I Love You More: A Novel (8 page)

It rained during the service; luckily the canopy covered Daddy’s casket and the row of folding chairs where Mama and I sat. Most folks, including Mama and me, had brought umbrellas just in case, which I thought was resourceful. I don’t know what got into me that I was so preoccupied. I knew I should be listening to what Pastor Mike was saying about Daddy, but for some reason I was much more fascinated by Daddy’s coffin, how shiny it was, if it would stay shiny once it was deep inside the ground, whether earthworms could penetrate it and crawl into Daddy’s mouth and eyes, how long it would take for his skin to dry up, if I would still recognize what was left of Daddy’s face and body in, say, a year, exactly when he turned from a human prune into a skeleton, why nobody had ever thought to put a video camera inside a coffin to scientifically record the decaying process. I got so lost in thought that Mama had to nudge me when the service was over. Then we
left. I remember being disappointed that I didn’t get to see the casket being lowered into the ground. I’d never seen a casket being lowered into the ground. Not in person anyway.

After the limousine dropped us off at the church, Mama went inside to give Pastor Mike an envelope. On our walk home, I asked her what was in it.

“Money,” she said.

“You have to pay for a eulogy too?” I asked. I had no idea that somebody’s dying was so expensive.

“Well, not really pay for it. It’s more like a tip.” Then she explained about church being a business.

When Mama and I were in front of Mrs. Jesswein’s house, we saw that someone was sitting on our porch swing. I squinted. We hadn’t seen Detective Kennedy since the day Daddy died.

“What does he want?” Mama said. She sounded mad.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Lane,” he said as we approached. “Picasso.” He nodded at me and smiled, and I did too.

There was something about the lazy curl of Detective Kennedy’s lips that was catching. I mean Daddy’s charming smile was real nice, definitely prettier than Detective Kennedy’s crooked smile, but it didn’t make me automatically want to smile back.

“May I offer you some iced tea, Detective? It’s rather hot out here for a suit and tie.”

“Thank you, ma’am. That would be most appreciated.” He patted his forehead with a handkerchief, stuffed it in his pants pocket, and followed us inside. “It’s nice and cool in here. Air-conditioning?”

“Oliver had it installed a few months ago. We just couldn’t go through another summer like the last one.”

“Seems to be getting hotter by the year,” Detective Kennedy said. “What I wouldn’t give to have air-conditioning in my place right now. My swamp cooler just isn’t cutting it.”

Mama had gone to the kitchen to get a pitcher of tea out of
the refrigerator. She always has a pitcher of tea ready and waiting, even in the winter. Mama is always saying that graciousness and politeness are two of the most essential and telltale qualities of a proper Southern lady. She also says that these qualities are even more important when dealing with your enemies, which, as far as Mama was concerned, meant Detective Kennedy, and, as far as I was concerned, meant I had no chance of ever being considered a proper Southern lady, because I had no intention of ever being gracious or polite to the All That Girls.

Detective Kennedy started walking around, looking out the window, at the furniture, pictures on the fireplace mantel.

Mama returned with the tea tray.

“Quaint neighborhood you live in, ma’am,” Detective Kennedy said, as Mama put the tray on the coffee table. “When was this house built?”

“In 1910,” Mama said.

“Looks like you’ve done some renovating,” Detective Kennedy said. “Is that a Wolf range?”

Mama ignored his question. She’d only just bought the range the month before Daddy died on account of she was mad at him. She’d bought a bunch of other stuff too: new clothes and shoes, a Marc Jacobs handbag, a new dining-room set, and a bunch of paints and brushes and canvases.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” I saw that she’d poured the tea into the crystal glasses she only used for special guests.

“I just had a few more questions, ma’am,” he said. “Is this a good time?”

“Picasso and I just came from her father’s funeral,” she said. “Would
you
consider that a good time?” I couldn’t believe Mama was sassing a detective.

“I know,” he said. “I was there.”

“You went to my husband’s funeral?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to pay my respects.”

“Sure you did,” Mama said.

“I figured since I came all this way you wouldn’t mind indulging me.”

Mama set three coasters on the coffee table, transferred the glasses from the tray, and sat in Daddy’s brown leather club chair. It didn’t look right, her sitting in Daddy’s chair. I sat on the fireplace hearth, which is about as close to the coffee table as the sofa is.

“Have a seat, Detective.” She motioned toward the sofa. He looked a little scared to sit on it. “Don’t worry. It’s a slipcover. It’s washable. How can I help you?”

He took a sip of tea. “Mighty fine. My mother put mint leaves in her tea. I lived in Michigan for a while, and one of the things I missed most was sweet tea. Up north they think sweet tea is Lipton from a machine with sugar packets. I thought I tasted mint in yours.”

“You did,” Mama said proudly.

“What do you think of your mother’s sweet tea, Picasso?”

“Best in the world,” I said, and for a minute I felt sad because that’s what Daddy and I always said about Mama’s tea and cooking.

“I think so too,” he said.

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out his pen and writing pad, and what looked like pictures.

“Do you happen to know a woman named Julie Lane?”

Mama chewed on the question. “
Julie
Lane? No. Is she a relative of Oliver’s?” Which was actually a strange question since as far as Mama and I knew Daddy didn’t have any relatives.

“You could say that.” He stuck a photograph faceup on the coffee table. It was Jewels.

“I’ve never seen her before,” Mama said.

“How about you, Picasso?”

“Is it really necessary to involve Picasso in this?” Mama asked.

“Sorry, ma’am, but we have to follow all leads.”

I looked at the picture and then at Mama. I thought she might be looking at me, but she wasn’t. “No.”

“You sure, Picasso?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” I said.

“Who is she?” Mama asked.

Now, I thought Detective Kennedy was going to say something like “Oh, no one” or “No one important,” but he didn’t. What he said really surprised me.

“Your husband’s other wife.” He watched Mama’s face.

“Other wife?” Mama asked.

“Your husband has—I mean had—another family, Mrs. Lane. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.”

Mama gasped, as if she was shocked. “You must be mistaken. Oliver would never—”

“Never what?” Detective Kennedy showed us the other picture. It looked like a church picture of Daddy, Jewels, and two little boys who looked exactly alike. I remember thinking about what Jewels had said that first time she showed up on our porch, about her and Daddy having twins. I didn’t like seeing a picture of Daddy’s other kids. Then I got worried that Detective Kennedy might have seen the church picture of Daddy, Mama, and me when he was looking at Mama’s picture wall. We had it taken back when Daddy had decided our family should get more religious, which only lasted from the beginning to the middle of second grade.

“Is that your husband, ma’am?” He pointed at Daddy.

Mama didn’t say anything.

“She’s pretty shaken up,” Detective Kennedy continued. “Her husband left for a business trip and never came back. Poor thing. She couldn’t even bury him because her marriage wasn’t legally binding. Can you imagine how awful it would be not even to have the closure of a funeral?”

“This is preposterous,” Mama said. “My husband did not have another wife. Surely this is all a big mistake.”

“Unfortunately it’s not. We’ve verified that her husband and yours are one and the same. Did your husband travel a lot, ma’am?”

“But how, I … I mean
when
did you find out about her?”

“She reported her husband missing to the Raleigh Police Department a few days ago,” Detective Kennedy said. “Seems she saw his face on television but didn’t want to believe what she was seeing and then, well, she heard his name—” He paused, took another sip of his tea. “That’s where she lives. Raleigh. Would you like her contact information?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mama stood. “I’m very tired, Detective. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take a nap.”

Detective Kennedy stood too. “Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be in touch.”

After Detective Kennedy left, Mama ran to the phone and started dialing.

“Don’t Mama,” I said.

She kept pushing numbers.

“Mama,” I yelled. “The police have probably bugged our phone.”

She stopped. “What did you say, Picasso?”

“They’re watching us, Mama. And listening.” I wanted to say more, like that she needed to keep to the plan that the three of them had agreed to, that Jewels was right about it not being a good idea for them to be in contact for a while, but I’d already said too much. As far as Mama knew, I had no idea what really happened at the beach house the morning Daddy died. As far as Mama knew, I had no idea what was supposed to happen.

Mama looked at me strangely and hung up the phone. I thought she might ask me something else, but she didn’t. She just sat back down in Daddy’s chair and drank the rest of her tea.

Mack and I found out about Oliver Lane’s third wife on Labor Day weekend, generally our busiest weekend of the year and usually the most memorable. One year, during a major storm, some hardy fools braved the choppy waters between Kitty Hawk and Ocracoke in a thirty-nine-foot Sea Ray and lost their lives. Back in the day, because of its notorious shipwrecks, that stretch of water had been dubbed the “Graveyard of the Atlantic” and now and again folks decided to test their balls against its. Another year, ferry operators strategically chose that particular holiday to go on strike. The Labor Day following Oliver Lane’s murder was no different. A bunch of frat boys rented three houses in what we call our “cul-de-sac,” basically a dead-end street, invited a group of girls from the fourth house over to party on Saturday night, and ended up burning one house to the ground and damaging the other three. Our lone fire truck had always been enough to handle any mishaps, but not that time. Three more had to be called in from the mainland. No small order. Not that there weren’t plenty of fire trucks to go around. The problem was yet again with our greatest vulnerability: the ferries. Already inundated with tourists, and less than reliable even in the off-season, what started as a small, innocent bonfire turned into the largest fire Cooper’s Island had
seen in recent history. With the exception of some minor burns no one was seriously hurt. The bad news was, Mack and I were up all night calling parents and schools, carting kids to nearby medical centers and emergency rooms, and taking official statements. The good news was, on my last ride back to the island, I got to see one of the more glorious sunrises I’d ever seen, nearly magical enough to cast a Labor Day–forgetting spell on me, definitely wondrous enough to give me a second wind, which ended up being just the boost I would need to deal with what happened next.

After a very welcome shower, I headed to the office. Klide was hovering near my desk.

“This came in a little while ago,” she said. “I thought you’d want to see it right away.”

“What is it?” I asked. I was still wriggling my arms out of my suit jacket.

“It’s from the police department in Boone. Apparently that Oliver Lane guy had another wife.”

I hung my jacket on the back of my chair and sat. “We already know that, Klide. And what do you mean, Boone?”

“Boone, North Carolina,” she said. “It’s a different wife.”

“A different wife?” I was aware I was being repetitive, but I hadn’t even had my coffee yet, and none of what Klide was saying was registering.

“A
third
wife,” she said.

“No shit?” I asked.

Klide handed me a police report with a fax cover sheet—
Who sends faxes these days?
I leaned back and started reading.

“You want me to run down to the Tiki Hut and get you some good coffee?” Klide asked. The Hut doesn’t make the finest coffee but it definitely beats ours; Bonnie has a heavy hand.

“You are an angel,” I said.

It wasn’t surprising it had taken that long for us to hear about it. Connecting the dots was generally the job of the local authorities,
and obviously Boone had been asleep at the wheel. What was surprising is that Roberta Lane had taken so long to report her husband missing.

Back in Detroit, we’d always made unannounced visits on Sundays because the chances of finding someone home were greater. The element of surprise was essential to solving a murder case. Holidays were a crapshoot, but I didn’t want to wait. With all that had happened that morning, Mack and I got a later than optimal start, but we were able to make up some time on the road. We arrived midafternoon. The third Mrs. Lane lived in a small blue cottage with a rocking-chair front porch, white shutters, and stencil-cut window boxes. The house, like most of the ones nearby, sat on a hill inside a thicket of evergreen trees. We’d driven two blocks beyond it when we realized we’d gone too far. We doubled back. The house number was on the mailbox, but the house itself was completely obscured.