What had Max said? Everyone had been in love with Aleda. I know I still was. Celeste, no matter how wild her stories were, couldn’t change that. In my heart, Aleda was an echo of my sister, Emily.
I had heard all of Celeste’s invective, her accusations against Aleda. While I had suffered some lingering doubts, as soon as I saw Aleda again, I knew the truth. Mike had said I would. Celeste had created a tower of lies in which to dwell. Now that it had come crashing down around her, I wondered whether she could sort out any truth for herself. Not that I cared in the least.
Aleda picked up her pace when I got out of the car, though her gait seemed pained. She smiled at Marc, but reached for me. I carried a wrapped package under my arm and nearly dropped it to embrace her.
“Oh, Maggot,” she said, tears welling in her pale eyes. The skin of her hand felt dry and thin, like old silk. Like my grandmother’s hand. “Look at you. All grown up.”
I glanced at Casey in time to see her roll her eyes at this comment.
“Aleda,” I said, “this is my daughter, Casey.”
Aleda reached toward Casey. “You look so much like your Aunt Emily.”
Casey didn’t know whether this was a compliment, but she managed a polite smile.
Jaime grabbed Casey around the middle, like the old days, and gave her a spin, albeit a tamer one than when she was smaller. “What happened to my little girl? She’s just a big hunk of junk now.”
Casey giggled.
Aleda pointed at Mike. I know you. You were with Maggot at the jail when I was brought in.”
“Mike,” he said, offering no official title. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Aleda laughed. “No doubt.”
The air was clear and crisp. The sky a dusky blue. We all sat on the porch steps to watch the color show of the desert sunset. The package I had brought was wedged between Mike and me.
“I miss Lucas,” Aleda said. “Shouldn’t we have one of his awful hymns about now?”
Jaime smiled. “Where is Lucas?”
“He’s Santa Claus tonight at the shelter Christmas party,” I said. “He’ll be in Berkeley by dinnertime on Christmas day. He promised.”
“I have a Lucas hymn,” Jaime said. “One of his favorites. He taught us when we were in the Alameda County jail for unlawful assembly.”
Jaime began to sing a morbid dirge, and Aleda, laughing, joined in:
Plunged in a gulf of dark despair,
We wretched sinners lay,
Without one cheering beam of hope,
Or spark of glimmering day. A-Men.
Before the last phrase, Aleda began to weep softly. Jaime and I held her between us.
“I feel so bad about Emily”, she sobbed into my neck. “It’s all my fault.”
“How is it your fault?” Mike asked. “Celeste shot Emily. Celeste hired a pro to rig a bomb to do in Rod Peebles. What does it have to do with you?”
“Marc and I were okay where we were. If we had just left things alone, we would still be okay.”
“Okay how?” I said. “You would stay in hiding forever? Marc told me he graduates from college in June. I think its high time you both moved out into the world.”
She didn’t seem convinced. “I knew what Celeste was capable of. Don’t underestimate her power and influence. Or her perversity. She killed Tom Potts because she wanted to. And he wasn’t the only one.”
“Emily knew the risks,” I said. “She must have felt they were worth taking.”
I handed the package I had brought to Marc. “Emily had this made for you. I don’t think you need to wait until Christmas morning.”
Mike was beaming. It was through his efforts that this item had been released-liberated-from the collection of Emily’s possessions the police had found in the trunk of Celeste’s car. Mike speculated that when Celeste broke into Emily’s apartment, among other things, she had taken Marc’s dogtags and had given them, or planted them, on Rod before she sent him to his explosive end. A little detail to add drama to her scene.
Marc hesitated before he began to slowly remove the brown paper wrapping. He refolded the paper deliberately before he picked up the framed photograph inside. He glanced at his mother, confused it seemed, before he held it up for the rest of us. I had given him the enlargement Emily had made of Marc’s snapshot, the one she had airbrushed.
“Where’s Dad’s joint?” Marc asked.
“Purged,” I said.
Aleda was smiling again. “Poor Marc. Right to the end, Emily got the last word.”
“One thing still bothers me,” I said. “Why did Emily get her boobs done?”
Mike laughed and pulled me against him. “Because she wanted to.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Mother sat at the table in her big kitchen, in a stream of bright morning sunlight, folding red linen napkins fresh from the laundry. It was a beautiful picture, the contrasts of the red napkins, her shiny silver hair, the pale, well-scrubbed pine table. She is a tall slender woman who holds herself very straight. But her hair was soft wisps, the collar of her cotton shirt was open at the throat, and there was a hole in the toe of her right sneaker.
She was facing the big bay windows, and now and then she looked out through the redwood trees in the backyard, gazing off toward Grizzly Peak. Through the window, I could see my father in a far corner of the yard, kneeling with a trowel in his hand at the edge of the small herb garden that was planted in the patch of yard that catches only the morning sun.
It was a beautiful morning. More like spring than Christmas Eve.
“Grandma,” Casey said softly. When Mother turned, Casey took Marc by the hand and led him over to the table. Max, Jaime, Aleda, Mike and I stayed back, voyeurs.
“Grandma, this is Marc.”
“Of course it is.” Mother stood up and pulled out a chair for him. Her eyes were very moist, but she remained com-posed as she looked at him. She put her slender hand on his shoulder. “You are very like your father. Anyone can see that.
“But I can see your mother in you, too. She has always been my favorite.”
He smiled. “You’re just the way my mother described you.”
“Well,” she laughed. “We’ll have to hear about that! Everyone come and sit. I have Bloody Marys ready. Casey, honey, please go tell Grandpa that his grandson has come home.”
Wendy Hornsby
Wendy Hornsby is the Edgar Award-winning creator of the Maggie MacGowen series. A native of Southern California interested in writing at a young age, she first found professional success in fourth grade, when an essay about summer camp won a local contest. Her first novel, No Harm, was published in 1987, but it wasn’t until 1992 that Hornsby introduced her most famous character: Maggie MacGowen, documentarian and amateur sleuth.She has written seven of the MacGowen novels, most recently The Paramour’s Daughter (2010), and the sprawling tales of murder and romance have won Hornsby widespread praise. For her closely observed depiction of the darker sides of Los Angeles, she is often compared to Raymond Chandler. Besides her nine novels, Hornsby has written dozens of short stories, some of which were collected in Nine Sons (2002). When she isn’t writing, she teaches ancient and Medieval history at Long Beach City College
