Found money

67

Amy left before the police arrived. With Marilyn’s permission, she drove Jeb’s van back to Boulder. Ryan and Marilyn had plenty to explain on their own, which would probably take all night. She, too, would have to give a full statement. That was fine with her. Before talking to the police, however, she had to do one more thing.

She had to unravel her latest suspicions.

It was after 4:00 A.M. when she arrived back at the apartment. It was dark inside, save for the night light in the hall. She peeked in on Taylor. She was asleep on her stomach in one of those lumpy positions that only a four-year-old could find comfortable, scrunched up like a turtle. She stroked her head lightly and kissed her on the cheek. Taylor didn’t stir. Amy turned toward the door, then started. Gram was standing in the doorway. It was an eerie feeling, one that angered her inside. She rarely shared a tender moment with Taylor when she didn’t feel Gram was somehow watching. She used to think it was out of concern. She was beginning to think otherwise.

Amy stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her.

“I heard you come in,” said Gram. She was dressed in her nightgown and slippers, a silk cap protecting her hair.

“Did you wait up for me?”

“Of course. I was worried about you, darling.”

Amy walked down the hall toward the kitchen. Gram followed and took a seat at the table. “What happened tonight?”

Amy opened the refrigerator and poured herself some orange juice. She leaned against the counter, leaving Gram alone at the table. “I found out who didn’t kill Mom.”

Gram looked confused. “What?”

“But I think I know who did.”

“Who?”

She sipped her orange juice. “You don’t want to tell me?”

“What are you talking about, Amy?”

Her tone sharpened. “Remember how I told you that I couldn’t remember much about the night Mom died? Every time I got to a certain point, those numbers would pop into my head.”

“Yes.”

“I told you it was M 57. I always thought that was a form of psychological self-preservation. When ever I got too close to my most painful memories, my adult brain would kick in and short-circuit everything, cluttering my mind with the astronomical designation for the star I was looking at the night Mom died.”

“That would be logical.”

“Except that I lied to you last night. I did see numbers when I went back to the house. But this time it wasn’t M 57. It wasn’t an astronomical designation at all.”

“What was it?”

She stared at Gram, almost looking through her. “I saw numbers and letters. I’m not really sure which ones. The important thing I remember is that they were from a license tag.”

Gram folded her hands nervously. “I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t, either, until tonight, when it came back to me. When I looked through my telescope as a little girl, I didn’t always look up into the sky. Sometimes I’d watch people in their yards. Sometimes I’d watch cars on the road. That night, I remember watching a car come toward the house before I went to bed. I remember it was a Ford Galaxie, black vinyl roof. I remember focusing on it, because it was your car.”

Gram was ashen, more frail than Amy had ever seen her. “You must be confused.”

“No. I had just blocked it out, suppressed it all these years. But since I went back to the house, the memory has become more clear. The funny thing is, I still don’t remember you coming by the house that night. You were right in the neighborhood, but you didn’t stop by the house.”

“I stopped by after you went to bed.”

Amy’s glare tightened. “Yes. That’s what I thought. I saw your car almost an hour before I went to bed. But you came by after I went to sleep.”

“Well, I–I don’t know about the timing.”

“I remember now,” said Amy. “I remember thinking, Where’s Gram? Where did she go? I was expecting you to come by any minute, but you never came.”

“I don’t really remember.”

“I think you do. You were outside waiting for me to go to sleep.”

“That’s silly. Why would I do that?”

“Because you came by the house to see Mom. And you didn’t want me or anyone else to know you had been there that night.”

Gram looked away, flustered. “I don’t know what you’re driving at,” she said harshly. “But I don’t deserve this.”

“You killed her, didn’t you?”

“No!” she said, indignant. “She killed herself, like the police said. That’s why she tied the rope around your bedroom door, so you wouldn’t find the body.”

“ You tied the rope, Gram. The police were right in one respect. The person who took Mom’s life loved me so much she didn’t want me to find the body. The cops thought it was Mom. Problem is, Mom knew I could climb out of my room through the attic. But you didn’t.”

“Amy, I didn’t kill your mother.”

She stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “It’s like you said. When Dad was killed in Vietnam — your only child — I was the replacement.”

“I was practically raising you anyway, even before your mother got sick. She was always so busy with one thing or another. I always loved you as my own.”

“But that’s not the guardianship Mom envisioned. Marilyn told me. It must have shocked you when she asked Marilyn to look after me, instead of you.”

Gram shook with anger. “Marilyn Gaslow had no right to you.”

“It was what Mom wanted.”

“It was the wrong choice. I knew it. Your mother knew it. Even she was having reservations. She told me how Marilyn was afraid to take you because of the skeleton in her closet — the rape that didn’t happen.”

“You knew Frank Duffy was innocent?”

“Your mother told me exactly what Marilyn had told her. She was brutally honest,” she said with a false chuckle. “I guess she wanted me to understand the risk she was taking by giving you to Marilyn. Maybe she even wanted my blessing. She wanted me to be ready to step in if the Frank Duffy thing ever exploded and the court found Marilyn unfit to be your guardian. Like I was second string or something.”

Amy came to the table, glaring at Gram. “You sent the letter to Frank Duffy. That’s why the penmanship was shaky in places.”

“All I wanted was to expose Marilyn for what she was. An unfit guardian. I didn’t expect him to blackmail her.”

“You more than expected it. I think the two of you planned it. That’s why he sent me two hundred thousand dollars when he died. Was that your cut, Gram? Is that why you wouldn’t let me call the police when the money arrived?”

Her mouth quivered. “This wasn’t about money. I never asked for a cent.”

“But he gave it to you anyway. Or maybe you wouldn’t take it, so he made an anonymous gift to your granddaughter.”

“I don’t know what he was thinking. I don’t care what he was thinking.”

“So long as the letter kept Marilyn from becoming my guardian.”

“Not the letter,” said Gram. “The truth. I told the truth. It was better that way.”

“Better for you.”

“And for you.”

Amy shook with disbelief. “Is that how your mind works? Just rationalize everything?”

“I’m not rationalizing anything.”

“Then how do you live with yourself?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I raised you the best I could. That’s how.”

“After you killed my mother.”

“I didn’t kill her.”

“You killed her before she could meet with her lawyer and change her will to name Marilyn guardian.”

“No.”

“You came by the house and shot her with her own gun.”

“That’s not true.”

“Admit it. You killed her!”

“For God’s sake, she was already dying!”

They looked at each other, stunned, as if neither could fathom the words she’d just uttered. Gram broke down, sobbing. “I’d already lost one child, Amy. I couldn’t lose you, too. When your mother said she was giving you to Marilyn, something snapped inside me. It was like losing your father all over again. Only this time, I could stop it from happening. This was the only way to stop it.”

Amy stared, incredulous. The rationale of a murderer. It was as good as a confession, but she felt no fulfillment. Only sadness — then anger.

“She deserved it, didn’t she, Gram?”

“What?”

“In your eyes. Mom deserved to die a death as violent as Dad’s.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Mom never grieved enough for your son, did she? I saw it in your eyes whenever she went on a date, the nights you babysat me. I saw it every time she brought another man through our front door. Your looks of contempt. You could have pulled the trigger right then and there.”

“Amy, I did this for you.”

Amy hurried from the kitchen and walked briskly down the hall. Gram followed.

“Amy, wait!”

She ignored the call and entered Taylor’s room. Her daughter was still sound asleep. Amy snatched the tote bag from the closet and packed some clothes for Taylor.

“What are you doing?” She was shaking, desperate.

Amy strung the bag over her shoulder and lifted Taylor from the bed. Taylor’s arms wrapped around her neck, but she kept right on sleeping. Amy held her tight as she blew right past Gram, crossed the living room, and threw open the front door.

“Please,” said Gram, her voice cracking. “I swear, I did it for you.”

Amy stopped in the doorway, looked Gram in the eye. “You did it for yourself. Everything you do, you do for yourself.”

Amy slammed the door behind her. With Taylor in her arms, she headed for her truck — her mother’s old truck.