by Mary Marks
Yet that was the right order of things, the young burying the old. How much more excruciating for Siobhan to bury her daughter today? Did a parent ever recover?
After Bubbie’s graveside service, we returned to the house we’d all shared: Bubbie, Uncle Isaac, Mother, and me. A pitcher of water and a towel waited for us on the front porch so, according to tradition, we could wash death and the cemetery off our hands before entering our house of mourning. All the relatives, neighbors, and friends were there eating and talking softly.
The first thing I noticed was that all the mirrors in our house had been covered with cloth according to Jewish tradition. During the time of mourning, we were supposed to focus on prayer, grief, and communion with God. To help in that pursuit, we would not be allowed to look at ourselves for an entire seven days.
I went to the table to get some deviled eggs before they were all gone. My ugly aunt Esther intercepted me and whispered, “Poor little mamser, no Bubbie to wipe your tushie anymore.” Aunt Esther and I had been secret enemies ever since I was three. I was terrified of the large brown mole that disfigured her right cheek and once when she insisted on holding me, I screamed and peed on her lap. From then on she called me a bastard whenever nobody else was around. At such a young age I was confused about what the word meant. I knew it had something to do with my never knowing my father, but my family told me he died before I was born. Could I help it if I was a half orphan?
I put two eggs on my plate and looked up at her. Three black hairs grew out of her mole and her eyes gleamed, but not from tears. “You’re the only one who hasn’t cried yet,” I observed.
“Feh,” she spat, and walked away.
I shrugged away the memory and wondered who wouldn’t be crying at Claire’s funeral today.
It had felt good sleeping in, but I knew I needed to hustle to get dressed in the outfit I’d brought from home—a chocolate-colored linen dress and my good strand of Mikimoto pearls. As I put on my shoes, Lucy knocked on the bedroom door. “You up yet?”
I opened the door and smiled as Lucy, wearing all black again, thrust a cup of coffee into my hands. “Glad to see you’re dressed. We’re leaving in about an hour, and you haven’t eaten breakfast yet. You’ll need something that sticks to your ribs.”
I walked to the stove and helped myself to some steaming oatmeal with raisins, sprinkling on a heaping spoonful of brown sugar and topping it off with milk. As I ate, I told Lucy about my conversation with Beavers last night. “He warned me not to take Ray’s gun. Said I need a permit. Then he told me he was getting me a bodyguard named Arthur. Don’t you think that’s—excuse the pun—overkill?”
Lucy smiled. “Until the murderer is caught, it might not be such a bad idea. Wasn’t that sweet of the detective to arrange a bodyguard? I think he likes you, Martha.”
Oh God. Lucy was worse than a mother. I rolled my eyes and finished my cereal, secretly wondering if she were right about the him liking me thing.
Ray, still in protective mode, insisted on driving us. Before Birdie arrived, he tucked a handgun into his waistband, concealed under his jacket like he had the night before. “Where to?” He started the engine.
Lucy checked the paper in her hand. “St. Genesius Catholic Church on Maple and Santa Monica in Beverly Hills.”
“St. Genesius?” asked Birdie. “That’s not a name I’ve heard before. Who was he?”
Ray looked at her in the rearview mirror. “Beats me.”
“I Googled him. The church was built in the nineteen thirties by the movie people. St. Genesius was the patron saint of actors, theatrical performers, clowns, and lawyers.”
Ray snickered. “Like there’s a difference?”
We drove over Coldwater Canyon in silence, arriving at the church with about twenty minutes to spare. St. Genesius was easy to spot—a neogothic stone building with pointed windows and slender twin towers on either side of the arched entryway.
We cruised the surrounding streets until we found a parking spot suitably safe for Ray’s car. Ray offered Birdie his arm as we walked slowly up the broad front steps, blending with the crowd streaming in to the church. When we reached the bottleneck at the door, Ray positioned himself in front of us, unbuttoned his jacket and, with his head slowly moving from side to side, constantly scanned the crowd.
When Detective Beavers walked toward us, Ray’s shoulders seemed to relax a little.
Beavers shook Ray’s hand. “You remind me of a cop, Mr. Mondello.”
“Nam. Military police.”
“Right.” Beavers never took his eyes off Ray. “You got a permit to carry a weapon?”
Ray returned the look, his hand moving slightly to button his jacket. “What weapon?”
“I’m not in the mood to confiscate concealed weapons today. Especially if the weapon stays concealed.”
Ray nodded once.
Beavers turned to go. “Best to leave the policing to the ones who get paid for it.”
Lucy covered her head with her black lace mantilla as we entered the sanctuary and filed into a pew at the back, the better to observe the mourners. Ray took the aisle seat and unbuttoned his jacket again.
The congregation rose when three boys in white robes, one holding a cross, walked in as eight pallbearers in white gloves carried the mahogany casket into the church. Two priests dressed in white vestments met the coffin at the doorway and escorted it down the aisle.
Next came the Terrys, escorted by another priest. Will Terry stared straight ahead, clenching and unclenching his teeth so the muscles rippled in his square jaw. Siobhan’s head was bowed in grief. I couldn’t be sure because it happened so quickly, but I thought I saw Siobhan stumble slightly. Will reached out to steady her, but she quickly drew away from him, leaning instead on the arm of the priest. Then they sat down in the front row and I thought I recognized several dignitaries, including one United States senator. The Terrys were no lightweights, that was for certain.
We sat and my mouth fell open as I took in the sheer scale of the interior. Stained glass windows lined both sides of the sanctuary, depicting the stations of the cross. In the nearest window Jesus carried a cross while a crown of thorns sent blood drops cascading down his face. A woman on the side of the road held out a piece of cloth, but a Roman soldier barricaded her way with an outstretched spear. I had learned something about the cross Claire bore in her lifetime and, in wanting to help find justice for her, I felt just like the woman on the side of the road.
I looked farther up. A graceful network of tall buttresses crisscrossed to form points high up in the vaulted ceiling. On the front wall hung a huge gold-leafed crucifix with a compassionate Jesus looking down on Claire’s casket, feet facing the altar.
I was impressed to see the resident cardinal in attendance, standing near the altar with his distinctive red biretta and cape. The press often suggested he was an influential part of the Catholic hierarchy and had the ear of the pope. His presence today only underscored how well placed the Terry family was.
Off to one side of the podium was a lectern raised up higher so the priest would have to ascend a few stairs to give his homily. The whole purpose of the soaring interior space and the priest’s aerie was to draw the eye upward toward heaven, the source of all hope. All very inspirational and theatrical.
I turned around. Detective Beavers stood in the back, eyes scanning the crowd the same way Ray had done outside. A few stragglers were trying to find seats. One of them was Jerry Bell, Claire’s son. Beavers looked at him with keen interest as he walked to a seat two rows in front of us, genuflected, and sat far enough to the side that I could just make out his profile.
Birdie sat on the other side of me, sniffing and dabbing her eyes throughout the service. Beyond her, Lucy sat with Ray’s comforting arm around her shoulders. She wore the pink and diamond bracelet he’d given her after we discovered Claire’s body.
When a vocalist sang “Ave Maria,” I reached into my purse for a tissue. Mothers losing chil
dren. It was too much to bear.
Remembering the way he teared up the day I told him of his mother’s death, I was curious to see Jerry Bell sitting stony-faced throughout the service. I didn’t know Claire very well, and yet here I was dabbing my eyes and blowing my nose. Where were his tears?
Maybe my suspicions on the day we met were true. Maybe Jerry Bell was the real killer. After all, he had a motive. As her son, he could file a claim to Claire’s sizable estate. All that talk about reconciliation might have been a smoke screen to cover up anger at having been given up for adoption.
Could he be the one who broke into my house three nights ago and stuck a knife in my pillow? I turned around and looked for Beavers, but he was gone.
At the end of the service, we all stood as Claire’s coffin was carried back out of the sanctuary to the hearse waiting outside. Siobhan and Will Terry walked slowly behind, Will working his jaw.
I glanced again at Jerry, who watched the Terrys with sharp interest. The muscles in his square jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth. Just like Will Terry. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Jerry was taller than Will, but both of them shared the same military posture, square jaw, long upper lip, and blue eyes.
Wait a minute. How old was Jerry? Around thirty? Claire was fourteen when he was born. Was her father still molesting her at the time? Oh my God! My stomach did a nasty leap. I’d just stumbled onto another of Claire’s horrible secrets. What if she didn’t get pregnant by a boy in school whose name she conveniently forgot? What if that part of the story was to hide the fact Will Terry was Jerry’s real father?
CHAPTER 27
Jerry met up with us at the cemetery, and I introduced him to my friends as we gathered around Claire’s grave. At one point Siobhan looked at me and nodded a slight greeting. She stopped when she saw Jerry and stared. Then she looked back at me as if to ask, Who is this man? I was sure she was figuring it out.
Several times during the brief graveside service, Siobhan glanced at Jerry, but her husband didn’t seem to notice him at all. Jerry seemed too lost in thought to be aware of the scrutiny, gazing the whole time at Claire’s casket. At one point tears stole down his stoic face. There was no mistake he was grieving, and once again I just couldn’t imagine him to be a killer.
Immediately after the service, the Terrys and their stellar entourage left in long black limousines. I turned to Jerry. “Siobhan kept looking your way. I think she may have recognized you.”
He wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, smoothed back his blond hair, and briefly worked his jaw. “Do you think my grandfather recognized me, too?”
“I don’t know.”
He looked at me earnestly. “Are you going to the reception? I could use a friend.” Jerry looked like a sad, scared little boy.
“We’ll be there, dear.” Birdie was earth mother to all living things. “You will sit with us, of course.”
A dozen young men in red jackets trotted up and down the street providing valet parking for the mourners at the Terrys’ Benedict Canyon estate. In the backyard, tents with open sides dotted the lawn and shaded dozens of tables covered with white linen cloths. A huge buffet and bar were set up under a large tent on the tennis court, and waiters in black suits carried trays of white wine and Perrier through the growing crowd. Other servers carried hors d’oeuvres on silver trays with paper cocktail napkins.
Jerry sat with us at a table near a large fountain featuring lion heads gently spouting water from their mouths. The soothing sound of water splashing over carved stone attracted little brown towhees with tinges of orange and dun-colored sparrows.
Carlotta Hudson approached a group of quilters sitting at a nearby table. She threw a derisive look at us and then turned away. Just then, several crows cawed hoarsely and flew over her head, landing in the branches of the many eucalyptus trees surrounding the estate.
Lucy pointed to the trees. “I see Carlotta brought her posse.”
A voice in back of me asked, “May I sit with you?”
I turned around.
Ingrid was dressed in a tight-fitting black jersey sheath with a torsade of pearls and jet beads around her neck.
“Of course! Please join us.”
Ray and Jerry stood up while Ingrid took a seat next to me. She smiled at Jerry. “I think I’ve seen you several times at Claire’s. I’m Ingrid, Claire’s neighbor.”
“Jerry.” He shook her proffered hand and smiled briefly.
“I really didn’t spy on Claire. I work in my garden a lot and see the comings and goings of the street. Claire and I were on very friendly terms. We drank the occasional morning coffee together. You’re the doctor, right? She mentioned your name a couple of times. Weren’t you related?”
“Still am.”
All during lunch the Terrys were sequestered inside with their high-profile friends. They finally emerged at about two and a crowd of us normal humans swirled around them as Will shook hands and Siobhan accepted an occasional hug. When she spotted us standing on the edge of the pack, Siobhan waved at me in a gesture more of a command than a greeting.
“Wait for me here.” I set out over the lawn toward Claire’s puffy-eyed mother.
Siobhan stood stiffly, clasping her elbows, the wrinkles around her mouth accentuated by the black dress she wore. A slight breeze lifted the feathers of white hair floating around her face and the diamond and sapphire earrings tugged a little at the holes in her earlobes.
Siobhan reached for both of my hands. “Martha, how nice of you to come.” The next thing I knew we were walking through a set of French doors into a sunroom at the back of the house.
As soon as we were alone, she looked at me with fierce, glittering eyes. “Who is he?” A frightened look shone in her eyes.
I led her over to an overstuffed rattan sofa and sat next to her. She’d sneaked looks at Jerry all during the funeral and, from the expression on her face, I was sure she’d figured it out. “Who do you think he is, Siobhan?”
“He’s Claire’s boy, isn’t he?”
“His name is Jerry Bell. He found Claire a few years ago after his adoptive mother died. According to Jerry, they saw each other frequently and she helped him through medical school.”
“He’s a doctor? Why didn’t she tell us about him?”
I could think of a hundred reasons Claire wouldn’t want to confide in her mother, beginning with Siobhan’s failure to protect Claire from incest. “You can probably answer that better than I, Siobhan. Jerry’s resemblance to your family is unmistakable. If you doubt him, I’m sure a simple DNA test will confirm he’s Claire’s son.”
I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her toward me so she’d have to look in my eyes. “Claire never told him who his father is. I think I’ve finally figured it out. However, I don’t want to be the one to break the ugly news to Jerry. I’ll leave that up to you, if you ever decide to talk to him.”
Siobhan buried her face in her hands and started to weep. “How do you know all this? What can you possibly think of me now?”
Good question. I took a deep breath. “You know all those French knots Claire sewed on her quilts?”
Siobhan nodded.
“Well, Claire was brilliant, really. Those knots are Braille. I think each quilt represents a chapter of her life’s story. I found a Braille alphabet to test my theory and started to decipher one of the quilts. I didn’t get very far, but I got far enough to learn about the incest.”
Siobhan moaned.
“How could you let that happen?”
She was still weeping. “I swear I didn’t know about them until it was too late, until Claire was already pregnant. I drank a lot in those days and I slept a lot. I found out later he . . . they . . . it didn’t happen until he was certain I was out for the night.”
“What about after you found out? Why didn’t you turn him in?”
“He swore to me he’d never hurt her again, and I wanted to believe him. I wasn’t strong. I couldn’t have made
it on my own.”
What about Claire? What about protecting her? Poor Claire didn’t have a chance with a predator for a father and a drunk for a mother.
Siobhan dried her eyes with a tissue. “We sent Claire away to a convent to have the baby. During the time she was away, I went into rehab and stopped drinking. I don’t think she ever even saw her son. His adoptive parents took him home practically from the delivery room. Will said it was best that way.”
Best for whom? “What are you going to do about Jerry Bell now that he’s here?”
“If he really is Claire’s son, I want to meet him. I don’t know how Will is going to take the news. He won’t like this one bit.”
“Forget Will! He doesn’t deserve any consideration in this matter. You don’t need his permission for anything. You can do this on your own.”
Siobhan stared at me and then burst out laughing. “Don’t think I haven’t thought about that for the last forty-five years.”
Just then the door flew open and Will Terry stormed inside. “Just what do you mean leaving me alone out there? We have guests—” He stopped when he saw me.
“If you don’t mind, Miss Rose, this isn’t a good time to visit with my wife. You’ll have to go back outside with the rest of the people.”
What an imperious little jerk. Did he think he could just order me around like he did everyone else? I sat up straighter. “I’ll leave when Siobhan asks me to leave.”
Will Terry pulled down the corners of his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth. “I don’t think you realize who you’re talking to.”
I stood and looked at the reprehensible little pedophile. I’m only five feet two and we stood exactly eye to eye. “This is a free country, Mister Terry. Your wife can speak to whomever she pleases.” I thought about this man committing the unspeakable to his daughter and getting away with it, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. “You may be able to push your wife around and rape your daughter, but you don’t intimidate me one bit!”
