Truth Be Told Page 12

  I shook my head. “I haven’t. Do you want us to help you look?”

  “We can’t,” Lanie said staunchly.

  “But her cat—”

  “Come on, Josie,” Lanie insisted. “We promised Mom that we’d have the kitchen cleaned by the time she got out of the shower.”

  “You’re good girls,” Melanie said, smiling sadly.

  I shivered now, remembering that interaction. It was so obvious, in hindsight. Melanie had come over to confront my mother about the affair. Had Lanie been able to intuit that Melanie was going to harm our mother?

  • • •

  I shook my head to clear that train of thought and, reeling myself back in, I went to go get a cup of tea. From the hallway, I could see the kitchen light was still on. I assumed it had been overlooked in the semi-drunken cleaning attempt made by Aunt A’s friends, but I found Aunt A sitting at the kitchen table. Her shoulders were slumped; one hand was wrapped around a half-drunk mug of Sleepytime Tea, and the other around a box of tissues. Used tissues were mounded in front of her, and her eyes were red and leaking.

  “Aunt A?”

  “Josie, honey,” she said, looking up and wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please, come in. I was just . . . thinking about your mom.”

  I hesitated. My mind was still spinning with thoughts of Melanie Cave, and I wasn’t sure I was emotionally prepared to return to mourning my mother. But Aunt A looked so small and miserable I didn’t know how to refuse, and so I took a seat beside her, haltingly patting her soft, warm back, affecting my best imitation of feminine comfort. After years of solo travel followed by cohabitation with a man whose moods could easily be controlled by food and sex, my skills at consoling other women were tepid at best. Still, Aunt A leaned into my touch, her sniffles lessening.

  “I miss her so much,” Aunt A said quietly. “And I’ve been sitting here trying to work out if I missed her more when she first left, or if I miss her more now that she’s dead. Isn’t that strange? I have no idea why that matters to me.”

  “I’ve been wondering something similar,” I confessed. “I thought I gave up on her years ago, so why am I so sad?”

  “Grief is a funny thing,” she said with a sad, lopsided smile.

  “Have you figured out which it is? Do you miss her more now or then?”

  “I’m beginning to think they’re incomparable. I miss her differently now than I used to. Now I have sadness and regret, when back then it was mostly anger.”

  My eyes flickered downward. I had never recognized anger in Aunt A. “Were you angry with her because she left you to take care of us?”

  “Oh, honey, no,” Aunt A said, pulling my hand down from her back and clasping it in hers. “Of course not. I love you and your sister as though you were my own, and I have never been angry about raising you. Never. We had some challenges, but I never considered it anything less than a privilege to take care of you girls.”

  My heart twisted; tears turned my vision blurry. “You can’t believe that.”

  “I do,” she said fiercely, squeezing my hand so that it almost hurt. “My anger had nothing to do with you girls. I was furious with your mother because she abandoned all of us. Just took off like a thief in the night, without so much as a note. And right after that scene with your sister . . . I didn’t know what to think. I was sick with worry. I thought . . . well, I thought that she’d decided she couldn’t live without your father and had killed herself. And then, once I knew where she was, I was so, so angry that she thought those strangers could make her happier than I could. Than we could.” Aunt A choked back a sob that shook her entire body. “I wasted so much time on anger. I thought . . . I thought that there was still time. I thought she would come home someday.”

  “I think we all thought that, at least a little,” I whispered. I certainly had, right up until the afternoon I spent in the Dairy Queen with Sister Amamus. I never told Aunt A about that encounter—I never told anyone, not even Lilly, whose car I had borrowed—and I knew tonight wasn’t the right time to mention it. It painted a more callous picture of my mother than I liked to remember. But I couldn’t help but wonder if Aunt A had ever attempted to contact her sister, if she had any more success than I had. “Did you ever look for her?”

  “No. Maybe I should have. I just . . . I thought . . . I didn’t. And now I have so many regrets. Not only for myself, but also for you girls. Your mother was such a special, compassionate woman. I wish you could have known her better.” Aunt A looked up at me with heartbreaking earnestness. “Tell me, how do you remember your mother?”

  One look into Aunt A’s anguished eyes told me all I needed to know about what she wanted to hear, and I began telling her about warm memories of my mother: family vacations, surprises she made for Lanie and me, baking together. I left out the less happy memories, the ones where our mother shut down, refused to come out of the room, wouldn’t speak to us for days. Even so, I couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “I know she was hurting, but we needed her. How could she leave us?”

  A fat tear slid down Aunt A’s cheek. “I don’t know, honey. She refused to talk to me about the night your father died, and she refused to see anyone about it. I think she felt guilty for not being home, and I think that guilt was like a cancer in her. She had always blamed herself for our brother Dennis’s death, and she blamed herself in a way for our parents’ deaths. I think your father’s death on top of that was just too much for her.”

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. I can understand why she might have felt responsible for Uncle Dennis, and I can sort of see why she might have felt guilty about not being home the night Dad died, but Grammy and Pops were killed by a drunk driver. There’s no way that was her fault.”

  “You’re right, of course. But your mother had planned to have dinner with our parents that night, and she canceled. They decided to go to the movies instead and were killed on the way home. She always thought that if she hadn’t canceled on them, they never would have been in that intersection.”

  “She shouldn’t have blamed herself for that.”

  “Your mother was an exceptionally sensitive creature. It was one of the most beautiful things about her, but I think it made life more painful for her.” Another tear rolled down Aunt A’s cheek. “That poor, sweet woman. I loved her so much.”

  “I loved her, too,” I murmured.

  I swallowed hard. “Aunt A, what about Melanie Cave? I know Mom said she didn’t know about her, but do you think that she suspected?”

  Aunt A stiffened. “That woman. Your poor mother. She had no idea.” Aunt A laughed bitterly. “After Jason left me, I saw infidelity everywhere. I told your mother to worry about Melanie Cave, but she didn’t listen.”

  I took a deep breath. “In the most recent episode of Reconsidered, Poppy suggests that Melanie Cave killed Daddy.”

  Aunt A set her mouth in a straight line. “Her son killed your father.”

  “But—”

  “Melanie is a vile woman, but your sister saw Warren pull the trigger.”

  I swallowed the bitterness that rose in my throat.

  “Josie, honey, listen to me,” Aunt A said, squeezing my hand with renewed vigor. “I’m going to offer you some unsolicited and probably unwelcome advice. Forgive your sister. She’s made a lot of mistakes in her life, and I know that she’s hurt you in ways you’ll never be able to forget. But forgive her. She’s the only sister you’ve got, and a sister is a truly special gift.”

  I yanked my hand away and pushed my chair back from the table. “Lanie is not a gift. She’s a curse.”

  From Facebook, posted September 21, 2015

  Patsy Bloomfield, Author

  Today at 9:15am

  Check out the most recent episode of Reconsidered Podcast to hear me discuss the Chuck Buhrman murder with host Poppy Parnell! And then head over to www.patsybloomfield.blogworld.com to purchase a copy of THE SHE-DEVIL NEXT DOOR!

  Rosie Howe Great!

 
Today at 9:20am

  Lenny Miazga I just ordered a copy! Can’t wait to read it!

  Today at 1:13pm

  Celia Dileo Beautiful work, Patsy! God bless.

  Today at 3:34pm

  Dallas McClung Are you worried about libel suits?

  Today at 6:17pm

  Patsy Bloomfield, Author Libel is defined as a FALSE STATEMENT. Nothing I wrote in the book or said on the podcast was false.

  Today at 6:20pm

  Sean Fields You should be ashamed of yourself.

  Today at 9:12pm

  Desiree Herren WOW! I can’t believe Melanie Cave isn’t locked up yet!

  Today at 9:47pm

  chapter 10

  I was standing in the kitchen picking at a cold lasagna someone had left on the porch, unable to decide whether I was hungry or just tired, when I heard the front door open.

  “Hello?” my sister’s voice called from the foyer.

  I froze, a forkful of lasagna halfway to my mouth. I quietly returned the fork to the dish and glanced at the back staircase, debating whether I should stand perfectly still in the hope that she wouldn’t hear me or dart up the stairs in an attempt to outrun her. I had no interest in speaking with her.

  Before I could make a decision, Lanie stepped into the kitchen. It still shocked me to see my sister looking so clean and composed. For ten years, I had remembered her as I had last seen her: stumbling down the front stairs of Benny Weston’s house, dressed in ripped jeans and a pink sweater that had once been mine, hair tousled and eyeliner smeared, a vacant smirk on her face.

  But now, with cheeks flushed a healthy pink and a light-blue cashmere sweater that highlighted the color of her eyes, she smiled tentatively at me and said, “Hi.”

  I opened my mouth to return the greeting, but my eyes were distracted by the princess-cut diamonds sparkling obscenely in her earlobes.

  “Are those Mom’s earrings?”

  Lanie’s hands flew to her ears, fingertips grazing the jewelry’s sharp edges. “It’s not like she’s using them.”

  “That’s not the point. They’re not yours.”

  Lanie nodded, a little too readily, and started to pull the earrings off. “Do you want them?”

  “Stop. Don’t. It’s just strange to see them on you.”

  The diamond earrings were a gift from our father for our mother’s thirty-fifth birthday. Our mother rarely wore jewelry or dressed up, but the earrings quickly became part of her routine. To her, they were more than glittering rocks; they were tangible evidence of love in the dark days after her parents’ death. I associated their appearance with baked goods and field trips; I never saw her wear them after our father was killed. I used to wonder what had happened to them.

  “Aunt A told me I could borrow them for the wedding. I didn’t see the harm in keeping them. She was my mother, after all.”

  “She was our mother.”

  “I know,” Lanie said, tilting her head slightly. She frowned a bit. “Did she have any pearl earrings?”

  “Thinking of swiping those, too?”

  She shook her head. “Josie, can we talk?”

  Aunt A’s entreaties to forgive my sister bounced around inside my skull, but the sight of her wearing our mother’s earrings, earrings that had been pillaged to celebrate her marriage to a man she had stolen from me, made my throat clench and my heart cold and intolerant. I shook my head. “No.”

  “Please,” she insisted. “I know it must have been a surprise to see me with Adam yesterday.”

  “No,” I said more forcefully. “I do not want to talk about Adam.”

  “But—”

  “You want to talk?” I cut her off. “Fine. Let’s talk about Dad. Let’s talk about who killed him.”

  Lanie’s mouth dropped open. “Are you kidding me? You’ve been listening to that podcast? It’s all lies, Josie. You know that.” She paused to glare at me. “You do know that, right?”

  Did I know that? What I knew, better than anybody, was that Lanie was capable of incredible deceit. But still . . . I had a hard time believing that she would purposefully lie and send an innocent man to prison.

  “I can’t believe this,” she hissed, eyes narrowing. “You think I lied.”

  “Not lied,” I said quickly. “But . . . is it possible you were mistaken?”

  “No,” Lanie said, adding emphasis by snatching up the chair in front of her and slamming it down hard. My body tensed from muscle memory, ready to dodge any objects she might choose to hurl. “I can’t believe you’d ask me that. You’re my sister.”

  “Have you listened to the podcast? She makes a pretty good case against Melanie Cave. Her husband had left her that day, Lanie. And that voicemail . . .”

  “I don’t care! I don’t care if Melanie Cave wrote a confession and signed it in blood. I saw Warren do it.” She stamped the chair against the floor again. “I saw him.”

  “But are you sure?” I pressed. “It was dark. Maybe . . . Is it possible you saw Melanie running back to the Cave house but just thought it was Warren?”

  “Say that’s the truth,” Lanie said, her eyes smoldering with barely repressed fury. “Say Melanie killed our father, and I mistook her for Warren. How could I ever admit that now?”

  My heart leapt in my throat, nearly choking me. “What are you saying?”

  “That you’re wasting your time.”

  “But the truth, Lanie,” I began.

  “We know the truth!” she screamed suddenly, grabbing the casserole dish from the table and heaving it at me. I jumped out of the way, and lasagna splattered across the floor. Veins bulging in her neck, Lanie screamed, “It was Warren Cave! I saw him!”

  We stood frozen, staring at each other, panting and wide-eyed.

  “What’s going on?” Ellen asked, sweeping into the kitchen via the back staircase. She looked from me to my sister to the lasagna on the floor. “Oh.”

  Lanie pivoted on her heel, preparing to make an exit.

  “Hold it right there,” Ellen commanded. She pointed to the lasagna on the floor. “Clean that up.”

  “Fuck off, Ellen,” Lanie snapped, stalking out the door.

  “What happened?” Ellen asked me.

  I shook my head.

  Ellen nodded and smiled her insouciant grin. “Fine. If you won’t talk, the least you can do is eat with me. Let’s get lunch.”

  • • •

  As Ellen backed her car out of Aunt A’s driveway, a silver Lexus parked across the street pulled away from the curb. From its driver’s-side window, I thought I caught a glimpse of ash-blond hair, a thin face hidden behind enormous sunglasses.

  “Wait,” I said so suddenly that Ellen slammed on the brakes. “Was that Melanie Cave?”

  “Where?” Ellen asked, looking around.

  I pointed in the direction of the Lexus, but it was already turning the corner. My stomach felt jumpy and my extended hand felt tingly. What was Melanie Cave doing watching our house?

  “New plan,” I said, my voice shaking. “We’re skipping lunch and getting drinks instead.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language.” Ellen smiled, pulling onto the street.

  • • •

  Ellen took me to Last Call, Elm Park’s most reputable watering hole. As a resident of New York City, where space was at a premium and bar patrons were willing to pay upward of $20 for so-called artisan cocktails, I was astounded by both the spaciousness (there was a large bar, booths along the walls, and at least fifteen tables, not to mention a jukebox, Big Buck Hunter, and a vintage Pac-Man game) and the low cost of its drinks (my Jack and Diet cost me a paltry $2.50 and Ellen’s white wine hardly broke the bank at $3.00).

  “So,” Ellen said, taking a sip of wine. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  I winced. There seemed something disloyal about confessing that I had wondered about Lanie’s honesty, and even though I knew Lanie had done nothing to earn my loyalty, I couldn’t bring myself to say anything to Ellen. “Can
we talk about something else?”

  “Sure,” Ellen nodded. “You won’t believe what Trina—”

  “She was wearing Mom’s earrings,” I broke in suddenly, unable to keep my feelings bottled up, no matter how much I wanted to. “Like they were hers. Like she was entitled to them.”

  Ellen’s face softened. “Mom has more of your mom’s jewelry. I’m sure she can find something special for you.”

  “That’s not the point. Lanie shouldn’t have her earrings, especially her earrings. Don’t you remember when Lanie got her ears pierced?”

  Ellen shook her head blankly.

  “We were ten years old. You had just gotten yours done for your birthday, and we were so jealous. We begged and pleaded, but Mom wouldn’t relent. She said we weren’t allowed to pierce our ears until we were thirteen. I locked myself in the bathroom in protest, and, while Mom and Dad were unscrewing the door handle to get me out, Lanie lifted money from Mom’s purse, rode her bike to the mall, and convinced a stranger to pretend to be her guardian. She came back all smug with these perfect little cubic zirconia studs. Mom was furious. She really flipped out, and went to physically remove them from her ears. Dad finally talked her down. They told me I could pierce mine then, too, but I didn’t.” I fingered my earlobe, which hadn’t been pierced until I went off to college. “I wanted to be the good one.”

  “You are the good one. You always have been.”

  “It didn’t matter, though, did it? She left us both.” I gulped at my drink, attempting to drown the sudden memory of my mother wearing a crown of woven dandelions, mixing a biology lesson with one about backyard gardening. “I always thought she’d come back. I know that sounds crazy, but I did. I always thought someday she’d find what she was looking for, and then she’d . . . just come home. But now she’s dead . . . And the worst part is that she chose to die. She chose to leave us all over again. It just seems so unnecessarily selfish.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.”

  “I’m so angry, Ellen,” I said, tears stinging my eyes. “I’m so angry at her.”

  “If you’re angry at anyone, you should be angry at Poppy Parnell. It can’t be a coincidence your mother killed herself after her podcast gained popularity.”