Liar: An Irene Kelly Mystery Part 27

I stepped into the batter's box and called out, "I told you, Travis, that ever since Cousin Dolores pa.s.sed on, n.o.body has been able to keep track of all the births in the family. Sorry, Miss Flauson, we didn't know we had a fourth cousin."

"Well, you may wish you never did learn about it. This one is no blood relations of yours, she's his wife. That's just what we call her around here. Her real name is Geraldine, and she's old Gerald's wife. So we call them Gerald Junior and Gerald Senior. Just nicknames."

"Oh" was all either one of us could manage.

"I have nothing to say against Gerald Senior," she went on. "He is one of the hardest-working men I ever hope to meet on this side of heaven. Drinks a little, but not more than most fellows around here. That's how he met her-she's a c.o.c.ktail waitress. Mostly they keep to themselves, but Gerald Senior's always willing to lend a hand to a neighbor if need be. But that wife of his is another story." She paused, then said, "Well, I won't carry tales about your family. You'll see for yourself, I'm sure."

"They been married long?" Travis asked.

"No, not so long. Four or five years, perhaps."

"Thank you, ma'am," Travis said. "It would have been awful if we'd acted too surprised when we met her. Uh-I don't suppose I could ask you to point us in the right direction to my cousin's place?"

She was happy to oblige, describing not only the route, but the trailer itself. "I think I may have seen Gerald going to work this morning, but maybe he's back by now."

We thanked her profusely, and she waved to us as we drove off down the lane.

Once we were out of sight, Travis started laughing. "G.o.d, you are a sorry liar!"

"Me?"

"Wilbur? Caught a hot iron bare-handed? Puh-leese. And we already told her neighbor that I cut my hand. They might talk to one another."

"Oh, yeah? What about the fact that the guy with the cut hand has a sister that lives here? And doesn't have a rodeo accent?"

He grinned and shrugged. "We'll have to be more careful."

"No kidding. By the way-how did you know she was a teacher?"

"She had a small teacher's union sticker on the rear b.u.mper of her car."

I congratulated him, then said, "Going back to the subject of being more careful-how many people know you're already in possession of your father's money?"

"Very few. My parents knew, of course. My father's lawyer, and Ulkins. And now you. That's it."

"You're sure?"

He nodded. "My father didn't trust many people."

We spotted the mobile home Miss Flauson had described to us: a large white double-wide with flower boxes full of red geraniums bordering the carport, which was empty.

"Doesn't look like they're home," Travis said.

"We've come this far; let's at least knock on the door."

There was a small, shady patio on the opposite side of the structure, under which sat two lawn chairs and a small, low table. There were no whirligigs on the Spanning lot, but there were wind chimes hanging from the carport awning.

The area around the trailer was neat and clean, uncluttered. We climbed the steps on the carport side and rang the bell.

The door opened, and as I first looked in through the screen, I thought we were being greeted by a young man. The reddish-blond hair of the person standing before us was shaved in a '50s-style flattop; a half-smoked Lucky Strike dangled from one corner of her hard mouth. She was either part armadillo or had spent too much time in the sun-I figured it to be a fifty-fifty bet either way. She wore absolutely no makeup; her eyes, squinting from the smoke, were small and dark beneath black brows that nearly met over her sharp nose. She was thin, wearing a man's sleeveless unders.h.i.+rt, a wide leather belt, blue jeans and leather work boots. There was a tattoo of a scowling pirate waving a sword near her collarbone on her right shoulder, the words "Pirate's Dream" scrolled above it. If the tattoo was a self-mocking joke, it referred to the old schoolboy's taunt to flat-chested girls: a pirate's dream was a girl with a "sunken chest." The appellation fit. Even with her arms crossed as they were now, she had the door, but absolutely no knockers.

"What the f.u.c.k do you want?" she said by way of greeting.

22.

Travis gave me the briefest of glances, but enough to make me understand that he wanted to handle this. That rankled a little, but when I thought of how much he had seemed to enjoy playing out his little drama with Miss Flauson, I relented.

He regarded the woman before us now with open disapproval, but without speaking, staring long enough to make her nervously remove the cigarette from her mouth. But before she could speak again, he held up his left hand with an unmistakable air of authority and said, "Oh, no, please don't." The refined diction would have shocked Miss Flauson. He turned to me, slightly inclined his head in a thoughtful manner and said, "Apparently you were given the wrong address. I'm sorry. This is not Gerald's home."

It was all I could do not to bow and say, "Begging your grace's pardon."

He started back down the stairs. I followed.

"Hey," she called, opening the screen, but we kept walking.

"Hey, you!"

We had almost reached the van.

"You looking for Gerald Spanning?" she called.

He stopped and turned. "Do you know where he lives?"

"Right here."

"Impossible," he said.

"What?"

"Gerald Spanning would never greet a visitor to his home in the manner in which you just greeted us."

She scowled, then said, "Don't get your nose out of joint. What's your business with him, anyhow?"

He moved a little closer to her, and said in a low voice, "No one says something so vile as they open the door to complete strangers unless they are-one, intending to put someone's nose out of joint-or two, suffering from Tourette's syndrome. Are you suffering from Tourette's syndrome?"

"What the f.u.c.k is that?"

"Hmm. Difficult to say which the case may be-but I don't think I'll leave a message for Gerald with you. I hate to think how it would be translated."

"You look familiar," she said. "Do I know you?"

"As I said, we are complete strangers. Good-bye."

"Hold it, hold it!"

He waited.

"What do you want with Gerald?"

He sighed. "We aren't making progress here, are we?"

"What do you want, an apology? Okay, I'm sorry. There. You've got your d.a.m.ned apology."

"A very heartfelt and handsome one," he said. "Thank you. Now, where might we find Mr. Spanning?"

"He's not home. He's over at the house."

He arched a brow. "I beg your pardon?"

"We bought a house. Over on Reagan Street."

"Here in Los Alamitos?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's right," she said, apparently much happier to talk to me. "We can't live there yet, 'cause he's fixing the place up. Hang on."

She hurried inside. After a few minutes, she came back out with a slip of paper. She handed it to me. It had the number "10682" written on it. "That's the address. When you see him, tell him his wife said to get his-to come home," she amended, after glancing back at Travis.

She looked back at me and seemed suddenly unsure of us, eyeing the sc.r.a.p of paper as if she wanted to take it back. I quickly put it in my pocket.

"He hit you?" she asked, indicating Travis.

"Do you find that likely?" he asked.

"Who are you guys?"

"Long-lost relatives, looking through the family tree," I said.

"No fooling," she said suspiciously, but then studied Travis. "He does look a little familiar ..."

Travis thanked her and we were about to leave, when she suddenly shouted, "Wait! Here he comes!"

A big pickup truck with a construction toolbox on it pulled under the carport. A large, gruff-looking man wearing a T-s.h.i.+rt and shorts got out. She ran to him. He was tanned and muscular, his face weathered and his dark hair turning silver on the sides. He picked her up off her feet in a big bear hug, saying, "Hey there, sugar." He looked over her shoulder at us, puzzled for a moment, until he saw Travis.

His eyes widened, and he gently set his wife back down. She was starting to babble out an explanation to him, but Gerald seemed not to be listening. Looking straight at Travis, moving slowly forward, he said, "Good G.o.d in heaven ... you're ... you're Arthur's boy, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," Travis said quietly-so quietly, I wondered if Gerald heard him. It seemed to me that all the mischief of a moment ago had been replaced by an anxiousness that he didn't quite manage to hide.

"Travis?" Gerald asked.

Travis nodded.

"Well, Travis," Gerald said, his voice breaking, "you're the spitting image of your dad." By the time he reached us there were tears running down his cheeks. Travis stepped forward, and Gerald extended a hand, but then, seeing the bandages, moved to one side and hugged Travis around the shoulders. "Lord 'a mercy," he said, looking down at his nephew. "Lord 'a mercy."

I watched Travis carefully; he returned the embrace, if a little awkwardly.

"Whew!" Gerald said, das.h.i.+ng away his tears. "Come on in, boy, come on in." Then, seeing me, he said, "Forgive me, I've lost all my manners." Without letting go of Travis, he said, "I'm Gerald Spanning, Travis's uncle Gerald."

"I'm Irene Kelly. Travis's cousin on his mother's side."

After the slightest flicker of hesitation, he smiled. "Yes, we spoke on the phone, didn't we? Well, bless your heart for bringing this boy to see me. Come in, come in. You've met Deeny, right? Her name is Geraldine, but that just confuses the h.e.l.l out of everybody, so I call her Deeny."

"Better than what some of the old farts around here call me," she said, turning on her heel. She wasn't hiding her unhappiness-she seemed jealous of the attention Travis was getting from her husband-but she led the way into the trailer without protest.

"She's not much older than you are," Gerald confided to Travis, "so it's best you not call her Aunt Deeny."

The interior was roomier than might have been expected for a mobile home. It reeked of cigarette smoke, but was clean and neat. The furnis.h.i.+ngs looked as if they had been purchased in the '70s, although the mobile home itself didn't appear to be that old. Deeny gave a wave of her hand to indicate that we should have a seat. I sat on one of two avocado-green recliners; Travis, having smoothly extricated himself from Gerald's grasp, took the other one. Gerald didn't seem to mind taking a seat on the gold-and-brown couch, separated from us by a heavy, imitation walnut coffee table. There was a paperback on one corner, an action adventure story, with a bookmark near the last pages.

Deeny came back from the kitchen with four cans of Coors still in their six-pack plastic collar. She sat down close to Gerald and pulled them free, popping tops and shoving a can at each of us without asking if we wanted one.

Gerald lifted his beer can as if for a toast, and Deeny stopped in the act of taking her first swig to hold hers up as well-so Travis and I followed suit.

"Mi casa es su casa," Gerald said, smiling at Travis.

"Speak American!" Deeny complained.

"English," Gerald corrected.

"Whatever," she said sullenly, earning a reproving look from Gerald. Her shoulders drooped a little and she asked, "Well, what did you say in Mexican?"

Gerald smiled at Travis and me, rolling his eyes. Her shoulders fell a little farther and he gave her a quick squeeze. "Oh, now," he said easily, "don't fret. It's just an old way of welcoming someone in Spanish. Kind of like saying 'Make yourself at home.' And that's what I want my nephew here to do-make himself at home."

"Thanks," Travis said.

"I take it Arthur doesn't know you're here?" Gerald asked.

I nearly missed seeing the sharp look Deeny gave him; I didn't know what to make of it, though. Travis, for his part, was remarkably self-possessed.

"I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that my father has pa.s.sed away," he said.

"Arthur?" Gerald said, his eyes wide. "Arthur's dead?"

"Yes, sir," Travis said.

"No-no it can't be. Why, he's not even fifty!"

"No, sir. He was forty-eight. He died of cancer."

"Cancer?"

"Yes, sir. Last month."