Darkling I Listen (44 page)

"Ma'am, in our opinion Betty Wilson has no more motive to harm Mr. Carlyle, his family, or home, than Miss James there."

"There's a big difference, Deputy," Mildred pointed out. "Miss James has an alibi for Saturday night. She was with Brandon and his family at the time. And as far as Henry is concerned—"

"Henry died of a heart attack."

"And the
phone call
?"

"A prank."

Alyson opened the car door. Mildred grabbed her arm. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I want to talk to
Brandon
," she said.

Conroy straightened, his hand going to the butt of his gun out of reflex.

Alyson, trailed by Deputy Conroy, walked to the security intercom and punched the call button. Nothing. She punched it again and tucked her hands into her armpits for warmth.

"This is Betty,"
came
a voice so suddenly that both Alyson and Conroy jumped.

"This is Alyson. I'd like to see
Brandon
."

"That's impossible,"
came
the terse response. "He doesn't wish to see you—"

"Put him on."

"He doesn't—"

"Betty, if you don't put him on, I'm going to climb this goddamn tree again and—"

Brandon
's voice came on then—that smoky drawl that made her knees weak. For an instant she forgot the cold. Forgot the fear that had a painful hold on her heart.

"What do you want, Aly?"

Her eyes drifted closed as she floated on the sound of his voice. "I want to know that you're okay."

"I'm
…
fine. I'm resting, and I want to be left alone."

"I'd like to see you," she said more softly.

Silence.

"Please,
Brandon
. Just for five minutes. So I know you're okay."

"I'm tired, Aly. I'm going to bed."

Alyson shook her head. "It's
seven o'clock
—"

"I'm tired," he repeated, more forcefully. "I don't need any more hassles. It's enough that I got a call from my accountant today
…
I'm being audited. I've got to turn over my records for the last five years…
"

She looked back at Mildred, who smiled and gave her a thumbs-up. "Okay," she said. "I'll see you at the funeral tomorrow. And,
Brandon
, for what it's worth
…
I love you."

Nothing.

Finally, turning her eyes back to the house, she saw him in the window—silhouetted against the lamplight. Lifting her hand, she waved.

*

No
doubt Henry's funeral would be recorded as the most
attended service in the four-generation history of the Roselawn Funeral Home. Mourners spilled out of the building, across the frosty lawn, through the parking lot, and down the sidewalk.

Alyson and Mildred barely managed to wedge inside the chapel before the ushers were forced to tell those who followed that there was no room for them inside. Much to Alyson's frustration, she could see nothing more than the back of Brandon's head from her position, and though she did her best to listen to the half-dozen men who shared their thoughts and memories of their departed friend, she could only think about how Brandon must be hurting in that moment. That, even more than her sorrow for Henry, made her cry.

Afterward, the three-mile drive to the cemetery took an hour. Led by the white Cadillac hearse and family limo, the hundreds of cars crept at a snail's pace along the winding, blacktop road to Roselawn Hills, their headlights round white glows in the dull daylight.

The Carlyle plots were surrounded by wrought-iron fencing and situated on the highest hill under sprawling oak trees. No ordinary headstones there, but impressive blocks of towering marble and granite.

As Brandon and Betty were seated near the coffin covered with sprays of red roses, Deputies Greene and Conroy moved up beside them.

Mildred elbowed Alyson and pointed to Jack Dillman, who stood removed from the crowd. "He doesn't look like he's cried too many tears for Henry," Mildred commented.

As if he sensed their watching him, Dillman turned his gaze on them and stared. One corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were tempted to smirk.

"Wonder what kind of lock and key he's keeping that crazy sister of his under," Mildred whispered.

Alyson eased her way around the back of the crowd until she could peer over their shoulders well enough to glimpse
Brandon
.

Mildred, standing on her toes, could still see nothing. "What's he doing?" she asked.

"Nothing. Just
…
staring down at his hands, I think."

"What about Betty?"

"Emotionless as the Sphinx."

Unable to hear the service, they retreated to a distant bench and sat down.

"How do you think he'll react when you tell him we're leaving for
California
?" Mildred asked.

"He knows what we're doing, and why."

At long last the service ended. The mourners filed past the coffin one last time, briefly addressed
Brandon
, and wandered off to their cars. After what felt like an eternity, Brandon and Betty remained, alone except for Deputy Greene, who loitered close
at
hand.

With a resigned sigh, Alyson approached him. As he turned his dark blue eyes up to hers, the strength in her legs gave a little. The emotion she had kept inside rose up her throat in a burning rush, and she was forced to look away until she could trust herself to speak without sobbing.

Brandon
stood and moved toward her.

She lifted her chin and forced a smile. Her gaze focused briefly on Betty, who watched them from her chair, expression stony.

"Hello," he said softly.

"You look exhausted," she said shakily, reaching to touch his cheek. "Are you sleeping at all?"

"Too
much." He slid his hands into his trouser pockets. "I guess I in just
…
tired
…
or something." He looked at Mildred, who remained in the distance. A lazy grin turned up his mouth. "I thought I fired her."

Alyson cleared her throat and spoke more loudly, surely loudly enough that Betty would hear her. "We're flying back to
California
this evening."

"I'll miss you."

"Will you?" She smiled, and felt heat suffuse her cheeks. "That's nice, Of course, I could always stay
…
just give me the word."

"I don't think that's such a good idea, Cupcake."

"Then I guess this is goodbye."

The word hung between them, the sound as disturbingly final as the open grave and coffin behind him.

His dark eyes never left hers as he offered one hand. A friendly shake—two acquaintances saying
goodbye, it's been fun, nice to know you, good luck.
She stared down at it for a moment,
then
took it, her heart catching as he wrapped his fingers around her hand, held it, warmth amid the crisp cold of the day. The words
I can't
tottered
on the tip of her tongue.

Suddenly he pulled her into his arms, held her so fiercely she couldn't breathe, didn't want to. Dear God, he smelled good—felt good, fit her body so perfectly. The memories of their lovemaking rushed through her in a shimmering wave. She clung, closing her eyes as he turned his lips to her ear and whispered, "I miss you, Aly. I miss you so damn much."

"Are you okay?" she whispered back.

He nodded, and held her tighter.

"I won't be gone long,
Brandon
. I promise. I'll call you."

He kissed her cheek one last time and reluctantly pulled away. "Goodbye," he said again, and touched his fingertip to the tear on her cheek. "Goodbye." Then he turned and walked off.

*

Brandon
sat in a chair next to Bernie's bed. Henry's chair.
The cushions, molded to Henry's body after so many years, felt slightly uncomfortable, like wearing someone else's well-worn shoes. The muted television displayed a smirking Pat Sajak and bubbling Vanna White.

He looked at Bernie lying in her bed, head resting on her pillow, her hair like a gray cloud around her pale face. Her eyes stared at him.

Something was different. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that something in her faded blue stare had changed the last few days. A deep shadow of despair and age had settled amid the folds of loose skin around her eyes and mouth.

She's given up,
he thought. Whatever energy Henry's faith and love had provided her was gone—the plug had been pulled on the life support.

He glanced at his watch. By now Alyson and Mildred would be on a plane headed back to
California
.

Brandon
closed his eyes and sank deeper into the chair. He didn't want to think about Alyson right now. Didn't want to recall how pretty she'd looked at the cemetery, how red her eyes had been from crying, how good she'd felt in his arms, how much he missed her already. Such thoughts screwed up his reasoning. He had a hard enough time thinking clearly and rationally these days as it was. Depression and shock, Doc explained, not to mention
grief
.
Eventually he'd pull out of it: a week from now, a month, a year. Until then, take life as it comes and know that Betty is there to see him through it.

Betty.

She appeared at the door, as she had an uncanny ability to do any time he thought about her. Funny, but he'd never really thought about her in the past—not as one would think of a friend or relative—never wondered about her existence away from the farm, never gave two thoughts about her past
…
aside from her nursing credentials, which had convinced Henry she would more than adequately replace the young woman who, before dying in an accident, had cared for Bernie.

But he'd been thinking about her more and more the last days. She continued to creep into his head anytime he roused from his depression and grief, and he found himself watching her with some instinctual rise of caution that had begun to gnaw at him while in her presence.

"Mr. Brandon, there's someone here to see you." She stepped to one side as Deputy Conroy moved to the door.

Conroy touched the brim of his hat,
then
hooked his thumbs over his gun belt. He appeared ill at ease, a bit edgy and uncertain. "Evening, Mr. Carlyle. Just thought I'd let you know we've been called back to the station. If you need anything, anything at all,
don't
hesitate to ring. We can be here in five minutes."

"We'll be just fine," Betty said behind him.

Conroy continued to watch
Brandon
, his eyes shadowed and intense under the brim of his Stetson. His mouth looked pressed, his expression thoughtful. "You sure you're okay, sir?"

"He's fine," Betty declared in a piqued tone. "He'll be much better when everyone stops badgering him. Good heavens, the man needs privacy right now, and the people of this town continue to parade through this house like
it's
Grand Central Station."

"Folks are just paying their respects," Conroy said. His eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed, and he slowly turned back to Betty. One hand reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a notebook which he flipped open and studied before raising his gaze back to hers. "Ma'am, would you mind tellin' me again just where you were on the night of October thirty-first between the hours of seven-thirty and
eleven
P.M.
?"

Brandon
left his chair and walked to the door. He slid his hands into his jeans pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. He watched deep color move into Betty's face.

Betty glared at Conroy, then at
Brandon
. "I told you. I was home. Alone, of course." Drawing herself up, she said, "I find your persistence in questioning me an outrageous insult."

"You wouldn't mind if we looked through your apartment, would you? You shouldn't, if you've got nothin' to hide." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "We can always get a search warrant…"

Betty's mouth dropped open. She said nothing for a moment,
then
shook her head. "Of course I don't mind. Why should I?"

"Good." Conroy pocketed the notebook and smiled. "Why don't we take a run over there right now?"

"Now?" She blinked. "Oh, but I couldn't leave—"

"We'll be fine,"
Brandon
said. "You'll want to get this cleared up, Betty. For both of our peace of mind."

She said nothing further, just flung aside the dish towel she was holding and headed for the stairs. "I'll get my coat and purse."

Standing shoulder to shoulder, Brandon and Deputy Conroy watched Betty ascend the staircase.