Half Life

by Helen Cothran

  So I was left with three suspects at the moment, which was three more than the sheriff’s department had. But could Bernard Cornwell or Matthew or Faith Thornton really have killed Pete? It seemed so long ago since I had talked with them and formed those suspicions that it no longer seemed plausible. The case had gone flat, I realized. I needed to get back in touch with it, start talking with those people again. But I’d have to work it around my book, which was increasingly behind. I had gotten some good research done this week but hadn’t typed a single word. Vince was going to lose it. One day he would truly have had enough of me and burn our contract with one of those vile cigarettes of his.

  I drank some more cold coffee and tried wiggling my toes. Nope, completely dead. I made a weak attempt to move Lacy off my foot, but she just groaned. I swear she pushed down on her head to ensure that her pillow would not go away. I was staring down at her big round head when I heard the front door squeak open, followed by a shrill “yoo hoo!”

  Oh no. Vanessa.

  I smelled her before I saw her, her Christian Dior perfume roiling into the kitchen before her like a storm surge. Lacy bounded to her feet, all exhaustion forgotten in her excitement to see her beloved friend. She wiggled all over like a puppy. My reaction was decidedly wiggle-less.

  “Good morning!” My sister piped as she swept into the room in her designer golf togs. She wore a visor rather than a cap to avoid mashing her perfect mahogany tresses.

  She took one look at me and said, “My Lord, Sam, can’t you go two minutes without getting into some kind of trouble?”

  At first I thought she referred to the fact that I was sitting there at ten o’clock on a weekday morning in my pajamas looking like I’d just climbed Mt. Everest. Then I remembered my broken nose. It felt much better, I could breathe normally now, but faint bruising still gave my face a yellow and green cast.

  I muttered, “I can always count on your tact and compassion.”

  She glared at me for a moment, studying my face. Getting no explanation for my bruises, she huffed and set about getting herself a cup of coffee.

  After she had filled a cup with cream and added a splash of coffee, I said, “Help yourself.”

  She smirked at me. Standing at the kitchen counter gulping down the brew, she nodded toward the kitchen window, through which she saw Connor laboring in the yard. “I happened to notice Connor’s car as I drove by. What on earth is he doing here?”

  I snorted. “Nobody ‘happens’ to drive by a cul-de-sac, Van. Are you conducting surveillance or what?”

  She ignored this, repeated her question as if I were dense. “So what’s he doing here?”

  I spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “Connor is gardening. That is when someone digs a hole and puts a plant in it.”

  Her face looked like she had a gas cramp. “Very funny. You know very well what I mean. Why is he home this time? Get fired? Kicked out of his apartment? Run out of money?”

  “All of the above.” I picked a piece of lint off the sleeve of my pajama top.

  “I don’t know why you put up with him staying here all the time.”

  “Mom did it.”

  “Yeah, well Mom had to. She was his mother.”

  “Look,” I said, not wanting her to think I’d gone soft or anything. “This time I told him he had to work it out in trade. He had the gall to say the yard looked like hell. So I told him he could stay if he fixed it up.”

  “The yard did look like hell.” She walked to the patio window to better scrutinize Connor’s work, Lacy following her as though attached with a tether. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  In just two weeks Connor had transformed the garden. He had dug up and removed all the dead stuff. He had laid new sprinkler pipes, rebuilt the rock wall that had crumbled away, and begun to replant. The garden looked neat and green and colorful. Despite what I said to Vanessa, I knew he wasn’t doing this just to earn his room and board. He wouldn’t work this hard for anyone except our mother. Other people might think this is sweet, but I assuredly did not.

  Vanessa channeled my thoughts. “He and Mom were always close. He’s putting it back exactly like she had it.”

  No bitterness marred her words. Unlike me, Vanessa never minded the fact that Connor was our mother’s favorite. Maybe it was because she and Mom weren’t always fighting like cats and dogs like Mom and I were. She wasn’t the black sheep. Vanessa was the oldest and therefore special, and Connor was the only boy. I, the middle child, was just another kid.

  Vanessa walked over to the kitchen table and plopped down in a chair across from me. Lacy put her head in my sister’s lap. Vanessa took the dog’s ears in her hands and began to rub them. Lacy moaned in an embarrassing way. My sister finally desisted before Lacy’s ears came off. Vanessa plopped her hands on the table and began tapping the surface with her bright red nails. This meant she had something on her mind. Lucky me.

  “So,” she said, big dark eyes boring into mine, “What have you done about Eddie and that Gabby person.”

  I sighed. “I hired the mob to take Gabby out.”

  She rolled her eyes and tapped her red nails on the table again. They were perfectly manicured, as usual. My sister spent more time in Le Tete Day Spa and Salon than she did on the golf course, which is saying something. “I see them around town everywhere.”

  “With your habits, you should be a spy.”

  Her fingernails rapped harder. “This is not funny, Sam. Eddie is spending way too much time with that woman. He was smitten with her before, and despite her dumping him and going off with that awful New Yorker, he still seems smitten. You better do something fast or that’s it.”

  I put my head in my hands and groaned. “What’s ‘it’? My body will vaporize? Eddie and Gabby will transport themselves to another planet?”

  “Go ahead and make your little jokes. That’s what you always do when anyone tries to talk sense to you. I know you’re in love with Eddie.”

  I sat up and looked at her, my mouth falling open. “Not that again. You are insane. Where do you get this stuff?”

  “Oh, come on! No woman hangs out with a straight man like you do just to be friends. You’re just afraid of commitment.”

  If I could have torn off every last one of her red fingernails, I would have. As it was, I had to suppress the urge to slam my coffee cup down on her knuckles, smashing her big flashy diamond ring into glittering bits. “You are so full of it, Vanessa, people confuse you with an outhouse.”

  This was so crass, even for me, she inhaled sharply. “Get real, Sam. You are thirty-two years old and unmarried. Your biological clock is ticking. Eddie is as good a match as you’re likely to make. It’s now or never.”

  God, did she think I was that desperate? “Not everyone wants to get married and have two awful brats like you did,” I snapped. I may have gone too far with the “brats” comment, but she seemed nonplussed.

  “Molly and Kaylee may not be candidates for the Brady Bunch, but I have built a family, which is what every grownup wants to do. Not sit around alone writing books for two dollars an hour or whatever you make.”

  “Wow. I didn’t realize how pathetic I was. Thanks for pointing it out to me.”

  She stopped drumming her fingers on the table and sat back. Her face softened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just don’t want you to be alone. Like Mom was after Dad died. She was so lonely.”

  What was she talking about? Our mother wasn’t lonely. She had us, she had the kids she taught at school, her friends, and all the people she worked with doing charity work. “Why on earth do you think she was lonely?”

  “It’s why she kept so busy.”

  “If she was lonely, she could always have remarried after Dad died.”

  “She was busy raising us and working to put food on the table. Those were her first priorities.”

  How did Vanessa know all these things and I did not? Sometimes I felt that Mom and I had lived in parallel universes, seeing each
other across the cosmos but never touching one another. It had never occurred to me that our mother had been lonely. Then I remembered why Vanessa had brought up this subject in the first place. “Look, I am not Mom. I didn’t lose a husband. I don’t even want a husband. I’m not lonely.”

  Vanessa narrowed her eyes, studying me. “The lady doth protest too much.”

  “But you’re forcing me to defend myself! You’re accusing me of being something I’m not. Why can’t you accept that we’re just different people? You and Thomas have a great life. Well, so do I. Not every woman wants what you want. Trust me.”

  “But you and Eddie. Honestly, Sam. I’m just not buying it.”

  “Women and men can be friends.”

  “Not you and Eddie. No, he loves you. Anyone can see it. And you love him.”

  I could not believe we were talking about this—again. I despised conversations about feelings, about marriage and romance, and such chats were millions of times worse with my sister. Somehow she always managed to pull me in. I huffed, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It’s really none of your business.”

  My words glanced off her. “Gabby’s snatching Eddie right out from under you.”

  I leaped up from the table and stomped over to the sink to rinse my coffee cup. “Let her. Eddie is a free man. He can make his own decisions.” I could feel my teeth grind together, sending nerve pain into my jaw.

  I heard huffing behind me. “I don’t believe you.”

  I slammed the coffee cup into the dishwasher. “You think I’m lying? Or you can’t believe that I’d let Eddie go since I so clearly adore him?”

  “Both,” she said.

  “Well, you’re wrong. It’s not my problem that the world cannot understand a woman and a man being friends. Or accept that a single woman can be happy.”

  “Whether that is true or not, you’re going to hurt Eddie. Again.”

  What on earth did that mean? The only time I could possibly have hurt Eddie was when I left town after high school to go to college. If he felt hurt by my leaving, that wasn’t my problem. It’s not as though we were betrothed or anything. We were just friends. Of course, friends could feel hurt and abandoned, I understood that, and I’m sure he missed me when I went away. I had missed him. But if he had been hurt, I wasn’t to blame, I didn’t do anything wrong.

  I groused to my sister, “I can’t help it if Eddie was hurt when I left. And I don’t see how I could possibly hurt him now. I’m leaving him alone, which is what he seems to want. If anyone’s hurt, it’s me. You think I like that he’s spending all his time with Gabby?” Damn it! Vanessa had tricked me into divulging feelings. Now I was vulnerable.

  She smiled smugly at me. “See, you love him, just like I said.”

  I felt like going over there, tearing the visor off her head, and smacking her with it. Instead, I took a deep breath and said, “Well, hell, look at that. It’s nearly eleven o’clock. I better get some work done.”

  Vanessa came over to the sink and put her cup in the dishwasher. Standing beside me, she nodded out the window. “I never thought Connor had that kind of work in him. I’m going to go out and tell him that.”

  She glided over to the patio door, opened it, and slid out into the yard. I saw Connor look up, his face horror-stricken.

  “Better you than me, bro,” I muttered.

  25

  I worked the entire weekend on my book. I finished most of the research and the outline, and even commenced writing chapter one. I still felt haunted by images of radioactive debris falling to earth, poisoning everything and everyone, but to counteract this emotionalism, I dove deep into the merits of nuclear power. I wanted to understand the arguments of those who made assurances that the waste could be disposed of safely. I worked composedly, fighting to understand. By the end of the weekend I felt at least rational, if not impartial, about the issue.

  As I worked to be objective I thought of Pete. I wondered how he had gotten involved in the toxic waste protest. He was in college, perhaps he had had a professor like my father, who had encouraged his biology students to apply their learning to the critical issues of the day. He used to take students on field trips to protest the felling of redwood trees or the building of dams. He was an impassioned teacher, and every semester he developed a new following of young people committed to environmental justice. Had Pete been inspired by a Professor Larkin? Or had he simply read about the proposal in the newspaper and felt scared, as I did, at the thought of having radioactive waste dumped in our backyard? As busy as he was with school and work, he had made time for this.

  I understood. I had been a lot like Pete in high school and college, often to my detriment. I got suspended from Desert Rock High after one incident and kicked off the college newspaper in another. Had Pete succumbed to a worse fate because of his passion? The protest over the radioactive waste dump was certainly contentious, but other than the shoving matches between Pete and Matthew, there had been no violence. In contrast, I had sensed dangerous emotions roiling in Cornwell and the Thorntons. If Pete had indeed been romantically involved with Matthew, he had instantly become a target. Cornwell’s career, reputation, and political aspirations were on the line, as was Faith and Matthew’s marriage. I felt in my bones that the answer to what happened to Pete lay with these people. I needed to talk with Bernard Cornwell again.

  First, though, I had to inform Trent that Raul could not have killed Pete. When I called him, I stayed true to my word and did not reveal what I had discovered Thursday night at Cholla Canyon. As predicted, Trent pressed me to explain how I could be certain of Raul’s innocence, but I insisted that I was not at liberty to say. In the end, because he and I were friends and trusted one another, he accepted it. Conditionally, at least. If Cornwell or other suspects did not become viable, if the case continued to languish, he would call Raul in again, and me, and we’d have to explain ourselves. In the meantime he gave me the green light to continue investigating Cornwell and the Thorntons.

  On Monday morning I drove down to the UPS store the minute it opened and shipped off my overdue outline to Vince. That done, I felt cleared to spend time on Pete’s investigation, which had now hit the two-week mark. My grand plan was foiled, however. I left three messages for Cornwell on Monday, insisting that it was urgent I see him, but he never called me back. On Tuesday morning I phoned again bright and early, hoping to catch him off guard. I got lucky. He picked up and barked “I told you ‘no’!” Ah, so the good “doctor” had been having a row with someone. In his anger he had forgotten that he was screening his calls so he wouldn’t have to talk with me. When he realized it was me on the line his anger deepened. He yapped “no!” when I asked if he’d meet me, and before I could object he hung up.

  I admit, I was flummoxed. Why didn’t he want to talk to me? I thought I’d left our previous encounter on good terms with him. We’d hit a few bumps when I asked him about Pete, but I had managed to smooth that over. Why was he avoiding me now? Maybe I hadn’t been as smooth as I thought. Maybe he knew the book was just a pretense, that the real reason I’d wanted to see him then and now was to grill him about Pete. But how would he have figured that out? Then I remembered my visit with the Thorntons, how I had been escorted out the door after calling Matthew a liar. So maybe one of the Thorntons had told Cornwell about my little visit. It raised a question about why any of these people would care that I was asking about Pete. And why did they care enough to actually talk together about my pesky visits? I needed to speak with Cornwell pronto, but I’d have to think of another way.

  The solution was simple, and the man didn’t give me much credit if he didn’t think I’d figure it out. I simply drove on over to his office around noon on Wednesday and hung out in my Corolla until he left his office for lunch. It was none too soon, either. I had whiled away the time drinking a huge latte from Coffee Buzz, and by the time Cornwell emerged, my bladder was poised to follow the fate of the Hindenburg.

  I eased out of my
car and sneaked up behind him as he passed through the parking lot. When I sang, “Good morning!” he jumped three feet in the air and spun around like he expected a mugger.

  “You!” His voice sounded anxious rather than angry.

  I was shocked at how different he looked. During our previous interview, he had been one cool customer, so controlled as to seem robotic. His shirt and slacks had been crisply ironed and his silk tie spotless. His flyaway white hair had been tamed with some sort of anti-static goop. This time I would have sworn he was a different man except for the same pale complexion. His fine hair had been left to its own devices and was actively swaying about his head in the dry wind. He wore no tie, and his shirt and slacks looked slept in. He looked exhausted, deep lines ran beside his mouth, and dark crescents below his eyes made them appear sunken. Did this transformation have anything to do with Pete’s disappearance? I was going to find out.

  “Yes, it’s me,” I said, crowding my body toward him so he was forced against a parked car. I wanted him off balance and unable to escape.

  He didn’t like ceding power and tried to collect himself. He moved away from the car and stood up tall so that he hovered a foot above me. He ran his hand down the front of his shirt, then stopped, remembering he wore no tie today. He said, forced composure straining his face, “I don’t have time to talk to you. I have to eat lunch before my next appointment.” He started to edge around me.

  I cut him off. “I’m not leaving until you tell me why you lied about not knowing Pete.”