Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(69)

Last glance at Mr. Delaney.

Then, ready or not, here I come.

—

MY FIRST ORDER of business is trying to gauge how much my mother has already consumed. A jug of Ketel One sits on the kitchen island, a peeled lemon beside it. She follows my gaze, then raises her martini glass in open defiance. Normally, my mother waits till five o’clock sharp for her daily habit, but she’s never been great under pressure.

As usual she is impeccably garbed. Dark-green wool slacks, a cashmere turtleneck the color of oatmeal, a beautifully pleated chocolate-brown vest. Given her beverage and the waiting media, I doubt she’s planning on going out, but in my mother’s world, there’s no excuse for ever looking other than your best.

Now she spies my new chunky, clunky purse. Immediately, her brow furrows. “What is that?”

“My new bag. Old one burned up in the fire.”

“Evie, if you needed a purse why didn’t you just say so? I have a number of Chanels that would be perfect for you.”

I don’t answer the question, simply set my purse on the kitchen chair closest to me. Then I cross to the bottle of vodka, screw back on the cap, put it away. In my world, this passes for conversation.

“Did you eat lunch?” she tries now, going on the attack as a concerned mom.

“Mr. Delaney took me for lunch.”

“Did you eat? It’s very important that you eat. The baby—”

“I had a very healthy, fulfilling lunch, thank you. Including OJ, hold the vodka.”

She flushes, frowns at me again. “Did you find what you needed at your house?”

“I learned enough.”

“Is it a total loss?”

I hate to say this. “Yes.”

“Then, that’s it; you’ll stay here. Your rooms are ready to go, the nursery is nearly done. A woman in your condition can’t be subject to undo stress. Frankly, all this nonsense about the shooting is enough.”

For a moment, I think she’s referring to my father, then realize she means Conrad.

“The police say Dad didn’t kill himself.” I don’t mean to utter the words so baldly, but I don’t know how else to deliver them.

My mom freezes. There’s some kind of look on her face, but I can’t read it. Horror, sorrow, confusion. All three.

“Why are the police talking about your father’s death?”

“Because I told them the truth: I didn’t do it.”

“Evie Hopkins—”

Not my married name, I notice. Even half drunk and caught off guard, my mom can still get her digs in.

“I didn’t shoot him. We both know it. We lied to protect him sixteen years ago, Mom. Because we loved him. Because we couldn’t bear to think he killed himself. But it’s been sixteen years, and given what happened with Conrad … If we lied to protect Dad all those years ago, then I need us to find out the truth now, in order to save me.”

My mom sits. Hard. Just collapses in the chair, vodka sloshing against the sides of her glass. For a moment, she looks lost, almost childlike, and it unnerves me. Then she takes a fortifying sip.

“I don’t understand,” she says.

“According to the police, someone else shot Dad. Someone had to be here in the house.”

“But we didn’t see anyone.”

“Then the person left right before we entered.”

“Are they sure? How can they know these things?”

“You watch TV—”

“I don’t watch those shows—”

“Of course you watch those shows! Everyone watches those shows. Plus I’ve seen them in your Netflix cue. This isn’t the time for posturing, Mom. Now is the time for truth.”

She glares at me. It makes her look more like herself. We both relax. She takes another sip of her martini.

“They’re sure?”

“Yes, Mom. Dad didn’t commit suicide.” The words are harder to say than I thought. Again, my family has always been defined by the things unspoken. And suicide is such a sad, terrible word. We never talked about it. Just like myself at lunch, my mother gets a sudden sheen in her eyes. The weight of her own burden lifting after all these years. What could’ve been a shared burden, if only we’d been the type of people to share such things.

She looks away, drains her glass. Then, without another glance at me, gets up, crosses to the cabinet, and gets back down the vodka. I don’t try to stop her. Some battles are too hard to fight.

“Everyone loved your father,” she says at last, peeling off a curl of lemon rind. “He was a genius. Who doesn’t love a genius?”

“Other geniuses,” I answer. “Jealous professors, overworked TAs, flunked students.”

She frowns again but, focusing on the preparation of a perfect martini, at least doesn’t immediately dismiss my ideas.

“It’s why your father threw the poker parties,” she says abruptly.

I shake my head, not following.

“The academic world is competitive. For ideas, grants, students, funding. Your father didn’t love that aspect. Especially in math, he saw everyone working alone. He thought ideas would be better if people shared their ideas and opinions. The university environment wasn’t conducive to such things, he said. So, poker nights. Invite other professors, doctorate students, et cetera. Get everyone relaxed, having fun. Collaboration would naturally follow.”