Jeff Abbott - Distant Blood

“I don't understand, son,” Bob Don said to my back. I faced him.

“Meanness,” I repeated. “There's more tension in this family than kindness. Someone could have tampered with Gretchen's drink just out of sheer cussedness.” I” avoided casting accusing eyes toward Sass.

“Granted, getting Gretchen inebriated would hurt her,” Sass countered, “but I don't see anyone here wanting to inflict that pain. I don't want to pick another fight with you, Jordan, but I've lived with a drunkard myself. I hate to play devil's advocate, but it's much more likely that Gretchen poured out that booze than any mysterious gloved hand with an ulterior motive.”

“You're right,” I said, and she blinked. “I would agree with you. Normally. But I've seen how hard Gretchen's fought for her sobriety, and I don't believe she'd toss it away on a whim. Either something upset her so badly she drank, and she doesn't want to tell us, or someone spiked her Dr Pepper.”

“Uncle Mutt terminally ill, Lolly dead, now this.” Bob Don shook his head. “Bad, bad days for this family.”

I, unknowing, proceeded to make them worse.

“Who's Paul?” I asked. Bob Don studied the brightly stitched rug on the floor. Aunt Sass conducted a careful examination of her flawless fingernails.

“Am I talking to myself here? Gretchen mentioned someone named Paul, thought she saw him last night.”

“Then she was drunk last night, too,” Sass said in a colorless tone. “Paul was our younger brother. He's dead. He was Deborah's daddy.”

“Oh.” The alleged murderer and suicide. “Were he and Gretchen close?”

Bob Don stood and walked out of the room. I felt a familiar pang that suggested I was tasting my own shoe leather.

“Yes, Jordan, they were. Once,” Sass answered, watching the doorway where her brother had retreated. “Paul was Gretchen's first husband.”

Bob Don had withdrawn to his own room to care for his wife. Candace claimed a headache. And I didn't feel like lingering in Sass's domain any longer than necessary. I took to the porch with a tall glass of Dr Pepper, ice, and a lime slice.

The stalwart Deputy Praisner no longer stood sentry there. Instead, I saw a bored-looking young female deputy tossing pebbles off the dock. The sunlight glittered against the gun in her holster.

I sipped at my drink and considered the latest anthill I'd kicked over.

Odd, the minutiae you unearth around the roots of the family tree. I'd never known that Gretchen was previously married, much less to Bob Don's own brother. The Goertz family Christmas must've been extra festive the year that Bob Don and Gretchen exchanged vows. Marrying your sister-in-law-the surest way to drive two brothers apart.

I sucked on my lime, dumped its scraggly crescent back into the ice, and poured the rest of my soda over it. The sun felt warm on my face and the breeze was cool and fresh. I was at the coast-I should have been happy and relaxed. Instead I felt the pulsing rhythm of a nascent headache and a homesickness for my dull, plain family. No announcements of terminal illnesses at the dinner table, no gasping deaths on the dining-room floor, no drunken stepmothers sobbing out their sobriety. Only the gentle nagging of my sister about my latest misadventure, the repeated requests of my nephew to go horseback riding, the silent perambulations of my fading mother around the furniture at our new house, where she always seemed bound on some dear and secret journey. The Poteets were downright dull compared with the Goertzes. I preferred dull.

“You stare out at the ocean any longer, you'll go mad,” a voice observed. My cousin Deborah leaned against the white wood of the porch and smiled thinly at me.

“Madness fits here.” I spoke without thinking, hoping I hadn't offended her. She simply shrugged.

“Aunt Lolly.” She sighed. “I can't quite believe that she's gone. I keep expecting her to round that corner, chirping at Sweetie to come cuddle in her lap. Or hollering at me for some imagined crime.” Deborah stared out at the ocean, watching the great, mothering waves sliding across the sands.

I said nothing, enjoying the companionable silence and the whoosh of wind and water. I waited for her to talk; I guessed she wanted to voice her burdens. Her fingers drummed a regular beat against the wooden rail of the porch, a metronome for her nerves.

“I don't want you to get the wrong idea about Lolly and me.” Deborah kept her gaze firmly on the expanse of water.

“I take it y'all didn't get along.”

She hung her head over the porch railing. “Oh, it's so complicated.”

“Hey, I'm the illegitimate kid. I'm the personification of complicated.”

It garnered a tense laugh from her. “You know Lolly took me in when my mother died.” She made no reference to her father.

“Yes.”

“Well”-Deborah ran a hand through her thick, dark hair and seemed to cast about for the right words-”that wasn't my decision. Had I my druthers, I'd have gone to live with Uncle Mutt. I've adored him since I was little. But he didn't want a child underfoot then; he was the fast and easy bachelor. So Uncle Mutt, in his grand role as patriarch, dispatched me to live with Aunt Lolly. It was kind of an arranged marriage, y'know? Neither of us were very thrilled.”

I thought about how badly Gretchen wanted a child. “Bob Don and Gretchen didn't offer to take you in?”

“No. Aunt Gretchen was… still drinking.” Deborah shook her head. “She wouldn't have wanted kids anyway.”

The child of her ex-husband. I could understand why. Gretchen, Bob Don, his brother Paul-untangling that web would take time if I relied on Gretchen and Bob Don to speak up.

“Why was Lolly not a good match for you?”

“Because family propriety matters so to Lolly-perhaps more than it should.” She still referred to her aunt in present tense and I wasn't heartless enough to correct her. “Brian and I weren't anything more than stains on the Goertz name to her.”

“Brian?” I asked.

Her jaw worked for a moment, reining in strong emotion. “My brother. My little brother. He's dead, too.”

“Oh, Deborah, I'm so sorry.”

Her eyes filmed with tears, but she quickly blinked them away. “You'd have liked him real well, Jordan.”

“I'm so sorry,” I repeated. I make for a lousy comforter.

“Don't listen to the lies they tell,” she stormed with sudden fury. “Because they do lie.”

“Who's they?”

“This whole goddamned family.” Anger reddened her face and she grasped my hand, her trimmed nails digging furrows in my skin. “They'll tell you my dad murdered my mother and then went off and killed himself. But he didn't. He didn't.”

I took both her hands in mine. Her skin quivered against my touch. I saw now she was too mad to cry. Fury contorted her face into a vengeful grimace.

“Do you want to tell me what happened? What's the truth?”

She didn't look at me; she stared back out at the lapping bay as she talked. “My mother-when I was just six, and Brian was only two-was found shot to death. In my father's studio. Her face had been blown off.” She stifled a shudder. “My father went missing. Later we-I mean Uncle Mutt-found a note that my father had left. He said he'd shot my mother, then snuck out here to Sangre Island and walked into the ocean. He said he was sorry for what he'd done and couldn't live with himself anymore.”

“Uncle Mutt found this note?”

She nodded. “It was taped to the door of the house. The family had gathered here for my mother's funeral. He left the note-and then vanished.”

“And you don't believe your father killed your mother?” I didn't mean for the question to sound so heartless, and I squeezed Deborah's hands in support.