Liar

“Go on,” Mary said, “tell him the rest.”

“My mother married my father, Patrick Kelly, and Barbara and I were born. When we were little, we saw Briana fairly often. Barbara and I were very fond of her.”

“You were much closer to her than Barbara was,” Mary said.

I shrugged. “I suppose that’s true.”

“It’s undoubtedly true.”

“So what happened?” Frank asked.

“She got married, and my father never liked her husband.”

“To put it mildly,” Aunt Mary grumbled.

“I didn’t like him either,” I said.

“Do you even remember him?”

“Yes. Arthur Sperry was almost fifteen years-”

“Twelve at most,” she corrected.

“Somewhere between twelve and fifteen years younger than Aunt Briana,” I continued. “He was handsome and charming and still managed to give me the creeps.”

“You liked him at first,” she said.

“Everyone liked him at first. But not after he made a pass at my mother.”

“Hmm. You always did have big ears,” Mary said. “A child shouldn’t have heard such talk.”

“It wasn’t just talk-”

“Never mind that,” Mary said. She turned to Frank. “The upshot of this alleged pass-”

“Alleged!” I protested.

“Of this alleged pass,” Mary went on determinedly, “is that the two sisters saw less and less of each other.”

“It wasn’t just that,” I said, turning to Frank. “My mother died not long after they were married.”

“So you were twelve when Travis was born?” he asked.

“Yes. He was born the year my mother died. I never got to know him, really.”

My thoughts drifted to memories of those last weeks of my mother’s life. At that time, hospital rules were different than they are today, and children-defined by the hospital as anyone under sixteen-were not allowed in the patients’ rooms. Barbara was seventeen, but I was only twelve, so I waited alone in the hospital lobby downstairs, while Barbara and my father went up to my mother’s room. I would write notes for my father to bring upstairs, to read to my mother as she lay dying of cancer, to let her know that I was there, too.

As it became clearer to everyone that she would not be coming home from the hospital, family differences were set aside. Still, Aunt Briana did not bring Arthur with her. The first time she came to visit my mother, the nuns wouldn’t let her take the baby up to the room, so she asked me if I would hold Travis until she came back downstairs. I was a little afraid, because I hadn’t spent much time around babies, but Travis made it easy for me. He watched me with that intense, studying stare we allow only babies to make of us. Apparently deciding I was trustworthy, he yawned and fell asleep in my arms.

Briana came back downstairs and thanked me for watching him, and said she would find a sitter next time. But I begged her to bring him back, and whether out of pity or gratitude, she told me she would. And so for three weeks, Travis and I consoled one another, his childhood begi

I looked up to find Mary studying me, and saw that she was challenging me to tell the rest of Aunt Briana’s story.

“What is it?” Frank asked, looking between us.

“As it turned out, my father wasn’t such a bad judge of character,” I said.

“But far too much of a judge!” Mary snapped.

“Arthur and Briana weren’t legally married,” I said.

“Now don’t make it sound as if-” Mary began to interrupt.

“Arthur already had a wife,” I said. “He was a bigamist.”

One good thing about marrying a cop is that a

“Briana had separated from him before anyone else learned that he was already married,” Mary said.

“Not long before. But that’s not the worst of it. No one else learned that he was a bigamist until he was wanted for questioning in co

“Briana,” Frank said.

“Yes, and Travis backed her up. They said Arthur had been at their home. It wasn’t hard to back up his story, because on the night in question, Travis had cut his hand and was treated at a local hospital. Arthur had carried him into the emergency room. Briana was with them.”

“Anyone else ever accused of the murder?” Frank asked.

“No,” I said. “Everyone always thought Arthur did it, and that Briana just lied for him.”

“Your father thought so, anyway,” Mary said.

“He wasn’t alone. He thought Briana was afraid of Arthur.”

“Well, it hardly matters. They separated. As far as I know, Briana never saw him after that.”

“I wish I had known about Briana’s funeral,” I said.

“There was no funeral to speak of,” Mary said.

“What?”

“She was a Jane Doe.”

“A Jane Doe? Briana?”

“In Las Piernas?” Frank asked.

“No,” Mary said, answering his question first. “She was the victim of a hit-and-run accident in San Pedro. Well, perhaps ‘accident’ isn’t the right word for it. She was walking home from the neighborhood market one morning, didn’t have any identification on her. It took almost two weeks for them to figure out who she was.”

“San Pedro?” I asked. “What was she doing there?”

“She moved there after all the notoriety of the murder case drove her to leave Las Piernas. She stayed here for a time, found a fairly good job as a secretary, but sooner or later she would encounter someone who knew her story. It was very painful for her-for Travis, too, I’m sure.

“So she moved. It took her awhile to find work, but she eventually got a job as a file clerk in a health clinic. Never did have a lot of money. She kept to herself. Life just kept getting harder and harder for her. She had been having health problems lately-something wrong with one of her knees, I think. A couple of months ago, it got so bad it forced her to leave her job. She was living on a small disability check. She hadn’t lived in this last apartment for very long.”

“Travis told you all of this?”

She shook her head sadly. “No, but I suspect Travis hasn’t been in touch with her for some time. And no one over there at this new place really got to know her before she died. Oh, she’d met a couple of her more curious neighbors, but I don’t think they ever learned much about her. I learned a few things from them, but they didn’t even know she had a son. When the police finally figured out which apartment she lived in, they found an Easter card I sent to her a few weeks ago, and that’s how they got in touch with me. I told them I would bury her.”

I tried, but could not reconcile this image of a lonely recluse with that of my aunt Briana. I thought of the last time I had seen her, at my mother’s funeral.

“Travis-” I said.

“That’s what I need you to do, Irene. I want you to find him. A child should be told when his mother is dead. And even if he’s like you, and doesn’t want to visit the grave, at least he should know where she’s buried. But I also need your help-yours and Frank’s-to find out who killed her.”

“The LAPD is calling this a homicide?” Frank asked.

“Yes,” she said, as her phone rang. Even though it was now after ten-thirty, most of Mary’s friends would know that she’s up late. But this wasn’t a social call.

“Yes, Detective McCain,” she said to her caller. “… No, no, this isn’t too late! Not at all! As I told you, I don’t usually go to sleep until just before dawn. But I promise you, you don’t need to bring a wooden stake or garlic when you visit. I’m not a vampire.”