Fonduing Fathers (8 page)

Taken aback, I said, “What do you mean?”

“What, you think because I live alone and have nurses hovering over me that I don’t keep up with the world? You’ve made a name for yourself. Gotten into a few scrapes along the way, eh?”

I could barely form words. “You know…me?”

“Been following your career ever since you came to D.C. as an assistant chef. Your mom would write me once in a while to tell me where you were studying or where you were working.”

“Oh,” I said, flabbergasted. “She never mentioned that.”

“Nope,” he said, utterly unsurprised by my proclamation. “Your father, your mother. Trustworthy people. Ask them to keep a secret, they keep it.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You haven’t been booted from your position, despite all the trouble you’ve gotten into, so I have to assume you inherited that trait, too.”

My hands came up to my forehead. This was almost too much to take in at once. “Why haven’t you ever contacted me?”

“Why should I? You don’t know me.”

Roberta returned with two tall glasses of iced tea and set them down on the low table before us. “If there’s nothing else,” she said, “I’ll head upstairs to read.”

Mr. Vaughn lifted a skinny wrist, from which a bold-faced watch dangled. “The tall girl is on duty next, right?”

She nodded.

He turned to me. “I’m not crazy about that other girl.” To Roberta, he said, “Go on. Skedaddle out early. Go see those kids of yours. I’ve got company, I’ll be fine.”

“But—”

“Go on,” he said with authority. “Olivia and I have much to discuss. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Her face lit up. “If you’re sure,” she said. “I’ve got eight kids coming after school for a birthday party. This will be a huge help.”

Within moments she was gone, and as soon as the front door clicked shut, he turned to me and chuckled. “Decades of security concerns make me unwilling to share tales in front of others. Even kindhearted women like Roberta.”

I waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

“Please go on,” I said.

He blinked elfin eyes. “What were we talking about?”

I hesitated. “You’re putting me on,” I said, ignoring my polite tendencies and trying to catch him off guard. “You’re trying to fake me out.”

“You are a little troublemaker, aren’t you?”

“Not intentionally.” I took a sip of the sweet tea. I wiped my fingers, wet from the glass’s condensation, on my pant legs. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to fill in a few gaps in my mother’s story.”

“Tell me what
you
know,” he said. “I need the refresher.”

With my best attempt at patience, I explained everything
my mother had told me, finishing with a question. “How could you have pulled strings to get him into Arlington? That isn’t right.”

“Do you read the newspaper? Watch television?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know how often things happen that are not right.”

“But…” I said, about to argue.

He interrupted. “Do you always get a firm answer? An explanation as to why the guilty are released and the innocent incarcerated?”

“No, of course not.”

“Yet you expect me to have all the answers.”

“You do have the answers,” I said. “How did my father get into Arlington?”

“Ah,” he said, his eyes growing bigger and brighter. “That one is easy. He belonged there.”

“Explain.”

His eyes lost focus for a moment. “I can’t.” He turned toward the fireplace and was quiet for so long, I worried he’d forgotten I was there. “They don’t let me build fires anymore,” he said finally. “The nurses won’t even build one for me. Say it’s too dangerous.” He made a noise deep in his throat before raising his voice. “I was commanding troops when they were still in diapers.” He took a deep, wheezy breath and said, “Your father was a hero. He served his country well. And honorably.”

“I believe you,” I said. “You were his friend back then. Why the dishonorable discharge? Mom said it was for insubordination.”

“Insubordination,” he repeated still facing the fireplace.

“Mom also said that in addition to being his friend, you were also his commanding officer. You had to know the specifics about his discharge.”

He chewed the insides of his cheeks, but didn’t answer.

“My mom asked you that too, didn’t she? Back when—”

“Young woman,” he said, “all matters regarding your father’s discharge are classified.”

“It’s been more than twenty-five years.”

“Has it?” he whispered, blinking as though I’d surprised him. “Classified is classified.” He shot a pale glance at me. “I know that much.”

“Without breaking any laws, then,” I said carefully, “what can you tell me that I don’t already know?”

“Not much.”

“How were you able to get him into Arlington?”

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“Of course it does.”

“Listen, child. You were just a tiny thing when all this happened. You have no idea what was going on behind the scenes.”

I tried to keep the impatience from my voice. “I would know if you’d tell me.”

“I can’t do that.”

“But you’re my only hope.”

“How do you expect me to recall details from a quarter century ago? The answers you seek are beyond your grasp. Very likely beyond mine, too.”

“You said the details were ‘classified,’” I reminded him. “Clearly you remember. I think you’re hiding behind your memory issues to throw me off.”

“Nonsense.”

“Don’t you think it’s unlikely that after twenty-five years anything about my dad is still protected?”

“I have not been advised otherwise.”

He must have read the look of determination on my face because he glared at me with as much fervor as he could muster, lifting a finger to shake near my face. “Here is truth for you: Documentation or not, your father was an honorable man. He was not only one of my best friends, he was a man I trusted with my life.”

“But now he’s dead,” I said, stating the obvious. “Gone for a very long time. He can’t be hurt any longer.”

Eugene surprised me by saying, “Others might be.”

“Who?”

He shook his head. “Ramblings of an old man. Forget I said that.”

Not a chance.

“Your father understood what was asked of him,” Eugene said. “He didn’t like it, but he understood. The world would be a better place with more men like Anthony Paras. That’s all you’ll get from me.”

Eugene’s voice had risen, his back had straightened, but as soon as the words were past his lips, he slumped, looking small in his oversized chair. “Give me that cover, will you, girl?” he asked, pointing.

A woven afghan had been thrown over the side of the nearby sofa, its cherry-and-cream design yet another perfect accent in this room. I brought it to him. He lifted both hands in the air and I tucked the fabric around his legs. “Thank you,” he said.

The subject was dead. Clearly. I sighed my exasperation. Eugene didn’t comment.

I considered taking my leave and thought about the best way to do so when Eugene mumbled, “Tony. Terrible loss for all of us.”

Encouraged by this unexpected remark, I continued in a low tone. “A man at work was giving him trouble.”

Eugene stared at the floor saying nothing.

“Pluto, Incorporated,” I continued. “They worked together.”

“Tony,” he said.

I waited, but nothing.

“Pluto,” I began again. “They make dietary supplements.”

Eugene laughed, but not happily. “I take fiber pills every day. Don’t know what brand. I should check that, eh?”

“This other man,” I said, “he was trouble.”

Eugene appeared to have gotten lost in his own musings. I wasn’t sure he heard me, but I knew I’d kick myself later if I didn’t at least try to press him further with the questions that burned in my brain.

“What do
you
know about this other man?” I asked slowly, hoping my question would sink in before continuing. “The company, Pluto, believed my dad had been a corporate spy. Selling secrets.” I bit my lip. “That wasn’t true, was it?”

Eugene’s cheek twitched but he didn’t answer.

“Those accusations came later,” I said, “after my dad had been killed. Maybe this ‘other man’ was the real thief. Maybe he killed my dad and framed him to cover his tracks.”

Eugene drew in a deep breath through his nose. His head came up and he turned to me again. I was astonished by the change in him. Suddenly alert, he said, “Interesting hypothesis.”

“Is that what happened?”

“I have no comment.”

“Mr. Vaughn—”

“Your parents and I are old friends. Call me Uncle Eugene.”

I’d never do that, but I couldn’t miss out on his sudden coherence. “If you were my dad’s best friend, you must have known about this other man. What was his name?”

“Why would he have told me?”

“You were his best friend.”

“Your mother was his best friend.”

“He worried about putting my mom in danger. This ‘other man’ was obviously capable of doing us harm. You, on the other hand, were not only a trusted friend, but a big shot in the U.S. Army. You had power. He would have consulted you.”

“Sounds very logical, the way you present it.”

Despite the fact that I had nothing but gut instinct
screaming that I was right, I plowed forward. “My dad would have told you about this guy. I know it. What was his name?”

Eugene’s graying tongue ran lightly over his lower lip. I could read in his face that he knew exactly who I was asking about. “That I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

He waved a pale hand in the air as though casting a spell. “We can’t put more lives in danger.”

“But don’t I deserve to know if he’s the man who killed my dad?”

Eugene was quiet for a long time, focusing again on the fireplace. When he finally looked up, he stared through clouded eyes. “Where’s Roberta?”

GAV’S APARTMENT WAS SMALLER THAN MINE, by quite a bit. Carved out of a much larger space when the building underwent renovation, it was barely bigger than a studio. Because of its retrofit design, once a person entered, they were required to take about fifteen steps through a narrow hall past the lavatory to finally reach the living area. Tiny but serviceable, the area was decorated in deep reds with a few accent colors here and there for interest. What had grabbed my attention the first time I’d been here and every time since, was the gorgeous and expansive view over D.C. from this twenty-first-floor vantage point.

I leaned on the waist-high sill, staring out the window.

“You planning to keep all the details to yourself?” Gav asked from the galley kitchen. He held up two bottles. “Red or white tonight?”

I pointed to the claret we both enjoyed. “I’m feeling dark.”

He set to work opening the bottle.

I turned back to the window. Although the sun wouldn’t set for a few more hours, I looked forward to evening and the beautiful glow of the city at night, with the tall obelisk of the Washington Monument proudly taking center stage. “This is the most amazing view.”

“You say that every time.”

I laughed. “I do, don’t I? I’ve never asked: How long have you had this place?”

He twisted the corkscrew. “Since they opened it for new tenants,” he said. “Ten years, give or take.”

A half-wall of glass-block windows separated the tiny living and dining room combination from the sleeping area, which was little more than a mattress and box spring on a raised platform with a miniature dresser wedged in near the windows. Except for the bathroom and a closet, there were no doors in the apartment. The entire place was awash in reds and I laughed softly.

“What?”

“Eugene Vaughn’s place was decorated a lot like this,” I said. “He’s got a more traditional vibe going; you’re more contemporary. But red is the color of choice for both of you. I’m wondering if that’s a military thing.”

“Or patriotic.”

I glanced around, pointing to the blue throw pillows on the couch. “Good point.” I faced him. “And your kitchen is about as white as you can get. White appliances, white cabinets, white floor. Nothing out of place.”

“My kitchen stays clean because nobody cooks in it,” he said, bringing me a glass of wine.

“We need to work on changing that.”

“Next time,” he said. “I don’t mind going out.” Truth was, I didn’t mind either, and we’d had a lovely dinner at a restaurant within walking distance. We clinked our glasses, toasting nothing in particular, and sipped.

“Delicious,” I said.

“Mm. Very good.” Looking around his apartment as though seeing it for the first time, he said, “Maybe your friend Vaughn and I used the same decorator.”

I nearly spit my wine. “You hired a decorator?”

He gave me a lopsided frown. “Something wrong with that?”

Tapping my lip to catch the dribbles, I said, “Of course not. Surprised is all.”

“When I knew I’d be out of the country for a couple of years and needed to sublet, I figured I’d have a much better chance of finding a tenant if the place looked halfway decent.”

“Did your decorator design your bathroom, too?”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” I said, taking another sip of wine.

“You’re lying, Paras,” Gav said. “What’s wrong with the bathroom?”