Tea-Totally Dead (24 page)

“Have a seat,” Lori said. Then as Gail sat down, “We’ve been talking about Enneagram theory. You must have read about Enneagrams, as a psychotherapist—”

“I’ve heard the theory,” Gail said dismissively and turned her eyes to me. “Why didn’t you tell us Harmony was dead?” she demanded abruptly.

“Interesting you should ask that,” I replied, unable to resist playing therapist again. “Why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

Lori giggled loudly. Gail didn’t.

Wayne and I left not long after that. We rode home in silence. I turned on the radio. But instead of music, we were blasted with an ad for a new brand of organic clothing.

“Do you think anyone in any other state but California wears organic clothing?” I asked.

Wayne didn’t answer.

I turned the radio off.

“Kate,” Wayne said softly.

“What?” I replied, startled and not sure if I had actually heard him for a moment.

“Wanted to say I love you,” he muttered, never taking his eyes from the road. His hands gripped the steering wheel even more tightly. “Can’t show you right now. It’s just too… too hard. But I do care. Know you do too. Know you’re trying.” He paused, then added, “Okay?”

“Okay, sweetie,” I whispered. “Okay.”

Maybe we would have talked more when we got home, but Uncle Ace was waiting for us on the deck, standing alone in the dark. Or waiting for me, anyway. He asked Wayne if he could speak to me in private. Wayne glowered in response.

“Your uncle isn’t going to kill me on my front deck, for God’s sake,” I whispered into his ear. “Let me talk to the man.”

Even in the moonlight, I could see the struggle in Wayne’s face, his brows rising in objection, then lowering again in defeat. “Be in the kitchen,” he growled finally. “Call if you need me.”

Then he stomped into the house and slammed the door behind him. The deck lights came on an instant later.

I turned back to Ace. “Well?” I demanded impatiently. Wayne’s favorite uncle was no favorite of mine right then.

Ace looked down at his feet for a moment, in a gesture reminiscent of Wayne’s. I felt myself soften toward him. Then he lifted his homely face again. For once, he wasn’t smiling.

“Wayne is my son,” he said.

- Eighteen -

“What!” I yelped, then lowered my voice. I didn’t want Wayne rushing out here. Not now. “What do you mean, Wayne is your son?” I hissed. “Vesta was his mother, wasn’t she?”

Uncle Ace nodded solemnly under the deck light.

“But Vesta was your sister,” I told him, hoping for a correction. Could Wayne be the product of incest?

Ace looked back down at his feet.

“Maybe we’d better sit down,” I said weakly. I pointed to the sagging porch chairs where Wayne and I had rested earlier.

Ace took a seat obediently. I pulled my chair across from him and flopped into it. I couldn’t seem to feel it under me, though. Maybe I was numb.

“Are you sure Wayne is your son?” I asked.

Ace sighed and looked down at his knees for a moment. Then he lifted his head again to face me. “No, not really,” he admitted.

I felt an instant warm wave of relief:

“But I’m pretty sure he is,” Ace went on. The wave receded, leaving me cold again. “Can I explain?” he asked softly.

I nodded, then wondered if I really wanted to hear his explanation. Brother and sister? It doesn’t matter, a voice inside me said. Wayne is Wayne. But incest. If Wayne ever found out—

“I was fourteen,” Ace began, leaning back in his chair, his eyes losing focus. “Vessie was sixteen. And beautiful. Not beautiful the way some girls were beautiful—Vessie had the family eyebrows and a long nose to boot—but beautiful all the same. Big, vibrant and alive. She put those girls with their little turned-up noses to shame, Vessie did. And she was funny. Jeez, she was funny. She did imitations. Birds, frogs, horses. And Pa, you shoulda heard her do Pa.” He shook his head slowly and smiled gently. But then his smile disappeared.

“I knew it was wrong when she first kissed me,” he said, his voice hard for a moment. “But she was so beautiful. I adored her. And pretty soon it went further. I should have said no, but I just couldn’t.”

He looked at me now. Did he want forgiveness? Absolution? I shrugged my shoulders. Whatever he wanted, I wasn’t ready to give it to him.

“Anyway,” he said brusquely, dropping his gaze, “it didn’t go on very long. A few months at most. And then she seemed to get tired of me. Met someone else at school, I think. Must have been near a year later, she had a baby.” He paused and smiled. “That was Wayne.” he said softly, dreamily. “Vessie said I gave her the baby and I believed her. Oh, the timing seemed a little off, but not all women are the same, I guess. And I loved the little guy. I loved him from the minute I saw him.”

He stared out over my head for a few heartbeats, then resumed. “Pa had thrown Vessie out by the time she had the baby. She got a job cleaning up at a local motel. Free room and board. And I was working as many hours as I could after school, giving her the money I earned. And visiting whenever I had time. Ma and Pa never knew that.”

He looked into my eyes now. “Should I tell him, Kate?” he asked softly.

“Tell Wayne?”

He nodded, leaning forward eagerly. “Listen,” he said, “Vessie tried to blackmail me for years. Asking for money. Asking me to visit. Telling me she’d tell Ma and Pa that Wayne was mine if I didn’t. But she didn’t understand. I
wanted
to give her the money. I
wanted
to visit. I loved that kid!” He sighed and slumped back in his chair. “I was just afraid of what it would do to him to realize…”He faltered.

“That he was the son of incest?” I finished for him.

Ace nodded. I thought I saw tears glistening in his eyes. “Should I tell him?” he asked again, his voice hoarse. “I’m proud of him. I love him just as much as my other two kids, maybe more. Should I tell him?”

I thought for a moment, but only a moment. If Ace told Wayne he was his father, Wayne would blame himself for the incest. I knew he would. He had blamed himself for everything else his mother had done. And then there was the shame. He’d haul that around as well as the guilt.

I felt myself shaking my head. “No,” I answered. “Don’t tell him.”

“No?” Ace repeated sadly.

“You don’t need to,” I said, suddenly wanting to comfort the man. He had been fourteen. And Vesta had been two years older. I didn’t need to blame Ace for what he’d done forty years ago anyway. He already blamed himself. “Wayne knows you love him. It doesn’t matter if you’re his father or his uncle.”

I took his hand. It was rough and callused, its shape familiar. A lot like Wayne’s, I realized with a start. But even a nephew’s hand can be like his uncle’s, I told myself quickly. Everyone had always told
me
that I looked more like my aunt than my mother.

“Really,” I told Ace. “It’s all right.”

Ace was openly weeping now. He squeezed my hand and mumbled something that might have been “thank you,” and then rushed back down the stairs.

I stood and watched his van take off before I went inside.

I found Wayne in the kitchen. I was relieved to see him finishing what looked like the last bite of a sandwich. I hadn’t seen him eat anything else all day. He swallowed, then looked up at me.

“Well?” he said.

“Ace just wanted to talk,” I told him, filling my voice with nonchalance.

Wayne’s answering look conveyed anger, hurt and frustration all at the same time. I stepped around the back of his chair, avoiding his eyes, and began to massage his shoulder muscles. They had the resiliency of concrete under my fingers. I pushed in harder with the heel of my hand.

“What did Ace say?” he asked without turning.

“He just wanted to talk about you when you were a boy,” I said. I felt Wayne’s shoulders get even stiffen “He really cares about you,” I added, assuring myself that an omission was not the same as lying. But Wayne wasn’t fooled.

“Stop it, Kate,” he said, turning in his chair. “Tell me or don’t tell me.”

“I can’t,” I said weakly.

I watched his face stiffen till it looked as hard as his shoulders felt.

“Ace talked to me in confidence,” I added. “It wouldn’t be right to share.”

“Does it have to do with Mom’s murder?” Wayne asked me, his eyes fixed on my face unblinkingly. I shifted my gaze above his head.

I should have just said no and thought it out later. But my mind considered the question. Did Ace’s confession have to do with the murders? We’ve been looking for a specific motive and here it is, my mind informed me. Vesta gets out of the hospital and threatens to tell… Threatens to tell whom? Ace wanted to tell Wayne himself. And I didn’t think he’d care if anyone else knew, not enough to kill over, anyway—

“Well, does it?” Wayne pressed.

“It doesn’t have to do with the murders,” I told him, trying to keep the doubt I felt out of my voice. Then I wondered if Harmony had known. Hadn’t she said something about inheriting Vesta’s secrets?

“Kate, look at me,” Wayne ordered.

I looked down uneasily. His eyes were stern under lowered brows. “Both Mom and Harmony have been murdered,” he said, his voice as stern as his eyes. “What if they were killed because they were keeping family secrets? And now you’re keeping a secret. Don’t do this to me, Kate.” His voice cracked.

I almost told him then. But I couldn’t. What would he do if he knew? Would he kill himself? No, I told myself. Wayne was a very strong man in his own way. But still, I wasn’t sure. A familiar nausea rose in me. I had known a boy who killed himself in high school. He had been filled with guilt and shame. And despair. For years afterwards, I had asked myself what I could have done to prevent his suicide. Even though his brother had come to me and told me that there was nothing I could have done, nothing short of giving him a new childhood. But this situation was different. I wasn’t powerless this time.

“No, Wayne,” I said. Suddenly I felt stronger, my body more substantial. “I’m not going to tell you what else we talked about. It had nothing to do with Vesta’s murder. You’ll just have to trust me.”

Anger widened his eyes again. I pretended not to see it. Better that he was angry with me than confronted with Ace’s revelations. Wayne didn’t need any more guilt and shame, suicidal type or not.

“Turn around,” I told him brusquely. “Your shoulders need a massage.”

He glared at me for another moment, then moved to get up. I pushed his shoulders down hard. He landed back on his chair with an “oof.” I began pounding his shoulders with the side of my hand, then the heel of my hand and then my knuckles. Finally, I started using my elbows, a trick a deep-tissue massage therapist had taught me. And slowly the stiffness in his muscles began to give.

When I couldn’t pound any longer, he turned to me, his eyes downcast.

“You have to do what you think is right,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have pushed you. Sorry.”

I could have kissed him. I did kiss him. And he kissed me back, standing as he did and pulling me to him. And finally, all the fear and anxiety of the days before turned into passion.

It was about time.

I woke up happy on Tuesday morning. Even Wayne seemed happy. Actually, that might be putting it too strongly. But at least he didn’t seem as unhappy. He ate breakfast with me, then walked to the living room. But instead of sitting on the couch and staring, he began to pace. For two hours I processed Jest Gifts mail orders and listened to the sound of his feet.
Clomp, clomp, clomp,
turn,
clomp, clomp, clomp,
turn,
clomp, clomp…
Finally, I put down my pencil and joined him in the living room.

“What’s up?” I asked, catching him mid-turn.

“Gotta get specific,” he announced. Then he finished his turn and clomped over to the far wall again.

I waited for his return trip and asked, “Specific about what?”

“Motive,” he answered.

I caught his arm before he could turn again. “Talk to me,” I ordered.

“Okay,” he agreed with a sigh. He focused his eyes on mine. “Both of them were killed for a reason, but what reason? Why do people kill each other?”

“Could be a lot of things,” I answered. “Money, anger—”

“Not money,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “Neither of them had any.”

“But someone could have
thought
that Vesta had money if they thought she owned the condo. And Harmony said Vesta willed it to her.”

Wayne just shook his head again.

“All right,” I agreed. “Money’s unlikely. But anger isn’t. Your mother was tweaking everyone’s tails last Friday. Remember how she taunted Dru about her first husband? And it made Gail as angry as her mother,” I added, thinking of Gail’s bitter words that evening as we left the condo. “And Harmony seemed to be stepping into Vesta’s shoes on Sunday. Who knows what she said to people before we got there?”

He nodded thoughtfully for a moment, but then started shaking his head again. “Maybe Harmony was killed in anger. The way she was beaten…” The color in his face faded and I knew he was thinking of Harmony’s corpse. I put my arm around his waist, to comfort us both. “But Mom was poisoned,” he went on. “You don’t poison someone in a moment of anger.”