The House That Jack Built

5. This is the maiden all forlorn that milked the cow with the crumpled horn…

The girl who opened the door to unit number eleven at the Calais Beach Castle could not have been older than nineteen. She was wearing baggy white shorts and a white smocklike blouse that hung loose over the shorts. The yoke neck of the blouse was embroidered with a yellow-and-blue floral design that matched the color of her long straight hair and her wide-set eyes. Matthew guessed from the size of her belly that she was at least six months pregnant.

“Yes?” she said.

“I’m looking for Mr. Hurley,” Matthew said. “Arthur Nelson Hurley.”

“Art isn’t here just now,” she said.

“Is he expected?”

“Tell me your name again?”

“Matthew Hope.”

“Does Art know you?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“You should’ve told me that before I opened the door. I wouldn’t have opened the door for a stranger.”

“If you’ll let me in out of the rain,” Matthew said, “perhaps we can…”

“Who is it, Hel?”

A young man’s voice, coming from somewhere inside.

“Somebody named Matthew Hope,” she called over her shoulder.

The young man suddenly appeared behind her. Twenty-two or — three years old, Matthew guessed, red hair and blue eyes, face covered with freckles. He was wearing faded blue jeans, a pale blue T-shirt, a silver-studded belt, and sandals.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“I’m an attorney,” Matthew said. “I’d like to…”

“Did Grandma send you?” the girl asked suddenly, her eyes opening wide. “Why didn’t you say so? Come on in.”

“Thank you,” Matthew said.

He closed his umbrella, shook it out while he was still standing in the doorway, and then stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

He was thinking: Grandma.

There were two beds in the room, side by side. A couple of suitcases in the corner. A television set. An open door, bathroom beyond it. Nobody in the bathroom.

He wondered if he should tell them Grandma hadn’t sent him.

“Are you Arthur Hurley?” he asked the young man.

“Nope. I’m Billy Walker.”

“Is this your wife, Mr. Walker?”

“Nope.”

“I’m Helen Abbott,” the girl said. “I knew she’d come around eventually, Billy, didn’t I tell you?”

“That’s what you said, all right.”

“But why’d she send you looking for Art?” she asked Matthew. “Art only talked to her on the phone.”

“Well…” Matthew said.

“I mean, Art never had any personal contact with her. It was my father who went to see her the first time, just before Christmas. And then me, last month sometime.”

“Uh-huh,” Matthew said.

“I know you can’t negotiate with my father, not while he’s in the hospital. But can’t you talk to me? I mean, I’m the granddaughter, not Art. What the hell does Art have to do with Grandma?”

Matthew didn’t know what Art had to do with Grandma. He didn’t even know what Art had to do with Helen, unless he was the one who’d knocked her up. He knew only that Arthur Nelson Hurley owned a car that had been parked across the street from the Parrish house on Saturday afternoon. Two men had been sitting in that car, casing the house. One of them forty years old and wearing black. The other one a young redhead. Billy Walker was a redhead in his early twenties. Matthew figured the one in black had been Arthur Nelson Hurley.

“Any idea when he’ll be back?” he asked.

“I guess that’s my answer, huh?” Helen said. “She wants you to talk to him. That really ticks me off. She makes out that fucking check, it better be in my name, I’ll tell you that.”

Matthew said nothing.

“Is she going to meet my price?” Helen asked.

Matthew still said nothing.

“You sure know how to take orders, don’t you?” Helen said. “Grandma tells you talk to the man, you talk to the man.”

There was the sound of an automobile outside.

Helen went to the door and opened it.

A blue Honda Civic was just nosing in through the rain, braking to a stop in front of the unit.

The door on the driver’s side of the car opened. The man who stepped out of the car and came sprinting toward the cabin was at least forty years old. He was wearing not black, but green. Green polyester slacks and a green short-sleeved sports shirt. There was an earring in his left ear. The two cops sitting the Parrish house had mentioned that the one dressed in black had worn an earring in his left ear. He had worn his black hair long. He had looked like a total friggin’ hippie asshole.

“That’s Art,” Helen said.

Arthur Nelson Hurley came into the room.

“Damn rain,” he said, and looked at Matthew and said, “Who’s this?”

“Grandma’s lawyer,” Helen said.

“Oh?”

He looked at Matthew more closely.

“He’s got orders to talk only to you,” Helen said.

“Who are you representing?” Hurley asked. “The old lady? Or both her and her daughter?”

“Well…”

“What I’m asking, does Helen’s mother know you’re here? ”

“Well… no,” Matthew said.

“Then whatever you’ve got to say is coming from the old lady, is that right? Elise has nothing to…”

“Well, no, I wouldn’t say that, either.”

“What would you say?”

Matthew noticed that he had a tattoo on his left forearm. A huge snake strangling some kind of small helpless animal.

“Mr. Hurley,” he said, “as you know, I’m an attorney…”

“Right, Sophie Brechtmann’s lawyer.”

“Well… no.”

“You’re not Grandma’s lawyer?” Helen said.

“No.”

“Then who are you?”

“I’m representing a man named Ralph Parrish, who’s been accused of…”

“Parrish!”

The name hissed into the room as if it were coming from the tattooed snake on Hurley’s arm. Instead, it came from Billy’s mouth, an electric-blue whisper that seemed to surprise even him. He looked immediately to Hurley in apology, both of them realizing in the same instant that Billy’s repetition of the name had confirmed his recognition of it.

“Did you know Jonathan Parrish?” Matthew asked at once.

“What do you want here?” Hurley said.

“The State Attorney has made a demand for notice of alibi…”

“We never set foot inside that house!” Billy said.

“Were you anywhere near it on the morning of the murder?” Matthew said.

“Murder?” Billy said.

“What murder?” Hurley said.

“All we done…”

“Shut up, Billy. What murder? Who got murdered?”

“Jonathan Parrish.”

“Oh, shit!” Billy said.

“When?”

“Last month. The thirtieth.”

“Where?”

“His house on Whisper Key.”

“Oh, Jesus, Art! We were watching a house where a man got…”

“I told you to shut up!”

“I knew them damn pictures would get us in trouble!”

“Did he tell you to shut up?” Helen said.

“This man comes here talking about the State Attorney…”

“What pictures?” Matthew said.

“Goodbye, Mr. Hope,” Helen said.

White man gets made, it’s easy for him. He changes his clothes, he puts on a fake mustache or a phony nose, he starts driving a different car, he’s a whole new private investigator. Black man gets made, it’s tough shit. He can change his clothes, his car, his nose, his fingerprints, there’s one thing he can’t change. His color. He’s black. The person he’s tailing turns around and sees this black man, it doesn’t matter if he’s wearing a blond wig and a dress now, he’s still black and he’s the man doing the tailing, he’s the man who’s been made, man, and there ain’t a goddamn thing he can do about it.

Warren Chambers had been made.

The lady was on to him.

Driving into the parking lot of Marina Lou’s, the sky and the bay and the rain as gray as his aging gray Ford, Warren watched Leona Summerville get out of her green Jag and all he could think was I’ve been made.

He had followed her home from her doctor’s appointment at the Bayou Professional Building.

He had waited a discreet two blocks from her house on Peony Drive until she emerged again at four-thirty.

He had followed her here to Marina Lou’s. She had driven as straight as an arrow, no ring-around-the-rosie this time, the lady was on to him for sure, the lady knew he was behind her.

She was handing her keys to the valet now.

She had changed her clothes for cocktail time, pale blue pleated skirt and blouse, pale blue low-heeled pumps. Was her lover waiting inside for her? Little cozy drink overlooking Calusa Bay? Her eyes swept the parking lot. There was a smile on her face. He knew that she knew he was sitting there watching her. How could he possibly tell Matthew Hope that he had blown the surveillance?

Leona Summerville was about to enter the building.

And then, as though some unseen and all-powerful being had summoned into Warren’s presence the very object of his thoughts, Matthew Hope himself pulled up to the front door in his tan Karmann Ghia, and got out of the car.

“Leona!” he called.

She stopped. She turned. She smiled.

Matthew handed the valet his keys. Leona took his arm. Warren watched them as they went inside together.

Huh? he thought.

And suddenly wondered…

But no.

But why not?

Was it possible?

He hoped not.

He hated Byzantine plots.

Helen was weeping.

Hurley hated it when she cried.

He felt like hitting her when she cried, give her something to really cry about. At the same time, he felt like holding her, comforting her. He wondered if he loved her. These mixed feelings about her. Wanting to belt her, tell her to shut the fuck up, wanting to hold her at the same time. Feelings about what she was carrying inside her, too. His baby. Never felt like this in his life. Never. Wondered if it’d be a boy. Sort of hoped it’d be a girl. Boys had it tough in this world. Too many things out there waiting to fuck you up.

“Don’t cry, baby, come on now,” he said, and took her in his arms, and kissed her.

Billy was sitting on the other bed.

Helen kept sniffling and snuffling into a little handkerchief trimmed with lace.

“Please, baby, I hate to see you so forlorn this way,” Hurley said, and kissed her again.

“It’s just I think I may have blown it,” Helen said, and dabbed at her eyes with the lace-trimmed handkerchief. “I may have told him too much. I thought he was Grandma’s lawyer. He passed himself off as Grandma’s lawyer.”

“No, he didn’t,” Billy said. “The man never said he was your grandmother’s lawyer. It was you who jumped to that conclusion.”

“Did the man say he was Sophie’s lawyer?” Hurley asked.

“I guess not, Art. Oh, Art, I’m so damn sorry,” she said, and burst into fresh tears. “I should’ve realized he was here snooping.”

“Now, now,” Hurley said, holding her in his arms, patting her. “Now, now, darling. What kind of questions did he ask?”

“Questions?”

“You said he was here snooping.”

“Well, he kept asking about you. Wanting to know when you were coming back.”

“That’s all? Then how do you figure he was snooping?”

“Well, he asked you…”

“I’m talking about before.”

“Asked if you knew Jonathan Parrish…”

“Before I got here is what I’m talking about. What did he say before I got here?”

“I told you all he said, Art. Well, wait, he asked me if I was Billy’s wife.”

“Did you tell him you weren’t?”

“Well, Billy told him his name, and I told him my name…”

“Terrific, he has everybody’s name.”

“He had yours already, Art,” Billy said, and got up and walked to the television set. “Before he even came here, he had your name.”

“Leave that off,” Hurley said.

“Just ’cause you and me are married,” Billy said, smiling, “don’t mean you can give me orders. Art.”

“I said leave it off,” Hurley said, and turned again to Helen. “What’d you tell him about your grandma?”

“I said I’d gone…”

“Yes?”

“To see her.”

“Did you tell him why you went to see her?”

“I’m sorry. Art. I know I should’ve been more careful. But I really thought he was Grandma’s…”

“Did you mention money, Helen?”

She looked at him. Her eyes were beginning to brim again.

“Did you?”

“I think I… I… may have mentioned something about… about her meeting my price.”

“You also mentioned her writing a check,” Billy said.

“No, I never said…”

“You said you wanted the check made out in your name.”

Hurley scowled.

“I’m sorry, Art,” Helen said.

“That’s all right, darling,” he said. He was silent for several moments, thinking. Billy stood near the television set, wondering if it was okay for him to turn it on now. Helen sat on the bed with her legs crossed Indian fashion, watching Hurley, wondering if he was mad at her. He used to hit her a lot whenever he got angry. She knew he was a violent man. But he hadn’t once touched her since she got pregnant.

“So,” he said, “as I understand it, this lawyer knows you went to see your grandmother, and he knows you want money from her.”

“Yes,” Helen said.

“Does he know why you want this money?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Billy?”

“I don’t think anything was said about the why of it.”

“Or the amount?”

“No numbers were mentioned.”

“Then he doesn’t know we’re looking for a million dollars, is that right?”

“Nothing would have given him that impression,” Helen said.

“So… all he really knows is you went to see her about money,” Hurley said. “And you’re expecting a check.”

“He also knows we’re expecting negotiation,” Billy said.

“How the fuck does he know that?” Hurley said.

“Because Helen…”

“Because I… I thought she sent him to negotiate with you. And I… I must’ve said something about it.”

“He also knows their names,” Billy said. “Which you gave him, hubby darling. Helen had nothing to do with that.”

“Who said Helen had anything to do with it?”

“Case you were thinking of blaming her,” Billy said. “You’re the one told him everything. Gave him the old lady’s name…”

“I thought he was her lawyer,” Hurley said. “Helen said he…”

“Gave him the name on a silver platter, Sophie Brechtmann. Gave him the daughter’s name, too.”

“No,” Hurley said, “I don’t recall telling him…”

“Elise, you said.”

“That’s true. Art,” Helen said. “You did tell him my mother’s name.”

“Practically drew a map for him,” Billy said sourly.

“Well, we all make mistakes,” Hurley said, and went to Helen and kissed the top of her head. “Who among us can cast the first stone?”

“Me,” Billy said. “I didn’t tell him a fucking thing.”

“Who was it mentioned watching the house?” Hurley said. “Who was it mentioned the pictures?”

“Well, yeah, maybe I…”

“So, okay, we’re all to blame. But what’s done is done. The important thing now is to dope out our next move.”

“Our next move is to get the hell out of here,” Billy said.

“No, our next move is to find those pictures,” Hurley said.

“He’s right,” Helen said. “Nothing’s going to convince her till she sees those pictures of me and my mother.”

“We’re not even sure those pictures exist,” Billy said.

“They exist, all right,” Hurley said.

“Only because a nigger up north thinks she remembers…”

“She does remember.”

“She’d remember the birth of Christ if you talked to her long enough.”

“She was there when the pictures were taken,” Helen said.

“We have to find those pictures,” Hurley said.

“Go back to the Parrish house,” Helen said.

“No way,” Billy said.

“Get in that house and find those pictures,” Hurley said.

“A murder was committed in that house!” Billy said. “Didn’t you hear him?”

“The pictures are in that house,” Helen said.

“Somewhere in that house,” Hurley said.

“We show her those pictures, she’ll see the beads,” Helen said.

The rain had stopped.

A rainbow arced over Calusa Bay.

“Make a wish,” Leona said.

They sat at a table for two near the plate-glass windows overlooking the marina dock and the bay. Sailboats alongside the dock clanged with the sound of the wind rushing through their shrouds. The sky was still gray, the clouds tearing off in long tattered sheets. Far beyond the rainbow, there was the faintest patch of blue in the western sky.

“Do people wish on rainbows?” Matthew said.

“I always do. Tell me what you’d like most in the world.”

“If I tell you, then it won’t come true,” he said.

“Who’s making the rules?” Leona asked.

“That’s a time-honored rule. If you tell your wish…”

“Time-honored rules are made to be broken,” Leona said. “Here’s my wish. Are you ready?”

“You’re tempting the fates.”

“Fuck the fates,” she said.

Matthew figured she’d already had too much to drink. Six o’clock and on her second martini. Here for the past hour and still not a word about why she’d wanted to see him.

“I wish… I wish I could be happy, ” she said, and nodded curtly, and looked down into her glass.

“I thought you were,” Matthew said.

“Happy? Did you?”

She looked up at him. She raised her glass, lifted it to the rainbow in a silent toast. And drank.

“Now you,” she said.

“The rainbow’s almost gone, ” he said.

“Before it goes.”

“I might as well wish for the moon. If I say it out loud…”

“Hurry, it’s going fast.”

“I wish you could be happy, too,” Matthew said, and drank quickly.

Leona looked at him in surprise.

He nodded.

She kept looking at him.

“Why?” she said.

“Because I don’t want you to be unhappy, ” he said, and shrugged.

“But I am.”

“Apparently.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to tell me why?”

She shook her head.

“Why are we here, Leona?”

She lifted her glass, drained it, and said, “Do you think we can get another one of these?”

“Let’s talk first,” he said.

Leona sighed.

Here it comes, he thought. Matthew, I want to divorce Frank.

“Matthew,” she said, “I’m being followed.”

The first thing he felt was relief.

And then he realized that Warren had blown the surveillance.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said.

“No, I’m sure about it,” Leona said.

“Well… what do you mean? Have you seen someone?”

“I have.”

“What does he look like?”

“He looks like a tall black man driving an old gray Ford.”

Shit, Matthew thought.

“Why would anyone be following you?” he said.

Leona smiled.

“Maybe Frank thinks I’m having an affair,” she said.

Now it comes, he thought. He’s right, Matthew. I am having an affair.

He waited.

“Maybe Frank’s put a private detective on me,” she said.

Matthew said nothing.

“Catch me in flagrante delicto,” she said.

He still said nothing.

“In the very act,” she said. “Red-handed. From the Latin, ‘while the crime is blazing.’ Did you ever study Latin?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Take pictures of me in some cheap motel,” she said. “While the crime is blazing. Now may I have another one of these?” Without waiting for his reply, she signaled with her empty glass to the waiter. The waiter nodded and hurried to the bar. She turned back to Matthew and smiled again. “Has Frank said anything to you?” she asked. “About, you know, putting a detective on me?”

“No,” he said, and immediately wondered why he was lying. Not five minutes ago, Leona had told him she was unhappy. So why not put it all on the table, get it out in the open, tell her the truth, tell her what Frank suspected and what Frank was doing about it.

No, he thought.

If she wants it on the table, she’ll put it there herself.

“Do you think he would?” she asked. “Tell you? If he thought I was having an affair?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you tell him? When you were having an affair with Agatha Hemmings? All those years ago?”

“No.”

“Do men tell each other such things?”

“Some men. Not me.”

“Some women do,” she said, and looked toward the bar, where her drink was being mixed. “Not me. Anyway, I don’t have any women friends,” she said, almost to herself, and then turned back to Matthew. “I consider you a friend,” she said gravely.

“Thank you,” Matthew said, and nodded.

“Do you consider me a friend?”

“I do.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“A good friend?”

“A very good friend.”

Put it on the goddamn table, he thought. Get it out in the open, Leona! If you want to tell me about it, tell me!

“As a very good friend,” she said, “would you want someone taking pictures of me? Through a motel window, Matthew?”

“Well…”

“Pictures of me naked,” she said.

“Well…”

“My legs spread.”

“Leona, I…”

“Some guy’s head buried in my crotch,” she said.

“Tanqueray martini on the rocks, a twist,” the waiter said.

He looked very pale and very apologetic.

Leona looked up at him and smiled angelically. “Thank you,” she said.

“Sir? Another one for you?”

“No, thanks.” Matthew said.

The waiter hurried away from the table.

“I think I embarrassed him,” Leona said.

“I think you embarrassed me, too,” Matthew said.

“Oh, don’t be a jackass,” she said, and raised her glass. “Here’s to rainbows,” she said. “And to wishes.”

He watched her as she drank.

“Why are you unhappy?” he asked.

Leona sighed deeply.

“Tell me,” he said.

She sighed again.

“Maybe because I’m getting old,” she said.

“Nonsense,” he said. “What are you. Leona? Thirty-seven? Thirty-eight?”

“I’ll be forty next month.”

“You could pass for twenty-three.”

“Ah, sweet-talker,” she said, and reached across the table for his hands. “Dear, good friend,” she said, “dear, dear friend.” and smiled wanly. “Matthew?” she said.

“Yes, Leona.”

“I’m not having an affair.” she said.

She squeezed his hands.

She looked deeply into his eyes.

“If Frank should ask you…”

“Yes?”

“You just tell him I’m not, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Trying to sound noncommittal.

“I am not having an affair, okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

Still going for noncommittal.

“Good,” she said, and smiled, and picked up her glass again.

Warren Chambers was unlocking the door to his condominium apartment when he heard the phone ringing. He threw open the door, left the key in the latch, ran into the living room and yanked the receiver from the cradle.

“Hello!” he said.

“Warren, it’s Matthew.”

“Yes, hello, Matthew.”

Now I have to tell him, he thought.

Matthew, I’ve been made.

Also…

Matthew, I know you met with the suspect this afternoon.

Here’s a possible scenario, Matthew.

Let’s run it by as an exercise, okay?

Your partner suspects his wife is playing around. He asks you to put a private eye on her. You oblige. But it is you yourself, Matthew, who is diddling the lady. So you tell her you’ll have to behave yourselves while the private eye is on the job. So you both lay low, you should pardon the expression, until the p.i. gives the lady a clean bill of health. Then, when Summerville is convinced his wife is true blue, you and the lady go back to fucking your brains out.

How does that sound, Matthew?

Not bad for a spur of the moment improv, huh?

And if you happen to be asked — as well you might be in the next two minutes — how come you were meeting your partner’s luscious wife at Marina Lou’s this afternoon, you can always say…

“Warren, you’ve been made.”

Warren blinked.

“Warren, did you hear me? You’ve…”

“Yes, I know,” Warren said. “But how do you know?”

“Leona told me.”

Warren said nothing.

“I had a drink with her this afternoon.”

Warren still said nothing.

“I want you to put someone else on her,” Matthew said. “Right away.”

“I’m very glad to hear you say that,” Warren said.

“What?”

“It makes me very happy to know that you want to continue the surveillance.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Warren. Why wouldn’t I want to continue?”

“I don’t know, Matthew. But I’m sure there are many reasons in this world why people start investigations and then want them stopped.”

“Warren, have you been drinking?”

“No, Matthew. Very definitely not. I’ll start looking for someone right away. I don’t have to tell you that the pickings are pretty slim in Calusa.”

“I know that. Do your best.”

“I will. Matthew…?”

“Yes?”

“Does the name Wade Livingston mean anything to you?”

“Yes. He’s a doctor. Why?”

“A gynecologist. Leona went to see him this afternoon.”

“So?”

“So nothing,” Warren said. “Maybe she’s pregnant.”

“Or maybe she went for her yearly checkup.”

“Maybe. I tracked her home after the visit, waited around outside her house till around four-thirty, when she left for Marina Lou’s.”

“Then that was your car I spotted.”

“Some private eye, huh?”

“Warren, I’m going to need whatever you can get me on the Brechtmann family.”

“The beer people?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. How soon?”

“I plan to go there tomorrow, if they’ll see me.”

“By ‘they’?”

“Sophie or Elise, either one.”

“I’ll get to work right away. Anything else?”

“Yes. I went to see Arthur Hurley.”

“I wish you hadn’t done that, Matthew.”

“Why?”

“He’s got a record as long as my arm.”

“How do you know?”

“One of my cop people ran him through the computer. How’d you find him?”

“By calling around. He’s staying at the Calais Beach Castle with a young blonde named Helen Abbott, and a guy named Billy Walker. You might ask your cop people to run a few more computer…”

“I will.”

“And let me know who’ll be tailing Leona, okay?”

“If I find someone.”

“Find someone, Warren.”

“Someone good this time, huh?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Matthew…?”

“Yes?”

“You have no idea how glad I am that you’re not…”

“Yes?”

“Never mind,” Warren said. “Talk to you,” he said, and hung up.

Soaping herself in the shower, her hands gliding over her belly and her breasts, Helen Abbott wondered if they weren’t all just kidding themselves. Never mind truth, never mind justice, truth and justice had nothing whatever to do with a million dollars.

She believed her father had told her the truth, and if there was any justice at all in this world, then the Brechtmann family would realize she deserved everything she was asking. But where was it written? That truth had to be rewarded? Or that justice would triumph?

All those years.

Her father keeping the secret.

Until he suddenly decided he’d kept it too damn long.

Told her all about it then.

And went to see her grandmother.

Came back empty-handed.

This was just before Christmas. By then, she’d known Art for almost six months. Met him in July. Him and Billy sitting in a St. Pete bar where her and another girl had gone. Odd-looking pair, Art a good twenty years older than Billy, looked more like his father than his good old buddy. Turned out they’d met each other in prison. Used to be cellmates at Union C.I., up in Raiford.

This excited her a little.

Art being a convict. Well, an ex-convict. Told her him and Billy had just got out that very week. Told her he’d been locked up for attacking a man with a broken beer bottle. Almost killed him, he told her.

This excited her, too.

The sense of violence about him.

Said he hadn’t had a woman for too long a time. Asked if she’d like to help him change that sad predicament. Turned out Billy and her girlfriend were hitting it off, too. The four of them went back to her place, smoked a little dope, drank some wine, ended up in bed, her and Art in the queen-sized bed in the bedroom, Billy and Wanda on the hideaway bed in the living room.

After her father got beat up and sent to the hospital, she told Art all about him having gone to see the Brechtmanns.

“No shit?” he said. “The beer people? I drink their beer all the time. That’s terrific beer, Brechtmann’s. Why’d he go see them?”

She told him why.

Art listened very carefully.

“There can be a lot of money in this,” he said.

And kept listening.

And then he explained that her father had made a mistake, approaching the family on a wing and a prayer, it was no wonder they’d told him to fuck off. What Helen had to do, she had to go back to that house, but this time she had to have cards she could play, here’s my hand, this ain’t bullshit, my dears, this is true and you know it’s true, and I think I’m worth a million fucking bucks! So how about it?

She went to the house in January.

Art had found out about the pictures by then and she thought it’d be enough to just mention them. Without actually having them in her hand. Just tell them she knew all about the pictures. Knew all about the beads.

She was scared to death when she got there.

Big old house on the Gulf, iron gates surrounding it, she’d announced herself to the security guard, told the man she was Helen Abbott, here to see either Sophie or Elise Brechtmann. Fine high wind blowing that day, this was just last month, around the end of the month, her long blonde hair dancing on the wind, her palms sweating.

Gate man pressed a button on the intercom.

“Yes, Karl?”

A woman’s voice on the speaker.

“Mrs. Brechtmann, I’ve got a girl here wants to see either you or your daughter, her name’s Helen Abbott.”

A silence.

Then her grandmother’s voice on the speaker again.

“Show her in.”

And Helen knew in that instant that her father had told her the truth.