The Opposite of Dark (10 page)

Lou sat on the edge of the bed while Casey spotted two pewter-framed photographs on the night tables. She scowled at a familiar snapshot of Mother taken years ago; light blond hair curling onto her shoulders, sapphire necklace, royal-blue strapless gown. Mother was laughing, her head tilted, conveying coyness.

Hadn't Dad thrown the picture out the window after their final fight? From the dining room below her parents' bedroom, Casey had heard the whole thing. She'd learned about Mother's promiscuity only a few days before the final showdown and had come home from school to find them already shouting at each other. She'd watched Mother's possessions fall onto the patio, heard the picture's glass shatter. She'd seen Dad drag Mother downstairs and shove her outside. Casey never saw the photograph again. Why had he kept it? Dad always believed that once hurt, there was no going back for more.

“Is that your mom?”

Lou's voice jolted her to the present. “Biologically speaking; people used to say she was a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly.” Casey watched him pick up the picture. “Who do you think she looks like?”

“She looks like you.”

“No way.”

“Same smile, same violet eyes, and I know you color your hair brown.”

“Doesn't matter; we have totally different body types.”

“Maybe your mother doesn't share your love of cheeseburgers.”

“Funny, Lou.”

“Did you hear back from her yet?”

“Yeah, she emailed and said Dad's importing business was a long story and that I should phone her. She didn't even bother to answer my question about why she wanted to claim Dad's body.”

“How about the other names? Any luck with them?”

“I got a few emails from people who claim not to have heard from him in over three years. I'll try more numbers and emails later today.”

Casey picked up the second photo, this one of a pretty woman with short dark blond hair and dark eyes. She appeared to be in her mid twenties. Casey removed the picture from the frame and flipped it over. No name or date.

She opened a drawer in the night table. Among the antacid tablets and nail clippers was another photo, face down. Casey picked it up and found herself looking at her own wedding portrait. Dad must have heard about the divorce. She dumped the picture back into the drawer.

“What was that?” Lou asked.

“Nothing.”

She focused on the letter-sized pen-and-ink drawing Lou was holding. The artist had created an incredibly detailed picture of a cove occupied by sailboats and motor boats. On the bottom right corner, a delicate hand had written “F.H.T. Mason, October 1982.”

“Your mom collects pen-and-inks,” Casey said. “Think she'd like it?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“Then take it.”

He looked at her. “No, it's too valuable.”

“Lou, none of this has any value for me. All of this stuff belonged to a part of Dad's life that I was excluded from, so please give it to Barb on her next birthday or for Christmas or whatever.”

Lou shook his head.

“Look, someone's stealing everything anyway, and while this stuff doesn't hold any value for me, it doesn't seem right that someone else is taking it either.”

“Okay, well, then thanks, I appreciate it,” though he still looked uncertain. “Are you sure you don't want anything? There's a cool glass statue on the bureau.”

Casey gazed at the gorgeous sculpture of a leaping dolphin. Exquisite as it was, she sure as hell didn't like what the piece represented, nor was she interested in profiting from Dad's other life.

“Got any plans after work?” Lou asked.

“Actually, I've arranged to see Dad's friend and colleague, Vincent Wilkes. It should be interesting.”

CASEY STARED AT
the bungalow that had once been Dad's office. The patch of soft green lawn she used to play on was now a rock garden. The picket fence was still here, though no longer green but cobalt blue to match the door. The cedar-shingle siding on the upper two-thirds of the cottage was a darker gray than she remembered; the river rock on the lower third also looked darker. Curtains had been exchanged for shutters.

Casey had thought about asking to meet Vincent at a neutral spot, and then decided she wanted to see this place again. Vincent had worked with Dad for as long as she could remember, yet Casey hadn't known him well. The guy had kept to himself and preferred to work at night.

Casey swung open the gate and strolled to the door. The Please Walk In sign had been exchanged for an alarm system. Beneath the alarm was an intercom. Seconds passed before a pensive voice answered the buzzer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Vincent, it's Casey.”

“Come in.”

As she stepped inside, hot dry air filled her lungs. Why did Vincent have the heat up on such a warm spring day? She slipped off her jacket and glanced at what she remembered as Vincent's office door to her left. Dad's larger work area was across the hall. In the early days, Mother would bring her here when Rhonda couldn't babysit. In a corner of Dad's room, she'd had her own red table and chair, crayons and toys.

The door to Dad's old room opened and Vincent stepped out. “Good to see you again, Casey.”

“You too.” She tried not to look shocked at how much he had aged in three years. His hair was white and his eyes were enveloped in creases, and his hand felt frail and scratchy when she shook it, like crinkled paper that had been flattened out. “Thanks for seeing me this late on a Friday afternoon.”

“No problem. I'm always here.”

Casey followed Vincent into the room where the somber sound of a Gregorian chant played. They sat in a couple of easy chairs at the far end of the room.

“So, you moved into the big room,” she said. “Good plan.”

“I use both.”

She sat next to a large, glass tank containing sand, rocks, and thick, leafless branches. A reptile crawled out from behind a branch and she jumped up. “What the hell is that?”

“A Western skink.”

“Skink?”

“It's a lizard. He's known for his slender body and bright blue tail.”

Casey studied the creature. At the top of its tank, a heat lamp was attached to a wire mesh cover. She glanced at the terrariums beside the skink's home, afraid to look too closely. All of them had heat lamps.

“So, Vincent, this decor is new.” Casey hoped she sounded more relaxed than she felt. “How many lizards to do you have?”

“Two dozen; reptiles are less complex than people, and easier to live with. I use the office across the hall for clients who aren't comfortable near them.”

Good lord, weren't there laws about this? She pushed up her sleeves, realizing why it was so warm. “What made you keep them here?”

“This is my home now. I had to give up my condo to keep the business going.”

“I take it things haven't been easy?”

“No.”

Given Vincent's pets, musical taste, and this god-awful heat, Casey wasn't surprised.

“There's a little profit coming in now.” He glanced at his clasped hands. “I work six and a half days a week, when I can manage it. Even have a part-time employee. And I like working with this menagerie close by.” Vincent smiled. “If I don't like someone, I can bring out Sydney.”

“Sydney?”

“My papa iguana; he's a beauty. Just don't wear a hat when you're around him. Sydney hates hats.”

Casey glanced at the closed door while another Gregorian chant began to play, this one even more somber than the last.

“Aside from the bizarre news about Marcus,” he said, “how's life been treating you?”

Casey briefly described her breakup with Greg and her residency at Rhonda's place. When she switched to the subject of Dad, Vincent's gaze shifted to the terrariums.

“I don't know what to say about all this. It's unbelievable.” Vincent adjusted a strap on the sandals Casey had always seen him wearing. “You want some coffee? The pot should be ready.”

“That'd be great, thanks.” On second thought, she wasn't sure she wanted to be left alone in lizard-land.

Vincent pushed himself up from the chair, as if the gesture required effort. Dad once told her that Vincent had health problems, but she couldn't recall the details. As he left the room, Casey listened to a depressing music for ten long seconds before she sought a distraction. Cautiously, she approached the terrarium next to the skink and peered through the glass.

The creature inside looked like a tiny dinosaur. About twenty-five inches long, its squat body was covered in spines. Horns projected back from a fringe behind its head. The beast's brownish yellow body blended fairly well with the sand.

Casey strolled toward Vincent's desk, where small terrariums sat on shelves behind his chair. Terrain inside the tanks varied from rocky deserts to miniature forests and jungles. All of the cages had water dishes, boxes, and makeshift hiding spots. Many had bowls of fresh vegetables. She looked tentatively through the nearest glass and spotted five bright green baby iguanas. Okay, these creatures weren't so bad. The lizards with brownish bands on their backs in the next tank were even smaller.

Casey started toward the cages under the window at the front of the house when she noticed a cane propped against a chair. Then she remembered. Vincent had multiple sclerosis, though he'd been in remission back then.

When he entered the room carrying a tray with the coffee things, she offered to help, but he turned her down.

“Who's the skink's neighbor?” she asked.

“A short-horned lizard that a friend and I caught with a pole and noose in Alberta.” He placed the tray on a table between the chairs. “When Charlie's threatened, he ruptures a blood vessel in his eye and squirts blood as far as a six feet.”

“Neat trick,” and totally disgusting.

Vincent poured the coffee. “How's Rhonda? Still the world's greatest cook?”

“She's fine, and how do you know about her cooking skills?”

“She used to bring us picnic baskets filled with chicken and salads and wonderful strudels.”

“I didn't know that.” She accepted the mug he handed her.

“Rhonda hung around a lot waiting for Marcus that last year. A couple of times she showed up, thinking he'd returned from one of his business trips when he hadn't. She seemed lonely.”

“Yeah, well, Dad was around less and less. Rhonda said he'd been on lots of business trips. In fact, the last time I saw him was that Christmas. Less than three months later I was arranging his funeral.” She watched Vincent pour a packet of sugar in his coffee. “I know about his import/export business, Vincent. A woman named Simone Archambault told me. Do you know her?”

“The name's vaguely familiar.”

“Simone implied you knew something about this business,” she said, watching his mouth clamp shut, “and I need to know more.”

“All I did was help Marcus with the bookkeeping now and then. You know how little patience he had for accounting.”

“Was the business called
TZ
Incorporated?”

“Yes.”

“Simone said his architectural practice wasn't doing well and that importing was helping him bring in extra cash.”

“It did that.” He sipped his coffee.

“How long had he had this sideline?”

“About fifteen years. By the end it wasn't a sideline, it was his whole life.”

The stifling room was making her sweat. “Fifteen years? Are you kidding me?”

“Afraid not. The more money Marcus made through importing the less interested he was in acquiring new architecture clients or in even designing. He was always taking off somewhere, living the high life.”

“I don't frigging believe this.” Casey's thoughts were reeling. All that time without saying one bloody word to her. “What did he import?”

Vincent shrugged. “Nothing terribly exotic or illegal, that I know of. Mostly art, rare carpeting, artwork, unusual pieces of furniture, some of it antique.”

“Then why did he keep it from me?”

“Truthfully, I think Marcus was embarrassed that his firm was failing; you know how proud he was. Also, for most of those years he was only a courier, a delivery person for someone else.”

“Theo Ziegler?”

Vincent nodded. “How did you know?”

“A little research. The guy's been following me since the murder and the police want to talk to him.” She watched his gaze drift to the terrariums again. “Do you know the man?”

“We've never met, but we spoke on the phone occasionally, which is also what I told the police.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Just that he was Marcus's employer and later his partner. They were also good friends, though one day I overheard Marcus arguing on the phone with him about money. I knew it was Ziegler because Marcus called him by name.”