NOT What I Was Expecting (19 page)

I slowly eased
myself out of bed, into the bathroom and started my quick shower.  At least, my
original intention was to have a quick shower before going in and apologizing
to Luke.  Once the hot water started working its magic of bringing me from the
walking undead back to the living, I hesitated to rush it.  Maybe if I stayed
in the shower long enough, I would think of a smooth way to apologize to Luke. 
When the hot water started cooling off, I decided the rejuvenation was over,
even though nothing brilliant in the apology department had come to mind.

I was lucky to have
found my way to the shower considering the size of my headache, but I hadn’t
brought any clean clothes in with me.  I noticed a clean, folded microfiber
robe on the shelf next to the towels and decided it would be okay to borrow it,
as long as I returned it clean.

I found a hair
dryer in the drawer next to the sink and dried my hair until it was only
partially wet.

I padded out to
the kitchen where Luke was sitting, drinking coffee, and reading the
newspaper.  As I walked toward the coffee maker, Luke stared at me with an
expression I couldn’t read.

I gave him a
tentative smile to let him know I had morphed out of the emotionally challenged
lunatic he’d encountered earlier.  Now for the apology.

“Um,” I began,
“thanks for the coffee and breakfast.”

Okay, that wasn’t
an apology, but I was working my way up to it.  There was
so much
to
apologize for that I was finding it kind of daunting.

“Oh,” Luke started
hesitantly, “you’re welcome.  Are you, uh, feeling better?”

I turned my smile
to full strength and launched in.  “Yes, Luke.  I feel much better.  I’m really
sorry about last night – and this morning.  I don’t drink very often and
usually stick to wine whenever I do, so my alcohol tolerance level is pretty
much nonexistent.  I guess I’m not really telling you anything you didn’t already
figure out for yourself.  I discovered how a hangover screws with my emotional
stability when I was away at college after a night of drinking with friends. 
That night was followed by a morning of memory loss, emotional upheaval, and a
headache the size of all outdoors.  The good news is I learned a very important
insight into myself.  I am
not
a good drinker.  That is a lesson I have
carried with me all these years, and I didn’t think I would have any problem
with a couple of drinks, since two is usually my limit, and I don’t know what
happened last night, because I remember only two drinks and that should have
been . . . . ”

“I’ll stop you
there, Maggie,” Luke interrupted shaking his head slowly.  “You don’t owe me
any apologies.  You’ve done nothing to apologize for, and I’m afraid this was
my fault.  I should never have let you have that drink without making sure you
understood what was in it.  It didn’t occur to me you would down it so quickly
until it was too late.  As far as anything you said last night or this morning,
it’s all good.”

Luke stood, walked
over to where I was doctoring my coffee and poured a fresh cup into his nearly
empty mug.  “I take it this rambling thing you’re doing this morning is also
part of the hangover repercussions?” Luke asked smiling and nudging me with his
arm as he poured.

How did he do
that?  I was so dreading this conversation, since it required my attempt at
apologizing, and he had just taken responsibility for my questionable behavior
and lightened the mood in the room in a matter of seconds.  I felt a weight
lift off of me and realized my smile, which I’d had to force earlier, was now
genuine.  Oh, I was aware that last night was my fault, but the fact that he
didn’t want me to feel bad actually did make me feel much better.

“No,” I replied in
answer to his question.  “The rambling was a result of my embarrassment, not my
hangover.”

Luke smiled a
little and said, “You shouldn’t be embarrassed.  You’re charming whether drunk
or sober.  You’re just funnier when you’ve been drinking.  I was just sitting
here thinking about some night, years to come, when we’ll be sitting around
talking about that night in the French Quarter when we were . . .” Luke stopped
smiling, stopped stirring his coffee, and glanced over at me looking kind of
uncomfortable.

He looked
embarrassed.  He looked as if he was the one, for a change, who’d said what he
was thinking and regretted it.  Wasn’t that my signature move?  My turn to
rescue him.

“I’m so glad I could
amuse you,” I said lightly and grabbed for a subject change.  “I guess I should
go ahead and call Ms. Eliza’s brother.  Hopefully, he’ll know something that
will point us in the right direction.”

“Sure,” Luke
exhaled as he spoke, his relief obvious.  “I’ll get the number and the cell
phone. Is your cell still in the bedroom?”

I nodded as he was
leaving the kitchen.

I took my coffee
and Luke’s, which he’d left on the counter, set them on the table, sat down and
made myself comfortable.

When Luke came
back and joined me, I placed the call to Joseph Parker.  Mrs. Parker answered
the phone, and after exchanging pleasantries she put her husband on the phone.

“My wife filled me
in on your conversation yesterday,” Mr. Parker began, obviously a no nonsense
man ready to get down to business.  “She said she didn’t remember details, so
let me give you a condensed version of the story from the beginning.  Then, if
you have questions, you can let me know.

“1892, Rupert
Frost did a painting for my grandmother called
Marianne’s Garden
. 
In 1925, my grandmother died and the painting was inherited by my father, her
only living child, Jeremiah Parker.  1963, my father died, leaving the painting
to my oldest brother, Joshua, with a stipulation that if the painting is ever
sold the profits are to be distributed evenly between all of my father heirs. 
Then in 1969, Joshua was murdered, gunned down in his own home.  There were no
witnesses, and they never caught the killer, but I’ve always had my
suspicions.  That’s why when the painting came to me, as the second oldest
after my brother’s murder, I decided to play it safe.

“I told my younger
brother and sisters that I sold the painting, and would give them each their
share of the sale price.  My brother Jacob wasn’t happy that his share was only
$20,000, but he took it, and I never heard from him again.  My two sisters,
Harriet and Eliza, were furious with me for selling it and wanted no part of
their share of the money.  You see, they felt the painting should have stayed
in the family as part of my grandmother’s legacy.  That’s the only reason I
told them the truth. 

“I never sold the
painting, and I gave Jacob $20,000 out of my own money.  I explained to them
that I couldn’t prove it, but I suspected it was Jacob that killed Joshua and
that the painting was the reason behind it.  He’d been talking about getting
rich from that painting since we were teenagers.  If he kept killing us all off
until he inherited the thing, he would have made a lot more money than what he
ended up with.

“Harriet and Eliza
offered to help me keep the painting hidden and will it to my children after
both of them were dead, since they didn’t have any kids themselves.  We thought
it would keep us all safe and still keep the painting in the family. 
Unfortunately, when Harriet died, she mentioned the painting in her will.  I
specifically told her not to do that, but apparently she did anyway.  I warned
Eliza not to keep the painting on her property, and she didn’t.  She gave it to
Barney Becnel for safe keeping.  She said he was the only one she would trust
with her secret.

“I never should
have kept her letter.  She let me know the painting was safe and that Barney
was taking care of hiding it.  When someone broke into our house, they
apparently took the letter, and Eliza’s was their next stop.  Thanks to that
letter, they didn’t have to keep her alive if she wouldn’t tell them where
Barney hid the painting, since they knew who to go see next — Barney.

“You see how this
whole thing is stacking up?  At least, my take on the situation is that my baby
brother is somehow behind this.  He found out what was in Harriet’s will, and
now he knows we still have the painting.  Of course, he’s in his seventies now,
so he probably got one of his no count kids to do his dirty work for him.”

Since Mr. Parker
seemed to be winding down, I asked exactly how many kids Jacob fathered.

“Two,” he replied,
“and that’s two too many as far as I’m concerned.  One girl and one boy.  Since
they come from murdering scum, they did their worst to impress that father of
theirs.  Last I heard, Jacob was living in Phoenix, Arizona.  His wife left
him, and his daughter’s husband left her, so they were living together there. 
I know the son was arrested several times for dealing drugs.  I have no idea
where he or the girl ended up.  I used to keep in touch with a cousin who kept
tabs on that part of the family, but she died a few years back so I have no
recent information.  Until now, I didn’t know I needed to worry about that
sorry brother of mine.

“Tell the Becnels
I sure am sorry to hear about Barney.  He was a good friend to Eliza, and I hate
that it might have been the cause of him ending up dead.  We talked at Eliza’s
funeral.  He told me
Marianne’s Garden
was in a safe place and
offered to get it to me after the service was over.  I told him my wife was
scared enough after our house was burglarized, and I’d appreciate it if he’d
hold onto it until I could make arrangements to put it someplace safe back in
Ohio.  My wife already told me she didn’t want that thing in our house, since
it’s worth so much money.”

I tried to think
of another question that might prove helpful, but I was also anxious to get off
the phone and let Luke in on the scoop.  I wanted to see what we could do with
this information.

“Mr. Parker, thank
you so much for sharing this information with me,” I told him.  “I know it must
not be easy to go into such painful issues, but we do appreciate your help.”

“Well, it’s true
that my family’s a mess, but if it helps bring Eliza’s and Barney’s killer to
justice, it needs to be explored.  Do you think I should call the sheriff’s
office and tell them what I just told you?” Mr. Parker wanted to know.  “I feel
awful that we didn’t realize the letter was missing before my sister was
murdered.  Then come to find out Barney’s been killed, too.  I’m thinking maybe
I should let the sheriff know, although I don’t know what good it’ll do now.”

“That’s your call,
Mr. Parker,” I acknowledged.  “If you want, Luke and I will make sure the
authorities are made aware of everything you told me.  I know Luke will be in
touch with you as soon as he locates your painting, but apparently his Uncle
Barney was true to his word and didn’t divulge the location to anyone, not even
Luke.”

“Yeah, I’m okay
with you and Luke handling it,” Mr. Parker agreed.  “You tell the sheriff I’ll
be calling in the next week to see what kind of progress has been made in
solving Eliza’s murder.”

“We’ll do that,
Mr. Parker.  Thanks again for your help,” I said in closing.

“No problem, ma’am,
and let me know if you come up with anything or have any more questions for
me,” Mr. Parker concluded.

“Will do.  You
take care.  Goodbye,” I signed off.  As I hung up, Luke looked up from his
coffee.  He had been studying it with complete concentration if the look on his
face was accurate.  I might have been listening closely to Mr. Parker’s story,
but I was watching Luke’s expression.  That’s how I knew his eyes never left
his coffee the entire duration of my phone conversation.

Now, however, I
had his full attention as he waited for me to put the phone down and take a
drink of my coffee.  I started at the beginning, as Mr. Parker had done, and
went through everything.  I referred to the notes I’d scribbled as I listened,
whenever a name or time frame had come up.

When I finished, I
expected some kind of reaction to all the information I’d just given him. 
Instead, Luke sat very still, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.  He
was watching me closely while I was watching him expectantly, and we seemed to
be at an impasse.

After what seemed
like hours but was probably only a few moments, Luke asked, “Does he have
anything more substantial than a hunch that his younger brother is responsible
for his older brother’s death?”

“Um,” I quickly
reviewed the conversation in my mind, “he didn’t say specifically, but I got
the impression he couldn’t prove it.  Why?”

“I’m just not sure
how this information helps us unless we can find some way to connect Eliza’s
and/or Barney’s death to the greedy brother.”  Luke didn’t sound discouraged,
just deep in the planning mode.  “So we need information on the greedy
brother’s offspring.  I guess I can do an internet search to see what I can
find about Jacob Parker of Phoenix, Arizona.”

When Luke said “we
need information,” it triggered an idea – an incredibly brilliant idea, if I do
say so myself!  As my thoughts organized around my idea, one word escaped my
lips.

“Stubby,” I said
softly.

“What?” Luke asked
apparently unable to pick up my brilliant idea vibes that were flying around
the room.

“Stubby!” I
answered growing more excited.

“Hmm,” Luke looked
thoughtful for a second before responding.  “If that’s my new nickname, I gotta
tell you I think I prefer
Sucre
.”

The way he was
smiling at me left me no option but to smile back.  My words, however, conveyed
how serious I was.

“No, no.  Stubby. 
Fry’s friend Stubby.”  Since Luke looked kind of lost, I went on to explain,
“Stubby has this unique way of getting anything – supplies, firearms,
information.  You name it, and Stubby can get it.”