Distant Blood (13 page)

“Oh, Lord. Deborah lived with Lolly after her parents died, and that was a terrible mistake. Two women, both all eaten up with grief—they turned on each other, instead of
supporting each other. A closeness between those two was just not meant to be.”

His thin lips compressed and he quickly moved to defend his sister's memory from his own description. “I wished you could've known Lolly better, too. She was a individual, that's for sure. Her and that damn dog of hers. She wasn't always quite that way. Lolly was a pistol in her youth, a lot of fun, a sweet girl. But Charles was her whole life, they never had young'uns, and when he died—it wasn't long after Deb had come to live with them—part of Lolly died. I think it was the chunk of the brain that must govern reason.” The remark might sound cruel, but I knew he didn't mean it that way. It was a bald statement of fact, the kind I sensed that Uncle Mutt prided himself on. “Lord knows she took mighty good care of Uncle Jake.”

“He seems rather independent still,” I said.

Uncle Mutt sighed. “Oh, Lord, you can't keep Uncle Jake down on the farm. He's a lively one. Stays busy with his hobbies and got more pen pals than I can keep track of. Seems his specialty is gettin' into trouble. We had him in a nursing home for a while, but he wouldn't ever let the lady residents or the nurses alone. It just got easier to bring him on home and let family take care of family. We've always believed in that.”

“It sounds very noble.”

He nodded at me approvingly. “I don't want to sound caustic after poor Lolly dying, but I'm glad you're coming into the family, Jordan. We need some fresh blood. Jake and I ain't long for this world. And sometimes I ain't holding much hope for the next generations. Look at Aubrey; he's so boring he tapes the Weather Channel.”

“They're not so bad, I'm sure,” I said.

“Hell, I know. But what I say about the whole lot, it's the truth. And those damned hounds are all after my money.”

“Your money?” I asked.

“Good Lord, boy.” He laughed. “Did you think I inherited this island? Hell, no. I won it. I've worked damned hard my whole life. I made enough money for rich folks as an investment counselor I ended up rich myself. You can't hang out
around the Texas wealthy without some of their pennies and luck landing in your pockets. I got money out the ass, not to sound crass.” He laughed at his impromptu verse. “And those turkey vultures are circling hard.” He gestured toward the ceiling—and our sleeping relatives—then downed the rest of his brandy. He kept the glass's edge balanced against his lip, his eyes shut in exhaustion.

“If you're worried about me, I'm no vulture. I don't want any of your money. I don't have a claim on it.” My face felt hot with indignation. I wanted to say:
Look, Uncle Mutt, someone's tried to scare me off, maybe because of your damned money.
I opened my mouth to tell him about the letters, but the words wouldn't come. I liked being with him, talking to him, listening to the cadence of his voice.

“You got as good a claim on my fortune as anyone else. Maybe better—you ain't irritated me yet. And I gotta give some hard thinking to my money now that Lolly's gone.” He shrugged. “I'm sure the folks upstairs realize by now there's one less heir to squabble with over the loot.”

The force of his words hit me like a delayed drug reaction. I nearly dropped my drink. “That's a horrible statement to make after your sister dies.”

“Well, I'll be damned. You got some gumption. I figured you might not have much after I heard you were a librarian.”

I set my brandy down on the table. “And I might have thought you were a no-good, lazy gambler after I heard you won this island in a poker match. But I shouldn't pay any heed to stereotypes.”

He laughed again. “God. I bet you were a little toot as a teenager. Did you have you some fun?”

I tried not to be thrown by the twists and turns that seemed inherent in any conversation with Uncle Mutt. “I guess I did. I was a pretty good kid, though.”

“Sure is a pretty gal you've got with you. She good to you?”

“Yes, sir, she is. She's about the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Well, there's nothing like the love of a good woman.”

His eyes grew wistful. “I won't get none of that after I'm dead. You probably only get lovin' in heaven and I'm hell-bound for sure. Only attention I'll be gettin' is the old devils poking me with their pitchforks.”

I wanted to inquire about what existed between him and Wendy Tran, but I didn't. I felt less an intruder in this house now—or at least in Uncle Mutt's congenial presence—but I didn't feel as though I could ask frank questions such as
are you sleeping with a woman young enough to be your granddaughter?
Just not done, you know.

I started to tell him how Candace and I met when a slight bump came from the direction of the half-closed library door. Uncle Mutt raised his hand, gesturing me to continue talking, and began tiptoeing toward the door. I hesitated only for a moment, then continued, feeling self-conscious: “Well, Candace was my assistant when I started at the library, but she doesn't work there anymore. She bought a cafe along with my sister Arlene and they run it together—”

At that point Uncle Mutt yanked the door open. Philip Bedrich nearly fell into the library, tottering for balance. He pulled his bathroom robe close about him.

“Ooops,” Philip managed to sputter. “Sorry, Uncle Mutt, didn't realize anyone was in here. I was just on my way to the kitchen—”

“You know where the kitchen is, Philip.” Mutt's voice sounded stern and reproachful.

“Well”—Philip took a conciliatory step into the library— “I thought I might get a book to read. I couldn't sleep, thinking about poor Aunt Lolly, so I—well, hello, Jordan. I didn't know you were down here.”

“Right.” Uncle Mutt coughed. “I don't approve of eavesdropping on private conversations, Philip.”

“I should say not,” Philip agreed. “And if I see anyone in this house sticking an ear to a keyhole, you can be sure I'll tell them you don't condone such behavior.” That bandage loosely applied, Philip turned a beatific smile on me. “How kind of you, Cousin Jordan, to offer solace to Uncle Mutt. I don't mean to interrupt your visit, let me just fetch a book.”

“You should be careful sneaking around, Cousin Philip,”

I offered dryly. “There's an armed cop on the porch. He looked like he might have a twitchy trigger finger to me.”

Philip ignored my jab, sidled to the bookshelves, and began a detailed perusal of the offerings. Uncle Mutt regained his seat. “The books on personal responsibility are on the upper shelf, Philip. Reading those should cure
your
insomnia.”

If the barb stung Philip, he didn't wince. “I actually wish I had more time to read all these books on Texas history. It's a fascinating subject. Has Mutt given you his lecture on the ill-fated
Reliant
, Jordan? It can keep one entertained for, oh, just countless hours upon hours.” Philip didn't seem concerned about sucking up before any new wills were drafted.

“Little asshole,” I heard Uncle Mutt whisper, rolling his eyes. I glanced over at Philip—and saw him, deftly, pull a book from the folds of his robe and slide it back into its place on the shelf. I didn't let my gaze linger as he glanced back at me.

“Ah, here's a good one.” Philip waved a nondescript tome; I could see knights on the cover. “A nice book on European history. That'll do the trick.” He drew close to Uncle Mutt. “You holding up okay, Uncle? Anything I can do?”

“I'm fine, Philip, thanks for your concern,” Uncle Mutt answered, his voice tight. “Go on to bed, get some rest. I don't mean to be short with you. I'm just tired.”

“I know,” Philip said, his voice a bit softer. “Get some rest, Uncle Mutt. Good night, Jordan.” I ignored the slightly snide tone his voice had taken in bidding me farewell. Philip didn't like me one bit, I surmised.

Uncle Mutt was silent until we heard the soft tread of Philip's footsteps on the stairs. “I'd best get to bed, Jordan. I got to go into Port Lavaca tomorrow and start the arrangements for Lolly's funeral. God, I didn't think I'd be burying anyone else before me.”

“Would you like me to go with you tomorrow?”

A soft smile touched his face, and for one terribly naked moment I saw my own face in his. “No, Jordan, but I
appreciate the offer. Maybe you can keep my relations from robbing me blind while I'm gone.”

I didn't want the conversation to end quite yet. “Did Lieutenant Mendez say anything more about—about the investigation?”

Mutt shook his head. “Just have to wait on the autopsy, he says.” His eyes narrowed at me. “Why? You know something you ain't sharing, son?”

“Yes.” My voice sounded miserable. I told him about the cards, the vicious messages they'd conveyed, and my discussion with Mendez and Yarbrough.

Mutt didn't speak, his hands cupped before his face. I felt desperately afraid I'd driven myself out of his budding affections. He took a bracing breath.

“Are you suggesting—to the police—someone wanted to kill you and killed my sister by mistake?”

“I don't know. If Lolly didn't die by natural causes—I might've been the target. Would anyone want to kill her?”

“No. No. There is no murderer in this family. No, son, no.”

“Uncle Mutt—”

“If anyone's killed here tonight, it's me. Breaking the news like that. I couldn't be subtle. I had to be as loud as a fart in church. I brought on Lolly's heart attack.”

“You can't know that, Uncle Mutt. Don't do this to yourself.”

He didn't speak for a full minute. “You've met the family now. Who do you suspect of sending you those cards?”

“I don't know.”

His mouth worked, but no words came out. “I want to see these letters.”

“I gave them to Lieutenant Mendez.”

“And I want to know why the hell Lieutenant Mendez didn't inform me about the threats to a member of my family. I believe I'll phone him now. I'll do that from my office. Good night, Jordan.”

“But, Uncle Mutt.”

For the second time that evening, I was dismissed from a conversation. “Good night, Jordan.” His scowl softened.

“Get some sleep. And rest assured no harm will come to you while I live in this house.”

“Good night,” I said. “I'm just going to pick out another book, in case I don't like this one.” I proffered the Lamar biography. “After all, like you said, he wasn't much fun.”

He grabbed me into another of his bear hugs, his breath warm against my neck. I felt his shudder of exhausted grief, the sadness he wouldn't truly share with any of us. He released me without a word and left the den.

I didn't dawdle. I went straight to the bookshelf to see which volume Philip had so secretively and dexterously replaced. The book,
Bitter Money
, was notched carefully back into the heart of the true-crime section.

I remembered
Bitter Money
being a best-seller ten years ago: the lurid tale of a noted New York financier who'd murdered his socialite wife. It was the kind of torridly written saga that was the literary equivalent of driving slowly past a fatal car collision. I opened the book and scanned the copy on the inside of the jacket.

Yes, of course. The eminent banker had poisoned his wife of thirty years. With a deadly overdose of her own digitalis-based heart medication.

MY DREAMS WERE UNKIND. IN THE DARKNESS OF
night and slumber, I swam through the shattered hulk of the sunken
Reliant
, the current piloting me along. I drifted, breathing the murky water like air, among the tattered corpses dressed in makeshift uniforms. One revolved toward me in the ebb of moving sea and I saw with horror the decaying face was Uncle Mutt's. I jerked away from the sight, and the corpses began to close around me in an icy fellowship. I could see their faces clearly now—a misshapen Deborah; Jake, his countenance pecked by fish; a one-eyed Sass; and worst, a Bob Don who looked like a demon from some nether region, the lower half of his face rotted away. His arms stretched out to me in an obscene embrace, and I roused from the nightmare with a shudder.

I felt the momentary disorientation of waking in an unfamiliar place, then remembered where I was and the contorted look on Lolly's face as she died. I was thirsty, but a small boy's fear held me and I didn't want to get up from the bed to venture into darkness. I suddenly missed my parents very badly. Finally I fell asleep again, the bedding wrapped around me like a shroud.

I awoke with the sun. Rather than concentrate on my disturbing dream, I set my mind to replaying Philip stealthily replacing that book about digitalis poisoning among its less meaningful colleagues. Had I made a mistake? What if I'd spotted the wrong book? But I didn't think that I was wrong. I thought dear Cousin Philip might have some serious explaining to do, but I had no proof. Borrowing a book wasn't a crime.

The first rays of dawn shot through my window, and with no Candace to snuggle up to, the bed seemed a cold place. I pulled myself up, donned a pair of shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and stumbled down to the kitchen in search of caffeine.

I wasn't the earliest riser in the house. I found Wendy bustling about in the kitchen, getting ready to prepare a large breakfast for the family. Food always seems so inextricably linked with death; I remembered vast buffets of food brought by neighbors when my father died … but there were no neighbors on Sangre Island. Did anyone else share this family's grief? I knocked timidly on the door I'd already opened.