The Millionaires

39

You can learn a lot about a man by going through his bathroom. A toothbrush with frazzled bristles… baking soda toothpaste… no Q-Tips anywhere. You can even learn more than you want to know. Down on my knees under the sink, I snake my arm past the rusted pipes and rummage through random, long-expired toiletries.

“What about the medicine chest?” Charlie asks, squeezing past me and hopping up on the edge of the bathtub.

“I already went through it.”

There’s a magnetic click as the medicine cabinet door opens. I lift up my head. Charlie’s picking it apart.

“I told you – I already went through it.”

“I know – just double-checking,” he says, quickly scanning the stash of brown prescription vials. “Lopressor for blood pressure, Glyburide for diabetes, Lipitor for high cholesterol, Allopurinol for gout…”

“Charlie, what’re you doing?”

“What’s it look like, Hawkeye? I want to know what medication he was on.”

“What for?”

“Just to see – I want to find out who this guy was – get into his brain – see what he’s made of…”

The rambling goes on a beat too long. I give him another look. He quickly starts putting the brown vials back in place.

“Want to tell me what you’re really doing?” I ask.

“See, now you’re smoking too many Twinkies,” he says, forcing a laugh. “I’m telling you, I’m just looking for his-”

“You forgot your medication, didn’t you?”

“What’re you-?”

“The mexiletine – you haven’t been taking it.”

He rolls his eyes like a pouty teenager. “Can you please not overreact – this isn’t General Hospital…”

“Dammit, I knew something was-” I hear a noise in the hallway and cut myself off.

“Saved by the bella,” Charlie whispers.

“What’s going on?” Gillian asks, stopping by the door.

“Nothing,” Charlie says. “Just raiding your dad’s medicine chest. Didja know he’s got tampons in there?”

“Those’re mine, Einstein.”

“That’s what I meant… I meant, those’re yours.” Dancing around me, he slides out of the bathroom – but right now, my eyes are on Gillian as she walks down the hallway.

“Careful, you’ve got some drool on your lip,” he whispers as he passes. “I mean, not that I blame you – with all that hippiechick voodoo she’s got going, I’m getting all sweaty myself.”

“We’ll talk about this later,” I growl.

“I’m sure we will,” he says. “But if I were you, I’d slow down on buying her a corsage, and focus more on the problem at hand.”

By seven o’clock, all we’ve got left are the kitchen, the garage, and the two hall closets. “I got the kitchen,” Gillian says. That leaves the final two. Charlie grins at me. I squint right back. Only a fool would take the garage.

“On three…” he challenges. “Two takes it.”

I grin this time – and tuck my right hand behind my back.

“One, two, three, shoot…” His rock beats scissors.

“Shoot…” My scissors beats paper.

“Shoot…” Rock beats scissors… again.

“Damn!” I say, annoyed.

“I’m telling you, you’re a sucker for those scissors…”

I turn my scissors into a middle finger and storm to the garage.

Smiling ear to ear, he pivots and heads up the hallway.

As I’m about to turn the corner, I spin around, ready to issue a double-or-nothing challenge. Charlie should be at the hall closets. Instead, he’s at the closed door at the far end of the hall. Duckworth’s bedroom. The only place we haven’t been. In truth, it shouldn’t matter – Gillian already said she went through it – but I know my brother better than that. I see the skulk in his walk. He stares at the door like he’s got X-ray vision. After nine hours of picking through this dead man’s life, he wants to know what’s inside.

“Where’re you going?” I ask.

He glances over his shoulder and gives me nothing but a mischievous arched eyebrow. With a twist of the doorknob, he disappears into Duckworth’s bedroom. I stop right there, well aware of his reindeer game. It may’ve worked when I was ten, but I’m not letting him goad me into this one. Turning back to the garage, I hear the bedroom door close behind me. I take a full three steps before I once again stop. Who’m I kidding? Spinning back toward the bedroom, I rush toward the closed door.

“Charlie?” I whisper, knowing he won’t answer.

Sure enough, nothing comes back. Searching over my shoulder, I check the hallway just to be safe. All clear. Trying not to make a sound, I twist the doorknob and step inside. As the door shuts behind me, the lights are off, but thanks to some cheap vertical blinds on the window, the room still gets a bath of fading dusk light.

“Pretty spooky, huh?” Charlie asks. “Welcome to the sanctum sanctorum…”

It takes about four seconds for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, it’s clear why Gillian checked this room herself. Like the living room and the office, Duckworth’s bedroom has the same unapologetic engineer’s fashion sense: a plain bed shoved against the dingy off-white wall, an unpainted wood nightstand holding a ratty old alarm clock, and to make sure every single piece seems randomly selected, an almond Formica dresser that looks like it was plucked from the back of a truck. But the closer I look, the more I realize there’s something else: A cream-colored comforter softens the bed, a vase of burgundy eucalyptus flourishes on top of the dresser, and in the corner, a Mondrian-styled painting leans against the wall, waiting to be hung. This room may’ve started as Duckworth’s – but now it’s all Gillian’s. So this is where she lives. A pang of guilt swirls through my gut. This is still her private space.

“C’mon, Charlie, let’s go…”

“Yeah… no… you’re absolutely right,” he says. “We’re only trusting her with our lives. Why would we ever want to learn anything more about her?”

I go to grab his arm, but as always, he’s too fast. “I’m serious, Charlie.”

“So am I,” he says, sidestepping around me. Moving in further, he searches the floor, the bed, and the rest of the furniture, hunting for context clues. Ten steps in, he stops, suddenly confused.

“What? What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You tell me. Where’s her life?”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Her life, Ollie – clothes, photos, books, magazines – anything to fill in the picture. Take a look around. Besides the flowers and the art, there’s nothing else out.”

“Maybe she likes to keep things neat.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “Or maybe she’s-”

There’s a loud clunk as a door slams behind us. I spin around and realize it came from the hallway. Still, we know when we’ve overstayed our welcome. I glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand to check the time – and quickly cock my head to the side. That’s not an alarm clock. It’s an old-

“Eight-track player!” Charlie blurts, already excited. But as he squints through the darkness of the room, he notices that the slot that usually holds the 8-track looks a little wider than normal. At the edges, the silver-colored plastic is chipped away. Like someone cut it open, or made it bigger. Curious, he moves in, squatting down in front of it.

“Sombitch,” he whispers.

“What now?” Stepping behind him and trying to make the best of the fading light, I lean over his shoulder. He points down at the 8-track.

“I don’t get it” I tell him.

“Not the 8-track, Ollie. Here…” He points again. But what he points at isn’t the player. It’s the nightstand underneath. “Check out the dust,” he explains.

I angle my head just enough to see the thick layer of dust that blankets the top of the nightstand.

“It’s so perfect, you barely notice it,” Charlie says. “Like no one’s put anything on it, or even touched it… in months, even though it’s right next to her bed.” He turns back to me and tightens his gaze.

“What?”

“You tell me, Ollie. How could she not-”

“What’s this, a panty raid?” a female voice asks behind us.

Charlie whips around to face Gillian.

She flicks on the lights, making us squint to compensate. “What’re you doing in my room?”