He didn’t even wait for me to reply before he stepped aside. He looked me up and down once. He channeled my mother’s mortification, then led the way up the grand staircase to my mother’s dressing room. He hesitated for a moment and memorized the location of every item in the room, then reluctantly departed, confident the looting would begin once the door clicked shut.
The room was my mother. Elegant, well-appointed, tasteful, and traditional. I’m sure it was all “revival” something; but I couldn’t tell what. Even though she’d made an attempt to “civilize” me in my teens, very little had stuck. I did know that if it looked old, it was very old, including some Byzantine icons in the corner with a candle glowing in front of them. In a world where even people were disposable, antiques held a certain charm.
Not so my mother.
She swept into the room wearing a dark-blue dressing gown-clearly Anderson’s-and dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. For a moment I believed she might have been crying for him, but grief I could have felt radiating out from her.
My mother doesn’t radiate emotions. She sucks them in. Like a black hole. I think that’s why her daughter is a nun in Nepal, I’m a waste of flesh, and my half-brother is the Prince of Darkness.
“There’s nothing in his will for you, Patrick.”
“Good to see you, too, mother. I hope he spent it all on himself.”
Her blue eyes tightened. “It’s in a trust, all of it, save for a few charitable donations.”
I chuckled. “That explains the tears. Hurts to still be on an allowance.”
“Yours is done, Patrick. I know he used to give you money.” She fingered the diamond-encrusted crucifix at her throat. “He was too soft-hearted.”
“He gave me money once, and it wasn’t Christian charity.” I opened my hands. “I came from the crime scene… ”
Her eyes widened. “You beast! If you breathe a word!” Tears flowed fast. “How much do you want?”
“I don’t want anything.” I shook my head. “Five people have died in the last two months, your husband included. All of them nasty. Sean Hogan, Amanda Preakness, Percival Kendall Ford, and Dorothy Kent.”
“Dottie? They said it was a botox allergy.”
“It doesn’t matter what they said, mother.”
She blinked and quickly made the sign of the cross. “Are you confessing to me, Patrick? Have you done this? Have you come for me?”
“Stop!” I balled my fists and began to mutter. Like most folks, she bought into the Vatican version of the talented. She figured I was going sacrifice her to my Satanic Master, or at least turn her into a toad.
Tempting, so tempting.
She paled and then sat hard on a daybed. “I’ll do anything you ask, Patrick. You don’t want to hurt me, your mother.”
I snorted. If she had enough presence of mind to invoke the maternal bond, she wasn’t really shocked, just scheming. “How was Anderson hooked up with the others?”
“Hogan did the trust work, damn him. Everyone else we knew socially. The Club, of course, the Opera Society. Various nonprofit boards.” She paused, her eyes sharpening. “Yes, this is all your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Absolutely. They were all on the board of the Fellowship. All of them.” Her accusing finger quivered. “I never wanted him to have anything to do with that place, but he did, because of you. And now he’s dead.”
“The Fellowship never killed anyone.”
“They saved your life, Patrick. I know. He told me.” Her eyes became arctic slits. “If they hadn’t, if you were dead, my husband wouldn’t be. Dear God, I wish it were so.”
She burst into a series of sobs which were as piteous as they were fake, so I took my leave. It really hadn’t been her best effort at emotional torture. Anderson’s death had hurt her. Probably was more than having a leash on her spending. I wondered how long it would be until she realized that herself.
From the Heights I descended back into my realm. People in my mother’s class acknowledge it exists, but only just barely. It’s where they go slumming when cheating at golf has lost its thrill. For the rest of us it’s just a waiting room. Prison or death, those are your choices. Sure, you hear stories of someone making good and escaping. Never seems any of us down here knew them when; and they damned sure don’t know any of us now.
Reverend Martha Raines could have made it out, but she stayed by choice. She was kind of the “after” picture of Amanda Preakness doing a chocolate diet for a decade or two; but her brown eyes had never narrowed in anger. Not that she couldn’t be passionate. She could, and often held forth at City Council meetings or prayer services. She kept her white hair long and wore it in a braid that she tied off with little beaded cords the children in her mission made for her.
She smiled broadly as I stepped through the door and I couldn’t help but mirror it. Even before we could speak, she caught me in a hug and held on tight, even when I was ready to let go. She whispered, “You need this, Patrick.”
Maybe I did.
Finally she stepped back. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“No loss.”
She gave me a sidelong glance. “I seem to remember things a little bit differently.”
“You always think the best of everyone.”
“It’s a skill you could acquire.”
“I don’t like being disappointed.”
She slipped an arm around my waist and guided me into the mission. The Fellowship has built out through several warehouses and manufacturing buildings which, save for Martha’s fiery oratory, would have long since been converted into lofts. The city wanted this end of town gentrified and envisioned galleries and bistros. Martha thought buildings should house people and proved convincing when she addressed the City Council.
Things had changed a lot since I’d done my time in the mission. The first hall still served as church and dining facility, but the stacks of mattresses that used to be piled in the corner had moved deeper into the complex. The far wall had been decorated with a huge mural that looked like a detail piece of da Vinci’s Last Supper. Thirteen plates, each with a piece of bread on it; but one was already moldy. The style wasn’t quite right for da Vinci-some of that stuff my mother had forced into my head was creeping back.
Martha smiled. “Our artist is very talented.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Talented? Or talented?”
“She’s a lot like you, Patrick.” Martha just smiled. “You’ll like her.”
“I need to ask you some questions.”
“About Bob Anderson?”
“About all of them.”
She studied my face for a moment, then led me over to a table and pulled out two chairs. She sat facing me and took my hands in hers. “They were all lovely people, every one of them. I know many people said bad things about them; but they had seen the work we do here. They wanted to help. They did things for us. Projects. Fund-raisers. What they gave wasn’t much for them, but it was everything for us.”
I nodded. “When they died, they left the mission money.”
Martha drew back. “What are you suggesting?”
“There are idiots down here who figure that if you start making money, they want a piece. Criminals aren’t bright; and you’re a soft touch.”
“True on both counts.” She smiled. “But your stepfather and Sean Hogan were not stupid. Bequests go into a trust with a board of trustees who vote on capital expenses. I can’t really touch that money. More to the point, no one has tried to extort money.”
“No rivalries? No animosity on the committee?”
Martha smiled. “The meetings were all very pleasant.”
That didn’t surprise me. Martha had talent, though I wasn’t sure she knew it. Somehow her positive nature was infectious. When she gave a sermon, people listened and her words got inside them. She always exhorted folks to be their best selves. It was like a round of applause accompanied by a boot in the ass that left you wanting more of each.