by Lisa Bork
“Something big happen?” I noticed smears of mud on his gray uniform and caught a whiff of … evergreen?
“Major world crisis. A nine-year-old got his knee wedged in the crotch of an oak tree. He couldn’t pull it out. I couldn’t pull him out. His mom was hysterical, carrying on to the point where I actually considered slapping her. I had to call the fire department. Meantime, every yahoo in the county with a scanner showed up to watch. I needed Gumby and Max just for traffic and crowd control. It was a circus, and I was the ringmaster.”
“Did you get him out?”
“We took down almost the whole tree after first cutting down the evergreen next to it, to get at the oak from the right angle. The kid’s knee was swollen and twisted, but he’ll be okay.” Ray settled more comfortably in his chair and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. “So what’s going on?”
Where to start? Murder accusations take precedence over adultery any day of the week.
I filled Ray in on the day’s events and my last conversation with Cory. “He’s really worked up about Brennan. He’s got all kinds of wild ideas about investigating on his own.” I left out the fact Cory had asked me to help, which was superfluous.
Ray snorted. “What’s he think he’s going to learn that the department doesn’t know?”
“He’s curious about the woman with James Gleason. He wants to talk to her, find out what James and Brennan were arguing about.”
“She’s Gleason’s estranged wife. Ken spoke with her.”
“And what was the argument about?”
“His sister’s death. Both Brennan and the wife confirmed that.”
“How did you know?”
“I talked to Catherine.”
That sick feeling washed through my stomach again. “She called you?”
“I called her to see what we could do to help Brennan.”
A nice gesture on his part. We were all friends, after all. “Did Gleason’s wife say anything else helpful?”
“Not really. Apparently her son suggested the family attend the race. She and Gleason ran into Brennan by chance. Gleason accused Brennan of not caring about his sister and causing her death, and the two got into an argument. When they wouldn’t stop arguing, his wife took off in the opposite direction, missed the whole crash, and didn’t even hear about it until the sheriff’s department showed up on her doorstep for next of kin notification. She and Gleason didn’t come to the festival together, and they don’t live together anymore either. Hard to say how broken up she is over his death.”
Or if she told the truth regarding her whereabouts during the accident. “Did Catherine know anything else new?”
“Just that she thinks Brennan’s going to have trouble with his bail.”
“Why? He has ties to the area, no prior record. Surely no one believes he’s going to go around pushing other people in front of cars.”
“True. But right or wrong, the cloud of Gleason’s sister’s death is hanging over him now. The judge may not set bail at a figure Brennan can afford.”
I wondered what amount would be unattainable for Brennan, who owned a million dollar, two-story contemporary house with a panoramic view of the lake and an in-ground swimming pool, plus a huge garage to house his car collection, a brand-new office building in the village, and a much-in-demand construction company. Very little got built on our lake or in the town without his involvement. “What can Brennan do?”
“I don’t know. Catherine says it’s unreasonable, but the bail amount may be enough to keep him locked up. She said to tell Cory to sit tight for now. That she’s got it all under control.”
I doubted Cory would be able to “sit tight,” especially if Brennan remained in jail indefinitely. In fact, I wondered what Cory was doing right this minute. When I hadn’t jumped on the idea of looking into things on our own, he’d gotten a wild look in his eye, a new and worrisome look for him. He wouldn’t plan a jailbreak in this day and age, but he might do something equally crazy in the name of love. Though for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what that might be. The last thing Cory had said to me was he would see me at work on Tuesday, two whole days from today. At lot can happen in two days.
“I also got a disturbing call from Isabelle.”
Ray’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He loves Isabelle. Everyone loves Isabelle, including her husband, Jack, no doubt. “How so?”
He listened patiently as I told him Isabelle’s tale of woe, including a reminder about her cousin who believed in her husband for months until she walked in on him and his paramour in flagrante delicto. Ray’s lips twitched a little bit when I got to that, but he agreed with me.
“Isabelle needs to give him some space. No way should she hire a private investigator.”
“That’s what I said.”
“In a couple days, they’ll have been back in the sack and it will all be over.”
I could only hope. Still, Ray and I agreed. And maybe Isabelle had listened to reason.
This left me with only one other potential adulterer to worry about—my sister, Erica.
_____
Our hometown of Wachobe sat at the head of a seven-mile, crystal-clear lake, the Mecca for boaters, bathers, and water sport enthusiasts. We were known as the western portal to the Finger Lakes region, and our town’s population more than doubled in the summertime. Although the official tourist season had ended on Labor Day, the town still seemed bustling this bright and cheery Sunday morning.
At the edge of our village, a few yards beyond the quarter mile of original and picturesque brick and clapboard buildings lining the shopping district, a small but charming park offered visitors an area to swim under the careful watch of a lifeguard. The lush grass surrounding the area cried out for picnics. Yesterday I’d called and left a message for Erica to meet me there.
The park also showcased the loading dock for a paddleboat that offered luncheon and dinner cruises on the lake. With the sun shining at full blast and temperatures in the seventies, a line to board today’s luncheon cruise wound across the park and around the white band gazebo. Through the crowd, I spotted Erica sitting on one of the gazebo benches, dressed in jeans, a V-neck T-shirt, and flip-flops, just like me, and holding a paper bag. If her V-neck hadn’t revealed cleavage and her jeans had been a little less tight, holey or frayed, our clothing would have matched. As it was, even with only five years difference in age between us, I looked like the conservative mom and Erica, a teen on the prowl.
As soon as she spied me, Erica rose and pointed to the sidewalk. I nodded in agreement, welcoming the exercise. My blue-eyed sister with her long, blond ringlets, who used to be a size four, was not so happy at her current size eight, a result in equal parts from her medications and the richer cuisine of married life. Still, she could give Kate Hudson a run for her money any day, in my humble opinion. The two looked quite a bit alike.
We fell into step and left the park, strolling down the sidewalk past the stately village homes dating as far back as the 1790s. Their magnificent porches decorated with overflowing hanging baskets of purple petunias, red geraniums, yellow marigolds, and fuchsia verbena made the view all the more spectacular. Blessed with a black thumb, I always admired other people’s flowers.
Erica handed me the bag. “I made you something.”
This was a first. Surprised, inordinately pleased, and curious, I reached inside the bag and pulled out a pillow. In uneven cross-stitch, it read, “I smile because you’re my sister. I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it.”
Never were words so true. We looked at each other and burst out giggling.
I shook the pillow at her. “If you only knew how many Finger Lakes gift shops have items with this saying on it. I think of you every time I see it.”
She seemed pleased, always happy to be the center of the universe. “What do you think of my pillow?”
“I’m impressed. When did you take up cross-stitching?”
“Last week. I’m
unemployed, you know.”
A sobering fact. Erica spent most of her adulthood unemployed, able to get a job but always losing it when either the depression or the mania along with the phone calls to her coworkers at all hours of the night arrived. All the restaurants and shops in town flipped the “Closed” signs in her face now whenever she tried to apply, having learned either firsthand or through the grapevine just how unreliable or disruptive she could be.
“I’m glad you’re putting your time to good use. I love the pillow. Thanks.”
I broke our companionable silence after a few yards, beginning my ritual questioning. “So how are you?”
“Good.”
“How are things going with Maury?”
“Okay.”
“Are you happy with him?”
“Sure. He loves me.”
I waited for Erica to say that she loved him, too. And waited. At least it didn’t sound like she had another man. She would have told me. Discretion was not one of her virtues. And what a relief! Erica had taken up cross-stitching instead of with another man. It felt like real progress. If only it would last.
I moved on. “Are you taking your medication?”
Erica whipped her face away from me as though something interesting had caught her attention on the far side of the road. “Which one?”
She only takes two: one for her bipolar disorder and one to prevent … I’d never had to ask her about that one before. “What do you mean, ‘Which one?’?”
A bottle cap lay in the road ahead of us. I watched as Erica stooped to pick it up and place it in her pocket. She’d been collecting them for years, some from beers she’d consumed, others from bars she’d frequented, and the rest from other people’s discarded trash. The caps blended nicely with her enormous wine cork collection, and I didn’t think she was even aware she was doing it anymore. She didn’t seem about to answer my question, so I prompted her along.
“Let me be specific. Are you taking the medication Dr. Albert prescribes for you?” Dr. Albert was Erica’s stud-muffin psychiatrist she saw once a month for her bipolar disorder. I’d considered developing a mental health issue just to spend some time with him alone myself.
“Yeah.”
“And is it working?”
“It quiets the buzzing.”
That was the best we could hope for because the buzzing would never completely disappear. “And are you taking your birth control pills?”
Erica started walking faster. She mumbled an answer.
I hustled to catch up to her. “I didn’t hear you.”
She stopped dead. “I’m taking them, but don’t tell Maury.”
I got that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach again, a feeling I could really live without. “Why not?”
“Because …” she heaved a huge sigh, “he thinks we’re trying to get pregnant.”
My blood turned to ice. “And are you … trying?”
“God, no. Never. Never ever.”
I should have felt relieved. After all, Ray and I had split for three years after I refused to have a baby with him, fearing the family mental illness gene would be passed on to our child. It seemed far more likely that Erica could pass it on to a child. But instead of relief, I felt concern. A marriage built on lies wasn’t going to last long.
“Why are you pretending otherwise?”
Erica kicked a pebble off the sidewalk. It zinged a nearby mailbox.
“Maury was all over me yesterday that we needed to do something together. He thinks we’re growing apart. I never want to watch his stupid Japanese animated cartoons and I didn’t go to the Glen with him. He says we need to find a hobby where we can”—she flicked quotation marks as she rolled her eyes—“bond. He wanted to take up canoeing. He’s always wanted to take up canoeing, or so he says. Our landlord broke up with his girlfriend, and he offered Maury the use of his canoe, since he’s not going to be taking her out of the lake anymore. Maury thinks it’s the perfect time to”—her fingers flicked again— “get out on the lake. He’s obsessed with the idea.”
I loved how she referred to “our landlord.” Erica and Maury lived in my old apartment, and I was pretty sure I was the only one regularly writing checks to the man who owned the 1870s Victorian and lived in the apartment above their first floor love nest.
“It’s not such a bad idea. What’s wrong with canoeing?”
“What do you think of when you hear the word ‘canoe’?”
“Ah, Indians, birch bark, um … paddles? I don’t know. Why?”
“I think ‘tippy,’ ‘tippy canoe.’ I can’t even swim. I don’t want to canoe.”
Our mother had stayed on this earth long enough to enroll me in swim lessons. She committed suicide when I was twelve and Erica seven, leaving me to assume the role of surrogate mother to Erica. As a pre-teen and teenager, I could feed Erica, get her to and from school on time, make sure she had on clean clothes, and help her with her homework. My father, an automobile mechanic, was busy running his garage and holding our family together. Erica never got all the little extras like swim lessons.
On the other hand, we did grow up in a lakeside town, where most teenage activities revolved around the water during the summertime. I wouldn’t dump her in the middle of the lake and expect her to swim to shore, but Erica had no genuine fear of the water and could do a decent doggy paddle, especially when in heat for a nearby dog.
But I didn’t want to argue with her when she was being so forthcoming. “So just tell Maury that.”
“I tried, but he brought me a dozen roses and told me he wanted to serenade me in the canoe on the lake.”
Maury has a thing about roses. He used to give them to lots of women. In fact, he was so aggressive about it that one woman filed a complaint with the police. I guessed every woman didn’t want roses … or his attention. And with his current occupation as a floral delivery man, the roses remained plentiful, especially when he pulled the discarded, slightly defective ones out of the trash. But Erica had married him ten months ago, granted on the spur of the moment and in the throes of depression. She wasn’t going to be able to opt out quite so easily.
“Where does the baby come into all this?”
“I told him we would have a baby together. I told him that would bond us. He got all excited.”
“Oh, Erica.” It was just like her to take the quick—yet completely absurd and bound to explode in her face—way out. How could the two of us ever have come from the same womb?
“I know, I know. It was dumb.”
“You’re going to have to tell him the truth. Now.”
She bit her lip. “What if he leaves me?”
“He won’t.” I said this with great confidence. Maury looked at my sister like she was a goddess. Besides, any man with the urge to “bond” wasn’t likely to leave, at least not right away. He probably liked the bonding notion of a child, but I doubted he really wanted to sign up for parenthood, both he and Erica being way too childlike themselves.
“He’s going to be really, really upset, Jolene.”
“Undoubtedly. You’ll have to make it up to him pretty quick.”
“How?”
The answer seemed obvious to me. I just looked at her, eyebrows raised.
Erica cringed. “No. Oh, no.”
I nodded.
“I’m going to have to get in the freakin’ canoe?”
“Wear a life jacket. It’ll be fun.”
“Oh, crap.”
SEVEN
MONDAY MORNING ROLLED AROUND without word from Cory. Given the sports car boutique’s regular hours of nine to five Tuesday through Saturday, I wouldn’t see him again until tomorrow. So I called him from home minutes after Danny climbed onto the school bus, curious to know if he planned on attending Brennan’s bail hearing and arraignment. I had offered to go with him before we parted on Saturday. He said he’d let me know. When he didn’t answer his phone at home, I tried his cell, only to go directly to voicemail. I didn’t bother
to leave a message; his phone would record the missed call. Cory could get back to me on his own time.
Ray called me around lunchtime. “Brennan’s got bail trouble. The judge asked for cash bail of $100,000. Apparently Brennan’s not that liquid.”
“He’s got a rich father.”
“Really? Catherine didn’t mention him.”
“You talked to Catherine?” I tried not to let the green monster poke me. I failed. Ray had already chosen me over Catherine a couple years ago now, but I still felt insecure. No wonder all my friends and relatives felt the same about their relationships—they actually had more reason than me.
“Yes. She’s building his defense.”
“Which is?”
“Flimsy. Brennan’s word that he was reaching out to save Gleason, not pushing him, and the photograph itself.”
“How does that help Brennan? It’s part of the evidence against him.”
“Catherine’s going to contend that the picture shows Brennan’s hand reaching out in a position like he was about to shake hands or grab something. She said if he was pushing Gleason his hand would have been in an upright ‘Halt’ or shoving angle.”
I considered this notion. “Is that all she’s got?”
“She thinks it’s enough. She’s confident she can discredit the one female witness, and knowing Catherine, she can. Eyewitness reports are notorious for inaccuracy, and no other witnesses have come forward to say anything other than the crowd surged toward the street. She’s going to contend it’s simply unbelievable that no one else witnessed Brennan shove Gleason into the road with so many others close by. She doesn’t even think it will go to trial.”
Catherine was good, but she might have to be Perry Mason to make that one work. “Did she say what the prosecutor contends?”
“He says Gleason held Brennan responsible for the death of his sister, that the two of them argued bitterly, and that Gleason threatened to kill Brennan. He said the eyewitness saw Brennan shove Gleason into the road, most likely in retaliation for that threat.”
I wondered what a jury would think. Truthfully, with the way the story appeared on the news, if I hadn’t known Brennan, I might believe he had pushed Gleason. I certainly wouldn’t brush it off without wanting to hear all the testimony myself. Apparently, the judge agreed.
