The Matriarch Read online

  Charlotte rises, gathers the remains of our lunch, and tosses it into the garbage. “Are you thinking of that case where Harvey Milk was killed by a man who claimed he was unbalanced from consuming too much sugar?”

  I nod. “The Twinkie defense. It’s a myth, of course, but it had a few believers a while back.” We take our Cokes and settle ourselves onto the couch in the living room. “Okay,” I say, “just for the hell of it, let’s say an overdose of some weird additive creates a negative energy in a person without him, or her, even realizing it. It builds and builds until it overwhelms the person. So then what happens? Where does it go?”

  “Are you suggesting that Carla had that negative energy in her when she killed Dante?”

  “Well, maybe. It’s a theory that works as well as any. At least at this point in time. Something changed Carla. Did you notice her eyes today? A couple of times it was as if the real Carla was in there looking out at us. Like she was saying, ‘Holy shit, what am I doing in this crazy woman’s body?’”

  “I know,” Charlotte says, “I noticed that too. Like there was a different woman inside her.”

  I put my Coke down and take her hand into both of mine. “How did you get this scar?” I stroke the white line that travels over the back of her hand at the base of her fingers.

  “I was a kid,” she says, “helping my dad clear out some brush in our back yard. He had a hatchet and was using it on a stubborn cluster of weeds. My hand got in the way.”

  “Jesus. He didn’t see it?”

  “I guess I just kind of stuck it out there.” She gives me a nervous laugh, but I know it’s not funny to her. “My little finger was hanging off my hand by a thread. We had a wild ride to the hospital, my dad speeding through red lights and me jamming that finger in place on my hand with a blood-soaked towel.” She shudders, remembering. “I pressed that towel hard against my finger, terrified the car would lurch and I would inadvertently tear my finger all the way off. The doctor sewed it back onto my hand. He reattached it.”

  She pulls her hand from mine and wiggles her fingers at me. “Good as new. Now, though, as an adult I sometimes get the feeling my life hangs by just as flimsy a thread as that finger.”

  “But, why?”

  “I honestly don’t know; it’s just a feeling. This trip to see Carla and Dante hasn’t helped my sense of safety, that’s for sure.” Again, the nervous laugh.

  “My God, Charlotte, Dante’s death would spook anyone. You’ve got a right to be nervous.” I don’t question her though, about why she was nervous before this current mess. I put my arm around her shoulders and draw her close.

  “Why did you come here, Cass?”

  “Ah …” I drain the last of my Coke. “I’m not sure my visit is a good idea. But Uncle Frank has been wanting me to come down here and help him with the quake damage. My job in Eugene disappeared so I thought, why not?”

  “Of course,” Charlotte says. “Did you go to school in Oregon?”

  “Yeah. After high school I enrolled in a small community college. I studied architecture.” I sound as if I’m apologizing.

  “And?”

  “I liked it,” I say. “But the math shot me down. I think I could have handled it if I’d been able to go through the work at a slower pace. I’m not a quick study.” Now it’s my turn with the nervous laugh. She takes my hand.

  “Cass, you’re not exactly old. You could take a class in architecture again, along with a remedial math course.” She’s squeezing my hand.

  “You’re sweet to point that out, Charlotte.” I pull her closer and kiss her forehead. “Sweet … You remember Carla asking you to bring her some of those sweet figs?”

  Charlotte nods.

  “Yeah. If you wanted something sweet, would you ask for figs?”

  “No, I wouldn’t ask for figs,” she says, grinning. “Double fudge brownies maybe. Or—”

  “Glazed donuts, chocolate chip cookies, a chocolate ice cream cone … sweet.” I lean toward her, and my lips brush gently against hers. I pull her closer as our kiss deepens. She returns the kiss but soon slides away from me, out of my embrace. She stands.

  “Thanks for coming with me today,” Charlotte says.

  Have I gone too far? Too fast?

  “I’d better clean the place up a little before Shelly gets home,” she says, smiling at me.

  I think of the other woman filing for divorce. “Charlotte, the other woman Sims told you wanted a divorce too; was she at Dante’s funeral?”

  “I think so. It was Lindee Banyon.”

  My heart revs up. “You mean Arty, the honey guy’s wife?”

  “I saw her a few days ago at the market. It was bizarre. She bent my ear for at least ten minutes telling me what an asshole her husband was. I had never heard her talk that way about Arty before.”

  The loving, caring Banyons … along with the loving, caring Russos. I remember Carla eating so many figs that Sunday when I arrived and then asking Charlotte to bring her more … more of those sweet figs. Crazy.

  We walk to the door, arm in arm. I stop and jerk Charlotte to a halt. “Do me a favor, will you? Don’t eat any more figs.”

  She laughs. “No problem; I hate figs. Shelly, though, can’t get enough of them. What’s wrong with figs, Cass?”

  “I …” What the hell can I say? I think they’re weird? I think they might make you do strange things? “I don’t really know, but well … you saw that crazy tree.” I realize then that I’m beginning to think The Tree and those figs are somehow causing this craziness in women.

  “Like I said, I hate the bloody things!” she says.

  I’m grateful for that. But I remember Shelly stuffing her face with figs when I met her. And what about Lindee Banyon … Is she a fig fan as well? Crazy.

  “Cassidy,” Frank says to his nephew later that afternoon right before Cass is about to take off with Dott to show her the tree, “could you folks pick up the fallen figs for me? Long as you’re out there anyhow.”

  “I think there’s something strange about those figs, Frank. I don’t think—”

  “Strange?”

  “Yeah. You haven’t seen that thing in a couple days now, and—”

  “Just pick up the bloomin’ figs, will you?”

  Shit sakes, but this boy can be irritating!

  He pushes the big basket at Cassidy. The thing smells rank. The way that tree’s producing these days is driving him crazy, but it goes against his nature to let perfectly good, God-given figs go to waste. As the days go by though, it’s become more and more of a challenge to go out there and gather them up.

  Since Dante’s passing—he refuses to think of it as Dante’s murder—Frank has felt off balance. Literally. Sometimes he thinks he’ll tip right over. It’s probably understandable, losing his best friend in such a horrible way. And Carla as well, lost to madness.

  He surely does miss those two! And of course, his beloved Emma. It makes his eyes water to think back on the good times they had shared over the years. And it’s numbing to think of the years to come without their caring friendship and love. He scrubs at his eyes with callused fingers.

  “I don’t think people should eat that fruit, Frank.”

  “All right then,” Frank says, trying to be reasonable. “Leave the ones you think are too ripe, and I’ll have Lester-Lee shovel them under. He can bury them.”

  Frank tugs at his belt, hitching it and the gun it carries higher up onto his bony hip.

  “Jesus, Uncle Frank, why are you wearing that gun inside the house? Why outside for that mat—”

  “Hush up, Cassidy. I don’t have to explain everything I do to you.”

  Frank just wishes he could explain it to himself, this feeling that he needs protection. This feeling of being vulnerable and naked before an unknown enemy. Worst of all is the niggling knowledge down in his gut that the gun he so carefully keeps with him will be useless against that enemy, whatever it turns out to be.

  “There’s somethin
g in the air, Cassidy,” Frank mutters. He feels Cassidy’s gaze, but the boy isn’t saying anything. “It’s out there. Watching. Ever since that quake. It’s some kinda presence. But I don’t know what it is. I think Lester-Lee feels it too.”

  “Does he talk to you about it?”

  “Nah.” He waves that idea away.

  “And you don’t see this … whatever it is?”

  “I feel it. Out of the corner of my eye. No, the corner of my mind.”

  “It spooks you?”

  “Spooks is another word for ‘scares,’ Cassidy.” He feels a surge of anger. “I’ve never been scared of anything in my life!”

  Cassidy sighs. “I can’t go into this right now, Frank. Dott’s waiting on the porch, and I want to show her The Tree.”

  “Why?”

  “I think she might know why that thing is growing the way it is.”

  “Trees grow, Cassidy. That’s their nature.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Tree spookin’ you, is it?”

  Dott places a warm hand on my bare arm as we walk over the bridge with Louie trotting along behind us.

  “I need to explain something to you, Cass,” she says and gives me her gap-toothed grin. “I admit I like Charlotte, but I’m sure you realize I’m no competition to you.”

  I feel heat rush to my face. I don’t know what to say.

  “I certainly notice the attraction between you two.” She drops her hand from my arm. “I’m the odd man out, Cass, in case you haven’t noticed. I’m not complaining, you understand; there are pluses here and there.”

  I take a breath to speak, but she waves a hand at me and continues.

  “My dad raised me up ’cause Mom died when I was just four, an only child. Sometimes I think of the little girl I was back then, motherless at four …”

  There are tears in her voice, and I’m amazed at the rapport she has with herself as a little girl. I try not to remember myself as a kid, because compared to me today, it makes me sad.

  “My dad was great to me, and we were close. I idolized him. At fifteen I fell for a college boy. Madly!” She laughs, shaking her head. “I got pregnant. Dad was kind and forgiving and told me he would pay for an abortion. Not a brilliant child, but I did know I was too young to be a mother, so I accepted his offer.”

  She stops and puts a hand to her eyes.

  I stop as well, not sure what’s going on.

  “Tragedy,” Dott murmurs. “Disaster.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “To this very day I’m not exactly sure. An abortion, yes. Along with a tubal ligation.”

  She starts walking again, taking huge strides.

  “Tubal … isn’t that …?” I hurry to keep up with her. Louie is racing along ahead of us now.

  “He botched the job. That son of a bitch doc tied my tubes.”

  “Jesus … why did he do that?”

  “I guess my dad didn’t want any more reproductive problems from me. Thing is, since then I don’t know what the hell I am. That mad doctor turned me into some kind of female eunuch.”

  She stops again and whirls to face me so abruptly. I damn near slam right into her.

  “I just like Charlotte, Cass. As a friend. Not a big deal.” She frowns at me. “You understand?”

  “Yeah sure, Dott.” I’m not sure I really do, but I want to put her at ease.

  We walk on in silence.

  I can see the top of The Tree already as we stride toward it up a slight rise. It hasn’t been visible from here before … has it?

  We stop about twenty yards away from it.

  “Big one, all right,” Dott says. “Thing must be thirty feet tall.”

  Its breadth now exceeds its height by twenty feet at least, giving it a squat, menacing look. Kind of like a giant green tarantula. The still unfinished barricade appears smaller than it had on Monday. Fallen figs litter the ground beneath The Tree. They’re piled up on top of each other, easily a half-foot deep. Their stench permeates the air, and I put a hand to my nose and mouth.

  A chill brushes across my mind. Where is Louie?

  I see the dog then, several yards off to my right, crouched low in the grassy turf. He’s on his belly with his hind legs stretched out behind him, inching his way toward The Tree. The ruff on his back and neck is dark and standing straight up.

  “Louie come here,” I call to him, but he continues his careful approach. “Get over here, Louie!” He pays no attention. “Minds well, don’t you think?”

  Then there’s a cry, not human. It’s coming from Louie’s throat, and it tears the air around him as he springs forward.

  “He’s charging The Tree!” I run for him on a diagonal, aiming for interception about eight yards from The Tree. I dive with my arms outstretched and hit the ground. I slide, get a hand on one of Louie’s legs, and bring him down.

  “Louie, Louie! What the hell?” I can’t breathe, and Louie is panting wildly. I know he’s pissed at me for stopping his charge.

  Dott comes loping over to us. “What are you boys up to anyway?”

  “Damned if I know.” I sit up. As Louie and I calm down, we all stare at The Tree. The stench from the thing is awful. I see that the trunk as well as some of the larger branches have shed their bark revealing green skin so shiny it glows. That skin has swellings on it—like boils. Some of them have grown into heads sprouting burred and tangled vines that curl and twist down to the ground where they seem to have taken root. Many of the vines are unnaturally thick, like obscene tentacles.

  The Tree bears a glut of figs in various stages of development. Some grow as separate perfect spheres, while others are growing in globular clusters. Some are pale green, others pink, deep red, and glossy black. Many are spotted, as if splashed with an acid yellow paint. A few have bright red spots on them, framed in black, like eyes. The leaves are abundant, all in a bright, luminous green.

  Louie stands close to me, and I feel him trembling. I hear ragged breathing from Dott. The big woman stands staring, her mouth open.

  “God’s image,” she murmurs. “We’re created in God’s image. A shadow only of the divine being, yes, but His image none the less. Even those who are mad, gone askew. I’m taught that the same is true of every living thing in the universe—created by God. The animals … the plants … everything.” She shudders, shaking her head. “But this? No. This tree is not of God’s world.”

  An amazing machine, Deputy Albert D. Schmidt is thinking as he studies the glowing screen with excitement. Through the department computer he’s just learned that a little over a year ago Cassidy Murphy had been hauled in for questioning concerning a murder in Eugene, Oregon. The victim had been a young woman—a Marilyn Connor—just twenty-two years of age. Murphy knew her but had witnesses as to where he’d been when the murder occurred. He was released with no follow-up. In an interesting footnote, Al learns that the woman’s killer hasn’t been found. The case remains open and on the books in Eugene. Al knows this bit of information won’t mean anything to Manny who thinks Frank Murphy is Jesus Christ himself. So anything remotely suspicious concerning the man’s nephew would have to be nonsense.

  With twelve duly sworn deputies in the small department, Al is next in the line of command after Sheriff Manny Ramirez. So at the moment, Al is acting sheriff of Diablo County, and his deputy, Jim Collins, is his second in command. This juicy Russo murder coming along just now is a lucky break, and Al is sure as shit going to show Manny and the department what he can do as acting sheriff.

  And Cassidy Murphy is going to help him out. Al knows the Murphy kid has nothing to do with the Russo murder, but Al will question him anyway. It will make him look thorough, and that’s important. Like maybe Murphy knows something about the Russos? Besides, Al will love taking the guy down a peg or two.

  “Looks open and shut to me,” had been the insightful comment from the Ramirez sickbed to his number one deputy upon learning of the Russo murder. “But you’ll still need to ask q
uestions. Get as much info as you can, and I’ll be in as soon as I can.” But Manny sounded terrible, and Al didn’t think he’d be coming in to work any time soon. At best though, Al won’t have very much time on his own.

  His phone rang. “Schmidt here.”

  “Schmidt,” a harsh, female voice says. “Who the fuck is Schmidt?”

  The deputy takes a slow careful breath. This little valley town sure has a lot of smart-ass big mouths. What is it, something in the water?

  “Who is this?”

  “I want the sheriff.”

  “I’m the acting sheriff.” Al hears her breathing into the phone.

  “Albert D. Schmidt.”

  She laughs merrily, and adrenaline rises into Al’s belly. His right hand slides onto the baton at his side. He strokes its smooth head with his thumb.

  “So what’s the ‘D’ for Albert, Dumb Shit?”

  His hand wraps around the baton, gripping it tightly. He begins to sweat, and Al wishes once again that the department had a tracking device—he’d nail this fucking broad good.

  “I’ve been a bad girl Acting Sheriff Albert D. Schmidt,” the woman says. “I seem to have …”

  “What?” Get on with it, woman!

  “Killed my—” She begins to sob.

  “Where are you, Ma’am?” Al makes his voice soft, lulling. He can hardly hear himself over the loud thudding of his heart.

  Holy shit, another murder? Sweet Christ, don’t let me lose this broad!

  “Maybe not,” she goes on, her voice stronger, “but he sure looks dead.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Oh my God!” she cries. “He looks just like my husband!” The woman goes off into a fresh outburst of tears.

  Al waits and then gently urges her to tell him who and where she is. At last she mutters into his ear the name, Mrs. Arty Banyon, and she’s in her home, her kitchen to be exact. She volunteers that she seems to be nude and that her kitchen has been trashed. Part of the mess is an apparently dead man on the floor who looks a lot like her husband.