“The police never followed up his leads,” I say softly, as much to myself as to John or my sister. I am far behind her, still wondering what really happened to her ledger. First the scrapbook vanishes, then the ledger. A chilly breeze stirs the hedges. “Or, if they did, they never found anything.”
“Right,” says Mariah, congratulating a slow pupil on finally getting it. “But they had a copy of the report. So I called up Uncle Mal and talked to that woman, Meadows. I asked her if she could get a copy from the police files. She said it might take a while, because they would have to go look in the archives or something. Then she called me back a few days ago, and, guess what? The police don’t have a copy of the report either.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” I admit. John might be a statue, for all his contribution to the conversation. Then a thought strikes me. “But I’ll bet you can get a copy from Villard himself. He has to be around somewhere.”
Mariah seems almost gleeful. “I guess all you lawyers think alike. Meadows tried that, Tal, and-guess what?-Villard died of colon cancer fifteen years ago.”
The words escape me before I can think: “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, Tal, I’m not stupid. Meadows even got a copy of his medical records. He really was sick, and he really is dead.”
“Oh.” I am a bit deflated: until the cancer news, I was still ready to bet that Villard was another alias of Colin Scott. Then I brighten: “But even if he’s dead, his investigative files have to be somewhere…”
“I’m sure they do, but nobody knows where. That’s my point. Now, look at this,” Mariah continues, like a lawyer building a case, or a magician pleasing a crowd. From another folder, she draws a couple of pages torn from a yellow legal pad. I immediately recognize my father’s cramped handwriting. She handles the papers carefully, as though worried they might ignite. “This is all I can find about the report,” she explains.
I scan the pages, which are creased as though folded several times. The ink is old and smeary; V’S REPORT is scribbled at the top, followed by a column of seemingly random notations: Virginia plate?. .. Must be front-end damage, V checked shops already… V says police work shoddy re paint etc… No ID driver, no ID passenger. .. I stop, go back, look at the last line again.
“Passenger?” I ask.
Mariah nods. “There was somebody else in the car that killed Abby. Interesting, huh?”
“The Judge never mentioned it,” I say distantly, remembering something else. “And neither did Mom.”
Mariah is excited now. “The notes were folded up in the back of one of his chess books. I guess whoever took the report didn’t know that.” I am about to ask which book, wondering about secret messages, but Mariah is already dealing the next card. “And look at this.” A manila envelope emerges from her briefcase. She hands it over. I open the flap and pull out a sheaf of check registers. A quick glance confirms what I have already guessed: they are from the period when the private detective was working on the case. “Look at it,” she instructs me.
“And what exactly am I looking for?” I ask as John watches in interested silence.
“The name Villard! Daddy said he was expensive, right?”
“Uh, right. Yes.” Said it with pride: nothing but the best to track down Abby’s killer, he was suggesting.
“Right. Now, look at the list of checks.” I look, still not sure where this is going. “Tal, these are all the checks Daddy wrote for the four years after Abby died. There is not a single check written to anybody named Villard, and there is not a single check written to anything that sounds like a detective agency.”
“So he was careless. He didn’t record the check.”
“I have all the canceled checks, Tal. And you know how Daddy was. Everything is perfectly organized. Just to make sure, I did the math. There isn’t a single one missing.”
I have a disturbing vision of Mariah hunched over a calculator in the attic, punching in numbers, obsessively checking the Judge’s subtraction as her kids run all over the house and Sally does… well, whatever Sally does when they are together.
“So he paid cash.” Yet this seems odd to me as well.
“No,” says Mariah, flourishing another folder. She has lost none of her investigative skill. “This is a list of every single cash withdrawal Daddy made from his accounts during those years, and not a one of them, Tal, not a one of them is enough to pay for anything more than groceries.”
“His brokerage accounts-”
“Come on, Tal. He didn’t have any brokerage accounts in those days. He didn’t have enough money. That came later.” After he left the bench, she means.
“So what are you saying? That there never was a detective?” I shake my head, trying to escape the mists of painful memory. John is looking on like a bystander at a car wreck, fascinated by the carnage but unable to help. “That Villard was… some kind of figment of the Judge’s imagination?”
“No, Tal. Listen to me. Of course Villard was real. No, what I’m telling you is that somebody else paid for the detective. Don’t you see? Either Daddy borrowed the money or-well, I don’t know what. But the money came from somebody else. And if we find out who that somebody else is, we’ll find out who killed Daddy.”
I am not quite believing any of this, but not quite rejecting it either. Emotionally, I am in no fit state for rational judgments just now.
“And you think that the somebody was…” I leave the rest hanging, inviting the response we both know is coming.
“It was Jack Ziegler, Tal-who else? Come on. It had to be Uncle Jack. I was right the first time, Tal. Daddy was afraid of Uncle Jack. That’s why he had the gun. But it didn’t do him any good. Jack Ziegler killed him and took the report.”
So the Mariahan conspiracy theory, as I suspected, has not changed. Yet it occurs to me that my sister might be on to something, whether or not she knows it. Because at the heart of her reconstruction is a simple truth that frightens me… frightens me because I know some facts that she does not.
“But wait a minute. I still don’t see why Jack Ziegler would do it.” I do, of course. I am objecting, probably, just to keep the conversation going.
“Yes, you do! There was something in the report he didn’t want anybody to know, so he had to get the only copy. Why else would he have killed Daddy in the house?”
“Then why did he leave the empty folder?” I object.
“I don’t know all of it! That’s why I need your help!”
A thought strikes me. “That public call for an investigation you mentioned…”
“Somebody talked them out of it, Tal. Somebody got to them, don’t you see? And Addison’s useless,” she adds, mysteriously, while I am still busily exulting over the fact that somebody talked them out of it. “You and I are the only ones left who care. So you and I have to prove what really happened.”
“We don’t have enough information.”
“Exactly! That’s why we need to work together! Oh, Tal, can’t you see?” She turns to John Brown. “You understand, John. I know you do. Explain it to him.”
“Well,” John begins. “Maybe it would be better if…”
An interruption. The other two women, broad, fair Kimmer and dark, slender Janice, come outside with the steaks, all seasoned and ready for the grill. There is corn on the cob, wrapped in foil, and a small plate of sliced greens, which will also receive a light touch of flame. And two Cokes, because neither John nor I drink alcohol: John out of religious conviction, I out of simple fear, given my father’s history. We dutifully exclaim over the food, which does look awfully good. There is some ritual teasing about how the men are so busy playing basketball that we do not yet have a decent fire going. Kimmer is still irritated at me about Mariah’s presence, but with our friends around, she is being a good sport. Last night I told her finally about the call from the agency about my father’s speaking dates; she was furious at their presumption, and I loved her more for it. You’re not your father, and they have no right to pretend you are! I told her I had already said no, and she told me I did the right thing. If they ever call me back, I will say no again.
“You want me to put them on the grill?” Kimmer asks, hands on her hips in mock irritation.
“No, darling.”
“Then you guys get to work.” She swats my bottom playfully. Surprised, I tickle her. She grins and pushes me away. “Work!” she repeats.
“Mariah, we could use some help in the kitchen,” adds Janice, to my sister’s astonishment, for she has been feeling like a fifth wheel.
Mariah turns her sullen gaze toward me. “Just think about it,” she says. Kimmer and Janice return to the house, Mariah sulking in their wake.
