Conundrum (38 page)

Lerner filled in the awkward moment. “I can understand. You want to know what happened, your dad’s death—what caused it. That’s only natural.”

“I heard you were close to my father. I just thought maybe you had seen him before he died, talked to him—”

“Lisa, your dad and I were
very
close. And yes, he did confide in me, about many things. He was a great guy
,
and watching him die was
.
 
.
 
.
unbearable.” I sensed Lerner starting to choke up as well. My mind flashed on a documentary I had seen recently, interviews with World War II vets, reflecting on th
eir experiences in the war some
forty years ago, still breaking down and shedding tears from the memories of their painful l
osses in battle, reliving those horrific moments when their friends took
on
fire and fe
l
l at their sides. I supposed that pressing Lerner to share his memories would be like that, but my need
for
answers outweighed my concern for his discomfort.

“Do you have time to meet me—for lunch or even just coffee? What is your schedule like?”
I asked.

Lerner let out a sigh and
seemed to
pull himself back from the past. “I’d love to see you, Lisa. It’s been so many years since your dad died, yet
in some ways it feels like yesterday. And I’ve kept a lot bottled up inside. Things I never talked about. Things
.
 
.
 
.
I promised your dad
I’d never tell anyone .
 
.
 
.
”

My heart sped up. “Dave, I need you to tell me
what you know, what he said. And I just can’t do this over the phone.”

“Okay, sure. I agree.
I’m booked up for the afternoon. I have to go to Napa. Got a car picking me up in about ten minutes to drive me there. Where is that in relation to you?”

“Actually, pretty close. Not even a
n
hour from where I live.”

“That’s great. Okay. If you don’t mind driving over, I’ll call you when I’m done for the day. I’d be delighted to take you
out to dinner. I have to fly back to Seattle in the morning. Can you do that?”

“Sure. I’ll let my husband know. We’re supposed to go look at some property, but I think he’ll understand. I don’t want to miss this opportunity to talk with you.”

Lerner gave me his hotel information and
local
phone number
as my heart raced. After I hung up, I called Jeremy at the store and explained the situation. He picked up on my excitement
,
and I think he would have tagged along with me had I asked. But he was concerned about viewing that rental property and expressed his worry that someone else might snatch it out from under him if he put off the appointment to see it.
If the place held promise, he could take me there tomorrow for a follow-up
visit. With that agreed, we told each other “I love you” and Jeremy rang off to help some customers.

I had about five hours to kill and felt at a loss what to do. My heart wasn’t into
tackling
chores, my usual routine of keeping up the property—weeding, mowing, pruning.
And I kept mulling over in my mind what I would say to Dave, which made my excitement grow. I felt on the verge of finding out the real truth about my father’s death. The guard was about to fling open that door to enlightenment and reveal all. I still clung to the scant hope that there was one universal truth, one clear-cut explanation that would
dispel all the murkiness and intrigue enveloping Nathan Sitteroff’s demise.

Lerner had sounded so burdened. What could he possibly know that he’d been keeping inside all these years? He’d promised my dad to keep something secret. Was it just the knowledge that
Nathan Sitteroff’s
marriage was a sham—or did it involve something to do with his contracting leukemia—and how that had happened
?
Maybe it was the truth of Neal’s parentage.
I wished I could speed up time, and of course, that only made the afternoon drag by as I took Shayla and the dogs for a long walk in the oak-studded hills, the grass dry and crackly under my hiking boots.

As I walked, I thought about Neal and wondered what he must be feeling. Wondered what was transpiring at my
m
other’s house. Surely things there had to be tense, perhaps volatile. I
thought
about calling Neal and offering him to come stay with us but threw that idea out as fast as it came. Jeremy,
although
back to work, was still recovering from his
accident
, and he needed things quiet—at least that was my rationale. Plus, he and Neal had never been comfortable together, with
Neal
picking up on Jeremy’s unspoken disapproval of my brother’s “useless” lifestyle.
I know Jeremy would be compassionate and give Neal some room, but I didn’t want to
aggravate
my
present
marital relationship
, which was better than it had been in many years.
Neal could always stay at a motel, if it came to that.

I really needed to see Neal.
W
e had things to discuss, but knew it would have to be in his time, when he was ready. Part of me wanted to get to him before my mother did.

Far be it from me to underestimate the long reach of her arm of guilt. Neal had been under her thumb for so many years
;
she obviously knew how to push his buttons in a heartbeat.
What would she say to him, to turn him against me again, to make it look like whatever crisis they were facing had to be my doing?
Would he fall for her ruses as before, or had this new revelation of Ruth Sitteroff’s betrayal—his first personal betrayal at her hand—severed his trust in her for all time
?
Our mother had lied to him for twenty-seven years. Had withheld vital information about his identity, and why? All for the sake of family unity—and more likely, for protecting her image on all fronts.
What reasonable excuse could she possibly give him for hiding this truth from him?
Surely that had to
create some roadblock
in Neal’s heart.

I had this sudden spark of thought—that maybe my mother had found a way to kill my father—to prevent him from revealing the truth and ruining her life. I knew it was beyond absurd! But how convenient that my father
had
died shortly after learning Neal wasn’t his. Hadn’t he contracted this fatal disease
shortly
after Ruth’s admittance to the truth? A
truth
she would have hidden even from him, had it not been conclusive. Julie had said my father knew Neal wasn’t his because he and my mother hadn’t been sleeping together.

My mind
jumped to the next outrageous thought—envisioning my mother trying to lure my father to bed after weeks—or months—of abstinence. Knowing she was pregnant and needing to cover her tracks.
My mind skipped to Ann Boleyn and how she’d tried to convince her brother to impregnate her, to cover her miscarriage to King Henry, knowing that if her husband found out
she’d lost the child
, she’d be banished. Unfortunately, though, it was her plan B that got her and her brother beheaded—
even
without
their
following through on her insane
idea
.

I thought back to Shakespeare.
Had
my father suspect
ed
some deceit,
an
act
characteristic
of Lady Macbeth?
“
Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
”
My mother had
committed
“an unnatural deed,” taking her secret
pregnancy
to her pillows.
What would
she
have tried? Seduction, trickery? I
imagined
her doubling the vodk
a in his evening drink, cornering him in the bedroom, the shower. Using sappy words to make him think she was sorry, that all their problems were her fault, begging for forgiveness? I could just picture this playing out, and my father refusing to fall for her sudden change of heart. Seeing through her manipulation. Being disgusted by her fawning. Knowing she had an ulterior motive for her in
consistent behavior. Suspicion festering.

The idea of murder was outrageous—I knew that. My imagination was galloping off in the distance
, a horse without a rider
, a rider without a head
.
And surely, if Dave Lerner had even suspected my mother had caused my father harm, he would have gone to the police, right?
Or maybe my father had no evidence, only a hunch.
And just how would Ruth Sitteroff have inflicted leukemia on him?
I shook all these
ludicrous
thoughts away and glanced at my watch. After returning a hot and sweaty horse to the pasture, I took a quick shower and changed—getting out just in time to answer Dave Lerner’s phone call.

The moment I entered the lobby of the hotel, I recognized
Dave
Lerner
standing
by the concierge counter
, even
despite
his bald head. He still wore a goatee and
the
thick-rimmed glasses
I’d seen in the Penwell brochure
.
He s
tood a little taller than
me
and had a fairly substantial beer gut that hung over his nicely pressed slacks. I knew he had no reference
for
recognizing me, but he caught my eye and saw me walking toward him
, extending both his hands to me as I drew close.

“Lisa.” He pumped my hands and studied my face. “You sure look a lot like your dad. Wow.”

I felt my face flush a little as we walked over to two overstuffed chairs in a corner of the lobby near an open-air bar. I sat next to him, our knees nearly touching. “Thanks for meeting me, Mr. Lerner
—
”

“Just call me Dave.”

“Okay. I
.
 
.
 
.
don’t really know where to start.”

“Do you want a drink? Glass of wine, a Coke?” Without waiting for my response, he caught the eye of one of the waiters and signaled him over. I ordered a glass of Napa Valley merlot, thinking it was just what I needed.
Maybe a whole bottle would be even better. My hands were clammy and
m
y heart race
d
.

“Well, first,” he said, “why don’t you tell me how your family is doing. Your brothers, your mom?” I sensed more than polite questioning. Perhaps the last thing he knew, as my father lay dying, was
that my mother was pregnant with another man’s child. Would he have known any of what was to follow?

I fumbled with a place to start. “My older brother, Raff, is bipolar. He’s struggling with depression, and it’s not pretty.”

Dave’s face fell
,
but he waited for me to continue. “To be honest, things are bad on the home front. I mean, I’m married and have a wonderful husband—Jeremy. But my mother and I—well, we’re estranged at the moment. I started researching my past, trying to figure out why my father died
.
 
.
 
.
I was hoping
that
maybe learning what happened might help Raff with his depression. Instead, it
caused more trouble
.
 
.
 
.
well, things are pretty ugly right now.”

Dave nodded, listening hard, listening between the lines. “So
.
 
.
 
.
what have you learned so far?”

I felt no compunction to hold anything back. Why should I
have
? I didn’t know Dave Lerner, and the more I told him, the better he’d be able to fill in my blanks. “I know my younger brother, Neal, is Ed Hutchinson’s son—not my father’s—”

Dave’s eyes widened
,
and he let out a big exhale. “How in the world did you find that out?” I knew instantly that Dave was privy to that secret. Perhaps it was one of the “secrets” he’d though he would have to dump on my head.

“Long story. I searched out Ed, went to see him. He’s dying
of
lung cancer. I met his daughter, Julie. She told me. Apparently her mother, Shirley, and my father had had an affair.”