Free The Lies that Bind by Judith Van Gieson Page B

asked.
    â€œWhit’s,” said Cindy. “The furniture is hers too. She left it to him when she died.”
    It was the old-money-pretending-to-be-no-money look, what was good enough for mother and father is good enough for me, and we care more about the dogs and the horses than we do about the house anyway. There’s a fine line between antiques and junk; I’ve never been able to see it.
    Considering the size of the house, there had to be several more rooms downstairs: a kitchen, a dining room, a library maybe, a den. We went to the kitchen next. The freezer door hung open, and water dripped onto the floor. An ice tray sat on the butcher-block counter, floating on a puddle of water. “Damn,” Cindy said. “He got himself some ice and left the freezer door open.” She took a sponge, soaked the water up and squeezed the sponge into the sink. Then she opened the refrigerator and took out a bowl of chicken salad, cucumber sandwiches and a pitcher of tea. There was no ice for the tea, it had all melted. We sat down at the kitchen table. Cindy poured the tea, served the sandwiches and the salad, brushed the hair away from her face and took a look back into another decade, another man. “Do you remember Emilio, Neil, how good-looking he was?” She sighed.
    I remembered. Emilio’s appearance in those days went beyond good looks into the danger zone of perfection. He was David who had just stepped out of Michelangelo’s marble, Elvis Presley before the army got him. He had warm brown eyes that could convince you to leave home and school and never come back. His kind of looks were bound to piss somebody off: gods, parents, the people who wore uniforms and suits. He wasn’t spoiled by it—not then anyway. Who knows what came later? He wasn’t arrogant either, which made him even more appealing. “Had me creaming in my jeans,” I said.
    â€œI never knew how many friends I had until Emiliano started hanging around. Even you, Neil—you came over a lot more.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYeah. That’s the trouble with having a good-looking guy. Your friends are always coming on to him, and half the time they don’t even know they’re doing it. One thing I can say about Whit: nobody’s trying to get into his pants.”
    â€œI know where they are, if anybody’s interested.” She laughed and brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Some women might be trying to get into his checkbook,” I said.
    â€œNot anymore they’re not. Arizona is in a deep recession. That’s why we came here. I meant to call you once we got settled.” They looked settled to me. They looked, in fact, as though they’d been in this house forever. “We were only here a few weeks, and then this business with Mother and Justine…” She looked at her plate, poked at a piece of chicken with a fork.
    â€œWhat do you think happened?” I asked her. One classic investigatory technique is to find disgruntled current or former employees who know the suspect and get them to bitch. I didn’t have an employee, so I turned to a family member. Even criminals need to confide in someone, and who else did Martha have to talk to?
    â€œ I don’t know,” Cindy said. “Mother hated Justine, and she is not a forgiving person.” She speared the chicken with the fork, picked it up, ate it automatically. “If you find out, let me know—or maybe I don’t want to know. I don’t know.”
    Some defense lawyers’ mantra is: It’s better not to know, but I’ve let curiosity get in the way of business before. “Do you have any idea how much Halcion she takes?” I asked.
    â€œMother’s little helper?” Cindy smiled. “She got started on that after Michael died. She was crazy about Michael and was devastated by his death. He was the son, the husband, all the men she’d never had. She