“I don’t think she’ll tell her,” I said. “Not until she can tell her the whole truth.”
“But she doesn’t mind if you lie?”
I shrugged. “I doubt she’s thinking straight right now. She’s going on instinct.”
“I know you want this to go away fast, Ryan, but wouldn’t Wendy just ask your mom to soldier on a bit longer if she thought that was a possibility?”
I tried to think like my sister. “She knows Mom’s going to be busy with Dad. She’s probably trying to spare her right away.”
“Does she ask for your help very often?”
“A couple of times at my parents’ house she’s asked me to keep an eye on the girls. But my nieces are well-behaved. It’s not like they were going to fall in my parents’ pool or run into the street. They watch TV or color. That’s about it.”
“But what she’s asking now is a big deal.” Sophie closed the laptop.
I knew she wasn’t done helping me, but I had to be sure. “You’ll keep searching for a murder that fits? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’d be grateful.”
She looked offended. “You couldn’t stop me.”
“If nothing turns up, maybe you should branch out to the rest of Arizona.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll widen the circle a little at a time. What work are you taking with you?”
Out in the Cold’s next season had to be a priority. Sophie and I were gathering and reading information on promising cold cases, looking for the right one to feature next. We’d screened out almost a hundred so far, and more recently we’d rejected two dozen or so suggested by crew, consultants and saddest of all, families still hoping to discover the truth about a loved one’s death. It was time to zero in.
I listed what I planned to bring along, finishing quickly. “Most of what I need is on my laptop, but I’ll bring the files I haven’t had time to look at yet. You and I can send info back and forth, like we always do.”
“Do you have meetings you’ll miss? Do you need me to take them for you?”
“I think I can do all of them by phone, unless Sebastian wants a sit-down.” Sebastian Freiman is the podcast’s executive producer, which means he forks over whatever money we need to stay on the air, and most of the time leaves us alone. But soon it would be time for a meeting to discuss whatever idea Sophie and I settled on.
“You’ll have to come back and take that one.” Sophie wasn’t intimidated by Sebastian, as much as she was mystified. She’d grown up in poverty, while Sebastian was rich enough that Out in the Cold was nothing more than a hobby, like his collections of antique cars or his forty-foot yacht.
“I can come back for a day if I need to,” I said. “My mother can manage the girls short-term. She can hire help if she has advance notice.”
“No matter what, it’s going to be hard. Your mom’s no spring chicken.”
Wendy had been born when Mom was almost thirty, and I had been born when she was forty-five, the proverbial change of life baby. Now she was seventy-three.
“Yeah, she deserves better.” I slapped one final running shoe into the bag. “Then there’s Dad. I don’t know what this thing with Wendy will do to him. So I need to keep this to myself as long as I can.”
“Which won’t be long.” Sophie stood and stretched. “You know I’ll do whatever I can on this end. If you need more, just holler.”
I wished I didn’t need her, that I had friends at the ready in the town where I grew up. But that wasn’t true. Unlike my popular sister, as a girl I’d had only a few close friends, none of whom had stayed in Seabank. A colleague or two from my internship at the Seabank Free Press might still be around, but I hoped to avoid them.
The face of the one friend who’d remained in town flashed through my mind. Just as quickly, I shoved away the image of Teo Santiago, the man whose life I had changed forever, and not for the better.
I walked Sophie to the door, and she gave me a quick hug. The sun had just gone down and what clouds remained billowed along the plum-streaked horizon.
The storm had passed quickly, as coastal storms often do. I wondered what storms I could expect in the future.
CHAPTER THREE
After I left for college, my parents sold the house where I had been raised and moved to an exclusive gated community. Gulf Sands borders the Gulf of Mexico, although almost every grain of sand is covered by thick mats of grass and blooming shrubs. My parents’ house sits back from the water, elevated to avoid floods and protected by a blue tile retaining wall. Just below, a patio bordered by St. Augustine grass leads out to the seawall and dock. The house itself is two story, with acres of glass on the first floor looking over the infinity pool and a lanai furnished with tasteful all-weather wicker.
The property is too valuable to be truly private, but my parents’ home sits at a point, so views of neighbors are limited. Inside, travertine floors gleam, and Tommy Bahama furnishings adorn the great room, which borders a kitchen with golden granite countertops and natural maple cabinetry. While my mother and I share few interests, we both like to cook. This kitchen is twice the size of the one in Sea Palms, but I doubt Mom uses it half as much.
The upstairs bedroom suites have views of the gulf, but luckily for my father, the master suite is downstairs. While the master doesn’t look over the water, French doors open to a shady walled courtyard, complete with tubs of flowers and a fountain. I hoped that Dad would feel well enough soon that he could enjoy the beautiful November weather there.
About noon I parked my Civic in the circular driveway, unlocked the front door and let myself inside. I listened for voices. If children were present, they were silent children, which perfectly described my nieces. I found my mother closing the master suite door behind her, and I didn’t speak, not wanting to disturb my father.
When she saw me, Mom frowned and motioned for me to follow her through the great room and outside to one of several tables on their expansive lanai. Our entire family can be outside at the same time and never have to talk to each other.
My mother looked exhausted. She is still blond, although her hairdresser has worked that particular magic on her layered bob for decades now. She’s never weighed more than a pound she shouldn’t, never gone out into the sun without protection, never attended fewer than three exercise classes a week. She uses makeup skillfully and daily, favors classic sporty attire and believes that diamonds are everyday wear. Today a wire bracelet set with several sparkled at her wrist, and one-carat studs sparkled in her earlobes. In contrast her eyes had no sparkle at all.
“Where are Holly and Noelle?” I wondered if I’d missed a call and my sister had come back to get them.
“The Millers have a niece who babysits. She took them to the dog park.”
I waited for an explanation. When none arrived, I shrugged. “Did Wendy acquire a dog and you’re taking care of that, too?”
“No, the niece has a dog. The girls lit up when Tina brought Oodles to meet them. They were so excited.”
I had never witnessed excitement from either of my nieces, so I was sorry I’d missed it. “How are they doing? More important, how’s Dad?”
“He’s wondering where your sister is. What have you heard?”
Mom hadn’t wasted time getting to Wendy, but I couldn’t blame her. “Nothing more than I’ve told you.”
“You didn’t tell me enough.”
“I told you all I could. And before you ask, of course I’ve tried calling her. But even her voice mail is down.” Down as in “disconnected,” something I didn’t add.
“And all she told you was that the problem was complicated, and she would get back to you?”
I didn’t answer directly. “I realize that’s not much. I’m sorry. I wish she’d walk in and tell us what happened. But she made it sound like that might not happen for a while.”
“None of this is lik
e her.”
“So tell me how Dad is.”
“He has the same heart condition as Bill Clinton. You remember him?”
I didn’t laugh, although the fact she’d asked struck me as funny. “Not personally, no. But I did graduate from college, and I voted for Hillary.”
“Unless your father changes his lifestyle, everything will clog up again. When he said he had no intention of becoming a vegetarian, his cardiologist asked him if he had a will, and offered to call a lawyer.”
I whistled softly. “Hardball. What else?”
“Exercise. An absence of stress.”
I couldn’t imagine how we could pull off that last one until Wendy was home again and taking more responsibility for Gracey Group. I got to my feet. “It’s lunchtime. Will you let me fix you a sandwich? You can rest while I do.”
“It’s been so nice having Wendy nearby. I’ve been counting on her help with your father. I hope she resolves whatever the problem is quickly.”
I felt like something Mom had reluctantly fished out of the recycling bin, but I repeated my question.
“No, I’ll come with you, and we can get lunch ready for the girls, too. You’ll want to feed them before you take them back to the town house. You’ll be comfortable there. Wendy’s enjoyed it.”
When Wendy moved to Seabank from Connecticut, where she and Bryce own a showy Colonial, I wondered why. At the time neither of my parents were ill, so they didn’t need help. In fact, Wendy had claimed that with Bryce at sea, she was the one who needed it. Since she was traveling more for Gracey Group, she’d wanted my parents to keep the girls while she was away.
Instead of moving into their home in Gulf Sands, Wendy had asked if she and the girls could move into a roomy town house on the other side of Seabank that Dad owned as one of many investments. The town house, which commands a steep rent, was between tenants, so Dad had agreed.
Since my father owns my duplex, I certainly couldn’t question his generosity to my sister, and now there was a hidden bonus. While I was serving out my time as my nieces’ babysitter, I wouldn’t have Mom looking over my shoulder.
In the kitchen I took bread, sliced turkey, cheese from the refrigerator. “What do the girls like for lunch?” I poked my head around the door, hands full. “Peanut butter? Soup?”
“Grilled cheese. Plain. American cheese. White bread.”
I made a face. “Can they be trained?”
“I hope you won’t have enough time to try.”
Those were my sentiments exactly. I set food on the counter and dove back in for my mother and me, coming up with ham and mustard. “Has Dad eaten?”
“Last night for dinner I made whole wheat pasta with chopped tomatoes and basil. He ate three bites and said he wasn’t hungry. I served it again today for lunch. He didn’t like it any better.”
My mother has always been determined to plow straight through the worst life has to offer. Even her recreational choices reflect that. She raises money for foster children, serves on a county committee studying homelessness, and participates in local pro-life marches. Still, since I knew her so well, today I heard the mixture of concern and annoyance in her voice.
“I bet you’d like some help with meal prep,” I said. “I’ll find some vegan recipes and see what I can do. Maybe the girls like to cook, too.”
She was silent so long I thought she’d blown me off, but she finally sighed, a sound I rarely heard. “Holly and Noelle don’t seem to like much, Ryan. Maybe they feel strange with us since we’ve never lived in the same town. But I remember you and your sister at their ages. Wendy was busy making friends. You were always outside doing something. Trying to build a fort. Kicking a soccer ball. In the pool. You loved books. I was at the library practically every other day to keep you supplied. By the time you were Holly’s age, you’d already cooked your first meal. All by yourself.”
I was surprised by the recital, and more surprised she remembered the meal. “Macaroni and cheese and sliced tomatoes. And it wasn’t quite by myself. You insisted on draining the macaroni. I was furious.”
“And I’d do it again.” She almost smiled. “You made ice cream sandwiches for dessert.”
“Chocolate ice cream between oatmeal cookies.”
“I don’t think the girls would do any of those things. Don’t be disappointed. They’re good children.” She paused. “But they aren’t fun to have around.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Mom looked up and saw my expression. “I may be their grandmother, but I’m not blind to who they are. Wendy’s absence is going to weigh on them, especially Noelle. She’s at that age where she worships her mother. You’ll have to keep things running smoothly while your sister’s gone. They’ll need nutritious meals, a schedule they can count on, assistance with their homework, early bedtimes. Their booster seats are in my car, and you’ll have to move them to yours. But they can get themselves in and out and use the seat belts.”
My warm feelings had evaporated. “I realize I don’t have children, but I think I can figure out how to take care of Wendy’s.”
“You might be surprised how hard it is to take care of anybody’s children. Even your own.”
“I’ll probably never find out.”
“No man on the horizon?”
The question came out of nowhere, more surprising since she had so many other things on her mind. “I work closely with several,” I said. “One’s gay, one’s married, one’s going through a breakup and doesn’t like women at the moment and won’t for a while.”
“Don’t women your age hang out in bars looking for Mr. Right?”
“Women my age also sleep with strangers they pick up on the street, but that doesn’t mean I find the idea attractive.”
“I raised you right.”
“Are you kidding? As far as men go, you didn’t raise me at all. Wendy had to tell me about sex. I thought it was a joke.”
“She thought you were ready, and I didn’t. I would have done it better, if I’d had the chance.”
“Her version worked wonders. I wouldn’t let a guy near me for years.” I laughed. “Of course that wore off.”
“I don’t want to hear this part.”
“No chance you will.” The front door opened, and we both heard the clatter of feet followed by a sharp, high bark.
“Just remember,” my mother said, “first Holly and Noelle lost their father, and now they’ve lost their mother. At that age, temporary feels like forever. Be kind to them.”
“I’ll do my best.”
My mother’s expression said it all. She wasn’t a bit sure that my best was going to be good enough. Sadly, neither was I.
CHAPTER FOUR
“They have so many flavors. Peanut butter chocolate chunk. Raspberry coconut swirl. Lemon meringue.”
I finished reading the list off the signboard and glanced down at the two little statues beside me. I was sure eight-year-old Holly could read. And while six-year-old Noelle probably couldn’t read well, she could certainly listen to the flavors available at Creamworks, an ice cream shop halfway between my parents’ house and the town house.
Although the name was new, along with the more unusual flavors, the pleasantly rundown shop was much the same as it had been when I was little. As I’d read, I had skipped the oddest possibilities. I didn’t think my nieces were in the market for Gotcha Sriracha or Faking Bacon.
“So what will it be?” I asked. When they didn’t answer, I gave an example. “I’m going to try pumpkin praline.” Thanksgiving, that land mine for both normal and dysfunctional families, was safely behind us, but clearly Creamworks hadn’t run out of the holiday’s prime flavors.
“I don’t like pumpkin.” Noelle, a miniature Wendy with blond hair halfway down her back and a winning smile, wasn’t smiling now. She stamped one rhinestone-encrusted flip-flo
p on the ground, and folded her little arms in front of the ruffled pink shirt that matched her polka-dot capris.
I wondered if the girls would feel more comfortable with me if I had visited more since their move to Seabank. Maybe if I had, I would have sensed a problem with Wendy, too, something in her life she needed to talk about. Unfortunately, the only thing I could do for my sister now was buy ice cream for her daughters.
“You don’t have to have pumpkin, Noelle.” I pointed at the sign. “They have more than a dozen flavors you can choose from. I just read them to you. Did you hear anything you might like?”
“She eats vanilla,” Holly said.
Holly was a head taller than her sister, with long brown hair and eyes as dark as my own, along with her father’s widow’s peak. I had never seen a winning smile on my niece’s face. Holly was perpetually solemn, with lips that sagged between a pout and a grimace. Apparently that had never stopped Wendy from buying her expensive girly clothing. Holly’s outfit matched Noelle’s, only in yellow.
“Vanilla, then,” I said, sorry that I’d thought bringing them to Creamworks was a good way to get to know them. “How about you?”
She shrugged. “I don’t care.”
“Do you like peanut butter?”
“No.”
“Lemonade?”
“No.”
“Vanilla?”
She shrugged again. I ordered vanilla cones for both girls, along with my more exotic choice.
When the cones arrived, Noelle carefully wrapped two napkins around hers. Holly, more daring, wrapped one. I grabbed a napkin for mine, just in case, and led them outside to an iron bistro table, packed tightly among half a dozen like it.
“Vanilla doesn’t stain,” Noelle said before she began to rotate the cone and carefully lick away any drip that might make it past the bundled napkins.
Wendy’s voice emerging from a six-year-old was disquieting. I wondered if Noelle was parroting a dictate, thus the root of the vanilla fetish. Since I wasn’t their mother, I couldn’t criticize my sister. For all I knew, the ice cream mandate had come about after an entire wardrobe of little girl clothes had been ruined by Persimmon Cinnamon and Banana Manna stains.
A Family of Strangers Page 3
