J. Jance - Hand of Evil

Ali nodded but said nothing.

“So when someone like that does die-someone like your good-for-nothing husband, for example-I trust you don’t go around carrying a load of guilt over it. That would be completely unnecessary-and, under the circumstances, entirely counterproductive.”

Arabella looked at Ali sharply, as though waiting for an answer or a denial or something. In fact Ali was too struck by Arabella’s comment to respond at all. It seemed to her that Arabella had read cutloose, looked beyond the words, and glimpsed the darkest part of Ali’s soul, a blemish no amount of soap could wash away.

Ali had indeed wished Paul Grayson dead on more than one occasion, thinking that having him dead would somehow make things easier for her. Now that he was dead, Ali was stuck with all the accompanying consequences. Not only was Paul dead, as were his fiancee and their unborn baby, but there was also another mother and another young baby fathered by Paul to consider. And even though none of that was actually Ali’s fault, still…

“Yes,” Ali admitted finally. “I guess I do feel somewhat guilty.”

“You shouldn’t,” Arabella told her cheerfully, “but I suppose that’s all to your credit. In fact, I’m actually glad to hear it. I’ve suspected all along that’s the kind of person you were and are-which is to say-relatively nice. After Bill died, I never felt a moment’s worth of guilt-not a single one.”

The log in the fireplace burned through and tumbled between the andirons with a resounding crash, sending a shower of sparks spiraling upward.

Ali wasn’t sure where the conversation had gone. She seemed to have missed something. “Who’s Bill?” Ali asked. “Did you have a husband who died, too?”

“Good heavens no,” Arabella said with a laugh. “Not a husband. Thankfully I’ve never had one of those. In my case it was a brother who died-a stepbrother, actually, an older stepbrother. And I didn’t kill him,” she added hastily. “Not that I didn’t want to, but in the end he took matters into his own hands and saved everyone else the trouble. He got himself all drunked up and drove off the side of a mountain. I understand in your case that someone else got rid of Fang for you without your having to lift a finger, either. I loved that you called him Fang, by the way. I thought that was inspired, and I always loved Phyllis Diller. You must have, too.”

At a loss and not quite able to make the connections, Ali reverted to her old journalism training and asked questions. “When did your stepbrother die?” she asked. “Recently?”

“Oh, no,” Arabella replied. “It’s years ago now-right around fifty. I was actually out of the country when it happened, and I didn’t hear about it until much later, so I’ve managed to blot out the exact date. After all, at my age I’m entitled to a few senior moments. Still, I’m sure I’ll be able to track down all those gory details should I need them. Mother kept a file I’ll be able to use for research, but that’s one of the things I wanted to ask you about-changing names and details. When you’re writing about an ugly situation-a real-life situation-is it preferable to write it as it happened, or are you better off changing names and such to keep the legal beagles from coming after you?”

“I’m sorry,” Ali said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I’m thinking about writing a book, you see,” Arabella said. “And I’m wondering if I should fictionalize some of it or all of it-you know, change names to protect the innocent and all that?”

That depends on whether or not what you’re writing is the truth, Ali thought.

She said, “Look, we’re getting into some pretty murky territory here. What you’re talking about could have legal ramifications-adverse legal ramifications. You should probably consult an attorney, one who specializes in libel.”

“I’ve already told you, hiring attorneys isn’t an option at this time,” Arabella replied. “But I will say that the idea that I might decide to write a book is the very last thing Billy thought would happen when he came barging in here asking for a handout.”

Now Ali was really confused. “Billy?” she interjected. “I thought you just told me he was dead.”

“Bill Junior is dead,” Arabella replied. “Billy is his son, my nephew, and a chip off the old block if ever there was one. Every bit as contemptible as his father and his grandfather. DNA is spooky that way, don’t you think? I wonder if the human genome project is looking into that? Billy’s my nephew, but until he showed up Sunday afternoon, I hadn’t ever laid eyes on him. Looks just like his father. That gave me a bit of a shock.”

“How old is he?” Ali asked.

“Billy? Late fifties.”

“And you’d never met him before?”

“Never.”

“So why did he look you up after all this time?”

“Money,” Arabella answered. “He’s gone through what my father left him. He came here under the mistaken impression that I still had loads of Mother’s money, and that I’d be happy to give him some of that, too. It turns out, of course, that Mother’s money is pretty much gone, and I wouldn’t give him any of it even if it wasn’t. When I told him he wasn’t getting a dime’s worth of what I had left, things went from bad to worse.”

“How so?” Ali asked.

“He threatened me.”

“With bodily harm?”

“It sounded like bodily harm to me. He said that someone in my condition, whatever that is, shouldn’t be left living on my own with only an aging butler to look after me. I told him Mr. Brooks is quite capable-he’s only seventy-six by the way-and we’re managing quite nicely. Have been for years. At which point Billy ran his finger across the table and said the place could use some dusting-the arrogant twit. Who cares about dusting anyway?”

Ali immediately regretted her own critical thoughts about how things were slipping a bit in the housekeeping department. She said nothing.

Arabella continued. “He went on to tell me that if I was going to insist on staying in this big, drafty old house, I should let him do a reverse mortgage on the place so I could hire some adequate help and do some fix-up kinds of repairs. That was when I told him I wasn’t interested and he could put his reverse mortgage scheme where the sun don’t shine.”

Ali managed to suppress a smile. “What happened then?”

Arabella sighed. “That’s when the nicey-nice long-lost nephew act ended. The gloves came off, and he went downright ballistic. I’m afraid having a dreadful temper is DNA-related, too. His father was the same way. Billy came right out and told me that if I refused to listen to reason and do what he said, he’d go to court to have me declared incompetent. He said that once that happened he’d see to it that I was locked away in one of those dreadful assisted living places.”

She shivered slightly and rubbed the tops of her arms as though a chill draft had blown across her shoulders. “I wouldn’t last a week in one of those,” she added.

“Wait a minute,” Ali objected. “You’re anything but incompetent.”

Arabella smiled a little sadly. “Thank you for saying that,” she said.

“I didn’t just say it; I mean it!” Ali declared. “It sounds to me as though Billy was trying to blackmail you, and blackmail happens to be illegal. Did you call the cops?”

“No,” Arabella answered.

“Why not?”

“Because, if I did, I’m sure he’d convince them that, as my last living blood relative, he was just watching out for my best interests, that he was looking after his dotty old auntie.”

“People who know you would never believe that,” Ali said.

“They might,” Arabella allowed. “Billy came off as a really slick operator. Probably a good salesman as well. If he takes me to court, he seems entirely capable of convincing some unsuspecting family court judge that I’m a complete nutcase-which I am on occasion, I’m told. And it would be that much easier if he brought up my past, which, of course, he’s threatening to do.”