Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

Brody’s disreputable father; it was quite another to know that the old man had disliked her just as much.
    “I was furious,” Brody said. “I’d been paying back the loan on a regular basis, but not enough to have majority ownership of the house. I told him I wasn’t going to gag Dottie just to make him feel better, and that Lacey was getting old enough to need more than her grandfather for company. And if he didn’t like that, he could take a hike.”
    Lacey started to say something, but pressure from Ian’s fingers made her stop.
    “After that,” Brody said, “things got fairly tense. Dad spent more and more time in the carriage house and on the road. Dottie’s parents put all the girls through the university, but when Lacey wanted to study painting overseas, the education money dried up. My father went on the road with some paintings and came back with enough money to send Lacey to France. He didn’t even tell us, much less ask us. He just—”
    “Handed me a ticket and a checkbook, and told me not to come back until I could stand up to my parents or support myself,” Lacey finished.
    Dottie winced. “I didn’t mean, that is—” She held out her hands. “I wanted what was best for you.”
    “So did he,” Lacey said. “It’s just that you wanted different things.” She closed her eyes on a wave of pain. “And in the end, I didn’t please either of you, did I? I didn’t turn into a society woman like you or a vagabond painter like Granddad.”
    “It’s not your job to please them,” Ian said. “Pleasing me, now, that’s different.”
    She blinked, then accepted his gentle, outrageous statement, letting it defuse her sadness and anger at her family. “So good to finally know my mission in life.”
    “I’m here to serve.” He smiled, and his dark eyes were very serious. He turned back to Brody. “If I’m doing my math right, your father was about forty when you were born.”
    Brody nodded.
    “Is your mother still alive?”
    “No. And we weren’t close while she was. She said more than once that if she hadn’t had me, she’d have left the son of a bitch. When I was sixteen, she decided I was old enough to take care of myself, so she left.”
    “No other kids?” Ian asked.
    Brody laughed curtly. “No. Just as well. Neither of them was any good as a parent.”
    “Did he have a wife before your mother?”
    For a moment Brody looked startled. “No. At least I don’t think so. If he did, he never talked about it.”
    “What about his own parents?”
    “Never mentioned them,” Brody said.
    Ian raised his eyebrows. “Not a close family.”
    “I guess not,” Brody said. “I think he ran away from home. Or at least left home real early. He would have been in his teens in the Depression years. Maybe there wasn’t enough money to raise him, so he hit the road and never looked back. It happened to a lot of young men like that. Go in the army or go on the bum. He could have gone the army route. I just don’t know. He never talked about it.”
    Ian studied Brody in silence. “Most men talk about themselves at some point to their son, even if it’s something they’d rather not havetheir wives overhear. Can you remember anything at all about your father as a young man?”
    “Other than the usual way-too-late talk about condoms, he didn’t say much. You have to understand—my father had contempt for everyone he met except Lacey. He saw in her a reflection of himself that he’d never seen in me. She loved painting and she loved him.” Before Ian could ask another question, Brody held up his hand. “What’s the point of all this raking over the muck of the past?”
    Before Ian could answer, Lacey did. “Murder.”

Pasadena
    Sunday afternoon
53
    D ottie and Brody stared at their daughter.
    “What on earth?” Dottie asked sharply.
    “Sorry,” Lacey said, wincing. “I didn’t mean to just plop it out like that. But you remember the paintings Grandfather did of death by fire, by auto wreck, and by drowning?”
    “No,” Dottie said, appalled. “Which ones?”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brody said impatiently. “Landscapes, yes, sure, hundreds of them. But nothing like murder. This is really too much, Lacey. Why do you insist on upsetting your mother?”
    “Hell,” Lacey said under her breath. Then, to Ian. “I knew we should have brought some with us.”
    “The sheriff would have, um, plotzed,” Ian said dryly. “That’s why I