Adam offered no response; it was clear that Thomson wanted none. “There’s one more issue,” Adam said, “involving George Hanley and the state police. Suppose that someone who inherits under the will pushed him off the cliff. They get nothing.”
Thomson gave him a pointed look. “Are you confessing to his murder?”
“No. Regrettably, I wasn’t here.”
“Then the pool of people who profit from Ben’s death shrinks to two, doesn’t it? Who’s your favorite-Carla or Jenny?”
“Carla, naturally. She gets more money.”
Thomson stared at him. “You’re not joking.”
Adam shrugged. “George thinks someone killed him. That it be Ms. Pacelli serves my family’s interests at least two ways. It cuts her out of the will and gets George off our back. What better?”
Thomson laughed aloud. “You are a cool one, aren’t you?”
“Just practical.”
“Then it would help if George convicts her. To simply accuse her won’t suffice. So have a care.”
“Always.” Adam paused. “A last detail. How would I find out the date my father bought our house from my grandfather?”
“By asking Clarice. If her memory isn’t precise, ask to see Ben’s papers.”
“Then let me put it another way. How would Carla’s lawyer determine the date without alerting my mother?”
Thomson contemplated the ground. “I gather you’re thinking about the postnup,” he said at length, “and your mother’s reasons for signing it.”
“Not very subtle, am I?”
“Subtle enough. So here’s the deal. If the sale took place after 1985, which is roughly nine years after she signed the postnup, Carla’s lawyer could check Massachusetts land records on the internet. If Ben bought the house before then, he’d have to slog through the Registry of Deeds in Edgartown. But eventually you’ll find what you need-date, parties, and price.” Thomson paused, then added, “Of course, someone might remember you were looking and wonder why. Best to ask your mother.”
Adam stood. “I will. This has been very helpful.”
“To whom, I wonder.” Thomson remained seated, gazing at the water. “Mind if I sit for a while? I’ve got some thoughts of my own to sort through.”
Adam thanked him, and went on his way.
When Adam returned home, he went to his room and spent a few moments on the internet. Then he found his mother on the porch, sipping iced tea as she watched the late-afternoon sun descend toward the water. She had just completed a bicycle trip around the island-even as a child, Adam had perceived that she sought distraction in strenuous exercise from whatever troubled her. Now her face had the healthy flush of exertion. But she still looked older to him, more vulnerable, with wisps of gray in her hair that seemed to have escaped the colorist. Looking up, she asked, “Did you see Matthew Thomson?”
“Not yet, no.” He sat beside her. “When are you meeting your lawyer?”
“Tomorrow, at ten.”
“Good. Tell her I’ll be offering the will for probate on Friday, and that she should be ready to file. That should keep Pacelli from running off to Switzerland.”
Her eyes filled with quiet gratitude. “Thank you, Adam.”
“There’s something else I’d like to be clear about. When you signed the postnup, you believed you’d still inherit from your father.”
“Yes,” she said with a trace of impatience. “As I recall, this is the third time you’ve asked that-”
“So Grandfather hadn’t sold the house to Dad?”
“Why does it matter?”
Adam watched her eyes. “Because as I understand you, he sold the house after going belly-up.”
“That’s true. Though I can’t retrieve the specific date.”
“I’m more interested in the date relative to the postnup. I do know Dad bought this place before 1985, because I checked the computerized records.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “When and why you signed that postnup will be a central issue in the will contest. As to that, your testimony in court requires more precision than what you tell me when we’re alone. So I want you to double-check Dad’s papers before you see your lawyer, and be very clear on which event came first. You don’t want to be wrong about this.”
His mother’s face closed. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Adam replied flatly. “That’s the first part of a conversation that, once it’s over, you and I never had. The rest concerns how you answer when your lawyer asks what Dad offered you in exchange for signing.”
“Exactly what I told you-nothing.”
“You also told me you signed it on principle.” He paused, looking into his mother’s face. “I don’t blame you for concealing the deeper truth for the sake of your sons. But you can’t be so reticent in court.”
His mother’s blue eyes held confusion and alarm. “What do you mean?”
“That my father threatened you. That you were afraid of him. That you signed this agreement under duress.” His tone softened. “Domestic violence is a terrible thing. All the more so because, back then, the victim saw it as a shameful secret no one outside the marriage could know. So now no one but you knows how badly my father treated you, and how endangered you felt by the consequences of refusing him. I can’t know the details. But you can provide them easily. All you need is the will.”
Though Clarice’s mouth parted, she could not seem to speak. With quiet urgency, Adam said, “You owe him what he left you with-nothing. Your sole obligation is to save your future, and Teddy’s. Are you prepared to do that?”
Comprehension stole into her eyes, and then Adam saw her make a decision, reluctance followed by resolve. “If I have to.”
The quiet firmness in her tone, Adam thought, reflected the knowledge that she was cornered and must fight for her own survival. “You do,” he said coolly. “And please skip the story about signing the postnup as a feminist gesture. Not even I believe that.” His voice became gentler. “Don’t say anything, Mom. All I ask is that you remember everything I’ve said, and forget who said it.”
Clarice bowed her head, briefly touching her eyes. Then she looked up at her son again. “It’s been so terrible, all of it. Now you’re back, my deepest wish. But the more I see you, the more I’m reminded of Ben.”
Against his will, Adam felt wounded, even scared. “That’s the last thing I want.”
“I understand. But you’re very sure of yourself, as he was. As if you can bend the world to your will.”
Adam grasped her hand. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let my father take everything away from you. If that makes me like him, so be it.”
His mother’s eyes moistened. “I understand, Adam. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
He squeezed her hand and then sat back, letting a fragile peace settle between them.
Three
At eight that evening, Adam walked into the bar at the Kelley House.
In ten years it was little changed-dim lights, wooden tables, and a bar jammed with tourists and islanders, the din of laughter and conversation bouncing off walls covered with old photographs and Vineyard memorabilia. Bobby Towle sat at a small table in the corner, looking bulky and awkward in blue jeans and a polo shirt big enough to double as a beach towel. In the instant before Bobby saw him, Adam had the affectionate thought that he looked like Baby Huey all grown up-a little bulkier, a lot sadder.
With a smile, Adam sat down. “So, pal, how’ve you been the last decade or so?”
Bobby mustered a smile of his own. “You know how this island is. Days pass, then years, nothing changes much. Pretty soon that’s your life.”
But something had changed, Adam sensed. For a guy like Bobby, being a cop, and married to the prettiest girl in their high school class, should have felt better than it appeared. Bobby ordered two beers, then asked, “And you? Seems like you just disappeared.”