Hand of Evil ar-3

by J. A. Jance

  Arabella looked at Ali sharply, as though waiting for an answer or a denial or something. In fact Ali was too struck by Arabella’s comment to respond at all. It seemed to her that Arabella had read cutloose, looked beyond the words, and glimpsed the darkest part of Ali’s soul, a blemish no amount of soap could wash away.

  Ali had indeed wished Paul Grayson dead on more than one occasion, thinking that having him dead would somehow make things easier for her. Now that he was dead, Ali was stuck with all the accompanying consequences. Not only was Paul dead, as were his fiancee and their unborn baby, but there was also another mother and another young baby fathered by Paul to consider. And even though none of that was actually Ali’s fault, still…

  “Yes,” Ali admitted finally. “I guess I do feel somewhat guilty.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Arabella told her cheerfully, “but I suppose that’s all to your credit. In fact, I’m actually glad to hear it. I’ve suspected all along that’s the kind of person you were and are-which is to say-relatively nice. After Bill died, I never felt a moment’s worth of guilt-not a single one.”

  The log in the fireplace burned through and tumbled between the andirons with a resounding crash, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward.

  Ali wasn’t sure where the conversation had gone. She seemed to have missed something. “Who’s Bill?” Ali asked. “Did you have a husband who died, too?”

  “Good heavens no,” Arabella said with a laugh. “Not a husband. Thankfully I’ve never had one of those. In my case it was a brother who died-a stepbrother, actually, an older stepbrother. And I didn’t kill him,” she added hastily. “Not that I didn’t want to, but in the end he took matters into his own hands and saved everyone else the trouble. He got himself all drunked up and drove off the side of a mountain. I understand in your case that someone else got rid of Fang for you without your having to lift a finger, either. I loved that you called him Fang, by the way. I thought that was inspired, and I always loved Phyllis Diller. You must have, too.”

  At a loss and not quite able to make the connections, Ali reverted to her old journalism training and asked questions. “When did your stepbrother die?” she asked. “Recently?”

  “Oh, no,” Arabella replied. “It’s years ago now-right around fifty. I was actually out of the country when it happened, and I didn’t hear about it until much later, so I’ve managed to blot out the exact date. After all, at my age I’m entitled to a few senior moments. Still, I’m sure I’ll be able to track down all those gory details should I need them. Mother kept a file I’ll be able to use for research, but that’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about-changing names and details. When you’re writing about an ugly situation-a real-life situation-is it preferable to write it as it happened, or are you better off changing names and such to keep the legal beagles from coming after you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Ali said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I’m thinking about writing a book, you see,” Arabella said. “And I’m wondering if I should fictionalize some of it or all of it-you know, change names to protect the innocent and all that?”

  That depends on whether or not what you’re writing is the truth, Ali thought.

  She said, “Look, we’re getting into some pretty murky territory here. What you’re talking about could have legal ramifications-adverse legal ramifications. You should probably consult an attorney, one who specializes in libel.”

  “I’ve already told you, hiring attorneys isn’t an option at this time,” Arabella replied. “But I will say that the idea that I might decide to write a book is the very last thing Billy thought would happen when he came barging in here asking for a handout.”

  Now Ali was really confused. “Billy?” she interjected. “I thought you just told me he was dead.”

  “Bill Junior is dead,” Arabella replied. “Billy is his son, my nephew, and a chip off the old block if ever there was one. Every bit as contemptible as his father and his grandfather. DNA is spooky that way, don’t you think? I wonder if the human genome project is looking into that? Billy’s my nephew, but until he showed up Sunday afternoon, I hadn’t ever laid eyes on him. Looks just like his father. That gave me a bit of a shock.”

  “How old is he?” Ali asked.

  “Billy? Late fifties.”

  “And you’d never met him before?”

  “Never.”

  “So why did he look you up after all this time?”

  “Money,” Arabella answered. “He’s gone through what my father left him. He came here under the mistaken impression that I still had loads of Mother’s money, and that I’d be happy to give him some of that, too. It turns out, of course, that Mother’s money is pretty much gone, and I wouldn’t give him any of it even if it wasn’t. When I told him he wasn’t getting a dime’s worth of what I had left, things went from bad to worse.”

  “How so?” Ali asked.

  “He threatened me.”

  “With bodily harm?”

  “It sounded like bodily harm to me. He said that someone in my condition, whatever that is, shouldn’t be left living on my own with only an aging butler to look after me. I told him Mr. Brooks is quite capable-he’s only seventy-six by the way-and we’re managing quite nicely. Have been for years. At which point Billy ran his finger across the table and said the place could use some dusting-the arrogant twit. Who cares about dusting anyway?”

  Ali immediately regretted her own critical thoughts about how things were slipping a bit in the housekeeping department. She said nothing.

  Arabella continued. “He went on to tell me that if I was going to insist on staying in this big, drafty old house, I should let him do a reverse mortgage on the place so I could hire some adequate help and do some fix-up kinds of repairs. That was when I told him I wasn’t interested and he could put his reverse mortgage scheme where the sun don’t shine.”

  Ali managed to suppress a smile. “What happened then?”

  Arabella sighed. “That’s when the nicey-nice long-lost nephew act ended. The gloves came off, and he went downright ballistic. I’m afraid having a dreadful temper is DNA-related, too. His father was the same way. Billy came right out and told me that if I refused to listen to reason and do what he said, he’d go to court to have me declared incompetent. He said that once that happened he’d see to it that I was locked away in one of those dreadful assisted living places.”

  She shivered slightly and rubbed the tops of her arms as though a chill draft had blown across her shoulders. “I wouldn’t last a week in one of those,” she added.

  “Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “You’re anything but incompetent.”

  Arabella smiled a little sadly. “Thank you for saying that,” she said.

  “I didn’t just say it; I mean it!” Ali declared. “It sounds to me as though Billy was trying to blackmail you, and blackmail happens to be illegal. Did you call the cops?”

  “No,” Arabella answered.

  “Why not?”

  “Because, if I did, I’m sure he’d convince them that, as my last living blood relative, he was just watching out for my best interests, that he was looking after his dotty old auntie.”

  “People who know you would never believe that,” Ali said.

  “They might,” Arabella allowed. “Billy came off as a really slick operator. Probably a good salesman as well. If he takes me to court, he seems entirely capable of convincing some unsuspecting family court judge that I’m a complete nutcase-which I am on occasion, I’m told. And it would be that much easier if he brought up my past, which, of course, he’s threatening to do.”

  “Your past?” Ali repeated. “What about your past?”

  Arabella sighed. “I was institutionalized for a number of years when I was much younger,” she said. “It was a very dark period of my life. Once it was over, Mother and I never spoke of it. Mother liked to tell people I’d gone to finishing school.” Arabella gave a short, brittle chuckle. “I suppose that w
as close to true. That place almost finished me, all right, and I’ve spent years trying to put it behind me. Billy’s showing up here and threatening to put all that unpleasantness out in public…” She shook her head and drifted into silence.

  Ali was outraged. “Your nephew has no right to bring all that up.”

  “But he did,” Arabella said, sipping her drink. “He has. And now I have to figure out what to do about it.”

  “You could just ignore it,” Ali said. “Of course, I’d beef up security around here. Billy sounds like a bully. If you don’t engage, maybe he’ll just go back under his rock.”

  “And maybe he won’t,” Arabella returned. “I ordered him out of the house. I rang the bell and asked Mr. Brooks to show him out. The last thing he said to me before I sent him packing was that he’d be back.”

  “When was that?” Ali asked.

  “Sunday afternoon, late.”

  “And have you heard from him since?”

  “No, thank heaven. I thought I would have by now, but I’ve been thinking about him this whole time and thinking about what happened. There are times when not remembering takes a lot more effort than people think, and I’ve been doing that for years. But here, in less than an hour, that spiteful little worm brought it all back up. He’s such a little know-it-all, but that’s the thing. He only thinks he knows it all. He doesn’t, and I do.”

  She took another sip of her drink, emptying the glass in the process. “I’ve barely slept the last two nights,” Arabella said. “And when I have managed to sleep, the nightmares are back. And so, sometime in the middle of the night, I made a decision, and that’s why I wanted to see you today.”

  “What decision?” Ali asked.

  “I’m not going to sit around waiting for the other shoe to drop. Instead of letting Billy tell the story, I’m going to tell it myself. Who knows, if I manage to sell it to a publisher, I might even make some money on it. There’s not much of that left, and a little infusion of cash wouldn’t hurt the bottom line. What do you think?”

  Ali took a deep breath. It seemed to her sometimes that almost every person she met was writing a book. “What kind of book are we talking about?” she asked.

  Arabella shrugged. “One of those family sagas,” she said. “One with all the usual ingredients-madness, mayhem, infidelity, incest.”

  “All of it based on your own family’s history,” Ali said.

  “Of course.” Arabella beamed. “With a family like mine, I wouldn’t have to make up a thing.”

  Ali wasn’t at all sure what was going on between Arabella and her long-lost nephew. There was a good chance that Billy’s unexpected visit was part of some long-simmering family dispute that came complete with potential extortion and other disgruntled would-be heirs as well. It seemed reasonable to think that there were family secrets involved that might be better off left secret.

  “Do you think that’s such a good idea?” Ali asked.

  “What?”

  “Doing this kind of family expose?”

  Arabella stiffened. “Why shouldn’t I?” she demanded. “Who would it hurt? My parents are both dead. My stepbrother is dead. I’m not. If I want to tell the story, it’s my business and my story, not Billy’s.”

  “Why?” Ali asked.

  “Why do you write cutloose?” Arabella asked in return.

  Ali had to think about that for a moment. “Initially it was to stay in touch with my fans and to be able to write about things as I see them,” she answered at last. “But once I started writing about what was going on in my life, I discovered there were a lot of people who had been through the same kinds of things I had. And sharing ideas with them helped me somehow, and I think it helped some of them, too.”

  “Exactly,” Arabella said. “Now, what do you know about incest?”

  The question took Ali aback. “Not much,” she said.

  “I know rather a lot about it,” Arabella said quietly. “Far too much as a matter of fact. From the inside out.”

  For a moment Ali was too stunned to speak. Taking advantage of the silence, Arabella reached past her iMAC, picked up the small wooden-handled bell, and gave it a sharp jangle.

  “Mr. Brooks,” she said, when the butler appeared noiselessly in the double doorway. “I do believe this calls for another round of martinis. Would you care to join me now, Ali?”

  “Yes,” Ali agreed. “I believe you’re right. Martinis are definitely in order.” Then, once the butler left the room, Ali repeated the single word as a question. “Incest?”

  Arabella nodded. Reaching across her computer keyboard, she picked up a slim leather-bound volume that had been lying on the far side of the computer table. She handed the book to Ali.

  “It’s my diary from back then,” she said. “I’ve kept it through the years. It’s a talisman, you see, a tiny concrete piece of evidence that proves it all happened. It isn’t something I just made up.”

  Ali looked down at the book. The word DIARY was embossed on the cover in gold letters. “But why are you giving it to me?” Ali asked.

  “Because I want you to read it,” Arabella said. “And after you read it, I want you to tell me what you think.”

  “You were the victim of incest?” Ali asked.

  Arabella nodded. “For years,” she said.

  “And the perpetrator?”

  “Bill, of course,” Arabella answered. “My stepbrother. He was almost ten years older than I was.”

  “Were you his only victim?”

  “Probably not,” Arabella said dispassionately. “I’m the only one I know of for sure, but there may have been others.”

  “You never told your parents?”

  Arabella shook her head. “It was years before I told my mother. I never mentioned it to my father, which was probably a good thing.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he had a sister, too,” Arabella said. “A younger sister. I never knew her because she died long before I was born. She committed suicide when she was only fourteen years old. She hanged herself in a closet. I learned about her for the first time a few years ago when a second cousin sent me a copy of a genealogy study he was doing.”

  “Are you saying that, based on that snippet of information, you suspect that your father victimized his younger sister the same way your stepbrother victimized you?”

  “I know he did,” Arabella said fiercely.

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “Not enough to hold up in a court of law.”

  And not enough proof to put it in a memoir, either, Ali thought. “Better make it fiction, then,” she said.

  “But if you live in a family of monsters like that,” Arabella continued without acknowledging the comment, “you know things. You know them in your soul. If you don’t figure them out on your own, you don’t survive.”

  Just running her fingers across the diary’s cover made Ali wary. “Maybe I shouldn’t read this,” she suggested.

  “Please,” Arabella said. “I really need you to, so we can discuss it.”

  Mr. Brooks returned bearing two cocktail shakers on a tray. He poured Ali’s first martini and Arabella’s third and handed them over. After two martinis, Ali would have been crawling on the floor. Arabella, sipping her third, appeared to be relatively unfazed.

  “What’s the point of all this?” Ali asked after Mr. Brooks left them alone once again. “You said yourself that your brother’s been dead for years. Why not leave the past in the past? Chances are your nephew won’t be stupid enough to bring any of this up. If he does, you can counter it when the time comes. There’s no need to…”

  “Bill was my stepbrother, not my brother,” Arabella reminded Ali. “And yes, he’s been dead for a very long time, but I’m not dead. And as long as I’m alive, what Bill did to me isn’t dead, either. What about all those other little girls who are trapped in similar situations? What about them? I used to read all those Bobbsey Twins books. Do those even still exist anymore?”

/>   Ali shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, the Bobbsey Twins lived in a perfect family in a perfect world. When I read those books, I kept hoping I’d find someone in the stories who was more like me, someone whose family wasn’t perfect, but I never did. None of the books I read even hinted that what was happening to me had ever happened to anyone else. As far as I knew, I was the only one.

  “And I believe that’s one of the reasons I’ve been so drawn to cutloose,” Arabella added. “I’ve read it from the very beginning. When you got fired from your job and your husband dumped you, I’ll bet you thought you were the only one who had suffered those kinds of calamities, but you weren’t. I’ve also seen you take the bad things that happened to you and transform them into good for someone else.”

  “But…”

  Arabella waved aside Ali’s objection.

  “I know there are lots of young women out there who are in the same situation right now that I was in at their age. If I can write this book-if I can get it all down and somehow get it published, maybe they’ll realize they aren’t alone. I want them to be able to believe that they can overcome whatever bad stuff is happening to them; that they can go on with their lives and be successful. I also want adults to pay more attention to what’s going on right under their noses.”

  “Writing a book is hard work,” Ali counseled. “The idea of eventually getting it published…”

  “That’s why I want you to read the diary,” Arabella said. “I value your opinion. After you read it, we can talk and you can tell me what you think. Maybe you’ll still say I’m better off letting sleeping dogs lie. But the fact that Billy thinks he can use this as a club over my head really offends me. I was the victim, Ali. If I keep quiet about this-if I let Billy push me around-then I’m a victim again. Or still.”

  Ali opened the diary and fanned through the pages. A few of them had been written on. Most of them were blank.

  “As you can see, reading it won’t take long,” Arabella added. “I was given the diary on the occasion of my ninth birthday, and I wasn’t very good about keeping it up. You’re far more faithful at writing cutloose than I ever was at keeping the diary.”