Chill Factor (16 page)

“Doesn’t matter,” Dixie said. “It was Edna’s bullet. If she hadn’t started shooting, nobody would’ve been hurt.”

“It’s obvious whose side you’re taking,” Marty remarked, coming up beside her.

“I never claimed I could undo what happened. Only that I’ll find out what chain of events
led
to what happened.”

He looked dejectedly away from her, his shoulders as low as if Atlas had just handed him the world.

“Where are you with that?” he muttered. “Anywhere?”

Dixie related the results of her visit with Terrence Jackson—that Edna knew at least two of the names on her calendar from a group called Fortyniners. She also mentioned that she’d made an appointment with Artistry Spa and found a phone listing for Vernice Urich, but got only a machine when she called.

“I’ll follow up on those leads tomorrow,” she told him. “This afternoon I’m going to a funeral. For the woman who preceded Edna in the bank robberies.”

“Good, I’ll go with you. But first, I have an appointment with Mom’s lawyer. I want you there.”

Oh? Since when do I take orders from you?
Dixie bit back the sudden anger. Marty was stressed and not thinking clearly.

“How can I help with lunch?” he asked Amy.

“You’re company,” she told him.

“No, no, no. I either help or I don’t stay. You agreed.”

Having no desire to help with lunch
or
to join in their squabble, Dixie slipped away to cool off and to see what Ryan was doing. A year ago, he would’ve met her at the door, bubbling over with news of school, sports, awesome computer games he wanted her to learn. Of course, his private school was out now for summer vacation. And Ryan was growing up. Almost thirteen. Was that the cut-off age when kids stopped hanging out with old-maid aunts? Well, he might try, but she wouldn’t be shrugged off so easily.

A hazardous-waste emblem on Ryan’s closed door covered the Super Rangers nameplate he’d talked Dixie into buying three years ago and now wouldn’t want his friends to see. She knocked, and when she got no answer, put her ear to the door. He couldn’t be asleep—she heard computer noises. Hadn’t he mentioned a new game?

“Ryan?” She turned the knob and peeked in. The computer hummed and the printer slowly spit out colored pages. But no sign of her nephew. She stepped into the room. “Hey, guy, don’t I even rate a hello anymore?”

She glanced at the page sliding from the printer, a photograph. With sick surprise stirring inside her, she lifted it for a closer look. Just then she heard the rushed footsteps of a twelve-year-old thumping down the hallway. Ryan must’ve been in the
bathroom, never expecting his aunt to open his bedroom door and cruise in—didn’t a kid have any privacy? He certainly wouldn’t have wanted her to see the filth spewing out of his printer. Or maybe he didn’t know, maybe—

“Aunt Dix!” Ryan shoved the door wide and stormed in.

When he saw what she held, his face screwed up like he’d been slapped.

“Pornography? Ryan, where did this come from?”

His cheeks turned red and he wouldn’t look at her. “The Internet.”

Of course. Didn’t everything?

“Why would you download this?” Dixie’s computer savvy enabled her to type a letter and pick up her E-mail when she remembered, but she had only a hazy idea of how the Internet worked.

He swallowed, looking too miserable to speak.

Surely this level of porno didn’t come free. “Did you use your parents’ credit card?”

“No!”

“Then—”

“Ryan … Dixie …” Amy called, her voice growing nearer. “Time for lunch.”

He grabbed for the photograph. When Dixie held it out of reach, he opened his mouth to protest. Panic sparked in his eyes. Then he closed down on whatever he’d started to say and snatched the remaining pages from the printer rack.

“Don’t let Mom see that,” he begged.

“All right. But we’re talking about this later.” Having no place to put it, she shoved the photo at him, then swept through the door to head off her sister.

“Ryan’s clearing some things away,” she told Amy. “He’ll be right out. What smells so good?”

“Garlic bread. I made spaghetti. I know, I know, it’s too heavy for lunch, but Marty looks so thin.”

“Spaghetti’s great. Come on, I’m starved.”

The food probably was great, but pondering what she’d walked in on, Dixie didn’t taste a bite. Kids Ryan’s age were curious—no harm in that. He knew about sex. Dixie remembered the day he confessed to flunking “ovaries” in health class. He probably passed around copies of
Playboy, Penthouse
, hell, maybe even
Hustler
among his friends. So why was she so shocked?

Some mofo out there sold my kid shit.
Dixie appreciated Lureen’s rage much better now. After working hard to teach her boy what was right and good and worth caring about, Lureen couldn’t control the unknown elements that infringed on his teenage world. Finding a hidden copy of
Hustler
wouldn’t have shocked Dixie like seeing those disgusting photos sliding out of his printer had. She wasn’t naive. She’d seen raw porno before. But was it really that easy for kids to get the hard stuff these days?

She pushed her spaghetti around her plate. She needed to talk to him about this. In private.

“Ryan and I thought we’d go see the new Van Damme film Saturday night,” she announced. “If that’s okay.”

Amy’s eyes lit up. “A movie? Marty, maybe we should all go. Edna wouldn’t like us moping around.”

Ryan ceased staring miserably at his food and slid a grateful look at Dixie. “Mom, you sure you want to see Van Damme?”

“Oh, is that one of those karate movies? Wouldn’t you rather see a nice comedy, Ryan?”

“We could go to the cineplex, split up to different films,” Dixie offered. Not at all what she had in mind, but she could drag Ryan out to the lobby for a private talk.

“I don’t know where I’ll be on Saturday,” Marty said absently. “But we’ll see”

After lunch, Dixie agreed to drive Marty to his meeting with Ralph Drake. The lawyer gave him a copy of Edna’s will to read,
but Marty wanted the shorter oral version. And although Dixie tried to stay out of the conversation, he kept pulling her in.

“You’re a lawyer, Dixie. Tell them. Mother was obviously not herself. She
never
would’ve given her money to—what was it? The Church of The Light? Who’s ever heard of that? You heard of that?”

Dixie shook her head.

“It’s a legitimate church, Mr. Pine. And your mother was adamant. She even told us she’d talked this over with you.”

“She didn’t tell me anything about a church. Giving her money—
my money—to
a church. How much are we talking about?”

“About nine hundred thousand dollars,” Drake informed him, straightening a sleeve on his Italian suit jacket.

Marty looked as if he were going to be sick.

“You receive an equal amount,” the lawyer added, “plus the family home and acreage, and your mother’s personal effects. Of course … you can contest.”

“You’re damned right I’ll contest!”

At Marty’s assertion, Drake’s chin kicked up defensively, but his voice remained detached. He took an envelope from the file and handed it across the desk.

“Your mother also left this letter for you.”

“A letter?” Marty’s face paled as if Drake were handing him a trick package that might explode in his face when he opened it. “When … um, when did she write that?”

The envelope was blank except for a cluster of bluebonnets printed in one corner and Marty’s name written in blue ink. Drake consulted his file.

“In February. The same day she signed her new will.”

Marty accepted the envelope. His gaze flickered at Dixie, and the pain she saw made her wonder what that envelope might contain that he expected to be so terrible.

Drake slid a silver letter opener across the desk.

Marty swallowed visibly. “Could I get some water?”

“Certamente.”
Drake stood, then raised an eyebrow at Dixie.

She shook her head. She wasn’t thirsty, but she was curious as hell now about that letter.

When Drake left the room, Marty carefully slit the envelope
open and unfolded a single sheet of writing paper. As he read, his face sagged like soft clay. When he refolded the paper, his eyes were moist. His lips twitched into a brief, sardonic smile.

“We can go,” he said.

Drake had returned with a glass of water. Marty stood and nodded his thanks, leaving the water untouched.

“I have a few papers you’ll need to sign before you leave,” Drake told him.

“Sure.” Without sitting, Marty signed the documents unread, answered Drake’s questions concerning the money transfer, then started toward the door. “What I said about contesting the will? Forget that. But be sure to tell the Church of The Light not to contact me for any future donations.”

In the hall, headed toward the elevator, Dixie had to lengthen her stride to keep up with him.

“Marty, did Edna say anything in that letter that might be … useful … in what we’re trying to find out?” She didn’t want to pry into a personal message between him and his mother, but he’d asked for help and she couldn’t work in a vacuum.

“No,” he answered curtly. He punched the elevator button. After a moment, he added, “She asked me not to question her bequest to the Church, said they were building a better world and the money would be used for a good cause.”

“You accept that?”

“Yes.”

“It might help if I could read the letter.”

After another pause, he shook his head. “She said she wants to be cremated. And she wants us to have a party instead of a memorial service.”

“That’s all?”

He nodded. But he hadn’t once looked at her since leaving Drake’s office. When Dixie headed for the parking garage across from the Transco Tower, Marty veered toward the Westin Hotel.

“Where are you going?” Dixie called.

“I have some business to take care of.”

“What about the Ames funeral? You might recognize someone there that Edna knew.”

“I’ll catch up with you,” he promised. But his tone held little conviction.

Philip Laskey rose from a seat at the back of the chapel to join the end of the viewing line. Fingering a brass disk in his pocket, he lightly traced its three-word engraving,
WE THE PEOPLE.
The woman who led the line past the coffin stood tall, rigid, and dry-eyed. He’d heard the minister address her as Carrie Severn, Lucy Ames’ daughter.

Tom Severn stood close enough to comfort his wife but didn’t bother, Philip noticed. He wondered how the man could resist. His own hands twitched with the need to stroke the pain from the woman’s brow, to massage the stiffness from her neck. How hollow Carrie Severn must feel, losing her mother.

Philip glanced toward a noise issuing from a first row pew.
Bump, bump, bump.

A boy of about five slumped on the seat, legs stretched in front of him, heels thumping the hardwood floor. In the high-ceilinged room, paneled with oak and accented with beveled glass, the sound reverberated over the hushed voices and soft shuffle of footsteps in the viewing line.

Bump, bump.

“Troy, stop that!” Carrie Severn whispered harshly.

Her son, then. Lucy Ames’ obituary had mentioned two grandchildren. Beside the boy sat a girl a year or two older,
grinning at Troy from under blond bangs, jaws working at a wad of chewing gum. The boy’s navy-blue suit looked a size too big.
Big enough to grow into
, Anna Marie would say. Philip’s mother believed in buying well and making a thing last.

The girl shoved an unwrapped stick of gum toward her brother. When he reached for it, she jerked it back and popped it into her own overfilled mouth.

Bump, bump. Bump, bump.

Carrie Severn, from her place at the casket, aimed her hard brown eyes at Troy and scowled. Her husband ignored the whole scene, staring over the heads of the congregation as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.

Bump, bump, bump.

Philip understood the boy’s fidgeting. The minister’s melancholy eulogy had been lengthy enough to set the entire audience on edge.

Moving away from the dais, Carrie Severn took her children, each by a hand, and ushered them from the chapel. Tom Severn strolled toward several men standing near the back of the church. Pallbearers, Philip guessed. He considered helping them, but instantly rejected the idea. Colonel Jay would be upset knowing he’d even attended the service; he preferred keeping a low profile.

As Philip approached the casket, an image of Anna Marie slid into his inner vision, a bullet hole through her forehead. Philip blinked, to banish the image from his mind, and steadied himself.

Lucy Ames looked nothing like his mother. And no bullet hole marred her wrinkled forehead. The casket’s pink satin lining cast a rosy glow on her cheeks. She appeared to be smiling. No sign at all of the damage from police bullets. He blessed the undertaker’s skill.

Philip glanced quickly around the room. No one had joined the viewing line after him. He slipped the brass disk from his pocket and touched the cold hand. What terrible grief had prompted this mother, this grandmother, into such a hopeless action?

At Philip’s request, Rudy Martinez had brought him the spent shell casing. Philip had flattened it, hammered it smooth, and engraved it. Now he slid the brass disk from his own fingers to Lucy’s.

“We, The People, have avenged you, Lucy Ames,” he murmured. “Rest well.”

A somber classical melody drifted from invisible speakers as Dixie followed the viewing line away from the dais. The odor of cut flowers seemed stifling. A few gardenias peeked from a spray of yellow roses covering the pearl-gray casket. The heavily scented blossoms must’ve been a Lucy Ames favorite. Most florists avoided gardenias.

Studying the crowd, she tried to separate the real mourners from the gawkers. Funeral services were not her idea of a good time, especially the dismal sort this one had turned out to be. Edna had the right idea: cremation, ashes tossed to the wind, followed by a rip-roaring party. Life was a tough road—death ought to be the traveler’s reward.