Distant Blood (25 page)

“I don't have much time myself, darlin'. I can't be waiting on you to work your magic if it's gonna take all weekend.”

“Philip. Mutt's not here today. I can't get the cash from him if he's gone arranging his sister's funeral. No one planned for Lolly to die.”

“Maybe someone did.” Philip spoke so softly that I could barely hear him. Sweat stung my eyes, blood stuck dirt to my elbow, and a mosquito roosted on my bare calf for lunch; but I didn't dare move. I could feel the thud of my heart against the earth.

Wendy didn't answer immediately, and for one sinking moment I thought I'd been spotted. “That's a horrible thing to say. Poor Lolly.”

“Yeah, right.” Philip snorted.

“She was your aunt.”

“Yeah, and what was she to you, sunshine? Just an old lady who wouldn't get out of your way.”

Silence held sway again and I wondered if Wendy had left, insulted at Philip's implication. When she spoke, her voice was as cool as the stone of the tombs. “You just talk to hear the sound of your own voice, Philip.”

“You cooked the food, sunshine. She died at the dinner table. Don't they always look hard at the chef?”

“She had a heart attack. That's it.” Wendy's voice rose.

“Yeah, she had a heart attack and Uncle Jake's heart medication is missing.”

Obviously I wasn't the only one pondering that fact. Wendy rushed into the momentary hush. “For God's sake. Jake used it all up. You know how he snivels for his pills.” The mosquito cocktailing on my blood was joined by an after-work gang of his fellow bugs. I bit my lip and kept myself still. If I moved overmuch, or made too much noise, I would be detected—by two people calmly discussing the possibility of murder. I allowed myself one slow, open-mouthed breath. The smell of the island—the salt of the air, the mixed perfumes of wildflowers, the hint of pollen, the
subtle rank of my own sweat—filled my nose. I willed myself not to sneeze.

“You ain't exactly been weeping and wailing since Lolly died,” Philip said.

“And I suppose you wanted to come out here to dig her grave with your own grieving hands?” Wendy paused and I watched an ant wobble curiously toward my face. I tried not to imagine a diamondback slithering through the grasses and encountering my body like a big speed bump that would have to be surmounted.

Philip didn't answer Wendy, and she continued: “Play nice, Philip. Do you want me to help you or not?”

“Oh, sunshine, it's definitely in your best interest to help me out. Hate to see an eclipse happen to my sunshine, you know that's bad luck.”

I waited for another one of Wendy's characteristic pauses to greet this statement, but she wasted no time: “Don't even think of threatening me, Philip. You don't have the money to write that check—so to speak.” She laughed, a long, brittle giggle. I had never heard her laugh before and her coldness chilled my skin, even in the humid heat. “I've got to go fix lunch for the family. I'll let you know when I've gotten the money. Until then, leave me alone and let me do my job.”

“Wendy—do it well. You'll be amply rewarded.” Philip sounded as though the words tasted bad in his mouth.

“You needn't worry. But I don't want you talking to me again unless it's to ask what's for dinner. I'm sure that won't arouse anyone's suspicions.”

“Oh. And is anyone suspicious?” His voice held a nasty tone.

Another Wendy lull held, then I heard: “I found Jordan snooping in Lolly's closet this morning. Him I find suspicious generally.”

“What the hell was he doing there?”

“Being a sneak. I don't like the way he's ingratiating himself with Mutt.”

“Goddamn luck, Jordan would resemble the old coot. And I caught the bastard buttering up Mutt last night in the
library. Uncle dear's taken a liking to him. Jordan's nothing but a smug little shit. I can't have him interfering, sunshine.”

“Well, nothing you can do about him.”

“The hell I can't,” Philip rumbled. Four words to halt your breathing, trust me.

I waited until I was sure they'd left. No way I was venturing back down the path they'd come. I wasn't risking that they'd stop to confer or plot or argue—and I'd stumble up behind them, a falsely amiable mask set on my face. Burrs in my hair?
Out doing headstands in the meadow.
Grass stains up and down my entire body?
Slid into home during the softball tournament being held on the other side of the island.
I am not a skilled liar—usually—and I didn't want to manufacture a story.

Instead of returning the way that I came, I decided to support the fiction that I'd been exploring the whole island. So I continued my trek across Sangre, to the side closest to the mainland. Here the ground seemed a bit damper, with thickets of honey mesquites, bright freckles of lavender Texas vervain, fuzzy violet coast mistfiowers, and the yellowish-green spotted horsemint speckling the land. I held my arm away from my body—the scrape was messy and I didn't want to get blood on my clothes. I found a rough trail, probably worn by Rufus or Tom on their island perambulations, and headed back for the house.

I stumbled along the trail, found one shady spot to sit, and eased to the ground. I figured I couldn't beat Philip and Wendy back to the house, so I might as well saunter in late. I wouldn't want them to wonder if I was lurking near their private confab.

I forced myself toward calm. I closed my eyes. Wendy was chiseling money out of Uncle Mutt for Philip. I assumed she'd nab a percentage for her services. So the affectionate scene I'd witnessed between Wendy and Mutt in the kitchen was part of her ruse to wile away the cash from my uncle.

Poor Uncle Mutt. He'd been thoroughly duped. The look on his face as he'd cradled Wendy in his arms had been one
of unmitigated bliss, reflection on a lifetime of remembered joys. He'd held Wendy as tenderly as if he were still a young man. And he didn't have much time left for the physical pleasures—

I blinked. Uncle Mutt was dying. If Philip needed money, why didn't he just ask? And why, if unwilling to ask, didn't he wait for the few months Uncle Mutt had left?

Either Philip suspected he wasn't likely to benefit from Uncle Mutt's will, or there was another time pressure on him for cash. Uncle Mutt had referred repeatedly to Philip's business ineptitude. I supposed that once again Philip had bottomed out and Uncle Mutt refused to line the coffers. I decided it was time, if possible, to learn more about Philip's business ventures. He was from Corpus Christi; I should start my inquiries there.

Dealing with my uncle was another matter. Uncle Mutt might easily believe Philip was up to no good, but would he accept Wendy's involvement in these machinations? I had no proof—and no idea how Wendy planned to pry the funds from Uncle Mutt's wallet. It depended on how much money was at stake. A few hundred? A few thousand? A million? I blew out exasperated breath. My stomach rumbled. I stood and headed back toward the dock.

Time to see what Wendy had cooked up for lunch. I'd have preferred to know what she was concocting for my unsuspecting great-uncle.

I don't have a career in espionage awaiting me. I snuck in the front door, thinking Wendy would be occupied in the kitchen. Wrong. She spotted me entering the house. She was setting the table in the dining room and she raised a perfect eyebrow at me—me. with my dirtied clothes and bloodied arm.

“Good Lord. What happened to you?”

I shrugged. “I was exploring and I took a tumble down a dune. I scraped my arm on a shell or something. I'm okay.” As soon as I manufactured this fib I thought: Shouldn't you have a little more sand in your hair? And clothes? And in the wound?

Wendy didn't appear to notice my relatively sand-free state. She examined my arm critically. “We've got a first-aid kit in the kitchen. I'll clean that up for you, or I'll find Deborah. She'd probably be insulted if I didn't let her exercise her vocation.”

“I'll tend to it myself,” I blurted. This woman made me uneasy. Wendy was no cowering servant girl from a Victorian novel. The coldness of her laugh, the educated way in which she spoke, the assurance she showed in dealing with Philip—it was a combination that didn't lend itself to domestic duties. And I'd detected concern in her voice for my injury. Who was this woman?

Her perfect eyebrow arched again. “Unless you're limber enough to kiss your elbow, you can't tend to this. Here, sit down.” I waited while she fetched the first-aid kit. She cleaned the wound, tsking as she did so. “That's a big scrape, Jordan. You want to be careful and keep it disinfected.” I watched while she spread medication across the skinned arm and taped bandages to it. Her touch was surprisingly tender.

“Thanks,” I said as she finished. “I'll try not to be such a klutz.”

She closed the first-aid kit with a click and regarded me with curious eyes.

The phone rang, and she sighed. “Probably another person calling to offer sympathy for Lolly's death. I think everyone in Calhoun County must be worried over Mutt.”

“It's nice to be liked,” I offered.

She shrugged. “He's important. I don't know if that's the same as being liked.” She answered the phone softly, explained that Mutt was unavailable, and began to make sympathetic assurances into the receiver. After a few moments she thanked the caller, jotted down the name and number, and hung up the phone.

“All that concern for the living,” she said, half to herself. She glanced up at me. “They don't worry about the dead.”

“They're beyond worry,” I offered. The words rang horribly callous to me and I blushed.

“You're right. We can only help the living. That's a
favorite saying of Mutt's.” Her gaze seemed locked on some faraway object, and I felt the unintended sting of her words. Bob Don was living; the man I called Daddy was dead. My mother was dead, too, although she maintained an illusion of life by filling her lungs with air and pumping blood through her veins. But the thoughts that wandered through her brain were homeless and ill-formed, and her memories were warped and unplayable, like a vinyl record album melted by the sun. It wasn't life.

We can only help the living.

Wendy saw pain in my face and gracefully changed the subject. “I'm afraid lunch isn't fancy—salad and sandwiches. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll just go get cleaned up.” I excused myself and sauntered up the stairs; a backward glance told me Wendy eyed me speculatively, as though she found the story of my injury doubtful. Had she and Philip seen me in the grass and just played a joke on me? My name had come up rather abruptly, and I hadn't spied on them the whole time to see if they'd spotted me.

I paused on the stairs. I could feel the weight of Uncle Jake's stare on my back. I glanced over my shoulder; he was watching me with the cool glare of someone who has seen a lot of pain in his life.

“Your daddy's upstairs, I believe,” he said softly.

Oh, God. Had he heard the venomous argument between Sass and me? The greenhouse, after all, was his favorite haunt. I wasn't eager to have my problems become fodder for this family's discussions.

“Thanks. Maybe I'll go talk to him.” I could think of no other answer to offer.

“Think that'd be a good idea, boy. Fathers and sons shouldn't be so far apart.” He thumped an arthritic hand against the pages of his book; his fingers curled like a talon. “Your father had a hard enough time with his daddy, don't make history repeat itself.”

“I think history always does repeat itself,” I said. “We seem to make the same mistakes, over and over again.”

“This family. This island. Yes.” Jake's eyes glittered with the hard light of truth. “You're a perceptive boy.”

An unaccountable shudder ran along my spine. Creepy old man, sitting in the library like some warped oracle. I wanted to be away from him.

“See you later, Uncle Jake,” I said, and scurried up the steps. I could feel the weight of his incessant stare on my shoulders, as dreadful as the gaze of a dead orb.

Instead of going to my room or to Bob Don's, I headed to Candace' s. I knocked on her door. Her voice, strained, bade me wait a moment; then I heard the sound of a toilet flushing, and water gurgling in a sink. She opened the door with a damp washcloth pressed to her chin. Her skin was pale and her eyes had trouble focusing on me.

“Hey, what's wrong?” I asked. She turned and sat on the bed. From the bathroom I could smell the faint, sour odor of vomit.

“Oh, I'm okay. I ate a snack that didn't agree with me. I'm fine.”

All the talk of poison made my heart stop at the mention of distasteful food. “You sure? I'll get Deborah to take a look at you—”

“No, I don't need Deborah. I'll be fine, really. It's nothing. Just let me lie down for a bit.”

“Wendy's fixing lunch. How about some soup, sugar?”

“Uh, no. I'm really not hungry.” She rubbed her eyes and sighed.

“What'd you eat?”

“What?”

I took her hand. “Eat. What did you eat that made you feel queasy?”

“It's really nothing, Jordan, I wish you wouldn't conduct the Spanish Inquisition over this. I think I ate some bad cheese or something. I'm fine.” She lay down on the bed and noticed my bandaged arm for the first time. “What happened to you?”

I closed her bedroom door. Candace doesn't approve of me sticking my nose into other folks' business and I didn't
want to admit to my recent exploration of the island, my discovery of the graveyard, and the conversation between Philip and Wendy. So I told her the same story I'd fed Wendy.

“Good Lord. Well, be careful.” Candace covered her eyes with her wet terrycloth veil, but her tone of voice let me know she was staring at me right through the cloth. Women can do that, you know. “Maybe you shouldn't traipse around this island alone.”

“It's fun. Like a boyhood adventure. I feel like Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn.” I tried to sound carefree.

She raised one corner of the cloth to fix a baleful eye on me. “You quit being a boy quite a while back, darling. At least I hope so. Your behavior doesn't always support that conclusion.”

“You're no fun.”

“Have you apologized to Aunt Sass?”

“I tried. We were getting along fine until she started chewing my ass out for not letting Bob Don in my life. Like she knows anything about it.” I didn't elaborate on Sass's rather valid reasons for disliking me. I wasn't too crazy about myself at the moment. I walked over to the window— the bay draws you like a magnet, especially if you grew up never seeing water wider than a river or a little lake—and contemplated the ceaseless rhythm of the waves.