Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(71)

Griffin continued, “Did you say anything to your husband about it?”

Gemma eased; they clearly saw it. “Of course I did. Johnny laughed, said Miranda was a cute kid and maybe that’s how Nate would come to see her as well. In other words, he saw right through her and trusted Nate would do the same when he got over his midlife crisis.”

Rebekah said, “But Nate never saw through her, did he, Grandmother? He loved her.”

Gemma shrugged. “So he died before he grew bored with her, but he would have, I’m sure of that. But all of it is nothing more than ancient history, isn’t it? Why are we even speaking of it?”

Griffin smiled at her. “You’re right, Mrs. Clarkson. We certainly have other, far more important things to discuss. For example, I know you’ve attended séances most of your adult life. Have you ever worked with a medium named Zoltan?”

“Zoltan? I’ve heard the name, of course. She has an excellent reputation, but no, I haven’t had the opportunity to work with her.”

It was a lie, he saw it, but she’d said it so smoothly. Had he imagined it? “Did you know she asked Rebekah to meet her to speak with her grandfather?”

Gemma grew utterly still, her face expressionless. She looked from Griffin to Rebekah and said slowly, “What is all this about? I thought you wanted to talk about Nate and his death, his accidental death.”

“We believe Zoltan and Rebekah’s attempted kidnapping are connected, Mrs. Clarkson, that they both had to do with a great deal of money your husband intended Rebekah to have, money he called his Big Take.”

“Big Take? That sounds like one of his silly stories. John’s estate was thoroughly accounted after he died, including Rebekah’s share. He had no hidden fortune. And if he did, why would he want to give it all to Rebekah? And why would Zoltan call her?”

Griffin wasn’t about to let her bog him down. Maybe she knew all of it already, but it didn’t matter. He said easily, “A good question, ma’am, and we’ll get to it. First, though, to be clear—you believe Nate’s death was an accident?”

She shrugged. “It all happened years ago, and, thankfully, those memories are blurred now. But I do know this. Nate wasn’t murdered. He was drunk, he was alone, and he fell, hit his head, and drowned. I remember Miranda was so pleased to be in the spotlight, and she played the bereaved widow to the hilt, the drama queen. She gloried in it until everyone realized there was no evidence of murder and finally dismissed her absurd accusations. Blessedly, she shut up and left Clairemont, her pockets full of Nate’s life insurance money.”

“What did Grandfather think?”

Gemma sat perfectly still. She cocked her head at Rebekah and stopped tapping her fingernails. “May I remind you your grandfather recently died? Those wounds never healed. Why do you want me to revisit such a painful time?”

“Please, Grandmother, it’s important.”

“Very well. Certainly your grandfather believed Nate was drunk, believed his death was an accident. He was buried in guilt because he thought he should have been with Nate.”

“What do you mean about those wounds never healing, Grandmother?” At her grandmother’s silence, Rebekah’s voice hardened, and words came out that had festered for years. “You can’t be talking about Grandfather and what happened to him. His wounds didn’t touch you. The sanitarium staff told me you rarely visited him yourself, though you sent in a series of private nurses. I know I never saw you there, and I visited him regularly all through those long sixteen years.”

Gemma laughed. “You really don’t understand anything about it, Rebekah. Yes, I was told his precious little darling was always there, crouched by his bedside, stroking his limp hands—” She broke off abruptly, shook her head. “I was very busy, Rebekah, and frankly, I do not understand why you bring it up. It’s none of your business what I did or didn’t do over the years. You know, one of the nurses asked me if you were hoping for a bigger inheritance, absurd since John was in a coma. Believe me, I assured the nurse you didn’t need it, not with the trust your grandfather had set up for you all those years ago.”

“Do you know, I’ve wondered if you ever loved my grandfather, your husband. Why else would he heap his love on me, his granddaughter? He didn’t have a wife who cared.”

Gemma rose straight up out of her chair, banged her fists on the desk. “He felt sorry for you, you idiot! A poor fatherless child. What was he to do? Ignore you? Pretend you didn’t exist? No, he heaped love and attention on you.”

“Did you expect him to ignore me like you did, Grandmother? Why didn’t you feel sorry for me, too, a poor fatherless child of your blood? You knew my biological father, didn’t you? You know why he left my mother and me.”

Gemma straightened tall. “You want honesty? Your mother, my only child, was such a disappointment. She was rebellious, slept around. Which of her stream of boyfriends fathered you? I don’t know, nor do I care. I have no idea if I met your actual biological father.

“But she always worshiped her father, always did exactly what he wanted her to do. Just as you did. I imagine she complained to him about me trying to control her, just as I had to take control over the business your grandfather never wanted in the first place and was delighted to drop in my lap. He felt no responsibility for anything except politics and how he would rise to the top. And you, of course. You and politics.”