Dead for the Money (25 page)

This guy seemed okay. Turning, he went to the kitchen. “There’s some dried cherries in the fridge and some little cans of apple juice.”

“Yeah, my neighbor bought her that.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. The old guy gives me the creeps, watchin’ what I do and shit. But he’ll always babysit her if I need to go somewhere, so I’m nice to him.”

“Think she can eat those cherries? I wouldn’t want her to choke or nothing.”

“Go ahead and give ’em to her.” Jeannie’s tone was flat, as if her daughter choking was of no concern at all. The man handed Brodie a plastic bowl half-filled with dried fruit and then opened a juice box by stabbing the foil seal with the attached straw.

“Here, kid,” he said gruffly. He left her there with the food and went into the bedroom, closing the door. Brodie concentrated on her breakfast of cherries, Doritos, and juice, ignoring the sounds from the room where her mother and this week’s lover lay together.

Chapter Seventeen

“
S
EAMUS
!
S
EAMUS
!” Mildred’s voice was like an ice cube running down his spine. Actually, Bud’s spine.

“Quiet!”

Bud stopped dead, and Scarlet looked at him in concern. Seamus’ host could probably not decipher Mildred’s words, but he reacted with shock at the commotion inside his head.

“I know, Bud’s probably awake,” Mildred continued, “but you have to know that the guy who has Brodie is her father, Leland Voorhies.”

Seamus did not answer, unwilling to upset his host any further. He had been trying to absorb that very fact, wondering why Dunbar had not seen fit to mention it.

“Go to Leland.” He kept it short, trying to minimize the effect on Bud, whose brain struggled to cope with what sounded like bursts of static between his ears.

“I can’t,” Mildred answered. “Brodie’s very upset, and I need to help her through this.”

Her self-righteous tone made Seamus want to shout, “What happened to the woman who promised to do whatever I said? What happened to her agreement that we were here to gather information, not to interfere with the living?” For that matter, he added bitterly, what had been so attractive about Mildred that he had ignored his instincts in the first place and brought her along?

A
FTER
L
ELAND
’
S
REVELATIONS
, Brodie returned to her bunk and feigned sleep, trying to make sense of the present situation in terms of what she knew of the past. Memories of her earliest years came mostly in her nightmares, with Jeannie playing the starring, scary lead. Jeannie had hated having a kid. Jeannie had blamed Brodie for all sorts of things she did not understand. Crying was bad. Talking was bad. Calling Jeannie “Mommy” was forbidden. Life with Jeannie had been far beyond her understanding. She had learned early to keep quiet when possible and to attack when keeping quiet didn’t work. For some reason, her childish rage amused her mother, and the worst of Jeannie’s moods dissipated when Brodie threw a fit.

Jeannie had good acting skills. She could fake motherly concern when the occasion demanded, toting her daughter around on one hip and crooning endearments when she went out on the streets to beg. Brodie learned early on not to believe that those times were real.

She had known kindness from a few people: a neighbor called Amos with a bushy beard and a raspy voice called her “sweetie” and made sure she had something to eat most days. Even some of Jeannie’s boyfriends had been good to her, although the nice ones never stayed long. She did not recall anyone called Daddy, and she had never seen the bird watcher before a few days ago.

She must have dozed for a while but woke feeling that someone had said something to her. Cher was asleep, her mouth slightly open and one ham-shaped leg hanging off the narrow bench. Someone was moving on deck. Leland was probably getting ready to cast off.

The hatch was open, so she went on deck. All sign of the previous night’s storm was gone, and the lake seemed welcoming and serene.

“Hey, Brodie.” Leland sounded almost shy. She gave him a weak smile and sat down to watch him get under way. He unscrewed the anchor from the lakebed and motored briefly to get to deep water. Then he set the sails, moving efficiently from the tiller to the bow, bare feet sure under him despite the movement of the boat. Once they were on the course he had charted with a GPS, he took a relaxed stand, holding the tiller extension in one hand and looking at the expanse of water ahead. After a few minutes he removed his cap, ran a hand through his hair, and slapped the cap back into place, screwing it slightly to settle it.

“You wonder why I wasn’t there for you.”

Brodie said nothing. She hated people who talked about being “there for” someone or knowing “where you’re coming from,” making emotions into rooms a person could walk in and out of.

Leland scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Here’s the thing. I ran into some trouble and had to leave Michigan. I couldn’t let anybody know where I went, not even Jeannie. I guess you came along after that. She didn’t know what to do, so she gave you to Uncle Will to raise. Because the old...man never told Mother who you were, I never knew I had a kid.” He smiled. “But when I saw you on the ledge, everything got clear. I knew why he took you in. Just like with Bud, he couldn’t stand to let a relative of his suffer.”

Leland’s expression grew serious and his voice took on a teaching tone. “Bud’s all about money, Brodie. Well, money and women. That girlfriend of his will find herself out on her ear someday.” He looked up at the wind indicator, adjusted the tiller slightly, and turned back to her. “He’s going to want to control you, Brodie, and I don’t think that’s right. Shouldn’t your dad help you decide what to do, not some guy you hardly know?”

When Brodie did not speak her thought—
I don’t know you, either—
he said, “Cher didn’t like my idea when I went back that first day and told her about you. She said you’d never see my side of things. But I think blood is thicker than water, you know? I think you’re smart enough to figure out that your dad is the person you should be with, not some guy who lives in Chicago and doesn’t even care about you or the house and all that.”

She tried to look agreeable, knowing her only chance for escape was to lull these people into believing she was on their side. At her forced smile, Leland grinned reassuringly. At least he was smart enough not to pressure her for an immediate answer.

As Brodie watched Leland’s confident movements, she compared her image of Saint Leland to the real version. Arlis’ misunderstood son had been the old woman’s main topic of conversation since she could remember. “Leland is working with AIDS babies in Ethiopia,” she would announce, or “Leland plans to go to Sri Lanka again and work for Doctors Without Borders.” Brodie had noticed a distinct lack of enthusiasm from Gramps when the subject of Leland arose, but Arlis had never seemed to get it. She updated the family on her son’s activities as if everyone waited with bated breath to hear his latest exploits for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.

According to Arlis, Leland had made one mistake and spent the last decade making up for it. His only purpose now, she insisted, was doing good.

This guy did not strike her as that type. Not only did Leland not have the air of serenity she expected from a holy man, Cher seemed a person unlikely to associate with a do-gooder of any sort. Neither did this man strike any chord in her, the way she’d always thought a parent would. Brodie had often imagined her dad, who would be a lot like Gramps. His eyes would light with affection when he looked at her, his long-lost daughter. Leland had a definite air of selfishness about him, the same air she always sensed in Arlis.

And Bud? Was what Leland said about Bud true? Shelley often shook her head when she spoke of his many girlfriends, the model from Denmark, the assistant district attorney, the Channel Ten reporter, but she never seemed really disapproving. Actually, Brodie didn’t recall any stories about Bud’s conquests in the last year or so. Maybe he was starting to settle down, as Gramps had always said he would someday.

Bud had never paid much attention to Brodie; that was true. But as she considered the cause, she found it might have been a lot of things: their age difference, Bud’s busy life in Chicago, even the small army of crawling things she had put into his bed when he returned home from college all those years ago. She knew, looking back, that she had acted from jealousy. Bud was the one person in the world Gramps loved as much as he loved her, and Brodie had wanted to punish him for it. Also for being smarter, more attractive, and less crazy than she was.

Bud had offered to help with her money—that was true. But he’d made it sound like something they would do together. Still, she reminded herself, being nice to someone who just inherited a ton of money was very likely to come from selfish motives.

But then, here was her supposed father, being nice after ignoring her all her life. Had he really not known she existed? Despite his charm, Brodie did not trust the guy. Whether he was really her dad or not, she suspected that more than having his daughter with him, Leland wanted to get his hands on the money Gramps had left her. Maybe Bud wanted that too, control of all the money, not just most of it. Some people were like that, unwilling to give up even a penny, but Gramps trusted Bud. On the subject of Leland he’d been silent, which for Gramps meant he disapproved. She had to defer judgment for a while, Brodie decided. She needed more information to make an informed decision. Gramps was gone, but she would not forget what he’d taught her. How else could she pay tribute to his wisdom?

B
UD
AND
S
CARLET
took the golf cart as far down the shore as they could. Past the viewing point, the sandy beach gave way to a swampy spot with dense foliage that grew right to the waterline: birch, jack pine, and cedar so tightly packed they choked each other, resulting in spindly, ragged-looking trees. Equally dense undergrowth had sprung up between them, hardy weeds and bushes that grew waist high, sporting thorns, burrs, and plenty of tiny, intertwined branches.

“No way to get through this stuff without a machete,” he told her, “but we can wade around it.” He slipped off his shoes and stuffed his socks inside, tying the laces together and hanging them around his neck. “It’s kind of mucky, but easier going.”

Scarlet did as he did but was soon wet to the knees as she tried to avoid trees that leaned out over the water, catching her hair and scraping her arms. He tried to ease her way, holding branches up so that she could pass under them. Some way down, the trees receded and a shallow channel led inland. Bud led the way up the channel, feet sucked downward by the soft muck under the water. The branches of the leaning trees often met overhead, making a tunnel of their passage. He walked in the center, where the water reached their thighs but was clear of snags. He pointed out several places where branches were broken off. “Something’s been through here recently.”

About thirty yards in, a small stretch of sand gave way to an open space that elevated gradually for a few dozen feet and then turned to forest and rose abruptly. They sat down to put their shoes and socks back on. “The original cabin was there,” Bud said, pointing. “See the foundation?”

Scarlet glanced over a square of badly cracked concrete and the base of a fieldstone fireplace on their right, “That’s all that’s left?”

“It burned back in the twenties.” He glanced around at the trees that canopied the spot. “Seventy or so years of vegetation overcame most of what the owners cleared.”

She looked around. “I don’t see a boathouse.”

Bud pointed. “There.”

Barely visible through the trees before them was a building so dilapidated as to hardly merit the term. It straddled the far end of narrow inlet they had followed, tilting to one side as if it were dizzy. The back section of the roof was caved in, and moss coated the rest. It appeared that the forest was trying to reclaim the place, dead though its wood might be.

Bud moved cautiously toward it. The structure was built of plank lumber, and a platform ran along the front with stairs at each side that led up to floor level. Ignoring the steps, which appeared too rotten to chance, Bud turned his back to the platform and hefted his rear onto it. Once he was up, he stepped cautiously into the gaping doorway. Assuring himself that no one was inside, he beckoned for Scarlet and helped her up onto the walkway. He led the way inside, stepping carefully on each floorboard before trusting his full weight to it.

“Not exactly welcoming.” Scarlet wiped her hands on the rear of her jeans.

“We used to come here as kids,” Bud said, his voice echoing off the walls. “I remember being scared of the place but fascinated by it too.”

“Ghosts?”

“I guess. Leland liked to scare me with stories about pirates and dead men’s chests.” He turned in a circle, looking up. “It seemed a lot bigger then.”

“Look!” Scarlet said, pointing at the inner edge of the walkway. A fresh scrape marked the wood. “From the hull of a boat?”

Kneeling, Bud examined the scrape and nodded. “Leland hid the boat in here, stayed long enough to catch Brodie alone, and took her away.” He pressed a hand to his forehead. “And I watched him go.”

“We need to get the police in here.”

She was right. He had to stop thinking of what he had not done and concentrate on what must be done.

“And you and I need to look at the rest of that DVD,” she added.

“Leland wants control of Brodie’s money. That’s why he took her instead of coming forward openly.”

“He thinks you won’t contest it if Brodie chooses to stay with him.” Scarlet bit her lip. “All he has to do is give her what she lost when Mr. Dunbar died.”

Bud nodded. “The feeling that she belongs somewhere.”