“But-but Mrs. Havens!” Father Chris said, looking at his elderly housekeeper in an entirely different way. “This was evidence! The woman lay there murdered for a full day after you knew about it!”
“I loved Gwen, Father, but she was dead. Wasn’t going nowhere, right? And what was more important, to protect three innocent people’s lives, or let the likes of Harold Richmond use that evidence to hurt them? And before you say another word, Father, ask yourself if Arthur Spanning could have possibly paid a higher price for loving his brother as himself. If anything, that man loved his brother too much!”
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out. She was back less than a minute later to say, “Two weeks notice, Father. Time I retired. Travis, you call me.”
I’m still not sure if it was the notes, the knife, or Reed Collins’s bold assertion (made without checking with any lab) that DNA could easily be lifted from the inside of Gerald’s gloves that made the difference. Reed liked my theory that Gerald’s wetsuit trick indicated a certain fear about leaving DNA around, and put it to the test.
Personally, I think having his ass kicked by a woman so disordered Gerald’s way of looking at the world, he took one glance at the notes, knife and gloves and started unburdening his conscience. This, I’m told, took the form of a lot of ranting about bitches who could have been happy with him, traitorous brothers, whores and bastards-but the district attorney, a judge and a jury of his peers were able to sort it all out and find him guilty.
I took Travis to meet Leda DeMont Rose and her granddaughter. They quickly set him at ease, and by the end of the visit, they were well on their way to becoming friends, even though Laurie’s first glimpse of my badly mauled cousin must have made her believe I had lied about his good looks.
Horace DeMont died the day after Travis visited them, and I have still not convinced him that it was not his fault.
Robert DeMont, though disappointed that he had not found a way to get his hands on the small remaining portion of the DeMont fortune, was able to sell an improved version of the toilet-seat invention to a novelty manufacturer, and realized enough from the sale to work on other innovations, as well as to pay an auto body shop bill.
I envied him, as well as Rachel and Frank, and everyone else whose car came back from the body shop. Like Travis’s camper, the Karmann Ghia was gone forever. I still miss it.
Long before any of that came to pass, Frank and I made another visit to Holy Family Cemetery. We stood near my parents’ graves, but we weren’t alone. Great Aunt Mary and her caretaker friend, Sean Grady, were nearby. My sister Barbara, and Rachel and Pete were there. Travis was there, too, as were Zeke Brennan, Father Chris and Ann Havens, the latter two having forgiven one another. Father Chris presided over a re-burial of Arthur’s remains, next to those of Briana. They had been in the same cemetery, as it turned out-but separated from one another. Now there was a new stone in place, their names together. Though tears were shed, it was, on the whole, a celebration.
I thought I saw McCain’s car in the parking lot, but I may have been mistaken.
Travis was staying with us for a while, having realized that we really didn’t care that he could afford to stay elsewhere. What you can afford in money, we had learned, you can’t always afford in time.
That day, putting fresh flowers on my parents’ graves, I felt sorry that they had lost time with Briana and Travis, had not welcomed Arthur. Perhaps if we had offered our family’s strengths to him, or a little more forgiveness, we would not have been lost to one another in that tangled, strangling web of pride and shame and deceit.
I looked out across the cemetery and set aside my regrets. No time, no time for regrets. Who teaches that better than the dead? All that lingered was the first real sense of peace I had felt at my parents’ graveside. Something has been made right, I thought, some wound healed.
It was at that moment that my sister, Barbara, knelt down next to me.
I looked up at her, saw the expression on her face and said, “Don’t say it, Barbara.”
“Well, I did want that spot. Now where am I going to be buried?”
“Next to me,” I said.
“Next to you!” She stood up, clearly appalled. “Then don’t bother writing ‘Rest in Peace’ on my tombstone!”
“As if death could calm her down,” Frank said, watching her go.
He took my hand and we walked back to the car, speaking, as lovers will, of the benefits of cremation.
