“She didn’t explain herself to the mortician. She just claimed a religious objection to modern mortuary practices. And she had this certificate of exemption from state interment laws, granting the foundation the right to bury its founder on its property.”
The tapping again. Nothing but darkness at the window above the sink. Only darkness at the window in the door to the back porch.
“What property?” he asked.
“A house and five acres north of Goleta. Lew Ross is pretty sure that’s not just the foundation office but also where Maddison Sutton lives.”
“With whom?”
“‘With whom,’ he asks. You’re pathetic, pal. You’re lost, gone, bewitched. Might as well buy the ring and change your name to Mr. Sutton.”
“With whom?” David persisted.
“Maybe with no one. Like I said, the place is on acreage. No immediate neighbor. No one is currently answering the door. I wish I could say the lady is in a ménage à trois with two bodybuilders who will bust your ass if you touch her, so then I could save you from yourself.”
“Maybe she’ll save me from myself.”
After a silence, Isaac said, “You’re scaring me, boychik.”
“Send me the report you received from Lew Ross.”
“As soon as we hang up. Read it and think. The key word is think. You need to maybe do more of that. There’s another thing you’ll find interesting in Lew’s report. Patrick Michael Lynam Corley died seven years ago . . . but he’s been seen since.”
“What does that mean? Seen when, where?”
“Three times. The first was five years ago.”
“Where?”
“This guy named Markham was taking a dawn walk on the beach. No one in sight. But then he sees Corley coming the other way, keeping his head down, as if searching for shells. Back in the day, Corley had built Markham’s house.”
Holding the phone in his right hand, David reached with his left to grip the draw cord and lower the pleated shade over the window above the sink.
“Markham calls out to Corley, but the man keeps going, head down. Markham blocks his way. Turns out this isn’t Patrick Michael Lynam himself, but his twin brother, Phelim Kearney Corley, who’s visiting the foundation for a few days to familiarize himself with Patrick’s legacy.”
Letting go of the shade cord, frowning, David said, “Why’re you trying to ghost story me, Isaac? You said Patrick was seen after his death.”
“We can’t get any background on this Maddison that checks out. She’s a cipher. But Patrick Corley lived his whole life in Goleta and Santa Barbara, and we know everything about him, practically down to what he ate for breakfast every day and how often he had constipation. We know for certain he didn’t have a twin brother named Phelim or anything else. He was an only child.”
David stared at the window in the back door. He could see his reflection faded like the semitransparent figure of a spirit that had escaped the confines of a casket and the pressing weight of a gravestone. “What am I supposed to make of Markham’s story?”
“Besotted with the lady as you are, my friend, I don’t know what the hell you’ll make of it, except probably too little. What I make of it is that, when it comes to this Maddison doll, nothing is what it seems to be. You’re reasonably famous and you’ve got money, so you’re a target. Keep that in mind.”
“She’s not a gold digger.”
“You would know that—how?”
David avoided the question. “You said Corley’s been seen three times since he died.”
Isaac sighed. “It’s a weird night in old Manhattan, David. A lot more sirens than usual, even more strange, angry people in the streets than we’re accustomed to, one of those nights when you feel these canyons of stone are as fragile as glass, that something’s coming and not something good. I just want to lie down with Pazia and go deaf to everything but her. The other two incidents are in Lew Ross’s report. I’ll send it to you as soon as we hang up.”
“I do appreciate your work, Isaac. I know I can always rely on you, and that’s a rare thing in this world.”
“You’re a good friend, David. I care about you. Please don’t screw up your life.”
David restrained himself from saying, I already did, a decade ago, before you ever knew me.
| 25 |
After lowering the shade over the backdoor window, he sat at the kitchen table with the nine-by-twelve six-inch-deep fabric-covered box that contained his collection of photographs of Emily, some of her alone and others of them together.