“Lil,” I provided, and winced at the smell of alcohol coming off him in waves. “You okay, Jack?”
“I am walking home,” he stated with the ponderous dignity of the terminally drunk. “Which is perf-hic-ly legal.”
“Home is the other way,” I told him, and shoved him gently into the backseat. Boris woke with a sneeze, nostrils working unhappily at the booze-reek. He gave a disgusted mrow, and settled down to glower at me and Jack in turn.
“Nice ki-hitty,” my cousin mumbled. “Pr-hitty.”
A drunk with hiccups. That’s Crazy on a Saturday night.
I rounded the final bend and saw the house, flooded with lights. Out front, the only Rolls Royce in the county had been parked with its doors ajar. Behind it, a Mercedes SUV was being loaded with suitcases.
They spotted me. By the time I rolled to a stop, my cousin was struggling to get out of the car. “What the hell is all of this?” he demanded, as if I had any answers.
I helped him walk to the front door, detouring around the Rolls-Royce and the SUV. LP Inc. employees continued piling luggage into the SUV as if we weren’t there.
Uncle Littlepage appeared in the doorway, scowling at the sight of us. Jack swayed belligerently and drunkenly in his father’s direction. “Going on a trip?”
“Your mother has decided a stay in France would help her recover from our recent tragedies,” my uncle intoned like a character in a British drama. “She’s very… Frail.”
I managed not to laugh out loud, but my cousin was drunk, and he brayed, “Like hell she is!”
I excused myself to return to my cruiser. My head was spinning. If my uncle had not wanted me to know, he would not have mentioned Mary’s destination, yet I knew he would block any attempt to prevent her departure. I couldn’t decide if he was taunting me or if he had simply given in to bitterness. I try to think who I could call to rescind Mary Littlepage’s passport, or arrest her on suspicion of something, anything to keep her from skipping off to France. If ever we made a case against her for murder, there are few countries less likely to permit extradition than France. At least, among nations Mary Littlepage would visit.
I called Harry Rucker, and told him everything. He swore very softly, and replied, “I will make calls, Lil, but I can make no promises.”
I hurried back to the front door, in time to hear my cousin ask why his father was allowing his mother to leave at such an hour and in the Rolls-Royce.
“Ah, but it’s a long drive,” said my uncle brightly. I checked his pupils. Not high, not drunk. Running on nerve and adrenaline. My least favorite combination.
“To?” I prompted, watching as Boris sidled up to the SUV and sniffed a suitcase with his tail all fluffed out.
“Dulles.”
We’re a solid three hours at least from Dulles International Airport. More, if there’s much traffic on US 29. “Come again?”
My cousin abruptly said, “As long as you are here, you should look at the graffiti on the guesthouse.” He then gave me a very unsubtle shove, and turned his back. I had no idea what he was doing, so I walked toward the guesthouse and unhooked my flashlight from my belt. I started to examine its walls as I approached, and circled the building with Boris at my side. As I expected, no graffiti.
What the hell was Jack up to?
When my cousin materialized out of the dark, I nearly shot him. That’s no exaggeration. I had my weapon halfway up before I recognized him, and even so, I kept it out of the holster. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry,” he said, head twisted around so he could keep an eye on the main house. “Cousin, something odd is happening.”
For a Littlepage, that was practically a declaration of the Apocalypse. “Odder than usual,” I corrected.
“My mother,” he said, “is not…”
I waited.
“My father is sending her to Europe. To judge by the way she’s packed, I’d say for a very long time.” Jack paused, gave me a pained smile through the alcohol fumes. “I don’t expect we’ll miss her. But I find it… strange. Father’s very….odd.”
“Spit it out, cousin,” I snarled. I admit it, that guesthouse and garage gave me the creeps. “I don’t have all night.”
He jumped a little, and blurted, “Father said she’s going to rent a house in Nice. It doesn’t make sense. It should make Mother happy. Ecstatic. She’s wanted to move there for as long as I can remember.”
“And she’s not happy,” I concluded, walking back towards the house and cruiser with Boris sticking close, eyes wide and belly low to the ground. I sympathized. The atmosphere around that house was smothering. “Why?”
He grabbed me when I turned away. I reacted by reflex, and threw him. He landed with a whoof, Boris clinging to his chest with a yowl of surprised hostility.
“Sorry,” he panted, trying to evaporate from under Boris’s claws. “Um. Cat?”
I clucked at Boris, who did a tip-paw dance on Jack’s chest before he scampered to my side and merowled anxiously. This was all very unnerving, he was saying to me. The dark, the rustles of unseen creatures in the woods, Jack’s drunkenness—he was on edge even more than I was.
As he got to his feet, Jack regained a little composure. “Lil, my father adored my sister. I don’t understand why he would let my mother go to France if she’s involved. I don’t understand how he can let this happen. It isn’t right. He shouldn’t let Mother get away like this. You shouldn’t!”
I agreed. “I suppose he thinks there is less scandal if she goes away to France for the rest of her life than if he lets me arrest her. Or if he hands over their account information. And without it, I’ve got nothing.”
My attempt at tact was wasted. My cousin shut his eyes as if experiencing pain to deep for words. He inhaled deeply, opened his eyes, and replied, “I see. Death before dishonor.” He shuddered as if he would never again be warm. “I’m a Littlepage. I should be willing to do anything to protect the family reputation. But, Lil, I’m not. I wonder. Do you think being a bad Littlepage might make me a good person?”
Stunned, I did what Aunt Marge would have done. I reached out and gave Jack a hug. For several heartbeats, he clung to me. Then he rushed off.
***^***
I drove home in record time, mind racing along with the car, and pulled in to find Aunt Marge and Donny Tucker chatting on the porch. I groaned. The last thing I wanted to do was be sociable. Sadly, Aunt Marge raised me right, and I bounced up the steps with a cheerful, “Hello, Donny. Hi, Aunt Marge.”
“Did you have coffee?” she accused. “You’re altogether too energetic for the hour.”
“Natural high, Aunt Marge,” I assured her, and kissed her cheek before I flopped into a chair. “Beautiful night, too.”
Aunt Marge sniffed, giving me a look of deep suspicion equaled only by Boris when confronted by an unfamiliar food item. She nodded to Donny, excused herself to get us all some tea, and vanished inside with Natasha sticking closer than her shadow. Boris smugly took the seat Natasha had vacated, and tucked his paws under himself with a contented sigh. Donny smiled. “He’s filled out.”
This was true. A few months with me, eating salmon and tuna and chicken off the bone, and Boris had a nice sheath of flesh over his bones, under a glossy coat. I stroked his back fondly, faintly aware I probably looked like a doting mother, and said softly, “Yeah. He’s got a good life, I think.”
“You’ve got a good heart.”
I started to blush, and actually forgot all about the Littlepages for a minute. “Um,” I said. I never have taken compliments well.
“I guess I should go,” said Donny, and made no move to leave. Where was Aunt Marge with the tea?
“Lil.”
“Yes?” I answered brightly. Good for me. I knew my name.
“I just wanted to say… Once I finish the shelter, I think I’ll be moving to Gilfoyle.”
Other end of the county. So why did my heart flutter-thump, and sink into my stomach? “Oh. Well, we
’ll miss you.”
“It’s closer to work.” He made a significant little gesture. Closer to Sunrise, and his wife. “I need to do it. The costs are going up.”
I nodded. My skin felt too tight across my face. “Makes sense.”
He stood. Gave me possibly the saddest smile in the history of the human race. “I’ll see you around, Lil.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak until I’d faked a cough. “Take care, Donny.”
He went down the steps. When he looked back, I was petting Boris as if I hadn’t a care in the world beyond my cat. It wasn’t much, but it saved my dignity.
It had nothing to do with being a Littlepage or an Eller. Aunt Marge had taught me well. I knew the difference between dignity and pride.
CHAPTER 16
Mary Littlepage got on her plane unhindered. That’s what having tens of millions of dollars does for you. You can charter a private flight to France in the middle of the night, bypassing quite a few layers of bureaucracy on the way.
I didn’t quite gnash my teeth, but I came close.
“I don’t understand,” I ranted. “Why would he let her go? Especially since it looks like she was involved in Lisa’s murder?”
Aunt Marge responded gravely, “Really, Lil. Leave the poor family alone. They’ve endured quite enough.”
It was my considered opinion the Littlepages could not be called poor, no matter how you defined the word. I smiled through gritted teeth. “I’m not saying Cynthia Biggs was innocent, I’m just saying Mary Littlepage might also be guilty.”
Aunt Marge did what well-bred women do when they want to change the subject. She sighed, “That’s as may be, but since we can’t know, we should leave it up to God. Now,” she said with relish, “what do you think of the shelter? We’re to open January first, but I’m hoping to have staff and residents by December. Donny has done wonders.”
I hid behind a whole-grain muffin. “Mmm-hmm.”
“It’s such a bright, happy place, not at all like the county shelter.”
The county shelter hadn’t got started with three million dollars.
“Wear a warm sweater,” Aunt Marge advised as I pushed back my chair. “It’s turning chilly.”
Of course it was. It was autumn. I sighed to myself, and spent a few productive minutes grooming Boris. He sensed my mood and gave me an affectionate head-butt. Now that he ate regularly, that head-butt had weight behind it. My arm moved of its own accord, and the brush fell to the floor. Boris watched with interest as I grabbed for it, missed, and ended up hunting under the bed for it. I swear he did it just to see me wriggle around on the floor.
That afternoon, I busted Josie Shifflett for driving without a license—there went her probation—and was relating the tale to Tom out at the speed trap when we both heard the siren. Not the county’s VFD ambulance, but the little minivan that Dr. Hartley used when he got an emergency call. A minute later, my radio squalled. “Lil!”
“Got you, Kim,” I told her. “Take it slow.”
“Littlepages. Go quick!”
I’d have liked to know what the situation was, but Kim rarely panics, so I rolled fast and left Tom to deal with the traffic. I got there before Dr. Hartley could get out of the ambulance, and skidded to a halt myself.
My cousin was supporting his father in the driveway. My uncle had gone a gray color I usually saw in corpses. Dr. Hartley was ash-white. And three LP Inc employees were holding weapons. One was a rake. A second was a leaf-blower, dangerous mostly to hearing. The third had a shotgun, and he was pointing it at a very pale Raymond Gomez.
That’s what I call an oh-shit moment.
Around the thump of my heart, I called gently, “Jack?”
“Father’s heart,” he said, red-faced. “I called the doctor and then these idiots showed up.”
“The alarm,” said the leaf-blower, easing the leaf-blower to the ground, with a look that appealed to us to be very understanding about his choice of weapon. A look that said, I don’t get paid enough to think. Y’know?
“Raymond?”
“I came to ask…”
The shotgun moved. So did my hand. “Put it down.”
The shotgun stilled. The guy holding it looked terrified. Not good. Scared people make stupid mistakes, and there’d already been enough of those by the look of things.
“Down now.”
The guy started to turn towards me. With the shotgun. I had no chance of shooting him, because a black-and-white blur screamed toward the guy, and he fired.
People who aren’t accustomed to firearms have a tendency to yank the trigger. When the guy yanked it, the shotgun’s barrel waved up almost as fast as Dr. Hartley and I hit the ground. More scared than any of us, the guy dropped the shotgun and went to his knees with Boris clinging gamely to his leg, teeth sunk into the guy’s belt. I went from lying flat to airborne by some alchemy of anger and physics, and tackled the guy into the pachysandra. I handcuffed him with Boris still growling through a mouthful of belt, and spent a precious split second getting my breath back. By then, Dr. Hartley had reached Uncle Littlepage, pushing Jack aside with that strangely gentle force doctors use in a crisis.
Raymond Gomez threw up on the creeping phlox. The guy with the rake sat down in the leaves, shaking. The leaf-blower had a very large wet stain on his trousers. Everyone accounted for, I called Tom on the radio to come give me back-up, and walked over to Raymond. I could’ve slapped him.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came,” he said weakly, “to talk to them. About Lisa. I wanted to know…. If they wanted… to maybe put a marker…. a memorial…”
I drew a deep breath, counted to ten. “Okay. You probably should’ve called.”
Raymond looked pained, and grieved. “They didn’t take my calls.”
Of course they didn’t. I shook my head, told him to stay put, and walked over to my cousin, pacing nervously behind Dr. Hartley. “What happened?”
“Father saw him,” a jerked thumb indicated Raymond. “He started yelling at him to get off our property, and said… well, it doesn’t matter, but then Father went sort of pale and I called Dr. Hartley.”
I shut my eyes, concentrating on patience. It didn’t help. “By using the panic button?”
Jack flushed. “I didn’t think it’d make all this happen.”
But it had. The Littlepages were renowned for their security system. A panic button was located in each room of the house, and set off blinking lights in all other buildings, to let people know there was trouble. In this case, the trouble had come running with a rake, a leaf-blower, and a shotgun.
The panic button also summoned a doctor and the sheriff, but that was, in this case, an afterthought.
Once Jack and Dr. Hartley had driven off with Uncle Littlepage tucked into the back of the minivan, I shooed the LP Inc employees off to the office with Tom. I saved Shotgun for myself, and approached Raymond with post-adrenaline fizz in my head. “What exactly did he say to you?”
“He called me a dirty God damn spic,” said Raymond with remarkable composure. Then again, after a shotgun and a leaf-blower, the memory of insults might not be so bad. “He said it was my fault.” He half-snorted, half-sniffled. “My fault she died. He said if I hadn’t been with her, she wouldn’t have died. Then he said he’d have me arrested for trespassing and harassment if he caught me on the property, and that was when he…” A very speaking gesture.
I could follow the reasoning, in a clinical way. No Hispanic boyfriend means no outrage means no dead daughter. Cops run into a lot of that kind of logic.
“Come to my office to make a statement, and when you’re done,” I told Raymond, “do me a huge favor. Stay the hell out of this county, would you?”
***^***
I took Uncle Littlepage a quart of Aunt Marge’s cure-all soup. He was sitting on the sofa, reading a golfing magazine, when I entered. Jack made a weird little hand gesture of apology for my presence before
stating bravely, “It’s Cousin Lil, Father. With soup.”
The soup was sent off to the kitchen, where I don’t doubt it went down the garbage disposal. Uncle Littlepage stared at me. I didn’t squirm. He always stared at me that way, when he bothered to look at me. Which, I reflected, he’d had to do a lot of lately. After managing to avoid one another almost entirely for thirty-plus years, we’d gotten to see too much of each other these last couple of months.
“You,” he accused, “do not look very much like Helen.”
“Um,” I said. “Well, I’m half an Eller.”
“True,” he announced, as if telling me I had a fatal disease. “But you do not resemble your father very strongly either.”
“I guess I look like myself,” I replied, while my cousin pretended not to be in the room.
“But you do have Helen’s eyes,” he decided. “Now, how can I help you?”
“Social visit,” I told him, without adding Aunt Marge made me come. “I hope you don’t mind Boris.”
Boris had, by this point, trapped Benito on an elegant armchair. The only question left was whether or not Benito could get out of the chair before Boris jumped on him.
“Your mother would approve. She liked animals.” Uncle Littlepage’s lip curled. “She had that in common with him.”
I took him to mean my father, and shrugged. “Can’t say,” I admitted. “By the way, Raymond Gomez isn’t pressing charges.”
I could see the thought flashing in his brain: Why on earth would he? I suppressed a very unkind remark, and plowed on, “He understands the situation. How’s Mrs. Littlepage enjoying Nice?”
“She,” said Uncle Littlepage icily, “is enjoying herself as much as possible.” He added a belated, caustic, “under the circumstances,” that made even Boris turn his head and blink. “Mary has remarkable strength of will.”
Any more acid, he’d etch glass. I nodded meaninglessly, wondering if I dared do it, when my cousin solved the dilemma by saying bluntly, “Lil has a right to know, Father.”
His father waved an impatient hand. “There is nothing to know.”
Crazy, VA Page 16
