Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 28

"Arthur, dead a month ... excuse me," he said, rising.

He walked away from us, down a short hallway, where I supposed the bedrooms were. Deeny got up and followed him, not saying a word.

Travis glanced over at me. "I didn't handle that very well, did I?"

"There's no easy way to tell someone something like that," I said.

"I feel terrible. I should have realized that he wouldn't know. I should have thought about it before we came over here."

I didn't say anything. We waited, neither one of us sure exactly how much time had pa.s.sed since the Spannings went into the other room. We could hear their m.u.f.fled voices every now and again, not able to make out any words, nor trying to. Travis grew edgier as time pa.s.sed.

Sitting was only making me stiffer, so I stood and stretched.

"I don't want this beer," I said. "You want yours?"

He shook his head. He held the nearly full can up to me.

I took it from him, and picked up my own. I carried them into the kitchen and poured them down the drain. I rinsed out the cans and looked around for a recycling bin. I found a plastic grocery sack full of empty cans next to the trash can, and bent to put them in it. As I did, something in the trash can caught my eye.

A church bulletin. From St. Anthony's Catholic Church. I reached in and carefully extracted it from beneath a used wet coffee filter. I heard voices coming into the living room and quickly folded the paper. I had just stashed it in my back jeans pocket when I heard Deeny say, "What are you doing?"

"Just putting our beer cans in the recycling," I said.

I stood up and washed my hands, while she leaned against the counter, scowling at me. I could hear Gerald talking to Travis in the other room, but I couldn't make out what they were saying. When I reached for a hand towel, she said, "Make yourself at home, why don't you?"

"Mi casa es su casa," I said with a smile, taking perverse pleasure in watching her eyes narrow.

In the living room, Travis was sitting close to Gerald on the sofa, their heads bent over something. Gerald had a pair of reading gla.s.ses on. As I drew closer, I realized they were looking through a photo alb.u.m. Travis looked up at me and patted the empty s.p.a.ce next to him. "Sit next to me, you'll enjoy this."

I did, then we all scooted over again to allow Deeny to sit on the other side of Gerald. She ended up draping herself over his shoulders, sitting more behind him than next to him, but he didn't seem to mind. He reached up and took her arms in his hands, stroking his fingers along her forearms. He let Travis hold the alb.u.m.

Travis turned back a few pages. "Look! Here's a photo of my great-grandparents. The Spannings. And that was their farm."

He pointed to a black-and-white photo of an elderly couple standing in front of a Model A. There was a narrow two-story house in the background, and open fields beyond. The photo wasn't well-focused and you couldn't make out much of their features. The man was wearing a hat, the woman a plain and modest dress.

He turned the page forward, pointed out other views of the farm, photos of great-aunts and-uncles. With these, he had help from Gerald, who seemed moved by Travis's enthusiasm. He smiled whenever Travis correctly named the people in the photo, studied Travis with apparent fondness as Travis studied the alb.u.m.

"That's my grandfather," Travis said of a grimy, barefooted boy in overalls. The boy, about twelve years old, wore a cap at a rakish angle; his charming smile had been pa.s.sed down to the next two generations of Spannings.

Travis stared at the photo for a long time before turning to another section. There were photos of the maternal sides of the family, and a few of the town in Missouri that was closest to the family farm.

Eventually Travis came to photos of Gerald as a young boy. There were not many photos of Gerald and Arthur's immediate family. One showed Gerald at about the age of five standing next to a chair shared by two smiling toddlers.

"Those were your aunts," he said softly. "Lizzy and Mary Lee. They never got to be much older than you see them there. Those were the hardest years. Farm was lost and we would just stay wherever we could. I think we were with one of my aunts then. There were two other little babies didn't even live long enough to take a picture of them. A little boy, Charlie, and another girl, Bonita. That about broke your grandmother's heart. I didn't get to know the babies, of course, but I sure missed Lizzy and Mary Lee."

"What happened to them?" Travis asked.

"Oh, the babies just never were likely to live; they were both born in the winter, and one came early. They each only lived a few days. And the girls, they caught a fever and I guess they just weren't strong enough to fight it." He ruffled Travis's hair. "So I was pretty excited when your daddy came along. I'd started to think I wasn't ever going to have anybody else to play with."

Travis smiled and turned to another page. There was a grainy photo of Gerald, about nine, standing with his father and several other men in the doorway of a boxcar.

"Look at that sorry bunch of stiffs," Gerald said, laughing.

"Who took the photo?" I asked.

"Oh, I think it was one of the wives of the other fellows. She stayed with my mother when my mother was pregnant with Arthur. Mama didn't want to leave the sugar beet farm. She said she wasn't going to have any more babies after this one, and she wasn't going to lie down in some hobo jungle to give birth to her last child."

There was a photo of a well-dressed older man standing in what might have been a very dignified pose, had he not had his hand on the shoulder of a grinning young rascal of about twelve.

"That's me and Papa DeMont," Gerald said.

"I've heard a lot about him," Travis said, and studied this photo closely.

Gerald glanced quickly at me, then said to Travis, "Then you know he owned the sugar beet farm. Miss Gwen's daddy. He was good to the children. His permanent workers-like me and your grandparents-lived in little old houses, but compared to what we were used to, they were palaces. Old Papa DeMont always made sure no one went hungry. And he'd bring treats for the children. He was just plain good."

On the next page was a wedding photo. Travis stared at it for a long time. Gwendolyn stood between Gerald and Arthur, her smile faint but serene. She was wearing a simple dress and pillbox hat, not a bridal gown and veil, and she held a small bouquet. She was not an unattractive woman; she had dark hair and big brown eyes. Arthur, tall but clearly hardly more than a boy, stood smiling tensely at her side. There was something different about him in this photo, something that went beyond that tension.

Gerald, who at the time would have been about twenty-six, looked much older than my cousin did now, at nearly the same age. In the photo, Gerald's smile was one of satisfaction. If I hadn't known the history behind the marriage, I would have pointed him out as the groom, though both Spanning brothers were young enough to have been her sons.

"Was Arthur generous with you once he had married Gwendolyn?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed. "Did I get a payoff when they were married, you mean? h.e.l.l, no, and I didn't want any, even though I was the one that always took care of Arthur, gave up everything for him. DeMonts wouldn't believe it, so I got together with Gwenie's lawyer and signed an agreement saying I'd never get a penny of Papa DeMont's money."

"So Arthur never loaned you money?"

"His own," he admitted grudgingly, then added, "by that I mean he loaned me money from his own business. That gardening business. DeMonts never could believe that Arthur made a little bit of his own money."

"How well do you know Horace DeMont, Gwendolyn's uncle?" I asked.

"That old good-for-nothing?" Gerald scoffed. "I know all I need to know. He thinks he's better than anyone on G.o.d's green earth, but the truth is, he lost every nickel he owned speculating on the stock market, and for a time he was as much a vagabond as any Spanning ever was. In fact, Travis, your grandfather met him on the road, and that's how we came to the sugar beet farm, because even though old Horace was complaining, my daddy could tell there was plenty of work to be had."

"Horace DeMont was a vagabond?" I said in disbelief.

Gerald laughed. "Oh, yes. Him and that brat of his, Robert. In fact, one day when he was looking down his big nose at us, I told Bobby that my daddy had once seen him giving testimony at the Sally Ann in Chicago. He denied that he was ever any mission stiff. But later, when people started romanticizing about what it was like to ride on Old Dirty Face he bragged he had done it, like he was Jack Kerouac himself, to which I said, 'Yeah, except Bobby wasn't a hobo, just an old moll buzzer.' That made him mad as fire."

"Speak Englis.h.!.+" Deeny interrupted.

"Oh, sorry honey, I just fall into that way of talking whenever I think about those years on the road. Well, here's how it is: There are hoboes, and there are tramps and there are b.u.ms. A hobo is a working stiff-he's a migrant worker, that's all. His labor built this country much as anybody else's. You don't believe it, go pick fruit for a summer, or herd cattle or dig ditches or lay rails. Hoboes did all that. That's what we Spannings did when we were riding rails-we looked for work, went wherever we could find it.

"Now, a tramp is just a fellow who doesn't believe in working if he can avoid it, but he keeps moving. It's a kind of philosophical thing with some of them, I supposed you'd say. Sometimes they call them scenery b.u.ms. That's not the same thing I mean when I call a man a b.u.m, though.

"A b.u.m is a man who stays in the city, usually down on skid row. He's not working, he's not moving, he's on the b.u.m.

"Now, the categories aren't so neat, and any man may take a turn at being one or another of those fellows, mostly depending on how fond he is of old redeye."

"Redeye?" Travis asked.

"Whiskey."

"And Sally Ann?"

"Salvation Army. A mission stiff is a man who spends a lot of time getting saved so that he can get free flops and food."

Old Dirty Face?" I asked.

He smiled. "A freight train."

"And what's a moll buzzer?" Deeny asked.

"Guy that mooches off women. That's what old Bobby did, and his old man, Horace-why, he probably taught him all he knew. Then they got in some kind of trouble over it out in Boise back in the summer of '40 and the town clowns threw Bobby in the jail. Now, most fellows would see that as part of the deal and not fuss over it. But I think the charges must have been something out of the ordinary vag charges, because old Horace cried to his daddy about it."

"What are town clowns and vag charges?" Deeny asked.

"Oh, sorry, honey. Town clowns are police. And vag charges are vagrancy charges. But they treated old Bobby like he was some kind of yegg, and as much as I don't like him, I don't think he was ever a yegg."

"Which is?" she asked, not hiding her irritation.

"Well, I mentioned hoboes and tramps and b.u.ms, but there was another cla.s.s of people out there, and they spelled trouble for everybody else-the yeggs. Those were the real hardened criminals-safecrackers and gangs of thieves and killers and people who did things I'd just as soon not mention. Horrible things. They were out there riding the rails, running from the law, raising the devil. They were really more dangerous to the hobo than just about anybody, but a lot of the local cops didn't see any difference between a yegg and a hobo, so they treated us all the same.

"Anyway, Horace cried to his daddy and Papa DeMont bailed Bobby out. He brought them home and read Bobby up one side and down the other. Told him to haul himself up by the a.s.s pockets and act like a man.

"I guess somewhere in all that Bobby heard what he needed to hear-but more likely he just had the jam scared out of him when he got arrested. But for whatever reason, Bobby got all respectable after that. Even fought in the war. And I hear tell that old Horace is still alive, but he must just be living on his meanness. Doug, his oldest boy, he died awhile back. I don't know if Bobby's still around or not."

"You must have been fairly young when Bobby was arrested," I said. "How do you remember that?"

"Oh, well, first off, because Papa DeMont liked my dad-Travis's grandfather. And because my daddy knew his way around that part of the country, Papa DeMont sent him up there, along with Zeke Brennan-"

"Zeke Brennan?" Travis said. "He must have been young, too."

Gerald laughed. "I'm talking about Ezekiel Brennan, Senior. He was the father of your daddy's lawyer. Old Zeke didn't drive, but your grandfather did. So they were going up there with the bail money and bring the two of them back. School just got out for the summer, and my dad took me with him. Papa DeMont let my dad take one of his cars, and that was my first ride in an automobile over any great distance. A big old Bentley. That was some car. I suppose that's mainly why the trip stayed in my mind. And Papa DeMont didn't usually lose his temper with people, so it was something to see him so mad at the two of them."

There were a few other photos in the alb.u.m, but not many. Most were of Arthur and Gerald together. A few were pictures of the sugar beet factory, apparently taken not long before it closed down.

"How long did you work there?" I asked.

"Oh, let's see. We first came out here in 1938, when I was just about to start school. It was after the girls died; your grandmother decided she never wanted to live where it was cold again, and she found work in a cafe in the off-season, so she stayed here. Your granddad wanted me to get an education."

"Were you able to go to school?" Travis asked.

"Oh, yes, for a time. And some of my schooling was on the road. Whenever work at the factory got a little slow, my father would take me with him and we'd go rambling, hire out wherever we could. I met some amazing fellows in those days. At the time, during the Depression, there were some highly educated men riding the rails. And the road itself will teach all kinds of lessons you won't get in a cla.s.sroom-some good, some bad. Anyway, we never left for very long at a stretch, because he didn't like being away from your grandmother. I did go to school here pretty regular up until your grandparents died. Then it was up to me to take care of your daddy, and Papa DeMont always made sure I had work on his place after that."

"What do you do for a living now, Uncle Gerald?"

"Oh, a long time ago, your father loaned me some money to start my own business," he said. "I buy old houses, fix 'em up and sell them. I've done well for myself, and I paid your daddy back. He wasn't going to let me, but I did. I think he felt like I took good care of him, so ..." His eyes clouded up, and he left the sentence unfinished.

He seemed to struggle with himself, then said, "I never did like the way he carried on with your mother. There, I've said it. I thought he was throwing his whole life away, and after Papa DeMont had been so good to us, I just figured your father had shamed our family. It was dishonest, really, and hurtful to someone who had never hurt him. Then he was mad at me, because I guess he did love you and your mother so much, and there were hard, hard words between us after Gwen was killed. We never spoke again."

Travis slowly turned the pages of the photo alb.u.m back, until the front cover was closed. "Do you think he killed her?" he asked.

"No," Gerald answered without hesitation. "That wasn't your daddy's way. Never think that, not for one second."

I looked at my watch. "We have to be going," I said, to Gerald's dismay and Deeny's too-obvious relief.

"Can't you stay a little longer?" Gerald asked.

Travis's cellular phone rang, and he answered it, then said, "Yes, just a moment." He handed it to me. "It's for you, it's Detective Collins."

I took the phone, and said, "Hi, can I call you back in a few minutes?"

"Sure," he said. "No privacy?"

"No."

We hung up.

"A friend of my husband's," I explained to the Spannings, giving the phone back to Travis.

"We'd better go," Travis said.

When we reached the van, Gerald gave Travis another hug, and this time, Travis returned it easily.

"Come over again," Gerald said. "We have a lot of catching up to do."

"I will," Travis said. "Thanks for showing me the photos."

"I'll have some copies made for you," he said.

"Thank you," Travis said.

"How can I get ahold of you?" he asked.

Travis glanced over at me. "I'm staying with Irene."

"You could stay here if you like," Gerald said. "We've got plenty of room."

Even without looking over at Deeny, who was pouting so openly she was shading her chin with her lower lip, Travis shook his head. "That's kind of you, but I've got some other people to see in Las Piernas, so I might as well stay there. Maybe I'll visit you after things settle down a little."

"Sure," Gerald said. "That's fine."

Travis gave Gerald his cell phone number. Gerald thanked him. "I've worked on a lot of places in Las Piernas," he said to me. "What part of town do you live in?"

"We're near the beach," I said.

"You should see their garden," Travis said.

Gerald smiled. "I'd like that. But mostly I'd like to see you again."

Reed's call was just a warning that Frank had already heard about today's trouble. "But not from me," he swore to me. "You know how it is around here; something this dramatic, the whole office is talking about it. He called in today before I could warn everybody to keep it quiet."