Gone for Good (5 page)

Paul's
face was flushed as we drove to the house. I thought maybe it was from standing in the morning sun. Or maybe stress and grief. But I also remembered the way he'd walked away from the man at the cemetery. The big gestures, the dismissal. He gripped the wheel tight as he drove.

‘Who was that you were talking to?' I asked.

‘Who?' he asked.

‘The man at the cemetery. Is he a friend?'

Paul didn't respond right away. His eyes pointed straight ahead, fixed on the road and the traffic.

‘Just someone we used to know growing up. He's nobody.'

I thought about asking more, then remembered my own awkward encounter with the past in the cemetery. I decided not to press it. Some things were better left alone.

About fifteen people came back to the house after the graveside service. The die-hards, I supposed. They were waiting politely on the porch when we pulled up. The gathering passed with a lot of muted small talk. Comments about the weather were popular, as were compliments about the food. I realized an eternal truth: death makes people hungry. Either because they've decided to embrace life to the fullest in the wake of another's death, or maybe because they don't know what to talk about at such an event. In any
case, the guests made a nice dent in the food. No one held back.

Paul seemed distracted during the gathering. When I was a kid, he would glide from group to group at family functions, talking to everyone with equal enthusiasm and energy. A funeral didn't compare to a Christmas party, and I attributed his lack of energy to the accumulated toll of the previous days' events. He sat on the couch, an empty paper plate balanced on his knee, and nodded thanks to the people who came by to talk to him.

I tried to play hostess. I made sure the bucket was full of ice, that enough napkins and plasticware sat on the small kitchen table. Some of the ladies helped as well, and they never failed to give me a gentle pat on the arm or back. I didn't thank them for the kindness, but I appreciated it more than they could know.

Mrs Porter came up to me again, and rather than let her dictate the subject of the conversation, I decided to initiate.

‘Did my mom say anything to you about her health?' I asked. ‘Any complaints or worries?'

Mrs Porter scrunched up her face, as though giving the question a good thinking over. I knew Mom had spent a lot of time at the library, checking out books for both herself and Ronnie. I wondered if she had said something to Mrs Porter that she hadn't said to anyone else. Something that would make the possibility of murder less real.

‘You know, it's been a month since I've seen her,' Mrs Porter said. She was wearing a floral dress with a lot of purple in it. She raised her hand to her chest and said, ‘I had to read about this in the paper.'

‘Thanks
for coming.'

‘Had she said anything to you about her health?' Mrs Porter asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘But she liked to play things close to the chest, as I'm sure you know.'

‘The last time she came into the library she came alone,' Mrs Porter said. ‘That was unusual. She always brought Ronnie with her. I asked about it because I thought maybe Ronnie was sick.' She lowered her voice. ‘I know his disability can cause other complications. But she said he was fine. She said she had an appointment downtown.' Mrs Porter nodded her head to emphasize the last point. ‘She seemed to be in a hurry.'

‘How long ago was that?' I asked.

‘I said a month,' Mrs Porter replied.

A month. Shortly after our fight. ‘And you didn't know where she was going?'

‘I didn't ask,' she said. ‘I'm a live-and-let-live kind of person. I figure most things are none of my business.'

‘Of course.'

‘This whole thing is terrible. Just terrible.'

Yet neither of us had any idea how much worse it would become.

After
an hour, the guests started to leave. They made their excuses and offered their final condolences. A couple of the ladies, including Mrs Porter, began to clean up the kitchen. I offered a mild protest, but they ignored me and went about wrapping the remaining food and putting it away. I decided to accept their help and went off in search of Ronnie.

He was sitting on his bed, still wearing his coat and tie. He held an object in his hand, a picture frame or something, but when he saw me coming into his room, he slid the object beneath his pillow.

‘Hi, Ronnie,' I said.

He didn't answer me, but folded his hands and remained still, staring at the floor. I came into the room the rest of the way and sat on the bed next to him. He had stayed out of the way during the little gathering at the house. I wasn't even sure he had eaten anything.

‘What did you have there?' I asked.

No response.

‘Was it a picture of Mom?'

‘Maybe,' he said.

Maybe? Clearly he wasn't up for interrogation, and I couldn't blame him.

‘People are starting to leave,' I said. ‘I just wanted to see if you were okay. Do you need anything?'

He
shook his head.

‘I know you're sad about Mom,' I said. ‘I am too. I know I haven't been around much lately.'

‘It's because you had that fight with her,' he said.

This surprised me, although it shouldn't have. Ronnie knew everything that went on in the house, and even though he was at work when Mom and I had had it out the last time, he would have picked up on Mom's mood and behaviour. He would have known something was wrong.

‘We did have a fight,' I said. ‘Did she say anything about it?'

He shook his head. ‘I could tell she was mad.'

‘Yes, she was. But I don't want you to be scared by any of this. Paul and I are going to figure out where you're going to live now. We were thinking you could either move in with Paul, at his house, or he could move in here and live with you. Paul's okay with either of those.'

Ronnie remained silent for a few moments, then asked, ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I'll still live in my apartment,' I said. ‘It's close to school, and all my things are there. But I'll come stay here sometimes.' His face showed nothing, so I upped the ante. ‘In fact, I promise I'll come around more. It won't be like the last six weeks or even the last year when you didn't see as much of me. I promise.'

His facial muscles relaxed a little. He almost smiled, and I took that as a moral victory.

‘Promise?' he said.

Before I could repeat the word, Paul appeared in the doorway, his face still drawn and tired-looking. ‘There are
people here who want to see you,' he said. ‘You should come talk to them.'

The little crowd in Mom's house had moved beyond hushed to dead silent. The appearance of two police detectives at the front door tended to have that effect. And make no mistake – even though Richland and Post wore plain clothes, their badges and guns hidden, everyone there knew they were cops. And if the guests weren't fascinated by the fact that they were police, they could have just as easily been entranced by the physical differences between the odd couple at the door.

Richland spoke first when he saw me. ‘Ms Hampton. Sorry to intrude, but we have some matters to follow up on.'

‘Now?' I asked.

‘Is there someplace we could speak?' Richland asked. He waved his hand at the perimeter of the room, a gesture that made sense for a change.

I looked around. Everyone except Paul pretended they weren't eavesdropping. Even Mrs Porter busied herself with wrapping a pie in cellophane. I lowered my voice. ‘Couldn't this wait?' I asked. ‘I can come talk to you later this afternoon.'

‘I'm not sure it can wait,' Richland said.

‘Maybe you'd like to step onto the porch with us?' Detective Post said, nodding towards the door. Before I answered, she opened it and started to go outside. I felt I had no choice but to follow.

On the front porch, Richland stood to my left and Post to my right, leaving me in between them like a child. My
eyes were level with the pocket protector Richland wore on his shirt. I noticed that, in addition to the dark sedan that I assumed belonged to the detectives, a Dover police cruiser was parked on the street. Two uniformed officers sat inside it with the windows rolled down, their faces obscured by the shade of the trees.

Richland said, ‘We wanted to let you know that the medical examiner's office has reached a preliminary conclusion concerning your mother's death. It looks as though our initial concerns were correct – your mother died as the result of manual strangulation.'

At first the words didn't make sense to me. Richland might as well have been speaking to me in another language, and those two words – ‘manual strangulation' – were some kind of incantation I simply couldn't understand. But they rattled around in my brain and finally came to rest someplace where I could understand them. Reflexively, I lifted my right hand to my own throat.

‘Someone killed her,' I said. ‘Mom.'

‘We're sorry to have to bring you this kind of news,' Richland said. ‘We were hoping to move ahead with some things relating to the case.'

‘Did someone rob her?' I asked. My mind drifted away from the reality of what they had told me to speculation about why it had happened. ‘The house didn't look like it had been broken into. She didn't have anything worth stealing really.' I tried to think of another explanation besides robbery, but I couldn't. Mom didn't do anything. She didn't know anyone. She didn't owe money or deal drugs. Why would someone come into her house and kill her?

‘We
were hoping we could spend a little more time speaking to your brother,' Richland said.

His words brought me back to the present. And to the conversation from the other night when Richland seemed to be dancing around the edges of accusing Ronnie. No more dancing.

‘He wouldn't hurt Mom,' I said. ‘She was practically his whole life.'

Post spoke up. ‘We don't want you to think we're going to be
interrogating
your brother. We really can't do that if someone has any kind of disability. What we want to do is have him examined by a psychologist, someone who understands these issues.'

‘What issues?' I asked.

‘We need to know if your brother is
capable
of hurting your mother,' Richland said. ‘And then we need to know if he
understands
what that even means.'

‘He's not an idiot,' I said.

‘No one said he was,' Post said. ‘But it's best for everyone if we let professionals intervene at this stage.'

‘And what if I say no? What if I don't let you near him?'

Richland and Post exchanged a look. They'd already discussed this.

Richland's hands fluttered, but it was Post who answered the question. ‘It's within your rights to deny us access to your brother, especially if you're his legal guardian in the wake of your mother's death. Are you?'

‘I think it's my uncle,' I said. ‘We haven't gotten into all of that.'

‘Be that as it may,' Post said, ‘we would then have to go
to court and get an order allowing your brother to be turned over to our custody. It's a lot easier this way.'

‘Easier for who?' I asked. No one bothered to answer my question, so I said, ‘I want to talk to my uncle about this. He's right inside, and I think he'd want to understand what's going on.'

Post and Richland exchanged the look again, and they both nodded.

‘If you don't mind,' Richland said, his eyes averted, ‘try not to take too long.'

I stopped. ‘Maybe I need to call a lawyer,' I said. ‘Is that what I should be doing? Calling a lawyer to protect my brother?'

‘That's certainly your right,' Post said. ‘Although no one is being charged here. But you do have the right to talk to a lawyer. Of course.'

Richland nodded in agreement. Then he tapped the face of his watch.

I wanted to ask him – and his pocket protector – what the damn rush was, but I kept my mouth shut and went inside.