He noted her move from justifying attempted homicide to blaming him for being in the blast zone.
She continued, “The doctors told us you would never recover. They said even if you woke up, you’d have brain damage! Do you think we wanted that?”
“I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t press a pillow to my face to save you any trouble.”
Her voice sharpened. “Trouble? You were our only chance to pass the business into responsible hands.”
She had just skipped over assuring him they would never smother him while he was in a coma to … to rationalizing their motives. Their motives for … what? More murder?
“Your father was … well, you remember him.” She huffed in disbelief. “Irresponsible was a kind term. But you … when you were a boy and visited us, you impressed Albert and me with how clever you were, how quick to learn, how eager to serve. Even at seven you understood what the business meant to the family, and you looked at your father with such wonderment as if you couldn’t believe he could throw it all away.”
Benedict gripped the phone so hard, his fingertips grew cold. “I loved my father.”
“Of course you did, but it all came out for the best.”
“What came out for the best?”
“All of it. Their deaths, you coming to us, Merry Byrd being hurt and you being hurt, too. Who could have imagined that would happen, or that you would have had such a difficult recovery?”
He breathed carefully, in and out, regulating his intake and his outflow. “It all came out for the best because it gave you time to get her away?”
“Oh, please. As soon as Nauplius Brassard went to her and offered to make her pretty, she leaped at the deal. Look where she is now—a beautiful, wealthy widow! If the two of you had stayed together, she would be nothing but a frumpy do-gooder and you would be frustrated with her lack of foresight.”
His door opened.
The beautiful, wealthy widow walked in, and quietly shut and locked the door behind her.
Rose continued harping in his ear. “You’d be always holding some snotty-nosed baby, or opening some women’s shelter or giving money to a homeless bum. No, dear, after the air had cleared, your uncle and I were satisfied we had made the right decision in regards to your little infatuation with Merry Byrd.”
She had not only admitted to attempted homicide, she justified it, and now she waited for him to agree. What kind of man was he that she thought such a thing? If he hadn’t seen Merida Falcon on that transatlantic crossing, recognized her on some primal level, pursued her and recovered the woman he loved … would he someday have become the man Albert and Rose wanted him to be? A man like them: merciless, amoral, loving profit above all things?
Merida looked at him, looked hard at him, then went to the electric tea kettle. Still watching him, she filled it with water, plugged it in and turned it on.
“Benedict? Are you there?” Rose asked.
“I’m here.” With Merry—but he wouldn’t tell Rose that.
“Did you discover what is going on with our business accounts?”
He laughed once, a guard dog’s bark of a laugh. “Aunt Rose, I think I did discover what’s wrong with our business accounts.”
Merida looked surprised, but not alarmed.
With complete assurance, he said, “In fact, I know I did. Let me do more fact-checking and you’ll have all the information you need.”
“That’s good, dear.” Rose sounded satisfied, as if she believed she’d talked sense into her nephew. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m old and tired, and Albert and I need our beauty sleep.”
“Yes, Aunt Rose. Of course. Sleep now.” He hung up, dropped the phone on the floor and sat down in the easy chair next to the bed. His hands dangled between his knees, and he flexed his fingers, trying to get the circulation flowing.
Merry came to him, knelt in front of him exactly as he had knelt in front of her. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything … has changed. I’ve been … a fool. I didn’t recognize you and I didn’t realize … all these years I didn’t know…” He looked down at Merida. “Aunt Rose. She said … they tried to kill you. And I think … I suspect they killed my parents.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Merry made Benedict a cup of herbal tea. She brought it to him, wrapped his hands around it and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him.
He took one sip and flinched. “What is this?”
“It’s chamomile. It’s late and you’re upset. You can’t process caffeine efficiently, not so late at night. Just drink it.”
He laughed, stopped, laughed again. “How could I have not recognized you? You’re the same as you always were.”
“No, I’m not.” This scene wasn’t how she’d pictured this at all. She had thought she would be a supplicant, asking for the truth. Instead, he looked like ten miles of bad road.
“Organic. Homemade. Herbal. Meditation.” He imitated her voice. “‘Everyone can in their own way make a difference.’”
She was embarrassed to look him in the face. “What a dumbass I was.”
“No. No, you were wonderful.” He smiled at her with such charm. “You reminded me that life could be joyous. You taught me I shouldn’t give people a handout, but a hand up. You believed in the inherent goodness of mankind.”
He had not convinced her. “Then someone tried to kill me. As I said, a dumbass.”
His smile vanished. “Not someone. My aunt and uncle.”
“Why? I didn’t do anything to them.”
“They had chosen me to inherit the family business and to carry the torch of brutal industrialization and profitable exploitation into the future. You changed me.”
“Not for long. Aren’t you still their chosen one?” Before he could speak, she said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I appreciate you trying to make me feel better about myself, but your aunt and uncle succeeded. Merry Byrd is dead and she left nothing. Nothing. I should be grateful to them for killing her before she screwed up her life any more. Or yours.”
He picked up his phone off the floor and pushed a few buttons. “Video call,” he told Merida.
Merida heard a woman’s weary voice say, “Hello,” and in the background, a chorus of crying children.
He said, “Sounds like we’re having an evening there.”
“The identical twins are identically teething and everyone wants to cry about it.” The voice sounded familiar to Merida.
“Where’s your help?” he asked.
“Everyone is here who is scheduled to be here. It’s simply one of those nights.” The familiar voice called, “Larry, do we have any more cold teething rings?”
“I won’t keep you long, but I have a friend here who would like to meet you.” He turned the phone to face Merida. “Ms. Sandvig, this is Merida. Merida, this is Ms. Sandvig. Ms. Sandvig directs the Baltimore Inner City Day Care and Preschool.”
“I know.” Merida tried to speak, to express her delight at seeing her old friend once more. When no sound came out—she should be used to that by now!—she gestured, nodded and smiled.