Dead for the Money (17 page)

“Anyone who knows you would understand.”

Her voice turned quavery. “I didn’t think you would be like this, Bud. I’m all you’ve got now.”

Bud glared at the lake ahead for a few seconds and then gave a sigh that sounded like defeat. “I need time to think about things.”

Callie caressed his face lightly. “All right, hon. I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

Wondering if Bud was strong enough to accept a host, Seamus had remained with Callie during their conversation. He felt her insincerity as she pleaded her case, her triumph when Bud did not reject her. Bud was no match for his mother in cunning.

“I won’t leave you all alone.” As Callie rose to leave, wiping away tears Seamus knew were fake, he had to make a decision. Bud seemed all right physically. His mind was clear even though it was obvious he was in turmoil over Callie’s presence. Making his choice, Seamus jumped. It was too bad that a guy with a head injury who’d just had an unpleasant surprise had to absorb the physical jolt of becoming a host, but it had to be done.

As Callie retreated, Bud sat on the bench, looking at the lake that offered timeless beauty but no answers. Seamus discerned sadness at his grandfather’s death, guilt that he was unwilling to continue the company Gramps had founded, dejection at the state of his personal life, distress at the nausea that he thought was caused by Callie’s visit, and disgust that his mother would stoop to blackmail.
I’m a failure,
Seamus heard in Bud’s mind.

Bud was ashamed of Callie. All his life, he’d believed—or tried to believe—that his mother wanted to be with him. Gramps had said she was “unable to care for a child.” He had fantasized that his mother had some debilitating disease or some crippling mental disorder. After her appearance on Mackinac Island and her subsequent disappearance with his money, he’d hired an investigator. The man provided pictures that showed Callie partying, and never with the same man twice. Mention was often made of her lavish spending, always on some unique, often outrageous, form of entertainment. In Bahrain, she’d thrown a reception for the national netball team. In Shanghai, it was a New Year’s celebration that included many of the local glitterati. Bud found no mention of anything worthwhile. Callie was no philanthropist.

“Bud?”

He turned, and Seamus saw Brodie standing hesitantly behind the bench. “Hey, kid.”

“Was that your—was that Callie I saw down here?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s—” Brodie didn’t seem to know how to finish what she’d started. “She’s pretty.”

“Yeah.” He turned to Brodie. “I heard your mom was pretty too. Do you miss her?”

It took a long time for Brodie to answer. “I think I miss the idea of having a mom.”

He nodded. “I remember that. You feel different, like everyone else has something you don’t.”

She apparently didn’t know what to say next. There was a long silence. Finally she said, “If you’re feeling okay, Scarlet and I are going on a picnic. Shelley’s going to make chicken salad sandwiches. You could come along.” When he didn’t answer, she added, “We can take the golf cart so you don’t have to walk far.”

Seamus felt Bud hesitate. He wanted to be alone. Or maybe not. He recognized that Brodie’s offer was made out of kindness, an attempt to make him feel better. He stirred, as if banishing sadness with movement. “You know, Brodie, that might be the best thing for all of us. Thanks.”

She smiled hesitantly and backed up a few steps before turning to run toward the house. Seamus guessed she had to tell Scarlet and Shelley about the picnic they had no idea they were planning.

After a few minutes, Bud rose with a heavy sigh and started for the house, and Seamus felt a new dread in his host’s mind. Inside, the air changed from hot and humid to cool and dry. Bud searched the rooms until he came to the den, where the door was closed. He knocked softly.

Arnold Wilk answered. Behind him, Arlis sat at a table, a stack of cards before her. “I’m addressing envelopes for Arlis, but if you need something—”

“I included a personal message in each card,” Arlis said. “People want to know that someone in the family took note of their gift.”

“That’s good of you, Aunt Arlis. I need Arnold for a minute.”

He led the way to Gramps’ office, where he closed the door. Arnold’s pasty face revealed anxiety, but he tried to present a brave front. “I have those papers ready to file, Bud. As soon as Arlis and I finish, I intend to take them to the county courthouse.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bud replied. “Leave them here and I’ll do it myself in the morning.” He raised his chin slightly. “I saw my mother just now. She seems to know all about my accident yesterday.”

“Really.”

“It got me to thinking. When she found me on the island last summer, I never figured out how she learned that I was there. But I think I know now.”

Arnold cleared his throat. “I suppose she heard it somewhere.”

“I think you keep her informed. Wherever she was last weekend, she heard of Gramps’ death. It’s what brought her hurrying home. Today, you told her about my accident, giving details of how it happened. No one in this house would give Callie the time of day except you.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“How long have you been on her payroll? I suppose she’s been waiting for Gramps to die for years, probably since that first stroke.”

Faced with bald truths, Arnold seemed unable to concoct a decent lie. He glanced around the room as if looking for salvation. When nothing offered itself, his shoulders slumped, his chin dropped, and he clutched weakly at his throat as if something was choking him. “It didn’t hurt anyone.” He waited, but Bud did not respond. “It won’t happen again.”

“Not to us. Pack your things tonight and leave in the morning. Provide an address, and I’ll send you two weeks’ pay and whatever Gramps left you in the will.”

“Bud—”

“I’m sorry, Arnold. There is no more to discuss.”

Bud watched impassively as Arnold groped for an argument to excuse his disloyalty. Finding none, the secretary turned and left the office without another word.

Chapter Twelve

I
F
B
RODIE
HAD
KNOWN
OF
S
EAMUS
’ deduction concerning the picnic, she would have been forced to admit he was correct. Although she and Scarlet did plan to go spider hunting that afternoon, no plans had been made for a picnic lunch.

“Chicken salad sandwiches? I didn’t even know you liked them, although Bud sure does. But I was going to make gazpacho.” Shelley pronounced it “gapancho.” She was easy, though, and soon went to work cutting last night’s leftover chicken into small chunks, her strong hands guiding the knife to rhythmic chops against the cutting board.

Scarlet was a little more difficult. “You invited Bud along? He’s spent a night in hospital.”

“He said he’d like to come.” Brodie implied that his interest came before her invitation.

“If I didn’t know better—” Scarlet left the sentence unfinished, but Brodie got it. Was she trying to push the two of them together? Maybe. The why of it was fuzzy in her mind, and she didn’t pause to clarify it. She wanted Bud to like Scarlet so he’d keep paying her wages. That was all it really had to be.

Promptly at noon, they loaded the cooler into the golf cart and headed out. Scarlet fussed a little, sounding uncharacteristically maternal. “I’m not sure you should be doing this.”

Bud grinned. “I’m just riding along. It’s got to end better than our last trip, right?”

Brodie drove with unusual care, having a newly released patient aboard as well as Scarlet, who had at times commented on the abandon with which she handled the golf cart. They chose an open space at the back of the property where Briggs had planted rape to attract the deer so Gramps could sit and watch them. Brodie predicted they would find lots of spiders nearby.

When they arrived, Bud took the cooler out of the back of the cart and looked around for a flat spot. Soon they had their meal spread out on a plastic tablecloth in the shade and were unwrapping the promised sandwiches along with a variety of extras.

“Shelley’s a wonder,” he commented, unpacking pickles, potato chips, cookies, and a plastic bag with three damp washcloths for post-meal clean-up. “She thinks of everything.”

The mood warmed a little as they ate their meal. Scarlet spoke mostly to Brodie, but she smiled a few times when Bud said something amusing. When they finished, Brodie announced, “I guess I’ll start my spider search now.” Taking a plastic cup with a lid, she headed into the open space. Scarlet looked uneasy, but Brodie figured it was a good time for them to talk about what happened on the island. Maybe Bud would get to like Scarlet again and want her to stay around.

T
HROUGH
B
UD
’
S
EYES
, Seamus watched Brodie go. Hunched over like a goblin, she searched the ground for signs of arachnid movement. When she reached the center of the meadow, she sat down with her back to her companions and waited, cup ready.

The humidity had eased somewhat, but it was still very warm. Grass baked by the sun gave off a pleasant, grainy odor. The two adults watched Brodie and sat listening to the buzz of insect wings and the chatter of a squirrel unhappy with their presence.

“She forgot her hat.” Scarlet took up the cap and trotted after Brodie. She stopped a few feet back and tossed it, apparently to avoid scaring any spiders in the area away. Brodie gave her a distracted smile, clapped the hat on her head, and went back to staring at the grass.

Seamus felt Bud’s admiration as Scarlet walked back toward him. Though not beautiful, Scarlet was pretty enough to merit any man’s attention. Today she wore khakis with an olive-green shirt over a lighter green tank. The colors highlighted her pale skin and complemented dark red hair that shone in the sunlight.

Scarlet sat down on the grass far enough away from Bud to make him aware that she was avoiding him. “I owe you a shirt,” he said.

Her look of surprise was quickly replaced with a polite smile. “It wasn’t a favorite.”

“Well, I’m glad you were with us. I think Brodie would have done okay, but you were great.” He paused. “It was nice of you to stay with me all night too.”

“I am told it’s best to have an advocate when one is helpless in hospital,” she replied. “Staff simply doesn’t have the time to check on a patient as often as they should.”

Bud was frustrated by Scarlet’s practical responses to his attempts at gratitude.
She seemed worried about me then
, Seamus heard.

Brodie approached, calling, “I got one!” Scarlet took a pad and pen from her bag as her student approached. There was a short discussion, and Brodie wrote down characteristics of the spider: color, size, markings. Once they had agreed on what was important to the task, Brodie took the paper and pen and went off to let that spider go and find another.

“We never talked about the island,” Bud said when Brodie was out of earshot.

The muscles around Scarlet’s eyes tightened. “What is there to talk about?”

“I stood you up.”

She shrugged, elaborately casual. “You found something better to do.”

“That wasn’t it, Scarlet.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Her body language said differently.

“It matters to me. I’d like to tell you why I left so suddenly.”

Scarlet busied herself with putting things into the cooler, folding the tin foil flat before storing it at the bottom. “When I agreed to meet you that night, we were Scarlet and Bud. Now you are my employer. Things are quite different, so what happened then doesn’t matter.”

A shout from Brodie interrupted again. This time she brought two spiders, one such an odd yellow that even Bud had to admit it was interesting. Beneath it, though, Seamus felt his frustration. He wanted Scarlet to understand something, but she seemed to think their present relationship negated the past and any feelings they might have had then.

Seamus sensed in Bud no murderous guilt, no thought that William Dunbar’s death was anything but a terrible accident. What he did sense was that Bud was head over heels in love with Brodie’s tutor. He’d done everything in his power to get her this job so that he could win back her respect, and after that, maybe her love.

I
T
WAS
FUN
FINDING
the different kinds of spiders. Scarlet claimed there were hundreds of species in any wooded area, and Brodie was soon convinced that she was right. After a while she stopped taking the spiders to Scarlet. She could get more done if she simply documented them on the pad of paper and went back to looking.

After a few minutes, the sun became hot on the back of her neck. Waving to Scarlet and pointing toward the woods on the opposite side of the meadow, Brodie signaled that she would hunt in the shade for a while. Scarlet waved acknowledgement.

The coolness felt good, and she slipped the hat off and stuck the brim of it into the back waistband of her pants. She spotted a big brown spider right away, but it darted under a fallen log, and she lost it as it blended in with its cover. A few steps farther on she found another, this one with stripes on its legs that made it look unreal, as if someone had decorated it with the world’s tiniest paintbrush.

As she documented Spider #12, Brodie heard a faint noise up ahead. Cautiously, she moved toward the sound. It retreated, or it seemed to. Deer? Her experience with deer was that when you got too close, they panicked, raised their white tails like an alarm signal, and took off as fast as they could. The sound she heard was not headlong flight. It was scrabbling such as a creature might make if it was unaware of her presence. She liked seeing animals in the wild. Once she had come upon some coyote pups playing and watched them for some time before they noticed her presence. That was cool.

When she was a good distance into the woods, whatever it was began a plaintive cry. It reminded her of a time when she’d come upon a porcupine stuck in a tree. The creature had whimpered pitifully as it paced the length of a branch, trying to get up the courage to climb down. This sound was like that, repetitive and distressed.