Distant Blood (34 page)

What happened here? A strange heat kindled in my heart, as though I could reach past time and death to touch my cousin's hand.
My father killed your father. I'm so sorry.

My fingers brushed the trunk's surface, and as if in answer, a chill blasted through the attic, freezing me to the spot. Iciness prickled my skin through my T-shirt and walking shorts. I kept my head bowed, stunned by the sensation, not daring to look up.

Because I was certain that if I did, I would see a young boy standing there, shimmering in the light, insubstantial as air, with silvered, blank eyes.

No, I chided myself. You and your stupid imagination.

So I raised my head. And there he stood, not six feet away from me, the boy in the photographs, wavery in the dust motes. He wore bright summer clothes. A dark elongated bruise marred his pale throat, like a long purplish smudge. He reached a hand toward me, palm up. A strand of seaweed clung to his thumb. I saw bitterness and hate well in his angel's face. Then he disappeared.

I trembled. The cold deepened for a few long moments,
then vanished as though a window had been opened and warmth readmitted to my world.

I wiped a shaky hand across my eyes. I hurried about my business with thoughtless precision. I quickly—very quickly—repacked the trunk, with the exception of the jewelry box, which I stuck in my pocket. Then I sealed the trunk and stood and retrieved my still-lit candle. I warmed my hands over the bright, hot flicker. They shook above the little flame.

I retreated back down to the relative safety of my room, rapidly folding up the access door to the attic, wondering if anyone would comment if I nailed it shut.

I walked back into my room, closed the closet door behind me, and set the candle down, extinguishing its flame with a hard breath. Rain lashed against the windows, the storm's second wind fiercer than its first. Thunder cracked the sky and the firmament of the floor quivered a little with its force.

My hands still shook and I turned the hot-water tap on full blast, running the water over my fingers. I felt numb. A litany to reassure myself of my sanity began to chant its way through my mind:

I washed my face and used the toilet, then soaped my hands and face again. I bit my lip hard to feel the sharp reality of pain. The water felt like life against my face. I dried with a towel and stared at myself in the mirror. In the calm fluorescent light of the bathroom, my hand resting on the cool of the sink, the attic seemed far away. And seeing the daily trappings of grooming—the basin speckled with flecks of whiskers from my morning shave, my toothpaste
tube dented in its middle, a bottle of aspirin with its cap not set quite straight—all this ebbed my fear and the first fingers of doubt massaged my beating heart. The cold, the vision of the boy—I'd no doubt manufactured it all in my shock.

It was nothing more. Time to deal with the pressing issues at hand. I pulled the jewelry box from my pocket and decided to hide it among my own clothes, until I decided on a course of action.

I stuck it under a Rice sweatshirt I'd brought for the cool nights that breezed across the coast, even in summer. And heard the crinkle of plastic in one sleeve as I shoved the box underneath the shirt.

I hadn't been the only one sneaking around the house. Nestled in my sweatshirt was a bag full of green pills. The delicate letters on the capsules identified them as Digoxin.

“THESE AREN'T MINE.” I TOSSED THE BAG ON THE
table in front of Victor Mendez. “And I don't know who planted them in my room. How about dusting them for prints?” I don't usually bark out suggestions to law-enforcement officers on how to do their job, but fingerprints equaled reality—something I desperately wanted to deal with instead of long-buried family secrets and imaginary children lurking in attics.

If Mendez noticed the tremor in my voice, he gave no sign. Instead he stared at the medicine. “You're saying someone purposefully hid these in your room?”

I resisted my natural urge toward sarcasm. My friendship with Mirabeau's own police chief had taught me that investigators often repeated what a witness told them, to be sure they had the story right. I nodded. “Yes, sir. I found them just now, hidden in one of my sweatshirt sleeves.”

From a corner chair Philip Bedrich glowered at me. “Well, Mr. Mendez. Finally something you can't accuse me of.”

“That's not true,” I answered mildly. “I don't know when the pills were stashed in my room. You had as much opportunity as anyone else.” I marveled at how controlled my voice sounded, considering the events of the past hour.

Philip shook his head. “This whole comedy of errors is bullshit. Why would I stick pills in your room?”

“I don't know, Philip. I don't know why you do half the things you do.”

“You don't understand,” he muttered. Mendez ended our cousinly concord with a wave of his hand. He slid the bag of
pills into a second container, an evidence bag. “You”—he pointed at me—”outside. You stay here, Mr. Bedrich.”

“Like I've got places to go? With the rest of my family thinking I'm a murderer?” Philip mumbled. He ran a hand across his thinning hair and a look of sick worry crossed his features. I suspected the iron facade was starting to buckle; he didn't seem to have the moral fiber to endure a solitary siege. I couldn't imagine what it was like to face a police investigation without my family's support.

I did not envy him the loneliness he was bound to feel.

Mendez guided me onto the veranda. A strong, salty breeze gusted in from the water. The sun had vanished below the horizon. Clouds blotted the night sky, settling close to earth; I felt I could reach out and tangle my hand in their clammy heaviness. The wind off the Gulf was wet. The rain didn't seem to bother Mendez. He stopped by the swing where Bob Don had slapped me and regarded me with frankness.

“Why does so much in this case keep coming back to you, Mr. Poteet?” He shook the evidence bag in front of my face. I saw for the first time how young he looked; surely this was not his first homicide. But perhaps he was more accustomed to the murders of everyday life: the husband slaying the battered wife, the teenaged gang member blasting his rival into early oblivion, the careless drunk mowing down a pedestrian in her path. Lolly Throck-morton's death was the end result of a lace of complex interrelations that offered no simple answers. I wondered how Mendez's first write-up of this case would read. I didn't envy him his job.

“I don't know why. Someone here doesn't like me, or believes I might be easy to frame.”

“Why would someone want to frame you for Mrs. Throckmorton's murder?”

“I imagine to avoid prosecution,” I said mildly. “Doesn't that seem reasonable to you?”

“But why you, Mr. Poteet? You're a stranger to most of these folks, blood relation or not.”
“Strangers are the best scapegoats. Less guilt that way for the perpetrator.”

“Give me another reason, Mr. Poteet. I don't think you're being entirely honest with me.”

He was not a stupid man and I had underestimated him. Lord only knew what body language my worn-out form was speaking. I made myself uncross my arms and look as open as possible. “Listen, I don't have another reason. Unless it's some of my relations have taken a serious dislike to me.”

Mendez tented his cheek with his tongue. “Yes, I can see they have. Why is that?”

“There's a lot of money at stake in this family. My uncle Emmett is terminally ill and he's worth millions. I don't think another potential heir is a particularly welcome sight.”

He unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into his mouth. “You and Philip don't particularly get along.”

“We don't.”

“Maybe you'd like to see him sweat.”

I shook my head. “I've known Philip only a day. I don't like him particularly, but not enough to stir up trouble against him. It's worth neither the time nor the effort. I don't have a whole history of resentment against him.”

Mendez chewed, watching the scudding clouds darken the night. No star glimmered, not even one to wish on. “You see anything else unusual around here?”

Aside from my dead cousin's ghost?
I shaped my answer carefully, not wanting to betray the fright I'd felt upstairs. I didn't want to see the inside of whatever mental-health facility the Matagorda Bay area offered. 'Tom and Aubrey got into a fistfight. Deborah and I had to separate them. Someone, I believe, spiked my stepmother's drink with booze because she's an alcoholic and they wanted to end her sobriety. Aubrey upset the family when his mother announced he's writing a new book about screwy families. I already told you Wendy and Philip planned to chisel money out of Uncle Mutt.”

“Anything else?” Mendez was no fool; he'd spotted the pause in my speech, the flicker in my eyes as I remembered my experience.

“No, nothing else—except—”

“Yes?” Mendez prodded.

“I thought I heard some sneaking around in the attic.” I had to tread carefully here; I wasn't yet decided what to do about Paul's jewelry I'd found. I didn't want the world crashing down around Bob Don. Mendez watched me, unblinking.

Seeing ghosts. And protecting someone who killed
, a devilish voice chirped in my head.

I
know he would not have killed except in self-defense
, an angel murmured in response.

The storm loudened and I waited for the boom of thunder to pass before answering. “Is there anything else?”

“We'll need to get your prints tomorrow. Don't be offended. We have to have everyone's.”

“Tomorrow?”

“My officers and Judge Yarbrough have returned to the mainland.” He didn't look at me. “Unless you're so eager to give us your prints, you want to come into the sheriffs department tonight.”

“Odd that the police are gone.” I kept my voice neutral. “I think you'd want to complete your interrogations, make an arrest.”

“I don't have any evidence yet, Mr. Poteet. I have only the word of you and your kin, and some of the stories don't quite agree yet. We're waiting on the toxicology results. And I'm not insensitive to Mr. Goertz's feelings. After all, this is a house in mourning.”

“Deference to the rich man? I'm a little surprised at you.” I couldn't hide my bitterness. A murderer strolling free in this house and Mendez played local politics.

“Mrs. Throckmorton could have taken the pills herself. That possibility still has not been eliminated. Mr. Goertz has finally admitted that his sister wasn't always quite balanced in her actions.”

“Oh, I'll bet he finally has acknowledged that little fact. I suppose it's less embarrassing than having another murderer in the family.” I stepped close to Mendez, close
enough to smell the mint gum on his breath. He tensed, resenting the intrusion. I didn't care.

“You know my uncle Paul killed his wife.” Anger had fueled my words too quickly; I didn't want to dwell on the horrors that had followed poor Nora's murder. “It seems to have shamed the family thoroughly.”

“Paul Goertz killed his wife. His family didn't kill that woman. They shouldn't feel shame.” But a light in his dark eyes told me his own clan might've reacted very similarly.

I had no answer for him.

Mendez went in to conclude his talks with Philip, and I heard him call to Uncle Mutt, sitting solitarily in the kitchen. Uncle Mutt stormed past me and didn't give me a second glance. Philip sat sunk down in his chair, his hands cupping his face. I felt an unaccountable pity for him; he looked like a forlorn lump. Tom was nowhere to be seen. Didn't his own twin even believe in him?

I went upstairs. Time to start investigating Philip Bedrich a little more closely.

I found a phone in Lolly's room and dialed Itasca Hue-bler's home number back in Mirabeau. Itasca's my main assistant at the library and possibly one of the great ferreters of information ever known to man. I could almost picture her scooping up her maroon phone receiver (she's a big Texas A&M supporter) and sandwiching it between her jaw and shoulder.

“Hello?”

“Itasca, it's Jordan.”

“Hey, sugar. How you enjoying your vacation?”

I didn't want to get into the sordid details of the weekend. Itasca was sweet, but she loved to gossip. “Fine, just fine. But I was wondering if you could see clear to doing me a favor.”

“I live for these moments, Jordy,” she teased. “What's up?”

“I'd like to check up on a fellow named Philip Bedrich. He's an investments counselor of some sort, and he's trying
to get me to invest some money with him. I can't exactly do a little research on him while I'm here, because he's staying at the same house. Could you call the SEC, see if he's registered with them, and see if he's got any kind of record?”