Aunt Mary was pacing, ignoring these remarks. “This is going to be very hard on Travis,” she said.
“Was he close to Arthur?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I used to see them once in a great while when Travis was little. After Briana moved from Las Piernas, she and I never exchanged more news than would fit on a few lines at the bottom of a greeting card. She never mentioned Arthur, and only wrote ‘Travis is doing well in school,” or ’Travis is growing so tall,“ things like that. She did tell me that he wasn’t going to be living with her at the new apartment, but I suppose I just thought it was high time he was on his own. I asked for his new address, but she never sent it.”
“Maybe he already knows about his father’s death,” I said. “He may be the one who told Briana about it.”
“But to lose his remaining parent so quickly!” Mary said, pacing again.
“You have her old address? The place where she lived before she moved to this apartment?” I asked.
“Yes, I think I have it somewhere around here.”
“That might help us find Travis,” I said. “Maybe one of her former neighbors will know where he’s living these days.”
She searched for it and found it. I made a note of it and asked, “So she was at this place from the time of the murder until recently?”
“No, she didn’t leave Las Piernas immediately after the murder. But she was at this place for a number of years.”
“Do you remember anything about the murder of Arthur’s first wife?” Rachel asked.
“Certainly. Arthur’s wife was Gwendolyn DeMont, the sugar beet heiress.”
Rachel raised a brow. “Sugar beet heiress?”
“Yes, this area used to have lots of sugar beet fields. That’s how her grandfather started out, but that was just the seed money for their wealth. He made money in real estate and by investing in aerospace and oil companies- with a sense of timing that made the rest of us wish we had his crystal ball.”
“You said this was her grandfather?” I asked.
“Right. He raised her. Her parents died when she was just a baby, not long after World War I, I believe.”
I looked at the holy card again. “World War I? She must have been at least thirty years older than Arthur!”
“Yes, she was much older than he. I know you think of him as being much younger than Briana, but after Gwendolyn, Briana must have looked like a regular spring chicken to Arthur.”
“Did you know Gwendolyn?” Rachel asked.
“Oh, no. But the family was wealthy and Los Alamitos isn’t so far away, after all. Irene’s grandfather used to like to go to the Los Alamitos Race Course, which is in Cypress, not Los Alamitos-but that’s another story.”
“What else do you know about Gwendolyn?” I asked, knowing where racetrack discussions could lead, and not especially inclined to have Rachel learn all about my grandfather’s various pastimes and diversions.
“Not too much. She was a very shy woman. A recluse, really.”
“Arthur was apparently attracted to shy women,” I said.
“Perhaps he was-what of it?” she snapped. I didn’t answer, and she scowled at me. “Maybe there are two pairs of Prissy Pants in the family.”
Rachel didn’t even try to hide her amusement.
I was saved further humiliation only because the doorbell rang. Mary answered it, and soon we heard our husbands’ voices and the sound of their laughter. Rachel’s face reflected nothing but pleasure when she heard it, and I hurried after her into the living room, where Frank and Pete were chatting with Mary.
“See what happens when you don’t go with us?” Pete said.
I found myself wondering what on earth had ever made me think she was flirting with McCain.
Frank put an arm around my shoulders. “Thought you’d like a ride home.”
“That would be great,” I said, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. “I need to get a few things out of Rachel’s car.”
We divided up the rest of Briana’s belongings as planned, and Frank helped me to move the photos and desk papers from Rachel’s car to his.
Once, while Frank was out of earshot, Pete asked, “You want us to try to look up this cousin of yours in DMV records?”
I shook my head. “McCain has undoubtedly already tried that. And things have been bad enough for you two at work lately. You might get in trouble.”
He laughed at that and told me not to worry.
I thanked Rachel again, and we said good night to Mary and the Bairds. As we drove home, I made Frank tell me about his day first. He told me where they had sailed, about the dolphins they had seen, of a predictably futile but hilarious attempt by Pete to win an argument with Cassidy, of Jack’s surprising ability to actually get the better of Cassidy once or twice-which had made Pete look at Jack with new admiration. “I kept trying to figure out if Cassidy was orchestrating the whole thing-you know how Pete is sometimes a little jealous of Jack? Maybe not jealous-”
“Yeah, jealous.”
“Right, well, you know how Pete is-anyway, by the end of the day, Pete is treating Jack like he’s his best pal. Inviting him over for dinner, asking Jack to tell Cassidy about his days in the motorcycle gang-and through all this, Cassidy-” He glanced over at me, stopped his spirited narrative and said, “Missed you, though.”
“That was an afterthought if I’ve ever heard one.”
He laughed. “No, really. Jack’s talking about taking everyone to Catalina in a couple of weeks. You should come with us. I have the feeling your day wasn’t so relaxing.”
I shrugged.
“Tell me what happened.”
I did, but didn’t want to trouble him or bring down his mood, so I put the best face on it I could. He caught me at it. As we pulled into the driveway he said angrily, “You don’t have to treat me like I’m going to break into pieces, you know. It’s goddamned insulting. I’m tired of it. Bad enough to get it from the guys at work. Tiptoeing around me like I’m-like I’m a basket case or something.”
“Sorry,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say and only managed another lousy, “Sorry.”
He kept going on about it for another ten minutes or so, long enough for me to stop feeling apologetic. Maybe I would have kept my cool if I hadn’t spent the last two or three days looking at the ends of fingers pointed in my direction. I did manage to stay silent. At some point it must have dawned on him that I wasn’t participating in the conversation, though, because he broke off and asked, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“You’re treated like a leper at work and coddled at home. You want it to stop. I can’t do anything about what happens to you at work, but it will be a damned pleasure to stop coddling you. Will a bell ring at the end of this lecture period, or will you dismiss class in some other way?”
He didn’t answer, just swore under his breath and got out of the car. I sat there staring at the glove compartment as he opened the trunk, got the boxes out, and took them into the house, greeting the dogs as they ran outside. He came back out, walked over to my side of the car and lifted his hand, as if he were going to tap on the window. He hesitated, put his hand in his pocket and stood there. I went back to staring straight ahead, even when the dogs jumped up against the passenger door. I heard Frank tell them to get down, and they ran off to wrestle with one another in the front yard.
After a minute, Frank tapped his knuckles against the glass. I rolled the window down. He leaned over, so that his face was level with mine.
“Come inside,” he said.
I didn’t answer.
“Please.”
“For most of the weekend,” I said, “I’ve been doing whatever someone else wanted me to do. The results have not been great. Childish though it undoubtedly is, right now I just want to have a really terrific pout.”
He moved a short distance away, but didn’t go inside the house. He played with the dogs until they lay panting in the grass. Then he came over to the car again, but stood a few feet away. He squatted down, resting his elbows on his thighs. He plucked a piece of grass from the lawn, fiddled with it.
“Cassidy said something strange to me today,” he said.
