The Good House Part 19

So, Liza told him how Angie's face had looked when she heard the story of the mud. "I think Angie went to Longview to get a hotel room tonight," Liza finished. "I can't believe I was sostupid . What was I thinking about, to tell her that? And then bringing up her mom, and the Fourth of July.That was my crowning moment. The Fourth of July! Christ."

Art grimaced, pained. "Oh, geez. Yeah, I might have tried to find a way to skip the part about the Fourth," he said, forgetting his Uncle Art voice. "That's a bad one. But it's done now, munchkin. Angie knows you didn't mean any harm."

Liza sighed, switching off the television set with the remote. This next part was going to sound crazy to him, but she had to let her thoughts out. She and Art never hid even the small things from each other, if they could help it. Despite a few embarra.s.sing moments, so far that system worked pretty well. "Art, I don't how to say this-but it's as if Idid mean to do harm. Not on purpose, not exactly...but when I started telling that story, I wish you could have heard the way details started pouring out of me. You remember how Grandpa could run a story into the ground, but it's been ten years since he died. I haven't repeated that story to anyone, before today."

"Yeah, not even to me. Thanks a lot."

"Grandpa asked me not to tell, and I've kept my word. He was very specific about it, Art-this whole rigamarole about how it had to be a secret because only he and three other men saw what happened, besides Red John and Mrs. T'saint. They were all convinced they'd seen the devil up close that day, and they took a vow to keep quiet so the devil would keep his distance. You know-you leave us alone, we'll leave you alone. He said the kid in the tub never remembered a thing."

"I bet it was Randall Booth in the tub. That guy was a weirdo."

"Who's Randall Booth?"

"He owned the hotel in the fifties. Areal weirdo, my dad tells me. He used to-"

"Will you let me finish before you get started on one of your half-c.o.c.ked gossip tears?"

"Go on. Sorry."

Liza sighed. Art was a better talker than he was a listener, so conversation with him was exhausting sometimes. She'd almost lost her heart to go on, but she did: "When I told Angie that story today, you'd think I'd been reciting it for years. Truly? It felt like I couldsee it happening instead of describing something I hadn't heard in ages. Honest to G.o.d, when I heard myself mention the Fourth of July, I wanted to yank out my own tongue. I just couldn't stop."

Art didn't laugh at her, which was a relief. He gazed at her with solemn eyes. "I've got a question for you to consider, Madame Liza."

"What?"

He hesitated. "Let's not pretend we haven't talked about how we'd like to buy that house if Angie puts it on the market. Is it possible you were just...twisting the knife?"

Liza gasped. She grabbed her pillow and whipped it at Art, landing a blow squarely on his temple. "Thanks a lot! How can you say that? You must think you're married to the Queen b.i.t.c.h."

Art wrested the pillow away from her. "I think I'm married to a wonderful woman who happens to love that house," he said in a placating tone. "We both do. It's a ready-made mayor's mansion, staring right over the town from the ridge. Five bedrooms! And picture it...one day, when our grandchildren are visiting, we'll be able to tell them, 'Look, kids, this is where Grandma and Grandpa kissed for the very first time.' "

"We never kissed in that house," Liza said.

"It was at The Spot.Behind the house. All of it belonged to Mrs. T'saint. I've taken a peek at the property records. She's got fifty, sixty acres back there."

Liza shook her head, laughing. She'd forgotten that The Spot was part of Angie's land, that it wasn't community property. The summer after high school graduation, when she'd discovered that her grades and talent weren't going to garner her any scholarships, she'd wanted to get drunk, so she and Melanie found a late-night party at The Spot. Angie hadn't been there, and Liza remembered the reason: Angie had been depressed over her breakup with Myles. Watching the agony her friend was suffering, Liza had vowed not to get too serious about any boy until she was much older. After college. After she made it to the New York stage.

"There you were, wearing a white blouse, your face shining in the firelight," Art said suddenly, his voice faraway. "I'd had a crush on you since fifth grade, but the way you looked that night...I said, 'G.o.d, if you let me have Liza Kerr, I will never give you cause to be displeased with me.' That's exactly what I said, a little prayer."

"Are you sure it was G.o.d you were talking to?" Her question was only half-joking.

"This was the work of the Big Guy, Liza. No other way to explain it. You'd never given me a glance all through high school, and not fifteen minutes after I said that prayer, we were necking behind a tree. And it's not just us. Melanie and Rob, Doug and Christine..."

"Angie and Myles."

"Well, they're the exception. Most every other couple that linked up at The Spot is still together, my folks included. You ask me, that's why the county divorce rate is so low. My folks have never 'fessed up to it, but Dad's hinted that I was conceived there. Can't you just picture it?"

"I'd rather not." The image of Art's pudgy parents rutting in the woods did not appeal to her.

"I've got a stake in that place, and you do, too. And the whole property might go up for sale soon, if Angie decides she wants to dump it. That could be your motive for what happened today, Liza. That's why you told that scary story."

G.o.d help her, Art might be right, she thought. How many times since Corey's funeral had Liza nearly called Angie in L.A. to put in an offer?Oh, everyone's fine here-listen, Angie, we haven't seen you in a while, and we're wondering about your plans for your grandmother's house.... Laurel Everly had shown the house once, and Liza wasn't the only person in Sacajawea incensed that outsiders had gotten the first crack. This week, Liza had planned to give Angie a few days, then pop the question. Telling that story d.a.m.n wellmight have been deliberate on her part. But...

"Okay, that occurred to me, too," Liza said, nestling inside the crook of Art's arm. She rubbed her hand across his pale, ample belly-More cushion for the pushin',as he liked to say. "But I don't believe it was some cheap ploy by my unconscious, Art. The way we all felt standing in that kitchen today, I have to tell you-I wouldn't even want the house now. I mean that."

Art looked at her, disbelieving. He took off his gla.s.ses. "Oh, come on. The same person who laughs at me for picking up pennies on the sidewalk and saving my fortunes from Ming's?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I still think that's dumb, on both counts. But we felt something there today. All three of us. I don't know the words for it."

"I'll tell you what you felt...," Art said, kissing the tip of her nose.

"You felt a stellar performance by a top-notch actress telling a ghost story. You were so good today, you scared your own socks off. Save it for opening night, munchkin."

G.o.d bless him, Liza thought. Art always found a way to turn the conversation around to the things he imagined were extraordinary about her. She'd been so superficial as a teenager, it was a wonder Art's earnest, quiet admiration hadn't been lost on her when they really first saw each other at The Spot. He had never stopped seeing something in her she still wasn't sure how to live up to. And maybe he was right. Maybe she'd only been guilty of falling into character earlier today, immersing herself in her actress persona. She hadn't done any real acting in so long, it was no wonder she was getting swept away. That possibility had never occurred to her.

"You're too d.a.m.ned smart sometimes," she said. "You've earned a piece of German chocolate cake. I brought one home from the bake sale at Glenn's school today."

Art rediscovered his papers, frowning. "Maybe tomorrow. No more food for me tonight."

"What's wrong?" Art never turned down food unless he was sick, and he'd never admit to being sick. The last time he got sick, he walked around with pneumonia for days and ended up in the emergency room with enough infection in him to nearly kill him, the stubborn idiot.Exactly like what happened to Jim Henson, the doctor in Longview said, telling them how lucky he'd been.

"Just a little something the past couple days. No biggee," Art said. "A tummyache. Stomach flu, maybe, or too much stress. TheNews is running a story about the school bond tomorrow, and I'm as nervous as the new baby-faced kid taking his first shower on Cell Block D. That's all it is."

Liza was not comforted, but she didn't press him. He'd be all right, she told herself.

He always was.

Once the lights were out and the house was quiet, Liza hated to close her eyes. Each time she did, she saw Angela's upstairs bathroom, mud flinging everywhere. Her wide-open eyes began fooling her in the bedroom's darkness; as she stared at the walls and ceiling, she could swear she saw the appearance of stark mud-patterns around her. But they simply weren't there, vanishing when she blinked. They were only shadows, each and every one. She reallyhad scared herself telling her grandfather's story today, she realized.

Liza's eyes guarded the doorway of their dark master bathroom, and her ears listened for sounds from the bathtub. The house was carefully quiet, more so than usual. Even Miko, sleeping in his doggie bed in the hall outside, didn't scurry around restlessly, hoping to climb into the bed with them. Beside her, Art breathed heavily in sleep, occasionally snoring softly. And issuing a single angry murmur from his stomach she barely heard.

Sixteen.

SACAJAWEA.

WEDNESDAY.

IKNOW-it's a surprise to hear from me," Tariq's voice said, and Angela's heart lurched.

She was checking her office messages from her hotel room while CNN Headline News nattered capsules of world events from the television set. After an hour-long conversation with her a.s.sistant about which calls needed her urgent attention, Imani had told her she had a private message on Tuesday's voice mail, that she should listen to it herself. Tariq's deep voice in her ear was a shock.

He sighed on the recording. "It's a beautiful Tuesday morning, and I miss you. That's not what I called to say, but it's the truth, Snook. I'd be lying if I said I didn't. Anyway, DuShaun made the Raiders' cut-you might have heard about that-and now he's one of the star starters. Football's not your thing, and I won't bore you with the details, but he made a h.e.l.l of a play Monday night. Just thought you'd like to know. He's been living with me, and we both like that. Believe it or not, I'm keeping him out of trouble. He's a great kid."

Angela smiled. Yes, DuShaun was a great kid, Corey's favorite cousin. Good for Harry and Yolanda, she thought. Her in-laws had been the only other family she had, yet Angela hadn't spoken to them since the funeral. Another bridge she'd torn down when she exiled herself from her life.

"Anyway, babe, your secretary mentioned you're away for a few days, and I'm glad to hear it. Hope it's a good trip. I know you're doing great things, and I'm hanging in here, too. A few medical problems, but I'll get that handled. I have a doctor's appointment later today, and maybe that'll shed some light. Send a few good thoughts my way, Snook. Take care of yourself."

Angela picked up her cell phone, dialing from memory. An effervescent recorded voice announced an index of things she didn't care about. Season tickets. Game schedules. Team memorabilia. "Finance. Tariq Hill, please," she said, when an operator rescued her.

The wait on the line, this time, was silent. And short. Tariq had a new secretary, a male one, and he told her Tariq had called in sick. Did she want to leave a message? For the first time, Angela asked herself what the h.e.l.l she was doing. What was she going to say?Hey, sorry I went off on you like that at the funeral after you did your part to help kill our son. Hope you feel better.

"Tell him Angie returned his call."

Hanging up, Angela felt liberated. Her anger at Tariq was a weight, and she was tired of carrying it. She might not ever be able to forgive him, but she could talk to him, at least. She could be civil. He'd been thoughtful to call, considering she'd never said a kind word to him in more than two years. And she felt sad, she realized. The feeling puzzled her, but she recognized the sting. She'd felt a keen sadness last night, realizing what she'd lost with Myles-and now she might be losing something else because of one missed telephone call.

What had she lost? Her chance to hear Tariq finally tell the truth?

Angela steeled herself, then she dialed another number, the number she used to call when she wanted to talk to Corey. The number was still fresh in her mind, a living thing. She expected to hear Corey's voice next, and she almost did, because the voice that answered was youthful, cavalier: "Wha.s.sup? This is the Hill residence. Press one to speak to Tariq Hill. Press two for DuShaun Hill. May G.o.d's love find you each and every day. Peace." It was DuShaun's voice on the machine, practically unchanged since the last time she'd seen him, when he was about seventeen. This time, Angela hung up without leaving a message. She felt like an intruder.

Angela dialed a new number, moving onward. She had a lot to cover in Sacajawea before she could go back to L.A., and this was going to be a long week. She knew the next number she dialed by heart, too, unfortunately. She couldn't forget it if she tried.

Her high school cla.s.smate was at his desk, and he picked up on the first ring. No voice mail, no recordings, no secretary. An honest-to-G.o.d human voice. "I figured I'd be hearing from you soon," Sheriff Rob Graybold said, after the initial pleasantries and his condolences on her fallen tree.

"Why's that?"

"I saw Myles at the courthouse this morning, and he said you have a couple concerns about Sean Leahy. Want to come by and talk?"

Sacajawea's grapevine amazed her, yet again. "I'd rather just meet you at Sean's."

"Let's not put the cart before the horse, Angie. Let me hear what's on your mind. That boy just lost his daddy, and we need to be delicate."

"He knows something about Corey, Rob."

"Then we'll find out what he knows, I promise you." Rob paused. "Since you're on the phone, thanks for moving that bus. I was going to bring it up before you left town. It's been an eyesore sitting out there. The kids getting into it, all that. Kind of a hazard."

"What bus?"

"That old VW that's been parked in front of your house is gone. Or at least that's what Joe Everly said when I saw him at the diner last night. You don't know anything about that?"

Angela had no answer. The van had been there when she'd left the house yesterday. Her fingertips lost their sensation.

Sheriff Rob Graybold sighed. "Well, get on over here, Angie. You might as well fill out a police report while you're here."

There was a dead s.p.a.ce where the van had been, a patch of gra.s.s so dried out and sunlight-starved it looked scorched. With the van gone, the mound of trash that had surrounded it was more offensive; old food wrappers, beer cans, soiled condoms. It had been an eyesore, no question. How could someone have gotten the van to start after two years, much less driven off with two flat tires? Angela's eyes searched for bent stalks of overgrown gra.s.s that would have been left by the heavy tires of a tow truck, and she found none. There were no tracks at all, in fact. While Rob waited at the roadside beside his Sacajawea sheriff's vehicle, Angela ran up the stone steps to check the front door of the house for a note of any kind. Nope.

Angela stared down from Gramma Marie's porch at the spot where the van had been parked, and the emptied s.p.a.ce disturbed her. "It's nice that you called, Tariq, but you should've told me you were coming to town," she muttered in the silence of the gray afternoon.

No. That wasn't it, she decided. Tariq would have mentioned that when he called. She would have to file the van's disappearance into the growing category of strange occurrences since her return, a long, depressing list. She'd wished that van would disappear, hadn't she? Maybe one of her wishes had finally come true.

There was a crater where the walnut tree had been, filled with new soil marking the place where something big obviously had stood. Angela gazed up at the round attic window, which was cracked in two places, ruined. A small section of the roof's shingles had been swept away where the tree landed directly, revealing splintered wood underneath. The house was coming apart, in pieces.

Feeling more at ease because the sheriff was outside waiting, Angela quickly let herself into the house. Everything inside looked exactly the way it had when she'd left, a relief. Upstairs, she retrieved the index cards from the window seat in Corey's room, hoping Sean would show the same fear when he saw them again. She glanced into the bathroom on her way back downstairs, and there was still mud in the tub, but no more than yesterday, and it had dried. Good.

"Whatcha think? Need to file a police report?" Rob asked from where he waited against the hood of his sheriff's unit. Angela shook her head. The van wasn't worth it.

"Let's just go talk to Sean, Rob."

Sheriff Rob Graybold was lean, standing six feet, with a carriage that bespoke his tour as a Green Beret and medic during the Gulf War. Pot farmers and crystal meth lab operators who set up shop in Sacajawea County made the mistake of a.s.suming that the sheriff of a small county would be short on brains or skill. But Rob's arrest record was one of the best in southern Washington. He'd also killed a man in Skamokawa in the late nineties, taking a clean shot at a tourist attacking his wife with a machete outside their camper. The story went that Rob had shot the man without blinking, so confident in his aim that he'd taken a shot most cops in movies were afraid to try-but only after he'd spent a half hour trying to talk him into putting the ma.s.sive blade down.You won't shoot me, the man had said, a woeful miscalculation. Rob had shot him through the heart.

Rob was one of her few cla.s.smates in Sacajawea who had always been intact, turning out to be almost identical to what he'd always been. Even in high school, he'd been serious and aloof, as if he were preparing for unpleasant tasks. Today, his beige uniform was pressed, his western-style hat was slanted at an angle, and his badge, shoes, and leather holster shined. If Sheriff Rob Graybold couldn't rattle Sean, Angela thought, no one could.

Rob had called first, so Sean was expecting them. He met them outside his front door, guiding them to a picnic table under a cedar tree beside the trailer. His white-blond hair was neatly combed, gelled away from his forehead this time, not falling into his eyes. He answered every question without hesitation, calling Angela "ma'am" and Sheriff Graybold "sir." He brought out a pitcher of iced tea and served them politely. Watching him, it would have been easy to believe Sean had been conducting himself admirably in interrogations half his life.

When Angela spread the index cards on the table, Sean barely registered any emotion.

"Yeah, I've seen those," he said. "Like I told Mrs. Toussaint before, those were Corey's. He thought they could do spells."

"Andyou thought they could do spells, too," Angela corrected.

"Maybe a superst.i.tious thing, like you don't walk on the sidewalk crack or you break your mother's back. I've never seen any real-life magic, just stuff on TV."

He was lying! Angela had expected Sean to be evasive, but she could hardly reconcile the calm boy sitting before her now with the quivering wreck she'd seen just two days ago. "Sean...," she prompted, a warning.

Sheriff Graybold tapped her knee under the varnished wood tabletop, silencing her.

"Sean, why do you think Corey shot himself?" he asked.

Sean shrugged. "I don't know, Sheriff. I've thought about that, but I just can't say. It's crazy. It was a shock and everything." He hung his head, which Angela cynically decided was a move for sympathy before she scolded herself for the thought.

"Of course it was, son," the sheriff said. After a sensitive pause, the sheriff pressed on. "Corey wrote something in his notebook we thought you could help us interpret. He wrote the wordsWe have f.u.c.ked up big. Do you have any idea what he meant by that?"

"Yes, Sean-do you remember what you said about the land being tainted? Something you'd done with Corey to taint the land?" Angela could no longer keep silent.

"No, sir," Sean answered, ignoring Angela. "I don't know anything about that. He never showed that notebook to me. He wrote poems in it, I guess. He was private about it."

"Yeah, I guess a kid would be private about a thing like that," the sheriff said. His green eyes flashed Angela a quick but plain message:Keep quiet . She folded her hands in her lap, sighing. In the long silence, they heard agitated whinnying of horses in the stable.

"Still got Sheba back there?" the sheriff said.

"Yessir. My aunt sent the other ones back, the studs we had."

"You think you're gonna sell Sheba, you let me know. Melanie's looking at an Andalusian on the Internet now, but they're a fortune," Rob said, his voice sounding breezy, as if they were ready to leave. He even closed his notebook, and they had just gotten started!

"Andalusians are great horses. But I don't think I'm gonna sell Sheba, sir."

"You find a good horse, you keep her," the sheriff said, and he hardly paused before he went on. "What do you know about a kid named Beaumont Cryer, Sean?"

There. Sean kept his expression carefully in check, but all color seeped from his face. He looked ill, suddenly.

"Who?" he said.

"You don't know who Beaumont Cryer is?"