Chương 3
“Evelyn, what happened?”
“I found something.”
“What?”
“A receipt.”
Despite myself, I almost laughed.
Apparently receipts were dismantling the Lawson family one marriage at a time.
“What kind of receipt?”
“Parking.”
She hesitated.
“It was in Richard’s things.”
Richard Lawson had been Christopher’s father, dead for almost eighteen months after a heart attack at sixty-seven.
I stopped beside my desk.
“Why were you going through Richard’s things now?”
“Because I finally got tired of having his office look like a mausoleum.”
That sounded like Evelyn.
Grief had never made her sentimental in public, but she had left Richard’s reading glasses beside his desk lamp for more than a year.
“I found an envelope behind one of the filing drawers.”
She lowered her voice, though there was nobody in her Phoenix house except her.
“There were receipts, appointment cards, and a note with Michelle’s name.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What kind of note?”
“I don’t want to tell you until I know what it means.”
“You called me.”
“Yes, and I am already regretting it.”
“Then why call?”
“Because Christopher is bringing those babies here Saturday.”
The answer came quickly this time.
“He called this afternoon and announced it as if he were presenting heirs to the British throne.”
That sounded like Christopher too.
Evelyn continued, “I need you to tell me exactly when Michelle became pregnant.”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Estimate.”
“They announced it eleven weeks ago.”
“How far along was she?”
“Christopher said almost seven months.”
Evelyn became silent.
I found a legal pad and wrote the numbers down, though I did not need to.
The conception window landed close to the period before Richard’s death.
“Evelyn.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t know.”
“I know enough to be concerned.”
“You’re implying Richard had an affair with Michelle.”
“I am implying nothing.”
“You’re doing an excellent impression of it.”
She made an irritated sound.
“Richard was seventy years old in spirit by the time he was fifty.”
“That isn’t a defense.”
“It wasn’t intended as one.”
I sat at my desk.
“Was the note romantic?”
“No.”
“Sexual?”
“No.”
“Then what did it say?”
Another long silence followed.
Finally she said, “It said, ‘Michelle confirmed for Thursday, eleven thirty, Tucson.’”
“That could mean anything.”
“Yes.”
“Was it in Richard’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I was married to the man for forty-one years.”
The sharpness disappeared from her voice almost immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“I apparently do for quite a few things these days.”
I stared at the arrows on my glass wall.
One connected Vextor to a consulting company called Sonoran Strategic Holdings.
The company had bothered me because it had received six payments without invoices detailed enough to justify them.
Sonoran.
Arizona.
I stood.
“Did Richard have any connection to a company called Sonoran Strategic Holdings?”
Evelyn did not answer.
“Evelyn?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Because Vextor paid it almost four hundred thousand dollars over eighteen months.”
Her breathing changed.
“Richard created Sonoran.”
For several seconds I forgot to sit down.
“Why?”
“He said Christopher needed a vehicle for Arizona consulting work.”
“Did Christopher know?”
“Of course.”
That did not match what Christopher had told our accountants.
According to him, Sonoran was an independent operations consultant.
“Who controlled the bank account?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who inherited Richard’s interest?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“You handled his estate.”
“The trust handled most of it.”
She sounded offended now, which meant she was recovering.
“Victoria, I am not one of your spreadsheets.”
“No, but somebody moved a lot of money through your husband’s company.”
“And you think that has something to do with Michelle?”
“I don’t know.”
For once, the phrase felt useful instead of weak.
“I need to see those papers.”
“No.”
“Then send me photographs.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you are no longer married to my son.”
I stared at the phone.
“That didn’t seem to bother you five minutes ago.”
“It bothers me now.”
“Convenient.”
“Don’t be childish.”
That did it.
“I spent years protecting Christopher from his own financial decisions while you told me a wife should make her husband feel respected.”
“That is not what I said.”
“You said it at Thanksgiving.”
“I have said many stupid things at Thanksgiving.”
Despite my anger, I smiled.
Evelyn sighed.
“Come to Phoenix on Saturday.”
I stopped smiling.
“When the babies are there?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“I need someone else to see what I see.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet.”
“I know.”
“Then what exactly are you planning to do, line up the newborns beneath Richard’s portrait and compare noses?”
“That is grotesque.”
“It’s also approximately what you’re suggesting.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “There was a photograph in the envelope.”
My irritation vanished.
“Of Michelle?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Christopher’s brother.”
I sat back down.
Christopher had only one brother, Andrew, who had died when Christopher was sixteen.
Andrew had been twenty-one.
The Lawson family rarely spoke about him.
I had seen photographs, mostly old prints of a thin young man with dark hair and an expression less guarded than Christopher’s.
“What does Andrew have to do with a fertility clinic?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was the photograph old?”
“Yes.”
“Why was it with the clinic papers?”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
It was the first time I had ever heard Evelyn Lawson lose control of one.
Saturday afternoon, I drove into Phoenix telling myself I had come for evidence, not babies.
The distinction lasted until I parked outside the Lawson house and saw Michelle’s white SUV beside Christopher’s.
I remained behind the wheel with the air-conditioning running.
A plastic grocery bag rolled across the street, caught against a cactus, and fluttered there.
My phone showed a message from Priya asking whether I had lost my mind.
I typed, Possibly, and put the phone away.
The front door opened before I reached it.
May you like
Evelyn wore cream slacks and a blue blouse buttoned incorrectly at the bottom.
I had never seen her misbutton anything.
