An Uncollected Death Page 17

would stay on the base for a while, things would be a little better, but I would still be angry at Mom for letting him be so abusive to us both. She would be angry, too. Sometimes I didn’t know if she was angry at him for the abuse, or angry at me for existing. It drove me crazy. I’d sneak out at night to have fun with my friends or even just to do something I wasn’t supposed to do, and the older I got, the more I just did what I wanted to do, even when she’d whale on me. After getting knocked around by the old man, she was nothing. But then she’d be all sorry and wonderful and really interested in me, and I’d fall for it again and again. I loved her. I hated her. But him, I just plain hated.”

  Charlotte listened in silence. This was not the time to reveal Olivia’s harsh account of Donovan’s dying father.

  Helene seemed to age visibly as she took in this account of her sister’s and nephew’s life; the circles under her eyes darkened and her voice became less clear. “Oh, Donny, I had no idea it was that bad. I wish your mother would have said something. I should have realized her moodiness was from a terrible marriage. Your mother and I had not been in touch very often between the time you were born and a couple of years ago, even though we didn’t live far apart for the last twenty years. She didn’t really start opening up until after your father died, so I’m sure he was the biggest obstacle in all of this. When Paul and I would have dinner with you all during Christmas or Thanksgiving, it always seemed strange and tense.”

  Donovan shrugged, resigned about the past. “It was rough. None of my friends lived like that. If their dads were abusive, it was usually from drinking. These days it’s harder to get away with that kind of thing, but back then nobody got between parents and kids unless it happened right out in public, which I don’t remember ever happened. It was always in the house, in private.” Donovan gazed out the doors to the veranda. “He wanted me to go into the army, my mother wanted me to go to college, and I didn’t want part of either one. I left home the day I graduated from high school, and went to work in the mill.”

  Helene’s phone rang and she went into the kitchen to take the call. Donovan looked down at his hands and began rubbing them. Charlotte remained silent; she was at a loss for something to say, and couldn’t stop thinking about Olivia’s hatred for Ronson as he lay dying. No wonder she wrote what she did.

  Helene came back in, looking distressed.  She held the cordless phone out to Donovan. “It’s your mother’s lawyer. He wants to talk to you.”

  Charlotte rose and offered to make tea, uncertain what to say or not to say in front of Donovan. Helene nodded, but didn’t take her eyes off Donovan as he spoke on the phone.

  Something was clearly up, and Charlotte assembled the tea as quietly as she could in order to listen to whatever snippets of conversation came from the sitting room. The electric kettle began rattling as it heated the water, however, and drowned out everything until a sudden shouted “What?”

  She went to the archway between the rooms to see Donovan, who was now standing and staring at Helene in a mixture of disbelief and outrage, his hand holding the phone dangling at his side.

  “You have got to be kidding! What have you two old bats done?”

  Charlotte could hear the lawyer’s voice coming through the phone and Helene went over to take it from Donovan, but he pulled it away and spoke into it himself.

  “You have no idea what pile of troubles this has caused, and it will be challenged!” He then pointed the phone at Helene as if it was a gun. “And you will be, too!”

  He was so furious that he threw the phone at the urn, knocking it over, and stormed out of the condo.

  Helene was shaking, and Charlotte put her arms around her and led her back to the sofa.

  “What happened, Helene?”

  Helene took a deep breath and shook her head in disbelief. “It’s Olivia’s will. She’s evidently left me the contents of the house, and named me as executor. There’s some other things, too, but that’s the main thing. Donovan can’t sell the house or even take possession until after I deal with the contents.”

  This was clearly unexpected, Charlotte thought. It was also a little unfair, given how much there was to deal with.

  Helene’s own outrage grew the more she thought about it. “That dratted sister of mine! What was she thinking? What on earth am I going to do with a house crammed with all that junk? This is her way of getting back at the both of us, Donnie and me both! Paul was right about her—this is sheer spite!”

  “Let me bring you some tea, and then call the attorney back and maybe make an appointment?”

  Helene just nodded and stared out the French doors and at the garden beyond. Charlotte worried that all the stress would hurt her friend’s health. She picked up the urn from the floor and set it back on the coffee table, grateful that the lid hadn’t popped off and spilled the ashes.

  While Helene talked to the attorney—and she made no secret of her dismay—Charlotte considered this new side of things. As Diane said, the first thing to consider is who benefits by someone’s death, and the most obvious one was Donovan, or at least would have been Donovan in most circumstances. His outburst, while disturbing, was understandable, especially if he was counting on it to make a move to a warmer climate. Charlotte, however, couldn’t help but wonder if there was a connection between Donovan’s reaction to the terms of the will and the violence surrounding his mother’s death. What if he was the one Olivia had hit with the bat? And if he was the one who pushed her? If Olivia hit him first, one could understand his reacting instinctively, and pushing her away in self-defense, even if the intent was not to hurt her or kill her. But he did not appear to have any injuries, or to move as if he’d been beaten with a baseball bat. And if her head injury wasn’t intended, wouldn’t he have called for an ambulance? Or would he?

  Donovan had appeared tired, and somewhat ill at ease. He almost constantly rubbed his hands as if they hurt, and indeed the knuckles were knobby from arthritis. But hand-wringing could also mean nervousness, distress—and guilt. Charlotte wondered if he was always like that, no matter the situation, or if it would get worse, say, in Olivia’s house, the scene of the crime. Or maybe, she sighed to herself, he’s just upset and that’s the way he shows it. She didn’t have enough information to form an opinion, and certainly not to pass judgment.

  Helene ended her call, having set an appointment for the following morning, but had nothing more to add to what they already knew. Since she had a student coming in the afternoon, she wanted to rest and reclaim her equilibrium with a nap, and Charlotte left when she was assured that Helene would be okay.

   

  It was another marvelous early autumn day, which was fortunate since Charlotte had dropped the Jeep off at Elm Grove Auto and Body on the way to Helene’s and had to get around on foot. She walked down to Olivia’s house, to see if Donovan had gone there, worried that he would do some damage to his mother’s house in his fit of anger. All seemed quiet, however, as she passed the front of the house, and turned the corner to check the back door and garage. She continued on. The sounds of children playing in the schoolyard in the next block brought back memories of Ellis’ kindergarten days at the same school, of walking her there, of volunteering in the classroom. It was a good school. Charlotte sometimes wondered how things would have been different if Ellis had remained there, if she would have done as well in her piano studies living in this small town with its traditional public school and neighborhoods. But of course, Helene didn’t live here at the time, and Charlotte herself found life here untenable in the days during and immediately after the divorce, and then of course Jack lost no time in marrying Mrs. Jack—.

  She walked up past the school, then turned toward Bellamy Street, which was pure Historical District, lined with turreted Queen Anne houses, columned Greek and Colonial Revival homes, Second Empire houses with high mansard roofs, and frothy Eastlake homes decked out with spindle work. It was rich with oaks, maples, ash, linden, and tulip trees that had been planted to replace
the elms which gave the town its name a hundred and fifty years before.

  None of the houses were larger or grander than the old brick Blumenthal mansion, built shortly before the crash of ‘29, which sported a “For Sale” sign. Charlotte wondered if the Blumenthal family was finally, ironically, falling on hard times, but she doubted it. They probably didn’t want the bother of keeping up a house designed for a much more formal lifestyle. What would become of it?

  Charlotte continued to Cortland Street, to walk by her old Greek Revival-style house, and received another surprise. The original six over six windows that she had once spent excruciating weeks fixing and painting were in the process of being replaced by modern ones with vinyl snap-in grids to simulate the panes. Cortland Street was not limited by the strict Historical District regulations that governed Bellamy Street, but the homeowners were encouraged to preserve the original style as much as possible. Charlotte sighed, but walked on, making her way back downtown to Harvey Street. It wasn’t her problem anymore. She had enough of her own.

  Jack had sold the house quickly six months ago, in anticipation of moving to Paris, where both he and Mrs. Jack were either teaching or doing research at an institute at the Sorbonne.