Joel Goldman - No way out

“Where’d you go?”

He laughed. “Not as far as I thought I’d go but as far as the money took me. Got to Matamoros, a little border town in Mexico, before I blew it on a gal with big brown eyes and bigger tits who swore she loved me long enough to get me drunk and in bed. Next morning, she and the money were gone, and I was hungover and broke. So I walked back across the border into Brownsville, Texas, lied about my age, and enlisted in the army. Got sent to Korea and bought a ticket home with a bullet in my leg.”

“You came back to Kansas City fifty years later to see Lilly Chase. You ever go back to Matamoros to see that pretty girl?”

He laughed. “A time or two. Never did catch up to her though.”

“That’s some story.”

“Best part is that it’s true, enough of it anyway.”

He slapped me on the back, went inside, leaving me alone on the porch, realizing I still didn’t know where to find Brett Staley.

They were gathered in the morning room, Roni on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, quiet but composed. Lilly stood next to the fireplace, turning her attention from Roni to Martha Chase, who was in her wheelchair, parked in front of the windows, both absent and present, her view limited to the squirrels chasing one another in the backyard. Terry Walker stood near Lilly, arms at his side, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking for a place to land. Kate sat in a chair across from the sofa, watching and listening, dissecting and cataloguing. No one looked my way when I entered the room.

“See to your mother,” Lilly said to Roni. “She needs to lie down.”

Roni rose from the couch, her head bowed, biting her lip. I followed Roni as she wheeled her mother from the room, down a hallway and to an elevator. She pushed the call button, and the elevator door opened.

“Sorry,” she said, backing the wheelchair into the elevator. “No room.”

I took the stairs, meeting them when the elevator reached the second floor. Roni didn’t speak as she pushed her mother past me and into a bedroom, closing the door and leaving me in the hall.

“We have to talk,” I said when she came out. She tried to walk past me, but I blocked her path. “You can be as angry as you like, but you have to talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Because Brett is in a lot of trouble.”

“And you’re the only one who can help him, right?”

“No, but I’m the only one willing to help him. You can help him, but you won’t.”

“There’s nothing I can do,” she said, bulling past me.

“Yes, you can. Tell me about your gun, the one used to kill Frank Crenshaw. What happened to it?”

She took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I kept in my dresser drawer, with my underwear, like everyone else does. Grandma Lilly picked me up at the police station on Sunday after I shot Frank. When I came home, I took a shower, and when I opened my dresser drawer, it was gone.”

“Who knew that’s where you kept the gun?”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Just Grandma and Brett.”

“Then why are you protecting Brett, especially now?”

“Because he didn’t kill Frank or his father. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And neither would my grandmother. I don’t know who took my gun or why, but it wasn’t Brett.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

“You don’t believe me. Why would they? Now for the last time, leave me and my family alone.”

The hall where she’d left me ran the width of the house, intersecting at one end with another that extended from the front of the house to the rear. I took a quick walk through both corridors. What had once been a home to dozens of young women and girls had been remodeled into a series of suites, each with a sitting room, walk-in closets big enough for me to live in, and spacious bedrooms. Lilly’s was on the back of the house with a view of trees, their remaining leaves a collage of red, yellow, and orange. Roni’s was next to her mother’s, joined by connected bathrooms.

I made a quick search of her bedroom, finding nothing of significance. She was neat, but not obsessive. She had three books on her nightstand, one a mystery, one about running your own business, and one about understanding strokes. There were no guns, holsters, or ammunition and no love letters from Brett, though there was a framed picture of them, arm in arm, sporting smiles big enough to swallow one another.

Standing at the entrance to her bathroom, I had a clear view of Martha lying in bed on her back. It was a hospital-style bed with a mattress that adjusted up and down and side rails to keep her from falling out. Walking softly so as not to disturb her, I crossed both bathrooms and into her room, watching her chest rise and fall in a gentle rhythm, wondering what life was like for her.

My mother had Alzheimer’s, and once, while visiting her in the nursing home, I remarked to a nurse how awful it was for her. She rarely spoke, spending most of her waking hours staring into space, oblivious to everyone and everything around her. The nurse surprised me when she asked me how I knew it was awful for her, making me realize that I was viewing my mother’s illness through my eyes, not really knowing what she was experiencing. Perhaps, said the nurse, she was content the way she was because she didn’t remember the way she used to be. Since there was no way to know what my mother knew or didn’t know, what she felt or didn’t feel, why, the nurse asked, should I assume it was awful for her when that would only make it worse for me?

I thought about Roni’s mother, trying not to see her through my eyes. She turned her head, opening her eyes, staring at me or through me, I couldn’t tell which. I wanted to ask her what she saw, but she closed her eyes again before I had a chance.

When I returned to the morning room, Roni was standing at the windows, her arms crossed. Terry, his hands in his pockets, was making a slow circle around the room, studying the floor. Lilly stood in another corner, talking on her cell phone with someone about funeral arrangements. Kate was still in her chair, entering all of them into her mental database. I caught her attention and signaled to her that it was time to go. Terry Walker was the only one who noticed us leave, raising his head, his eyes creased, his face grim.

“What did you find upstairs?” Kate asked when we got outside.

“How’d you know I was searching?”

“Like I haven’t seen you work. You never pass up an opportunity to snoop. And, Roni was in a real snit when she came back downstairs.”

“I didn’t find anything. She knew I wouldn’t. That’s why she left me up there.”

“If she doesn’t have anything to hide, why doesn’t she just tell you that?” Kate asked.

“She didn’t have anything to hide in her bedroom. As for anything else, I can’t get her to talk to me.”

“That’s because she doesn’t want to lie to you. Some people are so uncomfortable with deception they go out of their way to avoid lying. That doesn’t mean they don’t have something to hide. They may be willing to do the wrong thing even if they have a hard time covering it up. Instead of lying, they use hostility to discourage too many questions.”

“Knowing that doesn’t make me any smarter. She keeps a picture of Brett and her on her dresser. It’s one of those we’re so much in love we can’t stand it pictures.”

“I thought you said she couldn’t make up her mind about him.”

“Her mind was sure made up when that picture was taken. And, when I told her about Nick being killed and that Brett was at the top of the suspect list, she wouldn’t have any of it. She’s still defending him. Says he couldn’t have done it. What did you pick up from the people in that room?”