Fall Guy by Carol Lea Benjamin Page B

named me as executor of his estate. It came as—”
    â€œHe named you? What does that mean?”
    â€œThat his will designated me as—”
    â€œBut you just said you barely knew Tim? I don’t understand.”
    â€œHe must have had his reasons,” I told her, repeating what Brody had said to me. I told her how I’d met Tim and what he’d said that last day.I probably should have told her about the tears, but now didn’t seem the time. “That’s all I know,” I told her. “I’m as puzzled as you are. I guess he never mentioned—”
    â€œNo, never. I have to go,” she said. “I’m at the hospital.”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” I said again.
    â€œIt’s not that. It’s my job. I’m a nurse.”
    â€œCan we talk again, Maggie? I’d like—”
    But the line went dead, leaving me with the feeling that I’d botched an important task. I put my head down to my knees, feeling awful. And then, I can’t even say why, I went inside, picked up Brody’s card and called his cell phone.
    â€œIt’s Rachel,” I said. “I just spoke to Maggie O’Fallon.”
    I felt a tear rolling down my cheek, glad this was a phone call and not a face-to-face meeting.
    â€œThat’ll do it every time,” he said. “It went badly?”
    â€œIt was terrible.”
    â€œIt always is. No matter how they react, it’s always terrible.”
    â€œShe says it’s her fault.”
    â€œThat’s a common reaction, Rachel. We all like to think we’re more powerful than we are. If only we had done this or hadn’t done that, things would have turned out differently. It’s human nature.”
    â€œThen…”
    â€œYou did the best you could. You know what they say about the messenger?”
    â€œYes, I do. But she was mad at herself.”
    â€œNot at you?”
    â€œShe was mad at me, too. Very mad.”
    â€œGive her a bit of time. Try her again in a day or two.”
    â€œOkay,” I said. “I will. Detective?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHow do you…?”
    â€œLong story. I’ll buy you a drink one night and tell you all about it.”
    â€œI’m sorry if I bothered you.”
    â€œYou didn’t bother me at all. I’ll call you tomorrow, when I hear about the release.”
    As soon as I put the phone down, it rang again. But I didn’t pick it up. Instead, I took the stairs two at a time to the office and listened to the machine pick up, Dashiell barking, my outgoing message and then Parker Bowling, sounding impaired and frustrated.
    â€œShe’s still not there,” he said. “What now?”
    Another voice, farther away from the phone, said, “Who am I, fucking Martha Stewart, I got the answer to everything?”
    â€œBitch,” Parker said.
    I wasn’t sure which one of us he meant. Then I heard the disconnect.
    I went back downstairs and poured a glass of wine, sitting at the table where I’d left O’Fallon’s album. There were adults in some of the pictures and those same kids again, and again, and again, in different combinations. Family, I thought. So Tim had a brother, too. Dennis. But he hadn’t been mentioned in the will. What was that all about?
    I paged through the rest of the album, thinking I’d see those kids growing up, thinking I’d be ableto figure out which one grew up to be Tim. But they all stayed frozen in time. In the beginning of the album, the kids were ten or eleven through fifteen or sixteen. At the end, the same. Same kids, same ages, same goofy smiles, funny haircuts, high energy, high jinks and, every once in a while, a grown-up in the picture or a more formal shot, the kids dressed up and looking as if they hated it. Nothing written in the album. It didn’t say “Tim’s fifteenth birthday” or “Aunt Colleen’s wedding.” No