Playing Dead

CHAPTER 9

I turned the key over in my hand, grateful for the four-letter imprint on one side: “BOWW.” Otherwise, the search for a mysterious safe deposit box somewhere in the behemoth state of Texas-or maybe anywhere in the forty-eight contiguous states-could have swept us on a useless, consuming journey.

Instead, it was almost too easy. Our search took approximately thirty seconds of old-fashioned thumbing through the Yellow Pages. There it was, a discreet ad in the bottom right corner of page 41. Bank of the Wild West, 320 West Third Street.

Quaint. I’d never noticed it once in all my years of traipsing around downtown Fort Worth. It certainly wasn’t an institution I ever heard Daddy or Wade mention. What reason would Mama have to use it?

“Mom, we’ve got to go,” Maddie said, tugging on her arm. “It’s almost three.”

“We’re registering for school today,” Sadie told me apologetically. “The M through Z’s start signing in at three-thirty. And we’re wallpapering her locker with peace-sign paper and buying a Taylor Swift lunchbox. It’s been a long-standing date. Maybe we could go to the bank tomorrow. I don’t think we’ll be back by the time the bank closes.”

She hesitated at the door. “So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to the bank.”

I desperately didn’t want to go by myself. To open a box of Mama’s secrets in a strange bank without someone to catch me when the earth shifted. But, even more than that, I didn’t want to wait. Or involve Sadie and Maddie unnecessarily. I needed this to be over as quickly and cleanly as possible.

“Tommie, are you sure? You don’t look… like you feel good.”

I knew she was thinking about the lavender. Wondering if her tough, fear-no-bull big sister was going the way of her patients.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I’ll pick up the stuff, dump it in a bag, and bring it back here. We’ll open up everything together tonight.”

Forty-five minutes later, an assistant bank manager quickly put that thought to death. Ms. Sue Billington strode over when I stepped into the Bank of the Wild West as if she were on a mission to sell me the latest Buick. She was dressed in a JC Penney uniform: navy blue two-piece suit, starched white shirt, suntan hose, and black Easy Spirit pumps. I saw a bulge on the left side near her size 12 waist. She was packing.

She also carried invisible red tape, which she had been wrapping around and around my head for the last seven minutes. We glared at each other across her shiny, glass-topped desk, empty of everything but a computer, a phone, a pen, and a spanking-new empty yellow legal pad.

Her voice was breathy, sweet, patronizing. I stared at her mouth, a leathery pink purse, the lines around it creased from an overgenerous application of Maybelline foundation a couple of shades too dark, maybe in an effort to match the suntan hose.

The little mouth kept saying versions of “No way.”

“I’m her daughter,” I tried again. I slid my driver’s license back at her, leaving a smudgy trail on the glass. “I’m her guardian. My sister and I share control of all her legal matters. I have the key to her safe deposit box in my hand.”

“Please lower your voice, ma’am. I heard you the first time and the second time.” She spoke slowly, reminding me of the Sunday School teacher who’d slapped me with a name tag that said “Sinner” after I’d raised my hand and suggested hell might not exist. I think I tried to pronounce the word “conceptual” to no avail. Granny was big on jump-starting our vocabularies at a very young age.

“Ms. McCloud, your mother has no other business with this bank. According to our computer”-she paused and tapped the space bar three times-“the box has not been opened for a number of years. We are not privy to any legal authority you may have over Mrs. McCloud’s affairs. You brought no documents with you. You are not listed here as the one person who has permission to open the box.”

“Who is?” I asked impatiently.

“Ms. McCloud, you must know I can’t divulge that. All I know is that your driver’s license says you have the same last name. A common last name, I might add. In this era of identity theft, I would think you would be grateful that we undertake such diligent precautions.”

The truth was, she was right. I knew it. I kicked myself for not talking to Mama’s lawyer before showing up.

“Our father just died,” I persisted.

“I’m real sorry about that,” Sue Billington replied tightly, unmoved. As I stood to go, she beamed a row of snowy veneers at me, probably a month of her salary. She chose that moment to parcel out the piece of information she knew I’d want most.

“You and your sister should really coordinate with your brother, don’t you think? He was here recently asking about the same box. He was much more polite, if I do say so.”

Then she bent, retrieved a paper towel and Windex from under her desk, and, with a businesslike spritz, wiped my fingerprints off the glass and into oblivion.

I slipped on my Maui Jims as I exited the bank into the blinding sun, wondering why people thought sunglasses helped them hide.

I’d never felt more exposed, more vulnerable in my life.

The perfectly innocent new mother pushing a stroller by me right now had no idea I wasn’t staring at her sleeping baby because he was adorable under his ducky blanket but because I wanted to warn him that life was not going to be what he expected. That it was random and unforgiving. Forget Daddy’s death, Mama’s dementia, their apparent lies. Tuck’s death alone proved that.

A fresh wave of grief rolled over me. For Daddy? Or Tuck? I blinked back tears.

Who could be impersonating Tuck? Why?

The man in a suit wrestling with an overstacked Subway sandwich on the bench across the street had no idea that I wondered, Is it you? Are you pretending to be my dead brother? Are you watching me?

Get out of your head, my psychologist brain advised. Do something.

The sandwich guy tossed what was left of his early dinner in the trash and wandered up the street to report back in either at his boring office job or to a goon in a cowboy hat and a black vehicle.

I took over his spot and dialed up W. A. Masters, our family lawyer. A brilliant legal mind and an old University of Texas buddy of my grandfather’s, W.A. didn’t use office technology invented after the electric pencil sharpener-certainly not a cell phone. His equally ancient secretary, Marcia, promised to hunt him down the old-fashioned way, walking over to Riscky’s, a barbecue joint and his favorite place to drink a tall glass of iced tea with four Sweet’N Lows in the late afternoon while he sorted through the next day’s round of court appointments.

I assumed that W.A. knew nothing about this key or the contents of the safe deposit box, that it was another of Mama’s secrets, popping up like dormant locusts released from years of imposed napping. At the moment, I actually felt relieved that Ms. Billington, armed with window cleaner and her rolls of crimson tape, was an implacable fortress in the way of anyone trying to get in before I did.

I hung up and felt a little better. I did wish I hadn’t worn such a short skirt, something plucked out of Sadie’s bag, because the bellman across the street was enjoying the view. My sweaty thighs were sticking to the wooden bench like a pre-schooler’s. Sadie’s white T-shirt with a small pink sequined heart was like a second skin on me, the neckline a little too cleavage-happy. As for her short red cowboy boots… well, it was that or flip-flops and I could hear Granny nixing that from above as inappropriate going-to-the-bank attire.

I tipped up my sunglasses and checked the time on my cell phone-5:14-then slipped them back down.

“So you decided to show.”

The voice was low, rough, behind me, and I nearly fell off the seat.

I whipped around.

Jack Smith grinned and slid onto the bench, throwing his good arm lightly over my shoulders. The other was in a sling.

Surely I could take a one-armed man. My purse was on the ground by my feet. There was possibly some very old pepper spray in one of the pockets. Daddy’s unloaded pistol was at the ranch. My.45 was in its home under the pickup seat.

Where the hell was that bellman now? The side street had emptied. Quitting time.

“Relax,” Jack said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What are you doing here?” I snapped, throwing off his arm.

“Seriously? I’m living here.” He pointed across the street nonchalantly. “Aren’t you taking me up on my invitation to talk?”

I stared in the direction of his finger.

“The message I left on your phone,” he said impatiently.

Oh, shit.

Etta’s Place. The name was barely visible from here, gold-lettered on an old-timey hanging sign over the door. I’d been too deep in my head for the past fifteen minutes to even notice the hotel. It was like Etta was pulling the strings and not necessarily for me.

“Let’s go up to my room,” he said, rising. “So we can speak privately.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Wound pretty tight, aren’t you, Tommie? I just want to help. Come clean.”

“Really?” I asked sarcastically, my eyes sliding down his jeans. No bulge at the waist. No ankle holster. Loafers. No socks. White ankles, with a low-sock tan line, like a runner or a sailor.

He leaned his face closer, providing a graphic view of bloody slits and bruises. “I’ve been lying to you, I admit it,” he said. “About the story I’m working on. I don’t really give a crap about horses.”

I stood shakily.

“Here is where we say goodbye, Jack Smith.”

I’d taken three steps in the other direction when he spoke again. His tone was overly casual, sending a chill through me.

“That’s too bad, Tommie. I could tell you a few things about your mother. Ingrid. Except that’s not her real name.”

“What did you say?”

He ignored me or didn’t hear, moving quickly, already at the opposite curb near the hotel entrance.

He wanted me to chase him.

OK, Jack Smith.

I’ll chase.

I reached the hotel about ten seconds after he disappeared inside. The bellman instantly swung the door open for me, his eyes glued to my ass.

“I’m five hundred an hour,” I snapped at him. The expression on his face was worth about that much.

Jack opened the door of the room sweetly nicknamed Etta’s Attic before my second knock. He must have leapt up the stairs two at a time to beat my ride on the elevator.

“Welcome to the honeymoon suite,” he said with a wide smile.

Etta’s Attic was on the fourth floor near a fire exit. Small kitchen. Cozy, colorful king-sized quilt on the bed. Comfortable-looking couch. An open laptop on the bed.

A Beretta M9 and a shiny silver Smith and Wesson Magnum on the antique writing table.

Jack drifted over and picked up the Beretta. Now was the time to decide this meeting was a bad idea, not worth the price of what he had to tell me. The.500 Magnum was a bastard of a hunting gun. I’d only shot one once and that was enough. Jack flipped the safety on the Beretta and set it back down.

“It’s this story I’m working on,” he said apologetically. “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I usually don’t carry a gun. I just use my hands as weapons.” He thrust two short kicks in my direction and punched the air twice with his uninjured fist. I could see the bulge of a muscle. He offered up another stupid grin.

Those moves didn’t work out so well for you yesterday, pal.

I stayed rooted to my spot in the doorframe, a decision to make.

Walk into the room and shut the door. Or run like hell. I was pretty sure this guy was crazy. Jack didn’t fit neatly into any psychological profile. My mind ran through a list of possibilities. Schizophrenia, narcissism, bipolar disorder.

Mythomania, the art of making crap up.

“Here’s the truth,” he said. “I’m working on a profile of Anthony Marchetti tied to him getting out on parole. You know who Anthony Marchetti is?”

I barely nodded, immune to surprise, remembering the reason I followed him here. Information.

“I thought you might. Come in and close the door, will you?”

I shut the door, knowing that this is how young women disappear. The braided rug on the floor didn’t look large enough to roll me up in without my feet sticking out. A plus.

I watched as he walked from window to window, pulling down the shades.

“Keeps it cooler in here,” he said nonchalantly. “Texas sun is a bitch.”

Jack sat on the edge of the bed still close enough to reach the Magnum.

“I’m here because Marchetti threw out a few bribes to get transferred from Illinois to a Texas prison right before his parole. Odd, don’t you think? He clammed up when I tried to interview him a few months ago. But I’m a pretty diligent investigator. I stumbled across a few things he didn’t want me to know about. Like your mother. I’m pretty sure he sent those guys in the garage to suggest I drop the story.”

“There’s been a mistake.” My voice sounded more vulnerable than I would have liked, especially in front of this man, this Jack, who had busted his way into my life. What an idiotic, ubiquitous name. Jack Ryan. Jack Bauer. Jack Ruby. Jack the Ripper. Jackass.

“None of this has anything to do with me or my family.” I realized that a very small part of me still believed that.

He studied me. “Just what do you know about Marchetti?”

“Practically nothing.”

“I don’t think that’s the truth.” His voice was suddenly taut. “I have a source who tells me that Marchetti’s wife has contacted you. Rosalina. You know that name, don’t you?”

Jack was bearing down on me now. Soft. Cruel. He was the frat boy who used to take pledges out for beers and then force them to their knees with a paddle, I thought. The one with the big smile on his face and a piece inside missing.

“OK, don’t answer,” he said. “But I’ve checked you out and found a few strange details.” He angrily pushed himself off the bed with the arm not encumbered by a sling.

“Like what?” I stuttered.

“For starters, your Social Security number belongs to a dead girl.”

My mother’s first name was Ingrid. I learned later that wasn’t the truth. That it was the name she chose for herself.

When I was sick, my mother wiped my face with a damp washcloth and told me a family legend, a fairly morbid one, looking back on it.

Her great-grandmother was also an Ingrid-Ingrid Margaret Ankrim, who crossed the unforgiving Atlantic from Germany as a teenager in the late 1800s. By the time the ship docked in New York harbor, battered and carrying a lighter human load than it started with, her sixteen-year-old hair had turned completely gray. Stress, they told her. Ingrid wanted to die herself when the captain buried three of her brothers and a sister at sea, wrapped in sheets and tossed like dolls into the ocean.

My mother’s voice always dropped to a whisper at this point in the story. She said Ingrid watched her own mother grow silent and still on the voyage, imagining her babies lying in pitch-black, freezing waters with God knows what brushing by them.

She told me that we both inherited Ingrid’s eyes-a bottomless green. My mother also inherited the other Ingrid legacy-she turned gray early. Her gray hair first appeared at twenty, a single stylish streak. One afternoon, as she colored it away in a monthly ritual in our kitchen sink, she told Sadie and me that strangers used to stop and ask “where she’d gotten it done.” It never occurred to us to ask why she made it disappear.

Maybe every little girl thinks her mother is beautiful. Mine really was. You could tell by the way men acted around her, even happily married ones, with a charming awkwardness that made you embarrassed for them. Her soft blond hair, when she let it loose, fell, as Granny said, “right to her rear.” The needle pointed to exactly 110 pounds whenever she stepped on a scale. She fit snugly into 27 × 27 Wrangler jeans, one of those rare women who could walk into a western store, pull her size off the shelf, and leave.

She hated violence-even spiders that wandered into our house got a free ride out on a magazine.

She never got used to the terrible storms that kicked up every spring in Texas. When the black wall clouds appeared on the northwest horizon, she’d orchestrate us in a dance of panic. We’d run from one window to the next, opening and shutting them to achieve the perfect air flow that a scientist she’d heard on National Public Radio said would keep the house from blowing away.

She was a terrible cook and a formidable chess player.

She was sad.

Sadie and I would wake up in the middle of the night to the mournful notes of her piano floating up the stairs. Sometimes we peeked over the landing to watch her play dressed in a black silk nightgown, her body moving like a sensual snake, to an audience of one cowboy, our father. We didn’t understand the depths of her talent until much later. We just knew she was the best church pianist Ponder, Texas, had ever seen because everybody said so.

But these are not the things I told Jack Smith while I wondered whether every sentence falling out of his mouth was a lie.

“You look like you might faint. Sit down.” He patted the side of the bed. “I’ll stand over here if it will make you feel better.”

Soft again. I wouldn’t fall for it.

“What’s my mother’s name?” I fought the desire to put my head between my knees.

“Genoveve Roth.”

Genoveve.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, struggling for control. “You don’t know her. She wasn’t the kind of woman… she wouldn’t have anything to do with the mob. Or a killer. It’s ridiculous.”

“You tell me what you know about your mother, then I can fill in details.”

Jack’s hand was poised with a pen over a hotel scratch pad, ready to take down my words.

I answered reluctantly. “Before she was married, her name was Ingrid Kessler. She was born in a small town in New York. She lost her parents in a house fire when she was a senior in high school. She had no other close relatives. She told us that every piece of her past, everything she loved, had burned. She didn’t have enough money to go to college, so she headed to New York City to pursue a music career. She played piano in bars, waitressed, and got pregnant with my brother, Tuck, on a one-night stand.”

I could hear voices in the room below us, a suitcase plunking down, the door of the room shutting. A man and a woman. Laughing. Separated from my nightmare by a floor. By inches.

“I’m sure she was lonely when she met my father,” I continued, stronger. Maybe the man and woman could hear me, too.

“He wandered into the diner where she worked. He ordered four eggs over easy with salsa and almost an entire side of bacon. He was a huge guy. Six feet, five inches. He drank two pots of coffee before she agreed to go out with him. Four months later, they married.”

I’m not sure why all of this was spilling out. Maybe because, out loud, it sounded more true. Maybe because I’d never gotten tired of Mama telling the story.

“She told us that my father saved her. He carried her and my brother away to his Texas ranch and his big family. Daddy always joked how she transformed herself from a Yankee to a Texan. I was born quickly; Sadie, four years later.”

“And they lived happily ever after?” Palpable sarcasm.

“You know, you’re an ass. I’m surprised you’re not beaten up every day.”

Jack’s phone beeped. A text message. He glanced down.

“We’ll have to continue this later,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

I was back on the sidewalk in forty seconds, dazed, angry, wondering how a professional like me, trained to strip away the layers of the human soul, had extracted so little from Jack Smith. He’d played on my fear brilliantly.

I uneasily entered the parking garage where I’d left the truck a couple of hours earlier. It was a different parking garage from the one where I fired a gun, at the opposite side of town, conveniently located near the Bank of the Wild West. Nonetheless, it was a parking garage.

It helped that I rode up in the elevator with a beautiful, ethereal-looking young couple, professional orchestra musicians, lugging their instrument cases from Bass Hall and arguing whether Rostropovich or Casals was the greatest cellist of all time.

Mama would have an opinion, I thought.

I got off by myself on the second floor, my eyes sweeping every corner of the garage as I walked to Daddy’s truck. Neurotically, I peered in the pickup bed, then at the cars parked on either side of me. An empty blue Mustang convertible on the right, and, on the left, a green late-model Jeep. The interior of the Jeep appeared piled to the top with trash, leaving about a six-inch view out the back window.

A hoarder, I thought. Hoarders usually start their habit as teenagers. Most don’t seek treatment until reaching fifty. A lifetime of pointless shame.

As I moved closer, I could see that there was more organization to the mess inside than I’d thought. The car was crammed to the top with papers and files, not garbage. Still, it appeared obsessive. A delicate chain with a small gold medallion hung from the rearview mirror.

As I pulled out of the parking garage, I mentally kicked myself again.

I hadn’t asked Jack for the name of the dead girl, the one he said shared my Social Security number. And maybe something much worse.