Back Where She Belongs(19)

Tara winced. Judith was referring to a party Tara had held when her parents were out of town. She’d been fourteen. Her friends had wasted two bottles of pricey brandy, ignorantly mixing it with Hawaiian Punch. The worst thing was that a guy had opened the gun cabinet and taken out her great-grandfather’s custom-made shotgun—her father’s prized possession, which he never used. The parts are irreplaceable, he’d told her once, when she asked why he never took it skeet shooting.

The guy hadn’t put it back and her father, upon returning, had found the gun lying around. He’d gone white with rage. She’d been scared he would hit her. She’d always been a little afraid of the man.

“No guns, I swear,” she said now. “And I haven’t touched the Pinch.” Judith leaned against the doorjamb. She rarely stood still long enough for a conversation. “If you want a drink, I’ll fix it for you.”

“No, thanks. What are you doing in here anyway?”

“Looking for the insurance agent’s number, but the files are missing. Looks like the drawer’s been pried open. You know how that happened?”

“Don’t look at me. I only dust and vacuum. This was your father’s kingdom. He might have mislaid the key and cracked it open himself. He was not patient with household objects. He snapped off the nozzle on the first espresso machine your mother bought.”

“It’s odd the files are gone.”

“He probably took them to the office. He never really worked here. Whenever I looked in, he was reading.”

Tara supposed that was possible, considering the unopened office supplies.

“Your mother asked Joseph to make all those calls—to the lawyer about the will and the insurance people. She was too shook up herself.”

Interesting. “Was Joseph in here? Would he have taken the files?”

“Don’t know. He came and got some clothes. It’s possible.”

She would ask him for the agent’s number and mention the files—see how he reacted. Maybe this was why he’d acted so fidgety. He’d nosed through the files. Why would he take them? To hide something he thought was there?

Judith started to leave.

“How do you think Mom is holding up?” Tara asked.

“She’s doing her best.”

“She seems so brittle.”

“It takes a lot out of her to put on a face for you.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She thinks she has to be strong for you.”

“She doesn’t. I’ll talk to her.”

“Don’t you dare say a word. Leave her her pride. She’d have my head if she knew I said anything.”

“I want to help. What can I do?”

“Then lend a hand on this big charity dinner she’s trying to set up. It’s a lot of work and she’s trying to do it all. Doesn’t want her friends to think she’s suffering.”

“I’ll do that. Great. Thanks for the tip.”

“I think she dreads Thursday at the lawyer’s.”

“Going over the will? Is she worried about money?”

“It’s not that. Your father’s a good provider. It’ll be real then. That he’s gone forever. That’s what I think anyway.”

“You’re a good friend to her,” Tara said, risking Judith’s displeasure over her mushy remark.

“When you run a person’s house, you have to be civil.” She sniffed.

“You mean a lot to my mother, Judith,” she said. “And I’m grateful to you for that. And for all you do for us.”

Judith had bought fruit and yogurt for Tara’s breakfast, even though she’d claimed that no decent person would call that a meal. She’d made Tara’s bed when she forgot. She’d even bought the jasmine incense Tara used to burn as a teenager to hide the smell of cigarettes.

“That’s just sickening,” Judith said. “You act like I’ve dying or about to quit. I’m not, so stop.”

“Sorry. Can’t help myself.”

“You never could. And it got you in a lot of hot water.”

She sighed. “I remember.”

Judith considered her for a moment. “For all the misery you caused, I have to say I wish my girl had some of your gumption.”

“Ruthie?” Tara hadn’t known Judith’s daughter, since she was closer to Faye’s age than Tara’s.

“Yeah. She’s a great cook. She’s over at Ruby’s. Some friends asked her to go in on a food truck in Tucson. She’s got no money to invest. Her share would be as cook. She turned them down. Afraid to leave home.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I pushed her, but she won’t listen. I’m just a mom. What do I know?”

“It’s hard to see someone waste their talent. I know that.” In Wharton, it happened all the time. People shrank to fit the smallness of the place.

“When you go to Ruby’s, order her goat and nopalitos empanadas. You’ll see God.”

“Definitely. Thanks. I won’t be here for supper, by the way.” She was headed to Vito’s to ask about her sister.

“You sure? It’s fried chicken livers and twice-baked potatoes.”

Her stomach churned at the prospect. “Thanks anyway.”

“More for me,” she said with a sniff, then seemed to think better of her tone. “I’ll save you a plate.”

An hour later, after she’d talked to the manager, bartender and two waitresses at Vito’s, Tara looked over the menu, still nowhere. No one had noticed Faye, so she must have met her father in the parking lot or slipped upstairs unnoticed.

When the birthday song rang out from a nearby table, she looked over. There were balloons floating above a girl’s chair, a pile of gift bags beside her.

Tara smiled, remembering a birthday party she’d had here when she was young. You got a free entrée and dessert on your birthday.

When the song ended, a man stood. She recognized him as Jim Crowley, who owned the grocery store and was one of her father’s poker buddies.

He headed for the restrooms. Here was her chance to talk to him. She made her way to the hallway and pretended to talk on her cell phone until he stepped out. “Mr. Crowley?” she said breathlessly.

“Tara.” He went instantly on alert. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.” She shifted so she subtly blocked his path. “I was just wondering, since you were at the poker game with my father, was he acting, I don’t know, unusual in any way?”

“It was a regular poker night. That’s all I can tell you.” He looked past her into the dining room, clearly wanting to leave.

“Was he drinking? Did he seem upset?”

“Your father was himself. The game was the game. I’m sorry for your loss.” His mouth was a tight line, closed against her. Why was he so guarded? “I’m here for my niece’s birthday, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Then it dawned on her. “Bill Fallon called you, didn’t he?”

He paused, considered that, then leveled his gaze at her. “Bill Fallon does a good job for the citizens of this town. He doesn’t owe you one more word. Your father would not want you upsetting your mother with wild accusations.” Anger flared in his eyes. “But then I guess other people’s feelings don’t mean much to you, do they?” He meant the grocery store protest she’d organized over unfair wages and hours. She’d been inspired by a unit on labor unions in her history class and organized a march with picket signs.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a family I care about.”

That stung. “I care about my family. I care that lies are being told about them. My father was your friend.”

“Yes, he was. And he would not want this. For once in your life, respect his wishes.” He walked past her.

She stood there, her cheeks hot, stinging as if he’d slapped her. This town. These people. So smug, so judgmental, so closed off, so infuriating.

She walked back to her table, aware that eyes followed her. When she glanced at Crowley’s table, Mrs. Crowley was glaring at her.

Perfect. Yeah, she’d interrupted a birthday celebration, which was impolite, perhaps, but there was no reason to be hateful.

For once in your life, respect his wishes. Did that mean her father had complained about her to his friends? The idea made her cheeks flame.

So blowing up at Bill Fallon had gotten her shut out of the entire poker group. He’d likely called all the guys to warn them she was on the warpath. Hell, the whole town would likely close rank on her. What if word got back to her mother?

It made her feel ill. Small towns. Small minds.

Except she should have known better. She should have controlled herself in the first place.