The More They Disappear (17 page)

Gardner talked broadly, told them that Lew had been concerned with providing for his family after death and that he dreamt of buying a vacation home. As Gardner talked, Lewis studied the framed certificates and commendations that hung on the walls behind him. There were diplomas from UK, a thank-you for serving on the Democratic Council, a miniature Confederate flag in a frame. On the desk sat a gold paperweight shaped like a golf ball and on the shelves were rows of hardback books that looked brand-new. “In many ways, Lew lived up to the goals he set,” Gardner said and opened the will. Lewis followed suit and turned to page one while his mother left her copy untouched. “Lew paid off a mortgage, earned a steady income, and carried term life insurance, but just as his occupation was about taking risks, he took risks as an investor. Some were questionable and his liquid assets—cash, stocks, and the like—were hit hard. He tried to correct these losses by borrowing against his pension and his life insurance.”

“What's that mean?” Lewis asked.

“It means there's no money,” his mother said.

“Not exactly.” Gardner put up his hands, as if asking for calm. “It's true that your father's investments didn't pan out. He owed money at the time of his death and the estate assumes those debts, but he also held assets. He didn't borrow the full amount against his life insurance, so there will be a check coming from Commonwealth Annuity. Not what you would have expected but something. And there's the house, of course.”

“Wait,” Lewis said. “You're telling me there's no savings? No retirement account?” He turned to his mother. “Where'd it all go?”

Mabel looked at Gardner. “That's a good question, Jim. Where'd it all go?”

Gardner knitted his fingers together, rested them over the high hillock of his belly, and sighed. “Lew tried to correct his losses by gambling. He lost more, then borrowed more. It was a vicious cycle. I advised him to seek help, and I think he was on his way, but then this tragedy and well—”

Mabel interrupted. “Didn't you and my husband get together and play poker, Jim? Is that how you helped?”

“Now that's unfair.” Gardner craned his head to look at Lewis. “Your father and I played penny poker. Nothing like what got him into trouble.” He wheeled back to Mabel. He was working them both. “I provided a breakdown of known debts on page six. You might be able to make arrangements with Lew's creditors. I'd be happy to help.”

“With a fee for your services?” Mabel said.

Gardner frowned. “For free. As a friend.”

Lewis sat slack-jawed. He felt like the kid in a room of adults. He seemed to react a half second late to each new bit of news.

His mother finally picked up her copy of the will. “That bastard,” she said and pointed to a number on page six. “We owe the Silver Spoon fifty thousand?”

None of this made sense. His father had praised the twin values of hard work and common sense above all others, had railed against people who felt the world owed them something or believed in luck. Lottery players, welfare parents, heiresses, ambulance chasers—Lew Mattock disdained them all. But apparently he didn't hold himself to the same high standards, was all too willing to double down and chase the straight.

“I know this looks bad,” Gardner said. “But not all of the money Lew borrowed was gambled away. Some of it helped pay your bills. Kept the lights on, so to speak. Heck, if I remember correctly, Lew loaned Lewis money to expand his business.”

Lewis glanced at his mother, a tinge of shame over having accepted that money. She worked the water bottle anxiously in her hands while Gardner continued to fill the air with babble—noise sitting atop the hum of the heating unit. At some point he waved his hand in the air to get Lewis's attention. Fat fingers glinting golden.

“Jim,” Mabel said, putting up her own hand up to keep him from talking over her. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. Even if I get enough insurance money to pay my husband's debts, there will be nothing left. I need to know because I haven't worked for many years—my husband was against such silly notions—and I'd like to keep the electricity on without taking loans against what future I have left.”

“I understand your concerns,” Gardner said. “But remember, you've inherited the house and that is a significant asset. You can sell if necessary—”

“I don't intend to sell the house,” Mabel said, “nor do I intend to be bullied by my husband from the grave.”

“I'm sure we can figure something out. Maybe you both need time to look over this in private. We can meet again later. Given the nature of Lew's death, I'm sure his creditors will be understanding.”

“How fortunate,” Mabel said.

Gardner didn't take the bait, continued to assure them everything would be okay as the secretary came to show them out. For some reason Lewis went through the motions of shaking Gardner's hand. He wanted to forget everything he'd learned, but how could he? The printed proof sat heavy in his hand.

Outside, his mother tossed her copy of the will in the trash.

“Did you know about the gambling?” Lewis asked.

“I thought he was losing twenty bucks here and there. Nothing like this.”

“But you didn't seem shocked.”

“Just about nothing your father did would shock me at this point,” his mother said, her voice starting to tremble. She handed him her water from the meeting. “Open this for me. My hands are too weak and I'm thirsty.”

*   *   *

Sitting in the dark cab of his truck and staring out at a lifeless street, Harlan felt more like a movie detective than a small-town sheriff. He'd downed two bottles of Ale-8 for the caffeine and now he needed to take a leak something fierce. He looked at one of the soda bottles and started devising a plan when the Finleys' porch light came on. Jackson trotted down the front steps a minute later and climbed into his big beige Cadillac.

Harlan didn't keep much distance between the vehicles, though staying back and creeping in the shadows wouldn't have been any more effective than riding Jackson's tail. Jackson never once glanced in his rearview mirror, and Harlan wondered how a man could go through life so certain. When the Cadillac turned onto Lucas Ferry Road, Harlan eased back and pulled over to see a man about a mule. There wasn't but one place Jackson could be headed down that road and it was just as well to let him have a couple of cocktails at Idle Haven before making him discuss his wife, the dead sheriff, and issues of fidelity.

Harlan parked the Ford along the far edge of the country club's parking lot, away from the polished cars and trucks of its members. There was a uniformed lackey working the valet who came over and knocked on his window. “Can I help you?” the valet asked.

“I can park myself, thank you.”

“I'm sorry, but this club is for members only. You can't be here.”

“I can't be in the parking lot?”

“Not unless you're a member.”

Harlan handed over his sheriff's badge. “I think I'll park here anyway.”

“Sorry,” the valet said. “I didn't know. So you want to stay in the parking lot or actually go inside?”

“You know Jackson Finley?”

“Yeah.”

“I figure he's at the bar, and I wonder if you might poke your head in and let me know when he's ordered his second drink.”

The kid shook his head. “I don't think I should do that.”

Harlan pulled a couple of twenties from his wallet. The boy eyed the money. He was gawky, dressed in a polyester shirt, cheap vest, and secondhand, old-man glasses. He couldn't have been over twenty—burdened with bad teeth and hair that wouldn't sit down—a country boy trying to pass.

“Okay,” the boy said and slipped the twenties into his front pocket. “But don't tell him.”

Harlan raised two fingers. “Scout's honor.”

Not but fifteen minutes later, the kid returned. “Already?” Harlan said.

“He's doesn't exactly sip.”

“Okay then.” Harlan stepped out, checked the tuck on his shirt, and made his way inside. The brick building spanned three stories, the topmost a ribbon of gable windows, the second ornamented with large arches of clear glass, and the first a series of French doors that opened onto covered porches, pea gravel walking paths, and trim grass that bordered the golf course. Through the front doors, the foyer opened up the full three stories and the soft glow of wall lamps led to a wide staircase. A plush crimson rug swallowed the heavy heel of Harlan's boots.

The valet pointed him in the direction of the bar, where he found Jackson with tumbler of gin and tonic in his hand. A television rebroadcast the UK football team's first game of the season, a blowout loss in which the starting quarterback had been knocked unconscious on the first play from scrimmage. “Looks like another long season,” Harlan said. A couple of men sitting in wingback chairs around the fireplace looked up.

“Do I know you?” Jackson asked

“Harlan Dupee,” he said. “Sheriff.”

“And?”

“I wanted to talk to you for a minute.” The bartender, a black man with a thin mustache, headed in their direction.

The bartender stopped in front of Harlan, mentioned something about not recognizing him, and asked Jackson if everything was okay. “We're fine, Charles. Mr. Dupee asked me for a favor and made the mistake of coming here to discuss it. He'll be leaving shortly.”

“Of course.” The bartender turned away without offering Harlan a drink.

“You shouldn't barge in here and make a scene,” Jackson said.

“Barge?” Harlan said. “A scene?”

“Call me and we can set up a time to talk.”

“I'm not sure that works for me, Mr. Finley. What I want to talk about is of a sensitive and, I suppose, timely nature.”

Jackson looked at him, waited for more.

Harlan let his voice go soft. “It's about Lew Mattock.” He hesitated. “And your wife.”

Jackson spun the ice in his glass with his pinkie and took a drink. “I see,” he said. “How about you let me finish this and when I'm done I'll meet you somewhere more appropriate. Do you know the revival house?”

“It's a couple miles back down the road.”

Jackson nodded. “We can talk in private there. Like gentlemen.” Jackson lifted his glass and tipped it toward Harlan as if offering a silent cheers. Harlan stood up. “Next time you're seeking donations, please call me at home, Sheriff,” Jackson said, loud enough for the bartender and the men by the fireplace to hear.

Harlan smiled wanly, nodded at the men in wingback chairs. “Of course, Mr. Finley. I'll remember that.”

Jackson took his sweet time, likely ordered another drink or two, but he showed up like he said, parked around back next to Harlan's truck. Harlan was studying the structure. Pioneers had built the meetinghouse before Kentucky was a state and Protestants of varying ilk—Baptists, Disciples of Christ, Pentecostals—had worshipped there for almost two hundred years. A few years back, after being abandoned by its latest God-fearing tenants, someone—Satan worshippers or bored kids—tagged the place with pentagrams and signs of the beast. The county repossessed the property and sold it to the Quakers for a dollar. Now a small group of men and women met there every Wednesday and Sunday and sat in silence until one of them felt moved to speak. Harlan figured that was about the time the service started going to shit.

“I bet it gets cold in there come winter,” Harlan said, pushing his hand into one of the gaps between logs.

“Surely mankind has made architectural advances since this was built, Sheriff.” Jackson took a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped it over the hood of his Cadillac, and rested his backside.

“Do you know why I want to talk with you, Mr. Finley?”

“You hinted at it clearly enough. My wife. Your former boss.”

“Do you know why?”

“I suppose it's because they once had a relationship. How you found out, I don't know. But that was a long time ago, Sheriff.”

“How long is a long time ago?”

“When Lew first came to town. Twenty years or so. Before we even married. Lyda admitted the whole thing to me. It was a difficult time for us but we worked through it.”

Harlan took out his notebook.

“Do you mind?”

“I'd prefer you keep this confidential and off the record.”

Harlan shoved the notebook back in his pocket, made a mental note of the discrepancy between Jackson and Lyda's time line. One or, more likely, both of them were lying.

“And way back then. That's when the affair ended?”

Jackson shrugged. “As far as I know.”

“I'm sorry to tell you this, Mr. Finley, but they were still seeing each other when Lew died. They had cell phones to set up…” He let his voice trail off. Jackson didn't need the details. “I'm not trying to be cruel. You have a right to know.”

“And now that I know, now that you've been so gracious as to air my wife's infidelities, how does that change things?”

“I'm trying to clear your name, Mr. Finley. You're a suspect. I've already confiscated the guns from your basement. They're at the crime lab right now.”

“Like I said, Sheriff. I'm not worried.” Jackson pushed himself up from the hood of the Cadillac and peered through the gaps in the logs and into the dark.

Harlan lit a cigarette and offered one to Jackson. “You really didn't know they were still having an affair?” he asked. “I mean, if the first time was two decades ago, how many times do you think they've been together since?”

“I'll try not to think about that if you don't mind,” Jackson said. His voice was slowed from drink. “The truth is Lyda and I have come to terms with our marriage and its limitations. And I'm no choir boy.” He drew hard on the cigarette and coughed.