Not One of Us(87)

“You don’t seem too shaken about Uncle Buddy’s death,” I noted, probing—hoping to rattle her mask of calm.

She shrugged. “Not particularly. Although I do worry what might happen one day if we get in a financial bind.”

“We don’t need his money. You know I’ll always take care of us, don’t you?” The words were thick and heavy on my tongue.

“You’re out of a better-paying job now. Remember?”

“I managed fine without him before now,” I answered sharply. “Nothing’s changed on that score. I still have my own business. What I’m trying to understand is why you aren’t upset that your brother killed Jackson. Your own nephew. I thought family was everything to you.”

“If Buddy hadn’t killed Jackson, the kid would have ended up in prison or the morgue before he was thirty. He was a bad seed.”

“That’s cold.”

“That’s being realistic. Now, Tressie blackmailing Ardy all these years—that surprised me.”

Not for the first time, I couldn’t read Mimi’s emotions. She had a way of announcing facts in a neutral, brusque manner, as though she were merely an observer on the outskirts of events.

“I thought at first Tressie was the one sending me those threats and had kidnapped Zach.” I gazed out the window momentarily, collecting my thoughts. “But all along it was Uncle Buddy.”

“Cornbread’s done,” Mimi announced, pulling it again from the oven. “You about ready for dinner?”

It seemed she was through with this conversation about her siblings.

“We need to talk first.”

“Fine.” Mimi wiped her hands on her apron. “Zach—go on and wash up for dinner,” she called out.

The moment had arrived. Dread weighted me down like a stone to the chair. Mimi sat across from me, arms folded on the table. Her eyes stared directly into mine. Calm and expectant.

I thought I’d already made my decision, but now, facing my grandmother, my heart raced, and my palms began to sweat. This was going to be as hard as I’d imagined.

“Uncle Buddy and Cash Johnson weren’t the only voices I heard on that tape recording,” I blurted.

She didn’t so much as blink.

“You were there,” I said softly. “The day the Cormiers were murdered.”

“No. You’re mistaken.” Her gaze remained unflinching. Only the tightening of her clasped fingers on the table betrayed nervousness.

“You were there,” I insisted. “You showed up after the murders with Uncle Buddy and Cash.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why would I be there?”

“Must have been a lot of blood to clean,” I said. “Uncle Buddy figured there’d be nobody better than you to take care of the mess. You were their housekeeper, after all.”

“Is that what you think you heard on that tape?” she scoffed. “I’m telling you: it wasn’t me.”

“I couldn’t make out the words,” I admitted. “But I do know your voice—tiger-orange cubes rattling against a black landscape.”

Silence filled the space between us—a dark abyss. The gurgle of running water drifted to us from the bathroom.

“Is that what you told your cop friend?” Mimi asked at last. She pressed her thin lips together as though to keep them from trembling.

“Why did you do it?” I whispered. “How could you do it?” The question had been eating at me, toxic as cancer, an acid drip on my heart that refused to stop.

“I had nothing to do with the killing. That was all Buddy. Not like I could change what he’d already done to them people.”

I leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded. Secretly, foolishly, I’d hoped I’d been wrong. All these years—she’d known. Had even mopped Deacon’s blood from the floor and covered up the murders for her brother.

“Why?” I asked, my voice breaking. “Why?”

“I did what I had to do.” Her gray eyes darkened and glowed with fierce determination. “No regrets.”

“You knew I loved Deacon.” I hurled the accusation at her. “You knew how much it hurt me when people said he and his family went into hiding to save themselves from the Mafia. You knew how much I grieved for him.”

Zach entered the room. “Mimi knows.” His singsong words danced around us. “Mimi knows. Mimi knows.”

The familiar echolalic phrase shook me to the core. “Go back in the den and watch TV, Zach.”

“Eat!” he demanded.

I rose on shaky legs. “I’ll fix you a plate—then you go eat it on the couch.”

My hands shook as I buttered him a piece of cornbread, scooped pintos into a bowl, and then carried it out to the living room. I set it all down on the coffee table.

“Tea,” Zach said. For my brother, today was just another day, same as any other.

I returned to the kitchen, poured a glass, and took it to him. Mimi remained stoically seated in her chair, back stiff and unyielding. I sat across from her.

“You say you did what you had to,” I began, resuming the confrontation. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I had a ton of medical bills from the doctors treating your mom. I could never hope to pay them on a house cleaner’s salary.”