Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,101
to get her future grandchild all to herself?
I never saw who shot Conrad. I have no idea who might have been in the house before me. I can’t picture my mom opening fire on my husband any more than I could picture her aiming a shotgun at my father. But then, my mother has never been one to do her own work. That’s what underlings are for. Particularly men, whom, from my earliest memory, she’s been able to manipulate with a single crook of her finger.
I always thought my parents loved each other. But did they? All marriages have ups and downs. If she thought for a moment that my father was losing interest, might even leave her … Who was the female professor my mother mentioned?
I pick a heavy cable-knit sweater in a light caramel, because I’m suddenly chilled and not liking at all where my thoughts have taken me.
• • •
WHEN I GET downstairs, I discover Mr. Delaney at the kitchen island. He has already shed his wool coat, revealing a deep-blue sweater that is stunning with his silver beard and hair. My mom doesn’t seem to notice, throwing what appear to be fistfuls of kale into the Cuisinart.
Mr. Delaney eyes me ruefully. “Breakfast of champions,” he says.
“Please tell me you have Pop-Tarts somewhere on your person.”
My mom pauses right before hitting the grind button to stare at us in horror.
“Never mind,” I tell her. “Green is beautiful.”
She smiles, returns to pulverizing.
I take the seat next to Mr. Delaney. “What brings you here this morning?”
“Just wanted to see how you were doing.” But he’s looking at my mom as he says this. I take in his sweater again, a color that he must know is flattering. Mr. Delaney has a bit of a reputation with the ladies, enough of one that he always jokes he’s too busy to settle down. But is that true? He’s never had one significant relationship that I know of. And yet he returns here, again and again, to the widow of his best friend.
And my mother? To the best of my knowledge, she’s never dated since my father died. Sixteen years later, surely she’s entitled to move on. Maybe the beautifully decorated house isn’t for my benefit after all.
Do I mind? My mother, Mr. Delaney?
I can’t wrap my mind around it. I’m adult enough to know my mom is self-absorbed, vain, and probably a functional alcoholic. I still can’t view her as a woman who might be lonely, a woman with needs.
I’m never getting through liquefied vegetables now. I get up and make some toast. My mother frowns at me, then throws an entire cucumber into the Cuisinart. Does she think I’m giving birth to a rabbit?
I make three pieces of toast, butter them, slice them in half, then bring them to the table. My mother has finished with the Cuisinart and has moved on to furiously slicing fruit. She has yet to pause since I entered the kitchen, or even say good morning. There’s something manic about her efforts. She’s not just preparing breakfast. She’s on a mission. I feel my uneasiness grow and look at Mr. Delaney again. I suddenly have a feeling I’m not going to like why he’s really here.
Sure enough, once the fruit’s been savaged and tossed on a serving platter, liquefied vegetables poured out for all, my mother arrives at the table, pulls out her own chair, folds her hands, stares at me.
“You have a trust,” she says.
I stare at her blankly.
“Your father was a very successful man.”
I nod, vaguely understanding this. “You once said he contributed to some major projects.”
“He still receives royalties,” my mother states. “Significant royalties.”
I guess that explains the house, the clothes, my mother’s lifestyle, which has never changed.
I’m still confused. “So you’re setting up a trust for me?”
“We set it up when you were eight.”
“Excuse me? I’ve had a trust? Since I was eight?”
I stare at Mr. Delaney, because of course this has something to do with him. “I assisted your parents in finding the best attorney for establishing the trust,” he says now. “As a criminal defense lawyer, it’s not my area of expertise. At your parents’ request, however, I agreed to be executor of the funds.”
“So … you’re the one who never told me I had a trust?”
“Actually, I assumed they had informed you.” The look he gives me is faintly apologizing. I’m not buying it.
“They didn’t.”
“Well,” my mother interjects, “like most trusts set up for second-generation wealth—”