Chapter Thirty-Nine

Wayne’s revelations were all I could take for one day. I had a date with Rae that night and vowed to avoid discussing anything that would be upsetting. I wanted her to take me away from the images polluting my brain: Eric Martin hitting Sylvia’s head, Josh’s body half buried in moldy wheat, and Annie having sex with her dad.

Rae must have had similar plans for forgetting the trauma of the past few days because she showed up on her bike, wearing those jaw-dropping leather chaps. She stood in the doorway of the house, hair braided back from her temples and helmet under her arm. My knees almost buckled while my eyes took her in. She was carrying a clothes hanger, her dry-cleaned uniform protected by plastic.

“I hope you’re off duty, Sheriff, because I have some private contracting I want you to do.”

“I have more than twenty-four hours to do your bidding, ma’am.” She reached to my face and cupped my cheek.

“Well, it’s bedroom security, and I’m happy to see you’ve come dressed for the job.”

“A woman with your injuries needs all the proper protection the law can afford.”

“Oh please, Sheriff, it’s not your protection I need, just the long arm of the law. Let’s go upstairs.” I hung her dry-cleaning in the hall closet.

The whole scene was set. Candles, a bottle of Leonetti, one half set of handcuffs still attached to the headboard. She had enough class to give a sheepish grin when she saw the cuff. “Guess I owe you, huh?”

“And it’s time to pay up.”

“How much?”

I looked her over for a moment and pondered. “I’m going to leave the room for two minutes. When I get back, I want you dressed in nothing but your jacket, boots, and chaps. Do you understand?”

She smiled, warming to the game. “I understand perfectly.”

“Did you bring a fresh set of cuffs?”

“They’re in my back pocket.”

“I want them unlocked and ready on the dresser, and you standing in the middle of the room when I get back.” Fitch would have been proud. I shut the door behind me and went into the bathroom to change into my robe. I was so turned on that I took a few swipes between my legs to help relieve the tension without wrecking the urge. When I reentered the bedroom, I concluded the sight of her bare ass in those chaps would follow me through my days and make my last few in the nursing home a little brighter.

Rae and I spent thirty-six hours in bed. We fueled our romp with reheated casseroles and a few bottles of 2000 Leonetti Cabernet. When she described the wine as “jammy, juicy with spicy undertones,” my heart crawled onto her shoulder and wrapped its arms and tail around her like a baby monkey.

She finally had to leave, though. She was the sheriff, after all, and duty won out.

When she left me at the front door, I looked like a debauched tart, my bathrobe askew. She, on the other hand, was all pressed and starched, having retrieved her uniform from the hall closet. The juxtaposition of our attire made me want her again, and I know she felt the same way. We were shameless fantasy tramps.

After showering the luscious aroma of sex from my shaky, flaccid body, I went to my father’s office to focus on his filing cabinet, particularly the drawer labeled “Personal.”

The file with my name on it made me nervous, so I avoided it and went to the “Medical” file. Nothing in there surprised me except that his heart condition, coronary artery disease, had been diagnosed four years earlier.

From the little I could glean from the medical records, my father probably could have lived longer had he reduced his stress, eaten less fat, and exercised. He wasn’t wired for any of those action plans, but it still pissed me off. “Shit, Daddy, you could never take a suggestion, could you.” I thought about that giant slab of buttery salmon he’d consumed when he visited me in Seattle several months earlier.

Sadly chagrined, I went for the weighty, enigmatic file entitled “Meeker and Meeker.” My journalist’s tingle started when I realized Meeker and Meeker was a private investigation firm out of Denver. I lowered myself into the leather office chair and started one of the most astonishing reads of my life.

The reports from Alvin Meeker, P.I. started in 1981. They were centered around a woman, Eva Stark. My mother. The first report was a bio revealing what she’d done for fourteen years after I was born in 1967. A stint in Vegas as a hotel maid, then San Francisco as a dessert shop waitress, and finally to Portland, Oregon, to go to college. Earned a master’s in library science.

“My mother isn’t a dolly,” I whispered. Hardly. She was currently head reference librarian for the Portland city library system. The yearly P.I. reports chronicled my mother’s career and moves to and from several apartments and, finally, into a house. No mention of a husband or boyfriend.

One passage in a 1985 report stated that my mother agreed never to contact me or my father. “Subject accepted payment.” A dispassionate description of my abandonment.

My father had paid her off. And, according to the reports, she was continuing to receive payments up to the present. And there they were: her address and phone number.

My mother lived one hundred and fifty miles from my Seattle condo.

I got up and made myself a Bombay gin and tonic. It was 10:35 a.m.

I sat swirling the icy drink, staring out the window at the cavorting gophers. I wasn’t thinking, just waiting for the gin to numb my anger. Some of my life’s mysteries had been solved the last few days, but I’d had no time to digest them. On top of all that, I was falling in love for the second time in my life. My mind couldn’t conjure the discipline to file all that information into neat folders. I wanted to do something foul to the elk head balefully watching me from the wall. “Well, shoot me and stuff me,” I muttered.

I looked at the open filing cabinet drawer, aware of the last folder with my name on it. With deliberate care, I stood, fought off the gin-induced dizziness, and retrieved the folder. I went to the kitchen and made an even stronger drink. Then I went to the living room, drink and folder in hand, and lay on the couch. Placing the drink on the floor, I opened the folder and found a handwritten letter from my father. His schoolboy writing made me smile a little. 5/10/06 My Dear Daughter, Well, if you’re reading this, then I’ve gone to the neon casino in the clouds. I’m sorry to leave you alone, sweetheart. Was it my ticker that gave out, or did I get a little whiskeyed-up and ran the car into the ditch? Guess it doesn’t really matter. I’m gone and you’re stuck with all my dealings. I hope you approve of my handing the day-to-day workings to Billy. He’s a smart boy and I know you can trust him.

I suppose you’ve found the Meeker files and you are probably angry with me. You should be. I want to tell you that I couldn’t share you, not even with your mother. For a few years, after she left you in your grandma’s arms, she tried to see you. I was mad at her for leaving me with a kid and then I loved you too much to let you be gone from me for even a day. Your mom gave up finally, and I peppered her income to keep her from coming to get you. Not even your grandma knew this.

You get to decide what you want to do about your mother, except ending her payments. I’ve established those until she dies, which will be a long time from now. She’s still fairly young, you see. I suggest you go meet her because I’m sure she’s proud of such an accomplished daughter. In intellect and temperament, you two are much alike. I never met another one like her.

I have a few other things to ask of you, sweetheart. Please make sure Connie is taken care of. She is the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had and deserves payment for putting up with me all these years. I know you’ll be generous.

Another thing. Don’t let Melvin Martin’s boys have that farm. If you don’t know why by now, you will eventually. As for Melvin, make sure his bills are paid, will you? He’s my friend and doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him.

This house belongs to you, my Jillian. I suggest you keep it for when you’re in town. I know you’ll remove the taxidermy; just make sure they all get good homes.

It appears I’ve left you a little bit rich. Making lots of money and raising a perfect daughter were the two things I did right with my life. I guess that ain’t too bad.

I love you, my dear little girl, always have and always will. Your Father I rolled onto my side and cried myself to sleep.