Twisted at the Root--A Jane Lawless Mystery

by Ellen Hart

  Peter made a mental note to buy himself a copy.

  The middle three shelves all contained paperbacks with mystery titles. Dead By Sunset. Blood Will Out. Green River, Running Red. Portrait of a Killer. The only one he recognized was In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. If he recalled correctly, the story was true, not fiction. Stepping over to one of the chairs, he sat down. He was still thinking about Kit when he noticed another paperback open on the table next to him. The title, The Stranger Beside Me, was familiar. Turning around and glancing into the kitchen, he saw that Eli was finishing up the salad prep but showed no signs of being done. Figuring he had some time, Peter picked up the book and read the back cover. Sure enough, it was another true story, this one about the infamous serial killer Ted Bundy. Eli’s tastes in reading matter were certainly varied. No, that wasn’t quite correct. He appeared to have only two interests: spirituality and, well, murder.

  Eli eventually came into the room carrying a tea tray. When he saw Peter glancing through the book, he set the tray down on the coffee table. “You ever read true crime?”

  “Is that what they call it?”

  “It’s an interest of mine.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Ah,” he said, pouring tea into two porcelain Chinese teacups. “You saw my collection.”

  “Buddhism and mayhem?”

  “I suppose that’s fair, although I prefer to think of it as an exploration of two aspects of the human psyche.”

  “Your human psyche?”

  Eli laughed as he handed Peter a cup. When he sat down, the cat watched him from the other end of the couch. Gradually, she moved closer.

  “You haven’t changed much,” said Peter. “Still the armchair philosopher. But back to this house.”

  “I like it. It’s all I need, all I want.”

  “You a Buddhist?”

  “I try but mostly I fail. It’s a hard way to live for someone with my past.”

  Peter tasted the tea. “How did that happen?”

  “The Buddhism? After you left, I crashed and burned. It wasn’t pretty. When my dad found out how bad it was, he sent me out to San Diego, to rehab. Paid for the whole thing. My Aunt Vera, my dad’s sister, and her husband live there. They promised they’d look after me. I actually stayed for almost a year. They’re Buddhists. Wonderful people. I guess I wanted what they had, so I began looking into it. Didn’t take long before I was a convert.”

  “A year,” said Peter, musing out loud. “That must have been hard on Kit.”

  Eli didn’t reply. Instead, he dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. Charlotte seemed a little startled by the flame and began mewing, her tail held high.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I know how much you loved her. I’m sure it was painful. You don’t need to talk about it.”

  “No,” said Eli, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth, away from Charlotte. “It’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it. See, Kit and my dad … they’re married now.”

  Peter sat up straight, not even trying to hide his shock. “You’re not serious. Your dad?”

  “You have to understand, I was out of the picture. I didn’t write because I was … well, so screwed up. Kit and my dad kind of … you know … bonded over their worry about me. One thing led to another and—” He shrugged.

  “Jeez, man. I don’t know what to say. I mean, it just seems … wrong.” Eli’s dad was nice enough, but he had way too many wrinkles to be married to someone like Kit.

  “Water under the bridge,” said Eli, sliding an ashtray closer. “After Mom and Dad divorced, he was terribly lonely.”

  “Sure, I get that, but to go after your girlfriend?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “No?”

  “It just happened. Nobody was trying to hurt me.”

  Maybe, thought Peter. Or maybe not. John Henry had never seemed predatory, and yet who knew what made people tick? “But they live right over there,” he said, jabbing his finger toward the main house. “That’s gotta be rough.”

  “My dad offered this place to me when I came home from rehab because he wanted me close. I appreciated that.”

  “I know but—”

  “Kit wasn’t perfect, you know,” said Eli.

  “I never thought she was.”

  “Maybe if she’d loved me a little more, she would have waited.”

  There it was, thought Peter. He wasn’t as sanguine as he tried to make out.

  “But I have to let go of thinking like that. Attachment is all about the desire to make things the way we think they should be instead of accepting them as they are. I need to develop a more expansive mind.” When he cracked his knuckles, the cat seemed fascinated and head-butted his fingers. “Anyway, they were married by the time I came home.”

  “You didn’t know about it until you got back?” This just kept getting worse.

  Eli sucked in another lungful of smoke. “Kit said she wanted to tell me, but she didn’t know how.”

  Eli’s feeling of betrayal must have risen into the stratosphere. In Peter’s opinion, he would have needed to work up an enormous amount of Buddhist detachment to make that turn of events seem okay.

  “I had to move on. There was no other choice. It took a while—almost two years—but I did. I really did.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I met someone. Maybe it was a rebound thing. Who knows? I thought I was in love. Her name was Harper. Harper Tillman. She was pretty and smart, and she seemed to really care about me. She wasn’t Kit, which was probably good. I wasn’t the old Eli anymore, either.”

  “And?”

  “It all happened kind of fast. We met and a few weeks later, she moved in. It felt good. I was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.”

  “What did Kit think of her?”

  “Kit? She liked Harper. They actually became pretty good friends.”

  “And your dad?”

  “Dad likes everyone.”

  “No, I mean really.”

  “Well, you know him. He always did these ridiculous interviews with my girlfriends, asking them a bunch of personal questions. Kit thought it was hilarious, played along and gave him outrageous answers. Harper … not so much.”

  “Actually, I don’t remember that. What kind of questions?”

  “Oh, stuff about sex, about their intentions, about whether or not they were after my money.”

  “What money?”

  Eli tapped ash into the ashtray. “Good point. Kit took the lead in helping Dad and Harper get to know each other. She’d invite us over for a meal every few weeks. Funny how people connect, you know? When the local PBS station came up in conversation one night, both Dad and Harper realized they were big fans. They loved the mysteries and the English dramas. They spent the rest of the evening talking about their favorite shows. Kit and I kept stealing glances at each other. We both thought it was pretty amusing. After that, Dad said he thought Harper was terrific.”

  “Did the subject of marriage ever come up between you two?” asked Peter.

  Eli stubbed out the cigarette. “Yes.”

  “Didn’t work out?”

  “She died late last October.”

  “She … died?”

  Eli tapped out another cigarette but didn’t light it because the cat stretched her neck to sniff it. “One night I came home and she wasn’t here. She usually got home before me. I wasn’t worried. But then later, when she still hadn’t come home or called, I started getting worried. I phoned a few friends. Nobody had seen her. In the middle of the night I started calling hospitals, emergency rooms, and in the morning, I called the police.”

  Peter just stared at him.

  “Sometimes,” he said, pressing his palms to his eyes, “I feel like I’m the kiss of death. Everything I touch—”

  “What happened?”

  Fighting back emotions, Eli said, “Her body was found three days later near a heavily wooded creek up by Taylors Falls. A
guy had been out walking his dog. The dog was the one who found her.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Don’t ask because I can’t talk about it.”

  “An accident?”

  Eli looked away. “No.” He wiped tears off his face with the arm of his sweater.

  Peter waited, giving him a moment. “Did they ever find out who did it?”

  He shook his head. “But I found out later about another woman who died in a similar way up near Duluth. Nobody believes me, but I think it was the work of a serial killer.”

  Eli’s reading interests were beginning to make sense.

  “I feel like I’ve been around a lot of death in my young life. First my uncle. That was when I was in high school, but it really affected me. Then my sister, Tori.”

  Peter and Eli had lost touch after college. When Peter had seen Tori Chenoweth’s obituary in the local paper, he’d come to the funeral, wanting to offer his condolences. It was a heartbreaking loss. From what Peter had been able to piece together, Tori had been on vacation in Switzerland with a girlfriend, hiking up some mountain pass, when her appendix burst. By the time the friend was able help Tori down off the mountain and get her to a hospital miles from the small alpine village where they were staying, it was too late.

  “Mom and Dad never recovered from Tori’s loss,” said Eli. As Charlotte hunkered down next to him, he touched a match to the tip of the cigarette, inhaled deeply, then blew the match out. “I think it’s the main reason they broke up. I mean, I’ve used since I was sixteen. Weed. Booze. Pills. Depression clearly runs in our family. If Kit hadn’t been there for me, who knows? I might have ended up like my uncle.”

  Peter had some pressing problems of his own right around the time Tori had died, so Eli’s offer of coke seemed to be, if not the answer, at least a temporary solution. Thankfully, he’d never moved on to heroin, as Eli had.

  “Kit never seemed all that interested in drugs,” said Peter.

  Eli tipped his head back and closed his eyes, his free hand absently stroking Charlotte. “Oh, we’d smoke a bowl with friends every now and then, but no, she didn’t really like drugs. In fact, sometimes I thought she was afraid of them.” He tapped ash into the ashtray. “I can’t talk about this stuff. It’s too hard.”

  “I’m glad we both were able to ditch that life,” said Peter. “We should celebrate it. Every day.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Eli. “Except. Sometimes it feels like I’m holding on to my sobriety by nothing but my fingernails. You ever feel that way?”

  “Every waking moment.”

  “All I know is,” Eli continued, leaning over to pick up his teacup, “if I ever start with the heroin again, I’m a dead man.”

  14

  George arrived home that evening with a headache. As he came in the door, he remembered their houseguest. Instantly, his headache grew worse.

  Chuck, tying his robe, came out from his bedroom a bit too quickly. “You scared me,” he said, smoothing his rumpled pompadour. “I thought you and Marlo were grabbing dinner and a movie tonight.”

  “Change of plans,” said George, hanging up his coat. “Marlo had to work late. She’s rolling out a new line of cards next month. A busy time for her.”

  “Oh, such a shame. Well.” Chuck dipped his hands into his pockets. “So.”

  “Did I wake you?” asked George.

  “Me? No. Say, where are you going?” He seemed a little frantic as George made a move toward the first-floor bathroom.

  “I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” said George.

  Chuck’s smile was more of a simper. “I was just about to run myself a bath.”

  It didn’t take an Einstein to see what was going on. “Think I’ll head upstairs to change clothes,” George said. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes to make a start at dinner.”

  “You’re going to cook? Tonight?”

  “I like to eat in the evenings,” said George. “A bad habit, I grant you, but one that’s deeply ingrained.”

  “Funny. Yes, ha.” Chuck glanced back over his shoulder toward his bedroom. “You go ahead.”

  “Thank you for your permission,” said George. “Means a lot.”

  “Huh?” said Chuck. “Oh, that’s another joke.”

  George climbed the stairs all the way to the top, counted to thirty, then walked back down, stopping halfway. He began to count again. When he got to forty-two, Chuck reappeared pushing a woman clad in only her slacks, a bra, and a coat, to the front door. He handed her some money and shoved her out.

  George waited until the door was closed before he cleared his throat.

  Looking up, Chuck said, “Oh, ah … hi. It’s you again.”

  “So it would seem. By the way, Charles, I live here, so you shouldn’t be surprised if you catch sight of me every now and again.”

  “I suppose you’re wondering who … I mean—”

  “Bad boy, Charles. Naughty, naughty boy. Marlo would be so disappointed to learn how you spend your evenings when you’re away from your wife.”

  Chuck seemed shaken by the comment. “You’re going to tell her?”

  “Well, let’s consider that for a moment.”

  “Come on, George. Be reasonable. You’re a man. You understand.”

  “I expect I do,” said George, favoring Chuck with one of his most compassionate smiles. “Let’s just say that from this moment on, if I ask you to do something—like, say, leave the room, shine my shoes, agree with my point of view, no matter how outrageous it may seem—you do it. No hesitation. No excuses. Do we understand each other?”

  Chuck retied his bathrobe. “We do.”

  “Good man.”

  “I’m tired. Think I’ll turn in early.”

  “Of course,” said George. “Entertaining can be terribly exhausting. Sweet dreams.”

  15

  Jane was putting away groceries in the kitchen when the teakettle began to whistle. Julia had put it on a few minutes before, saying she’d be right back to make the tea. Wondering if something was wrong, Jane turned off the burner and went upstairs to check. She looked into Julia’s makeshift office first, finding it empty before heading down the hall to the bedroom. As she passed the bathroom, she stopped. Julia was standing at the sink, hands propped on either side of the basin, her head bent.

  “Are you okay?” asked Jane.

  “Fine.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “What do you think? Crying. I thought I should splash some water in my face before I came back down.”

  Jane moved closer, gingerly placing a hand on Julia’s back. “Is it the pain?”

  “Someone should just shoot me.”

  “Stop it.”

  Julia’s head rose until she was looking at herself in the mirror. She paused for a few seconds, then turned around and pulled Jane into her arms. “I had a good day,” she whispered.

  Jane was confused. “I’m glad.”

  “No, you’re missing my point. A really good day. Do you realize how rare that’s become? I felt almost normal.”

  “Well, that’s—” said Jane, hoping the sentence would find a way to complete itself.

  “Sometimes I think I should have the surgery. It’s risky, but maybe I should take my chances. If I wait much longer, the cancer will be inoperable. Maybe it already is.”

  “I didn’t know you were reconsidering the surgery.”

  “I’m not,” she said, abruptly letting go. She sidestepped Jane and left the room.

  Jane followed her back down into the kitchen. “Could we talk about this? I’m a little confused.”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying half the time. The words just came out.” Julia poured the water out of the kettle with a shaky hand, replaced it with fresh water, and set it on the stove to heat.

  “You already put the kettle on a few minutes ago. The water was hot.”

  Julia ignored the comment and instead began opening and closing cupboard doors. “Wh
ere’s the teapot?”

  “On top of the refrigerator, where it always is.”

  Julia shot Jane an annoyed look. “Lose the snark, okay?” The top of the teapot rattled as she set it on the counter. “And the … the tea?”

  Jane walked over and opened one of the lower drawers.

  Julia sat down at the kitchen table and dropped her head in her hands. “This just isn’t working.”

  “What isn’t?”

  “Everything. My whole damn life.”

  At the very beginning, when Julia had first moved into Jane’s house, she’d discussed the various symptoms associated with her disease, things Jane needed to be prepared for. One of them was heightened anxiety. How could Julia not be anxious?

  Jane sat down at the table. “I’m here.”

  “I know,” said Julia after a few moments. “I just get a little agitated sometimes. It’s not just in my mind, feels like it’s in my body. You probably don’t understand that. Hey? What time is it?”

  Jane checked her watch. “Five to eight. I thought I’d make us some dinner.”

  “I have a Skype call at eight.”

  “You do?”

  “It’s new. A therapy I just learned about. Wish me luck.”

  “Of course,” said Jane, watching Julia rush out of the room. Mouse got up and trotted after her. He was doing that more and more lately, spending time with Julia when she sequestered herself in her office. When the teakettle whistled again, Jane turned off the burner. Opening the freezer, she took out a bottle of vodka and poured herself a shot. She downed it in one swallow, grimacing at the burn. When she returned to the table, Gimlet hopped into her lap. “Oh, little one,” she said, lifting her up to kiss her muzzle. While they were communing, her cell phone rang. Tucking Gimlet against her chest, she answered.

  A familiar voice said, “I have an utterly grand idea.”

  “Cordelia?”

  “Let me bring over dinner.”

  “Aren’t you at the theater?”