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When I woke up, Cat had opened a shoebox filled with letters and photos from Marty to her daughters, letters to her from Mom, and letters from me.
I rolled over and looked at the box, said, “Let me see the pictures.”
My sister lifted out a few, including one of Joe and I had getting married in a gazebo at the water’s edge at the outskirts of a small town. Marty had stood me up as father of the bride, no explanation from him.
I put my hands on her shoulders and shook her gently until she begged me to stop.
“Okay, okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. Please calm down.”
I’d come here to be Cat’s rock. Now she was being mine.
I collapsed into the pillows and said, “It would be better for me if you hated him, too.”
“I get it,” she said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me but try to understand. He had his reasons, I guess. Probably didn’t want you to think badly of him.”
“Marty left me Grandma Frances’s engagement ring, and the lawyer gave me a letter from Mom.”
“Wonderful ring, sis. What did Mom say in her letter?”
“I’m not ready to read it yet. Do you have any ideas?” I was feeling her out. Did Cat already know Marty wasn’t my biological father?
“No, and I didn’t ask. She was so out of it by the end, Linds,” Cat said. “Tea?”
“With a side of Scotch.”
“No way you’re having booze and driving. That would make me an accessory. Besides, you’re not that crazy.”
“What are you going to tell the girls?” I asked.
“I guess I could go in there and say Aunt Lindsay has something to tell you. Or I could do it your way: ‘Your rotten grandfather was murdered.’ What do you suggest?”
“I suggest you find the right words and you should start thinking. Marty’s death is already in the news.”
My phone buzzed. It was my dear friend Cindy Thomas, chief crime reporter for theSan Francisco Chronicle,a true-crime book author, and Rich Conklin’s live-in love. While I was telling Cindy that I wasn’t authorized to tell her about a case in progress, she interrupted to twist my arm anyway.
“But Lindsay. There was a big crowd. People know. I just need a quote.”
“Here it is, Cindy. ‘No Comment.’ Sorry and I love you dearly.”
When I hung up there was a tray on the bed with two mugs of coffee. With cream for Cat. Black with sugar for me. Homemade cookies.
Cat said, “Are you okay to drive or not, because I’d love, love, love for you to spend the night.”
“I can’t. I need to be up early. But before I go, I have to ask, do you have any ideas about who killed him?”
She shook her head no almost violently.
“I don’t. He sent cards to the kids. He stopped over about once a year around my birthday, or on Christmas. He never told me much about himself. Just the basics. Oh. Speaking of which, you should talk to Darla.”
“The new wife.”
“You heard?”
“Lawyer told me.”
“She has a son, Austin. He’s seven or eight, something like that.”
“Is he—”
