Blowing Smoke (32 page)

M
oss Ryan looked up from his desk as I came through his office door the following afternoon, having been on the phone most of the morning.

“My secretary said this was urgent.”

“It is.”

“Well.” He tapped his fingers impatiently on the surface of his desk. “What is it?”

“I didn't know you were a local boy.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This.” I slid the yearbook I'd gotten from Edna Busch across the desk. “You and Rose were named senior-class couple of the year. You also won awards for Latin and history.”

He pushed the yearbook away. “And I won a letter in football, too. You forgot to mention that. I hope this isn't what you had to see me about.”

“Why didn't you get married?”

“That isn't any business of yours.”

I pointed to the embroidered pendant hanging on the wall, the one with the two rampant griffins on either side and the flowers down below. “What does the inscription say?”

“It means, Love knows no pedigree/cedes only to virtue. Could you come to the point of your visit.”

“Where are those lines from?”

Moss Ryan composed his mouth into a thin line. “
The Song of the Knight of the Rose.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“I'm not surprised.” He began tapping his fingers on the desk again. “It's a fairly obscure thirteenth-century work.”

“Is it like the
Song of Roland?
”

“Something like that. Now, if you please.” His voice rose. “School is out for the day. I have a meeting I have to prepare for.”

“You know Edna said you wanted to be a priest when you were in the ninth grade.”

A puzzled expression crossed Moss Ryan's face. “Who the hell is Edna?”

“Edna Busch. She lived across the street from Rose.”

“And I'm supposed to know her?”

“Well, she remembers you.” I pointed to the banner. “Just one more question, I promise. Where did you get that made?”

He searched my face. “May I ask why this sudden obsession?”

“I've always been curious.”

He gave a satisfied grunt. “There are companies that specialize in heraldic banners.”

“Does it cost a lot?”

“Not really, no.”

“Silver signifies purity, doesn't it?” I asked, referring to the banner's main color.

“And gold means nobility, and red means boldness,” Moss Ryan informed me through gritted teeth. “You've already asked three questions. If you have any more, I suggest you consult your librarian.”

I contemplated the banner some more. “I never noticed that the flowers are roses and that green looks like moss. The moss and the rose. I can't believe I didn't see it before.”

“I don't know what you're babbling about, and I don't care. Listen, you can leave now or I can call Security and have them throw you out. Either one is fine with me.”

“Just one more thing.” I perched on the corner of his desk and picked up the piece of quartz. “This is rose quartz, isn't it?”

“I am reaching for the phone.”

“You know,” I continued. “There's a witness that saw you kill Shana Driscoll.”

Moss Ryan's face went white. His hand hovered over the receiver and retreated. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“And the pilot on the
Wolfe Islander III.
He saw you get on the boat a couple of hours before Pat Humphrey was shot. He also saw you driving off. You took the last ferry out after the storm. You should have driven something more anonymous. First rule if you're going to kill someone: Try not to be noticed.”

Moss Ryan looked horrified and fascinated at the same time. It was the look of someone on the track who sees the train coming toward them and knows it's too late to get out of the way.

“And why would I want to do something like that?”

“I'm not sure.” I put the quartz back down. “I'm guessing because Rose was upset because of the way Geoff was acting and you couldn't stand it. After all, you're her protector, aren't you? The one who has to make everything right? Or maybe you just hated Geoff. Here he was, married to the woman you adored, the one you loyally served all these years, and does he appreciate her? Absolutely not. He takes advantage of her. Treats her badly. Just like her children try and do. He's sleeping with two other women. One of the women is taking large sums of money from Rose. Maybe you did it to punish him.”

“You have very funny ideas.”

I stood up. “I don't think so.”

Moss Ryan leaned back in his chair, picked up the pen, and began clicking the top of it as he thought. I could hear the sounds of phones ringing in the corridor outside the office. He threw the pen back down and leaned forward. “Okay. How much do you want?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Call it curiosity.”

“That's it? If you believe I've killed two people, you're taking a big chance coming into my office to satisfy it.”

“You're not going to shoot me.”

“Really.” And he reached in his desk and pulled out a gun. “You're sure are you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you won't be able to wiggle out of it.”

He bit his lip and put the gun down.

“What's to prevent me from running away?”

“Nothing. But I don't think you will. Where would you go? You've spent your entire life here. You don't know anything else. Besides, my associate has called the D.A.'s office.”

“A call won't be enough to make them come.”

“My witness is prepared to testify,” I lied.

“And who would that be, I wonder?”

I remained silent.

“I think I can guess.” Moss Ryan adjusted the knot in his tie, then swiveled his chair and stared out the window. “She'll leave before she gets on the stand.”

“We'll see. But it doesn't matter. The pilot can identify your car.”

“Circumstantial.”

“Here's something else to think about. You don't fess up, they'll question Rose. They're obligated to? Do you want to involve her?”

“No,” Moss Ryan said softly. “I don't. Anything else?”

“Yes. One last thing. That Mexican you had working on the Taylor estate.”

“Which one?”

“Javier Andante.”

“The name isn't familiar.”

“He coughed a lot. He was the son of your maid's neighbor.”

“I vaguely remember.”

“You should have brought him to a doctor.”

“He wasn't my responsibility.”

“You told the maid you would.”

Moss Ryan turned back around to face me. “I got busy. I forgot.”

“He died from TB. I found him lying on the side of the road.”

“That's too bad, but everyone dies sooner or later.”

“That's true. But he would have lived if he'd gotten some medical care, and you wouldn't be in the position you are now.”

Moss Ryan didn't answer right away. He stood up and faced me. His hands were clasped behind his back in an ecclesiastical pose. “Somewhere,” he said, “I read that all flesh is grass. All people die. All people kill. It's the natural law of the universe. Isn't it better to serve the thing you love totally than to lapse into indifference?”

“I can't answer that question. I'm not a priest.”

As I left, I could hear him talking to his secretary, telling her to dial the number of the biggest criminal lawyer in town.

The story made the front page, though it took a couple of weeks for it to hit the papers. I don't know why it took that long, but then I could never figure out the vagaries of editorial decisions even when I was working for the paper. Basically, the story said something to the effect that Moss Ryan, overcome with guilt over the prospect of another person bearing the consequences of his actions, confessed to involvement in the deaths of both Shana Driscoll and Pat Humphrey. The first, his lawyer stated, arose through negligence, while the second was the result of Pat Humphrey's threat to go to the police after having been a witness to the first death.

“So,” Manuel said as we shelved the new shipment of gerbil food that had just come in that morning, “he's lying.”

“Well, I don't think you can accidentally hold someone's head under the water.”

“Then why did he say that?”

“Because it would be difficult to prove otherwise.”

“What do you think is going to happen to him?”

I handed Manuel a couple of boxes of gerbil treats. “Oh. He's going to go to jail. The question is for how long. I doubt whether there's going to be a jury trial. Sentencing will probably be at the judge's discretion.”

“They can do that?”

“It happens all the time.”

We worked in silence for a little while. These days I didn't feel much like talking.

“Hand me the box cutter,” Manuel said after five or so minutes had passed.

I tossed it to him.

“I ran into Bethany the other day,” he told me while he sliced through the packing tape of another carton.

“Really?” I dusted my hands off and sat back on my heels. “I thought she was in Florida.”

“Not anymore.” He opened the flaps and started taking out the rabbit food.

If I didn't know Manuel so well, I might have let it pass. Instead, I asked where she was.

Manuel tugged his pants up. “I think this order is wrong.”

“Fuck the order. Where's she staying?”

He studied the floor.

“Where, Manuel.”

He averted my eyes. “With my mother.”

I gave him my best glare.

“Hey, she had nowhere else to go. She called me.”

“What did she do, run away?”

“Something like that.”

“That was fast.” Then I thought about Arthur Peterson. “Do the words statutory rape mean anything to you? Her father will not be pleased.”

“Hey,” Manuel squawked, “we're not doing anything. Anyway, I think her father has other things on his mind.”

“Like what?”

“Bethany's mom threw him out.”

I reached for my cigarettes. “How come?”

Manuel shrugged. “Maybe she finally got wise to what her old man was doing behind her back. Can I have one, too?”

“Sorry.” I showed him the pack. “It's my last one. How do you know what he was doing?”

“Beth told Debbie, and Debbie told me.”

“What did she say. Exactly.”

Manuel shrugged. “He was getting it on with the cleaning lady.”

I thought back to Dorita's friend, Selma, and the fight she and Bethany had had. What had Bethany's boyfriend said about it? It had been over something that had happened in Bethany's house. Something that involved Selma. I wondered if Bethany had walked in on her dad and Selma? That would certainly explain Bethany's conduct. The sullenness, the slipping grades, the running away.

“She still can't stay with your mother.”

“My mother doesn't care. She's glad to have her.”

“That's not the point.”

“Beth's mother thinks it's okay, too.” Manuel unpacked some more of the rabbit pellets. “It's just for a little while, anyway. Until everyone gets there shit together. At least Beth's back in school. I told her she's got to go.”

“So now it's Beth?” I said.

Manuel flushed and went back to studying the floor.

“Maybe you should go back to school, too,” I added, unable to resist.

Manuel straightened up and dug something out of his pants pocket and thrust it into my hand.

“I was hoping you could help me with this,” he mumbled as I unfolded the crumpled pieces of paper. “I mean, if you can't, that's okay.”

It was an application to OCC, the local community college.

I smoothed the pages out. “I think I can find the time.”

I
saw Rose Taylor for the last time about three months after Moss Ryan's arrest. She'd left a call on my answering machine saying she wanted to see me, and I'd rung back to say I could come out early that evening, if that was all right with her. Hillary returned my call to say that it was. I was surprised to hear her and said so.

“Oh, Louis and I moved back a couple of months ago,” she informed me. “Given the circumstances, it seemed like the best idea.”

“Where's Amy?” I couldn't imagine her being there, too. Especially after what had happened.

“She's out in California taking some sort of film course. Now she wants to make documentaries. God, she never quits.” And she hung up.

Even though it was a little after six-thirty, it was already dark out when I drove up to the Taylor estate. Leaves crunched under my feet as I walked to the front door. The air smelled of spice and cold. A page from a newspaper had wrapped itself around a fir tree. The floodlight bulbs over the door had burned out, leaving me to fumble around in the dark for the doorbell. Hillary answered when I rang.

“What happened to the maid?” I asked as she led the way to the greenhouse.

“Oh, she went back home to Chiapas, or wherever the hell she was from,” Hillary replied. She looked as if she'd gained a little bit of weight since I'd seen her last, and the black circles under her eyes had diminished slightly.

“How come?”

“She came into a fairly large inheritance.”

“How convenient.”

“Not for me,” Hillary said, tugging at her hem. This skirt was short, too; only it was black wool.

“When did she leave?”

“A while back.”

“Like three months?”

“I don't know. I don't keep track. So far I've had two other girls, and I've had to fire both of them. I'm interviewing someone else tomorrow.” Hillary sighed. “This one is a Dominican. I hope she turns out better than the other two have, that's all I can say.”

By now we were in front of the door to Rose's room.

“I'm going to leave you here,” Hillary said. “Don't tire her out,” she warned. “She's very fragile these days.”

I was shocked by Rose's appearance. She was sitting in an armchair by the sofa with her cat, Sheba, sprawled out across her lap. Pillows had been stuffed along either side of her to keep her upright. The fancy clothes, the makeup, the jewels, were gone. Now she was wearing a plaid housecoat and slippers. Her hair was held off her face with a barrette. Suddenly she'd become an old lady.

“Geoff left, you know,” she said. She didn't indicate that I should sit down, so I remained standing.

“No, I didn't.”

“He went home. He said he was going back to school to become a teacher. He said that's what he'd always wanted to do—teach.” Her voice had a tremor in it. She moved her lips carefully as she formed each word. The effort obviously cost her a great deal. “And, of course, Moss isn't here. It feels strange without him around.” She looked up at me, her eyes filmy with a layer of tears. “Why did you do it? Why couldn't you just leave things alone?”

“I suppose because I think it's wrong for someone to be punished for something they haven't done.”

Rose lifted her hand to her mouth and wiped off a bubble of spittle that had formed. The veins in the back of her hand stood out like ropes. “Amy would have been fine.”

“I wonder if that's what the sacrificial goat usually says.”

“I don't think you did it for Amy's sake. I think you did it because you were mad at me.”

“That, too. You used me to set up a motive. Tell me, did you and Moss Ryan discuss it between you?”

“We never discussed anything. We didn't need to. We understood each other perfectly. He's always been there for me, and now I have no one. Now I'm going to die alone.”

I spread my hands out. “What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing.” Rose Taylor rested her hand on Sheba's back. “You know, Pat told me this was going to happen.”

“That she was going to die.”

“No. That I was going to end up with my cat for company.”

“You're not alone. Hillary's here.”

Rose snorted. “So is Louis, if it comes down to that. Believe me, if I didn't have money, they wouldn't be around.”

“Maybe you should try and be a little more charitable.”

“Why?” She dabbed at the side of her mouth again with a hesitant gesture. “No one's ever been charitable to me. Anyway, it's the truth.”

I turned to go.

“I hope you're satisfied,” she called after me. “I just wanted you to see what you've done.”

I let myself out. Hillary met me as I was leaving.

“What did she say?” she asked.

“She thanked me.”

“Yeah. Right.” Hillary gave a mirthless chuckle. “My mother is known for her kindness.” And she closed the door behind me.

I walked down to the cottage because I wanted to talk to Louis, but Louis wasn't there. His girlfriend, Debbie, was.

“He's working,” she said. “He's still got the night shift.”

The cottage looked different. Someone had painted the walls a dark green with white trim. There was a chintz-covered sofa and matching chair. An upside-down bear, supporting a round piece of glass with his feet, served as a coffee table.

“You like it?” Debbie asked.

I nodded.

“Me, too.”

“You living here as well?” I asked.

“No. I just stay here sometimes to help Hillary out. Now that everyone is gone.”

“So everyone's one big happy family again.”

“Yeah.” Debbie laughed. “Just like the Brady Bunch. You know, Louie says Amy is the dumb one for leaving, but I think she's the only smart one.”

I agreed. The best thing I'd ever done for myself was leave my family.

I ran my hand over the chair arm. “How come Louis came back?”

“Because his
mommy
asked him to.” She gave the word mommy a scornful twist.

“Then Lila's gone?”

“Oh, no.” Debbie crooked her finger, and I followed her into the bedroom. She flung open the closet door. It was filled with spangled gowns and shoes. “I think Lila will always be around. He just sneaks off at night. Personally, I'm glad my parents didn't lay that kind of guilt trip on me. I've always been free to come and go as I please. I'm lucky, I guess. I've got good ones. If you don't, they can really louse you up.”

“It's true,” I said, thinking back to mine.

 

 

About four months after that I was at a bar with my girlfriend Calli, trying to chase away the Sunday-night blahs. We were listening to a blues band and drinking beer when George walked through the door.

“Shit,” I said. There was no way he wasn't going to see me.

“You want to go,” Calli whispered in my ear, “we can. Just say the word. It's okay by me.”

“No. I'll be fine.” But my heart was thumping, and I could feel my stomach knotting up.

The knot in my gut got even tighter when George spotted me and walked over.

“You're looking good,” he said.

“You, too.” And he did. He was wearing the blue shirt I'd always liked.

When he signaled to the bartender, his arm touched my shoulder. I took a deep breath and reached for my pack of cigarettes. I needed something to do with my hands to steady them.

“You must be happy with the way the Taylor thing played out.”

“Reasonably. You know Manuel is going back to school,” I said to fill in the silence that was opening like a chasm between us.

“That's nice. Is he still at your house?”

“For the time being.”

George turned and faced me. “Paul told me you and he have something going.”

“It wasn't a big deal,” I replied as I tried to read George's face. But I couldn't. It was expressionless.

“That's what he said, too.” George took a sip of his beer. “So are you seeing anyone else?”

“No. Are you?”

“Not at the moment.”

George ran his finger around the neck of his bottle. “I've been thinking maybe we could catch a movie sometime.”

“I'd like that.”

“Good. I'll give you a call.” And he moved away to talk to some other people.

I could feel my eyes filling with tears as I watched him leave.

“You okay?” Calli asked as I blinked them back.

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

But I wasn't.

My hand was trembling as I took a cigarette out of my pack, put it in my mouth, and reached for my lighter. Then I pushed it away, took the cigarette out of my mouth, and laid it down on the bar. For some reason, I didn't feel like smoking.