Malice Times Page 4

  The people in our immediate vicinity stopped talking and looked at us. My father's face flushed red. I think I finally managed to get to him, but the glare left his face and he squinted, tilting his head a little to the left. Concern swept across his Italian features. The question that he should have been asking from the beginning had finally popped into his head.

  "Why did you come back?"

  "Certainly, not for this little reunion."

  "I’m not delusional, Joseph. I was asking what you came back for." The words came in hisses between bared teeth.

  "A little of this and a little of that."

  "What were you doing with Drake's bodyguard?"

  “Bodyguard? Is that what we’re calling them these days?”

  “What did he want?” he asked.

  "Just to talk."

  "About?"

  "You," I shrugged, turned and walked into the foyer. When I reached the door I glanced over my shoulder. He hadn't moved. The concern grew on his face. He seemed to age ten years right there. He stared intently at an area on the floor by the door. It seemed unfair to let him stand there thinking that I was somehow connected with Drake. I’m a lot of things. Fair isn’t one of them.

  People walked in and out of the room. They talked softly and inspected the magnificent mansion. All of a sudden, I felt like I had just entered an Agatha Christie murder mystery. Which one of the many suspects saw the murderer enter the room and will soon be found murdered in a pool of their own blood? I resisted the urge to gather the suspects in the parlor.

  The old house felt strangely warm and inviting. I remembered when Michael and I used to fight in that foyer over the best things in life, Tonka Trunks, Weeble Wobbles, Matchbox cars and eventually girls. The fights usually ended up with me bloodying Michael’s nose and my father bloodying my face. The only rule I had until I started dating Rae Dempsey was don’t hit your brother. The lush red carpet we used to fight on had been replaced with a dark gray. The red always reminded me of blood, like something out of a Dracula movie. Nostalgia enveloped me like a warm cocoon.

  I walked up the winding stairs. At the top I noticed all the rooms were closed. The same dark gray carpet covered the floors here as well. I wondered if I had been too hard on dear old dad. Sarcasm was a great tool to keep people from getting too close to you, but I had used it to deliberately hurt him. The man had just lost his son, in many ways for the second time in his life. When I had left, I assumed it was very much like his eldest had died. The bitterness I felt in my stomach made me uneasy. The anger that boiled inside me eliminated the guilt, so I let the thought fly away like a kite tethered only slightly to me.

  The hallway was shrouded in darkness. A striking coldness came over my body. All I wanted to do was turn around, walk back down the stairs, order a tequila, and then another, and then another, and then another, until the gnawing at the lining of my stomach was replaced by the sickly turning of inebriation. I really might have a problem with tequila. Something else I inherited from my mother. Then a sudden curiosity replaced the gnawing. A strange blue tint hovered in the air. The smell of lilac permeated that part of the house.

  My room had been the first one down the hall on the right. On the left there was a window covered by a blind. I looked out and into the side yard where the lilac trees still stood. Across from my old room was Michael's. Still stenciled on my door was the name, “Joey.” I went to my brother's door. It didn't budge. I remembered the time my brother locked himself in his room because Tammy Peterson turned him down for the sixth grade dance.

  From around the corner I heard the sweet hum of a song I heard dozens of times as a child. Marie, the housekeeper, came walking around the corner. When she saw me she practically jumped out of her short and rotund frame. “Ah, me. Is you?"

  "Is me, Marie. How are you?" I smiled.

  She ran to me and wrapped her big fat Italian arms around my waist. "Bene, bene. You?"

  My grandfather had picked up this short, plump, Italian woman while visiting relatives in Venice forty years ago. He took pity on her when she stabbed the man who had killed her husband. To this day I still can’t believe that this woman took a knife and gutted a man, turning the knife over and over until he stopped squirming. My grandfather brought her to America.

  "Great," I said. "Now that I've seen you."

  She smiled and kissed my cheeks. "You gone long time. Where you go?"

  "Away from here."

  She nodded her head. I could see tears beginning to well up in those big brown eyes. "Signore Brad tell me little."

  She was one of only two people in that house who I truly missed. The other was Brad Graber, who no one seemed to know anything about. Brad’s job didn’t really suggest longevity. A mixture of fear and anger accompanied that realization. Joshua said he didn’t know who he was, although his manner suggested otherwise. Dempsey laughed off the inquiry.

  I looked back at the door. "Marie, do you have your house keys with you?"

  "Si. Why?"

  "Open Michael's door for me." I pointed my head at the locked door.

  "Oh," she sighed. She viciously shook her head. "Signore Marchello say never go in there again. He lock door day Michael die.” She vigorously crossed herself. “Never open again."

  "You'll open it for me, Marie."

  "I can't. Signore Marchello only one with key to Mikey’s room." Mikey. I laughed. No one but Marie could call Michael that.

  A voice from down the hall called, "She's telling you the truth."

  My mother stood at the top of the stairs. The blue tint of the hallway highlighted her blonde hair. Makeup had run down her rosy white cheeks in streams and dried.

  "I believe her," I said. "What's he trying to hide?"

  "Nothing," my mother said. "He just doesn't want anyone in his room. It is something parents do when they lose their children. It is the only thing that we have left of you when you’re gone, except our memories. Try your room, you might be surprised."

  Marie scurried off when my mother started walking towards me. My mother walked to my door, turned the doorknob and pushed. It didn’t open.

  "Open the door."

  “Which one?”

  “I have no desire to take a stroll down memory lane, mother,” I said and pointed at Michael’s door.

  "Why?" Her skepticism matched my own.

  "Because I asked you to. When was the last time I asked you to do anything for me?"

  I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. Normal phrases used in the right situation can be very hurtful. She frowned. "If I recall, it was the last time I saw you or heard your voice. I caught you packing. You asked me not to tell your father. I did that for you."

  "You were right to do that. Look at me now."

  "Yes, look at you now. I thought if you got away from here that you would find a way to forgive your father and come to terms with what happened. But you are as bitter and full of hate as ever."

  "Please spare me," I said.

  "You never used to talk to me like that."

  "I grew up, lost my naiveté."

  “You lost your naiveté around age twelve, Joey. Where have you been? Why didn't you ever write or call?"

  "If I'd done that, that sociopath you call a husband would have found me."

  “Don’t talk about your father like that.”

  “I'm a little big to be taken over your knee.”

  "Where were you?"

  "Not here.”

  "Well, what have you been doing then?”

  “I work in a circus,” I said. “I train monkeys."

  "Do you work for someone?"

  "Everyone works for someone."

  "Who?" she asked undeterred.

  "They are very smart monkeys," I said.

  “I’m serious, Joey.”

  “Don’t you watch the news? Everyone is following the trial right now. I mean, that’s how Michael found me.”

  “You talked to Michael?”

  “Y
es, I did.”

  “When?” Her lower lip began to quiver. She was close to breaking down again.

  “The night before he died.”

  “What did he want?”

  “My help.”

  “That’s why you’re here. You came back because your brother asked you to.” Suddenly tears were in her eyes. “Which means you do care. Don’t you? Don’t you?”

  "Now will you open the door?"

  She gave in and opened the door. The inside of the room smelled dusty, which seemed strange considering it's only been three days since my brother's murder. There was a more distant smell. The musky smell of my brother’s favorite cologne. It always made me sneeze, so in salute of the memory of my brother, I did.

  “God, bless you.”

  “God has nothing to do with this place,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Excuse me?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

  “Are you going to try to find out who killed Michael?”

  On the bed sat two open suitcases. Both were half empty. The walls were completely bare. The room had been recently painted. Cardboard boxes were scattered all over the floor much like in his study at his apartment. I broke open one of the boxes. Inside were a bunch of books, which would explain the empty bookshelves in his study. I lifted one out, The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler. I flipped through the pages. At the back was the notation in a small cursive scrawl, “With Love, Lynda.” I tossed the book back. I hated when people wrote in books.

  "Was Michael going somewhere?" I asked not letting on that I knew Michael had an apartment in town.

  "No, coming home," she said. Then she saw my look of confusion and quickly added, "Vacation."

  The fact that she lied to me so readily didn’t improve my mood. "You don't take all of your books on vacation. If I’m going to find out who killed Michael someone is going to have to start telling me the truth. At least a partial truth. He moved out, or he was moving out."

  "No, he was coming home. He moved out a while ago, but decided to move back home."

  "A recent decision or was Michael a slow unpacker?"

  "It was a rather recent decision."

  "How recent?"

  "A few days before maybe.”

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  “It didn’t seem to matter,” she said.

  “If it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t have asked.” I said. “Why lie about it?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to know that Michael had moved out. Isn’t that obvious? He didn’t leave on the best of terms. Why did he want help?"

  "Not really sure. I was supposed to meet him at The Grove and he never showed. He just said that he needed some help with a problem that he was having.”

  “Why did he think you could be of help?” she asked.

  “A little birdy told him.”

  My mother motioned to leave and I conceded. We walked out of the room. I closed the door quietly, took the key from my mother's hand, locked the door, and deposited the key into my own pocket. I walked past her.

  "Can I have the key?" she asked.

  "No," I said and turned around.

  "Why?"

  "I might need it."

  "Again? Why?"

  "Let's just say I have nothing better to do."

  "Better to do?"

  “I have unfinished business in Malice Grove. I may want to take a closer look at Michael's belongings."

  "How long do you think that will take?"

  “It’ll take as long as it takes.”

  She couldn't help but smile.

  "I wouldn't look too elated if I were you. You may not like how I conduct my business."

  She walked past me. "Let's go back down."

  "Do you know a Lynda?"

  "No, not that I can think of," she said in almost a trance as she walked past me towards the stairs.

  When we got to the bottom of the steps she said, "I'll get you another drink." Sadness had come into her eyes. Forcing my mother to visit her dead son's room wasn't the most compassionate thing I had ever done.

  "No thanks, mother, I'm leaving. I'll see you around." I expected resistance, maybe even more sadness.

  “Did it hurt?” She pointed at my wounded shoulder.

  I couldn’t help but smile. Outfoxed by my own mother. She had wanted me to tell her myself, but I had disappointed her. “It hurt like hell.”

  She didn't respond and just drifted back into the living room, her feet barely lifting off of the ground. I watched her move silently through the crowd like a ghost, no one noticing her until she disappeared through a far doorway. A great deal of sadness overcame me.

  As I walked toward the big oak door, a massive hand reached out and grabbed me by the shoulder and whirled me around. Tom Watkins stood over me with a grin that would scare Dracula out of his coffin. His short blond hair perfectly framed his enormous face.

  "Leaving?" he asked.

  "Is it any of your concern?"

  "Let me give you some advice. Don't stop there. Keep going. Go back to your hotel, check out, hop in your car and go back to whatever rock you crawled out from under."

  "Let me guess." I grinned and stuck a finger in his massive chest. "This town ain’t big enough for the two of us."

  "I couldn’t have said it better myself."

  "And why are you so anxious to see me disappear once again? I just got back. Not very hospitable."

  "I don’t give a damn what you consider hospitable. I just don't want to see you end up like your poor brother. Nasty way to die.”

  “You have experience in the way he died?”

  “I have all sorts of experience. This really isn't the kind of place for your type."

  "Exactly what type am I?"

  "The nosey type. We don’t like them here. They're not wanted. They got a way of losing their noses. Get me?"

  "I get you. Now you get me,” I said. “You don't scare me blondie. I may have been thinking of leaving, but not anymore. You've made me very curious. I'm funny like that. I get curious real easy. And when I get curious, it's like having a flea. You can't rest or do anything until that flea is dead. You see, this town may not want me, but it’s going to get me. As far as going back to where I came from, I’m from Malice Grove and I’m going to find out who killed my brother. And when I find out who it was, they better turn themselves in, because if I get to them before the cops do, it’ll be slow and very, very painful, because, see, I have experience too. Do you get me?”

  "I get you won't last any longer than your brother with that attitude." He flung my arm away from him.

  "I've got all sorts of attitudes,” I said. “Here's one just for you. Do you know where Brad Graber is? You should since you're doing his job."

  "Graber's gone.” His mouth twitched and his eyes narrowed. "He ran off with Celia Archer. So just drop that right now."

  "Somehow I don't think I will." I walked towards the big oak door, opened it and walked out.

  So Brad ran off with Celia Archer. I remember Mrs. Archer. She was hard to forget. I’d run off with her too. She was a tall, slender brunette with legs that went on as long as the Nile. She had the kind of eyes that penetrated your soul and stole your heart.

  I made my way down the long driveway to the street below. I expected a massive gunshot to boom out with a slug blowing a hole in my back the size of a fist. It never came. Maybe later. Something to look forward to.

  8

  Ilooked out across the lake as I drove down the long winding road that led from the houses in the hills overlooking Malice Grove down to the lakeside drag. Out across the lake another storm brewed on the horizon. I thought back to another storm that had come to Malice Grove ten years ago. A storm that had caused me to leave Malice Grove and a girl I loved dearly.

  A big banner, which said CONGRATULATIONS JOE, CLASS OF 1985, hung over a stage where a live band was playing music from the seventies and eighties. I had put together a playlist and
the band was expected to stick to that list. They weren’t very good, but they hadn’t deviated. I was dancing with Rae Dempsey. She was a short, cute girl, not drop dead gorgeous, but she had a quality that tingled my skin. Her brown permed and teased hair sat high on top of her head and cascaded down over her bare shoulders. She had personality and was the daughter to my father’s greatest rival. She made me feel like a rebel.

  The party had been going for a long time when I noticed my father and Brad huddled in an intense conversation. My father seemed pissed off about something. After a heated debate the two of them disappeared into the house. Rae and I stopped dancing. When my father and Brad hadn't returned, I got suspicious. I needed to find out. I was always like that. I was always one of those kids who hunted down their Christmas gifts and opened them, only to rewrap them. As far as I know I was never caught.

  "What do you want to do?" I asked Rae.

  "We could sneak off to the lake," she said in her raspy voice.

  "Yeah," I said jumping on the opportunity to go investigate. "That's a good idea. Why don't you wait here? I've got to go get something from the house."

  I left Rae where she was and entered the house. The kitchen was completely empty. Open containers of food and alcohol were scattered all over the place. The smell of something burnt on the stove filled the house. The caterers were gone. Marie had a fit when dad hired caterers for the party, but dad had insisted that she was a member of the family and as such should be a guest at the party and not an employee. I moved over to the stove and looked at some burnt meatballs. As I did I heard muffled noises coming from the basement door over the sounds of the music wafting in from outside.

  I opened the door and edged my way down the steps. Through the railing I saw Brad and my father standing above a man tied and gagged to a chair. The floor underneath the chair was covered with plastic.

  "So, what you’re saying is you don’t have the money you promised to pay me back,” my father said calmly.

  The man tied to the chair just whimpered through the gag and shook his head. My father moved from behind him and knelt down on the ground staring up into the man’s slumped over head.

  “I’ve given you a lot of opportunities to pay me back. Do you have a plan on how you are going to repay me?”