Dead for the Money (11 page)

Stupid! Ugly! Weird!

Scarlet said that the brain cannot recreate feelings of the past, which was usually a good thing. “Who could carry on if the emotions of each hurt remained as clear afterward as when they happened?” she asked, and Brodie had to agree that it would be impossible.

Gramps had rescued Brodie. It was hard to forget Jeannie and her constant abuse, but affection, security, and time had helped. Brodie wondered if this new tragedy would break her, erase all the progress she had made in the last ten years. She hoped that Scarlet was right, that her brain would learn to forget, and she would not have to live with this crushing grief forever.

A memory arose of the first time she had ever seen Gramps. He had knocked at the door of their apartment. She never knew how he had found them, how he knew of her existence and the life she endured. But when he saw Brodie, wrapped in her filthy quilt, he had acted swiftly. Before Jeannie could react, William swept the child up in his arms, announcing that he intended to take her home with him.

Brodie didn’t remember exactly what was said. Jeannie—she had never been taught to call her Mother—screamed obscenities, which was nothing new. What was new were the strong arms that enfolded her, the soothing voice that told her it was going to be all right. She reacted in the only way she knew to this strange man’s attention—she bit him.

Instead of swearing, Gramps soothed her, petting her matted hair and speaking softly. She didn’t remember the words, only a feeling she had never experienced before, the feeling that someone actually cared what happened to her.

It scared her to death. And it had continued to be scary for years, though she had gotten used to most of it. She believed Gramps loved her, despite her oddness. She had even come to understand that there were people in the world who were all right, who could be trusted. But it had not been easy.

From determined spying efforts, Brodie learned later that for the first few months Gramps fought a multi-faceted war. Jeannie, sensing that he would do anything to keep the child she never wanted, threw all her resources—not much intelligence but lots of craft—into getting every cent she could from the wealthy William C. Dunbar. Shelley and Briggs often discussed Jeannie, their voices disapproving years later as they rehashed what the mother had done—and not done—to her own child. Gramps dealt with Brodie’s mom brusquely but fairly, and in the end, Jeannie relinquished custody of her daughter for a sum of money she had, in Shelley’s opinion, never imagined he would agree to.

There had been problems at home too. Arlis wanted proof Brodie was related to the Dunbars. She objected strongly to Will’s taking in a “damaged child” without DNA testing. It was true that Brodie did not look like the Dunbars, who were attractive people with light hair and normal-shaped eyes. Brodie had dark, round eyes and wiry black hair. It must have been hard for Gramps to argue that she belonged. He refused to discuss Arlis’ objections, however, insisting that he felt a bond and did not need DNA to prove it. Shelley approved of his stance, and Briggs approved of whatever Shelley approved.

Now that Gramps was gone and she had to face life without him, Brodie admitted she was the biggest problem William Dunbar ever faced. Like a wild thing, she had at first refused any sort of affection, instruction, or civilization. Until she was almost ten, it took two people to make her presentable: one to hold her, one to de-snarl the mass of curls. If Gramps was at home, he would be the holder and Brodie would allow the current caregiver to perform the torturous process. A succession of women came and went, and some made it through a year before her tantrums, language, and stubbornness drove them off.

She had eventually succumbed to most of society’s demands. She slept in a bed. She learned to use a knife, fork, and spoon, although she still preferred hand-held foods. This brought on some bargaining. Brodie found cooking interesting and would sit happily on a stool in the kitchen and watch Shelley prepare meals. Shelley gave her small tasks to do, like cleaning carrots or stirring cookie dough. When Scarlet came, she suggested that Brodie be allowed to participate fully in meal planning and preparation if she ate the resulting meal with the family. As a result, Brodie became a semi-regular presence at dinner. Gramps always declared her contributions outstanding. The others seemed to enjoy her cooking too, even Arnold, who had cause to doubt her good intentions.

Overall, the verdict on Brodie was mixed. Gramps loved her in spite of her oddness. Shelley seemed to enjoy her company and her willing hands. Briggs liked to talk, and since Brodie was mostly silent, he let her tag along while he talked about anything that came to mind, from his tour in the ’Nam to the aphids that eat the vegetables if a guy isn’t watchful.

On the other side, there was Arlis. Although she claimed to have grown fond of Brodie, it was a pitying sort of affection the girl had no use for. Early on, she pegged Arlis as a fraud whose every action was for her own benefit. Gramps loved Brodie, so Arlis claimed to.

Brodie the Spy had more than once heard Shelley tell the story of her first few weeks at the house. “When she saw Mr. Dunbar couldn’t be talked out of adopting Brodie, Arlis declared she would transform that child into an acceptable member of the family,” Shelley would say. “But her idea of helping was the wicked stepmother type, all smiles when others was around and all snotty and disgusted when nobody was. That little girl knew Arlis didn’t like her, and boy, did she react.”

Brodie had been so awful that Arlis gave up after only a week. After that, she allowed hired caregivers full sway, warning each new one that it was impossible to deal with that “recalcitrant child.”

Then Scarlet came. “No bigger than a minute,” Gramps said of her. He’d feared she might be too petite to handle Brodie, who, although not large, was capable of vigorous resistance and had proven it with former employees.

“I won’t need to subdue her, sir,” Scarlet had told him. “Brodie will want to do as I say.”

Gramps always chuckled when he got to that part of the story. “That I had to see.”

A rustling startled Brodie from her reverie, and she jumped to her feet. Too late. A man emerged from the woods, holding a small device that might have been an MP3. He looked as surprised at their meeting as she was. As she considered retreat, he stopped some distance away, raising his hands in apology and assurance.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” When Brodie made no reply, he added, “I’m watching birds.”

She nodded, wondering whether she should tell him he was on private property. Gramps wouldn’t have, so she decided not to.

He held up the device. “I record their songs with this. They’re all different, you know.”

Of course she knew. She had an excellent teacher, and they spent a lot of time on natural science, since they both were interested in it.

The man peered at her as if she were a species of finch he had never encountered before. “Are you, um, are you a local girl?”

Brodie tried her voice, trying to make it neutral but firm. “Yes.”

“Do you know Mr. Dunbar, then?”

“He died.” Too late, she realized he might have meant Bud, being about his age. “William did.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” the man said. He didn’t look to her like a bird watcher, since she imagined such people were nerdy, anti-social, and all scientific. This guy seemed quite friendly, with curly brown hair and a pleasant face. But then, she’d never met a birdwatcher before.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did Mr. Dunbar die?”

Brodie could not help but glance over her shoulder at the water below. “Accident.”

The man’s gaze went to the fence too, and he took a step toward it. “Terrible!”

She said nothing, and he hesitated, apparently unsure of what to do. “I’m sorry.” He was still looking at the fence, and he indicated the signature carved into it. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss, Brodie.” The man turned to return the way he had come. “Sorry to have disturbed you.” With a wave, he melted into the trees. Brodie watched until he disappeared, glad he was gone. She’d had enough of being polite to strangers for one day.

Chapter Eight

S
CARLET
STARTED
PICKING
UP
the dishes and trash as Bud said goodbye to the last of the guests at the front door. Closing it with a snap and a sigh of relief, he leaned his back against it and said to no one in particular, “Funerals. Who needs ’em?”

Arlis, who had ordered everyone around all afternoon and now watched placidly as Scarlet and Shelley cleaned up the mess, gave him a look of mild rebuke. “They are necessary for the grieving process, like putting away your white shoes at the end of summer.”

Scarlet almost smiled at the puzzled look that comment brought to Bud’s face. He turned to her, but she concentrated on neatly the stacking dishes left on various surfaces.

Seamus had sensed all afternoon that Scarlet avoided speaking to Bud. Worse, she avoided thinking about Bud, which meant he got no take at all from her on his likeliest suspect.
If Dunbar’s death was murder,
he reminded himself. Scarlet had opinions on the others in the household. Arlis she considered spoiled and more than moderately irritating. Arnold was treated with cold politeness, and Seamus suspected she had warded off more than one pass. Shelley, the cook/housekeeper, was a force to be reckoned with, but Scarlet seemed to respect her and did not mind pitching in when possible to make her work a little lighter.

“It’s a shame Leland couldn’t be here,” Arlis said with a sigh. “I called him, of course, but he’s still in Nepal. Something to do with orphans. He sends his love to all.”

“Hmm.” Bud again tried to catch Scarlet’s eye. She wiped a coffee stain up with a napkin, taking longer with the task than was strictly necessary.

“Did you see the outfit Carol Olds was wearing?” Arlis asked. No one answered, but a one-sided conversation never stopped Arlis. “It was ghastly. She’s much too old for florals.”

“Scarlet, have you seen Brodie?” Bud asked.

“And that perm! She looks like she belongs under the Big Top.”

“I think she went for a walk.”

“Why a person doesn’t know enough to grow old gracefully, I will never know.” This from a woman who had tottered through the afternoon on heels too high for eighty-year-old ankles.

“Did you see which direction?”

“I think...” Scarlet indicated the road up to the bluff with her eyes.

Arlis gave Bud a coy smile. “Buddy, you’ll tell me if I start dressing like a silly old woman, won’t you?”

“Of course, Aunt Arlis. Now, I have some things to do.” With an apologetic smile at Scarlet, he left the room. Whether he was sorry for leaving her with the clean-up or for leaving her with Arlis, Seamus didn’t know. A few seconds later, the back door clicked softly closed. Scarlet seemed determined not to notice Bud’s departure at all.

A
FTER
LISTENING
TO
THE
BIRDS
and the breeze for a while, Brodie climbed the fence again and tested its strength. Holding on with one hand, she peered down at the treetops directly below. Again the thought struck her that she might be able to find Gramps if she followed him. If she thought it was true—

“Brodie?” The call made her jump. Bud was coming, apparently on foot this time, for she’d heard no sound. Deputy Reiner’s hinted accusation returned to her mind, giving her a funny feeling. She had told the stranger Gramps’ death was an accident. Did she believe that? Or was the criminal returning to the scene of his crime?

“Here.” She scrambled over to the proper side of the fence just before Bud appeared.

“Scarlet said you might be up here. I—” He paused, and she had another eerie thought. Had Bud been watching, hoping she would jump so he had one less problem to deal with? He did not seem disappointed to see her alive. “I thought maybe you could use some company,” he finished.

You own the place now
, she thought
. I don’t suppose I have any say.
She shrugged, the universal teenage signal of rebellious resignation.

Bud stayed where he was, well back from the fence. “I don’t much care for funerals, but I thought it was a nice one.”

If anyone else had said that, Brodie would have whooped in derision. What was nice about saying goodbye to a loved one and setting his body into a dark, damp hole? Somehow, though, she sensed that Bud meant it. Looking at it a different way, she supposed the service had been worthwhile. A tribute to Gramps, the last thing those who loved the old man could offer him.

“Yeah.”

Brodie looked at Bud—really looked at him—for the first time in years. Gramps had been his Gramps for real, and Bud had the look of him: the twinkly eyes, the complexion that would redden but not tan, the thin lips that smiled easily and often. Bud did not smell like Gramps, who never gave up his Aqua Velva, even when he could afford something better. He did not have Gramps’ white hair, of course, nor his wrinkles. Those would come later.

Bud had been up here when Gramps fell. If he hadn’t done it, did he feel guilty about bringing him? She could have told him not to. The yacht race was the high point of the year for him, and Gramps would have come by himself if he’d had to. Was Bud sad that Gramps was dead? It seemed so, but Brodie’s experience taught that what a person seemed to be in public was different when they didn’t think anyone who mattered was looking.

Bud was rich, in control of a large company he could sell now. If he and Gramps had argued about whether to sell the business, she sided with Gramps, not because she knew anything, but because he was Gramps and therefore always right.

Bud pointed vaguely back the way he’d come. “Did you eat anything at all?”

Brodie glanced at the Judas fence that had not done its job. “Not hungry.”

“You want to talk about, uh, anything?”

It was the chance she had been wanting, to hear his version of what had happened, but now she felt shy. Bud was everything she was not: mature, handsome, self-confident, sane. He was also Gramps’ real grandchild. Gathering her courage, Brodie asked, “Do you?”