Archer Mayor - Three Can Keep a Secret

Friel considered that before admitting, “Yeah.”

Joe had by now understood the implicit rules of engagement with this man. “Great,” he said, taking their host’s elbow and pointing him toward the back hallway. “Lead the way.”

They trooped toward the rear of the small house, passing two bedrooms and a bathroom, and entered a dingy, worn kitchen with rusting appliances, including a stacked washer/dryer. A small metal table with two chairs was shoved against one wall, a cluster of medications corralled in its middle. Joe pulled out a chair and positioned Friel to sit in it. He took the one opposite while Spinney leaned against the counter near a sink piled with dirty dishes.

“Is this your house or your mother’s, William?” Joe asked first, following an instinct.

He had it right. “Hers,” Friel answered.

“And you’ve lived here how long?”

Friel seemed a little confused by the question. “All my life,” he eventually replied, adding, “Almost.”

Joe nodded. His own brother could have made the same claim, the dynamics there being admittedly much different. Still, he had often wondered how Leo would fare once their mother died-just as he now wondered about this man, given the same inevitability. His bets were on Leo coming out of it far better than William.

Joe rubbed his forehead, as if chasing away such distractions. “Good to know,” he said. “That probably means you knew Carolyn Barber. Is that correct?”

Friel’s eyes widened a fraction as he stopped staring at the table’s surface and looked at his questioner. “Aunt Carolyn?”

“Right. She and your mother were sisters, weren’t they?”

“Yeah.” He paused before asking, “Did she die?”

It was asked without affect, as if read from a script.

“No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put that in the past tense.” Joe expanded his response by adding, “I’ve actually never met her. That’s all I meant.”

Friel nodded slightly. “Oh.”

“Would that mean anything? If she had died?” Joe asked.

“Mean anything?” Friel replied questioningly, a furrow between his eyes.

“Yeah. You know. Inheritance, maybe? Or just the passing of the family’s black sheep. I don’t know. Anything-like I said. I don’t know the woman.”

“Is that why you’re here? Aunt Carolyn?”

Joe sidestepped answering. “You haven’t seen her mentioned on the news, on TV? We just released a bulletin on her-should be all over.”

He responded. “We don’t watch the news. Too depressing. Why is she on TV, if she’s okay?”

“I didn’t say she was okay. When did you last see her?”

Friel was shaking his head. “When I was a kid. She’s been in the nuthouse most of my life. What happened to her?”

“Why was she put there?”

Friel scowled. “I don’t know. She was off her rocker.”

Again, his voice was flat.

“Did your mom ever talk about that? Why it happened?”

“Not really. She had other things to worry about.”

Joe didn’t speak. The silence grew heavy in the small, battered room. Finally, as hoped, Friel sighed and added, “My dad was a drunk. Kicked us around pretty good. Aunt Carolyn was the least of our problems.”

This was sadly familiar to the two detectives.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Joe said gently.

Friel sat back in his chair and gave Joe the most direct eye-to-eye contact he’d delivered so far. His half smile was rueful and heartbroken.

“I got married once,” he volunteered. “Didn’t last long. Lucky we didn’t have kids. It was a mess.” He glanced at the hallway door, toward the sound of the distant TV set, and murmured, “So I came back. Figured what the hell.”

He straightened, ran his fingers through what was left of his hair, and addressed them in an artificially stronger tone. “Look, I know squat about Aunt Carolyn, but Mom kept some items in an album. Maybe they’ll be useful.”

His and Joe’s chairs screeched on the scarred linoleum as they stood, and Friel led the way back toward the hallway and one of the bedrooms.

It was pitch black until he switched on the overhead light, revealing as in a flash photograph what looked like a crime scene, barring a body. The bed was large, old, unmade, and surrounded by several fold-up tray tables cluttered with half-empty glasses, a stained pizza box, crumpled tissues, bags of candy, and assorted junk. The floor was populated by small tepees of piled clothing. The furniture consisted of a single dresser and a makeup table so covered with belongings that only its spindly legs gave it an identity.

Friel crossed to the dresser, wrestled open one of its top drawers, making about a dozen dusty figurines grouped haphazardly across its surface tremble and rattle, and dug around until he extracted a cheap, pink plastic photo album stamped in gold with the logo, MEMORIES OF YOU.

This he handed to Joe. “Ton of crap in there-me, the old lady, my dad, Aunt Carolyn, bunch of other people. Postcards, too, newspaper clippings. Like I said…”

Joe took it from him and looked around. “Mind if I take this back to the kitchen?”

Friel shrugged. “Knock yourself out. I’ll go keep Mom company.”

“Before you go,” Joe asked him, “what’s the story behind your name being different from your mother’s and Carolyn’s?”

“Friel was my dad’s. After he left, Mom went back to her maiden name.”

Joe nodded. “Thanks. Just wanted to confirm my assumption.”

He and Lester returned to the kitchen and sat at the small table, Joe imagining Friel and his mother sharing meals here in total silence every night, whether they actually did so or not. It was a Norman Rockwell nightmare.

William Friel had been accurate in his description of the album’s contents. There were no labels to help them decipher the assortment, but in most cases, none were needed. The shots of small, stiff groupings facing the camera didn’t call for more elaboration than the body language in evidence. Plus, having met Barb Barber and her son, Les and Joe could easily decipher not just those two, if younger and occasionally more animated, but they could also see elements of the son’s features in the face of the brutal-looking man often posing with them.

“Fun bunch,” Lester nevertheless murmured, leafing slowly through the book.

Joe stopped him with an extended finger. “That must be Carolyn,” he commented, tapping on a smiling young woman standing beside Barb, their arms interlinked. “She’s cute.”

“Like a slimmed-down, brightened-up version of her sister,” Les agreed.

Joe pointed to another shot. “She’s certainly the only one who smiles any.”

Les came to a page with a folded news clipping, which he gingerly opened until it was about twice the size of the page to which it was attached. The glue had darkened a quarter of it, but it was still legible, and the grainy photograph of a beaming young Carolyn spoke for itself. She was waving at the camera next to a straitlaced man in a business suit, under the headline, GOVERNOR-FOR-A-DAY! The date at the top was just under fifty years ago.

“Who’s the guy?” Les asked, squinting at the caption.

“‘Young Caroline Barber,’” Joe read, adding as an aside, “they misspelled her name, ‘had her time in the spotlight as Governor-for-a-Day on Thursday, when Senator Gorden Marshall, R-Chittenden, introduced her to a joint session of the legislature as part of the Administration’s newly launched effort to bring the people closer to state government’s inner workings.’”

“Who in their right mind came up with that one?” Lester asked, peering at the picture. “Sure doesn’t look like Gorden Marshall thought much of it.”

“Is there an article that goes with it?” Joe asked, peeling the page back a bit to study the flip side.