your telescope.”
“I don’t remember any of that.”
“That’s normal. It’s probably best.”
“No,” she said sharply. “It drives me nuts. I can’t figure it out. I’ll never figure it out if I can’t remember what happened.”
“What happened was tragic. You don’t need to go back there.”
“Do you really think she killed herself?”
Gram made a face, as if the question surprised her. “Yes. No one’s ever questioned that.”
“I’ve always questioned it.”
“You were eight, Amy. Suicide wasn’t something you could accept.”
“No, it’s more than that. Think about it. Why would Mom shoot herself in the head while I was in the house?”
“That’s why she tied that rope to your door, I suppose. I think the police were right about that. She didn’t want you to come out and find the body.”
“That doesn’t hold up, Gram. Mom had caught me playing in the attic just a few months before that. She was completely aware that I knew how to get out of my room with the door shut. She knew about the ceiling panel in my closet.”
“Maybe she forgot. She was obviously in a very tortured state.”
“But she wasn’t suicidal.”
“That’s a pretty tough judgment for an eight-year-old girl to make.”
“Not really. I remember the conversation Mom and I had before she died. I asked her to read me a story. She said she was too tired. But she promised to read me one the next night. She promised it would be the best story I ever heard.”
“Who knows what was going through her mind?”
“That just doesn’t sound like something a woman would say to her daughter an hour before she kills herself. She never even said goodbye, Gram.”
“Amy, you don’t know what happened after she tucked you into bed.”
“ Exactly. I don’t know, because there are things I can’t remember about that night. I try to remember. You know what happens? I get numbers in my head. M 57. You know what that is? It’s an astronomical designation for the Ring Nebula, the dying star I was looking at the night Mom died. Here I am trying to sort out the death of my mother, and all my overeducated brain can bring into focus is M 57, the fifty-seventh object in Charles Messier’s eighteenth-century catalog of fuzzy objects in the sky. It makes me crazy, Gram. Look at the sky right now. You can pick out the constellation of Lyra where the Ring Nebula lives, but you can’t see the Ring Nebula with the naked eye. We’re looking right at M 57, but we can’t see it.
“That’s the way I feel about the explanation for Mom’s death,” said Amy, her voice fading. “I’m looking right at it. But I just can’t see it.”
Gram looked into her troubled eyes, then gave her a gentle hug. “It’s not your fault that you don’t remember. Sometimes we don’t figure everything out. Sometimes we just never know.”
Amy wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. She knew Gram was trying to make her feel better, but it wasn’t working. That was Amy’s greatest fear in the world. The fear of never knowing.
Together, they turned away from the night sky and headed back inside.
31
From his hotel room late Tuesday night, Ryan called his voice mail at the clinic for messages. He had canceled his appointments for the week and routed his patients to the clinic in Lamar. Still, he wanted to make sure there were no emergencies. The first message was definitely nothing to worry about. Ninety-year-old Marjorie Spader wanted to know if she could use her own prescription cough medicine to help her cat dislodge a fur ball. Ryan shook his head. That was the crazy thing about Piedmont Springs. Folks would let a deadly cancer grow inside them for years, completely untreated. But let their cat start hacking on a fur ball and they were immediately on the phone to the doctor.
The fifth message got his attention. It was from Liz.
“Ryan, just calling as a courtesy to let you know that my attorney is planning to take Brent’s deposition. The subpoena was served today, but I didn’t want to start taking depositions of family members without giving you a call first. Take care.”
He cringed. Courtesy my ass. She had called to gloat. He hung up and called Norm at home. He was already in bed, half asleep, half watching the late news. He grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand. “Hello,” he grumbled.
“Sorry to bug you at home,” said Ryan.
He was groggy, forcing himself awake. “Yes, I did go to Boulder and I did copy the stupid yearbooks. It’ll take a couple of days for my investigator to run background checks on all your dad’s classmates.”
“Good. But that’s not why I’m calling. I need to talk to you.”
“Just a sec,” Norm said softly. He rolled out of bed and walked into the big walk-in closet, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. “What’s up?”
“Liz’s lawyer is going to depose Brent, my brother-in-law.”
“Tonight?” He was being facetious.
“No, wiseguy. But the subpoena has already been served. I have to move fast if I’m going to stop it.”
“What does he know?”
“Not everything, but enough.”
“Walk me through it. Does anybody besides you and your mom know about the safe deposit box, the money?”
“As far as I know, my mom and I are the only ones who know about the safe deposit box at the Banco Nacional. The only one who knows about the three million at the Banco del Istmo is me. But Sarah knows about the two million in the attic. So does Brent.”
“What does Liz know?”
“Hard to say. She had a talk with my dad a few weeks before he died. I don’t remember exactly how she put it, but she claims he made some remark that money would come her way soon.”
Norm took a seat on the clothes hamper behind the closet door. “So that’s their angle.”
“What?”
“They’re trying to say the money was a gift from your dad while he was alive, rather than an inheritance that passes through the estate after death.”
“What’s the difference? From Liz’s standpoint, I mean.”
“Huge. If it’s an inheritance, it’s what the law calls a special equity. She can’t get her hands on it in the divorce. But if it was a gift made before your father died, that might be a different situation. Especially if she can show that your dad expressly promised it to her.”
“Meaning she can get it in the divorce?”
“It’s a tough argument. But it’s their only argument.”
Ryan rose from the hotel bed and began to pace. “A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed Liz would reach like this. But I’ll believe anything after the wringer her lawyer ran me through in his office.”
“Who’s her lawyer?”
“Phil Jackson in Denver.”
“Oh, man. That guy’s a shark.”
“You know him?”
“Hell yes. He has his own publicist, for crying out loud. His mug is on the front page of the legal fish wrappers every other day. He’s slick. I think he’s downright dishonest. In fact, it wouldn’t at all surprise me to hear that one of his overly zealous investigators is behind the disappearance of your bag.”
“How could that be?”
