Deadly Descent (8 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“I must confess, Lottie. I asked Brian to lure you out here on a pretext.” With a winning smile, she leaned forward, her hands earnestly clasped on her lap.

“I want to apologize for my disgraceful conduct this last couple of weeks. I’m ashamed of the things I’ve said and done.”

“Of course, I accept your apology.”

“In fact, when I was trying to put my thoughts down on paper I realized how hard it is to relate memories properly. But I’m done now.” She reached for a folder on the end table and handed it to me.

“Here. I do hope you approve.”

“I’m sure whatever you’ve written will be just fine.”

I opened it, scanned the first page, and knew at once it had been pulled together by Brian’s main speech writer. “I’ll read it thoroughly when I get back to the office and let you know if I have any questions.”

“Now that Brian has had this little chat with me, I just wish you still had Zelda’s story for your archives.”

My stomach soured immediately. The whole town knew about the missing documents. Persons I barely knew stopped me on the street to ask about their disappearance.

“Of course, I hold more enlightened views, but I could just weep when I think there’s not a trace of the last thing my darling Zelda ever wrote.”

I looked at her steadily, but she didn’t blink. She had the unflappable calmness of the practiced liar. There was a copy of Zelda’s story, of course. The one Josie had taken for the hand-writing analysis.

I glanced at my watch. “Nearly noon. I should be getting back.”

“Won’t you stay for lunch, Lottie? Such a beautiful day. We could eat on the patio. I’ve got a nice chef’s salad and good bread. Edgar should be getting in soon. You usually close over lunch, anyway, don’t you?”

“Yes, I usually do. I’ll call Judy and tell her to lock up so she can go eat. But she doesn’t have a key to the padlock, so I need to be back at one to open again.”

“Judy?”

“Your niece. Judy St. John. She’s my new assistant.”

“Oh, I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Fiona’s voice dropped a full octave, taking on a strange, harsh tone. “Not because of the things, the terrible things, she’s accused me of with Zelda’s death. That’s over now, though the shock of it nearly killed me. But because she’s not well, Lottie. She’s half crazy most of the time. I can’t imagine what you could possibly be thinking of.”

Brian rose from his chair and moved toward Fiona.

“She didn’t see Zelda’s story did she? She’s a vicious little snoop, just like her mother. Her mother, who dared to sneak into my house while I was gone and go through my things, my precious things.”

“That’s enough, Fiona.”

We all turned. Edgar carried the authority of a hen-pecked man who finally speaks out. It is always startling. “Zelda didn’t sneak. I let her in myself. She wanted to check some facts for Lottie’s book and look at the old miniature of your grandmother. I told her the stuff was probably in a trunk in the attic. Couldn’t see no harm in it. She’s a Rubidoux, too. She had a right to see it.”

“So that’s how she got in,” Fiona gasped. “She just walked right in the front door, bigger than life. No sneak to it. And you were probably so busy pecking away at your blasted computer the whole Russian Army could have marched right past your door. So it was you, Edgar. You who started this whole thing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You fool, you stupid fool.” The skin around Fiona’s lips was tight and white, her lips the color of old liver. “Why don’t you think? Why don’t you ever think? I keep everything that’s sacred in that trunk. Why do I always have to do the thinking for us both?”

He glared, jutted his jaw, then started, as though a deeper meaning had just struck him. His face contorted, and he clenched his fists.

“It’s gone far enough. Far enough, I tell you.”

He slammed out the back door. We heard his junky old pickup start, the steady unmuffled pop of the ancient engine, and minutes later, he roared out of the driveway.

Brian and I looked at one another helplessly. There is no formula for redeeming this kind of situation. No way to make people feel comfortable. I did know it would be a good idea to make a hasty retreat.

“I’m so sorry. We all have times we wish we could keep strictly within our family. Let’s have lunch another time, Fiona, when conditions are a bit different.” I couldn’t have sounded grander.

“I want her gone,” said Fiona.

She was looking far off, and the hair rose on my arms. Her eyes were blank, and she didn’t seem to see me. Didn’t seem to have heard my exquisitely tactful speech.

“You have no business bringing a jailbird in where she can see some of the most sensitive records in this county.”

“Judy will be just fine, Mother,” Brian said. “I think she cares a lot about people’s privacy. I don’t know what’s behind this crazy vendetta. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Judy’s lost her mother, and she needs a little kindness.”

The words were strong, and what Fiona would not have taken from me she took quite well from her son. She shook her head as though she were coming out of a trance, her mouth quivering with humiliation.

“Lottie, I don’t mean to sound like a shrew. It’s just that it’s been such a shock, such an incredible shock. I’ve lost Zelda. Then Judy turning on me like she did. I just can’t believe it all happened.”

“I think it will be good for Judy to be back in this county a while,” I said. “Max needs her.”

“She’s a very fragile person, Lottie. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Very fragile and very unstable. I think you’re making a big mistake. A very big mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” I said easily. “Now that I’m trying to cover two jobs, I need someone at the office who really wants to be there.”

They both looked at me blankly.

“Now don’t tell me you two are the only ones in town who haven’t heard about my new job?”

“Another one?” Brian laughed. “Trying to set a record for the number of hats you can wear?”

I laughed. “I’m Sam Abbott’s newest deputy.”

“Why would a smart woman like you want to do a stupid goddamn thing like that?” All traces of the Southern belle had vanished from Fiona’s voice.

“Mom!” Brian reached for her arm, but Fiona twisted away angrily. “That’s enough.”

“I didn’t come here to be insulted, Fiona.” Deciding quickly I didn’t owe her or anyone else in town an explanation for hiring Judy St. John or working with Sam Abbott, I turned and started toward the door.

She followed. “I’ll not have a rank amateur, an outsider who never should have come to this town to begin with, investigating my only sister’s murder and agitating my darling niece.”

Suddenly, I lost all trace of anger. I think it was the “darling niece” that did it. Profoundly aware that Fiona had been through three, maybe four, complete mood swings in fifteen minutes, I knew something was very wrong.

“Mother.” Brian’s voice was as sharp as a slap. I turned to face them both, my mind racing. “I want to talk to Lottie in private. Will you come into the den with me?”

I nodded. Fiona left. I heard her click through the kitchen and out the back door.

Chapter Seventeen

Brian led me through the house to a combination den-library dominated by an enormous mahogany desk.

“Drink, Lottie?”

“No, thank you.”

“Mind if I do?” He went to a hinged panel in a bookcase that opened to a fine collection of liquors in cut glass bottles. His hands trembled as he reached for a decanter of bourbon. He poured a stiff shot, tossed it back.

“I’ve got to decide what to do about my mother.”

I nodded, and glanced at my watch. “I’ve got to call Judy.” I reached for my cell, then remembered it was on the car charger. “Whoops. Do you mind?” I gestured toward the phone on his desk.

“Go right ahead.” He paced back and forth like a jungle cat in a zoo.

I asked Judy to stay in the office until I got back and said I would bring her a sandwich from Bertha’s Deli. I watched Brian as I talked. He looked terrible, incredibly weary with dull eyes and that still sallow skin.

“She’s crazy,” he said, the moment I hung up.

I sat down in one of the leather arm chairs. “The problem with your mother is that she’s not crazy
enough,
or there would be plenty of things we could do.”

He smiled ruefully. “She’s about to do me in.”

“After seeing her, hearing her today, I’m seeing Fiona in a different light.”

“I don’t want to hurt her. Most of what’s good about me, most of what’s put me ahead of the pack, has come from my mother. Not that I don’t love and admire my father. But he’s a…”

“Plodder?” I suggested gently.

“Yes, a plodder. Feet on the ground. It’s Mom’s side of the family, the Rubidoux, who have meant everything to me. I’ve always loved those people. The stories, the sacrifices. I’m prouder to be a Rubidoux than words can express. They’re my blood, and to have Mom show all their worst traits is about to kill me. Not that there’s
not
plenty of skeletons in our family closet. But we’re heroic people. There’s been a Rubidoux in every single war this country has ever fought.”

“Brian, I’ve been dreading this moment, but I’ve got to ask. Is there any way Fiona could have been involved in Zelda’s murder? I’m asking you as your friend and as your county campaign manager.”

“No,” he said flatly. Coldly. He looked at me steadily. “Absolutely not. I was here that evening. Here with Mother.”

“And I didn’t know? My God, Brian, I’m your campaign manager out here. Why didn’t someone tell me? I thought you were in Wichita.”

“I wasn’t. The press reported that we arrived the next day, but I had been home for three days. It was just Jenny and the kids who drove up from Wichita the morning when we all went to the St. Johns and Judy threw her famous hissy fit.”

“Your parents alibied for each other in the very beginning, of course, but I wish you had told Sam you were here, too. It lends credibility if it’s not just husband and wife vouching for each other’s whereabouts.”

“You can ask me what you just asked as a friend, Lottie.” His eyes studied me as he mouthed an ice cube. “But you can’t ask me as an officer of the court. You left out the Miranda warning.”

“You honestly think I should have gone into the ‘you have a right to remain silent’ bit?”

He didn’t smile. “If this is official.”

“It’s not official. You called
me
to come out here, remember? Brian, are you all right? Is something else wrong?”

He rose, poured another shot of bourbon, slowly turned the cut glass tumbler in the sunlight as it flashed rainbow prisms of light.

“No,” he said finally. “Actually, I’m not. I’m under so much strain right now I’m about to lose it. I know this, Jenny knows this.” He downed the whiskey, set the glass on the end table beside him, and ran his hands through his hair.

“Health problems? Marriage problems? Family problems besides Fiona? What, Brian? I have to know if we are going to get you elected. Better me, now, than the press later.”

“I know that.” He spoke so softly I strained to hear the words. “I’m terrified that what is wrong with my mother is the early onset of Alzheimer’s. It would ruin me, I can promise you.”

“But that’s so common! That shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t? You can’t be that naïve! The reality is that every single statistic any quack has ever produced on its hereditary aspects is going to be dragged out, printed, talked about. You know what my opponent is like. The press circles like buzzards. Thanks to the murder, I can’t even get decent treatment for my own mother without them video-taping every visit to every doctor.”

I was stunned, but it made sense. It would account for Fiona’s erratic behavior, the unpredictability of her moods. My heart sank. Brian was right. Senators stayed in office a long time. If the disease were present in the mother in her sixties, the media would look for the same tendency in the son. He had to look ahead.

“Brian, my twin sister, Josie, is a psychologist. We could count on her complete discretion in arranging total medical testing. She would understand everything.”

He looked at me with mute gratitude.

“That would be wonderful. Not doing right by Mom is killing me. What kind of son am I, putting my career before my mother’s health?”

“It’s not you, Brian. It’s the media. How many good men aren’t running for office because of this kind of scrutiny? You’ve worked so hard. So terribly hard.”

“And my wife. People don’t realize the toll this campaign has taken on Jenny. She’s shy. She hates the whole charade. It’s ironic that Mom just loves politics and she might be the one who brings us all down.”

***

When I walked into the office, Judy pointed proudly to a new stack of Rolodex cards.

“You’ve done all that?”

I had left her with a whole stack of early school records. We make hard copies of everything, and these cross-indexed cards were the delight of the growing number of genealogy sleuths who found their way into our office. I picked up the first one. It was correctly formatted and printed.

“This is super, Judy. Flawless, in fact.”

Her huge blue eyes shone before she lowered them and studied the ties on her shoes as though they were of intense interest.

Then I, who normally weighed words and actions as carefully as blind justice, surprised myself and made a very impulsive decision. One I would come to regret so profoundly it would haunt me the rest of my life.

“Would you like to work here, Judy? For me, I mean? Full-time, as my assistant?”

It was my right. I could hire anyone I wanted to, pay her anything I liked out of my own pocket. I needed her. Needed someone I could trust to run the office when I worked for Sam.

I turned away, burdened by her vulnerability, unable to stand her sudden bright joy. Her trust. Trust, that most fragile of all emotions, which seems to rise pitifully, again and again, in some persons. Never mind what’s said about the strength of love and hope. It is the constant emergence of trust, with its accompanying cycle of betrayal, that breaks our hearts.

“The same rules apply in triplicate,” I said, turning to face her again. “Keep your mouth shut and remember I’m running the show, not you. All mail, all stories are to be opened by me. And don’t listen to messages.”

She nodded, but she clearly had not heard a word since I asked her to work for me.

“I want to call Dad,” she sniffed. Then she grinned. “And my boss. My former boss.”

She placed her hands together between her knees and squeezed as though she had to keep herself from shooting off the chair.

“I’ll get to be with Dad from now on,” she said. “We’ll have each other. We won’t have Mom, but we’ll have each other.”

I smiled, and she flew over to the phone. I left the room to give her some privacy. When I came back, she had resumed work on the school records.

“It’s going to be crowded in here. Until I have time to come up with a permanent place for you, I’ll set up a spot where you can plop down with my lap-top. But, I don’t have time to reorganize today. I have to get cracking on my column.”

I hadn’t settled on a subject and although I wanted to get back to reading microfilm, the column for the
Gateway Gazette
had to come first. Our county newspaper had started in the 1880s, survived the depression years, and was still going in the twenty-first century. One thing that never changed was its dependency on local organizations for news.

“Any mail?”

“I put it on your desk.”

I sorted it quickly. There were two requests for family information. I rose and went to the Rolodex, then realized this was a job my new assistant could handle. It was a good feeling.

I opened a letter with an Iowa postmark. It was printed on plain white copy paper with no date, no heading.

Two sentences. That was all. No date, no signature, no closing. How did the sender expect me to reply? I date-stamped it and put it and the envelope in the correspondence file. Inspired, I knew what this week’s column would be about.

Who’s Who?

I went on in that vein for another two pages and made an appeal for articles in addition to family stories. I was certain that whoever had sent the letter read the
Gateway Gazette.
We receive many out-of-state submissions from persons who moved away years ago and still subscribe to the local paper. I sent Judy to the newspaper office with the finished column.

It was three o’ clock before I got back to my microfilm. It’s often difficult to get a handle on a family’s finances. Even so, I found clear evidence that both the Champlins and the Swensons were quite prosperous. Emily’s and Rebecca’s parents farmed and the Swensons were bankers.

I knew Emily’s father had been a good farmer because of the social notices. He had been to this or that sale, bought a horse, sold a cow, picked up a load of lumber.

The Champlins had attended a wedding, and at that time, every single gift was printed in the paper. They had given the bride and groom a complete set of sad irons, including the one for ironing ruffles. They were made of cast iron, heated on coal-fired kitchen stoves, and lugged back to the ironing board. The largest iron weighed five pounds. A whole set was considered extravagant.

The Swensons were equally busy. Mr. Swenson attended banking meetings, and Herman’s mother was president of the Ladies Tuesday Study Club. I watched for any references to illness, as the social column always reported trips to doctors or specialists. No quarrels with neighbors or merchants were mentioned.

The clock chimed. Reluctantly, I stopped working. The commissioners didn’t like anyone in the courthouse after hours. It was a good policy, but I looked longingly at the film.

***

At home, there were two messages waiting for me on my answering machine; one from the library informing me a book was in through interlibrary loan, and one from Bettina.

“Lottie, Dad called this morning and told me about your new job. He doubted you would be home for Opening Day this year. He said you would probably be on duty for the sheriff’s department that weekend. Call me. We need to know.”

The opening day of pheasant season was our high holy day. A family ritual. All of Keith’s children came home and a number of their old friends. Nothing interfered with this in-gathering. It had evolved into more of a mini blue grass festival than a dedicated hunt. Managing meals, housing the hordes of people, involved hours of work. Hours I’d had available, before I acquired my badge.

Chagrined, I realized what Keith had meant when he said my decision to become a deputy affected our marriage, our family, not just me. Of course, Sam would expect me to work that weekend. Hunters descended on our little town like a swarm of locust. I had associated law enforcement with sleuthing and high crimes. Exciting work, not parking a bunch of cars at a pancake feed.

I
will
work this out,
I thought grimly. I didn’t know how, but I would. Nevertheless, my stomach tightened.

Sam would see me as a dabbler if I refused to do routine chores. Keith would be heartbroken if we didn’t honor Opening Day.

I deliberately called Bettina at home, knowing I would get her answering machine. “Of course I’ll be here for Opening Day. Nothing has changed.”