Bite the Moon (22 page)

When she answered, I smothered my annoyance and in my sweetest voice said, “May I please speak to Mr. Seidell, please?”

“
May I ask who’s calling?”

I knew she knew who this was. And I knew she knew I knew it. I stuffed those thoughts down and in the most saccharine voice I could muster said, “Why certainly, madam, this is Ms. Molly Mullet of New Braunfels.”

“
One moment, please.”

Seidell came on the phone and without a polite greeting said, “Read the letter to me.”

I complied.

“
Fine. Mr. Wolfe and I will meet with you in my offices in Austin this afternoon at two p.m. Please be prompt.” Clunk.

He hung up on me. I wanted to call back so I could hang up on him. Or at least on Ms. Graceton. Instead, I accepted the inevitable. Miss Manners was right. Rudeness was a loser’s game. And I just lost again.

*

I might be heading up to Austin but I knew with an address of the eighteenth floor, I dared not visit Mr. Seidell’s office in blue jeans. Once again, I lamented the tragedy of my wardrobe and settled on a black-and-white flowered dress that Charlie used to love.

That thought put me in a morose state of mind—not the best attitude for dealing with Interstate 35. The ride to Austin was always stressful once you hit the city limits. Sometimes construction or an accident made the agony start sooner. At least in the middle of the day, it would not be as bad as it would be during drive time.

I found a parking meter just a block and a half from Seidell’s high-rise. I clunked in eight quarters. I probably would not be there more than an hour, but I didn’t want to risk another parking ticket. This town counted violations in seconds, not minutes.

The elevator doors opened onto a lobby that reminded me a lot of the one in Dale Travis’ office in Houston—same awesome view, just a different city, similar layout with a slightly different color scheme and at the front desk, my new nemesis, Ms. Graceton. She looked a lot like Ms. Arbuthnot—except older and more vindictive.

When I told her my name, her face twisted into a pained expression and without a word, she picked up the receiver, pressed a button and said, “That Ms. Mullet is here.”

She looked in my direction without really looking at me and said, “The conference room is down that hall, the fourth door on your right.”

The door was open. Trenton Wolfe and Bart Seidell, on the side of the table facing the door, stared at me when I entered. Seidell asked me to close the door and invited me to take a seat.

As soon as I did, Wolfe did not waste time with niceties. “Let me state for the record: I do not like you. In fact, you make me sick. But I am complying with your blackmail . . .”

“
Wait a minute. Blackmail?” I said as I pushed away from the table.

“
Ms. Mullet, please be seated. You did threaten media exposure. And, I presume, you do want to know the whole story. Am I correct?”

“
Yes, but . . .”

“
Then you are going to have to allow Mr. Wolfe to say his piece first.”

I can’t say that I liked it. But I’d started this game, and I was going to have to deal with it. I sat and pulled my chair back up to the table.

“
As I was saying,” Wolfe continued, “I am complying with your
blackmail
in the hopes of sparing my mother the grief a rehashing of these events in public would cause. The note you received was correct on a couple of points. My sister Megan did die when I was seven. We did live in Park Cities. But the innuendo beyond that was not based on fact.”

*

Trenton Wolfe entered the world with luck on his side. A luxurious family home in a wealthy neighborhood. Loving parents and no knowledge of want. His sister Megan, four years his senior, doted on him—most of the time. In true older sibling tradition, though, there were those times when she regarded him as nothing more than a pest.

A heavy freeze rocked Dallas one late November night in 1981, leaving a chilly day in its wake. Trenton’s father Bill went off to work as usual that morning. After breakfast, his mother Jillian went out in the backyard garden to cut away the frost-damaged growth. Usually, seven-year-old Trenton and eleven-year-old Megan played outside while their mother worked among her beds of flowers and herbs. Today, though, it was just too cold.

They took advantage of the absence of adults in the house by reveling in the forbidden act of sliding down the banister of the elegant, sweeping staircase in the front foyer. They swooshed down to the bottom and raced back to the top, all the while listening carefully for the return of their mother, giggling at their own brazenness.

When their rumps were too sore to slide again, they segued into Trenton’s favorite fantasy game: Trent Wolfe, Bronco Buster. Megan, of course, played the part of the bronco. Trenton stood in a bow-legged stance, and swung his lariat in the air in a desperate attempt to mimic the beautiful, erect, round hoops of the cowboys he saw at the rodeo. As a rule, however, his were misshapen and floppy. He threw the rope with all his strength and skill hoping to drop it perfectly around his sister’s neck. It was a pathetic attempt that fell far short of its target. But Megan—on days like this when she was feeling fondness for her little brother—helped the rope along pretending the mighty cowboy had performed a perfect lasso.

On all fours, she reared back, her hands clawing the air in an imitation of flashing hoofs. She turned toward him, pawing the “hoofs” in the air near his face.

“
This horse is loco,” he drawled in his best cowboy voice imitation. “I need to get me some help to tame this here one.” Trenton raced down the stairs to fetch Billy Spurs, his imaginary friend.

Megan reared up again and raced after him. The rope around her neck snagged on the baluster where the banister turned toward the landing. The rope snapped taut and jerked her off her feet. She landed on her back on the banister and started to slide down—tightening the rope even more. She grasped the slippery, waxed wood surface, struggled to gain purchase, teetered and slipped over the side. Impotent fingers brushed the railing as she fell and hung by her neck kicking and choking.

“
Megan! Megan!” Trenton screamed as he raced back up the stairs. His awkward, small fingers fought to pull the rope up and off of the carved chunk of wood. But the rope was too tight and he was too weak. He pulled up on the rope, trying to drag her back on the stairs. All that did was squeeze the loop around her throat even tighter. Megan’s face turned blue.

Trenton blanched and screamed her name again. Sobbing and choking on his tears, he shot down the stairs and pushed up on Megan’s feet. Her knees bent—nothing more. He dragged a wooden chair out of the dining room and placed it under her legs. He climbed on the embroidered seat and wrapped his arms around her legs just above her knees. He pushed up. She did not budge.

He raced outside stumbling and choking, nearly crawling to his mother. Her back was to him, the earplugs for her pocket radio blocking out his cries for help. He tripped on a hump in the grass and hit the ground screaming, “Mother!”

Jillian heard a whisper of his scream and spun around. She dropped her pruning shears and flew to Trenton. She reached out to comfort him but he was on his feet running at a full gallop back to the house. She kicked off her garden clogs and chased after him.

In the front hallway, Trenton stopped. Panting and pointing, he wailed out his sorrow. Jillian jumped onto the chair and boosted her daughter up while she lifted the rope over her head. She climbed down and sat cross-legged on the floor. She put a hand on the side of Megan’s face and pressed her cheek against her own. With her other arm, she hugged the limp body tight to her breast. She rocked back and forth, moaning and oblivious.

Trenton stood speechless and confused. Then he picked up the phone and pressed 9-1-1. He could not speak. He could only sob.

The heart-wrenching sobs of a child were enough to throw emergency response teams into gear. Their sirens filled the air of the Park Cities. But their arrival was far too late.

Trenton no longer spoke. He refused to eat. He looked no one in the face. Jillian took him to a counselor for weeks with no improvement. Then, one day, she found him in the kitchen. He had removed every knife from the wooden blocks on the counters and from out of all of the drawers. He lined them all up on the counter, side-by-side. He walked down the row of lethal blades giving each one an affectionate touch.

Jillian committed Trenton to a child psychiatric facility. She could not bear the thought of losing her second child, too.

*

Trenton told his story with visible anguish. My heart was touched, but my mind wondered why the look of anger never left his face. Why, in the aftermath of this emotional release, did he still scowl at me with defiance in his eyes?

Emotionally, I wanted to believe that this experience in the past left him incapable of squeezing the life out of another human being. Logically, though, I knew that the scars of childhood bore fruit in adult lives and some of that fruit was laden with poison.

“
Trent, do you have any idea who killed Rodney Faver?” I asked.

He looked at his attorney, turned back to me and said, “No.”

“
Do you know how a bloody T-shirt got in Happy’s kick drum?”

One side of his upper lip raised in a nasty sneer. “Did Happy Parker do that to your face before he died?”

I rose to my feet. I had had enough.

“
Yeah, leave, bitch, and leave me the hell alone.”

I spun around and pulled open the door but before I could cross the threshold, Bart Seidell was by my side. “Look, I know my client’s been rude. But I know his mother. She is a sweet, fragile woman. If you take this to the press, you’ll rip her world in two.”

I would commit to nothing until I knew who killed Rodney Faver. And Happy Parker. And Jesse Kriewaldt. “Good day, Mr. Seidell.”

“
At the very least, Ms. Mullet, please give me a heads up first so I can prepare Jillian for the onslaught.”

I nodded my head and walked down the hall.

I pulled out of my parking space regretting the wasted quarters. I drove half a block to a red light. As I waited for it to turn to green, I realized that I never asked the most important question.

I circled the block, hoping to regain my quarter-rich parking slot but someone beat me to it. She beamed at the meter, dropped her change back into a purse and bounced down the street. I growled and went hunting for another empty space. I found one, a block farther away with a whole two minutes left in the meter. I sacrificed more quarters to the City of Austin coffers—another reason to like New Braunfels. A few years back, the city fathers removed all the parking meters downtown, deeming them a detriment to the tourist industry.

I power-walked to Seidell’s building. I chastised myself with every step for my emotional reactions during the interview. If I’d been more detached, more professional, I would have remembered all the important questions. Was I capable of developing that skill? I didn’t know. But I would try.

When the elevator doors opened, I almost went straight to Ms. Graceton’s desk to ask for permission. Screw that. And her. I strode past her without a glance in her direction.

“
May I help you?” she shrieked as I passed her. “Excuse me. Excuse me, miss. Where do you think you are going? You cannot go back there without being announced.”

I walked faster. I reached the doorway to the conference room and stopped on the threshold. Both men were still there, their backs to me as they looked out the window. Wolfe’s hands were jammed in his pockets. The tension of his anger was written across the rigid muscles of his back. Seidell stood to his left, one hand resting on the other man’s shoulder. The low rumble of his voice was constant, but his words were inaudible.

Ms. Graceton snapped at my back, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Both men spun around at the sound of her voice. Before they could echo the shrew’s sentiments, I blurted out: “I forgot the most important question.”

“
What the . . .?” Wolfe sputtered.

Seidell grabbed his forearm and said, “Wait, Trent. Thank you, Ms. Graceton.”

“
Sir, I did not give her permission . . .” Ms. Graceton began.

“
Ms. Graceton, I said, ‘thank you,’ ” Seidell repeated.

She gave me a look I had seen before. The last time I saw it, it was contorting the face of a friend’s cat who was plucked mid-lunge on its way to a lizard—not a pretty sight. At least, Ms. Graceton did not growl.

“
What is your question, Ms. Mullet?” Seidell asked.

“
Who could have written that note?”

Seidell looked at Wolfe, who shrugged and turned away.

“
Think. Please. Someone wanted me to think the worst of you. Who?”

Wolfe turned back toward me, shrugged again and shook his head.

“
You’ve got to have suspicions. Who? Why? Does the writer really think you’re guilty of killing Faver? Or does he just want me to think you are? Who knows your past? Who hates you enough to reveal it, Trent?”

He would not look up—not at me, not at his attorney. He just shook his head. But I knew I’d hit home. He slumped into a chair and turned towards me at last. Bewilderment smoothed away the angry edges on his face. “That’s a good question,” he said. “But I don’t know the answer.”