The Plot (12 page)

Cassie nodded. “Yes, of course. How are you, Mr. Spano?"

"Well enough, Miss Hart,” he answered, the smile on his face not reflected in the dark eyes that searched hers.

"Here, have a seat,” Uncle Hamilton offered, then shifted his gaze to Spano. “Walter, be sure and get back with me tomorrow on that, ah, report."

"Yes, sir. I'll have it ready,” replied Spano, not quite closing the door behind himself as he left.

"I really do apologize for barging in on you,” Cassie began.

"Quite all right, Cassandra,” he said again, sitting on the edge of his desk just a short distance from her. “Martha left early to run some errands. Tell me. How are you getting along? You didn't return my call yesterday.” His eyes narrowed a little.

Cassie looked down at her hands, clasping and unclasping them slowly. “Sorry. May Lee ... uh, got sick.” She kept her voice soft and low and looked back up at him before continuing. “I'm okay, I guess. Of course, it's hard being at Mother and Daddy's house. Everywhere I turn, something reminds me of other, happier times.” She sighed. “And today, when I scattered Daddy's ashes over Mother's grave ... well, today's been particularly difficult..."

He leaned forward and placed his hands on hers. His gray eyes took on a softer hue, almost blue. “You should have told me. I'd have gone with you."

"I know. But, I felt like I needed to be alone with them ... with my thoughts. You understand."

"Yes, of course.” He stood and walked toward the wide window that overlooked the park he had donated to the city.

Cassie waited in silence, watching him stare down at the rain-soaked world outside. He held his back straight, his shoulders as square as a soldier's, and she wondered what he was thinking that made him look so stiff.

"Uncle Hamilton?"

He turned toward her and leaned against the windowsill. “Yes, Cassandra.”
Permission granted
.

She looked down at her hands. “I have so many questions about ... everything, and I didn't know who to go to except you.” She furrowed her brow as she turned her eyes back to him.

He frowned a little and walked across to sit in the large leather chair behind his desk. “Yes, I suppose that's natural,” he replied, leaning back. “I'll help you anyway I can."

She cleared her throat, shifting in her seat under his steady gaze. “There's so much, it's hard to know where to begin."

"The beginning is always a good place,” he offered, allowing himself to smile.

She forced a little smile in return. “Well, for one thing, when I was, um, sorting through the stuff in the attic, I came across a copy of an old newsletter called
Penseur.
Daddy was listed as editor-in-chief."

"Yes?” He dragged the word out and turned his chair slightly away toward the window.

"Well, what I read in it just didn't fit the Madison Hart I knew,” she said, biting her lower lip. “It was, well, like a
revolutionary
publication, I guess you'd say. All about how peace could never exist in the world as long as Americans clung to outdated attitudes ... like individual rights."

He turned to face her, shaking his head. “I guess that would be unsettling, considering that you knew your father as a staunch defender of the Constitution. But Cassandra, there's much you can't possibly understand about those times. Our generation had endured bloodshed in our own streets as African-Americans struggled for equality and young men and women protested against a bloody, pointless war. Your father, like the rest of us, was young,
idealistic
, searching for some way to ‘make a difference. You mustn't take things too seriously."

"But he wrote so passionately about it."

"Of course. He
was
passionate about it. But everyone back then was passionate, no matter which side they were on. The slogan of our generation was ‘I am as responsible for everything I see as I am for everything I do.’ We fervently believed we could change the world. But, Cassandra,” he paused, seeming to look back down through history, then sighed and continued, “those were the dreams, the ideals of youth. With maturity, ideals give way to the realities of life, the incontrovertible truths of human nature, and acceptance of what
is
inevitably replaces dreams of what should be. Your father was no different."

"But what changed him?"

"It's hard to say, Cassandra. He traveled. He became a father. Life, I guess one would have to say, had given him what he once described-quite vehemently, as I recall-as an appreciation for the ‘rights and freedoms’ he felt were ‘guaranteed by the Founding Fathers.’”

Cassie watched his expression evolve from the softness it held as he spoke of the past to one of almost bewilderment, then finally, to anger. She hesitated, noticing that he clenched his jaw when he spoke of Daddy's conversion.

"Well, if that's the case, I just don't understand why—” She deliberately stopped before finishing her thought.

"Why what?"

"Oh, well, it's just so curious.” She looked out the window at the dark rolling clouds.

"What's curious, Cassandra?” He sounded perturbed.

"Well, if Daddy
wasn't
involved in some kind of, uh, anti-government movement, why would the FBI take over the investigation of his death?” She opened her eyes wide as she looked back in his direction.

He took a visibly deep breath and looked away. “I, ah, I...” It was the first time Cassie had ever seen him at a loss for words. After a moment, he faced her again, more composed. “I am afraid I don't know. I'm sure they must have their reasons, however."

She shook her head softly. “Yes, well, do you think you could find out for me? I mean, I know it's a lot to ask, but you
said
you wanted to help me anyway you could."

"I don't know, Cassandra.” He leaned forward, resting his arms against the top of his desk. “Getting involved with the FBI can bring suspicion onto oneself.” He paused, seeming to think. “But, of course, if it's that important to you, I'll look into it.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

"That would mean so much, Uncle Hamilton. You have no idea how troubled I've been. I mean, I can't help wondering why the FBI would be involved if Daddy's death was just an
accident
. And why they want to take over the investigation of the burglary. I mean, maybe I'm in some kind of danger, too."

He stood abruptly and walked around to the front of his desk, looking her squarely in the eyes. “I assure you, Cassandra,
you
are in no danger. What may or may not have occurred with your father has nothing whatsoever to do with you."

"I don't know..."

"
I
do. You must trust me. Can you do that?"

She turned her face away for a moment.
Trust no one
. “Of course, Uncle Hamilton,” she answered, looking back at him with a small smile. “If I can't trust
you
, who can I trust?"

He nodded. “Listen. This has been a terrible experience for you. Perhaps being at your parents’ home these past few days is making it worse. Why don't you go away for a few weeks? Go to the mountains, maybe. It will give you a chance to gain a new perspective."

She cocked her head to the side. His eyes had turned steely gray again. “Maybe you're right. I guess I have been kind of obsessed. And I love the mountains. Maybe I could go to Gatlinburg. It's so quaint there."

"That's a good girl.” He took hold of her elbows and raised her to her feet, walking her to the door. “Be careful driving home in this rain.” He kissed her cheek, then added, “Call me when you get back."

She accepted his kiss without returning it, and, with a small wave of her hand, walked toward the elevator, smiling a little to herself. Selena would be calling in a little while, and
Books and Beanz
served the best
cafe au lait
in town.

"Yo’ friend is back,” said Sam, looking out the window above the sink where he was helping his wife with the dishes. “Lights just came on."

Max stood up from the rickety chair and walked to the window to see a shadow pass behind the curtains next door. It's time to dance, he thought and, taking a deep breath, turned toward the woman clearing the plastic cloth from the table. “Shavonda, I want to thank you-and Sam-for havin’ me t’ supper. It was mighty nice o’ ya. And if that ain't the best meal I've had in years, well, then grits ain't groceries.” He patted his stomach for emphasis.

"You mos’ welcome, Mistah Max,” she answered, her large dark eyes sparkling with warmth. “But it's us oughta thank you fo’ sharin’ yo’ fish with us."

"Yeah,” Sam piped in, wiping his big, calloused hands on a paper towel. “We sho’ does ‘preciate it."

"My pleasure. Anyhow, I reckon I better go on over and see if ol’ Jonathon had any luck today,” said Max, shaking Sam's hand before walking to the door.

"Hope y'all haves a nice visit,” Shavonda said.

"Thanks.” He closed the door behind him and stepped from the small porch to the moon-bathed yard that separated the two cabins. Stopping a few yards away, he reflected on his approach to Jonathon. After a moment of mental rehearsing, he stepped onto the porch and rapped twice on the door. When there was no response, he knocked again, louder.

"Who's there?” came a deep, hoarse voice from the other side of the door.

"A friend of Cassandra Hart's,” he called back.

"What d'ya want?” He sounded gruff, annoyed maybe.

"I've gotta talk to you. It's important. Very important."

"Just a minute. I'm comin'."

Max listened to the old man's heavy footsteps approach. When the door opened, he took a deep breath and put on his best poker face. “Mr. Sinclair?"

Jonathon peered through the inches-wide opening. “Yeah. Who are you?"

"Max Henshaw, Mr. Sinclair. A friend of Cassie's. I need to speak with you.” He kept his voice level but firm as he watched the old man making up his mind.

"I don't know you,” Jonathon finally said. “Ain't never seen you around before. How do I know you're a friend of Miss Cassie?"

Max reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a piece of paper, holding it toward the handyman. “Here's a letter from her."

Jonathon took it and closed the door in Max's face. A minute later, he returned with his glasses still on, holding the letter in his gnarled hand. “Okay, Detective Henshaw. Come on in,” he said, opening the door and leading the way across the room to sit in a wicker rocking chair.

Max followed, closing the door behind himself, and sat on a wooden captain's chair just a few feet in front of the older man. For a long moment, they were both silent, studying one another.

Finally, Max cleared his throat. “I'm very sorry to bother you, Mr. Sinclair,” he began, “But I've come on an urgent matter."

"I know. I read the letter.” Jonathon took off his glasses and set them on the lamp table. “You're lookin’ fer my boy."

"Yes, sir. That's correct. Do you have any idea where he is?"

"Nope. Ain't seen Philip since a week before Mr. Hart was ... passed on,” he answered, his weathered face creasing with emotion. He looked toward the cold fireplace.

"He doesn't live with you?"

"Nope. My wife died a couple of years back. Philip moved out not long after. Comes by to visit now an’ then, but that's about all. How come you're lookin’ for ‘im?"

Max bit his lip as he considered what to say. “Mr. Sinclair, Philip's car was identified as being the vehicle that struck and killed Madison Hart."

"The
hell
you say,” Jonathon thundered, standing suddenly, his fists clenched. “Madison Hart wasn't just my employer. He was my
friend
. Get it, mister? My friend! When he died, it like to've killed me. That's how come I'm here. Had to get away. To think. Now you're tryin’ to say my own
son
is responsible?"

Max tensed at the old man's outburst, but remained seated, watching Jonathon with practiced restraint. There was no doubt that years of hard work had kept the handyman's body strong, and any outward reaction to the man's anger could easily provoke him.

"I understand, sir,” he finally ventured as the look on Jonathon's face evolved from anger to anguish and his hands and shoulders relaxed. “And I want you to understand that no one is accusing your son of anything. We just need some answers."

Jonathon turned on his heel and walked to the window, pulling back the white linen curtains to look out at the silvery, moon-splashed lake. His shoulders slumped. “What do you need to know?” he asked at last, his voice low.

Max let a moment pass before responding. “You say you haven't seen Philip since almost two weeks ago. Have you spoken to him?"

"Yes. He called me the night Madison Hart died."

"Did he seem upset or unlike himself in any way?"

The old man seemed to think a long time before answering. “Well, sure. He was upset at what happened. He called to see how I was doing."

"Did he say anything about his car being stolen? Maybe that he'd lent it to a friend?"

Jonathon let go of the curtain and turned around. He looked miserable. “Nope. Nothin’ like that at all."

"What
did
you talk about?"

"Like I said. He called to see how I was, ‘cause he knew I'd be upset.” He pulled a package of Marlboro cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one, blowing the smoke out through his nose. “I told him I was plannin’ to come down here after the memorial service and invited him to come along."

This was the part that Max had dreaded, but he couldn't avoid it. “Did Philip say he'd join you here?"

Jonathon hesitated, glancing toward the bedroom. “No. He said he'd like to come, but he couldn't get away."

"Get away from what? His job?"

"No. He hasn't worked in over a month. Got laid off ‘cause of some problem with his boss. He was lookin’ for another job.” He took a drag of the cigarette as he crossed the room and sat back down in the rocking chair. “I figured he just didn't want to come."

"Mr. Sinclair, is there any chance he might have changed his mind?"

"Could've. I don't know. Why?"

Max leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked as kindly at the old man as he knew how. “Well, it seems they found his car yesterday not too far from here."