Liar Page 14

  He didn’t ask about me or Barbara. I told myself there was no reason to feel hurt over that, that he was a stranger. But he wasn’t.

  And yet, what was there to bind him to us? I began to feel sure that as soon as I told him of his parents’ deaths, he would flee. It seemed to me that would be yet another loss, another unnecessary separation in our family saga of indifference. I wanted it to stop.

  “I was wondering,” I said, “if you could stay a few days?”

  He didn’t try to hide his surprise. “Here? With you?”

  “Yes. In the guest bedroom.”

  He stared at me a moment, and I half-expected one of his sarcastic replies. But he shook his head and said, “No, I’ve got my camper. It’s all I need—I prefer it, really.”

  As if on cue, we were interrupted by a loud noise—a series of whoops and honking sounds—a car alarm. He was up on his feet and hurrying through the house. I followed him, but by the time we reached the front yard, there was no one near the pickup. He pressed a button on his key-chain and the noise subsided.

  “Think someone tried to break into it?” I asked.

  He glanced around and shrugged. “Hard to know. It isn’t one of those that goes off every time the wind blows, but I’ve had more than one false alarm from it.”

  “There’s a stairway to the beach at the end of the street,” I said, “so a lot of beachgoers walk past the house. Maybe someone walking by was curious about ‘Cosmo the Storyteller.”“

  He smiled, “Remarking on the paint job?”

  “It is designed to grab attention, right?”

  “Right.” He glanced between the camper and the house and said, “Mind if I move a couple of things into the house for safekeeping?”

  “Not at all. But as I was saying, why don’t you stay?”

  “No need to,” he said, walking to the back of the camper. “I have a place to sleep.”

  “Well, then, stay here in your camper.”

  “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Maybe we could get to know each other.”

  He laughed as he opened the camper door. “Same question: why?”

  I waited while he stepped into the camper and retrieved the rolling trunk. When I suggested he put it in the guest room, he seemed amused, but did as I asked.

  We went back out on the patio.

  “You asked why I wanted you to stay,” I said. “What happened—between our parents—it wasn’t right.”

  “Oh? So we should suddenly become cousins? Real cousins? Just ignore the past few decades of neglect?” He shook his head. “You Kellys are unbelievable.”

  “I’m as much a Maguire as you are!”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but so what?”

  “Do we have to perpetuate something our parents started? Make it worse?”

  “Why start with me? Go ask my mother’s forgiveness, not mine. God knows Mom has always been more interested in you than I am. In fact, the last time I saw her, she told me she was going to cut me out of her will in your favor. Even showed it to me.” He laughed. “Some day you’ll be the proud owner of a couple of religious statues and a dozen or so Georgette Heyer novels.”

  Well, that shut me right up.

  “What?” he asked, seeing my dismay.

  “I’ve tried to think of a way to tell you this,” I said miserably.

  He stared hard at me.

  I drew a breath. “When your mother called you at the Mission Viejo Library, did you call her back?”

  “No,” he said warily. “But what business is that of yours?”

  “I think she called to tell you about your father,” I began. “Was—was he ill?”

  “Yes,” he answered, then his eyes widened. “Was … ?” he repeated, then said, “Not already! It’s too soon! He’s… he’s not… he died?”

  “Yes.”

  All the color left his face. He lowered his head, exhaled loudly. He made no other sound for several long minutes. But then, as the shock seemed to wear off, he stood up, fists clenched. His face, so pale just moments ago, was now flushed with rage. “I can’t believe it!” he said angrily. “I can’t believe she—she asked you to tell me—”

  “She didn’t!” I said quickly.

  “You just took it upon yourself? Why on earth—”

  “Because… maybe you should sit down again.”

  “No,” he said, narrowing his eyes at me, as if trying to read my mind. “Something’s happened—what’s wrong?”

  “Travis, I’m sorry, I’m—so sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother was in a car accident and—”

  “She’s hurt? Where is she?”

  I shook my head. “She was killed, Travis.”

  “Killed?” he said blankly, as if it had become a foreign word. “Killed?”

  I nodded.

  “By a car?” Still unable to grasp it.

  “She was crossing a street…” I said, but trailed off as I saw his face twist up with grief. “Oh, Travis—” I reached out toward him.

  “No!” he said.

  He turned his back to me, took a faltering step, then sat down hard in the chair. He brought his knees up, sitting sideways, curling himself up in the chair, hiding his head in his arms. “No, not her. Not her,” he said, again and again, until he began sobbing too hard to say it.

  The dogs had gingerly stepped onto the deck by then, and stood with hips leaning against my knees in what I took to be some sort of pack formation against danger, their ears forward and watching him with concern. Deke looked back at me, then ventured forward first, sniffing at his shoes and singing a single, high-pitched note of anxious sympathy to him. I was going to call her back, but he reached for her and held on to her soft black coat, and soon Dunk was also sidling in to offer whatever comfort he could.

  I started to go inside the house, to give him some privacy, but turned back at the last moment, unwilling to let the dogs be smarter than I was, deciding that the family stubbornness that had pitted the two of us against one another might be put to better use.

  The dogs moved away as I knelt next to him. I put an arm around his shoulders. He stiffened. I half expected him to tell me to go to hell, but instead he tentatively took hold of my hand, then squeezed it tightly, not letting go. After a time, he shifted in the chair, uncurling enough to put his head on my shoulder, and we held on to one another until this first wave of grief was exhausted.

  He quieted, then pulled away awkwardly and went into the house without saying anything to me. I stretched and got up off my sore knees, waited a minute or two, then followed him in, dogs trailing. I heard the sound of the bathroom tap running, and figured he was washing his face. I went into the kitchen, busying myself with wiping off the counter and rinsing the dishes from lunch.

  He hadn’t come out yet by the time I finished, so I sat on the couch and waited for him. Cody took advantage of this time to lie on my lap, splaying paws and purring loudly as I scratched the particular place under his chin that cannot receive enough attention.

  Eventually Travis came into the living room. He seated himself on the couch, but as far away from me as possible. Staring at the empty fireplace, he said, “Tell me what you know.”

  “About the accident?”

  “Whatever you know about—what happened to my parents.”

  I began by talking about his father’s death, because he seemed to have known of Arthur’s illness. “I don’t know much,” I said, “only what was on the death certificate.”

  “He had cancer,” Travis said quietly.

  “Yes, that was listed as the cause of death.”

  After a moment, he said, “I guess you know something about that. Mom told me about your mother.”

  “My father, too,” I said.

  “Really? Patrick died of cancer?” he said, with a kind of mild curiosity, as if I had just told him that we had graduated from the same high school.

  “Yes. In fact, the doctor who treated your dad was my dad’s doctor
.”

  He didn’t react to that. He seemed to be caught up in some distant memory. After a long silence, he said, “Mom used to tell me this story about you. That you held me when I was a baby.”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping to God he wouldn’t ask me to talk about it just then.

  He seemed to sense that, though, and said, “What happened to my mother?”

  I tried to be gentle in the telling, but the facts of the matter were like axes, and couldn’t be used for fine work. After a time he again grew very pale, held up a hand, then murmured, “Excuse me.”

  He hurried into the bathroom; I could hear him getting sick.

  When Rachel came over a few hours later, exhaustion had led to a truce on both grief and bickering.

  “Where is he?” Rachel asked, as she walked into my kitchen bearing a large, foil-covered baking dish.

  “Taking a nap out in the Cosmobile,” I said.

  “His camper?”

  “Yep. He turned down the guest room.”

  “You told him about his parents?” she asked.

  “Yes. He took it pretty hard. Anyone would.”

  “You didn’t have such an easy job, did you? You okay?”

  I nodded. She didn’t say anything for a moment, then asked, “Aren’t you afraid he’ll just drive off?”

  “He might, but I don’t think he will. He wants to see Aunt Mary and to visit Briana’s grave. But he said he’d like to wait until tomorrow— wasn’t ready for either one today. I don’t blame him. And as for driving off, I suppose he’ll probably bring my cat in first.”

  “Cody?”

  “Yes. Cody was fascinated by the camper. Full of interesting scents and all kinds of nooks and crannies. Travis seemed to like having his company, and even left a window screen open so that Cody could get in and out if he wanted to. But I think Cody’s there for the duration.”

  “So that’s why Cody isn’t in here begging. I brought lasagna,” she said, putting the dish in the refrigerator.

  “Sounds great, but Travis might not have much of an appetite.”

  “You two getting along any better?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say, under the circumstances.”

  There was a soft knock on the front door. I opened it to find Travis standing on the front steps, sleep-tousled and pale. His fists were shoved into his pockets and he was staring at a point somewhere near my shoes. “I don’t think I can sleep any longer,” he said. “Mind if I come in for a while?”

  “Of course not. Did you lose the key I gave you?”

  He shook his head. “No. But your privacy…”

  “Next time just use the key. You won’t disturb me. You’re here as my guest.”

  He saw Rachel as she walked up behind me. She took one look at him and said, “Mi displace molto…,” stepping forward to embrace him. He didn’t refuse the embrace, but it seemed nearly to undo his struggle to maintain his composure. He looked over her shoulder at me, and I decided to see it as a request.

  “Where’s my cat?” I asked brusquely.

  “He didn’t want to leave the camper,” he said, stepping away from her, visibly relaxing. “He found a spot he likes at the foot of the bed.”

  As he continued to babble on about the cat, Rachel picked up her cue, and made no more sympathetic comments. She told him that she had made something for our dinner, a lasagna from an old family recipe, and proceeded to try to distract him with stories about her grandmother’s skills in the kitchen.

  Dinner passed without much comment, and we probably could have served just about anything to Travis with much the same result—he didn’t even bother toying with Rachel’s culinary masterpiece. He was silent during the meal, not responding when we asked questions. We weren’t ignored, really—to say he ignored us would be to suggest a choice I’m not sure he made. He was obviously too lost in his own thoughts to hear us.

  When we stood up to clear our plates, he suddenly said, “Rachel, you’re a private detective?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to hire you.”

  “To find out who killed your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t do it.”

  We both looked at her in surprise.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I’d need the permission of my current client. I’m already working for Irene.”

  He was openly dismayed.

  “I don’t mind working together,” I said. “I’d prefer it.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “We better tell McCain we’ve found him,” Rachel said, then explained to Travis, “He’s with LAPD Homicide. Lots of people have been looking for you lately.”

  “I’m sure they have,” he said, his voice full of sarcasm. “Slay the fatted calf, the bastard has returned! And he’s a rich bastard!”

  “Why do you insist on using that term?” I snapped. “I’ve never referred to you in that way.”

  “I insist on it because for several miserable years, I lived with being called a bastard—and worse. And the truth, Irene, is that the term is accurate. My parents were not legally married when I was born.”

  “Well, maybe that changed,” I shot back without thinking. “According to your father’s death certificate, they were married.”

  For a moment, he was completely silent, then he shook his head and said, “Impossible. He lied or the doctor lied.” He smiled. “Or you’re lying now.”

  14

  Rachel held up a hand and said, “Basta!”

  “That’s Italian for ‘Enough!”“ I said quickly, and Travis, realizing exactly what had caused me to be anxious over her choice of that particular word, started laughing at me.

  I marched over to the phone, pulled out the directory and started thumbing through it.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Looking up Brad Curtis’s number. I’m going to leave a message on his service. He can call me back and tell me why he’s falsifying information on death certificates.”

  “The man is probably busy helping cancer patients. You want to disturb him with this nonsense?”

  “Hold on,” Rachel said, “hold on. Travis, humor me, and assume for a moment that your parents did marry.”

  “I’m telling you, she wasn’t even speaking to him. She wasn’t speaking to me because I dared to make contact with him.”

  “But—”

  “Why would they marry?” he asked. “It wasn’t to give me his name before he died, if that’s what you think. He openly acknowledged me as his son, even during the years I didn’t want him to.”

  “Why didn’t you want him to?” Rachel asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “What would have happened to the estate if your father died unmarried?” I asked.

  “Unless he changed his will, what’s left of his estate passes on entirely to me,” Travis said. “He had no other children; I’m his sole heir. Oh, God—I should try to reach W, and Mr. Brennan.”

  “W?” I asked. “Who is W?”

  “Ulysses Ulkins. Double U. My father’s assistant. Mr. Brennan is my father’s lawyer. I’ll call—maybe on Monday. W will probably be in the office tomorrow, but—I can’t. Not yet,” he said, struggling to keep his composure.

  We were all quiet for a moment.

  “You said something about ‘what’s left of the estate,”“ I said. ”What did you mean?“

  “Most of my father’s money has already been given to me. He set up trusts.”

  I glanced over at Rachel; she gave me a look that said she was going to leave everything up to me.

  “Travis,” I said, “I think you’re in danger.”

  “Of course I am.”

  That took both of us by surprise. He seemed amused by our reaction.

  “Remember when you caught up with me today? I thought you wanted money. Some of the DeMonts, the family of my father’s wife—I mean Gwendolyn,” he said, looking at me. “Some of them believe my father robbed them of their i
nheritance.”

  “They think your father murdered Gwendolyn DeMont,” Rachel said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “They believe my father murdered her for her money and so that he could be free to live with his other family—my mother and me.”