A Rush to Violence (16 page)

“I’m fine.”

“But it’s so warm.”

“In here, it’s cool.”

“You always were a funny girl,” he said. “But suit yourself. Would you like something to drink? A martini?”

“Uncle Scott, I’m sixteen.”

He looked genuinely surprised. “Just sixteen? Is that all? I thought you were at least eighteen, which is a fine time to start deciding which cocktail will become
your
cocktail.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and she couldn’t help notice the ridiculously large diamond on his pinky. She looked at his hair and thought it certainly was dark for a man in his mid-fifties. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Let’s have a martini together. We’ve never shared a drink.”

That’s because I’m a minor and we’ve rarely been in the same room together.
“If you have iced tea or something, that would be great.”

The music that was playing when she arrived stopped. She caught movement on the wall ahead of her and watched the shadow she saw earlier retreat. She could hear footsteps moving into another part of the house.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“No, no.”

“But there’s someone else here. I just heard them walk away.”

His eyes seemed to harden for a moment, but then they relaxed. He smiled at her. “It’s your aunt Grace. She came for dinner tonight. She probably overheard us and is waiting in the parlor for me to announce you. You know how those artist types are. Flighty.”

Announce me? Who the hell are you? Noël Coward?

She smiled back. “It would be great to see Aunt Grace. Maybe she can give me some insight into my mother, as well.”

“That might be a challenge for each of us, dear. Especially for Grace, who was in university when your mother left the country to have her B-movie adventures in Paris. They were never close, but let’s give it a try. You never know. Come, come.”

She followed him down a warmly lit hallway paneled in dark wood. He was tan and overweight, just under six feet and carried himself as if he had a rod shoved up his ass. In spite of his gut, his posture was perfect. He moved lightly, as if on air, through this magical kingdom built by her grandmother’s generosity by way of her grandfather’s wealth. She looked up at the high ceilings and down at the polished parquet floors, and decided that keeping this joint afloat must cost him a fortune. With no job and none of his mother’s money coming in since her death two years ago, she could only imagine the pressure he was under to keep it above water now.

“Grace,” he called as he stepped into the parlor. “We have a visitor. Where are you? Grace? Grace?”

When they were talking a moment ago, she felt he possessed one of the ugliest faces she’d ever seen. His nose was too narrow and refined for a man with such broad features—he obviously had it sliced and carved into something he hoped would look more Anglophile. But it didn’t. Instead, it just looked feminine and out of place against the broad map of his overly tanned, pockmarked skin.

And then there were his lips, which were weirdly puffy, probably due to some kind of filler. She thought his small eyes resembled a rat’s. But nothing came close to the genetic disasters that were his ears. They were nature’s most egregious strikes against him. They were thick and large and didn’t lay against the sides of his head. Instead, they stuck out like fleshy dried apricots but were hardly as inviting.

She entered the parlor, casually slipped her right hand behind her back and pressed it against the gun. Getting to it would be easy. She looked around the room and wondered how thick the walls were and if they were well-insulated. Outside, the street was busy, but she couldn’t hear a thing, not even a hint of noise. His place appeared virtually soundproof, which made sense. It was an old house. Back then, they built them like fortresses.

Still, she was wary. When she used the gun, someone would hear it. It’s how they interpreted the muffled sound that would be key for how well the rest of the evening went for her.

When Grace appeared from the open doorway at the far end of the parlor, she was just as pretty as she was when Emma last saw her in court, when she and the rest of them contested the will. She was blonde and slender, a year older than her mother, but she didn’t look it. She was stylish without being pretentious. She came briskly across the room in her white silk blouse and brown silk pants—not with open arms, but with an outstretched hand.

“This is a surprise,” she said.

Emma shook her hand, the very act of which underscored the chill in their relationship. “A good one, I hope.”

“It’s always good to see you, Emma, especially since we rarely are given the chance. Your mother has hidden you away for years.”

“Not really. We do come to New York.”

“But never to see us. That’s my point, I guess. Never to see us.” She stood back and appraised her niece. “You look like your grandfather,” she said. “And a bit like your mother. As for your father, I have no idea if you resemble him or not because none of us knows who he was. Or is. Nobody knows if he’s even alive. Still, as usual, it’s your grandfather and mother competing for attention, only this time, the competition is taking place on your face.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it.”

“But it’s true. And in the best sense. You’re beautiful, Emma. I wish I had your skin. So pretty. So young, so bright. Did your uncle offer you a drink?”

“He offered me a martini.”

“Of course, he did. But that’s your uncle Scott for you. He started drinking when he was eight. Or was it seven, Scott?”

“Four.”

“Doesn’t matter. What would you really like?”

“An iced tea?”

“That I can do.”

She watched her aunt leave the room and then turned her attention to her uncle, who was sitting in one of two leather chairs separated by a gleaming yet ancient-looking table. A window was behind him, but the shade was drawn.

“Would you like a fag?” he asked.

“Would I like a what?”

“A fag. You know. A cigarette.” He furrowed his brow at her. “But you don’t know. Apparently, we need to get you up to snuff if you’re going to bear the Miller name. Come and have a fag with me. A Sobranie Cocktail ciggy. They’re the best and the most elegant. If you’re going to smoke, which I hope you will, you must smoke these. They come in all sorts of cheerful colors, with a gold foil filter so you know that you’re being taken care of properly. I could smoke them all day if my doctor would allow it, but he won’t, the son of a bitch. So tonight is a welcome exception. I’m making it for you.”

How kind.

He reached for the iridescent box on the table and removed three cigarettes from it—one bright yellow, one lavender, one pink. “Here,” he said, offering her the yellow one. “It’ll calm your nerves while you tell us what’s bothering you about your mother. I can’t imagine what it is, but naturally I’m curious. She’s an enigma, that one.”

“I don’t smoke, Uncle Scott.”

“Well, you’ve got to start sometime, Emma. You live in Paris, for God’s sake. Their lungs are smoke stacks over there. And smoking is part of a Mediterranean diet—it has to be. They eat bread, wine and cheese all day and yet they’re all so slim, which I used to be when I could smoke all day. Surely, you’ve had a cigarette by now.”

“One or two.”

“Sounds like a few packs to me. Here, take this. I’ve already given up on the martini. You need to meet me halfway at some point.”

He held out his hand, which was trembling. She watched it for a moment before she studied his face and then looked at what had to be the most ridiculous-looking cigarette she’d ever seen. It was as yellow as a canary, but looked hearty enough to survive the mine. She wanted to keep her hands free, but when the time came for her to use the gun, she’d be finished with the cigarette, so she took it from him to shut him up.

“Why is your hand shaking?”

He pulled it back. “Is it?”

“It was.”

“I don’t know. Too much caffeine? I drink pots of coffee.
Pots
.”

When she put the cigarette between her lips, he leaned forward with a crystal lighter and gave it a flick. “Here. Lean into the flame. You’ll thank me later.”

“You’re giving her a cigarette?”

Each turned as Grace Miller entered the room with a tray of two martinis and a glass of iced tea. She put the tray down on the table beside her brother and Emma noted that her aunt also had brought water crackers and some sort of blue cheese. Knowing them, it probably was expensive, but it looked processed and inedible, nothing like the cheese she was used to in Paris.

“She
needs
a cigarette. Look at her. She’s obviously upset about something.”

“Not enough to make my hands shake.”

“Are we on that again? Caffeine. Age. Who knows why they shake? They just do. You’ll see what happens when you get to be my age.”

“I wonder if I will.”

“What a strange thing to say,” Grace said. She looked down at the cigarettes her brother was holding. “I suppose you’re taking the pink one?”

“Is that even a question?”

They smirked at each other and both lit up. Emma went to the sofa that was nearest to them and sat down with her back tilted away from them. The cigarette made her feel loopy—too loopy. She thought she could handle one, but obviously she couldn’t. She decided to hold it longer between puffs and not inhale when she did. It was the only way she was going to keep her mind sharp.

“So, what is Camille up to now?” her uncle said. “What has she done that’s laid you bare and driven you to us, of all people? She’s already got all of our father’s money. You’d think she’d be celebrating with it in Paris. Rolling around on her bed with it. Tossing it from balconies as if she was Evita, which I secretly think she believes she is, by the way. She always was fighting for the poor, which I never understood and don’t admire. Let them fend for themselves, I say.” He took a drag on his fag. “I’m actually surprised you’re still in the city.”

Sure you are.

“I thought you’d be gone by now, too,” Grace said.

Sure you did.

“We’re here for a few more days. It’s not often that we’re in New York.”

“You should come more often. New York is a fantastic city,” Scott said.

“It’s
the
city,” Grace said.

“It’s a fine city,” Emma said. “But it’s not Paris. Nothing is Paris. Paris is magic whereas New York can be magical.”

“So, now she’s a poet?” Scott asked his sister.

“Apparently.”

“Yet another aimless Miller.”

Grace held up her martini as if to make a toast. “Our family is filled with them.” She winked at Emma. “We’re joking, of course. You look like a focused young lady on a mission.”

“I suppose I am.”

“This has something to do with your mother?” Scott asked.

Emma nodded.

“What’s her problem?”

“She’s being indecisive.”

Grace blew smoke over her shoulder. “About what?”

“About all of you.”

Emma stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray on the table beside her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched them exchange glances. “It’s infuriating. The proof is right there in front of her and yet she won’t act until she’s certain.”

“Certain about what?”

The eyes always tell the truth. Never forget that. It’s always revealed in the eyes. If you’re about to lie, your eyes will flash to the right. Or up and to the right. Those are cues I learned early in life. Eyes never lie. And when I look into theirs when I confront them, that’s the moment I’ll know for sure whether they killed your grandfather.

“Uncle Scott, how do you keep this mansion of yours going?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you afford it?”

“Well, first it’s paid for, so that’s a bonus. But I also have savings. We all do. Your grandmother made sure of it.”

“But she died two years ago.”

“And we were told to invest wisely, which we did. Fat dividends each month.” He glanced at Grace. “What a curious line of questioning.”

Emma faced her aunt, whose martini was competing with her cigarette for a chance to reach her mouth. “And you, Aunt Grace? I don’t believe you’ve ever had a job beyond painting your oils and watercolors. Do you sell well enough to get along?”

“I don’t have to. Mother took care of all of us. We’ll never have to work.” She decided upon the martini and took a long pull. “And thank God for that. For me, working wouldn’t suit. It wouldn’t suit at all.”

“I think your money has run out,” Emma said.

“Run out?” Scott said. “Why would you ever think that?”

“Because I think you murdered Papa to get to his money. I think you contested the will to get to his money. And I think because of a provision in Papa’s will, you’re planning to kill my mother and me to get to his money. But that’s not going to happen.”

She stood and removed the gun from the waist of her pants. She spread her legs and pointed it at them just as she remembered from the YouTube videos. Each looked back at her, incredulous.

“Is that thing real?” Grace asked.

Emma squeezed the trigger ever so slightly and a red beam cut across the room and danced upon her aunt’s forehead like a bejeweled bindi. “It’s real,” she said.

“What are you doing with it?”

“I’m here for the two-for-one special.”

“The what?”

“I’m here to kill each of you for killing my grandfather. But don’t worry. I’m not singling you out. I also plan to kill the others.”

“You think we killed our father?” Scott said.

“You did, didn’t you?”

She watched his eyes, but he said nothing. Instead, he tamped out his cigarette and stood.

“I asked you if you did it?”

“So, we have another assassin in the family?” he said to Grace. “Unbelievable.”

Grace also stood. She put down her martini and folded her arms. Neither of them seemed the least bit frightened by her. They stared her down, doubting that she’d do it.

“I’m going to ask each of you once and I expect an answer. First you, Uncle Scott.” She moved the pinpoint of red light to the tip of his nose, where it wavered. “Did you kill Papa?”