She washed that hard pill down with plenty of booze. “What about his family?”
George clucks. “It was just his mother, and the only thing she was ever gonna accept was a report that said Abe Wilkes was framed and murdered. She wanted a lie. She refused to believe the truth, even when it was finally there in front of them, in bold black ink.” He shakes his head. “And his wife, well, she up and took off with the kid. I guess she decided that all would come out in due time. Hell, she probably already knew what was comin’. She was his wife, after all. If there was extra money under their mattress, I have to think she’d have noticed it while she was tuckin’ in the sheets. Probably turned a blind eye. Given where she came from, it wouldn’t surprise me one bit.”
Where she came from? The Dina I remember was pretty and gentle and slight. She spoke softly. She wore floral dresses and baked chocolate-chip cookies and delivered her husband bottles of beer at barbecues, with a kiss. She was everything my mother wasn’t.
“What happened to her?”
“Started her life over elsewhere, I reckon. Can’t say I blame her. Being the wife of a cop who got himself into selling drugs won’t earn you no prize at the county fair, that’s for damn sure. As I recall, she didn’t even bother comin’ back to ask for the report once we released it.” His brow tightens. “It’s odd, don’t you think? Wouldn’t she want to see it, for closure?”
“Unless she already knew he was guilty.”
“Exactly.” George levels me with a somber look. “And unfortunately, Abraham Wilkes was as guilty as they come. Of course, we can’t try a dead man, but any jury would have seen it for what it was.”
“Seen what for what it was?” Silas asks, stepping back in.
“Jackie’s old partner, Abraham Wilkes.”
Silas’s eyes dart to mine, and I see the warning question in them: Did I tell George what my mom said?
I give him the slightest shake of my head, and I can see him exhale. He reaches for his drink. “Some people can’t help but abuse the authority they’re given.”
“Jackie sure didn’t. To one helluva cop.” George toasts the air. “And one of the hardest-working people I ever met. Not like this blister here, who don’t show up ’til the work’s done.” He nods toward Silas, flashing a smile to go along with the gentle ribbing.
Silas clanks glasses with him.
It finally dawns on me that this last-minute supper was Silas pulling his puppet strings. I can see what he’s trying to do—discredit my mother’s drunken rambling and give me something else to believe.
Manipulative, yes, but I appreciate it, because it’s given me the courage to face whatever sits folded in my back pocket. In fact, I’m now desperate to read what my mother had to say. I set my barely touched glass down on the desk.
“That’s good bourbon!” Silas scolds.
“I have to drive.”
“Right. Of course. So you’re going to pack up your things this weekend? Judy will have your room ready for you by Saturday.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Silas made a compelling case before George Canning and his wife arrived. I should move in with them rent-free—I’ll get home-cooked meals and can commute into work every day with Silas. I’ll borrow against the house’s equity and have the kitchen renovated. Give it a different feel, so my skin doesn’t crawl every time I walk in.
When the renos are done, I can either move back into the house and rent the two extra bedrooms out to my friends, or rent the entire house out for enough income to pay bills and a mortgage on a second property. Yup, Silas has made easy sense of my life for the next few years. I’m not sure if I’m sold on it—maybe I should start over fresh in Seattle, or somewhere completely new—but the thought of leaving behind everything I know isn’t appealing, either.
Plus, there’s no escaping what happened. My mother killed herself, no matter where I live.
“Chief Canning, it was great to meet you. Again.” I offer him my hand.
He stands and takes it, chuckling. “It’s just good ol’ George now. And if you ever need anything, give me a holler. Or better yet, come on out to my ranch for a visit. Anytime. The door’s always open. I’m out near McDade, the only Canning in the book.”
With a polite nod, I duck out.
The second my engine is running, I reach into my pocket for the envelope.
An odd mix of relief and disappointment hits when I see the single scrap of paper inside.
It’s not a suicide letter, after all.
It’s a diagram of the kitchen pantry, and what looks to be a removable panel in the floor beneath one of the shelving units, along with three words in her messy scrawl:
Open it alone.
* * *
My eyes roam over the long, narrow room, pausing on the thousand-pound green metallic Browning safe sitting in the corner, tucked away among the shelves of canned tomatoes and potatoes, bolted to the floor.
That safe is built to hold twenty-nine firearms, but Mom had only four personal guns registered to her: a Glock, a Colt Python, a Remington shotgun for the rare occasion that she had to play politics in the old boys’ club and go duck hunting, and my grandfather’s Hawken rifle—a family heirloom. They’re all present and accounted for, along with a healthy supply of ammo, and there’s plenty of room left in there.
So why the need for this hidden compartment under a shelf?
I set to shifting cans of food to the other shelves until the metal rack is empty, and I’m able to drag it away from the wall. It’s not heavy but the space is tight, making it difficult to maneuver.
I study her sketch, and then the floor. On first glance, there’s no obvious panel. Not until I crouch down and shine the flashlight on the worn wood do I see the seams.
It takes a few minutes with a butter knife before I manage to pry the covering off, revealing a compartment about two by one feet in size, and stuffed with a black nylon gym bag.
How long has this secret hiding place been here?
Pushing that question aside, I fish out the bag and yank open the zipper.
And my heart starts racing.
“Holy shit.”
I couldn’t even hazard a guess as to how much cash is in here, but it’s a lot more than I’ve ever seen, and it definitely wasn’t included in Mom’s list of assets that Hal reviewed earlier.
Pulling out one wad, I fan through it. A lot of twenties, but also everything from fives to hundreds. I must have a grand in my hand, and there’s plenty more. What the hell was Mom doing with this much money, and why would she hide it under the floorboards?
That’s not all there is.
Tucked in with all the cash is a tan leather gun holster. I frown as I fish it out, running my fingers over the black stitching along the seams. I’ve seen this holster before, but I can’t remember where or when.
Not until I flip it over do I see the letters embroidered on the other side.
A.W.
A sour taste fills my mouth.
Who else would this belong to, besides Abraham Wilkes?
Why does my mother have Abe’s gun holster hidden with a bunch of cash beneath the floorboards?
I notice a slip of paper mixed in with the bundles of money. I fish that out and unfold it, an ill feeling firmly settled in my gut.
Gracie needs this money. Make sure she gets it asap. Don’t ask questions, Noah. Trust me, you don’t want the answers.
Below it is an address in Tucson, Arizona.
There are no explanations.
No apologies.
Nothing that might give me any sense of closure, any relief. In fact, it does the exact opposite.
A mixture of anger and resentment burns deep inside. Maybe she thought that the last “I love you” would carry me through this more than anything she could have written down?
She had no plans of explaining herself, of exposing her demons.
“I’m a coward.”
That’s what she said. She said she couldn’t face Gracie, that she wanted to make it right but couldn’t. Is that what this money is supposed to do? Make it right?
Where the hell did you get this money from, Mom? And why did you have Abe’s gun holster?