The Matriarch (14 page)

The Tree bears a glut of figs in various stages of development. Some grow as separate perfect spheres, while others are growing in globular clusters. Some are pale green, others pink, deep red, and glossy black. Many are spotted, as if splashed with an acid yellow paint. A few have bright red spots on them, framed in black, like eyes. The leaves are abundant, all in a bright, luminous green.

Louie stands close to me, and I feel him trembling. I hear ragged breathing from Dott. The big woman stands staring, her mouth open.

“God’s image,” she murmurs. “We’re created in God’s image. A shadow only of the divine being, yes, but His image none the less. Even those who are mad, gone askew. I’m taught that the same is true of every living thing in the universe—created by God. The animals … the plants … everything.” She shudders, shaking her head. “But this? No. This tree is not of God’s world.”

An amazing machine, Deputy Albert D. Schmidt is thinking as he studies the glowing screen with excitement. Through the department computer he’s just learned that a little over a year ago Cassidy Murphy had been hauled in for questioning concerning a murder in Eugene, Oregon. The victim had been a young woman—a Marilyn Connor—just twenty-two years of age. Murphy knew her but had witnesses as to where he’d been when the murder occurred. He was released with no follow-up. In an interesting footnote, Al learns that the woman’s killer hasn’t been found. The case remains open and on the books in Eugene. Al knows this bit of information won’t mean anything to Manny who thinks Frank Murphy is Jesus Christ himself. So anything remotely suspicious concerning the man’s nephew would have to be nonsense.

With twelve duly sworn deputies in the small department, Al is next in the line of command after Sheriff Manny Ramirez. So at the moment, Al is acting sheriff of Diablo County, and his deputy, Jim Collins, is his second in command. This juicy Russo murder coming along just now is a lucky break, and Al is sure as shit going to show Manny and the department what he can do as acting sheriff.

And Cassidy Murphy is going to help him out. Al knows the Murphy kid has nothing to do with the Russo murder, but Al will question him anyway. It will make him look thorough, and that’s important. Like maybe Murphy knows something about the Russos? Besides, Al will love taking the guy down a peg or two.

“Looks open and shut to me,” had been the insightful comment from the Ramirez sickbed to his number one deputy upon learning of the Russo murder. “But you’ll still need to ask questions. Get as much info as you can, and I’ll be in as soon as I can.” But Manny sounded terrible, and Al didn’t think he’d be coming in to work any time soon. At best though, Al won’t have very much time on his own.

His phone rang. “Schmidt here.”

“Schmidt,” a harsh, female voice says. “Who the fuck is Schmidt?”

The deputy takes a slow careful breath.
This little valley town sure has a lot of smart-ass big mouths. What is it, something in the water?

“Who is this?”

“I want the sheriff.”

“I’m the acting sheriff.” Al hears her breathing into the phone.

“Albert D. Schmidt.”

She laughs merrily, and adrenaline rises into Al’s belly. His right hand slides onto the baton at his side. He strokes its smooth head with his thumb.

“So what’s the ‘D’ for Albert, Dumb Shit?”

His hand wraps around the baton, gripping it tightly. He begins to sweat, and Al wishes once again that the department had a tracking device—he’d nail this fucking broad good.

“I’ve been a bad girl Acting Sheriff Albert D. Schmidt,” the woman says. “I seem to have …”

“What?”
Get on with it, woman!

“Killed my—” She begins to sob.

“Where are you, Ma’am?” Al makes his voice soft, lulling. He can hardly hear himself over the loud thudding of his heart.

Holy shit, another murder? Sweet Christ, don’t let me lose this broad!

“Maybe not,” she goes on, her voice stronger, “but he sure looks dead.”

“Ma’am?”

“Oh my God!” she cries. “He looks just like my husband!” The woman goes off into a fresh outburst of tears.

Al waits and then gently urges her to tell him who and where she is. At last she mutters into his ear the name, Mrs. Arty Banyon, and she’s in her home, her kitchen to be exact. She volunteers that she seems to be nude and that her kitchen has been trashed. Part of the mess is an apparently dead man on the floor who looks a lot like her husband.

“Mrs. Banyon?” Al says. “Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to stay right where you are. Don’t move and don’t touch anything. You hear? Not one thing.”

“I have to put some clothes—”

“Later, Ma’am. You can do that later. I’ll be at your door in less than fifteen minutes.” He pauses, listening to her breathe. “You hear me, Mrs. Banyon? You wait right there for me. You got that?”

She sighs. “All right.”

He hears her hang up. Al swings into action. He yells at Kitty, the dispatcher, and tells her to contact the on-duty unit and send it to the Banyon residence. Then he tells Kitty to hold off for ten minutes on that directive.

Shit, I gotta get a grip. I need to be the first lawman on the scene!

He races outside to his own unit, starts it up, and sets off, gears and tires screaming. Al goes four blocks in the wrong direction before he calms down enough to think.

The Banyons live near the Murphy spread, Al remembers. Matter of fact, they are neighbors to Frank Murphy. Along with Carla and the late Dante Russo, another entertaining coincidence. The computer info on the Murphy kid becomes even more interesting. Al doesn’t really think of Cassidy Murphy as a genuine suspect in either murder, but questioning the kid will help Al look like the heads-up, balls-out lawman he sure as shit is. Compared to Teddy-Bear Manny Ramirez, Al is about to look like one fuckin’ hell of a competent sheriff.

Al thinks on the fact that peaceful little Diablo hasn’t had a murder on its books for years. Shit, maybe never! And now it has two in the three days since Cassidy Murphy hit town.

I sit across the kitchen table from my Uncle Frank. He looks dead, bloodless. His complexion matches the gray of his faded flannel shirt. The red that rims his eyes is the only color he has. And he looks smaller. His shirt droops from his shoulders in loose folds, and the gun and belt he still insists on wearing hangs low on his scrawny hips. With that stupid gun, he looks like a kid playing a game he doesn’t really understand.

Under the table, Louie sleeps like the dead.

The acting sheriff called Frank earlier with the astounding news that Arty Banyon was dead, apparently murdered by his wife, Lindee. With Sheriff Ramirez still down with the flu, Acting Sheriff Al is running the investigation, and I’m not confident that guy knows what he’s doing.

I had listened to Frank’s side of the conversation. At one point he shouted, “A wallboard hammer?” And I knew that fool Al was shooting his mouth off again. Since when do law officers blab the details of a case that’s under investigation? More important though, how could another wife have murdered her husband? Another wife gone mad, right along with Carla. What’s going on with these women anyway?

I wonder how long before Manny returns to his job. I hope he’s far more competent than his deputy. Diablo needs a smart, cool head to run this investigation.

Frank clutches his coffee mug and stares down at the tabletop.

“How about some toast?” I ask. We’ve had very little to eat, and I need to get some food into this man.

“Nah.” Frank grimaces as if I’d offered him a plate of worms. He takes a swallow from the mug.

“What’s Manny like?” I ask Frank.

“What’s he like?”

“Is he a good lawman? Do you have confidence in him?”

“You mean is he better than Deputy Schmidt?” Frank smiles, and I grin at him. “I sure as shootin’ hope so!” We share a chuckle.

“Shit sakes, Cassidy!” Frank slams his mug down onto the table. The noise startles us both. “It’s like the world’s gone plum crazy!”

I hear Louie grunt his agreement.

“These crazy women …” Frank goes on, his voice faint now. “I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, the women … I don’t get it either.” I lean toward him. I need to hear myself talk about my growing suspicions. “What if there’s more?”

“More?”

“Yeah. What if this is the beginning of an epidemic?”

Frank snorts. “That’s crazy. There won’t be any more.”

“Well, if Carla and Lindee were women known to be violent, their actions could probably be explained. At least better understood.”

“I knew Carla the best.” Frank rubs at his eyes. “I’m not living under her bed, you understand, but there’s just no way she could have attacked Dante with a meat—”

“I know. Something happened to her, but what?”

Frank doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he heard my question.

In the silence I hear the clock ticking. It gives the room a cold metallic heartbeat that belies the sunlight on the scarred worn wood of the tabletop. I put a hand down on that wood and rub it back and forth, glad for the warmth it creates. I hear Louie’s breath breezing in and out, and I take comfort in that as well.

Why am I getting involved in this? It’s none of my fucking business after all. I’m out of here in ten days, easy—two weeks tops. I’m sorry Frank is beginning to lose it, but there’s nothing I can do for him except maybe find him a good psychologist, an expert on aging. But I keep thinking about that Goddamned tree and those Goddamned figs …

I think of Dott’s reaction to The Tree, and Louie’s. And I think of the obscene surplus of rotting fruit beneath it. Frank hasn’t seen it for a day or two—he doesn’t realize how fast it’s growing.

“Something changed Carla,” I say. “And probably Lindee.” Frank opens his bloodshot eyes. “Maybe something they both ingested before they lost their minds. Maybe other women will—”

“Cassidy, you’re calling two deaths an epidemic.” He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back. His cheeks are reddening. “Something in the ice cream, maybe?”

“Uncle Frank—”

“In the water?”

“Well, how about those figs?” There. I finally say it. Out loud. “The figs you’ve been passing out all over town? Maybe it’s those figs from that crazy tree.”

Frank glowers at me, his breath ragged. He’s almost panting. “There’s another couple,” he says. “Ed and Gwen Schwartz. She’s been droppin’ by regular, last couple weeks, pickin’ up figs. Always takes a lot home with her. Been here this mornin’, matter a’ fact. I just let her go on out to the tree on her own. Ed’s still vertical far as I know.”

That does throw me. I know I have to see this couple.

“I don’t know, Uncle Frank. But you haven’t seen The Tree lately. Let’s take a walk out there and—”

He turns from me and stumbles to the sink. Head down, he puts his hands on the counter and leans forward. I stand and go to him.

“It’s crazy,” Frank says to the sink. “Whacko. I know you’re wrong, Cassidy, but problem is I don’t know what’s right. This world isn’t logical anymore, and I don’t understand it.”

He looks so frail, I want to pick him up and carry him off to bed. I put a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off. I back up and stand a respectful few feet away from him. But I have to continue.

“The Tree is different now.”

“So?”

“It’s … grown.”

“Like I said before, growin’ is what trees do.” He faces me, leaning against the sink.

“And, like I just said, you haven’t seen it in a while. Dott saw it. It freaked her out too. She said it wasn’t from God. I don’t pretend to know what I’m talking about, Frank, but if you saw that thing now, today, you’d know that something really weird is going on.”

“I’ve been eating those figs like peanuts. How come I’m not out there taking after folks with a shovel or something?”

“Maybe it’s a sexual thing.”

Frank snorts again. “What?”

“I mean as in gender. Maybe whatever it is just affects women. Hell, I don’t know. What I
do
know is that fucking tree needs to be put to sleep.”

“So Dott tells you the tree isn’t from God, and you come up with this crazy gender thing. You’ve got to think, boy! Besides, that woman’s a different breed a’ cat. I wouldn’t trust a thing she says!”