The rest of the night, we talked about how much we missed each other. She filled me in on the gossip backstage at the show: who was fucking who, who was on drugs, and who messed up their choreography. I filled her in on all my office bullshit and whatever new things CJ had discovered. I'd never had anyone I could talk to like this. It was odd and beautiful how normal it felt. This could be my life.
Deacon Welles was dead. No one could lay claim to CJ. I was my brother's closest living relative. I could hop on a plane tomorrow morning, go home, and forget all about this shit. But I knew I wouldn't. Detective Tan's words rattled around in my head, and I couldn't shake them.
“I just want the truth. If I were you, I’d want to know.”
I wanted the truth, and I couldn't leave Missouri until I got it.
cole
twenty-eight
The gatewhere I was parked guarded a large stately manor that couldn't have been a further cry from Arnold's raggedy farmhouse or a more significant statement of the disparity of wealth in this country. The two halves of the gates parted, and I drove my rental car up the drive until I was parked at the front doors. A Latinx man in a suit met me and took my keys and gestured toward the front door. There I was met by a woman in a black and white uniform who startled when she saw me as if she'd seen a ghost. She led me to a large study where I was asked to have a seat.
"Mrs. Welles will be with you shortly." She was an elderly white woman who looked stern, but her voice was surprisingly soft with the faintest hint of an Eastern European accent. She gave me a lingering look before she left the study closing the door softly behind her.
Five minutes later, she returned, supporting a woman I recognized as Vanessa Welles, but not as perfectly coiffed and well assembled as the woman I'd seen in pictures on the internet. She was wearing a crisp white button-down shirt that was slightly wrinkled over what looked like leggings, but I knew from my many years of private schools were actually riding pants and black leather riding boots. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and unruly wisps of hair framed her pale, sunken face. She wasn't wearing makeup, and her eyes were rimmed red with dark circles.
Mrs. Welles jerked her arm free of the elderly woman's grasp and seethed, "I can walk on my own, damn it." She teetered to a nearby chair and sat down. Her eyes widened, and her face paled even more than I thought was possible when she finally laid eyes on me.
“Jesus Christ,” she gasped. “Dagmar, I need a martini.”
“Ma’am, are you sure that’s a good idea? You’ve already had—”
"Damn it, Dagmar. My dead husband's love child is sitting in my study. I think that entitles me to a martini." She let out a high-pitched laugh that was so devoid of mirth it was bone-chilling. She turned to me. "Would you like a drink? What do you drink?"
Common sense dictated that I needed to be as clear-headed as possible for this interaction, but a drink sounded too good to pass up. "Hennessy, a double if that's okay."
“Oh, that’s a good idea. Make mine a double, too. Thank you, Dagmar.”
The woman backed out of the room, pulling the large double doors closed as she left.
“My God, you look just like him.” She shook her head and leaned back into her chair. “So, how did you find me?”
“Arnold West.”
“Ha.” She let out another mirthless chuckle. “That whole family is the bane of my existence—God, where is she with that martini?” She turned towards the door. I wondered how many martinis she’d had already.
“So what do you want? Did you come here for money like the rest of the miscreants in that family? I don’t have any to give. I just have possessions.” She waved an arm to lazily indicate the room we were in. “And an allowance, like a child.”
“I don’t want money. I want to know about the night Deacon died.”
"And the night your mother died, I suppose—Oh, thank God. What the hell took you so long?" She grabbed the martini, which instead of being served in a martini glass, was a half-filled pint glass with three olives impaled on a flexible plastic straw. Dagmar handed me a large snifter. I took a sip and swallowed. I expected more of a burn as the dark liquid slid down my throat, but it was smooth with a smoky aftertaste. This was expensive Cognac, like the kind my dad drank after winning a big case.
“So, your mother.” She took a long draught from her straw, swallowed and grimaced. “Crystal West and my husband dated in high school, before he and I dated. We knew each other, of course. Our families ran in the same circles. Deacon’s and my family. I’d imagine the Wests ran in very different circles.” She gave a derisive snort. “Everyone always assumed we’d end up together, once he got over his infatuation with your mother. Sure enough, they broke up—everyone thought your mother ran off to become a singer or actress or something silly—and I was still here.
"We dated through college. Then Deacon proposed and we got married. He never loved me, not truly. That was fine. I never had those sorts of inclinations: for men, women, for anyone. A girl raised as I was never expected to marry for love anyway. My mother told me only stupid women marry for love. You get married for security and status. No one was more secure or had more status than Deacon Welles. Furthermore, Deacon and I were friends. We respected each other. I should have been the luckiest woman in the world, but he never got over your mother. Never.
"I tried to be a good wife. I created the perfect home. I threw the perfect parties. I did the disgusting things he liked in the bedroom and pretended to enjoy it until I suggested he seek those comforts elsewhere. He was very understanding and supportive. I miss that about him.
"One thing I couldn't do was give him children." Her face darkened, and she gave up on the straw and began sipping straight from the glass.
"It was the only thing I wanted for myself from this arrangement. I'd always wanted to be a mother. Deacon wanted children, too. We tried everything, but nothing worked. I wanted to adopt, but his father wouldn't hear a word of that.Had to maintain the Welles bloodline,” she bellowed in a deep voice.
"His father?" I asked. "Blake Welles." My late-night Google session turned up a lot of information about my biological grandfather. He was the most feared businessman in the state. He was also dying of cancer.
"Yes." She nodded. "Blake is a son of a bitch. He wanted us to have kids more than Deacon."
"We'd been trying to get pregnant for five years when I got a knock on my door. It was your uncle looking for my husband. He showed me a picture of you. The miniature version of Deacon was staring back at me. Your eyes told me who your mother was. My husband kept an old shoebox full of pictures and letters. Your uncle had custody of you, and Crystal was incarcerated in New York. He wanted to sell you to your father, like cattle or a horse. Can you believe that?" She laughed again. "These people," she said to no one in particular.
