Blood Relations (7 page)

“And Half-pint?”

“Mary's good, too.”

“Torie,” she said. “There
is
something on your mind.”

There was, but that didn't necessarily mean that I was going to share it with her. I love Krista. She's great. But my inner circle, the people with whom I share personal things, is pretty much limited to my mother, Rudy, and my best friend, Collette, who lives up in St. Louis.

“There's always something on my mind, Krista.”

“So, did that Lahrs guy start his diving today?”

“As far as I know,” I said, looking out the window. I couldn't see the river from where I was sitting, but I could imagine him down there in his scuba gear, looking all around. “I think he and Bradley Chapel have struck a bargain.”

“The guy from Channel 6?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“How so?”

“I think Jacob Lahrs has agreed to let Bradley film him. Jacob gets publicity, plus a documentation of his discoveries, and Bradley gets the story he wants,” I said. “At least I think that's what's going on, because I saw Bradley down there filming and talking with Jacob's assistant, Mr. Ketchum.”

“Well, it'll be interesting to see what they dig up,” she said. She stood then and put one hand on her hip. “I'll be right back with your crumbly thing and your tea.”

No sooner had she left than Sheriff Brooke took her seat. He was in full uniform, which meant he was on duty. He put his hat on the seat next to him and clasped his hands in front of him. “Hey.”

I was going to have to find a new sanctuary, because this one was just getting entirely too well known. I looked toward the door and wondered just how he knew I had been sitting here, since he couldn't have seen me from the entrance. I didn't have to ask him.

“You always sit here,” he said. “And if you're not at the Gaheimer House or your own, this is usually where you are.”

“Not true,” I said, defensive at being so predictable. “Sometimes I'm at the library. In fact, I'm always at the library. Or the courthouse, or out with the kids. I am not always here.”

“Okay,” he said. “Then how'd I know that you'd be here?”

“Beginner's luck.”

He laughed at that. The sheriff and I share a long history. Most of that long history has been filled with me despising him in different degrees. But he is a good guy, regardless of how much he irritates me, or how many times he has arrested me. And he makes my mother very happy. Sheriff Brooke is about twelve years younger than my mother, which I found really hard to deal with at first. But they've been married over a year now, and I have to admit that they are really meant for each other. He is a much better husband than my father ever was, and that was my opinion
before
Ms. Stephanie Connelly came knocking on my door.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Lunch,” he said.

“Aren't you supposed to ask me if I mind if you join me?”

“Now, if I did that, you'd say no.”

“Duh.”

He just smiled. “You're awfully cranky. More so than usual.”

“Go sit somewhere else, thank you very much.”

“Did I say cranky?” he asked, putting his hands up in a defensive posture. “Nope, no cranky people at this table.”

“What do you want?” I asked. “Besides lunch.”

“Your mother says you've been … distant the last few days.”

“Oh, well. If she's concerned, have
her
call me.”

“She didn't send me here to find out what's up with you,” he said. “She just mentioned it in passing, so I thought I'd come see if you're all right.”

I just stared at him. Right. He was concerned for me. I believed that like I'd believe in a giant bunny rabbit leaving hard-boiled eggs all over my backyard.

“Okay, all right,” he said. “I just want to know if there's something I should know about. Found any bodies lately? Do you think your neighbor is really Jimmy Hoffa? Confederate gold in your basement?”

“You know what? When Krista gets back here with my lunch, I'm going to have her throw you out on your ear,” I said.

“Come on, Torie,” he said, smiling. “I just want to know if there's anything I should know about.”

“No. Nothing.”

“Okay,” he said. He smiled at Krista as she came back with my food and a cup of coffee for him. “I'll have the stew, Krista.”

“Sure thing, Colin.”

“What do you make of the wreckage? You think Jacob Lahrs is going to find out what really caused the boat to sink?” the sheriff asked me.

I shrugged, sipping my tea. “Maybe.”

He looked at me long and hard for a moment. “Okay, snap out of it. The Torie I know would be down there in her own wet suit, looking for diamonds and daring anybody, including her ever-wise and all-knowing stepfather—me—to stop her. What gives?”

“You don't like the new and improved, all grown-up and mature Torie O'Shea?”

He took a drink of his coffee, contemplating what I had said. “I'm concerned,” he said. “Because this isn't you.”

“Oh, well.”

“I bought a new fishing pole in Wisteria the other day.”

“Oh yeah? Bet you can't wait for spring.”

“This fishing pole is so nice, I'm thinking about putting on my battery-operated socks and going fishing this weekend,” he said.

His stew came a few minutes later and we ate in silence for a while. He commented on the Rams; I mentioned the snowstorm we were supposed to get next week. He brought up a case he was working on over in Wisteria. I listened like I really gave a damn. I don't know what came over me, but I just couldn't hold it in any longer.

“Colin, if … you…”

“What?”

“Hypothetically speaking,” I said. “If you found out you had a sister or a brother you'd never known about, how would you feel?”

He just stared at me for the longest time. “I don't know,” he said. “Weird, I guess.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah, like I was somehow responsible for them.”

“Huh?”

“You know, sins of the father sort of thing. My dad is dead. So if a sibling came to me and said that he was my dad's son, I'd somehow feel responsible. Like I should do something to make it all right. And that would be weird.”

“Who said it would be your dad's child?”

“I'm just assuming, since I spent every day of my life with my mother, that it wouldn't be hers,” he said. “Of course, I guess she could have had a baby before she met my father and had me, but I just assumed, in this hypothetical situation, that it would have been my father's. Why?”

“No reason.”

He nodded, but there was a questioning look in his eyes.

“So, you'd feel responsible,” I said.

“Yeah, probably.”

“Would you be angry?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“What my relationship with my father was like.”

“Would you be jealous?”

“Of what?”

“Well, I don't know. Like you suddenly have competition. That when everybody finds out about your new sibling, they'll like him better. Especially your dad.”

“My dad's dead.”

“But if he wasn't.”

“Maybe a little,” he said, and took a bite of stew.

As he reached for the salt shaker, I stopped his hand. “Mom says you're not supposed to have salt.”

He gave me a slightly abashed look and set the salt shaker back at the edge of the table. He picked up the pepper shaker instead, then added a generous amount of pepper to the stew.

“Would you feel betrayed?”

“Depends. If Dad knew about the child and never told me, I might feel a little betrayed. It would depend on when the child was conceived.”

“During the marriage to your mother,” I said a little too hastily. He regarded me cautiously.

“Yeah, I'd probably feel a little betrayed.”

There, the sheriff had agreed with how I felt. If he were in my shoes, he'd feel the same way. I felt better. Less guilty. Validated.

“Of course,” he said, “if this were to happen, you know, hypothetically and all, I'd have to consider how that sibling must feel.”

“What do you mean?”

“Growing up and never knowing his or her father. Must be pretty tough to have only one side of a family.”

I said nothing.

“Makes you sort of happy that you've got the family you've got, doesn't it? I mean, you know all of your family and have a great relationship with all of them and everything. You'll never know what it feels like to be on the outside.”

“Yeah.”

“Kind of makes you feel good, doesn't it?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, makes me feel wonderful.”

Nine

The swirls in the plaster of my office walls were fascinating as hell. I'd probably been staring at them for half an hour already, and it seemed like only a few minutes. I shifted my gaze to the appliquéd Rose of Sharon quilt hanging on the wall by the window. The quilt was soothing to look at, all done in different shades of pink.

There was a knock at the door, and for a moment my stomach lurched, as I thought it might be Stephanie Connelly once again. But the way I had behaved toward her, she would probably never show her face in this town again. Which I can't say bothered me all that much. For my own sanity, I thought it would be best if I never saw her again. I was in denial. And I intended to stay in denial for as long as I possibly could.

“Come in,” I said.

The door opened and in walked my best friend. “Collette! Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?” I stood and gave her a hug and was immediately enveloped in a cloud of her perfume. The fragrance was a little strong and a little musky for my tastes, but that was Collette for you. She was worth navigating my way through a cloud of perfume for.

“I'm here for the story,” she said. Collette is a reporter up in St. Louis. We'd been raised together, gone to school together, but she couldn't wait to leave New Kassel and find her destiny in the big city. All I had wanted to do was bury myself in the past and become a fixture of New Kassel, like Sylvia had. I loved to travel and see things, but I had no desire to live anywhere else than where all of my family and friends were. It's the people who make a place home, not the buildings or the scenery. And my home was New Kassel.

“The story,” I said.

Collette rolled her eyes. She is a full-figured gal, with big hair and lots of gold jewelry, and about the most magnetic personality I've ever encountered. “You know,
The Phantom,
” she said. “The Huntleigh heiress. The whole thing.”

“Oh Lord. You're kidding.”

“No,” she said, and sat on the edge of my desk. She picked up my page-a-day calendar and flipped the pages across her face, causing her hair to billow. “I'm here for the big scoop.”

“Was this your idea or your editor's?”

“My editor's,” she said. “You know I don't come to New Kassel anymore unless I have to.”

Which was the truth. If I didn't live here, she'd probably never set foot in this town again. As it was, when we went out, I usually just met her somewhere up in the city.

“Ole baldy, my boss, said that since I was a hometown girl, I would have the ‘inside' scoop,” she said. “Dipshit. I don't know what goes on in this town.” Why would he think I would know anything about what goes on here? He sees me almost every day. I'm always on assignment. When would I have time to learn what's going on in New Kassel?”

True.

“And why would I care? I stopped caring a long time ago about what went on in this town.”

True again.

“So, I was wondering if I could bunk at your place while I'm here,” she said. “Now if you don't want me to, just say so, 'cause you're not gonna hurt my feelings. I can get a room at the Murdoch.”

“Well, no, you can't get a room at the Murdoch, because Eleanore is booked.”

“You're kidding,” she said.

“Thanks to
The Phantom.
”

“Well, I'll be damned,” she said. “I can stay over in Wisteria. It's not like it's far away. I can be here in five minutes.”

“You can stay with us,” I said. “It's not a problem.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. I'll just stick Mary in bed with Matthew and you can have her bed. Of course, you'll have to deal with Rachel primping until all hours of the night,” I said. “She's really into this brushing your hair a hundred times and all that before going to sleep.”

“Well, all right,” she said. “We can primp together, because I've been brushing my hair a hundred times before bed since I was eight.”

“Really?” I brush my hair when I get out of bed, and then again if I'm going somewhere. And Rudy rarely ever brushes his hair, but that's because he thinks the less he brushes his hair, the less likely that it will fall out.

“I'm cooking dinner,” she said. “I insist.”

“Fine with me. Like you'll hear a mother of three complain when somebody else insists upon cooking,” I said. I've always blamed the fact that I hate to cook on my kids, but it isn't really the kids. I hate to cook, period. Actually, I hate cleaning up more than anything else.

*   *   *

“Don't you have any Vidalia onions?” Collette asked an hour later. She had changed from her Liz Claiborne suit to jeans and a sweatshirt. The red-gold hair that usually hits the middle of her back was now piled up on top of her head. All of her gold rings were sitting in a cup on my table, resembling the treasure on a pirate ship.

“No, just plain old yellow,” I said.

“I guess that'll do,” she replied. “Garlic?”

I went to the fridge and handed her a jar of the precrushed garlic in oil. She looked at it as if it were a pile of cow manure. “Please, Torie. Fresh garlic. You don't have fresh garlic?”