Drawing Conclusions (7 page)

“Interesting.” I could see DeRosa falling deep in thought. He took out his iPad and jotted down some notes.

“Is this important?”

“I'll take anything I can get at this point,” he responded.

I gave him a good once-over from the top of his head to the point where the table met his chest. He was broad, bordering on big, with a stillness that seemed practiced. His presence was appealing but at the same time impenetrable, possibly because his job was to evaluate evidence regardless of the outcome. I imagined how witnesses and criminals alike could be drawn in only to be caught off-guard by Detective Frank DeRosa. I did not want to be on the wrong side of this man.

“My parents live down the street. I can walk from here.” Frank motioned to a row of recently renovated buildings along the water. “One of the patrolmen will drive me back to Harbor House tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I said.

“Can I give you some advice?” he asked.

“If it helps the investigation.”

“You've got this thing with faces. I can see the way you stare at people for an unnaturally long time. On the upside, you put your talent to work with the sketch of Igor. I liked that.” Frank threw a twenty on the table. “But on a personal level, it's a little threatening.”

“Get real,” I said. “I eat food from strangers' garbage cans. Do you think I care that my lingering gaze makes others uncomfortable?” I tossed my head as if I'd let him get the last word. “Later, Frank.”

I drove home from Freeport knowing full well that I'd given more to Frank DeRosa than I'd gotten. I bet the standard police handbook strictly advises against developing personal relationships with the players in a case. Conversely, the investigation required my participation, and I was feeling underappreciated. DeRosa would have to look long and hard to find someone closer to Teddy than me, and whether or not I liked Naomi, I was almost family with Teddy's now deceased ex-fiancée. In addition, I was still related to my mother, who was still married to my father.

And that's exactly where I was headed.

twelve

Two understated stone pillars
punctuated the gravel drive, signaling an entrance lined with enormous birch trees. Although not visible from the street, the main house rose impressively from the grounds and could be spotted about a half-mile down the way at the end of a circular driveway. I'd always felt our driveway was pretentious since it's impossible to park efficiently in a circle. The message is, don't park; wait for the valet. As if a stationary car in full view of the front door is somehow offensive. I did my best to position the Gremlin smack dab in the middle of the cul-de-sac.

I let myself in but felt the hesitation of being unwanted in my own childhood home. It crossed my mind to knock on the front door but that would have been an outright admission of my disinheritance. Within a minute, a cleaning woman popped a head around the corner of a doorway.

“Is my mother home?” I asked.

She nodded toward the plant atrium, a beautifully designed indoor greenhouse off the kitchen. Even as a child, I remembered my mother soaking in the humidity of the glass enclosure. Charlie insisted it was an excellent remedy for sweating off alcohol toxins.

I found my mother resting on a summer lounge, a tall drink balanced on a side table, her lids fluttering in half sleep.

“Mom.”

“Constance?” She turned her head, and I made note of the lines etched deeply around her eyes. Unless my father could find a gene linked to skin elasticity, I was looking at myself in forty years.

“Mom,” I said again.

“Teddy's dead,” she replied.

I have no idea where it came from and, despite all attempts to control my breathing, an enormous sob erupted from my mouth. The cleaning lady snuck a peek and then skittered off in haste. My mother held her drink out for me.

“Take a sip sweetheart,” she said.

I reached for her glass without questioning its contents.

The shock stopped my tears faster than a shot of vodka. “This is just soda.”

“You're disappointed?” my mother said.

“Did I miss something? Like a six-month stint at Betty Ford?”

“I'm doing it on my own. An attribute you may be familiar with.”

“I recognize that streak of independence.” I smiled at my mother and, for the first time in years, it was returned. “Trina said you called the other day. She thought you were inebriated.”

“People hear what they want,” my mother said. “I was sober.”

“Congratulations. How long?”

“About two months,” she replied. “Teddy ran some tests on me and suggested I start painting again. A therapy of sorts. I'm a good artist but not good enough to paint drunk.” She patted her lounge chair, and I came forward to sit. “Your father doesn't know.”

“What? Mom, that's insane. How could Dad not know?”

“I have the liquor delivered regularly. Norma, that's the woman you saw when you entered, pours the bottles out for me and we fill the recycling bin each week.”

“But why?”

“Your father doesn't deserve my sobriety. He'd try to own it, but it's mine. Teddy helped me see that.”

“That's pretty harsh,” I said as I took another sip of the soda and rethought my primary purpose for coming here. I'd intended to quiz my mother about Teddy, but I wasn't prepared to deal with her newfound sobriety. I had very little experience dealing with my mother sober. Given our similarities, I chose a rational approach.

“I think there's more to Teddy's death than an accident or an underlying medical condition,” I said, hoping my mother would follow my honest lead. But she remained silent. “Mom, is there anything you can tell the police?”

“I can't,” she said, and I noticed a slight tremor gripped her hand. “Teddy was never mine. He belonged to your father. There's nothing I can tell the police except that he was a very special boy and an amazing man.”

“What if it was me who died?” I asked without really wanting to hear the answer. “What would you tell the police?”

My mother's answer hung at the tip of her tongue, as if she had considered the question before. “I wouldn't have to tell them anything,” she responded. “You're a survivor.”

“Whom did I belong to?”

“Yourself,” she said emphatically. “That's the way I wanted to raise my daughter.” She motioned for me to come closer and as if she were making up for decades of lost time, she ran her fingers through my blond locks.

“I guess I should say thank you, Mom,” I said, “but I have a favor to ask first.”

“You'd like to root through our garbage before you leave?” she said, giving me a quick pinch on the cheek before releasing me.

“Nice, Mom, but I'll pass. I'm stuck on a painting. I keep sketching the same head over and over without progress. Maybe you could stop by Harbor House and give me some advice now that you're back at the easel.”

“I actually just started driving again, with Norma as my co-
pilot. As of yesterday, I made it all the way to the main road and back without the shakes.”

“I'm five miles away. Piece of cake in broad daylight. You can bring Norma if you want.”

I gave my mother a peck on the cheek. Her skin felt cool and I recognized her smell: a mixture of expensive perfume and freshly washed hair. As I leaned in, I noticed her earlobes. Just a small, soft droplet, like mine.

Just before I let myself out, I caught Norma's attention.

“Norma. I wanted to thank you for helping my mother.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

I grabbed a pad and pen from the front hall desk and jotted down my number. “Please call me if my mother needs anything.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

thirteen

Activity at Harbor House
started to wind down. The investigators had tagged and recorded each and every scrap of Teddy's garbage. Lamendola entered the information into an evidence database. Cheski handled background checks on the labs' employees both past and present. Coming up on the two-week anniversary of Teddy's death, I felt as if the investigation had stalled.

“Hey guys. When do you knock off for the day?” I pulled a chair up to the table and grabbed a handful of homemade chips.

“We'll probably put in another hour or so,” Cheski said. “We want to make sure Frank has a preliminary report tonight, and then we'll meet bright and early tomorrow.”

“I'm in,” I said to show support.

“We're glad to have you, CeCe. It's actually pretty nice working here.”

“Yeah, Becky brought us a great lunch,” Lamendola added. “All this healthy stuff from your farm. Cheski might even drop a few.”

Cheski patted his midsection in agreement. “You know, CeCe,” he said, “your friend Charlie has turned out to be a real asset. We were having trouble accessing the national crime data, and he hacked through a police-grade firewall within minutes.”

“Thank god he's not a terrorist,” I said.

Lamendola's face lit up like a hazard flare.

“I'm kidding.” I grabbed another chip. “Anyway, I just wanted to say thank you.”

I headed up to my studio and found Charlie spread out on my futon, barefoot, bare chested, and sporting a pair of cargo pants that had seen better days.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“An outdated
Maxim
from Teddy's garbage.”

“Charlie, you stole evidence?”

“It's mine. I left it at Teddy's about six months ago. Like he'd ever read crap like this.” Charlie spread the pages of the magazine to reveal an alluring photo of Jessica Alba looking like she had crawled out of a vat of grease.

“Is that supposed to turn me on?” I said.

“So you're turned on?”

“Let's see.” I used my fingers for a countdown. “I've been poisoned, shot at, and rolled down a hill in a two-ton car. If I was into sadomasochism, I'd be on the verge of ecstasy.” I closed the magazine and slid it across the floor.

“See, I knew you were turned on,” Charlie said.

I pretended to bang my head on the futon in utter frustration. “How is it possible you are still single?”

“I'm holding out for you, C
e
Ce.”

Against my better judgment, I reached out for Charlie, who was more than willing to scoop me up from the chaos of my life. I wanted to feel safe, even if it was fleeting.

“I'm exhausted, Charlie, and you are about to take advantage of me.”

“Maybe it's me who needs the attention,” Charlie whispered as his lips brushed past mine.

Charlie's stubble was rough against my cheek. The harder I kissed him, the deeper it dug into my skin. It was painful and cleansing at the same time, as if we could scrub off the anger and hurt that had accumulated since Teddy's death. Charlie lifted my hips with ease, and I followed his lead like a well-trained puppy.

This is better than last time, much better,
I thought. The taboo had been broken, so we offered each other the patience and time we deserved. I fell asleep with Charlie's arm snug under my head. As I drifted off, I thought how bittersweet it was that Teddy's death had caused me to welcome Charlie and my mother back in my life.

fourteen

The knock on the
door was slightly less jarring than the buzz of an alarm clock. I swung my arm across the sheets and found an empty spot still warm from Charlie's presence.

“We're starting in five,” DeRosa's voice rang out like a boot camp sergeant.

“How about ten?” I mumbled into my pillow.

“We found something. It's urgent.”

I
n the time it could have taken me to answer, I was up and dressed. I flung the door open and covered my morning breath with the back of my hand.

“Pee and brush.”

I scooted past DeRosa to the bathroom. I rinsed and spit more times than necessary to buy myself some time. DeRosa's expression was classic conflict, a mixture of discomfort and disappointment. With his eyebrows gathered like a pincushion and his head tilted to avoid looking directly at me, I sensed his discovery was divisive.

Within minutes the team formed. A pile of donuts sat untouched on the table. DeRosa started talking before I had time to snag a Boston cream.

“Cheski sorted through the list of employees provided by the labs. Without beating around the bush, it turns out the labs employed a Jonathan Randolph ten years ago from June 2000 until March 2001.”

Charlie's shoulders rose, signaling his confusion, and he shot me a glance of complete bewilderment.

“Is that our Jonathan?” I asked.

To confirm the answer, Cheski slid a black-and-white photocopy of Jonathan's lab security photo across the table while he read his accompanying report.

“Jonathan G. Randolph, a medical student enrolled at Yale, was hired for a fellowship in the spring of 2000 to assist in a genetic study of fruit reproduction. The position required supervision of greenhouses two and three and resulted in a three-hundred-page report detailing the growing pattern in mutant fruit species.”

“I did not know Jonathan had worked at the labs,” I said emphatically. I sought Charlie out for confirmation, but his head was buried in his hands. “Charlie?” I implored. “Help me out here.”

“Fuck,” Charlie slammed his fist on the table.

“Come clean, Charlie.” DeRosa's statement was more an order than a request.

“Dr. Prentice gave me and Teddy a summer job at the labs after sophomore year. It was grunt work. We cleaned out the greenhouses, carted soil around, maintained the watering system.”

“Could Teddy and Jonathan have crossed paths?” DeRosa asked.

“Yeah. I mean, it's possible they met before we hooked up here at the house,” Charlie answered.

DeRosa read the report, jotting down questions at the same time. “Charlie, do you remember Jonathan from that summer?”

“I don't remember Jonathan specifically because there were probably twenty medical students working in the greenhouses. But it was different for Teddy. He focused on learning. He followed the experiments and helped some of the students make observations and take notes. Teddy did anything to put him closer to the action.”

“Big whoop,” I said stunned by the direction of the conversation. “So Teddy and Jonathan may have known each other. Who cares?”

Cheski responded to my statement by reading the remainder of his report. “After the fellowship, Jonathan G. Randolph dropped out of Yale medical and applied for a full-time job at the labs. His application was rejected.”

I leaned backward and crossed my arms protectively over my chest. “And you assume the motive for Teddy's murder is that a disgruntled worker cracked after a decade of peaceful living and killed my brother out of pent-up professional jealousy?”

“Before we go down that route,” DeRosa said, “tell me how you met Jonathan and how he came to live at Harbor House.”

“He and Trina worked at a local organic food co-op. Trina and I made friends, and Jonathan's knowledge of farming intrigued me. They came out to visit me a few times when I renovated the house, and it all came together. It's as simple as that.”

“Think hard,” DeRosa pressured. “Did Jonathan approach you first? Did he suggest the living arrangements? Maybe farming in trade for lodgings?”

“Frank, do you have any idea what you are suggesting? That somehow Jonathan sought me out because for years he had harbored an inexplicable grudge against my brother after he dropped out of medical school and Teddy went on to become a success?”

“I dropped out of MIT and I haven't killed a single mathematician,” Charlie said as he perked up at my reasoning.

“Well there you go,” I responded. “Case closed.”

“CeCe, be reasonable,” DeRosa said. “Jonathan is the only link we have between you, Teddy, and the labs.”

“Okay, Einstein. I'll make it easy for you. Ask Jonathan yourself.” I pointed in the direction of the door. “And let me remind you that he's not the only link. Teddy's ex-fiancée Naomi, a former lab employee, is still dead. What happened to that?”

Cheski and Lamendola were collectively subdued. DeRosa rose abruptly from the conference table and stalked out in a huff. Cheski and Lamendola scurried off behind their leader, leaving me alone with Charlie.

“You held your ground.”

“No thanks to you,” I said with disappointment. “You practically locked the cuffs on Jonathan yourself.”

With the dexterity of a circus performer, Charlie tipped backward in his chair, balancing precipitously on the two rear legs. “I'm losing it,” he said, letting the chair slam forward. “I can't handle Teddy's death.”

“How crazy could we be if Teddy chose to hang with us?” I asked.

“Pathetic but true,” Charlie responded and then paced the room, his fists shoved deep in his pockets. With a dejected grunt he rested his head on the windowsill. “Check it out. DeRosa, Cheski, and Lamendola are headed to the barn.”

“I guess that would be my fault,” I said as I joined Charlie and watched DeRosa enter the barn. “I just don't get why Jonathan didn't say anything to us about the working at the labs.”

Charlie made a beeline for the computer, unscrambling a mess of cords and power strips. The screen lit up and he punched some buttons, allowing a stream of distant voices to fill up the room. The interior of the barn filled the monitor, revealing DeRosa's back and a very surprised Jonathan.

“Security camera.” Charlie patted the screen like an old friend. “I rigged the property after the egg incident.”

“Is this legal?”

“It's your property, CeCe. Technically, the cops are trespassing.” Charlie redirected the camera and adjusted the sound. I had the impression we were eavesdropping from a hayloft.

“Jonathan, I'd like to keep this informal, but we have a few questions.” DeRosa's voice rang clear.

“You know I worked at the labs,” Jonathan offered.

“We do. Any reason it didn't come out sooner?”

Jonathan heaved a mixture of dirt and manure into a wheelbarrow. For a split second I worried his shovel might be repurposed as a weapon. If DeRosa's information was correct, then I really had no idea who I had invited to live in my home. Katrina and Jonathan had lived with me for ten years, but the friendship was through Katrina. That's the funny thing about couples; you tend to accept the significant other without question. Maybe I should have asked more questions, but Jonathan had always presented himself as a quiet and thoughtful man.

I wanted to believe I was right, but I assumed DeRosa was prepared for a confrontation. I noticed Cheski and Lamendola's strategic positions covering both exits. I exhaled with relief as Jonathan placed the tool carefully on the ground.

“Mind if we talk in the greenhouse?” Jonathan gestured toward the door blocked by Cheski.

DeRosa motioned to Cheski, and I slapped Charlie on the arm. “Can you change the picture? Is there a camera in the greenhouse?”

With a flip of a switch, we were in the greenhouse ahead of Jonathan and the police. We watched the foursome file in, and then we heard a knock on our door.

“CeCe, it's me and Becky,” Trina's voice was as thin as a wire. “Something's up. Detective DeRosa asked for Jonathan, and neither of them looked happy.”

I opened the door and waved them in. Trina and Becky gathered around the monitor, unaware of the drama about to unfold. I'd rather hear Jonathan confess to an affair with a barn animal than have him implicate himself in my brother's murder. Becky's hovering wasn't doing much for my mental state either. Although she and Charlie weren't an official item, I'd have a hard time explaining why I was wearing Charlie's t-shirt under my sweatshirt. If only we were in a
Three's Company
episode and Mr. Roper could bumble in to break the tension.

“Why is Jonathan in the greenhouse with the detective?” Becky asked innocently.

“Because Colonel Mustard was detained in the billiard room with the wrench,” Charlie replied straight-faced.

I glared at Charlie and reminded myself that guys do not rank brains highly on their criteria for sex. As always, I was the anomaly on Charlie's lengthy resume. I turned my attention back to Jonathan and noted his relaxed appearance as he addressed the police.

“Come closer and look at these green pepper plants.” Jonathan held out a leafy specimen for the men to examine. “Notice anything odd?”

Lamendola took a shot at it. “My Italian grandmother grows peppers. These plants are fuller than hers. Heartier.”

“That's because there are three fruits per stem and a typical plant produces only one fruit per stem.” Jonathan beamed with pride. “My study at the labs involved decoding the fruit-making process. At the time, I attended Yale medical with a specialization in genetics. I seriously considered making a jump to botany, which is why I pursued the fellowship at the labs.”

Trina's mouth grew slack, and she reached backward for a chair. Jonathan's prior life was obviously news to her. I ran my arm around her shoulder in silent support and watched as a red flush crept up her neck to flood her face.

“Please tell me this is not happening,” she murmured as Jonathan continued.

“At the time of my employment, the ability to increase a fruit's yield through genetic manipulation as opposed to the overuse of synthetic fertilizer fascinated me,” Jonathan said. “The social value of doubling or tripling a harvest without losing the taste and nutrition of a fruit or vegetable is overpowering. A discovery of this magnitude has the potential to save starving communities in third-world countries.” Jonathan fingered the plant gently. “The social and economic upside is magnificent.”

“How does it work?” Lamendola asked.

I wondered if Lamendola wanted to grab a handful of Jonathan's bionic seeds for his grandmother.

“Ever crack an egg with two yolks?” Jonathan asked. “Double yolks are a chromosomal mishap or a mistake—but not to a botanist interested in genetic preening. Through careful collection and cross breeding of hyperactive seeds, the botanist is able to repeat the mishap and literally tease out the recessive mutation until the mistake becomes dominant.”

“Like getting two dozen eggs each with double yolks,” Lamendola said in awe.

Jonathan was pleased with his new proselyte.

“And this is what you did at the labs?” DeRosa asked.

“Yes, but with tomatoes,” Jonathan confirmed. “The problem is that Dr. Prentice was not impressed with feeding the poor. Actually, let me correct myself. Dr. Prentice is a genius, and he has done a tremendous amount of good in this world. However, given the size of the labs and the financial demands of running an operation of its size, Dr. Prentice needs to be mindful of cash flow. He financed the study for its commercial value—the ability to overproduce mountains of ripe red tomatoes for high-end supermarket chains.”

“Sounds like dear old dad,” I whispered to no one in particular.

“I can't say I'm an expert on patents or intellectual property, but are you allowed to replicate these studies at Harbor House without infringing on the labs' initial work?” DeRosa's question was spot on.

“That's the amazing part,” Jonathan said. “To do this, a farmer needs only some seeds, dirt, manure, and sun. However, identifying mutant seeds takes the patience of a gold miner. When I worked at the food co-op, we sourced fruits and vegetables from organic farmers all over the country. I built my own network of growers that is much deeper and, dare I say, more fruitful than anything the labs could reproduce.”

“How so?” DeRosa was skeptical. “The labs have millions of dollars for these studies.”

“But they don't care about farming with the same passion,” Jonathan replied. “My network is people like me. A grassroots, back-to-the-soil movement of farmers with a long-term perspective on social change through agricultural engineering.”

“But you applied for a full-time position and got turned down,” Cheski pointed out.

“That's incorrect.” Jonathan said without a hint of defiance. “I withdrew my application when I realized that I'd be working for the DNA mafia.” Jonathan's eyes scanned the ground with discomfort. “Please don't tell CeCe I said that.”

Our room of Jonathan supporters burst into laughter at his slip-up.

“So you knew Teddy from the summer you worked at the labs?” DeRosa asked. “And Charlie, for that matter?”

“Of course I knew Teddy, but I can't say I remembered Charlie.”

“Story of my life,” Charlie mumbled.

“Teddy helped me transcribe notes and take photos of the plants,” Jonathan said.

DeRosa's shoulders lowered a mere centimeter, and I could see that Jonathan's sincerity defused the doubt in the room. “Why doesn't anyone else in Harbor House know you had a connection to Teddy and the labs?” DeRosa asked.

Jonathan took his time gathering his thoughts. He was a reflective man, and I knew his next response would be as genuine as his earlier explanation.