Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 44

Horace DeMont died the day after Travis visited them, and I have still not convinced him that it was not his fault.

Robert DeMont, though disappointed that he had not found a way to get his hands on the small remaining portion of the DeMont fortune, was able to sell an improved version of the toilet-seat invention to a novelty manufacturer, and realized enough from the sale to work on other innovations, as well as to pay an auto body shop bill.

I envied him, as well as Rachel and Frank, and everyone else whose car came back from the body shop. Like Travis's camper, the Karmann Ghia was gone forever. I still miss it.

Long before any of that came to pa.s.s, Frank and I made another visit to Holy Family Cemetery. We stood near my parents' graves, but we weren't alone. Great Aunt Mary and her caretaker friend, Sean Grady, were nearby. My sister Barbara, and Rachel and Pete were there. Travis was there, too, as were Zeke Brennan, Father Chris and Ann Havens, the latter two having forgiven one another. Father Chris presided over a reburial of Arthur's remains, next to those of Briana. They had been in the same cemetery, as it turned out-but separated from one another. Now there was a new stone in place, their names together. Though tears were shed, it was, on the whole, a celebration.

I thought I saw McCain's car in the parking lot, but I may have been mistaken.

Travis was staying with us for a while, having realized that we really didn't care that he could afford to stay elsewhere. What you can afford in money, we had learned, you can't always afford in time.

That day, putting fresh flowers on my parents' graves, I felt sorry that they had lost time with Briana and Travis, had not welcomed Arthur. Perhaps if we had offered our family's strengths to him, or a little more forgiveness, we would not have been lost to one another in that tangled, strangling web of pride and shame and deceit.

I looked out across the cemetery and set aside my regrets. No time, no time for regrets. Who teaches that better than the dead? All that lingered was the first real sense of peace I had felt at my parents' graveside. Something has been made right, I thought, some wound healed.

It was at that moment that my sister, Barbara, knelt down next to me.

I looked up at her, saw the expression on her face and said, "Don't say it, Barbara."

"Well, I did want that spot. Now where am I going to be buried?"

"Next to me," I said.

"Next to you!" She stood up, clearly appalled. "Then don't bother writing 'Rest in Peace' on my tombstone!"

"As if death could calm her down," Frank said, watching her go.

He took my hand and we walked back to the car, speaking, as lovers will, of the benefits of cremation.

NOTES AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

I spent part of my adolescence in Los Alamitos; I am happy to report that the city survived that particular bit of turmoil and recently celebrated its centennial. However, the Los Alamitos in Liar is by and large a fictional version of the city. And although a sugar beet factory played a major role in the city's history, the factory and the surrounding sugar beet farms were not owned by a single individual-in Liar, the DeMonts, the Spannings and all other characters from Los Alamitos are entirely a product of my imagination.

While I am solely responsible for any errors in Liar, I am indebted to a number of individuals who helped with research. Alice Littlejohn of the CSULB University Library helped me to find examples of hobo signs. Sharon Weissman is a sharp observer, and her recounting of an incident she witnessed inspired part of this tale. I also thank her-along with Sandra Cvar and Tonya Pearsley-for reading and rereading the ma.n.u.script.

Steve Kingston, aka "the real Rockford," is a private investigator who patiently explained to me several aspects of wills, probate and the task of locating heirs. His help in these and other areas, as well as his lively conversation, are deeply appreciated.

Other help came from the Los Alamitos Museum, Debbie Arrington, Kira Bauman, Bill Valles, Tonya Pearsley, Louise Krause, John Pearsley, Jr., Bill Pearsley, John G. Fischer, Bill Mitts of the California Department of Motor Vehicles, and Sharon Oropeza. Father Angus Beaton provided answers to my questions about past and current Catholicism. Dr. Jim Gruber and Dr. Ed Dohring helped with medical questions.

Several students of the Long Beach School for Adults spent time talking to me about the challenges facing adults who cannot read; these personal experiences were often painful to recall, and I thank them not only for their candor and courage in speaking to me about incidents in the past, but also for inspiring me with their steadfast determination, their hard work and their hope for a better future. I have the highest regard for them, and for their dedicated teachers, most especially Judy McCall and Mich.e.l.le Davidson.

The children's librarians and acquisitions librarians (including Amy, Judith Rosenberg, Caren Soltysiak, Sarah Flowers, Toni Walder, Paula Belair, Marlyn Roberts, Anne Paradise, Debra Eisert, Ginger Armstrong, Mary Miller, Ann Pentecost and others) on Internet mystery list DorothyL were helpful in advising me on a number of matters concerning Travis's work. They also told me of PUBYAC, started by Shannon VanHemert. Ms. VanHemert, with Dr. Margaret M. Kimmel, graciously allowed me to refer to it within the story. My thanks also to the real Irene Galwan, and the Valley Plaza Branch Library in North Hollywood.

Esthela Alarcon-Teagle helped with the Spanish; Lia Matera with the (clean) Italian phrases; both women gave me friendship and support through some of the more trying moments of writing the ma.n.u.script.

Senior Constable Ken Lyons, South Australia Police-Major Crash Investigation Section was a great help with accident investigation information.

My thanks to those who have given me so much support at Simon and Schuster, especially my editor, Laurie Bernstein, who-this time under amazing circ.u.mstances-was once again able to provide invaluable insight and suggestions. (And welcome to the world, Benjamin!) Nancy Yost, in addition to being a hardworking agent, laughs at my jokes-which may be the hardest work of all.

And as for Tim Bruke-if I had used up all my luck just meeting you, I'd still be lucky.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Goodnight, Irene.

Sweet Dreams, Irene.

Dear Irene.

Remember Me, Irene.

Hocus.