Criminal

you.”
    Henry finished his scotch. He put the glass on the table. “I’m retired now.”
    Amanda spoke to Elizabeth. “It must be lovely having him home.”
    She held the cigarette to her lips. “I cherish every moment.”
    Another muted exchange, this time between Amanda and Elizabeth Bennett.
    Will reached up to unbutton his shirt collar. Amanda touched his elbow to stop him. Elizabeth took another drag off her cigarette. A clock ticked somewhere in the house. The water from the driveway fountain continued its rhythmic sound.
    “So.” Henry’s fingers tapped against his knee. “Wilbur.” His fingers stopped tapping. He looked down at his hand. “Was there anything else? I was about to head off to the club.”
    Amanda asked, “How old would Lucy be now?”
    Henry kept staring at his hand. “Fifty-three?”
    “Fifty-six,” Will said.
    Henry straightened his leg. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a pair of fingernail clippers. “Wilbur, I was thinking about your mother the other day.” He swiveled the handle. “I suppose news of Ulster’s parole put her in my mind.”
    Will felt that familiar clamp start to tighten around his chest.
    “Lucy had this friend. Not a pretty girl, but very demure.” Henry lined up the clipper to his thumbnail and pressed the handles together. “I’ll hazard Lucy was a bad example for her. That’s neither here nor there.” He placed the cut fingernail on the table beside the ashtray and started on the next nail. “At any rate, the summer I was home from school, I would hear them giggling in Lucy’s room, listening to records. One day I went in to see what all the racket was, and caught them dancing in front of a mirror, singing into their hairbrushes.” He put the second nail by the first. “Isn’t that silly?”
    Will watched him clip the nail of his middle finger. Henry flinched as he cut too close. Still, he managed to remove the tip in one piece. He put the crescent-shaped nail beside the others. When he looked up from his work, he seemed surprised that they were watching him. “I suppose that’s not an interesting anecdote. I just assumed you’d want to know something about your mother.”
    Amanda asked, “Do you remember Evelyn Mitchell?”
    He grunted at the name. “Vaguely.”
    “You know, Evelyn was determined to track Ulster’s money.” She told Will, “This was before the Miami cocaine heyday when the government started requiring banks to report large deposits.”
    Henry tucked the clippers back into his pocket. “Is there a point to this?”
    Amanda picked up her purse from the floor. The bag was huge. She carried the world on her shoulder. “Ulster lived in a slum, but he had enough money to hire the top defense attorney in the Southeast. It raised some questions. At least among some of us.”
    Henry’s tone was arrogant. “Again, I don’t know what this has to do with me.”
    “Ulster had a savings account at C&S bank. We knew a gal there. She told us he had less than twenty dollars. He didn’t use a dime of it to pay his lawyer.”
    Henry said, “He owned property.”
    “Yes, a house in Techwood that he sold in 1995 for four million dollars.” She unzipped her purse. “He was the last holdout. I’m sure the city was pleased when he finally accepted.”
    Henry sounded annoyed. “A lot of people made money off the Olympics.”
    “Ulster certainly did.” Amanda took a latex glove out of her purse. As usual, she wiped her palm on her skirt. With her arm in a sling, it was more difficult to push her fingers into the latex, but she managed to pull on the glove. And then she reached into her purse again and pulled out his father’s Bible.
    Henry laughed when she placed the book on the coffee table. “Are we going to pray for Ulster’s soul?”
    Amanda opened the Bible. “Here’s your mistake, Hank.”
    He studied the envelope. One shoulder went up in a shrug. “So?”
    “This is addressed to James Ulster at the Atlanta Jail.” She pointed to the name. “And this logo says Treadwell-Price. Your law firm.”
    Will was past the point where he could be surprised by Amanda’s lies. Less than an hour ago, she’d told him that the letter was from his father’s defense attorney.
    “So?” Henry shrugged his shoulder again. “There’s nothing inside.”
    Amanda asked, “Isn’t there?”
    “No, there’s not.” He seemed very sure of himself. “Obviously, I wrote him a letter giving him a piece of my mind.