standing next to a priest, in front of a church. I saw the family resemblance and thought perhaps this was a photograph of my grandmother, in Kansas, until I noticed a palm tree in the background. A closer look made me realize-with a shock-that this must be Briana herself. In that instant it was brought home to me that she had not stopped aging when my mother died; that while my mother would forever be fixed in my mind as a woman in her early forties, Briana had gone on, had become a woman in her sixties. She was my mother’s younger sister by a number of years, but I could not remember exactly how many, and now, looking at the photo, I wondered what my mother might have looked like at a similar age, had she lived.
Even taking a high estimate of Briana’s age, she could not have been past her early sixties. The years, I was sad to see, had not been kind.
Another photo showed her when she was younger, looking much as I remembered her-probably in her late thirties or early forties-holding a toddler. Travis, most likely. There were several photos of Travis at various ages, sometimes with other adults and children, other times alone. None showed Travis with his father, Arthur. There were no photos of Arthur.
I looked for the most recent of Travis, which seemed to be a senior yearbook portrait. I picked this one up and studied it, trying to be objective. With dark hair and light-green eyes, Travis resembled Arthur to a great degree-but some of the Maguire looks were also in his features. Perhaps he had not grown up to be quite as handsome as his father, but he wasn’t hard to look at.
“Your cousin?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. This must be from high school. He’s in his mid-twenties now.”
“He looks like his dad?”
“For the most part. You’re wondering if Arthur was the man who was trying to pick the locks on the front door?”
“Yes. Do you think it could have been him?”
“It’s possible. Allowing for a few changes since I last saw him, he’d probably fit the description-but so could any number of other men.
The age would be about right. If it was Arthur, why wouldn’t he just knock on the door?“
“He could have been looking for something she didn’t want to give him.”
“What? A copy of
Butler’s Lives of the Saints?
A pink rosary? An old tin of cocoa?”
“We haven’t looked through this desk yet. Maybe he wanted something that had to do with the murder of his first wife-”
“Only wife, as far as I know. And that was more than a dozen years ago,” I said.
“Was he ever tried?”
“No. Never even charged.”
“Look at it another way,” she said. “If he had been tried and acquitted, he’d be protected.”
“Because of double jeopardy-he couldn’t be tried twice for the same crime.”
“Right. So he’d feel safe. But as it is, he’s still vulnerable. No statute of limitation on murder.”
“So if she blew his alibi apart… but this is nonsense,” I said. “She wasn’t the only one who alibied him. They were at the emergency room that night with Travis.”
She crossed her arms and tapped a toe. “You know the details of the murder case?”
“Not really. I wasn’t living around here then. I was working up in Bakersfield.”
“But… well, that’s your business,” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “And what’s done is done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, you ignored your aunt for more than twenty years, and there’s not exactly any way to make up for that now, is there?”
I didn’t answer.
“Sorry,” she said.
I studied the photo of Briana and Travis, the one taken when he was a toddler. Like my mother, Briana was a redhead. Her eyes were blue, her smile shy. “She was timid,” I said. “Quiet and unassuming, for the most part. I’ll admit she could have changed over the years, but it’s hard for me to imagine her blackmailing Arthur.”
She shrugged. “Who knows?”
“So you think he came around here and
Even taking a high estimate of Briana’s age, she could not have been past her early sixties. The years, I was sad to see, had not been kind.
Another photo showed her when she was younger, looking much as I remembered her-probably in her late thirties or early forties-holding a toddler. Travis, most likely. There were several photos of Travis at various ages, sometimes with other adults and children, other times alone. None showed Travis with his father, Arthur. There were no photos of Arthur.
I looked for the most recent of Travis, which seemed to be a senior yearbook portrait. I picked this one up and studied it, trying to be objective. With dark hair and light-green eyes, Travis resembled Arthur to a great degree-but some of the Maguire looks were also in his features. Perhaps he had not grown up to be quite as handsome as his father, but he wasn’t hard to look at.
“Your cousin?” Rachel asked.
“Yes. This must be from high school. He’s in his mid-twenties now.”
“He looks like his dad?”
“For the most part. You’re wondering if Arthur was the man who was trying to pick the locks on the front door?”
“Yes. Do you think it could have been him?”
“It’s possible. Allowing for a few changes since I last saw him, he’d probably fit the description-but so could any number of other men.
The age would be about right. If it was Arthur, why wouldn’t he just knock on the door?“
“He could have been looking for something she didn’t want to give him.”
“What? A copy of
Butler’s Lives of the Saints?
A pink rosary? An old tin of cocoa?”
“We haven’t looked through this desk yet. Maybe he wanted something that had to do with the murder of his first wife-”
“Only wife, as far as I know. And that was more than a dozen years ago,” I said.
“Was he ever tried?”
“No. Never even charged.”
“Look at it another way,” she said. “If he had been tried and acquitted, he’d be protected.”
“Because of double jeopardy-he couldn’t be tried twice for the same crime.”
“Right. So he’d feel safe. But as it is, he’s still vulnerable. No statute of limitation on murder.”
“So if she blew his alibi apart… but this is nonsense,” I said. “She wasn’t the only one who alibied him. They were at the emergency room that night with Travis.”
She crossed her arms and tapped a toe. “You know the details of the murder case?”
“Not really. I wasn’t living around here then. I was working up in Bakersfield.”
“But… well, that’s your business,” she said, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “And what’s done is done.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, you ignored your aunt for more than twenty years, and there’s not exactly any way to make up for that now, is there?”
I didn’t answer.
“Sorry,” she said.
I studied the photo of Briana and Travis, the one taken when he was a toddler. Like my mother, Briana was a redhead. Her eyes were blue, her smile shy. “She was timid,” I said. “Quiet and unassuming, for the most part. I’ll admit she could have changed over the years, but it’s hard for me to imagine her blackmailing Arthur.”
She shrugged. “Who knows?”
“So you think he came around here and