Double the Lies, page 27
“Simon scamming? And a murderer? Did he kill Jeffrey? I can’t believe that.”
“Not Simon. I’m sure it wasn’t him. But when he gets back, I want to hear what he knows. I have a lot to ask him.”
“But that’s the problem.” Buddy suddenly looked weary. “Simon’s not coming back.”
“What do you mean?”
“Annalee, I’m darn sorry. Simon’s plane went down. Crashed into a mountain. Search and rescue’s been up there all day, but there’s no survivors.”
“That can’t be!”
“But it is. Simon is dead.”
Annalee pushed past Buddy. Please, no, God.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the police! Or somebody.” She frowned. “Was it the Klan? Did they tamper with the plane?”
Buddy pressed his mouth. “I wish I could say no, because—” He paused.
“Because what?”
“The Klan wanted Simon gone. They knew he was Jewish—and clever. So he was a target. Top of their list. You probably saw the leaflets all over town? Some even plastered on his bank.”
Annalee nodded, showing sadness and anger. “Does Rebecca know about the crash? Does Uri?”
“Search and rescue’s sending a minister over—”
“For a family that’s Jewish?” She stopped. “But Jeffrey wasn’t. And for me, this is all about Jeffrey now.” She searched Buddy’s face. “And you. I’m doing this for you, Buddy. I’m going to find out who killed your brother if it’s the last thing on earth I do before this infernal day ends.”
Buddy watched her go. “And then you’ll come live with me in the mountains?”
She turned back, looked a long time at his handsome, sad face, in his arresting and hopeful green eyes.
“That’s actually one of the most remarkable offers I’ve received from anybody in my entire life.” Including from Jack. He’d still never officially proposed to her—despite what Eddie Brown Jr. insisted he longed to do. And Buddy? He wasn’t proposing. He was looking for something more.
“I can’t be the family you want—even if I understand why you want it, Buddy, because I don’t know who my mother is either.”
“You don’t? Then we’d make quite a pair.”
She turned back to him and, despite herself, stepped into his embrace, letting him pull her closer. She looked up at him.
“We can’t be that to each other, even if the law allowed it. But there’s one thing we can do.” She set her jaw. “We can find justice for Jeffrey.”
“Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another.”
SH, THE ADVENTURE OF THE SPECKLED BAND
IN THE GREAT ROOM, a self-possessed Methodist pastor was letting Rebecca cry on his shoulder. Two family losses in one week weren’t explainable or consolable. So he didn’t make it worse by droning on with platitudes.
He held his oversize Bible in one hand—Property of Sky View Methodist Church, Estes Park—but he didn’t open and read from it.
Seeing Annalee enter the room and sit down with the family, the pastor instead turned to Buddy.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”
“Thank you.” Annalee gave the reply.
The pastor blinked at her, wrinkled his brow, gave her a hard look.
Observing that, Buddy would be getting his first taste of what it would be like to live in the world with Annalee as his “better half.” Awkward at the least. Can you see it now, Buddy? But Buddy upped the ante, stepping next to Annalee and sitting down just inches from her.
Annalee didn’t flinch, but she wanted so badly to tell Buddy with her eyes to back off. The last thing she needed was for the Klan patrol to get the word from a conflicted pastor that a white man and a “colored gal” were acting awful cozy up at the Wallace house. Which wasn’t true. But appearances can be everything, and Buddy seemed intent on making some brave, crazy, determined statement that she didn’t need now. Not at all.
If I get through this day alive, she told herself, it will be a miracle. Would God perform two in one day?
Uri, indeed, stomped into the great room now. He’d had a bath, so he didn’t smell. He was wearing fresh clothes, but he was barefoot. He swung a pair of clean-looking socks in his hand.
The pastor looked down at his feet. Uri reacted.
“What? You never saw a man’s bare feet before?”
Annalee held her tongue. Uri wasn’t her worry. He hadn’t killed Jeffrey or anybody. Uri was just bluster and noise, not to mention exhausting and annoying.
She stood to help Della, who’d come in carrying a tray of tea things. The pastor refused a cup, but he convinced Rebecca to take refreshment.
“I doubt you feel like it, but hot tea will do you good.”
Rebecca conceded, taking a cup.
Uri, on the other hand, was set on making another ugly scene.
“This all you got? Where’s the grub? In case you forgot, I haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
“I’ll make you a plate, Mr. Uri,” Annalee said. “Come on into the kitchen.”
“You’re not the maid!”
The pastor looked at Annalee.
“Doesn’t matter. I can cook.” Well, good enough.
Annalee headed toward the kitchen, praying Uri would stop his griping and concede to follow her. For whatever reason, speaking of miracles—thank you, God—he did precisely that.
Making it to the kitchen first, she swung around the second he came through the door.
“Uri! You were right.”
“Get out of my face. Where’s my food?”
“Uri!”
“Why you nagging me? I’m hungry—”
“Uri!”
He finally shut up. “What?”
“You were right. About everything. About Simon, about getting cheated, about your mother—Rebekah.”
“Watch your mouth.”
Annalee pushed a chair at him. “No, you sit down!” She took the seat herself, looked up at him, eyes pleading. “Listen to me, please. It’s over, Uri.”
“What’s over?”
“Your fight, your war, your battle—whatever you want to call it—with your family, with Simon, with everybody, with the whole world. Because you were right.” She reached for him. “You got cheated—from the day you were born.”
“Stop saying that!” He pulled away.
“But it’s true. So it’s hard to hear. But your family cheated you from your first breath, cheated you from getting your fair start in life.” She sighed. “Simon probably cheated you even in death, in his will.”
“I don’t want Simon’s money! Rebecca don’t need it either. What are you talking about anyway—I was ‘cheated’?”
“It’s not my place to tell you. It was Simon’s place. I honestly believe he was finally going to tell you. But there is evidence. A letter. I’m going to make sure you get it.” Annalee stood, walked to the stove, took eggs from a wire basket, and cracked half a dozen in a bowl.
“I hate eggs!”
“You don’t hate eggs. Or toast or whatever. You just say you hate everything, and I understand. You’ve just wanted what we all want—a family who loves us and a fair shake at life. You didn’t get either one. Still, some people tried to help you. Lilian bought all that smuggled French perfume from you—”
“You don’t know a thing about—”
“Maybe not. But I know you didn’t kill Jeffrey, even if you were angry as heck at him, for whatever reason—”
“He was bad-mouthing me. Ruining my game. Telling folks not to do business with me—his own father-in-law. Saying I was a risk.” He sat down in a chair. “Heck, maybe I was.”
“Is that why you made that scene in the public library?”
“That wasn’t a scene. Jeffrey was always ‘researching’ something. I wanted to find out why. What’s he studying on so hard? Making people turn their back on me? Cutting me out?”
“You ransacked the house, too?” Annalee put a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Uri. He dug in.
“Rebecca’s house? You crazy? I’d never do that to her. If I ever find out who did—and who killed her man, even if he was bad-mouthing me—they’ll be sorry they ever heard of Uri Wallace.”
Buddy came in then. “Lilian’s here. The Stanley drove her over. She’s a mess.”
“I’ll check on her. She’s upstairs? Did the pastor leave?”
“He’s gone, but Simon’s bank employee’s here. He drove up from Denver. Brought a lady friend with him—”
“Mrs. Quinlan?”
“I guess.” Buddy nodded toward the great room. “Come back in there with me. I’m not good at making small talk.”
“Her name’s Mrs. Quinlan.” Annalee followed but turned back to Uri. “I’m glad Buddy found you.”
“I wasn’t lost!”
“Whatever you say.” She put a hand on his shoulder, grateful that he let her. “But you still can get found.”
Flora Quinlan. Annalee rushed across the great room to her friend, the Denver librarian. Reaching for her, she hugged her, then pulled back, standing stock-still.
“Annalee!” Mrs. Quinlan pulled off her coat. “Let me hug you again. What’s wrong?”
“Rough weekend.” Annalee stepped back. “One man lost. Simon Wallace killed. I’m just so grateful to see a friendly face.” Annalee smiled at her, but she wasn’t looking at the librarian’s lovely face. She was looking at Flora Quinlan’s eyes—because they were green. Green as the day is long. Green as they’d always been green. But more green right now than Annalee believed green eyes could ever be.
Except for Buddy’s.
She turned to Della, who turned away in the same instant, acting preoccupied with a teapot. Mrs. Quinlan didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, I’m glad I came.” Mrs. Quinlan accepted a cup of tea from Della, told her thank you, stirred, and sipped. “As soon as we heard, I told Hugh—”
“Mr. Smith?”
“You remember him? He’s been so kind. And look, Annalee!” The librarian held out her wrist, showing a filigree bracelet set with five sparkly blue stones. She rambled on about the gift, a surprise present from Hugh Smith, whom she’d only recently met. “It’s truly the nicest gift I’ve ever been given.”
Hugh was seated near Rebecca, consoling her, asking questions about Simon. “Did you know his lawyer? Has he been here?” Rebecca said she didn’t know.
Buddy was fussing with the fireplace, adding logs, stoking the flames.
Mrs. Quinlan stepped over to watch him, held out her hands to feel the rise of heat. Smiling at him, she asked Buddy what kind of work he did.
“I’m a pilot.” Buddy pulled up a bench near the fire, invited Mrs. Quinlan to join him. He told her he fought in the war and was working now as a barnstormer on weekends, flying tourists around at the Stanley on weekdays, and soon they were having a nice conversation for such a sad, confusing day.
Annalee watched them a moment, stifled a smile at Buddy. “I’m not good at making small talk.” But here he was, talking easily with her librarian friend as if he’d known Flora Quinlan his entire life. She blinked. Because he had?
Annalee turned to Della, who at first refused to return her look. But Annalee was insistent, walking over to help Della clear away the teacups, making Della look her in the eye so the young Telluride maid couldn’t ignore Annalee’s crazy but urgent question. Is the librarian actually Belinda—Buddy and Jeffrey’s Belinda?
Surely she couldn’t be.
As a young widow, Mrs. Quinlan had befriended Annalee as a child. Helped her find books in the library. Sometimes checked her homework. Came to the colored school in Five Points for story time, gathering the children around her to read from library books. Wearing a name badge. Flora Quinlan.
Annalee followed Della into the kitchen.
“Don’t ask me,” Della whispered as Annalee came through the door.
Annalee sat down. Uri still was at the table but slumped over fast asleep, dead to the world from his ordeal. Annalee watched him a moment, then walked back to the great room and pulled a blanket off a sofa. Back in the kitchen, she plumped the blanket over Uri’s shoulders, then turned to Della.
“Buddy deserves to know.”
“What if she doesn’t want him to know?”
“But if she’s his mother?” Annalee squinted. “How’d you find out anyway?”
“Uri bribed somebody in Telluride. They’d heard where Belinda had gone.”
“Della, Buddy should be told about her.”
“But she’s made a new life for herself.” Della turned, started to run a sink of soapy water for dishes, changing the subject. “Besides, looks like she has a new boyfriend and everything—”
“That’s all you see? You’re hopeless—a romantic.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Oh yes, you do. It means being sentimental about every other thing—especially love and men and all they churn up.” Annalee gave her a look. “And how do I know so much about it? Maybe because I’m the same way.”
Annalee thought then about Buddy, fretted about Jack, thought even more about the killer she still needed to find. She walked to the sink, stood by Della. “Some things in life are bigger than any of us. That’s been the whole problem in this family but also with Buddy and Jeffrey. Certain people trying to control other people’s truth. Even in my ‘family’—whoever my mother is, if she’s still alive, she’s doing the same thing.”
Della searched Annalee’s eyes. “You don’t know who your mother is?”
“That’s right. So I hate family lies. Tell one and you have to tell umpteen more.” Annalee half dried a teacup, put it on the dish rack, tossed down the towel, turned to Della. “Why’d you leave Telluride?”
“That sorry town? Maybe one day it’ll be something. But now, just miners and swindlers and too much snow and, well, whores. ‘Working the line.’ That’s what they called it. Mine companies own everything and everybody. I’m never going back. Maybe I can find a real job. A typing post.”
Annalee peered at her. “You know how to type?”
“Not yet. I’ve never even tried. But maybe I can learn. Anything but going back to Telluride.”
Annalee breathed deep. “My mother’s from there. Or close by.”
Della frowned. “No, she’s not. The only colored woman around that town was my mother.”
“But that’s where I was found—in a mine shaft near Annalee, the ghost town, on the way to Telluride.” Annalee felt confused. “This is a crazy question, Della, but did your mother have other children?”
Della cut her eyes. “I’m my mother’s only child—and she and Daddy had a hard time having me. They never had other children. Then he died in an avalanche when I was in grade school.” Della threw down a towel. “You’re smart, Annalee. But you’re barking up the wrong tree.” She cocked her head. “Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless your mother wasn’t a colored woman.”
Annalee heard those words. She blinked. “What in the world do you mean?”
“Well, look at us. Both of us. Barely brown. Curls all over our crazy heads. I get that from having a daddy who was white. Maybe you’re the same, but it was your mama. She was white.”
Annalee opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Never in life had she thought about the possibility, and she didn’t know what to say or think of it now. Della didn’t seem fazed either way. Annalee grabbed at the table, trying to stop her hands from trembling.
“It’s like Buddy and Jeffrey,” Della was saying. “Their daddy was colored.”
“What?” Annalee gasped an odd whisper. “I don’t believe it.”
“Don’t act so surprised. Folks are complicated.”
“Who told you this?”
“A rumor. I heard it in Telluride.”
“A rumor? That’s all you heard?”
“People talk.”
“They talk too much—”
“What, you need proof?”
Annalee considered that, struggling now to weigh what it all could mean—for Buddy, for her. Mercy, for the two of them? But with Jack still not found, making a life with Buddy—legally?—was the last thing she wanted to think about. She felt her whole body trembling. She grabbed a chair to sit, weighing this information, unsure what to do about it.
She thought about Della’s question. Why proof? For who anybody is—white or black or anything else?
“Because without it, lies get ground into weapons. Every person on earth, in fact, gets reduced by it.”
“But what if it’s true?” Della pulled up a chair, too. “About their dad—Buddy and Jeffrey’s?”
“So what?” Annalee blinked hard. “If it’s true? Or not true? Honestly, Della, I don’t care—not about a rumor. Either way, the world sees them as white. That’s how they look. That’s what Buddy still believes. I’m not even going to ask him. I’ve got bigger worries.”
Like where was her Jack? And who killed Buddy’s actual brother Jeffrey?
“But if Buddy’s—”
“Enough, Della. I’ve got to find a murderer—today.” She stood from the table.
“Finding out the truth?” Della was saying. “It’s—”
“A funny game.” Annalee twisted her mouth. “So many people are playing it. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you talk to the right person.”
Annalee walked to the table and nudged Uri, hating to wake up the grouchy and hurting man. He snuggled deeper into the blanket.
“Maybe just leave him be.”
Annalee set her jaw.
Della went back to washing dishes. “At least for now?”
“At least for now.” Annalee gave Uri’s shoulder a light touch. “He knows Telluride, too. If he’ll talk about it.”
But she gave him a closer look. Did he look weary of knowing something else? Something murderous? Something wrong? In this household, she suddenly realized who would tell her.
“Still, jealousy is a strange transformer of characters.”
