When Secrets Die (4 page)

“So why aren't you still together? The grief thing?”

“The grief thing? Oh, you mean how you go through the death of a child, and it screws up your marriage because you aren't the same person you were before it happened?”

I stared at her.

“Survivor group counseling. No, that wasn't it.”

I ate chicken, listening to her reasons. She swore it wasn't the death of their son that had driven them finally and completely apart. She called it a three-part breakup, very analytical.

Part one was, indeed, the stress of losing their son.

Part two had come the evening Clayton Roubideaux had been foolish enough to make his true feelings known—that in comparison to his love for his blood son, his feelings for her daughter, Blaine, were a poor second best.

Part three was the way he told people, while Ned was sick and even after he died, that they were married. They weren't. He was divorced, as were most men her age who were available for a committed relationship, and she could understand not wanting to get married again. But she could not understand saying you were when you weren't. So all of his crap about “not needing the paper” etc. was just that, crap. He thought marriage
was
important, but just didn't want to be married to her. And he had a need to legitimize his grief, his choice of mother for his son, and the time they spent together with the lie that they were, indeed, married. It was knowing how much he valued the vows, coupled with the knowledge that he did not think enough of her to commit to her and to their life together, that convinced her to end the relationship.

“Clayton and I weren't destined to make it. He didn't love me enough, you know? If I hadn't gotten pregnant with Ned, I don't think we'd have moved in together. Or, I don't know, maybe me getting pregnant made us get serious too soon. Although, sometimes I think this sloooow-drip courtship trend is an excuse for people to dawdle around in relationships. I don't know. I just screw relationships up, don't listen to me.”

I laughed, trying not to sputter beer.

“But it would have been stupid to stay with a man who didn't love me enough to commit to me, even though I'd had a child with him, which, from my standpoint, means I made all the commitment and he gets off scot-free. Which is fine, because who wants a reluctant committer?”

“No one.”

“And what makes me actually hate him, is he told my daughter that he'd wished she had died instead of Ned. That alone—”

“He actually said that to her?”

“Not in those words, but believe me, he made it clear. I was there, I saw it.”

I mixed sour cream and salsa in the black beans and rice. Messy and delicious. I took a bite, thinking, as I listened to her, that there were, as always, three sides to every story. Listening to him in his office, he had been an ideal husband and father. Of course, he hadn't been a husband, which made his story suspect.

“He's not a bad guy,” Emma said. “At least, not horrible. I think you've seen him at his worst.”

I took another bite of beans. So far, I was reining in my opinions, at least verbally. I was thinking mean thoughts, though, as usual.

“I'd still like to hire you. To investigate the doctor, and if you want to investigate me, go ahead, I don't care. But I don't want you reporting in to Clayton. I want him out of the mix. I do want to know what those people think they have on me.”

“What people?”

“The doctor. The Child Protective Services people. The
law
. Because I think the accusation is just a blackmail thing.”

“Extortion. If you mean that they are threatening you with legal action if you don't back off in regard to what happened with your son and his remains.”

“That's exactly what I do mean. And if you think I am guilty—”

“I don't believe in it.”

“In Munchausen by proxy?”

“That's right. I think it's just another way of society controlling uppity women. Why, do you?”

She held her fork, midair, head cocked to one side. “I think it's probably rare, but yeah, I believe it. I wish I didn't. But I do. But I guarantee you I'm not one of them.”

“Did you ever consider the possibility your ex-husband, excuse me, ex-whatever, might be?”

“I thought it was only women.”

“I'm sure that's what they'd like you to think.”

She put a slice of Caribbean cornbread on her plate and broke off a piece with her fingers. She chewed, a small thread of coconut on her lips. “There's no way Clayton hurt Ned. I promise you, he didn't. I know him that well at least. He truly loved Ned more than anything in the world. He'd have laid down his life, happily and without hesitation, if it would have taken one hour of suffering from our little boy. I have no doubts about Clayton in that way. He loved Ned like he loved his life. He needs to have more children. But he'll never be the same. He wouldn't let me box up any of Ned's things until he moved out. Then he boxed them up and took them with him.”

“Was that okay with you?”

“It's not like he asked.” She wiped her lips and the coconut disappeared.

“Do you think he seriously suspects you of having something to do with Ned's death?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so.”

“Really? Even after tonight?”

“You'd have to know the guy, Lena.”

It was funny the way she said my name. It reminded me of the way my sister used to say it. Other things about her were reminding me of Whitney. Her confidence. Her air of knowing what was what.

“He's just trying to cover every base and stay in control of something that scares him shitless. I can understand it. I can let it go. But I want you to work for
me
. What I need to know is how much you charge. And what you think this case will cost, in the long run.”

“I charge fifty-five dollars an hour and pay my own expenses unless something really unusual comes up, or we start getting into travel and airline tickets. Then I'd discuss it with you first.”

“Unusual like what?”

“Usually the money starts flying out the window when you hire consultants—attorneys, doctors, forensic experts. And I guess if you needed me to fly to, say, Paris, France, or something, I might need you to help out with the airline ticket. Paris, Kentucky, is on me. As to how many hours, it's hard to say. They add up pretty fast. I can always work to your budget—as in, stop when the money runs out. Limit my areas of inquiry.”

“I have a proposition. How about I give you my car?”

“The BMW?”

“Yep. And in return, you spend a lot of time following up every possible area of inquiry, and if the case takes weeks or months, you work it. And you take care of all expenses no matter what comes up, including Paris, France.”

“You mean the BMW?”

“Yeah. I can sign it into your name tomorrow, if you want to meet me at the courthouse.”

“Sounds like I'm being overpaid. Or is there a lien I have to pay off?”

“I own it free and clear. There's no way I can get a good resale value out of it with that big dent in the side. And I don't have any kind of cash available. And I expect to get a lot of work out of you. It would be nice for me to know no matter how expensive it gets, I'm paid up, and I don't need to get Clayton in the middle of it.”

“What are you going to do for a car?”

“I have a '94 Jeep Wrangler I was saving for my daughter. It's paid for. I can keep banging around in that. It's what I was driving when I met Clayton. The Roadster used to be his, then he decided to get a new car and the dent took a lot out of the trade-in value so he just gave it to me. And you can sell whatever you're driving now, and keep that money to cover your expenses.”

I didn't tell her that would net me about one thousand dollars, if I was lucky.

She shrugged. “Think about it. Have another attorney look over this document.” She passed an envelope across the table. “There is a confidentiality thing in this agreement, wherein you agree not to divulge the gist of the conversation the two of you had. You and Clayton.”

“I wouldn't do that anyway.”

“You did to me.”

“That's true. But I wouldn't to anyone else.”

“Clayton is what you might call anal. And he can't draft an agreement where he doesn't get some kind of concession. Like you said, he's a lawyer. Also, I had to let him put that in there so he'd draw up this fee document, between you, me, and the BMW.”

“I'm seriously tempted.”

“I can throw in some free dance lessons, if that would help.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Lately I have taken to smoking cigars, a habit I clearly share with Emma Marsden. It is a terrible habit, especially considering that I can only afford cheap cigars, the kind that will bring everyone in the room to harmonious agreement—be they Democrats, liberals, Republicans, warmongers, pro- or anti-choice, for or against the death penalty—the agreement being that the kind of cigar I can afford is disgusting. If I were smelling it instead of smoking it, I would be disgusted too.

On the other hand, I appreciate that the cigars have wooden tips, and are slim and black and slightly sweet. Nothing so good as chocolate, but still good. And although they pollute my lungs and the atmosphere, and add certain intriguing elements to the more feminine' aspects of my personal scent—vanilla lotion and Escada perfume—they do not have calories, they do not make my abdomen swell so that my jeans are tight, and are for these reasons much better than chocolate. This is how women think, and I am a woman. If you are a woman or you know one who is honest, you are not surprised.

Cigars are good for people like me who eat for three reasons: hunger, boredom, and the need for distracting stimulation, which is different enough from boredom to have its own category, but still close.

I think it is the ritual of smoking cigars that I like, as well as the rebellion. I had a very southern upbringing, which means that beer and cigars are not the norm if you are female. In my family, even beer was unusual. It was bourbon and cigars, but that was for the men. Mixed drinks were highballs. My sister and I drank beer in college to annoy our parents and prove something, but our parents were fascinated and encouraged us to order beer whenever they took us to dinner. My dad would order a beer too, and my mom would taste ours but didn't like it. For Mom it was Diet Pepsi or nothing, which is much worse for you than beer, which at least has B-12.

I was quite delighted when Emma Marsden insisted on me taking the BMW home for the night, so long as I was willing to drop her off at her house. We made an appointment to meet at the courthouse before lunch the next day to transfer the title of ownership from her to me, and for us to sign the letter of agreement in regard to my services.

Her house was out of my way, but driving the car was what I wanted to be doing. It was a 1999 Z3 Roadster, automatic, with antilock brakes, a CD player, and a power convertible roof. There was a small slit in the plastic rectangular back window, right along the crease where the plastic folded when the top was down. I didn't much care. We drove out Main Street, away from town, until it became Richmond Road, and we followed it through the strips of restaurants, dry cleaners, and apartment complexes, past Lexington Mall and Home Depot, past the Man of War intersection that led to Homburg Place, where Emma Marsden taught ballroom dance at an independent studio, past the highway access to I-75, past a Waffle House, a Holiday Inn, and the Solid Gold Men's Club, to Athens, Kentucky, where Emma had her house.

There was something about it. A bit tumbledown, but solid, red brick, with a thrusting front porch (yes, there was a porch swing) and lights in the window. It reminded me of my little place in Chevy Chase (the lesser end of that neighborhood), and her place, like mine, clearly needed work. Still, for pure potential you couldn't beat it. I had realized, after living in my cottage for a while, that some people look at old houses and see what is there (mold in the corners of the ceiling, cracks in the plaster, hardwood floors that have been loved into scratches and dents, linoleum floors that need to be peeled up to reveal the heart of pine underneath). I see what the house can be. I see it so clearly I forget what it really looks like, which makes me slow at renovation work, but content with what I have. I would rather have a run-down old cottage that is seventy years old and needs a shit-load of work than a brand-new house that is bigger. I'm not sure why that is, except that it seems to me a matter of presence, and charm, and happiness in the details. An arched doorway that leads to ten-foot ceilings and cracked walls and an electrical system that is nothing short of dangerous is my idea of home. Perfect drywall, carpet instead of battered wood floors, and tiny little twig trees just starting to grow have less and less appeal to me the longer I stay in my house.

As soon as I pulled into the gravel driveway, the front door opened and a teenage girl stood behind the screen door, watching.

“That's my daughter, Blaine. Would you like to come in and meet her?”

What I really wanted to do was see the inside of the house. Now that I am working on my own, I like to see what other people are doing with theirs. I hesitated, but the teenage girl walked out onto the porch. Her face, lit by the outside light, was heart-shaped and breathtakingly beautiful—or would have been if she'd had a more pleasant expression. She tapped her wrist like she was pointing to a watch, though she was not, in fact, wearing one. She gave both of us a stern look.

I glanced over at Emma. “Out past your curfew?”

She laughed. “Clearly. Come on in, she doesn't bite.”

“No, thanks. I need to get home.”

“If you change your mind about the car, and taking the job and everything—”

“I won't.”