“What exactly do you mean by ‘disappeared’?”
“Nobody has seen Pete for two weeks.”
“Well, maybe he simply left town on a trip. People do that every day.”
“The sheriff’s department is pretty sure that he didn’t.”
His mouth fell open. “The sheriff’s department is involved?”
I was perplexed at the man’s reaction. I had asked him about Pete in order to find out if the discord between Matthew and Pete had been serious. I wanted to know if Matthew hated Pete enough to kill him. Ah, I thought, maybe that explained Cornwell’s reaction. Maybe he had picked up on my intent and was feeling protective of Matthew.
I said in a gentle voice, “You seem upset. Are you worried that Matthew might be questioned about Pete’s disappearance because of their history?”
“Yes, of course, that is the reason!” he said sharply and much too quickly. Almost immediately he seemed to think better of his reaction. Here a young man was missing, likely dead, perhaps murdered, and all he cared about was his poster boy and, by extension, his career. He cleared his throat. “I meant to say, that is partly why I’m upset. Obviously, I am more concerned for the young man, this Pete person. I’m concerned for the well-being of all misguided youth in Desert Rock—that is my work, after all. I hope the young man did not come to harm.”
His use of the word “misguided” stumped me. I hadn’t said anything about Pete being gay, which I assume is what Cornwell meant by the word. And if Cornwell had been honest when he said he didn’t know Pete, he couldn’t have known Pete was gay. Was the therapist just calling him misguided because he was on the wrong side of the protests? Was it possible that Matthew had told him Pete was gay, if Matthew had in fact known? Cornwell’s behavior seemed inexplicable. I glanced at my watch and saw that a half hour had passed. That was as much time as I’d asked for, so further enquires would have to wait.
I placed my empty coffee cup on an end table. “Well, I see we’ve run out of time. Thank you for taking time to talk with me. You’ve been very helpful.”
He stood, swiped a hand over his hair and down his silk tie. He had regained his composure, although he didn’t look as self-assured as when I had arrived. “It was my pleasure, Ms. Larkin. Please don’t hesitate to call again if you have more questions.”
“I will.” I stood and began moving toward the door.
“I’ll walk you out,” he said and grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair. Who wore a suit jacket in Desert Rock? Even Thomas, Vanessa’s attorney husband, wore Dockers and a casual shirt to work. “It’s lunchtime,” he said by way of explaining why he was locking up the office.
We were just about to part ways in the parking lot when an attractive man in his late twenties climbed out of a beater Chevrolet and walked over to Cornwell.
“Matthew!” Cornwell slapped him on the back, which almost sent the poor guy sprawling to the pavement. Matthew was slight of build, but totally hot. Wavy black hair, long dark lashes, startling blue eyes. Cornwell chirped, “Where should we eat lunch today, my boy?”
Matthew, who looked glum, mumbled something I couldn’t catch. Cornwell didn’t seem to expect an answer anyway, and I suspected he was the one who usually chose the eatery. Cornwell gestured toward me. “Matthew, I’d like you to meet Samantha Larkin. She is writing a book on nuclear power and expressed interest in talking with you about the protests.”
Matthew glanced at me, his enthusiasm about meeting me one notch above “who gives a shit?” He mumbled, “Nice to meet you,” though obviously it wasn’t.
“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said, waiting for him to extend his hand or smile at me, which he didn’t. He stared around the parking lot absently.
Cornwell said, “Matthew has been vital to the project. His dedication and enthusiasm have made me proud.”
The dedicated and enthusiastic foot soldier grunted and shrugged. If this was enthusiasm, what did apathy look like?
“Well,” I said, loath to miss another minute of Matthew’s fun personality, “I’d best be off. Enjoy your lunch.”
As I made my way to the car I looked back and saw the two of them walk away, Cornwell’s arm draped over Matthew’s shoulder in a fatherly way. Matthew’s slim shoulders sagged, and his feet seemed to drag the ground. Was Matthew Thornton always this chipper, or had something happened to knock him off his game?
11
When I drove up to my house after my interview with Bernard Cornwell, I received a shock: My brother Connor’s decrepit Escort sat parked at the curb. The car, if possible, looked worse than it had eight months ago when I last saw it. The windshield was newly cracked and the tail pipe was wired to the underside of the car. If the vehicle didn’t say everything about Connor’s fortunes, I don’t know what would. I wondered with irritation what he had done with the money he had gotten from Mom’s estate. It wasn’t a fortune, but it wasn’t nothing either. Maybe he spent it on some month-long rafting trip down the Amazon or something. Most likely he simply frittered it away supporting his jobless lifestyle.
These first cynical thoughts got pushed away by unfamiliar warm feelings. I found myself almost glad Connor had come home. For the first time in my life I appreciated having a brother. Seeing how distraught Gabby was over Pete’s probable death, I came to see that it was foolish to take Connor for granted. He might act like an eight-year-old, but he is also kind and fun and full of adventure. When my brother is around, expect lots of TV cartoons, computer games rated for children, old music marathons, and silly conversation. Even though I expected to grow highly annoyed with him (within minutes, most likely), I still felt happy he was alive and well.
I parked in my messy two-car garage, and the minute I turned off the ignition I heard “Dancing Queen” thumping from inside. The beat rattled my Corolla’s cheap dashboard. Steeling myself, I entered the house and instantly smelled the aroma of freshly baked cookies. Connor stood in the middle of the kitchen, spatula in one hand and a half-eaten peanut butter cookie in the other. Lacy chomped on something, presumably the other half of the cookie.
“Hey, bro!” I hollered and hustled over to the stereo to turn down the music. I tossed my purse on the counter and made straight for the cookies. What the heck, it was lunchtime. I was not fooled by Connor’s culinary display—I knew the cookies were intended to butter me up so I would let him “hang out for a while.” Connor may be immature, but nobody ever said he was stupid.
I expected Connor to say something ingratiating, like how glad he was to see me, or something smart-alecky, like why did my face look like a boxer’s. Instead, he said sharply, “What happened to Mom’s chair?”
“I got rid of it,” I said defensively in the face of his unexpected anger. “It was falling apart.” Most of the furniture in the house was vintage 1970s—my mother spent her precious free time on gardening, not interior decorating.
Connor’s boyish face looked peeved. “But it was Mom’s chair.”
What was this about? “Well, technically, it was my chair, since Mom died and I bought the house.”
He winced. He was our mother’s favorite, and I think her death has been hardest on him. Besides, I thought uncharitably, he needed a mother, someone to give him money, let him live in her home rent-free, arrange for him to work for a friend of a friend. He had drifted further without her steadying influence and had discovered that neither Vanessa nor I would step in to fill her shoes.
He said, his voice petulant, “It just seems wrong to get rid of her things.”
I sighed. I was not going to make this better with anything I said. He must feel that as long as Mom’s house existed, with her furniture still arranged as she had it, she existed, too. If I were honest with myself, I fought the same superstition. Her awful death from cancer was still too vivid a memory, her absence too hard. But, when a damn chair is so broken-down it makes your butt hurt, you have to face facts.
“I’m sorry,” I said as gently as I could. �
�It was just so old.”
“You should have asked Vanessa and me before you threw it out.”
Okay, while I sympathized with him, he was really starting to get on my nerves. “Connor,” I said, with a tight warning note in my voice, “It’s done. Let it go.”
“But—“
“Drop it—if you know what’s good for you.”
He dumped the spatula on the countertop and slumped over to the sliding glass door to gaze out at Mom’s garden. I thought, if he hates me getting rid of Mom’s chair, wait till he gets a load of her garden. The yard had essentially reverted back to native desert.
He gasped. “God, Sam, the yard looks like shit. If I’d known you’d let everything go to hell and start selling off her stuff, I would never have sold you my part of the house.”
I glared at the back of his head, his wavy dark hair long and unruly. I wanted to smack him. He could be a pain in the butt on his fun-loving days, but this truculent brat routine was too much.
I snapped, “Well, you did sell me your part, so it’s my house now, and I can do what I want with it.” This was disingenuous. Every day I felt the presence of our mother’s ghost, disapproving of the way I took care of her house. I felt the weight of having inherited her life and a sense of failure for not picking up where she left off, doing what she would do. I shook myself. I was not our mother, nobody could expect me to be. It wasn’t fair. And I had bought this house, it was mine.
I snarled at him, “If you think the yard looks so damn bad, why don’t you take your grouchy butt out there and start cleaning it up?”
He looked close to a tantrum. Arms crossed tight, lips screwed up, he glared out at the garden, refusing to look at me. Watching him, I hit upon a brilliant idea! “Connor, let me guess. You want to hang out here for a while, get back on your feet.” I almost choked when I said the last part, knowing full well that he would be trying to get “back” on his feet for the rest of his life. I struggled on, “So, I have a deal for you. You can stay and, in exchange, you clean up the yard.” I felt pleased with myself. Connor was so easy.
I saw tension slip off of his thin shoulders. He cocked his head at the garden like Lacy does when she hears a chip bag crinkle. I could almost hear the little gears in his head click into place. “That could work.” His voice sounded completely different now, hopeful and interested. “You mean, I can fix it up like Mom had it?”
His earnestness and grief palpitated in the question. “Yes, exactly like Mom had it. I’ll buy plants, whatever you need. You do the work.”
He clapped his hands like a tot and spun around to face me. “Awesome!”
Lacy sped over at the sound of his clap, taking it as an indication to play. Connor grabbed the first thing he saw, which was his own flip-flop, and threw it for her. Lacy lunged, missed, and tore after it, nearly knocking over the coffee table. Just like that, Connor had returned to childhood, his usual state. His child-like face shone with life, dark eyes riveted on Lacy. He giggled when Lacy returned the flip-flop to him. He tried to grab it out of her mouth, but she held on, hoping for a tug-of-war. I watched them spin around the room, knocking into furniture, the shoe straps taut, nearly breaking. Connor looked skinny, I thought, and his hair needed a shampoo and trim. He had never had much facial hair, but what he had was in full evidence, the scruffiness making him look down on his luck.
I snagged another cookie. “How’re things, Connor?”
He tried yanking the flip-flop from Lacy’s mouth, but the beast held on. “Okay,” he answered warily.
“How come you’re not in Temecula? Didn’t your friend there get you a job?”
“It didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged but said nothing. With a mighty pull, he wrenched the shoe out of Lacy’s mouth. “Ha!” he laughed in her face. He threw the flip-flop down the hall, and she bounded after it, spittle flying.
I figured the friend got tired of Connor calling in sick and fired his ass. “And weren’t you training for a triathlon? What happened with that?”
He and Lacy were playing tug-of-war again. “Do you know how long an Ironman is? It was insane.”
Which didn’t answer the question. Or, actually, it did. “So, you didn’t do it.”
“Nah, it got really boring. Every day having to bike, run, swim. The whole schedule thing. Planned workouts. Totally boring.”
Yeah, newsflash. Triathlon was hard. Definitely not a sport for my brother. “What did you do with your bike and stuff?” His car had not had a bike rack, and there was nothing inside but junk as far as I could tell.
“Took it to Salvation Army.”
I sighed and looked at him. As Eddie once said of Connor, he would give his last dime to a homeless man. Eddie and Connor were friends from way back, and knowing how kind Eddie is, he probably meant that Connor was generous. True. But the statement also rang true because my brother couldn’t hold on to anything of value. All of life just flowed through his fingers.
Thinking of Eddie gave me a pang behind my rib cage. I asked Connor, “Hey, you ever know Eddie’s old girlfriend, Gabby Castillo?”
Connor was standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the flip-flop. Both straps were broken, hanging down on either side of the shoe like limp antennae. Lacy gazed up at him, eyes bright, waiting for the fun to resume. “Yeah, I knew Gabby. We all hung out sometimes. Before she left town.”
I poured myself a glass of milk to go with the cookies. “So, what did you think of her?”
“I don’t know. She was okay, I guess. Eddie really liked her. A lot. You know what I mean.”
I felt my face screw up in distaste. Emotion filled my esophagus. “They sleep together?”
“God, Sam! Why are you asking me that?” He launched the flip-flop down the hall. Lacy exploded after it.
“Well? Did they?”
“Ugh!” Connor wiped his hands on his baggy denim shorts and flopped down in my new chair, which I had positioned like Mom had it so I could look at the garden. I had forgotten that the yard now looked like crap. “Jeez, Sam, give me a break, will ya? I can’t talk about that!”
I wondered what it would be like to have a mature conversation with one’s brother. I imagined Pete would have had interesting things to say to Gabby, updates on the protests, reports of happenings at the bank, descriptions of what he was learning in college. But here I was with thirty-year-old Connor Larkin, who talked like he was in fifth grade.
I said, “I heard Gabby left Desert Rock to be with some guy from New York. What was that about?”
Connor sighed in an exaggerated fashion. Lacy trotted over to him with the goopy shoe. “Yeah, Gabby met some fat cat who came out here to ‘develop’ Desert Rock. You know, like build a golf course and resort, stuff like that. The dude finally figured out we don’t have any water, and we’re like in the middle of nowhere. He high-tailed it out of here pretty quick. When he left, she left.”
“Had she started seeing this guy while she and Eddie were still together?”
Connor put his head in his hands. “Why are you asking me all this?”
“I’m just trying to understand, that’s all. I’m not asking you for state secrets.”
“Well, I don’t like to talk about Eddie’s stuff. It doesn’t seem right. If you have questions, ask him. You see him every day.”
I suddenly felt tired. I dragged myself to the couch and dumped myself into it. “Eddie is a little busy these days. Gabby is back in town.” My voice sounded dull and discouraged.
Connor flinched. “She’s back?”
“Yep.”
“That’s not good.”
Ah, finally something revealing coming out of my brothers’ mouth. “Why’s that?”
He shrugged, saying nothing. He probably remembered that he disapproved of yakking about a friend’s business. He undoubtedly felt that gossiping wasn’t something that guys did. Yeah right.
Finally he grumbled, “I just didn’t li
ke her that much. That’s all.”
I thought I understood what was bothering him. “She didn’t treat Eddie very well, did she?”
He took hold of the flip-flop Lacy had placed on his knee, but he just let it rest there. “She dropped him when someone who looked better came along, right? What do you think?”
“Yeah, pretty shitty. I don’t like her either.”
Connor’s head popped up. “You met Gabby?”
I nodded.
“Oh, not good. How did that happen?”
“Eddie introduced me to her.”
“They hanging out again?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, shit.”
“Yeah. That’s what I think.”
“Dating?”
The ball of dread or disappointment or whatever it was that was lodged in my throat seemed to expand. “I don’t know.”
“Man, I hope not. I need to give Eddie a call. What happened to your nose, anyway?”
I felt the tightness in my esophagus ease. Maybe Connor showing up would turn out to be a good thing. Eddie would tell him stuff he’d never share with me, they being guys and best buddies and all. Then Connor would tell me—with proper coercing, of course. In answer to Connor’s question about my nose, I nodded toward Lacy. “We did one of our things.”
Connor laughed so hard that Lacy started barking at him. He grabbed the flip-flop off his knee, leaped from the chair, then man and beast bounded down the hall.
.
While Connor and Lacy played tug-of-war at the back of the house, I found myself alone. I grabbed the day’s Desert Tribune off the coffee table and lay down on the sofa. Reading through the stories of Girl Scout cookie drives, complaints about the new paint color chosen for City Hall (pink), and dire warnings about the local military base closing (a constant theme), I started feeling sleepy. The soft cushions and warm cookies suggested a nap. With fewer distractions, however, I felt the pain in my nose, which I hadn’t even noticed earlier. I knew I should get up and grab a couple of Tylenols and the frozen peas, but my body felt like it had melted. I snuggled deeper into the couch and tried to focus on the newspaper. Sleep whirled around the edges of my thoughts. Then I felt my brain snap to attention. Whoa, what was this?
Half Life (A Sam Larkin Mystery) Page 8
