Page 55 of Death in the Family
Bebe shook her head. “But I didn’t know.”
“You’re the fucking CEO. I didn’t report it. But neither did you. We’re in this together—as far as the IRS is concerned, you’re just as guilty as me. I’m going to jail. And I’m taking you with me.”
Dumbfounded, Bebe stammered, “But I’m your sister.”
“Yes. Yes, you are. But what does that mean, really? Family’s just a collection of people who happen to be bound by blood. I don’t owe you anything. Not you, and not anyone else.”
“Jasper,” I said. “Did he know?”
“He knew enough not to hand over his inheritance when we asked for it. If he had, it would be long gone by now.” Flynn nodded in his grandmother’s direction. “Nana’s money, too. That bastard always was smarter than me. I hope he burns in hell.”
Flynn’s hair had fallen into his eyes. He threw back his head the way Bram used to and jutted out his chin, one last-ditch attempt at pride. The similarity between them in that moment sickened me, but it also made my limbs rigid and ready. “Sinclair Fabrics would have been seventy-five years old next year, did youknow that?” Flynn said. “We were going to have a party. It was Nana’s idea—wasn’t it, Nana? Picked a date and everything. I hope to God you die soon,” he said under his breath, his gaze on his grandmother and his mouth on the rim of his glass. “I’d really hate to disappoint you.”
I felt no empathy for Flynn, none at all. I didn’t pity him for the terrible situation his father left him in. It meant nothing that Flynn and Bebe’s attempts to take Camilla’s and Jasper’s money were fueled by a desire to keep the family’s legacy alive. Yes, they’d invested years of their lives in the business, while Jasper’s entire career to date had gone to ensuring some other company’s success. None of that justified how they treated their brother, or their grandmother, or anyone else. Their hardships didn’t make the behavior these sick siblings exhibited forgivable. Jasper was gone. He was gone and his girlfriend lay dead on the floor.
“Philip,” Bebe said with a quiver in her voice, “take Nana to the library so she can lie down.” Camilla, it seemed, had entered some sort of trance. A puddle of drool glistened at the corner of her mouth and her wineglass hung precariously from her fingers. Norton wasted no time in carrying out the request. With a few soothing words he coaxed Camilla up, took her hands in his, and guided her from the room. My eyes lingered on her glass, the wine it contained was paler than the chardonnay the others guzzled around her.
“She doesn’t look good.” I heard Camilla’s shallow, labored breathing as she passed, and I stopped them at the door. “Mrs. Sinclair,” I said, “are you all right?”
The old woman’s lips fluttered. Her breath smelled oddly sweet.
“It’s the medication,” said Norton. “It makes her tired. She just needs to rest.”
“Should she be drinking while she’s undergoing treatment? You’ve been serving her wine.”
“What, that? It’s watered down. There’s hardly any wine in it at all.”
“You mix it in the kitchen?”
“Easier that way.”
“How often does she take them?” I watched his face. “The drugs.”
“Two... no, three times a day.” Nobody in the room challenged him. No one said a word. I doubted they had a clue what her cancer treatment entailed. Only Jasper would have bothered to ask.
“We should keep an eye on her,” I said, stepping aside to let them pass.
Norton nodded as he led Camilla into the hall and then the library, where he settled her on the couch and covered her with a blanket. Lying on her back, the old woman looked like a corpse.
In the parlor Flynn’s cigarette was down to the filter. Again the lights flickered. I hadn’t thought to ask Norton if the house had a generator.
Flynn said, “How about a little Q and A?” His face was red and he was sweating heavily. The man was plainly drunk. “I came clean, now it’s Ned’s turn. Tell me, sweetheart, what’s so enticing about my sister? Is it her delicate features? Her sweet-natured personality? It sure isn’t her money. God knows she’s got none of that.”
I glanced at Bebe, who was looking at her brother goggle-eyed. She wasn’t over the shock of Flynn’s bombshell news, and in her delayed response her soon-to-be ex-husband saw an opening.
“I have a question, too,” Miles said from his chair. “Mine’sfor Bebe. What drew you to our good friend Ned? At first I thought this was some kind of charity project—fuck a dirt-poor African kid, feel like a million bucks—but Ned’s bank account is a lot bigger than yours these days, so now I’m not so sure.”
“Whoa,” I said, leaning into the balls of my feet. Across the room Tim did the same, preparing to dive into the brawl that was surely seconds from breaking out. Ned’s face was creased with fury, teeth clamped and nostrils wide, but he didn’t move or utter a single word.
In more than a decade working with the police in the city, I’d heard so much offensive language I could write a dictionary of abominable slang—but Miles’s racist remark was shocking in its cruelty. I couldn’t fathom why Ned didn’t have him up against the wall. His restraint revealed a lot. Ned was accustomed to this kind of treatment from Flynn, who used and abused him every chance he got, but I didn’t get the sense that Ned was a pushover either. Then I remembered there was a child in the room around the age of Ned’s youngest sibling.
“My turn,” I said, capitalizing on the chaos. For the moment our suspects’ attentions were diverted, but I knew that wouldn’t last. “Who killed Abella? Come on, guys, think of it as family bonding. Free therapy.”
Bebe’s face was violet with rage. “All of you can go to hell.”
“Already there,” said Flynn.
“Enough. Goddammit,” said Tim, “that’s enough. Listen up, all of you. New rules. From now on, nobody leaves our sight.”
