Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

“Just, we should get it done.”

Another voice ended the conversation: the woman within the GPS announced that their destination was on the left.

Ma’am, I wonder if you’d be willing to help us out,” Shaw said.

The woman in the doorway was early seventies, he estimated. She looked at them with a smile but with still eyes, as one will do with doorbell ringers who seem polite but are wholly unexpected. She’d be wondering about this pair in particular, who bore a very slight resemblance to each other. She wore an apron, not the sort serious chefs donned like body armor, but light blue, with frills and lace, insubstantial. A garment from a bygone era.

“My husband will be back soon.”

Offered as a reason that she might be less helpful to them now, being only half the complement. And spoken too as a shield. Reinforcements would arrive momentarily.

Her name, they’d learned thanks to Mack’s research, was Eleanor.

Shaw introduced himself and Russell and then said, “My brother and I are looking into some family history.”

This was indisputable. Not the whole truth, but how often is that really necessary?

“We were going through some old family papers and found out our father had some interest in this house or whoever lived here.”

Russell qualified, “A long time ago.”

“Well, this’s my husband’s family’s house. He’s lived here thirty years. Who’s your father? Oh, you said ‘had.’ Does that mean he’s not with us any longer?”

“No, he’s not,” Shaw told her.

“I’m sorry.” Her face exuded genuine sorrow. This was a woman who had experienced loss herself.

“What was your father’s name?”

“Ashton Shaw.”

A squint, and faint lines appeared in the powdery face. “I don’t think I know the name. Maybe Mort does. You have a picture? Maybe it’ll jog my memory?” She was more comfortable now, since the men weren’t trying to talk their way inside and sell her insurance or aluminum siding.

Shaw was irritated with himself for not thinking to bring a picture of their father. He was surprised when Russell produced a small photo — and not on his camera but from the location where family pictures used to be kept: his wallet. Shaw was stung even deeper at the thought that he had accused his older brother — even if silently — of killing a man whose picture he carried around with him after all these years.

Glancing down at the faded rectangle, he was more surprised yet to find that the shot was not of Ashton alone, but of the three Shaw men: father and sons. Ashton was behind, the boys in front. Shaw was about twelve. They were rigged for rappelling in the high country.

He turned back to Eleanor, expecting her to say, My, I can see the resemblance , or something similar.

Instead she was frozen, gaping at the picture.

“Ma’am?” Russell asked.

“I do know him.”

Shaw’s pulse picked up. “How?”

“Years ago, ages. He was older than in your picture and his hair was wilder. And whiter. But I remember him clearly. It was at the funeral. He was looking very distraught. Well, we all were, of course. But he seemed especially troubled. We thought that was odd since no one in the family had a clue who he was.”

Shaw: “Whose funeral was it?”

“My son. Amos.”

“Amos Gahl?”

“That’s right. I’m Eleanor Nadler now. I remarried after my first husband passed.”

She tilted her head and looked each of them over, and it was a coy, conspiratorial gaze. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll make some coffee. And you boys can tell me why you’re really here.”

The house smelled of mothballs, which, Shaw supposed, most people associate with grandparents’ homes and old clothing in odd cuts and colors stored away forever.

Shaw’s thought, though, was of snakes: during one particularly dry, infestive year, Ashton and the children had ringed the cabin and gardens with pungent spheres of naphthalene to ward off persistent rattlers searching for water and mice.

Eleanor nodded to a floral couch, and the Shaw brothers sat. She disappeared into the kitchen. Given his childhood, Shaw had no reference point for television sitcoms but he and Margot had occasionally lain on inflatable mattresses during one of her archeological digs and, on a tablet or computer, watched the shows her parents and grandparents had loved. Surreal to have just made love to a sultry woman, in the wilderness of Arizona, your pistol handy in case of coyotes, and be watching The Andy Griffith Show (funny) or Bewitched (not his style).

This home was immaculate, well dusted, pastel. There were many objects sitting on many surfaces. China figurines were outnumbered only by family photographs.

Five minutes later the woman returned with a silver tray on which sat three delicate porcelain cups, filled with black coffee, on saucers. A sugar bowl and pitcher filled with viscous cream, not milk, sat beside them. Also, three spoons and three napkins folded into triangles. She passed out one cup each to Shaw and Russell and took one for herself. The brothers doctored with cream. The coffee was rich. African. Kenyan, Shaw was pretty sure.

In her soft voice she said, “I have a feeling that this isn’t about 23andMe genealogy, is it?”

“No, Ms. Nadler—?” Russell began.

“Eleanor,” she corrected. “I have a feeling we have something important in common. First names seem appropriate.”

“Eleanor,” Shaw said, sipping again and putting the cup down. The clink seemed loud. “We’re here looking into how our father died.” He had to say the next part. “We think he was killed under circumstances similar to your son’s death.”

“It was no accident,” she muttered. “I know that.”

Russell said, “Not long before he died, our father was in touch with some coworkers who knew Amos.”

“At BlackBridge.” Her lips tightened.

A nod. “They think Amos smuggled some evidence out of the company. Evidence of crimes they’d committed.”

Shaw went on to explain about the Urban Improvement Plan and other illegal activities that the company was involved in: the stock manipulation, the kickbacks, the phony earthquake inspections.

She didn’t know UIP or other specifics — Shaw supposed her son intentionally didn’t tell her too much, to protect her — but she said, “There was always something wrong about that place. He was never comfortable there.” Her eyes strayed to a picture on the wall. It depicted Gahl in his early twenties. He was in a soccer kit. Curly dark hair, a lean face. “He was such a good boy. Smart. Good-looking... Oh, he was a catch. I’d thought he’d bring home the most beautiful girl in college.” A laugh. “He brought home some beautiful boys ... That was the way he went. Fine with me.” A sigh. “My son was happy. He loved academia.”

“Where did he teach?” Russell asked.

“San Francisco State. He was happy there.” Her face tightened. “Then he joined that company. It wasn’t a good place. It was dark. But he got tempted. Where else could somebody with a history degree make the kind of money they paid him?”

Shaw: “Are you comfortable telling us more about his death?”

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on a ceramic statue of a bird, a mourning dove on the coffee table.

“Officially it was a car crash. He went off Highway One. You know how bad that can be south of the city?”

Both men nodded, and Shaw thought of the article in Ashton’s secret room about the state assemblyman’s crash and the ensuing fire that destroyed some records he had with him.

“It was near Maverick. The beach.” The extreme surfing capital of the state.