The Accomplice(91)

“I’m fine,” Luna said.

“I’ll walk you,” Mason said, stumbling to his feet.

“Mason, sit down,” Griff said.

Mason’s ungainly dismount back to the floor broke the tension. Luna said her goodbyes to Owen, Casey, and Mason. Griff walked her out.

After they left, Owen said, “Something’s weird.”

“Yeah,” Mason said. “Everything changes when your parents die. It’s a lot to process, man. You gotta give yourself time.”

Casey was disappointed in herself for not monitoring Mason’s drinking better. The next morning was going to be a shit show.

“I was talking about Luna,” Owen said. “She was weird today, right?”

“Yeah. She’s been a little strange lately. I wouldn’t worry about it,” Casey said.

Mason leaned closer to Owen and tried to whisper, but he seemed to have forgotten how whispering worked. He was also putting an emphasis on random words, like he drew them out of a hat.

“I overheard a really weird conversation,” Mason said. “Luna’s conversation. Well, only one side. Luna’s side. A phone call.”

“Mason,” Casey said, as a warning.

“What did she say?” Owen asked.

“I don’t remember…exactly.”

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Casey said.

“I do know!” Mason said. He took some time to think about it. Then he became distracted by the carpet. He hadn’t seen a proper shag rug in a while. Mason’s brain finally circled back to Luna. “I think Luna is donating an organ. Or trying to donate an organ and they won’t let her. That happens, right?”

Casey rolled her eyes and breathed very loudly.

“Let’s get you some dinner,” Owen said to Mason.

As Owen guided Mason down the stairs, Mason asked, “Did Luna tell you she was donating an organ?”

By midnight, all the guests were gone, the catering staff had cleaned up and cleared out, and Vera was asleep in bed. Casey and Mason were in the guest room. Owen and Griff sat outside on the back deck. Griff had forgotten how quiet it could be away from the constant noise of New York City.

Owen kept thinking about the missing pills and Vera’s part in Tom’s slightly premature death. You couldn’t say he was upset or angry. But he did want to know if his theory was sane or not.

“Do you think Mom was taking some of Dad’s pain pills?” Owen asked.

“No. Weird question,” Griff said.

“Why?”

“She can’t take opioids. They make her vomit. We only need to worry about her drinking.”

“How do you know that?” asked Owen.

“Remember when she had kidney stones? Maybe you don’t. You might have just left for college. Dad told me about it. It was a nightmare for him. She was in extreme pain. When she took the pain meds, she started vomiting. He had to call an ambulance.”

“Huh,” Owen said.

He had no knowledge of that incident.

“Why are you asking about that?” Griff asked.

“I think maybe Mom killed Dad,” Owen said. Casually.





October 15, 2019


Griff had planned to return to the city soon after the wake. Then, on Monday morning, he’d phoned his boss and asked whether he could stay on at the country house a few more nights. The boss was glad someone was getting use out of it, and most of Griff’s work could be done remotely. While Griff was fond of the house, and Sam (the dog) was certainly having a fine time, he had only one reason for staying on. He couldn’t stop hearing one line over and over again.

You broke her fucking heart, man.

Griff texted Luna again Monday afternoon. He asked about the dining situation at the Sleep Chalet. He was informed there was a Lunch Chalet across the street. He asked Luna if she’d like a home-cooked meal, and they planned a dinner for the next night.



* * *



—

Owen called Luna after he left the police station. He was reeling after seeing the photo and remembering that night. He needed to talk, to make sense of things. Luna, however, wanted to have just one day away from Owen, one day alone with Griff. She said she’d call him tomorrow. She needed some space.

Owen texted Mason after that.


Weird shit is going on here. Mind warp kinda shit.


Sorry, man. In a meeting. Call you later?



Owen, desperate, texted his brother.


Where are you?


Still upstate. Get an attorney yet?


No.


Jesus, Owen.


Call you later.



Owen drove down to Rhinebeck to meet with Irene’s financial adviser, Cliff Easter. The office was on the second floor above a health-food store. Owen climbed a narrow staircase and was greeted by a middle-aged man with shaggy brown hair. He wore a Grateful Dead T-shirt and an old green cardigan.

“Owen. Nice to see you. So sorry about Irene. Come in.”

Owen followed Cliff into a modest office that was equipped with a mismatched collection of standard office furniture. It felt like a statement about how one should use one’s money.

“Have a seat,” Cliff said, after clearing a stack of papers from a beat-up swivel chair.