“Funny you should ask,” I sing, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear. “As we speak, I’m looking for a gun.”
“Thegun?”
“Yup. Our dining room always had a slew of vases. None are transparent, which makes them plausible hiding places. My mother used to fill every one with flowers from the garden.” I peer into a trio of squat ones, all empty. “When there were no flowers, it would be greens, and when there were no greens, it would be sticks. Even the sticks were stunning. They were in the tallest vases.” Plunging my arm into one of those tall ones, I sweep my fingers around its hollow base. “She was an artist.”
“You never told me that.”
“She said she wasn’t, which is why I got her camera equipment. And after that there was the whole accounting thing, which was practical and methodical and worked so well for her that I forgot about the flowers.” Retrieving my hand from the last vase, I look around. “There’s no gun in this room. Lots of memories”—for which I have no time, so I head for the kitchen—“but no gun.”
“What about the kitchen?” Chrissie asks. We do think alike. “Lots of places to hide something there.”
“Too many,” I decide, casting a discouraged look around. “I don’t have long, and there are too many cabinets and drawers to check quickly. Besides, between Anne and the housekeeper, would he risk hiding anything here?”
“What about his bedroom? That would be the obvious place.”
“Yes,” I say, holding the phone to my ear as I zip up the stairs. Halfway down the hall, though, I stop. “I can’t go there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s his room.”
“That’s the point.”
“No. It’shisroom. Thejudge’sroom. Searching there would be a violation.”
“Mal. He’s your dad. And you’re looking for a murder weapon.”
“Potential,” I correct and, resolved, start forward, only to stop after a step. “If I find the gun elsewhere, I won’t have to search his room at all. And besides, isn’t the attic a more likely place to hide a gun? He was up there yesterday. He probably goes there a lot. Reading Lawyer’s Diaries could be his cover.”
Still with the phone to my ear, I enter the guest room and pull down the hatch. The stuffiness hits me when I’m barely halfway up the ladder, and this is familiar. Memorial Day to Labor Day, the attic absorbed enough daytime sun to retain heat through the night.
“You okay?” Chrissie asks softly.
I sigh. “Just remembering.”
“Is it hard?”
“No,” I say, then, “Yes.” I could tell her about my father mistaking Joy for Margo, about Anne’s annoyance with me, about seeing Jack Sabathian. Chrissie would be able to place it all, I’ve told her that much. She’s a good listener. So am I, which is why I know about the growing pains in her marriage, her struggle to have a baby, and her mother’s resistance to her biracial husband and child. We give mutual therapy, Chrissie and I.
But the attic is mine. I need both hands and speakerphone won’t do. “Can we talk another time?” I ask.
“Of course. I’m here.”
“Dante and Kian good?”
“We’re good. Call whenever.”
“Thanks, Chrissie.”
After pocketing the phone, I gather the books from yesterday and return them to the shelving that holds the others. They fit neatly into their slots—1996, 1997, 1998. And yes, I wonder why he was looking at those. Of course, I wonder. But there’s so much elsehere, too. Standing back, I study the collection as a whole. It’s an impressive one, spanning forty years. Some lawyers would burn outdated diaries after a time. Not Dad. He kept every one.
Where to start? Well, here is 2000, looking no different from the others—same faded blue leather, same worn spine. This was the year Elizabeth disappeared. I wonder if he mentions it inside, if he gives a clue to something he hasn’t shared with the world. Slipping the book from its slot, I weigh the spine in my palm. I’m breaking a rule. But the cause justifies the means, right?
Quick, before I lose my nerve, I open to the center pages, where summer would be. The entries are sparse, but I remind myself that this makes sense. He was a judge by this time, so there would be none of the notes about client meetings or the billing records he kept in private practice. The notes of a judge relate to cases being heard, motions to read and rule on, meetings with lawyers in chambers. But this was summer. Big cases weren’t tried in the summer. Everyone—jurors, judges, clerks—resented being confined. A skeletal staff remained, and Dad was often on call.
But he was also home a lot. Andthatwas a slippery slope. It would begin with us out of school and Dad planted on the porch reading a law journal, a newly-submitted brief, or the biography of one historical figure or another. Occasionally he joined us on the beach and actually seemed to enjoy it. He taught me how to swim. I do remember that, rather a tough-love kind of throw-her-into-the-water experience, but he did the same with my sisters, and he did reward us with smiles when we got it right. He had us picking up surf clams. He led us to hidden rocks where blue mussels clung, and set us to harvesting enough for dinner. He taught us to recognize the color of a rip tide and how to swim at an angle to escape it—taught us the difference between a rip current and the less dangerous undertow. And he was animated, totally into what he said.
These memories are good ones. I can complain all I want about his authoritarianism, but we did have fun. Because he liked doing these things. This explained why we lived at the shore. Tom Aldisshad grown up vacationing on Cape Cod and had dreamed of becoming successful enough to buy a shore place himself, which he had. He took pride in our house. And the boat? His escape. Rarely did a day pass when he wasn’t out on the ocean. Fog, wind, rough surf—he handled it all with the skill of a man who had learned as a boy.
