Not a Happy Family

by Shari Lapena

  Catherine is horrified. He’s gone from being flushed to very pale. She can see that he’s losing his grip. He’s holding on to the lectern as if he might fall if he doesn’t. She can see a sheen of sweat on his face. She has to put a stop to this. She lurches to her feet and walks up the center aisle the short distance to the lectern. He’s stopped speaking and watches her approach warily, as a hush falls over the church. She takes his arm gently. He tries to shake it off but then suddenly gives in, as if he’s forgotten anything more he wanted to say, and goes with her back to the pew, where they all shift over and he sits down beside her. As Catherine takes her seat, she can hear the low hum of people starting to whisper. People will talk about this; it will be in the news. She’s furious at Dan but trying hard not to show it. She tries, once, to meet Lisa’s eyes, but Lisa is staring at the floor.

  * * *

  • • •

  reyes considers what he’s just seen. It makes him wonder if Dan Merton is a rather disturbed young man. Reyes turns around and searches out Barr behind him and to the left. She meets his eyes, raises her eyebrows. The service is over. Reyes checks his phone as he rises. There’s been nothing. If they’d seen the pickup truck they would have buzzed him. He swallows his disappointment.

  * * *

  • • •

  rose cutter rises from her seat at the back of the church and thinks about sneaking away quietly without getting in line to speak to the family. Catherine would expect to see her. But there are so many people; it’s going to take a long time. She doesn’t want to talk to the family. She just wants to get away. She slips out of the church.

  * * *

  • • •

  irena hovers nearby, keeping an eye on things as the family gathers at the entrance to the church for people to pay their respects on the way out. She was deeply disturbed by Dan’s speech. Now Dan is there, straitjacketed between his two sisters, who’ve told him to say nothing but thank you for coming. They are all worried about what people will think, about what the detectives will think.

  Irena longs for this ordeal to be over. The funeral, the gathering afterward, the investigation. It’s all so exhausting. She hasn’t been sleeping well. She feels like she has vertigo, as if she’s standing on the edge of a precipice, about to fall. She watches Dan.

  He turns to his right and leans across Jenna to Jake, and says, “Jenna says you were with her all night the night Mom and Dad were killed. Is that true?”

  He hasn’t lowered his voice, and Irena can hear him from several feet away, and the people close by glance at him.

  Jake looks embarrassed and says something she doesn’t catch.

  Dan smiles unpleasantly. “Right. Like you’re not lying for her.”

  Irena notices then with a sickening jolt that Detective Reyes is standing beside her, observing, listening. She feels uncomfortable with him so close, hearing everything. She watches in dismay as a disaster unfolds in front of them. She’s helpless to stop it.

  Jenna turns to her brother and hisses something she can’t quite hear. Probably telling him to shut up.

  “Why?” Dan says angrily. “What did you ever do for me?”

  Irena holds her breath. She’s furious at the detective standing beside her, seeing everything. Lisa appears to be coaxing Dan to leave. She’s speaking to him quietly, pulling on his sleeve.

  But Dan looks in Irena’s direction and spies Detective Reyes standing beside her. He calls, “Detective!” and waves him over. “There’s something you should know.”

  Irena sees that everyone in the family except Dan has gone rigid at the sight of the detective. The people in the line fall away awkwardly. Reyes takes a few steps until he’s standing near Dan. “Maybe we could go outside?” the detective says quietly.

  Dan waves his suggestion aside and says, loudly, “My sisters don’t have alibis either. You know Ted lied for Catherine. And I bet Jake here is lying for Jenna.”

  Reyes looks at Jake, who averts his eyes.

  “And Catherine and Jenna both knew about the disposable suits in my garage.” His voice is sly now. “Either one of them could have taken one; I don’t even lock the garage most of the time. You need to know that. I didn’t kill them—but maybe one of them did.”

  It seems as if everyone still inside the church has stopped moving, riveted to the scene. Irena sees Audrey and her daughter on the periphery. Audrey is avidly taking it all in, a smirk on her face.

  Irena knows this family. They’re going to turn on one another. That’s what they do, these kids. It’s what they’ve always done. Irena suddenly becomes aware of the sound of photographers furiously taking pictures.

  * * *

  • • •

  exhausted from the events of the last week, Reyes collapses into his favorite armchair in the evening, thinking about the funeral earlier that day, while his wife gets the kids ready for bed. He should really give her a hand, but she’d taken one look at him and told him to go put his feet up, he looked worn out.

  Is it true, Reyes asks himself, that both sisters knew about the disposable coveralls in Dan Merton’s garage and had access, as he claimed? Might one of them have committed the murders, hoping he’d take the fall? And to get a bigger portion?

  Catherine lied about going back to the house that night. Did she kill them then? She might have taken one of those suits, rather than risk purchasing one somewhere herself, and possibly to cast suspicion on her brother. Maybe she’s only pretending to be the protective sister. Audrey claims that Fred or Sheila must have told one or more of the kids about their father’s plan to change his will in Audrey’s favor. If that’s true, who knew? Would losing half of the estate to their aunt be enough to drive one of them to murder?

  And Jenna . . . well, Jake isn’t a very good liar. What really happened in that hour while Jenna and Jake were in the house with Fred and Sheila? Did they come back afterward and commit the murders together? Or did Jenna possibly do it on her own? For now, Jake is standing by her alibi.

  He must talk to both sisters again. And he wants another crack at the former nanny, who probably knows that family better than anyone.

  38

  Catherine wakes up Sunday morning, still drained from the long and difficult day before. She picks up the newspaper outside her door and sees reporters and TV trucks in the street. Up until now the press had mostly left them alone. They surge toward her and she quickly slams the door. She looks down at the paper in her hands.

  The Aylesford Record has again run the story about her parents’ murders on the front page. But this time it’s different. There’s a photograph, and it makes her suck in her breath—a candid shot of that awful moment in the church when Dan started spilling his venom to that detective. Catherine studies the photo—she looks cold and angry. Dan is animated, Jenna startled. It’s a very unflattering photograph of the family, and it makes her cringe. Catherine walks slowly into the kitchen and sits down at the table, reading the article quickly, with growing distaste. The distance and the respect afforded the Mertons thus far because of their wealth and position has disappeared. The gloves have come off and now the press is out for blood.

  WHO KILLED WEALTHY COUPLE? FAMILY RIFT DISRUPTS FUNERAL

  She skims the article, and as she does, certain key phrases and sentences pop out at her.

  . . . speculation that it was a robbery that turned violent . . . Perhaps a new theory of the case is emerging. . . . Dan Merton overheard telling police that his two sisters, Catherine Merton and Jenna Merton, should be considered suspects . . . a shocking display of dissension in a family that has always been very private and conscious of its position in the community. . . .

  Catherine’s heart sinks as she continues reading.

  Police are focusing their attention on the three adult children . . . each expected to inherit a portion of the Mertons’ estate. . . . A source, who spoke on condition of anon
ymity, claims money might not be the only motive for the murders. . . . The family was apparently a troubled one, a claim borne out by what happened at yesterday’s funeral. . . .

  Catherine looks up as she hears Ted enter the kitchen.

  “You won’t believe this,” Catherine says, feeling sick to her stomach, throwing the newspaper onto the table in front of him as he sits down across from her. Catherine gets up to put the coffee on.

  Ted reads silently, his face grim. “Jesus,” he says.

  Catherine says bitterly, “Why doesn’t Dan understand that he should just shut the fuck up?” She adds, “And we all know who that anonymous source is.”

  * * *

  • • •

  lisa stares down at her coffee, which has grown cold. She’s read the disturbing article in the Aylesford Record.

  She’s never been so frightened, so alone. Dan has come unglued. He’s effectively cut them both off from his sisters through his actions yesterday at the funeral. He expects her to remain loyal to him and have nothing more to do with Catherine and Jenna. It’s as if he’s lost his mind. They fought about it last night after the disastrous funeral and interminable event at the golf club, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. He seems almost to have convinced himself that one of his sisters murdered their parents and set him up to take the fall.

  Or is that what he’s trying to convince her of?

  It’s incomprehensible, all of it. Lisa’s in an impossible position.

  * * *

  • • •

  reyes and barr interview Irena Dabrowski again early on Sunday morning, while waiting for the search warrant for Catherine Merton. The cleaning lady sits across from them in the interview room for the second time. Reyes believes she might hold the key. He believes that one of the Merton kids killed their parents. He’s convinced she thinks so too. She certainly knows more than she’s telling.

  “We know you’re protecting somebody.”

  “I’m not protecting anyone. I don’t know who did it.” She looks down at the table and says, a little desperately, “I don’t want to know.”

  Reyes leans forward intently. “But you do know, or you have a pretty good idea,” he says. “It was one of the kids, wasn’t it? We know it was one of them—or maybe two of them or all of them together—and so do you.” She raises her head and he sees tears start to form in her eyes. He waits, but all she does is shake her head.

  He opens the folder on the desk and takes out photos of the murder scenes and spreads them out on the table. She glances down, then quickly looks away.

  “So which one of your former charges is capable of that, do you think?”

  Finally, she licks her lips, as if she’s going to say something. Reyes waits, trying not to show his impatience.

  She says, “I don’t know who did it.” She slumps in defeat, as if the effort to hold it in any longer is too much for her. “But I think any one of them might be capable of it.”

  “Why?” Reyes coaxes, his voice quieter now.

  She swallows. Takes a sip from the water glass with a trembling hand. Wipes her tears away with a tissue. “Because as much as I love each of them, I know what they’re like. They’re clever, and selfish, and greedy, and they were fathered by a psychopath. I did my best, but I wouldn’t put it past any of them.” She wipes away another tear and looks up at him. “But they would never have done it together. They don’t do anything together.”

  * * *

  • • •

  audrey rereads the article in the Aylesford Record, and while she’s pleased at the strife among Fred and Sheila’s children, now out in the open for all to see, it doesn’t dampen her sense of injustice. There’s nothing in the article about Audrey being denied her rightful share of the estate. She hadn’t told Robin Fontaine about that. Audrey had been the unnamed source who’d spoken about the problems within the Merton family, none of the juicy details of which had made it into the article. They’re probably afraid of a lawsuit, she thinks. Maybe it’s time to take it up a notch. Maybe she needs to call back that reporter and tell her what she told the detectives—that Fred was going to change his will and one of those kids is a murderer. But they probably won’t print that either. She doesn’t have any proof.

  Ellen drops by for their regular Sunday morning walk. They like to hike the various trails around Aylesford in good weather. Each Sunday, they drive together to the head of one of the trails. Now they each carry water bottles, and as they walk, they talk.

  It’s quiet out here along the nature trail, with just the occasional jogger or cyclist passing them. Audrey impulsively tells Ellen what she’s thinking of doing.

  “You’re the one who talked to the reporter,” Ellen says.

  “Yes. What, do you think I shouldn’t have?”

  Ellen is slow to answer. As Audrey walks alongside her, she considers Ellen. She has never been one to rock the boat—she’s led a rather subdued life. Audrey has always been the colorful one, she thinks, while Ellen is more reserved, a bit mousy, with her brown hair streaked with gray, her simple slacks and cardigans in quiet shades. As if she doesn’t want to be noticed.

  “I don’t know,” Ellen admits finally. “To accuse someone of murder—”

  “I just can’t stand by and do nothing,” Audrey insists. “At least I can try to get justice for Fred.”

  “Maybe you should leave it to the police,” Ellen suggests. “You don’t actually know that one of them did it.”

  Audrey snorts derisively.

  “How can you be so sure?” Ellen persists.

  Audrey stops walking and looks at her, as if coming to a decision. “I’m going to tell you something. Something awful. But you must swear you’ll never repeat it. To anyone.”

  39

  As Audrey tells her story, Ellen walking beside her, she slips back into the past. She thought she would never tell anyone, but now Fred is dead and she doesn’t have to protect him anymore. She knows she can trust Ellen not to say anything. As she speaks, long-buried memories and emotions take over. It’s a relief to finally tell someone after keeping it locked inside for a lifetime.

  She tells her about the house they grew up in, a ramshackle rural property in Vermont that had seen better days. Audrey was eleven and Fred was thirteen that summer. Their father had been on a downward trajectory for years. He’d lost one job after another because of his drinking, and Audrey wasn’t sure how her parents were putting food on the table. She thought that sometimes a check would come in the mail from her mother’s parents. But there was always a new bottle of whiskey on the kitchen counter every evening, empty by morning when she got up to get herself ready for school. And somehow another one would appear the next evening. She often wondered, embarrassed and bitter when some of the kids on the school bus made fun of her threadbare clothes, where the money for the booze came from.

  There was a woodstove in the grubby kitchen. In the living room, on the mantel of the fireplace, was an old, framed photograph of their paternal great-grandfather—whose sole claim to fame was that he’d been hanged for murder. A narrow wooden staircase led upstairs to three bedrooms and a bathroom. Audrey remembers the sound of her parents’ bedroom door slamming. The sound of weeping coming from her mother down the hall.

  She never brought friends home from school. Sometimes she would be invited to other girls’ houses, on the school bus route, but she never returned the offer. Somehow the kids understood. People knew her dad was an alcoholic.

  But it was worse than that. Their dad was an ugly, angry alcoholic. And the more he drank, the nastier he got. He’d take it out on Fred, if Fred was mouthy, and he was mouthy that summer. He’d slap Fred across the face. Fred never cried. But he got tall and strong that year and finally he slugged his father back, making him crash against the kitchen table and onto the floor as Audrey and her mother watched in disbelief. He never hit Fred again.


  Instead he occasionally slapped around their mother. But he was mostly verbally abusive, calling Audrey names, telling her that she was fat and stupid, like her mother. Fred didn’t stick up for his sister, but she worshipped him anyway. She thought of him as the functioning head of the family. She thought that, somehow, he’d get them out of this.

  Audrey was desperate to be normal, to pretend that they were like other families. So she cleaned the empties out of her dad’s car—sometimes beer cans but mostly whiskey and vodka bottles—and put them in the trash. She cleaned the house. She made an effort. Her mother soon came to depend on her more and more. Audrey worked hard at school because the one thing she knew was that she didn’t want to end up like her mom and dad; she wanted to get the hell away from home. Sometimes she felt like she and Fred were the grown-ups, taking care of their parents.

  Fred was brilliant. Everyone said so. He sailed through school effortlessly, with top grades. Audrey thought her brother was the smartest person she knew. He excelled at sports, attracted friends easily. He was good-looking and all the girls had crushes on him. Audrey made friends easily too, and was good in school, but she was chubby and plain and not good at anything in particular, other than doing what she was told. But Fred was different. He had confidence. He knew he was going places.

  Sometimes when things were bad in the house, they’d sit out in the empty barn and talk.