Vultures At Twilight Part 17

She tried to shake off the sights and smells of the last few hours. She'd be getting a call from headquarters in less than an hour, and, with four connected murders, she needed something. Someone was playing games; all four of them shot, but after the fact, Philip's finger, Mildred's jewelry, Carl's paddle-riddled body, and now, if the records matched, Rudy Caputo's acid-eaten corpse. And still no word about McElroy's missing cronies, Rinaldo and Jeffries. At least now, she thought, MacDonald will have to authorize search teams. Already formulating the email she'd send that would make it impossible for him to refuse.

In the distance, she watched a Grenville patrol car turn down the street. What she needed was a little luck and, hopefully, Hank was bringing it.

Kevin Simpson was first out of the cruiser, a manila folder with the dental records in his hand.

'You found them?' she asked.

'Got 'em.' Hank pointed toward the Medical Examiner's door. 'Arvin finished yet?'

'Yeah, slid him back in the drawer a few minutes ago.'

'Never did have a stomach for those things,' Hank admitted. 'So what did he find?'

'Same as the others, small-caliber bullet, single shot.'

'In the face?' Kevin asked.

'You got it.'

'd.a.m.n, that's cold. So he saw it coming.'

'Right,' said Mattie, slightly peeved that the small-town constable had caught a point that she had missed. All the victims had been shot in the face. She knew that, but Kevin's implication was an important one. The killer wanted them to see it coming, to know that they were going to die. To face their killer.

'What are you thinking?' Hank asked, eyes narrowing.

'Payback. It's increasingly obvious, but there's a sense of something moral with these murders. The killer's making a point.'

'What's the message?'

'I'm not sure, but before I go spinning any theories let's see if we've got a match.'

'Yeah.' Hank turned toward the morgue door. 'How bad is it?'

Mattie handed him her jar of Vicks. 'Put it this way . . .' She took the envelope from Kevin and headed toward the door. 'How long can you hold your breath?'

TWENTY-THREE.

It was Wednesday. I wasn't scheduled to work and Ada had asked me to help out at Evie's. It felt odd, and sad, as Tolliver Jacobs and his crew of red-s.h.i.+rted movers from Grenville Antiques dismantled our friend's home.

Tolliver seemed drained, his face drawn; he'd lost weight. He pitched in with the packing and the moving, but his polo s.h.i.+rt was wrinkled, his hair uncombed; he seemed distracted and the skin on his face seemed loose, as though he'd lost a considerable amount of weight in the span of a week.

'Careful with the gesso,' he cautioned as one of the packers measured the frame of the Ha.s.sam painting.

'Anyone for tea?' Ada asked as she buzzed around Evie's condo with pen and paper, and then entered every item into a spreadsheet on her laptop on the dining room table. She'd popped over late last night, nearly in tears. 'He accused me of stealing from his mother!' she had said, following an angry phone call with Evie's eldest. 'I told him,' she'd continued, 'that if he wanted to be present for the entire liquidation process, I'd have no problems with that. What a little pisher. It would be one thing if he had helped his mother while she was alive but now, the whole bunch of them . . . vultures!'

We had talked for over an hour and by the end she had calmed down, but today, dressed in denim overalls and turquoise Keds, like some adorable farmer, she was spinning at a furious pace. 'Maybe I should have gotten another quote,' she said, her voice low so Tolliver couldn't hear. 'Mr Caputo never did get back to me and now he's dead. At least I have Mildred's quote, if anyone tries to say anything. I did my due diligence, and it's not like I'm making anything off this.'

'You did more than most,' I rea.s.sured her. 'And I've known Tolliver forever; I think he's honest. Plus,' I went on, my tone low to match hers, 'there aren't a lot of dealers who can cut a check for this kind of money . . . especially now.'

She stopped and smiled, and then impulsively reached up and kissed me on the cheek.

'What?' I could feel myself blush as I registered how soft and warm her lips felt on my skin.

'I love you Lil, this would be just awful if you weren't here.'

And then she was off, trying to see what the man who'd just measured the painting was up to.

Confused and light-headed, I sank into one of the dining room chairs where I had often played bridge. I watched as Evie's personal things were boxed and taken out. Her clothes were bagged for distribution to local charities and the family pictures were stacked on the counter alongside the bubble-wrapped china. My anxiety spiked. Too much was running through my head. The kiss was just a friendly gesture, Lil, don't over-read it. But that was just the tip of things as I compared Evie's condo with my own and Ada's. Someday, someone would be doing the same in our homes. A life reduced to boxes and bags, our better things carted off to auction, or distributed among family. From there, my mind twitched to this morning's hang-up call. I was getting at least two a day. The one last night after I was already in bed had made it impossible to fall back asleep. And why aren't you telling anyone about them? Because they're just hang-ups, I told myself. You're on some stupid marketing list and that's why they're calling. Then why don't they try to sell you something?

'Don't you think the family will want those?' Ada asked, breaking into my funk as she flipped through a box of photos and alb.u.ms.

'I asked each of the sons,' Tolliver said, overhearing her. 'None of them wanted them.' He joined us at the dining-room table that gave us un.o.bstructed views of the living room and kitchen. 'That's the saddest thing, when boxes of photographs come up at auction. Unless they're true antiques, or of somebody famous, no one wants them. I wouldn't say anything if you just kept them aside. There might be someone in the family, down the line, who'd like them. Maybe a grandchild.'

'You think I should?' Ada asked.

'Your call,' Tolliver said, 'but I can tell you that if I take them and they don't sell; they'll wind up in the dumpster.'

'Oh.'

'Some people,' he continued as he sat, 'just leave them in the boxes for years.' He seemed lost as he looked out over the living room that was rapidly being dismantled.

'Are you OK?' I asked, noting the circles under his eyes.

'Been better. As long as I keep moving, things will eventually quiet down. At least, that's my theory.'

Without looking at him, and in a voice that only the three of us could hear, Ada spoke. 'You have to mourn. That can't be boxed up and put away.'

He looked at her. 'Funny you should say that.'

'It's true.'

'I agree. But the bit about boxing it up; you don't know how true that can be. People sometimes try to do just that, box it up and put it away.'

'Excuse me,' I said, keeping my voice near a whisper, 'are we talking literally?'

'I do a lot of estates,' he continued. 'It's common to find boxes from other estates that have never been opened. Usually, it's like those pictures over there, or letters. Personal things that the heirs never got around to open.'

'Sounds like unfinished business,' Ada remarked. 'How can you get on with things if you never take care of the present?'

'That's what I used to tell him,' Tolliver said.

'You're talking about Philip,' I commented, picturing Tolliver's handsome, blond-haired partner.

'Yes, he was bad about unfinished business.'

'It's hard,' Ada said, 'losing someone who's so much a part of your daily life. It's not just that it's someone you love; it's like losing a limb you didn't know you had. When Harry got sick, and when he died, there were so many things I missed that I hadn't expected. Some of them make me feel pretty shabby, but they matter.' She shot Tolliver a crooked smile. 'He drove and I never learned how. He knew how to talk to my son-in-law and that I've never figured out. But the worst thing, and the thing I still miss, is at night. I miss him in the bedroom and I'm not talking s.e.x.'

'I couldn't go near the bed for a year after Bradley died,' I added, my heart pounding. 'Of course, I think a lot of that was just . . .' I could feel my throat close; the tears not far away.

Ada explained: 'Lillian woke up to find Bradley . . . dead.'

'I'm so sorry,' he said. 'I mean, I knew that when he died it had been sudden. How awful for you.'

I let the feelings pa.s.s, as they did, leaving me with a pit in my stomach.

'I miss Philip,' he said simply. 'No matter how busy I am, I can't help but think about what happened to him. I can't focus on anything else. Why would someone do that to him? How could anyone hate him so much?'

'With Bradley, I can't help but think that if I'd woken up, I'd have been able to save him, or get help.'

'That's it,' he said, 'I can't sleep. I have to force myself to eat. Part of me would just like to pack it up and go away. It doesn't matter where. But then who would run the business? We have forty-two employees; it's not like I can just up and leave. It's such a mess right now.'

'It gets better,' I said.

'Yes,' Ada agreed, taking Tolliver's hand. 'Over time, it eases. It's just getting through today, forcing yourself to take care of business. You can't run from these things, they catch up with you.'

'I'm not so certain about that,' he said. 'I think the last few months of Philip's life were pretty miserable because of that.'

'Dear,' said Ada, 'can I ask what you mean by that?'

'You're the second person who's asked me that.'

'Who was the first?' I wondered.

'That detective working on the murders.'

'What did you tell her?'

'I had my lawyer step in to hold her off.'

'Was that a good idea?' Ada whispered.

'Probably not,' he admitted. 'I just wasn't ready to go into certain things.'

'And now?' Ada gently prodded.

'I could do it, but I don't see how it would help. And there's no way I can do it without becoming worked up. The thought of breaking down in front of Kevin Simpson and that woman doesn't really motivate me.'

Ada squeezed his hand. 'This is none of my business, but it might help to tell someone. To get through the worst of it, like a rehearsal before meeting with the detective, I'd be happy to listen . . . and I know how to keep a secret.'

'My lawyer would have a cow.'

I chuckled. 'Yes, but that's lawyers. I agree with Ada, if you want someone to talk to . . .'

'I appreciate that,' he said, 'but I'm not so certain it's that big a thing. For the last three months of Philip's life he was depressed. And it all stemmed from those d.a.m.n boxes.'

'Boxes?' Ada prompted.

'From his sister.'

Suddenly, I accessed a chunk of information that Ada wouldn't know; small-town stuff. It had been years since I'd thought about Wendy Conroy, Philip's younger sister, and a patient of my husband's. For good, bad or indifferent, Bradley would occasionally talk about patients and Wendy was one who he had spent sleepless nights worrying about. 'She died a long time ago,' I said, feeding Ada some basic facts.

'Ten years ago,' Tolliver went on, staring straight ahead. 'She killed herself.'

'How terrible,' Ada said.

'It was. It tore Philip apart. He loved his sister and was probably the only one who could talk to her at that point.'

'You lost me,' Ada said. 'There was something wrong with her?'

'Wendy had a lot of problems. For the last few years of her life she lived in a mental hospital. We had tried having her come live with us, but every so often something would set her off and she'd go missing. Once, I was showing an armoire to customers and when I opened the door she was inside, curled up in a ball and sucking her thumb. That stuff didn't bother us so much, but when she'd go wandering and be missing for days, Philip would go crazy. Either we'd find her by some stream or she'd come back covered with dirt and bruises. We couldn't take care of her. We'd find her medicine hidden all over the shop and the house. She'd either refuse to take it or else spit it out when Philip wasn't looking. We had to send her back. It was a horrible scene. She screamed at Philip and me and called us "n.a.z.is".'

'It must have been awful,' I said. 'I remember Wendy; she was a beautiful girl.'

'She was. I often wondered if that didn't make her problems worse. We'd go for meetings at the mental hospital and the psychiatrists and the psychologists were always asking Philip about childhood trauma. Had she been abused? Molested? That kind of stuff.'

'What about her parents?' Ada asked. 'It sounds like you and Philip pretty much took care of her.'

'That's a whole other story. Philip's parents decided that having one child who was gay and another who was crazy were reasons enough to get out of town. It's tragic if you think about it; both of their children are dead and they're still alive living in Boca.'

I held my tongue, as I had known the Conroys. Ellen Conroy would bring Wendy in to see Bradley on almost a weekly basis. It wasn't long before Bradley understood that the girl's problem was psychiatric and he had referred her to a specialist. But Ellen Conroy could not accept that a.s.sessment and kept bringing Wendy back, hoping that there was something else that Bradley could find that might account for the girl's mood swings and strange behaviors. Wendy was fourteen or fifteen when the problems had begun. I remembered her vividly, the beautiful girl with straight blonde hair, dark lashes and blue-green eyes, like her brother's.

'I must be missing something,' Ada said. 'Didn't you say that Wendy died ten years ago?'

'That's right.'

'Then why was Philip more depressed about it now? It seems like after all those years, things might have gotten better.'

'They had. But it's just what you said, that if you put something away and don't think about it; it's just putting off the inevitable.'

She looked at him. 'Philip put something away?'

'Literally. Wendy was a writer. She was always scribbling and drawing in journals. We had a.s.sumed it was part of her therapy, but after time, it was the only thing that would ground her. If she started to go off, or would wake up screaming, Philip would have her write in her notebook. Occasionally, she'd show us a poem; she even published a few. Once, right before we had to send her back to the hospital, I caught a look at a couple pages of her journal. The sheets were covered with tiny letters, and over and over she had written the same thing.'

'What did it say?'

'It was gibberish, completely insane. She hadn't slept or eaten for days and was having religious fantasies, like she was a saint. I think the pages were some sort of incantation. Anyway, about a month after Wendy's suicide, we got four boxes delivered from the hospital. Three of them were filled with journals, dozens of them. At the time, I wanted Philip to throw them out; he couldn't. So we stuck them in one of the upstairs rooms and that was that.'

'Did he read them?' Ada asked 'Not then. But a few months back we decided to work on the upstairs of the main house, and he found the boxes. Suddenly, going through them became some sort of mission. At first, I thought it was healthy, finally give him a chance to put Wendy's ghost to rest. But the more he read, the worse it got. He became obsessed. He'd sit up at night, reading page after page of that nonsense. It changed him.'

While we'd been talking, careful to keep our voices low, Evie's condo had been stripped bare.