“Edward, that is gross.”
“You’re serious,” said Tull, happily playing straight man.
“And Mother vows — this being the first in a series — Mother vows the next time she comes, she’ll do things a little differently. Two weeks later, she makes good. Hands the sheriff one of those humongous Hermès scarves from a few seasons back with an African theme, because the next little dead baby’s black. Oh, Mother Joyce thinks of everything! Frankensheriff appears in said distant hall—clump clump clump — weeping as he approaches, sobbing as he hands it off! He’s caught the spirit! Touched by an angel! Frankensheriff stands converted!”
“But what does she want?” asked the incredulous Tull. “What’s she going to do with them?”
“She wants,” chimed Lucy, “to bury them.”
Pullman rose indifferently, and in doing so, violently jostled the buggy, whose tire had been resting on his flank.
“Weird,” said Tull.
“And the perfect thing is that it’s not even an original thought! There’s a woman who’s been burying throwaways for years — that’s where Mother got the idea. From People magazine. You see, her tragedy — and ours — is that Mother Joyce cannot even be original in her Buddha Compassion phase.” Edward yawned with boredom, circling back to his aunt. “You know, there were so many things Trinnie might have done besides build a fucking maze. I mean, she could have gone Versailles: some conical hedges, a hegemony of hedges — big drippy grotto with waterworks automata — no Hefty bags here! Maybe un grand escalier … I did see them haul in a Rodin, but your mom assured it wasn’t the centerpiece; that’d have been such a cliché. She’s too clever by half.” He clutched his hands theatrically to his bosom. “ ‘Aunt Trinnie, this is too cruel!’ I said. ‘A labyrinth—and here me, with my deformity — Mini-Me the Mini-Minotaur!’ ”
“And how did she respond?” asked Tull, playing along.
“With something very … Trinnie-like,” answered the cousin.
“I believe,” said Lucy, “it was: ‘Edward, shut the fuck up.’ ” Her brother rasped and hooted, then Lucy got a grand idea. “You know what we should do? We should just drive in! Come on, Edward! Journey to the center of the labyrinth — I dare you!”
“We’ll tie some yarn to the cart,” said Tull. “In case we get lost.”
“I’ll pass.”
“He’s afraid,” shouted Lucy gleefully. “Edward’s afraid!”
“That would be you,” said the cousin. “I’ve seen how far you’ve gotten. You won’t even go in with Pullie.”
“That isn’t true,” she said defensively. As impossible as it may seem, the Trotter children were, in regard to the maze, wary of exploration.
“Then no one’s been to the center,” said Tull.
“What? Not even you?” asked Edward, a bit stunned.
“Well, when would I? They only just finished it.”
“Nearly two weeks ago, they did,” said Edward, thoroughly pleased. “Well, well, we are a timid group!”
“Then let’s do it,” said Tull. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is what your mother put in the middle of the damn thing.”
“The Rodin?”
“Guess again.” He paused, striking his Benny pose. “A dumpster fetus — what else?”
While Tull and Lucy laughed, exhaustion darkened Edward’s face like a cloud, and his sister sprang to help. They walked from bench to buggy, supporting him on each side. Lucy got in to drive and smiled at Tull, pained and poignant; Edward would need to skip a few days of school to get his strength back, and she hoped he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. Pullman cantered about the carriage, then licked Edward’s hand, but the cousin twitched it away. As Lucy drove the serpentine path to the house, the Dane galloped toward a rakish figure on the hilclass="underline" Grandpa Lou.
Trinnie shouted at the children that it was time to see Bluey, then Ralph shouted to her that they would be late and she hurried off. As they entered the living room, Tull called out hello, but the old man didn’t hear.
He was already down on all fours, chuffing with Pullman at the door of the Palladian doghouse.
CHAPTER 5. A Lucy Trotter Mystery
A child should always say what’s true
And speak when he is spoken to,
And behave mannerly at table:
At least as far as he is able.
After they dropped Edward at the cousins’ home on Stradella Road, they descended Saint-Cloud in the four-wheel Cadillac truck that took them to and from school. The gentle driver, Epitacio, was aptly named; he rarely spoke, and when he did, one could imagine the words being his last. The children were enormously fond of him.
“Epi, can we stop at Rexall for nonpareils?” The chauffeur shrugged as if to disappoint, then toothily grinned. Tull turned his attentions to Lucy. “So what’s going on with Edward? Seemed like he had a fever or something.”
“He’s OK.” She tapped her fingers and stared out the window. “He might have another surgery. No biggie.”
They sat quietly while Epitacio guided the SUV toward Cedars, down, down, down through the stone West Gate.
“That is weird about your mother and those babies.”
“My parents are kind of insane, if you haven’t noticed. The whole Trotter dynasty—and that means you, too. And ever since this Forbes thing—”
“How high was your dad on the list?”
“Like, the eighteenth-richest person.”
“How much?”
“Nine-point-four.”
“Billion?”
“Duh.”
“Whoa.”
“He’s been on this giant binge.”
“What do you mean?”
“He got totally freaked when someone told him Ted Turner was the biggest private landowner in the country.”
“Like how much?”
“Turner? Like a million and a half acres.”
“In the U.S.?”
“And the world. Argentina, I think.”
“Whoa.”
“Dad doesn’t really want that. I think he visited a few ranches for sale in Wyoming, but — can you imagine my father on a ranch? So he started buying … really strange things instead.”
“Like?”
“Buildings. Big, empty buildings. Foreclosure stuff. You have no idea how many empty buildings there are.”
“For investing?”
“He doesn’t do anything with them — they just sit there with homeless people inside.”
“Squatters.”
“Whatever.”
“He probably has a master plan.” Tull fiddled with a mahogany air vent. “Lucy … do you think Edward’s serious about all that maze stuff? You don’t think he actually thinks my mother would—”
“Oh, don’t be so paranoid. We have to take him into the maze, we all have to go, right into the middle — just to get it over with. Put him in a wheelbarrow! I’m writing a mystery about it, you know.”