh my. I can see that you didn't know
any
of this. I should have kept it to myself. It's ancient history now, isn't it, sugar? I only meant to help you see that this place isn't . . . healthy for your mama. Your uncles are such sweet men, but they don't need to be burdened with . . . hangers-on.”

I couldn't listen to any more. Pulling away, I crossed the room to the punch bowl to ask one of the fishermen from the Waterbird if he'd seen my mother.

“She was here a minute ago.” He glanced at the game warden, who was standing beside him in uniform. “You see where she went, Mart?”

The game warden nodded toward the folded-up bleachers. “I think she went with Andrea and Dustin to put some carnival games in the storage closet. They're probably back there behind the bleachers.”

I thanked them and walked down the sideline of the basketball court, then rounded the wall of folded-up bleachers. My mother was at the other end of the cavernous, shadowy space where exercise pads, stacks of chairs, and gym equipment had been stored. I could see her standing at the end of the long hallway that led to the locker rooms. The hallway was dark, but by the angle of her body, I could tell she was talking to someone on her cell phone.

My feet fell silently as I hurried along the side wall toward her, passing the storage room, where people were moving boxes. Something fell inside the room, and I hitched a step, the toe of my shoe squeaking on the wooden floor. Mom turned around quickly, uncrossed her arms, snapped her phone shut, and dropped it into her pocket, as if she'd been caught at something.

“Heather,” she said, smoothing her shirt self-consciously as I drew closer. “Clay said that you'd left for the airport.”

Under other circumstances, I might have been hurt by the fact that she was disappointed to find me there, but at that moment I didn't care. In addition to the issues with Proxica and Clay, Claire Underhill's revelation was now whipping my thoughts into a froth. She'd confirmed one of my greatest fears: My mother had been cheating on my father. The man I'd seen her with all those years ago was her lover, and my father had found them out. He'd died knowing that his wife had betrayed him. Maybe he'd even died
because
she'd betrayed him. . . .

“I left for the airport, but I came back. I need to see Clay. Where is he?”

“He and Amy haven't made it here yet.” She cast a worried look toward the front door, then tried to cover it up. “They must have decided to go somewhere else for a Valentine's date.”

Irritation stiffened every muscle in my body. “You know and I know that's not true. Where are they, and what are they doing?”

She lifted her chin, seeming offended that I had confronted her. “What is it that you're asking about exactly, Heather?”

“Clay's whereabouts. And while we're on the subject, why don't you tell me what he's up to?”

Mom's lips pressed together in a tight, stubborn line, and a retaining wall inside me cracked. Everything I'd been holding back since my father's death burst free. “You know what? Come to think of it, I want the truth. I want you to tell me what happened to Dad. I want to know why you ended up in police custody that night. I want you to tell me what was going on with you and that man. I saw you with him, you know.”

Finally, after so many years, I'd found the courage to just come right out and say it. “You were having an affair, weren't you? You were cheating on Dad. That's why he was so upset. That's why you two were fighting the day he died.”

Mom's eyes went wide. “For heaven's sake, Heather. Of course I wasn't having an . . . How could you even say something so reprehensible to me?”

I shifted away, felt the heat rising on my anger, the pot boiling. Of course, this was somehow all about her, all about the ways in which I was causing her pain by trying to get at the truth. “Why the suitcases, then?”

“Suitcases?” Blinking, she cocked her head to one side.

“The suitcases. There were suitcases packed, waiting by the bedroom door upstairs. The day Dad died.”

Her hand stretched out and rubbed up and down my arm, bunching the sleeve of my jacket. “Heather, you were so traumatized that day. You don't know what you—”

“Don't tell me what I saw!” My voice rose just as the music stopped. Through the cracks in the bleachers, I saw heads turning our way. Clenching my teeth, I swallowed hard, balled my fists at my sides, and shrugged her hand away. “Don't you
dare
tell me what I saw. I know what I saw. I know what was going on when he died. I saw you with a man. I saw him drive up, and I saw you get in his car. I know Dad was upset about it. Did you realize that the teller at the bank heard you fighting about it? That it was all over town?”

Mom shifted nervously. “Heather, it wasn't what it . . . I wasn't . . .”

“You weren't what? Meeting with your lover? Planning to run out on us?” I tried to imagine how my father must have felt, but I couldn't fathom it. He loved my mother, worshiped her, supported her art, defended her, chose her over his family. He gave up everything for her, and she had repaid him with betrayal.

Tears pressed my eyes and brimmed on the bottom, giving my vision a watery rim. I swiped them away impatiently. “I
saw
you with him. I saw you sneaking around by the barn with that man.”

Her eyes flashed wide. “It wasn't an affair.”

Her denial only poured acid in old wounds. Even after all these years, she didn't love me enough to give me the one thing I needed most—the truth. “Was Dad . . . ? After he found out, was he . . . ?” I couldn't bring myself to say the words
depressed
or
suicidal
. “Was it an accident, or was it on purpose? Did he mean to do it? Was that why it took the life insurance company so long to settle the policy? Was that why the police questioned you? Or did they think you and your lover planned it?”

Mom's mouth dropped open. She pulled in air. “Now listen here, Heather . . .” I sensed that I'd crossed some invisible line, stepped into territory from which there would be no graceful retreat. I didn't care.

“I need to know what happened to my father.” Tears spilled over, drew trails down my cheeks—hot, then cold. A sob wrenched from me, and I pressed a hand to my lips to stop the trembling. “I have a right to know.”

She closed her eyes, sighed, then finally looked at me again. “Heather, I should have told you a long time ago, but it was just so hard, coping with everything . . . after.”

“Hard?” I wiped my eyes impatiently, frustrated with myself for breaking down in front of her. “Hard? How do you think it was for Clay, for me? He was our dad.”