The gnat buzzed about her face. As she batted it away, her knees banged up and down under the table. The women hadn’t been in each other’s company, therefore they couldn’t have infected each other with a contagious disease. But if Bella didn’t cause their deaths, it had to be a contagious disease. How could both those statements be true?
She became acutely aware of her heart drumming in her chest.
Of course. Why hadn’t she seen it before?
And for this she smiled and blessed the little gnat: A contagious disease was out. Unless…
The vector wasn’t human. What if the vector was an insect?
Chapter Twenty-Two
“The boy was such a tragedy.”
Yesinia Martin’s voice had a ground-glass undertone that Danny associated with long-time smokers. Allowing the living room curtain to fall back against a fiery sunset, he turned to face the matriarch of Garth Yoblanski’s final foster family. Her skin, deeply lined and cooked to the doneness of jerky, gave testament to the perils of mixing bad habits with exposure to the merciless Arizona sun. Whereas Flagstaff was a cool piney oasis, Page could reach near kiln temperatures in the summertime.
“Here you go, detective.” Mrs. Martin handed over a white plastic cup, stamped with the Arby’s logo and filled with sweet tea. She’d taken the trouble to add a sprig of mint as well, a surprisingly thoughtful touch.
“Thank you kindly.” He followed her to a plastic-protected floral couch, gave her a chance to arrange herself comfortably on the cushions, and then sat down beside her. After waiting all day for Mrs. Martin to return home from her housekeeping job, he’d anticipated a chilly reception. After all, he wanted to discuss Garth Yoblanski, a boy who’d been removed from her home after allegations of child abuse. He’d expected her to slam the door in his face when he mentioned Garth, but instead, she’d invited him in and offered him refreshment.
Perhaps she had something to get off her chest, or perhaps she was just lonely. Either way, Danny was in the house, and sweet-tea-no-lemon in hand, he was about to squeeze all the answers he could from Yesinia Martin.
Time was short, and he was anxious—more than anxious—to return to Flag. Even though Danny had Scotty Humphries tailing Sky, he couldn’t help thinking that he should be home right now, watching over her. But he couldn’t leave Page until he knew just what kind of a childhood Garth had lived. “How do you mean, Garth was a tragedy?”
Mrs. Martin puckered her lips and cast a sideways glance at him. “Garth? He weren’t no tragedy. He was real cultured like and smart. Always had his nose stuck in a book. And even though you’d think a boy like that would get picked on, it was the other way around. I never seen nothing like the way Garth Yoblanski could get a bunch of boys spellbound and jumping to his ‘frog’.”
“But you just said he was a tragedy.”
“Not Garth. Garth is a big success. Haven’t you heard? He invented a cure for breast cancer. I bet he’s richer than God, and when he gets to the pearly gates, he’ll be on St. Peter’s VIP list.”
“You’re right.” Danny kept his voice respectful. “Only Garth didn’t invent a cure for breast cancer. I believe what he invented is a vaccine that prevents a particular form of breast cancer, the type caused by a broken gene.”
“Exactly right. That boy is a flat-out genius.” Protecting her coffee table with a crocheted coaster, she set down her Arby’s cup. “I sure wish I could get that vaccine. But I don’t got insurance.”
“I’m sorry.” Looking at Mrs. Martin, Danny couldn’t help but think of Sky and everything she’d worked to accomplish. Now her clinic was gone. And under these suspicious circumstances, the insurance company would likely impound the funds she needed to rebuild. His hands trembled a little as he combed them through his hair. People like Mrs. Martin needed clinics like Sky’s. They needed doctors like Sky.
Shifting his long legs, he scooted back on the plastic, and tugged on his collar. He was here to get evidence that implicated Sky’s brother in multiple murders, and if he succeeded, Sky might never speak to him again. But he couldn’t change the facts of the case any more than he could put her life at risk just to keep in her good graces.
Sky alive and permanently pissed at him was far preferable to the alternative. And if Sky didn’t recognize her brother’s flaws, well that was both understandable and forgivable. But Danny had neither the excuse nor the inclination to overlook Garth Novak as a suspect in the murders of Edmond Guerretin and Nevaeh Flores.
Mrs. Martin was gazing out the window, off in her own world, just as he’d been off in his. The sun was below the horizon now, and soon, very soon it would be dark. If he was going to get back to Sky anytime soon, he needed to stop thinking about her and just do his job. “Mrs. Martin?”
Yesinia didn’t look away from the window. He cleared his throat, and when that didn’t work, leaned over and waved his palm in front of her face. “Mrs. Martin?”
“What?”
“You said, ‘The boy was a tragedy’.”
“I was talking about poor Timmy. Timmy was the terrible tragedy.”
Getting Mrs. Martin to focus was going to be a challenge. “The boy I’m interested in is Garth.”
Wiping cloudy blue eyes with the back of her hand, she said, “Oh, sorry. It’s just that every time I think of that poor little Timmy I just can’t help but worry if maybe I had some part in his death.”
On the other hand, sometimes you learn a lot more when you let the interrogation wend around the bend. He pulled his chin back to correct the revealing slackening of his jaw. “A boy who lived here—in your home—died?”
“Uh-huh.” She blew her nose on the sleeve of her soiled T-shirt.
“Was Garth living here at the time?”
“Uh-huh. Garth and Timmy and four other boys…oh and my son, Robert Jr., of course.”
“But that’s seven boys.”
“Uh huh.”
By his estimation, the Martin home was around one thousand square feet, more likely a bit under. How this woman had gotten the okay from the state to house that many foster boys was a mystery, and literally a crime. “You remember the names of all the boys?”
“Let’s see.” On arthritic fingers, she ticked off the names. “There was the Regan brothers, Steve and Carson. Joe Kennedy…”
His head jerked up, and his heart somersaulted in his chest. Steve Regan was the man who’d murdered Sky’s father. He didn’t know who Joe Kennedy was, but if he was a betting man, he’d lay odds it was the man who’d attacked him last night.
“Oh, and the orneriest one was called Jack…Jack…” To assist her memory, she snapped her fingers.
“Spurlock?”
“Yes. That’s right. Joe, Jack, Garth, Timmy, Steve, Carson, and my boy…Robert Jr.” She grinned triumphantly, as if she’d just managed peterpiperpickedapeckofpicklepeppers.
Good God. A rivulet of sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as a snippet of forgotten conversation wormed its way to the surface of his consciousness: He’s not my boss. We’re like sleepers. That’s what last night’s would-be assassin had said. At the time, it seemed nonsensical. But now, Danny got it. Or at least he thought he did.
Sleepers.
That old Kevin Bacon movie about a group of friends, kids bound together by hardship and abuse. Kids who started out good, and then took a really wrong turn…together. His thighs tightened and his body lifted slightly on his haunches. He was poised like a raptor ready to seize his prey, but something about the way Mrs. Martin’s voice had changed when she said her son’s name warned him to go easy.
“This is good,” he said, swigging down his drink with noisy bravado. “Thank you for the mint, it makes the tea.”
Obviously gratified by the compliment, Yesinia smiled. “I bet you wonder how I got mint sprigs in winter time. Were you wondering that?”
He returned her smile. “Yes ma’am. That’s just exactly what was on my mind.”
With a puff of her ches
t, her posture improved, and she beamed proudly at her guest. “I grew that mint myself. I got my very own indoor herb garden. Would you like to see it?”
“I sure would.”
He followed her into a small bedroom and over to a peeling window sill, in front of which, one of the most carefully tended indoor herb gardens he’d ever laid eyes on, flourished. Cocking his head, he surveyed the woman at his side and was struck by the realization that he would never know all the hidden facets of Yesinia Martin.
Wanting to make contact with that hidden part of her, he reached out and touched her shoulder gently, and then withdrew his hand. “How did Timmy die?”
She let out a soft moan and cradled her cheeks between her hands. “They called it manslaughter. But I don’t know why. It weren’t nothing but a terrible accidental tragedy, and to my way of thinking, the judge made it a worser tragedy when he sent Steve and Jack and Joe off to detention. Because like I said, it was a pure tragic accident, and they was just boys.”
On the sill stood a watering can. He passed it to her, and looked on as she sprinkled her herbs with loving care. Maybe it had been her fault or maybe it hadn’t. But there was something in this woman’s eyes that pulled a string in his heart, and anyway, it wasn’t his job to pass judgment. “If you’d like to go back and have a seat on the couch, I’ll bring you more tea.”
She sniffed. “Water is all I want. More tea will make me pee all night.”
While Danny fetched the water, Yesinia settled herself once more on the living room sofa.
He crossed to her and placed a big cup of water in her hand. Then sat down on the other end of the couch. “Are you comfortable? Are you ready to continue?”
With a sigh and a nod, she reached for an album and slid it down to his end of the coffee table. Then she too, slid down to his end and opened the album. She thumbed through the pages slowly, stopping when she came to the photo of an underdeveloped boy. He was playing the harmonica.
Danny squinted at the picture. It wasn’t Garth. Arching his brows at Mrs. Martin, he asked, “Which boy is that?”
Scratching the photo with a nicotine-stained fingernail, she said, “That’s little Timmy. All the big boys picked on him.” She dabbed the corner of her eye with the tail of her shirt. “Not Garth though. Garth looked out for Timmy and got the other boys to back off him. Garth could get those boys to do anything he asked. Ever single boy in this house looked up to Garth.”
“What about your son? Did he look up to Garth too?”
A coughing spell disabled her, until she gulped enough water to make it stop. “Timmy loved that harmonica. Oh my, did he love it, on account of his mother gave it to him before she passed. Timmy wouldn’t let nobody near that treasure except for Garth.” Her eyes went up and to the left as she talked. She seemed lost in her memories, so Danny just let the conversation loose, let her tell her story her way.
“Timmy said Garth was allowed to play his harmonica, and he spent one whole day teaching him.” She sighed. “But that was how the only lick of trouble I ever had out of either one of them started. Always had trouble with the other boys, but Garth and Timmy was too good for trouble.”
She was looking out the window again.
He cleared his throat. “They were too good for trouble, you said, except for that one time.”
Another sip of water. Another cough, and then, “Yes. It weren’t long, you see, before Garth could play that mouth harp better than Timmy. Guess it came natural to him, and he picked up all of it without no more lessons.”
“You were saying about the trouble.”
“For a detective you don’t listen too good. The mouth harp was the trouble.” She belched. “Pardon me.”
“Of course. Now, about the harp.”
“Yes. Well, after a while, Timmy didn’t want to let Garth play it no more. Said he was hogging it, and well, I think he was ashamed that Garth could play so much better than him. There was a big whoop-tee-do for a few days, where they gave each other the silent treatment, but then all of a sudden, Garth said sorry. Garth said the harmonica was Timmy’s, and he respected his private property. That’s the kind of boy Garth was. He was the best, most respectful boy I ever had here. And after that Timmy and Garth was fast friends again. Never had a harsh word between them all the way up until that terrible day.”
Hands folded in her lap, she glanced up at Danny. Her eyes had that red-rimmed watery look about them. Though it was past sunset, and they were indoors, she raised her hand to shade them.
To be sure she’d finished with all she wanted to say first, he waited three beats, and then in a low tone, broached the subject that had been eating at him since he’d seen the picture of Timmy and the harmonica. “I think you might be confused. Wasn’t it Garth whose mother gave him the harmonica?”
Yesinia’s hands began to tremble, and a bit of the water sloshed from her cup. “That were a sad sad day when Timmy died. Nothing’s ever been right since.”
Sky had said Garth’s mother gave him a harmonica. The harmonica was engraved TO G. After all these years, Mrs. Martin’s memory was probably faulty. He tried again. “Mrs. Martin, wasn’t it Garth whose mother gave him the harmonica, just before she died?”
“Oh, no. Garth’s mother weren’t dead. Garth’s mother was just runned off. It was little Timmy’s mom gave him the harmonica before she died. We was neighbors, and I took Timmy in when his mom got sick and had to go to the hospice.” She blew her nose on her sleeve again. “When the doctors said it was time, I brought Timmy to say his goodbye. And right in front of me, his mother scratched his initials on the harmonica. And then she told Timmy not to let no one take it from him. Said he was to keep it close because it was all she had to give him. She said ever time he played it, he was to remember that she loved him, and that she always would.”
There was no holding back the tears now. Mrs. Martin’s emotion was genuine. More than a little affected himself, Danny was at a loss as to what to do apart from patting her knee and passing her a Kleenex.
“It breaks my heart to think I might have been in the wrong to take on so many boys. It breaks my heart to think Timmy might still be alive if I hadn’t. But you got to understand that my husband run off, and I didn’t have work at first, and I had to feed Robert and keep paying the bills.”
Danny cleared his throat. “Mrs. Martin, we all do the best we can in this life. We’re none of us perfect, I don’t think.”
A small sound escaped her throat. She crushed the Kleenex in her hands, and then unfolded it, looking for a dry spot. Danny handed her another, and then she shook her shoulders out and glanced up at him. “What else can I tell you about Garth and Timmy and the boys?”
“You say Timmy’s mom scratched his initials on the harmonica.”
“She did.”
“What was Timmy’s full name?”
Awaiting her answer, he crossed his legs, and uncrossed them again, flipped the page in his spiral notepad, and poised the pen above the paper.
“Timothy Orion Godwin.” She pronounced the words slowly, letting each syllable roll carefully off her tongue while he recorded the initials in his pad.
He looked at the notebook, and then he looked at Mrs. Martin. “TOG?”
“Timothy Orion Godwin. May god rest his soul.”
He flipped the notebook closed and pocketed it. So in truth, it wasn’t Garth’s harmonica at all, and he could guess as to how it had come into Garth’s possession. “How did Timmy die? Was Garth involved in any way?”
“Oh, no. He was the only one of the boys who wasn’t. Except for my boy, Robert, and Steve’s brother Carson—on account of that rich family adopted Carson the week before. Carson cried to leave his brother, Steve, behind, and I didn’t think it was right the family only took the one boy. But I’m glad they at least took Carson. Most likely he would have got detention too.”
A long shaky sigh, punctuated her story. “Jack and Joe and Steve was playing a game of Russian roulette with Timm
y. I don’t know how they ever even thought of such a thing. And I don’t know how they got the bullets to put in Mr. Martin’s revolver. But the fact is, somehow, they heard about that game, and somehow, they got the bullets. And one evening when I had to take Robert to parent-teacher night, that gun went off in Timmy’s face.”
The words rolled around like sawdust in his mouth before he managed to spit them out. “Where was Garth?”
“They say he was in his room, reading a science book.”
Danny didn’t challenge her version of the story. But he already knew the truth. Garth had somehow manipulated the other boys into playing Russian roulette, and then he sat back and let them take the blame. All he took was a souvenir.
A harmonica: A mother’s love in a form he could see and hold.
A mother’s love: Something he could never own.
“What happened next?”
“The police said it was all suspicious, a bunch of juveniles known to be bullies, and poor little Timmy dead. Judge locked ‘em all away, and then that Miss Novak came out here and said I weren’t fit to raise kids.”
The captain had told him that Garth had been abused by the Martins, and although there was no doubt Mrs. Martin had failed to protect the children in her charge, Danny was having trouble picturing her as a child beater. “She blamed you for not supervising the boys? For allowing them access to the gun? Or was there more?”
Trumpeting her nose on the last shred of tissue, she looked to every corner of the room. But there’s no trap door that will swallow you up and let you escape the truth. Sometimes, you just have to tell it, and Yesinia Martin eventually must’ve arrived at that conclusion. She patted her wiry hair, cleared her throat, cast a wary glance at him, and then looked at the floor. “I didn’t know what Robert was doing to Garth while I was away.” She met his eyes. “I swear to you, I didn’t know. If I had, I would’ve put a stop to it.”
First Do No Evil: Blood Secrets, Book 1 Page 22
