“You know where the kitchen is, Philip.” Mutt's voice sounded stern and reproachful.
“Well”-Philip took a conciliatory step into the library- “I thought I might get a book to read. I couldn't sleep, thinking about poor Aunt Lolly, so I-well, hello, Jordan. I didn't know you were down here.”
“Right.” Uncle Mutt coughed. “I don't approve of eavesdropping on private conversations, Philip.”
“I should say not,” Philip agreed. “And if I see anyone in this house sticking an ear to a keyhole, you can be sure I'll tell them you don't condone such behavior.” That bandage loosely applied, Philip turned a beatific smile on me. “How kind of you, Cousin Jordan, to offer solace to Uncle Mutt. I don't mean to interrupt your visit, let me just fetch a book.”
“You should be careful sneaking around, Cousin Philip,”
I offered dryly. “There's an armed cop on the porch. He looked like he might have a twitchy trigger finger to me.”
Philip ignored my jab, sidled to the bookshelves, and began a detailed perusal of the offerings. Uncle Mutt regained his seat. “The books on personal responsibility are on the upper shelf, Philip. Reading those should cure your insomnia.”
If the barb stung Philip, he didn't wince. “I actually wish I had more time to read all these books on Texas history. It's a fascinating subject. Has Mutt given you his lecture on the ill-fated Reliant, Jordan? It can keep one entertained for, oh, just countless hours upon hours.” Philip didn't seem concerned about sucking up before any new wills were drafted.
“Little asshole,” I heard Uncle Mutt whisper, rolling his eyes. I glanced over at Philip-and saw him, deftly, pull a book from the folds of his robe and slide it back into its place on the shelf. I didn't let my gaze linger as he glanced back at me.
“Ah, here's a good one.” Philip waved a nondescript tome; I could see knights on the cover. “A nice book on European history. That'll do the trick.” He drew close to Uncle Mutt. “You holding up okay, Uncle? Anything I can do?”
“I'm fine, Philip, thanks for your concern,” Uncle Mutt answered, his voice tight. “Go on to bed, get some rest. I don't mean to be short with you. I'm just tired.”
“I know,” Philip said, his voice a bit softer. “Get some rest, Uncle Mutt. Good night, Jordan.” I ignored the slightly snide tone his voice had taken in bidding me farewell. Philip didn't like me one bit, I surmised.
Uncle Mutt was silent until we heard the soft tread of Philip's footsteps on the stairs. “I'd best get to bed, Jordan. I got to go into Port Lavaca tomorrow and start the arrangements for Lolly's funeral. God, I didn't think I'd be burying anyone else before me.”
“Would you like me to go with you tomorrow?”
A soft smile touched his face, and for one terribly naked moment I saw my own face in his. “No, Jordan, but I appreciate the offer. Maybe you can keep my relations from robbing me blind while I'm gone.”
I didn't want the conversation to end quite yet. “Did Lieutenant Mendez say anything more about-about the investigation?”
Mutt shook his head. “Just have to wait on the autopsy, he says.” His eyes narrowed at me. “Why? You know something you ain't sharing, son?”
“Yes.” My voice sounded miserable. I told him about the cards, the vicious messages they'd conveyed, and my discussion with Mendez and Yarbrough.
Mutt didn't speak, his hands cupped before his face. I felt desperately afraid I'd driven myself out of his budding affections. He took a bracing breath.
“Are you suggesting-to the police-someone wanted to kill you and killed my sister by mistake?”
“I don't know. If Lolly didn't die by natural causes-I might've been the target. Would anyone want to kill her?”
“No. No. There is no murderer in this family. No, son, no.”
“Uncle Mutt-”
“If anyone's killed here tonight, it's me. Breaking the news like that. I couldn't be subtle. I had to be as loud as a fart in church. I brought on Lolly's heart attack.”
“You can't know that, Uncle Mutt. Don't do this to yourself.”
He didn't speak for a full minute. “You've met the family now. Who do you suspect of sending you those cards?”
“I don't know.”
His mouth worked, but no words came out. “I want to see these letters.”
“I gave them to Lieutenant Mendez.”
“And I want to know why the hell Lieutenant Mendez didn't inform me about the threats to a member of my family. I believe I'll phone him now. I'll do that from my office. Good night, Jordan.”
“But, Uncle Mutt.”
For the second time that evening, I was dismissed from a conversation. “Good night, Jordan.” His scowl softened.
“Get some sleep. And rest assured no harm will come to you while I live in this house.”
“Good night,” I said. “I'm just going to pick out another book, in case I don't like this one.” I proffered the Lamar biography. “After all, like you said, he wasn't much fun.”
He grabbed me into another of his bear hugs, his breath warm against my neck. I felt his shudder of exhausted grief, the sadness he wouldn't truly share with any of us. He released me without a word and left the den.
I didn't dawdle. I went straight to the bookshelf to see which volume Philip had so secretively and dexterously replaced. The book, Bitter Money, was notched carefully back into the heart of the true-crime section.
I remembered Bitter Money being a best-seller ten years ago: the lurid tale of a noted New York financier who'd murdered his socialite wife. It was the kind of torridly written saga that was the literary equivalent of driving slowly past a fatal car collision. I opened the book and scanned the copy on the inside of the jacket.
Yes, of course. The eminent banker had poisoned his wife of thirty years. With a deadly overdose of her own digitalis-based heart medication.
8
My dreams were unkind. In the darkness of night and slumber, I swam through the shattered hulk of the sunken Reliant, the current piloting me along. I drifted, breathing the murky water like air, among the tattered corpses dressed in makeshift uniforms. One revolved toward me in the ebb of moving sea and I saw with horror the decaying face was Uncle Mutt's. I jerked away from the sight, and the corpses began to close around me in an icy fellowship. I could see their faces clearly now-a misshapen Deborah; Jake, his countenance pecked by fish; a one-eyed Sass; and worst, a Bob Don who looked like a demon from some nether region, the lower half of his face rotted away. His arms stretched out to me in an obscene embrace, and I roused from the nightmare with a shudder.
I felt the momentary disorientation of waking in an unfamiliar place, then remembered where I was and the contorted look on Lolly's face as she died. I was thirsty, but a small boy's fear held me and I didn't want to get up from the bed to venture into darkness. I suddenly missed my parents very badly. Finally I fell asleep again, the bedding wrapped around me like a shroud.
I awoke with the sun. Rather than concentrate on my disturbing dream, I set my mind to replaying Philip stealthily replacing that book about digitalis poisoning among its less meaningful colleagues. Had I made a mistake? What if I'd spotted the wrong book? But I didn't think that I was wrong. I thought dear Cousin Philip might have some serious explaining to do, but I had no proof. Borrowing a book wasn't a crime.
The first rays of dawn shot through my window, and with no Candace to snuggle up to, the bed seemed a cold place. I pulled myself up, donned a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and stumbled down to the kitchen in search of caffeine.
I wasn't the earliest riser in the house. I found Wendy bustling about in the kitchen, getting ready to prepare a large breakfast for the family. Food always seems so inextricably linked with death; I remembered vast buffets of food brought by neighbors when my father died… but there were no neighbors on Sangre Island. Did anyone else share this family's grief? I knocked timidly on the door I'd already opened.