Bad things, p.4
Bad Things, page 4
She winced and did an about-face back to her unit, stripped off the T-shirt and changed into a plain blue one. How she’d even dreamed she would work out she couldn’t imagine now, and why that T-shirt? She’d grabbed it up this morning and thrown it over her head, barely aware of what she was doing. She was numb, dull, unaware, yet sometimes suddenly seized with a clarity sharp enough to cut. What the hell had she been thinking? She’d wanted to run. Run away. And she’d dressed accordingly, thoughtlessly, ready to race away from Edwards Bay as fast as she could.
But there was no way to run from reality, so in the end she’d sat down heavily at the small kitchen table and stared at the salt and pepper shakers for several hours, moving them around, spilling grains onto the Formica tabletop. By the time she surfaced, headed out, then woke up to her clothes and hurriedly changed them, she knew she would be late.
But by the time she got to the hospital it was only nine minutes after eight. Nothing in Edwards Bay was far from anything else. At least that was a plus in this case.
Jerry was waiting for her outside reception, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, his gaze on the floor. Kerry’s first glimpse of him was his gray head with tinges of white near his ears. He’d suffered a cardiac “event” in the middle of the previous year, and that was when he’d stopped renting out the cottages, deciding to renovate them and put the motel on the market, determining it was time for a change.
He seemed to sense her arrival because he looked up and regarded her silently. Kerry’s heart clutched; he’d proverbially aged overnight. The same could probably be said for her. She felt at least a decade older.
“Jerry,” she said, and felt the tears threaten some more. She swallowed hard, determined not to break down, almost pathologically desperate to be her stepfather’s strength. He’d been more like a father to her than her own father—much, much more—and his divorce from her mother hadn’t changed that. Even when she’d been packed up and moved to Seattle, she’d stayed close to both Nick and Jerry. Even through her marriage to Vaughn. Especially through her marriage to Vaughn. Her relationship with her mother had maybe suffered a bit because of it, but Karen Radnor had moved on to a new husband, a retired professor from the University of Washington, who was smart, loved to travel and take Karen with him, and was a bit too pretentious for Kerry’s taste.
Ergo, Kerry had drifted back to Edwards Bay and the family she was closest to, now down to one: Jerry.
He struggled to get up, but Kerry sank into the attached chair beside him, clasping his hand. “Let’s take a minute.”
“No. I have to do this. I have to see ... to know.”
She was chilled. Was he up to the task? Reluctantly, she said, “Okay.”
On his second attempt he managed to get to his feet on his own, but his walk was little more than a shuffle. They took the elevator down to the lowest floor and walked beneath a series of overhead lights that gleamed in diffused spots along the gray linoleum-tiled floor. The morgue was designated by white letters carved into a black-plastic sign above double doors at the end of the corridor. Jerry pushed through with Kerry behind him. They stood side by side, and she remembered all the times he would clasp her around the shoulders and say, “It’s Jerry and Kerry time!” then grab her hand and take her on an “adventure,” whether it be out for ice cream, to an amusement park, to the nearby stables to ride the ponies, or just into the kitchen to whip up their favorites, Rice Krispies Treats for her, oatmeal cookies with walnuts and chocolate chips (no raisins) for him.
And Nick would always say, “What about me?” to which Kerry would cry, “You have to come with us! Come on! Come on!” and the three of them would leave Kerry’s mother, who was always looking for time to herself anyway, and head out to whatever Jerry had planned.
Those adventures had dwindled as Nick became less interested and Karen and Jerry’s marriage had fallen apart, but even after Kerry and her mom moved to Seattle, Jerry had taken the occasional trip across the water to pick up his stepdaughter and take her out. By this time Nick was in high school and interested in other pursuits, specifically sports and girls, and Kerry saw less of him. But they kept in touch sporadically over the years, and he’d really reconnected with her during this last year, which in turn had reconnected Kerry with Jerry.
Now, she could see his right hand was trembling and she reached for it again.
An attendant in blue scrubs came through a door to one side of the room. Spying them, she walked over and asked their names. As they answered, Kerry felt a brief waft of air as one of the double doors she’d just walked through opened again. She started to turn around and froze as she caught a glimpse of the newcomer. Cole Sheffield. Police chief of the Edwards Bay Police Department.
“Cole,” Jerry said in a tortured voice.
Cole immediately went to him and clasped the hand that Jerry had dropped from Kerry’s grip. He put his other arm around Jerry’s shoulders, holding him steady. Cole’s face was grim and tight, as if he were physically holding all his emotions in check, which he probably was; Nick had been one of his good friends as well. Cole had followed his brother into the military, had been through two tours in Afghanistan, and had eventually taken a job with the Edwards Bay PD when he’d gotten out. His brother, Aaron, along with two other American soldiers, were killed when his Jeep ran over an IED, exploding on impact.
The last time Kerry had seen Cole was at Aaron’s funeral. He’d looked gaunt then, haunted. Now his physique was lean and strong, his dark hair trimmed, his gaze steady and strong. Now they were together at Nick’s death. She had a broken marriage behind her, whereas he looked like he’d prospered. Maybe there was a Mrs. Sheffield she didn’t know about. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except that Nick was gone ... gone ...
As if sensing her thoughts had touched on him, Cole’s eyes met hers. He acknowledged her with a nod and a faint movement of his lips that could be considered a smile of recognition, she supposed. Another time it might have bothered her deeply. Now there was no room to dwell on old hurt.
She stood by while Cole talked with Jerry, and then, soon enough, Jerry was being led inside a glass room with curtains stretched across the windows. No one asked Kerry to be a part of the viewing and she remained where she was.
Fifteen minutes later Jerry and Cole returned. Jerry’s face was white, his eyes glassy. Kerry immediately moved to him for support and he slipped an arm over her shoulders, leaning on her, his body shaking.
“It was Nick,” he rasped. “It was Nick.”
“I’ll drive you home?” Kerry asked, her heart thundering. She looked around for some kind of sign from either Jerry or Cole about what came next.
“Thank you, sweet girl,” Jerry said, a catch in his voice.
Cole cleared his voice and said, “Do you mind if we talk later, Kerry?”
She was so surprised to hear her name on his lips, it took half a beat to answer him. “Okay.”
“Ben Youngston said you came to Diana Conger’s apartment last night,” he said, as if having to explain himself. “Could you come by the station later? I’d like to hear what happened.”
Her heart felt cold. “All right. After I take Jerry back.”
“I’ve got a few things to take care of myself, but I’ll be back at the station by eleven.”
“Okay,” she said.
She drove Jerry’s white Cadillac to his house with care. It was a vintage car that broke down regularly, each time lovingly put back together by Marty, the mechanic, who was of Jerry’s era and shared his passion for old vehicles. “Pain-in-the-ass pieces of junk,” as Nick had cheerfully described them.
Jerry didn’t say anything on the ride to his home, and Kerry let silence fill the space. She had no words either. But when she pulled into the asphalt drive he insisted she come inside his house. She wanted nothing more than to go home and away from a day that had seemed to grow too bright with a flat, unforgiving light, but she couldn’t just leave him. Dutifully, she followed him inside his daylight basement house, circa 1960, perched on a hill with a fabulous view of the bay. Its windows were the original aluminum and were starting to separate from their casing, and the plastered walls looked like they could use a deep cleaning as they were streaked and dull, probably as a result of the wood fireplace Jerry still used. “One of these days I’m fixing the place up,” Jerry had said for years, even while he’d still been married to Kerry’s mother. He’d probably been saying that while his first wife was still alive, though breast cancer had taken her away when Nick was still in the primary grades.
“Come on in here. I want to show you something,” Jerry said as he unlocked the front door and headed down the hall in the direction of his home office.
Kerry reluctantly obeyed, afraid they might be up for a retrospective on Nick’s life through the photo albums he kept there. Her heart was already breaking. She just didn’t think she was ready. Her head was beating with a dull ache from spent tears, a sleepless night, and the overall shock.
But he didn’t go for the albums. Instead he sank into his desk chair, which creaked and groaned under his weight, and then pulled out the bottom drawer of the gray file cabinet tucked in the corner. After searching around for a few minutes, he tossed a file onto the desk. “My will,” he said. “I want you to keep a copy of it. When I die contact Macdonald, Kemp, and Crane on Fourth. They’ll help you. Now that Nick’s gone, you’re my personal representative and heir. I always wanted you to have the cottages. Thought I had to sell ’em, but I don’t think I will now. They’re yours.”
Kerry started breathing hard, stunned. “Don’t talk like that. I’m not your real daughter.”
“Don’t ever say you’re not my real daughter.”
“Jerry . . .”
“Don’t cry,” he said brokenly, and then they both did.
* * *
She tried to talk him out of his decision, but in the end Kerry took the file and drove back to the cottages, parking in the back lot and letting herself into her unit through the rear door, distantly aware that the tile cutter had knocked off for a while, glad for the quietude.
She tossed Jerry’s will on the counter and planted herself facedown on the couch and shut her mind down. Sleep, blessed sleep. That’s what she needed. But her mind was buzzing. Too many thoughts crowding inside her brain. None that she could latch on to. She knew she’d never get to sleep.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Kerry sat up with a jerk and a catapulting heart. On her feet before her brain could catch up.
Someone at the door.
She must’ve gone down hard, she realized, even while she’d been certain she couldn’t. Her brain caught up slowly as she walked to the door and opened it to the length of the chain lock. Nick’s ex, Marcia, stood on the other side.
“Marcia. Just a minute,” Kerry said, shutting the door and sliding back the chain. She then reopened the door and let her in.
Marcia’s hair was mussed and her makeup looked hastily applied, but it couldn’t disguise her extraordinary beauty. She was a redhead and had been for at least the past few years, but as a teenager, when she’d been crowned Miss Seashell, she’d been a light brunette. “It was the gray hairs that did it,” Nick had told Kerry, though he and Marcia had ceased to be a couple years before, so maybe that had only been a theory on his part. Either way, today Marcia’s red hair was nothing like its normally perfect coif.
“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” Marcia said.
She’d lost weight and was rail thin, the change emphasizing her sharp features and hawkish nose. She’d never been classically beautiful, but she’d always had an appealing warmth that had drawn people to her. That warmth was presumably what got Nick to propose, though their marriage had lasted an even shorter time than hers and Vaughn’s. She and Nick had laughed about it once, deciding they were both bad at marriage . . . maybe bad at love.
Marcia’s warmth seemed to be sorely lacking now. Her lips were compressed into a thin line. Her hands were fisted. She seemed to have an iron grip on herself, but Marcia had always been mercurial, so Kerry wasn’t sure how long it would hold.
“I turned it off when I went to the morgue,” Kerry said, looking around vaguely for her purse. There was the will, she realized, not wanting Marcia to see it.
“Were you sleeping?” she accused in a high voice. “Nick’s dead and you’re sleeping?”
Kerry saw her purse was on the counter by the sink, below the open shelves that held her plates, glasses, mugs, and one glass vase. Ah, yes, she’d dropped it there when she’d poured herself a glass of water to combat her dry throat. Residual effects of her bar-hopping with Nick’s friends ... and intermittent weeping.
“The morgue,” Marcia said, as if she’d just heard Kerry’s words.
“I met Jerry there.”
Marcia’s knees trembled and she helped herself to one of Kerry’s two kitchen chairs. “Oh, God.”
Kerry walked past her to grab up her purse by its shoulder strap. She slipped a hand inside and pulled out her phone. Checking it, she drew a breath when she saw the list of missed calls. Practically all of Nick’s friends had tried to contact her, including Randy, her boss. Marcia. A number she didn’t recognize was from San Jose. One of Nick’s Silicon Valley associates?
“How’d you know about Nick? Did the police contact you?” Marcia asked.
“Actually, it was Diana Conger.”
“The murderer?”
“Well . . .” Kerry demurred. The file was just left of Marcia’s hand. Kerry purposely kept her eyes away from it, even while she longed to whisk it out of sight.
“That’s what she is. A murderer. She murdered my husband.”
Ex-husband.
“Tell me what happened,” she ordered.
Kerry closed her eyes, swallowed, then told Marcia about Diana’s early morning call, the trip to her apartment, the discovery that Nick was truly dead.
Marcia’s face drained of what little color it possessed. “The police called me this morning. You must’ve already been with Jerry at the morgue by then. I tried to call him. He’s not answering either.”
Kerry could see the file out of the corner of her eye. She didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to have it be any part of their conversation. She was overloaded with thinking about Nick, and Marcia undoubtedly was, too.
But Marcia seemed to pick up on how hard Kerry was ignoring the file. Her eyes moved to it. “What?” she asked.
Kerry watched almost in slow motion as Marcia’s hand moved toward the file.
“Have you told Audra?” she asked Nick’s ex.
“No. For God’s sake, I’m not a monster!”
“Well, okay, but I don’t have to tell you that you’re going to have to tell her soon, before someone else does.”
“You mean like you?”
“Or Jerry.”
In a kind of daze, Kerry watched Marcia flip open the file. She should have been irked at the presumptuousness, but it was too late for that as Marcia pulled the document in front of her.
“That’s Jerry’s will,” Kerry said, wanting to rip it from her hands.
“Jerry’s will?” Marcia looked up, aghast. “Are you kidding? Do you have Nick’s, too?”
In a distant part of her mind, Kerry recognized that Marcia was coping with Nick’s death with surprising aplomb. Maybe that was the result of a contentious divorce. Nick had wanted their split to be amicable, and with a prenup in place, he’d blithely assumed it was all settled. But Marcia had had none of that. She’d fought him tooth and nail, and he’d eventually given her more than what was in the contract, according to Jerry, in whom Nick had confided. The split had been hard on Audra, who’d been only four at the time and had no discernible relationship with her biological father, a college affair that hadn’t lasted till graduation—again, information from Jerry; Nick was closemouthed about his relationships. Not so Marcia, who was full of angry outbursts, ones Kerry ignored. Kerry didn’t know exactly what the division of assets had entailed, but Marcia had the house in Edwards Bay that he and Marcia had built, with a view that rivaled Jerry’s.
“No. Jerry gave me his this morning.” She reached out for the file, but Marcia was already opening it, one hand holding the pages flat to the counter. Kerry felt a burst of adrenaline as she let her arm fall to her side. She could already imagine the scene if Marcia came to the distribution of assets.
Marcia turned some pages and inhaled sharply. There it is, thought Kerry. “Jerry made Nick his personal representative and you second?” she said with bitter anger.
“Jerry’s alive,” Kerry reminded her. “It’s Nick who’s gone.”
That caught her up for a moment. Stopped her from paging further through the document.
“What do you want, Marcia? Why are you here?” Kerry asked. She was tired of Nick’s ex already.
“I’m here because of Nick! I want to know what happened. An overdose? That’s a lie. Nick didn’t use drugs. We all know that. And if that’s really the cause ... if that’s what ... happened to him—” For the first time she was struggling with words to describe her ex-husband’s death. “Then it’s Diana Conger’s fault. She’s the one responsible for his death. Nick said she was a user. I don’t know her that well, but it’s common knowledge, isn’t it? She sleeps around and she’s a drug addict.”
“Well . . .”
Marcia glared at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“I’m just trying to get through today, Marcia.”
“What was he doing with her?” she demanded belligerently, tears standing in her eyes.
“I don’t know.”
“Nick didn’t use drugs,” she said again. “A beer or two and maybe a scotch now and then. That was it. He was a careful guy. He never let down his guard.”
In that she was right, at least for the grown-up Nick. Kerry could remember him as being a carefree kid, but that had dissipated as he’d gotten into high school and adulthood.
Her attention was drawn to Marcia’s pale pink fingertips as they nervously plucked at a corner of the file. Given enough time, Marcia would read on, and Kerry wasn’t sure she had the energy to try to explain Jerry’s decisions regarding his will. Marcia was impulsive and canny about sensing when you didn’t want her prying further, which she then always did.
