Page 86 of Welcome to Murder Week

I try to clear my head, to remember why I thought this made sense.

“I wanted to see him for myself, because I’m tired of being kept in the dark, of not knowing anything, of being left to figure out everything and everyone on my own.”

“Then it’s for you, not for your mother.”

“Right.” I press down on my thighs to stop them from shaking.

“So we proceed?”

“Yes.”

There’s still so much I don’t know. Was my mother in touch with her father? Did he reach out to her? Did he care? Does he know that she’s dead? I do not like the thought of having to deliver that information. He’s old. What if it kills him?

Germaine pulls into the parking lot of the Derby Oaks Care Home, a sprawling brick complex that reminds me of my bland, 1970s-era middle school. I get out of the car, but Germaine stays put.

“You’re not coming?”

“I assumed you’d want to do this alone.”

She’s right. I’m grateful for all the support, but I’ve had enough of my family’s history being Willowthrop’s favorite real mystery. I don’t want a witness.

The lobby smells like roast chicken and cleaning fluid. The walls are decorated with thick hooked rugs in swirling patterns of brown and green. I sign the register and follow a nurse down a long corridor.

“Ready?” Her smile is tight, forced.

I’m expecting a giant, an ogre, some kind of devil. But when the door opens, there’s only a frail man sitting up in bed. Everything about him seems insubstantial. He has filmy eyes, wisps of gray hair on his head, and patches of white stubble on his gaunt face, like he’s used an electric shaver with a shaky hand. He’s nearly eighty but looks older, maybe on account of living a hard life punctuated by too much drinking, smoking, and gambling. His long, thin arms rest on a blue wool blanket.

“Good morning, George,” the nurse says, her voice cheery and loud. “This is your visitor. Your granddaughter.”

It’s so quiet I can hear the crackling of his breath. On the table beside his bed is a racing form and a calendar on the wrong month.On the wall is a framed painting on velvet of an oak tree in autumn. The colors are garish, almost fluorescent.

“I’m Catherine.” It comes out that way, the name my mother chose for me.

Has he heard what I’ve said? He stares at me, moving his mouth around like he’s got something stuck in his teeth.

“Granddaughter, eh?”

“Yes, Susan Marie is my mother.”

That sounds foreign; I feel like I’m talking about a stranger.

“You’re Sukie’s girl.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a strapping thing.”

Gosh. I didn’t have that on my Bingo card.

“Not little like Sukie.”

“My dad was tall.”

“Huh.” His fingers flutter on the blanket. “Come closer.”

I’m reluctant to sit near him. I perch myself on the edge of the mattress.

“My mother wanted to bring me here. It’s my first time in England.”

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