In for a Ruble (13 page)

“Sorry,” she said, waving carelessly in their direction. “I’m a little behind.”

That was an opening, but I let it pass. Better to let her decide when to tell her story.

“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”

She tried to smile again. “Distraction is a good thing these days. Coffee?”

I had the uncharitable feeling the coffee might be the same vintage as the dishes. I declined. She went to the counter and poured herself a cup. She kept her back to me as she took a bottle from the cabinet, added a shot and put the bottle back. Self-medicating, the attempt to hide it more form than function. I know the signs, the feeling. I’ve done it myself.

Marianna pointed to a table with four chairs by the window. It had a view of the swing set and jungle gym.

“Like I said, I appreciate your time.”

She waved again. Time was one thing she had in abundance and didn’t want.

“I’m wondering if you’ve been visited by anyone asking about your brother.”

“Sebastian called, said you’d be asking. I told him … no.”

Her voice was tentative, even through the booze.

“I can understand that, but…”

“But what?”

“I’m working for your brother, I’m trying to help. I don’t have to tell him everything people tell me.” I let that sink in. “There was someone, right?”

She looked around and nodded. “I … I don’t know why I didn’t tell him, except with everything else … he can be so controlling … I just didn’t feel like it, you know? He’s got his problems, I’ve got mine.”

“Sure. Everybody does. Who were they? What did they ask? This is just between us.”

“I don’t remember too much. They said it was some kind of background check. Everything … Everything’s been a bit of a blur.”

“That’s understandable.” The thing about people who withdraw into themselves, their universe of reference draws in with them. They don’t think about the rest of us—they assume we’re looking at the world from their point of view. Booze helps that process, of course. “What can you remember?”

She took a swallow from her cup. “Two of them, a man and a woman.”

“What did they look like?”

Another wave at the air. “Ordinary. Suits. Business looking. Ordinary looking.”

“Okay. What did they say?”

“Asked a lot of questions. About Sebastian … and the family. Who we were, what we did. It was strange, to tell you the truth. I didn’t say much. The questions … They seemed … intrusive.”

“Did they ask about your … situation?”

Pause, the brain cells trying to clarify. “What do you mean by that?”

My turn to wave at the dishes. “It’s been a rough few weeks, as you said.”

The eyes blurred. “Right. They asked about Sebastian, Jenny, Pauline, the kids, a little, and about Thomas and Julia, but no … not about Jonathan or our children.”

“Did they say who they were?”

“Some law firm. They gave me a card. Not at the beginning. Only when I pressed.”

“You still have it?”

“Somewhere…”

“It could be helpful.”

“Okay.”

She stood, took a minute to get her balance and went off rummaging through kitchen drawers. Partway through the search, she returned to the table for her cup, took it to a cabinet and refilled it from the bottle without bothering to add more coffee. I looked at my watch. 10:14. Even money whether she made it to lunch.

“Ah-ha!”

She returned from the far side of the kitchen, victorious. The card read,
ELIZABETH ROGERS, LINDLEY & HILL, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW,
with a New York address and phone number, a Web site, and an e-mail address. I made a note of it all for form’s sake.

I wanted to ask an intrusive question of my own. Worst thing she could do was decline to answer, but I was banking on her drinking more now than when Elizabeth Rogers visited.

“How close are you all, Sebastian, your siblings, as a family?”

The eyes clarified again and narrowed. Not as soused as I thought. Her voice took a harder edge. “Why do you ask that?”

“Someone’s trying to hurt your brother—the same people who came to see you, I think. They found a way into his business and to do that they had help. You didn’t give it to them, so I guess I’m asking if there’s any bad blood elsewhere or anything else these people could have exploited.”

She watched me for a minute, stood and left the room. I could hear her voice from elsewhere in the house, talking on the phone. Checking with Leitz HQ.

She returned after a few minutes, sat, drank from her cup, and said, “Sebastian says you should call him.”

“I will, as soon as we’re finished. I’m only trying to help, as I said.” I hoped I sounded sincere.

Another swallow. “What was your question?”

“How do you all get on, the family? Any quarrels? Bad feelings? Ancient, unresolved feuds?”

“No feuds, no. Tensions, I suppose, like any family.”

“What kind of tensions?”

She thought for a moment. “Personality, mainly. We’re all pretty strong minded. Sebastian and Julia have their careers. Thomas has his … passions. Sometimes they go off in different directions. I’ve always been the easy-going one, willing to do whatever, if that kept the peace. But then, I always figured I was the one who had it all worked out—the marriage, the family…”

She banged her fists on the table in front of her and dropped her head on top of them, facedown. The cup fell on its side, spilling a puddle of brown liquid. She sobbed into balled fingers. I picked up the cup, wiped up the puddle with a well-used dish towel, found the brandy bottle in the cabinet—Presidente—and poured a few fingers. I felt no qualms about aiding and abetting. I wanted her to talk, and she’d be back at the sauce with or without my help. I put the cup on the table, reclaimed my seat, and took a chance.

“I’m sorry, Marianna. I know a little about your husband. Nobody should have to deal with what you’re going through.”

She kept crying. Two more minutes passed before she looked up, another second and half before she reached for the cup. She took two swallows before she straightened and looked at me, red-eyed.

“I’m sorry. I’m still not … It’s just so … Where were we?”

“You were talking about keeping the peace—in the family.”

She nodded, grabbing at something that wasn’t her own misery.

“Like I said, we’re all strong minded. The result of our parents dying when we were still young, I think. A car accident—you know that, right?”

I didn’t, but I’d accomplished getting on the inside of her story.

“Tell me.”

“I was fifteen, Sebastian was eighteen, Julia, fourteen, and Thomas, eight. Thomas suffered most, I think, the youngest—and a tough age. Anyway, we were a teenaged immigrant family, and we had to make do. We did, we all stayed in school, we all worked too. Sebastian was the oldest, so he was de facto head of household, and it suited him. He watched out over all of us, he always made sure we were okay, but … as we all grew older, became adults, he never backed off. He still treats us as if we’re teenagers cast adrift. He can be overprotective, and that can grate. Not his fault, he means well. Just the way it is, with everything that happened.”

“How does that manifest, the grating?”

She took a drink and stared out the window at the snow and the swing set.

“He smothers. He tries to control. It’s like, he thinks he’s still responsible for all of us, whatever happens. He can’t understand we all have our own lives now, we’ve made our own way, we’re responsible for our own…”

She stopped short, staring into her cup, realizing where she was going. “Anyway, you know what I mean.”

“Having a brother like that, who cares, isn’t necessarily a bad thing,” I said.

She shook her head, as if agreeing and trying to clear her mind at the same time.

“Not bad. But … It does lead to … tensions.”

“How does he get on with your brother and sister?”

“He and Julia spar all the time. They’re the most competitive. He’s never liked her husband, and he doesn’t approve of the way she takes care of their kids. Doesn’t take care of them, in his opinion. He tries to tell her, she objects, and they end up in a fight. Thomas … Thomas goes his own way, to put it mildly. Sebastian doesn’t understand him, and Thomas doesn’t want him to. Oil and water.”

No way to ask the next question without appearing intrusive, but I hoped she was beyond caring. “Does Thomas have financial problems?”

“What? Why…? How do you know…?” She shook her head. “I’m not going to talk about that.”

“I’m sorry. It’s a difficult subject, I know. I only ask because money—lack of money, debts—can make someone vulnerable. I think Thomas ran up some big debts. He could be desperate.”

She nodded slowly. “He’s always said it’s impossible to live in New York City on a teacher’s salary. And … have you met him?”

“Not yet.”

“He’s something of a clotheshorse—and he doesn’t shop discount, like Julia. I … I tried to help him out from time to time. But…”

I waited.

“I shouldn’t tell you this.”

Intuition—often a spy’s best friend—said don’t push it.

“I can’t force you.”

She took another drink. “I lent him some money, years ago. Fifteen thousand. Six, seven years ago, I don’t remember. He was frantic. I had the cash, he needed it. He kept promising to repay, of course, and I chased him for a couple of years without success. My husband was furious when he found out. Threatened to go to Sebastian. I urged him not to. It was family, what could I do? It was my problem, I said I’d deal with it. Eventually, it went the way of all things … subsumed by time and other concerns. He came to me one other time. Right around the time … I guess it was four years ago. Twenty-five thousand dollars. I was stunned. I had no idea.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“No. I didn’t have that kind of cash this time. And I realized something was wrong, badly wrong. I urged him to get help.”

“How did he react?”

“Badly. We were in the city, at a restaurant. He called me a horrible name, loud enough for the whole place to hear. We fought and he walked out.”

“And he hasn’t asked again? Recently?” I was thinking of the $35,000 he’d paid off in November.

“No. I don’t see Thomas much these days. I’ve … I’ve had my own problems to worry about.”

“Would he have gone to your brother or Julia for a loan?”

“Not Sebastian. They argued over money before. You know about his temper…”

I nodded. “What about Julia?”

“Maybe. They’re not that close. And he’d have to get her attention.”

“Meaning?” Although I knew the answer.

“Julia is what people politely call a workaholic. She never leaves the office. Barely has time for her own family.”

“What about her husband? Would he have gone to him?”

“Oh no.” The answer came fast, too fast, not as if she were trying to head me off, but a knee-jerk response, as though the idea itself was preposterous.

“Why not?” I said as innocently as I knew how.

She shook her head. “He just wouldn’t. That’s all.”

That wasn’t remotely all, but intuition intervened again—don’t press it, move on. I took a shot at another question, half expecting it to bring the interview to a close.

“What happened to Sebastian’s first marriage?”

She shook her head and looked out the window.

I waited.

She shook her head again and started to cry. I’d lost her.

“You know … You think your problems are the worst anyone could have. Then…”

She balled her fists and hit the table again, grabbed the cup, and emptied it.

“Maybe I’ll join you,” I said, and went to the cabinet. I poured her a healthy shot, found a cup that looked clean, and gave myself a finger and half.

I put the cups on the table and she reached for hers hungrily. I took a sip from mine. Presidente burned, not unpleasantly, on the way down.

“We don’t talk about it, you know. We never have. Unwritten rule. Forbidden subject. Taboo.”

I waited again. Booze versus taboo—I was betting on booze, and the need to unburden.

“It was four years ago now. Sebastian had two kids with his first wife, Pauline—Andras and Daria. Daria was twelve when…”

The fists balled once more, and the head fell on top. Her whole body heaved with sobs. She tried to talk in between. I had to lean forward to make out the muffled, tear-and-brandy-soaked voice.

“She … she had … she had a gun and … she shot … shot herself … in her room. She … she laid down a plastic drop cloth first so she wouldn’t make a mess. Oh dear God, why? It was so horrible. We were all there. We all saw the body. Thomas … poor Thomas he got there first, he was in the upstairs bathroom. He … hasn’t been the same. None … None of us has.”

I waited until the sobbing subsided.

“Does anyone know why she did it?”

She looked up, eyes wet and blurred. “No. Daria … She was always such a happy girl. Her brother’s the moody one, Andras. Daria was always smiling, laughing. I can still see her—those big blue eyes, blond curls…”

She broke down sobbing again. I didn’t try to intervene. Several minutes passed before she looked up again.

“It devastated Pauline. She suffered some kind of breakdown. Spent time in an institution. Sebastian stuck by her until she announced she had to leave. She moved back to Minnesota, where’s she’s from.”

Had to leave.
Does a mother
have to leave
her family, her kids? My mother held me until she died on a train somewhere in the Urals. Polina abandoned Aleksei. But I always figured that was my fault.

“Was there an investigation?”

“The police came, of course, questioned all of us. They ruled it a suicide. She’d taken the gun from a friend’s house a few days before.”

That indicated some degree of premeditation on the girl’s part, but I didn’t need to point that out. I said, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up painful memories.”

She nodded and looked into her cup. “Like I said, we don’t talk about it, but it’s always there, you know, like an ache you can’t get rid of. Sometimes it’s good to acknowledge it, put it out in the open.”

“Your brother—Sebastian, I mean—he doesn’t agree with you?”