by Ken Casper
“See, Geit, I told you someday I’d do something useful.”
“Well, it took you long enough, you old reprobate.”
“She loves me,” Hutton said with wink.
She scowled, but Jeff noticed she didn’t dispute the point.
“Thank you, Mr. Hutton,” Jeff said and offered his hand.
The man in the wheelchair took it, his shake demonstrating more strength than Jeff had expected.
“Glad to help, son. Have a good trip back.”
“Ma’am,” Jeff said politely to the sick man’s hatchet-faced guardian. He let himself out and was surprised at how clean the broiling outside air felt and tasted.
He drove back to the airport, turned in the rental car and checked with the ticket counter. There was space available on a flight to Houston leaving in half an hour. He called the hotel, canceled his reservation and boarded the plane seconds before the door was sealed. He would have liked to call Catherine and let her know what he’d found but decided it would be much more satisfying to tell her in person.
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
KELSEY WAS FURIOUS when she read the editorial her uncle had written about her mother.
“Hasn’t he done enough?” she muttered, her eyes squeezed closed.
She had to stop him, but confronting him wouldn’t do any good, even if she had the audacity to face him. How could she? She was too ashamed. What was done was done. She’d made her decision—in a way it had been made for her. But she could still do something to help her mother.
As a novice, she lived in the community with the other sisters, but she hadn’t yet taken a vow of poverty. She still owned her own car, the same one she’d had in college. Nothing fancy. She had no desire to show off. She also hadn’t wanted to upstage Derek, whose little Chevy truck was several years old. So she’d bought a Honda Civic. The silver sedan was unpretentious and inconspicuous. Her cousin Ralston, who was several years younger and full of himself, accused her of slumming. He loved impressing his girlfriends with the Mercedes sports coupe his father had given him on his sixteenth birthday. Ralston had also gotten a slew of speeding tickets, which he bragged he never paid. Kelsey was sure her mother hadn’t fixed them, but someone had. Did her mother even know? Maybe not. Police chiefs didn’t get involved in mundane things like traffic violations.
The senior Tanners lived in the River Oaks section of Houston, close to downtown, yet virtually hidden from the city by the huge oaks, pecans, elms and sycamores foresting the slopes of the narrow valley of Buffalo Bayou that became the Houston Channel a mile or two farther east. The district was one of the oldest and most prestigious of Houston’s residential areas. Kelsey’s great-grandfather had purchased the property back in the twenties, but it had been his son, Marcus, who built on it in the late 1950s. By then, the Houston Sentinel had risen from an obscure Negro weekly to a nationally recognized city daily, and the family fortune, which went back to the days of Reconstruction, could be publicly displayed.
Kelsey remembered her mother once talking about her first visit to the Tanner residence.
“I’d never been in a mansion before.” She’d laughed as she said it, as if it had been a fun experience. Kelsey doubted it. She wasn’t sure if her grandparents disapproved of her mother because she was white or because she was lower middle-class. Probably a little bit of both. Being a cop certainly hadn’t helped.
“I’m sure I gawked,” her mother had said, “and made a terrible first impression.”
As if that justified the disdain with which they’d always treated her. And now Uncle Tyrone was making it worse, making it public. Kelsey felt her face grow warm with outrage, something she would have to both hide and control.
The Tanner mansion, like many of its neighbors, was a cross between Greek revival and American Gothic. Only one corner of the two-and-a-half-story yellow-brick house could be glimpsed from the road. A high wrought-iron fence surrounded the five-acre estate.
Kelsey pressed the button in the brick pillar at the foot of the driveway, announced herself to the crackly voice that questioned who it was, waited for the ornate lacework gate to slide open, then proceeded along the winding driveway.
The grounds were fastidiously maintained by a full-time gardener who took his orders directly and exclusively from Grandma Amanda. Kelsey parked under the portico and went to the front door. A dark-faced housemaid in a black-and-white uniform answered the bell almost immediately.
“How’s Grandpa?” Kelsey asked.
“He’s right fine, Miss Kelsey,” Ophelia replied. “Oh, I mean Sister Kelsey.”
Kelsey smiled. “Miss, Sister or just plain Kelsey is fine.”
Though close to seventy, Ophelia looked twenty years younger. She talked about retiring but never seemed to get around to it. She’d been with the family over forty years and had earned the right to address Kelsey by only her first name, but she never did.
“He’s in his study,” the short, round woman said, closing the door. “Go right in.”
Marcus Tanner’s study was a square room at the back of the house with a view of a formal garden that screened the tennis court beyond it. He lowered the book he was reading when Kelsey entered.
Tall and raw-boned even in his seventy-third year he was a commanding presence. If his stride was less confident than it had been ten years earlier when he was heading up the newspaper, no one doubted there was still steel behind the weakened facade.
“A pleasant surprise,” he said, showing straight white teeth. All his own.
She came over to his chair and kissed his cheek. “How are you, Gramps?”
“Passable,” he said. “Passable. What brings you to see me?”
The question was asked pleasantly enough, but Kelsey didn’t miss the rebuke in it. She wasn’t a frequent visitor and always wondered if the reception she received was one of censure that she came so infrequently or that she came at all.
On the other hand, she hadn’t been given the access code to the front gate so she could wander in and out at will, the way her cousins could.
She’d never met her white grandparents, though she knew where they lived and had even walked by their house a couple of times with friends one summer when she was in high school, hoping she might see them, that they might recognize her and invite her in, but no one had been around. Being rejected by her mother’s parents should have made her paternal grandparents all the more special. After all, she was black like them. But they always made her feel like an outsider.
It had upset her when she was younger, but her father had helped her learn to accept it.
“Your mother and I love you, Kel,” he’d said. “You are the most precious thing in the world to us. Don’t ever forget that. We have each other. That’s all that matters.”
Except now he was dead.
“Have you read today’s paper?” she asked her grandfather, knowing full well he’d examined every line of it.
“I suppose you’re upset about it.” He made it sound as if she shouldn’t be.
“She’s my mother, Gramps. How do you expect me to feel?”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” She sat in the leather chair across from him and folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t. Why do you hate her so? She’s never done anything to hurt you. She’s always been polite and considerate, and in return you treat her with scorn. Why?”
“Perhaps I know a side of her you don’t.”
What secret could he possibly be referring to? “Then how about enlightening me.”
“It’s none of your concern.”
Kelsey felt her composure slipping. “You show contempt for my mother, then say it’s not my business?”
She’d come here determined to persuade her grandfather in a quiet and courteous manner to make Uncle Tyrone stop. She used to meekly accept her grandfather’s dismissive attitude, but not anymore. She was angry. Perhaps she would always be angry now, but she wasn’t going to be ignored.
“I don’t think you have a reason,” she said. “You just hate her because she’s white.”
He flexed his jaw. She could see his temper rising, but he didn’t raise his voice. “You’re young and innocent. I prefer to leave it that way.”
Did he have any idea how much those words hurt? No, of course not, and there was no way she could tell him.
“Tell Uncle Ty to back off,” she demanded.
“He has a job to do, a public trust to serve.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
The shock on her grandfather’s face told her she’d stepped over the line, gone too far. He said nothing, merely glared at her as if she were a rodent or insect. She jumped up from her chair, her hands balled into fists.
“Tell him to leave her alone, or—” She bolted from the room.
She was through the doorway when she saw her grandmother standing in the hall, scowling at her. Kelsey halted.
“Come with me,” Amanda ordered.
Turning, she entered the sitting room at the front of the house without so much as a backward glance, totally confident her granddaughter would follow. Heat pounding, Kelsey obeyed.
Small and delicate, Amanda Tanner matched her husband in strength of character. As far as Kelsey knew, they never fought, never contradicted or disagreed with each other—a model of marital harmony, a compelling example of two people who had endured trials and hardships and gained strength from the joint experience. They also shared a coldness, not toward each other—their mutual devotion was unmistakable—but toward everyone else. Jordan had paid them the polite deference they deserved as his parents—except in the matter of marrying Catherine against their wishes—but he’d also found them emotionally remote.
“Don’t you ever come into this house and speak to your grandfather in that manner again,” Amanda commanded, standing ramrod-straight, her gnarled hands folded at her narrow waist. She waited, no doubt expecting her granddaughter to apologize for her inexcusable conduct, but this time Kelsey refused to bend. She’d always been afraid of this woman, even on those rare occasions when Amanda showed affection. In spite of her resolve not to betray her fear, Kelsey felt herself trembling in the old woman’s presence.
“You want to know why we have no respect for your mother?” Amanda finally asked, her words clipped, disapproving. “I’ll tell you. She’s a slut. She set her claws on Jordan, but that didn’t keep her from trying to seduce Tyrone at the same time. He rejected her advances, but that didn’t stop her. I wonder how many other men she’s entertained over the years. She’s nothing but a tramp.”
Kelsey’s heart stopped. She went numb. The room started to spin. Her legs began to weaken.
“No.” The word came out as a moan. “It’s not true.”
She stared at her grandmother through a white haze, saw the gloating malevolence in the old woman’s beady eyes. She’d just called her dead son a cuckold and seemed to take satisfaction in it. What kind of woman was this?
Kelsey covered her face with her hands and realized she was in danger of sinking onto the thick carpet. Summoning up a reserve of energy from somewhere, she fled the room and the house. Her fingers shook as she fumbled to start the car. She would have crashed through the gate if the electric eye hadn’t opened it in time for her to pass through.
Her mother and Uncle Ty? It couldn’t be. She didn’t believe it. Never. Except . . .
AFTER LUNCH, Catherine could no longer put off returning the mayor’s repeated calls. She hoped he had seen her impromptu news conference and that it had placated him, at least temporarily.
“Kean, Rocha and Castillo are calling for your resignation,” Walbrun told her. They were the three councilmen who had left messages, insisting she contact them at once.
“I have no intention of resigning now or anytime soon,” she declared.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he responded, but his lack of zeal conveyed diplomacy rather than sincerity. “I saw you on TV. You handled the press well.”
“Why didn’t you tell me Buster Rialto was at the last meeting you had with Jordan?” She kept her tone neutral, but the silence on the other end told her she’d drawn blood.
“I . . . didn’t think it was important.”
“In the future, Stan, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me decide what’s important. I don’t think you’d like your staff keeping information from you.”
“I’m not a member of your staff,” he snapped.
“No, you’re not,” she said with a sigh. “But I thought you were my friend.”
“I . . . I’m sorry, Catherine. I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Thanks for calling, and for your vote of support.”
She replaced the receiver and was surprised to see her hand shaking. She didn’t have time to dwell on it, however. Annette stood in the doorway carrying a sheaf of papers.
“You’re going to have a cauliflower ear by the time you finish with these,” she said and presented the stack of telephone messages.
Over the next few hours Catherine felt like an answering machine, repeating the same message over and over again. No, she was not going to resign. No, the level of corruption hadn’t increased since she’d been at the helm. Yes, Internal Affairs was aggressively pursuing all allegations of police misconduct. No, she wouldn’t discuss ongoing investigations.
It was after five when she finally turned her cell phone on again. A second later it chirped.
“I just got back from Vegas. I have something for you,” Jeff said without identifying himself.
Las Vegas? What was he doing there? But her door was open, and she didn’t want to take a chance on being overheard, so she didn’t ask the question. She looked at the institutional wall clock over the door. “I’ll be tied up here for a while yet. See you at eight.”
“Your house?”
“Yes.”
He hung up. She stared at the phone for several seconds and finally closed it. What could he have found in Las Vegas, Nevada? As soon as she thought of the state, she had a good idea. She smiled just as the phone on her desk rang. She picked it up and resumed her litany of answers.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
* * *
JEFF HAD CAUGHT A REBROADCAST of Catherine’s interview with the press on the evening news. She was good. Even when she said Tyrone Tanner was just doing his job, that his attack hadn’t been personal, she’d stayed cool and at ease. He admired that. Under the same circumstances he would have lashed out.
Taking a chance that she would not have had time for dinner, he stopped off at a supermarket and picked up a few things.
She looked a bit frazzled when she opened the door. Frazzled, but incredibly alluring. What was it about this woman that made him so aware that she was a female and he was a male? Whatever it was, it was powerful. And troubling. They weren’t compatible, yet there was something flowing between them.
“What’s this?” she asked, eyeing the bag of groceries in the crook of his arm.
“I thought you might be hungry.”
Her face lit up. “You mean I won’t have to pop another frozen dinner in the microwave? Watch out, Jeff Rowan, I just may have to marry you.”
The shock on her face when she realized what she’d said made him laugh, while the statement itself sent a disturbing, yet not unpleasant punch to his belly. He stepped over the threshold. “Don’t worry. I won’t hold you to that.”
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she said, still flustered, and closed the door. “I don’t know where that came from.”
He smiled, enjoying her discomfort. “The stomach?” he asked. “I guess that means you’re hungry.” He marched toward the kitchen, aware of her trailing behind him and the electricity crackling between them.
“Kelsey will tell you I’m not much of a cook,” she said, by way of explanation and apology. “Jordan did most of the cooking. By myself . . . it just doesn’t seem worth the effort.”
“Well, there are two of us this even
ing, so you’re spared eating out of plastic. You may have dishes to do, though.”
“That’s why I have a dishwasher.” Her little chuckle was more carefree this time. “What did you bring?”
“I didn’t know what you might have on hand, so I got the makings of an omelet. Is cheese and mushroom okay?”
“Perfect.” Her face beamed.
“And salad, of course.”
“Of course.”
He’d bought a baguette, which she popped in the oven for a few minutes to crisp up, then they set about preparing the rest of the simple meal. At first, he had to ask where things were, but as he became more familiar with the layout of the kitchen, he began rummaging for himself.
He cleaned and sliced fresh mushrooms and complimented her on how she’d handled the media.
She washed and tore up lettuce and told him she’d had practice over the years.
He diced red onion and asked if she thought the pressure was off for a while.
She quartered small red tomatoes and assured him the campaign against her was only heating up.
He whisked half a dozen eggs with a few swift strokes and wanted to know if she thought it would get worse.
She shredded cheddar cheese and assured him it would.
While she set the table, he pulled the cork on the full-bodied pinot noir he’d picked up on the way over.
She presented him with two large bowled glasses.
He poured.
They touched glasses, and just before sampling the wine, their eyes met across the rims.
The room stood still, as if there were no world beyond it. The way she regarded him produced a kind of telepathy. She told him she enjoyed his company and that she was grateful not to be alone. But there was something more. Something that set off a tremor in him of a kind he’d never felt with other women.
“Bon appetit,” he managed to say.
Instead of drinking, she lowered her gaze, then raised it in a doubt-filled smile that seemed to harbor tears.
