Liar

She sat up a little straighter, but said nothing.

“Mr. Richmond claims to have some information of interest to a cousin of mine, Travis Maguire. You may think of him as Travis Spa

Her lips flattened, but she didn’t say anything.

“The problem is that my own family has had very little to do with Travis. Even though his mother is my mother’s sister, we haven’t had much to do with her since the death of your own cousin, Gwendolyn.”

“The murder of my cousin,” she corrected.

“Yes. I’m sorry. But you see, my mother died not long after Travis was born, and my father didn’t like Arthur Spa

At that her mouth fell open in what was clearly unfeigned amazement. “He did? Why that lying scoundrel! I-I can’t believe it! Of all the unmitigated gall!”

“Excuse me?”

That man-that man is the last person I would ever hire to do any detective work for me, I can assure you! Don’t do a thing to help him! Oh! I blame him for-oh, for so much!“ she finished bitterly.

I waited.

“Mr. Richmond’s incompetence has been the cause of a great many ills, not the least of which is that my aunt’s murderer remains at large.”

“You’re speaking of Arthur Spa

“No, of course not!” she said.

I was stu

“I don’t know what problem your father had with Arthur, but I can tell you that he never would have harmed Gwen.”

“Never harmed her? But he was a bigamist-”

“Yes. Yes, he was. And that was very wrong. Not that I don’t understand what led to that, but it was wrong. And that poor little boy-”

She stood up and paced, wringing her hands. “Do you think there is any chance you will find your cousin?”

“A very good chance,” I said.

She began pacing again. I decided to stay silent; she was apparently debating something with herself and I was too unsure of the territory to push her into answering questions.

“You’ve misjudged him, you know,” she said at last.

“My cousin?”

“No, Arthur. You’ve believed Richmond’s story, haven’t you?”

“Well, until I got here, I suppose I did,” I lied. “But I did think there was something about Mr. Richmond that seemed a little strange.”

“Forget Mr. Richmond. Perhaps,” she said, sitting down again, “I can do a little something to right an old wrong. Are you willing to keep an open mind, Ms. Kelly?”

“Yes, of course. And call me Irene, please.”

“All right, Irene.” Several moments passed before she spoke again. “First of all, let me tell you that your uncle Arthur never killed Gwen. If Arthur had wanted to end his marriage to Gwen, he would have divorced her. I haven’t seen him in years, but I knew Arthur then, my dear, and believe me, he would have never chosen murder over divorce. There was no reason for him to do so.”

“Her fortune-”

“Hah!”

“Pardon?”

“I said, ”Hah!“ Tell me, Irene, did you see the house across the street on your way in?” Yes.

“That’s my brother’s place. Robert DeMont. Do you know why this house looks better than that one?”

I shook my head.

“Because I married a wonderful man named Elwood Rose, and he wouldn’t let my father or brother involve him in any of their harebrained investment schemes. For a number of years, Gwen did not have such a protector, and my father and brother did a great deal of damage to that fortune.”

“I don’t understand.”

She sighed. “You’ve heard of my grandfather, Quentin DeMont-the man everyone called Papa DeMont?”

I nodded.

“He ruled that farm and everyone on it as if he were a king anointed by God. I loved him, and so did Gwen, but because my father argued with him so often, I wasn’t in Papa DeMont’s shadow the way Gwen was. You know that my grandfather raised her?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, my father was on the outs with Papa DeMont. Some of it was my dad’s own fault, but a lot of it was just that he wasn’t willing to be under Papa DeMont’s thumb. I later came to think that was a lucky thing for me.”

“How so?”

“Gwen never learned how to stand up to him, or anyone else, for that matter. And I think Papa thought he’d be able to take care of her forever, so he didn’t teach her the things she needed to know about life. She was this hothouse flower, you might say.”

“So when he died-”

“When he died, she was just about as lost as any one soul could be. Suddenly she was being asked to cope with a set of responsibilities she was totally unprepared for-a business she had never participated in.

“I was younger than Gwen, about fourteen years younger, but I swear to you, I often felt as if our age differences were reversed. I was almost thirty when Papa DeMont died, and Gwen was in her mid-forties. But I was married and raising kids, and you would have thought she was still in high school, for all she knew about getting along in the world.” She glanced toward the hallway and said, “I love my father, but I haven’t always been proud of him, and I am truly ashamed of how he took advantage of her after Papa DeMont died.”

“In what way?”

After a long silence she said, “He told her his favorite sad story, the one about how Papa DeMont didn’t love him-which was untrue-and what a rough life he had had, and on and on, giving her a spiel just as if he were panhandling back in his tramp days. Pretty soon she felt so guilty, she started opening her checkbook to him.”

“Did Arthur know?”

“They weren’t married yet. Gerald-Arthur’s brother? He used to try to warn Gwen, to tell her that there was a reason Papa DeMont never let my father have money-namely, it was spent before Daddy could fold it up and put it in his wallet. Bobby-my brother-was the same way. Both of them hated Gerald for that.”

“So if the handouts stopped when Arthur married her-”

“They didn’t. Arthur didn’t try to stop them until later. I’m not sure he realized what was going on at first-you know he was only sixteen?”

“Yes. I guess I’ve often wondered-”

“Why a sixteen-year-old boy would marry a woman that old?”

“Yes.”

She thought for a moment before answering. “I guess you would have to have known the two of them, and the situation there on the farm. It was a little world of its own, in many ways. In each of their cases, after their parents died, Gwen and Arthur had no other world, really. Gwen was afraid of most men-most people, really. She was so lonely.

“And Arthur-even as a boy, Arthur was the kind of person who wanted to be helpful. I guess he wasn’t any good in school-which I could never figure out, because he was smart, and don’t let anybody ever tell you otherwise. So when Papa DeMont let him help out in the gardens, he just-I don’t know, I’d say he changed. You could see how much happier he was to be there than at school. I think the schoolkids might have been mean to him, I don’t know. He never did like kids his age. He’d rather be around adults.”

“Were there any other children on the farm?”

She shook her head. “No. None that Gerald would let him spend any time with. So in his own way, I think he was lonely, too. He tried to make up for it by being helpful, I think, to get the adults to like him. If anyone else needed a hand, even when he was little, Arthur rushed to help them out.”

“And so he helped Gwendolyn?”

She nodded. “It was as if he was determined to do whatever he could to make her smile or laugh. To be honest, I don’t know anyone who made her smile more often. And when he got to an age where-well, boys get to be men, physically if in no other way, and if he hadn’t started thinking about the one thing that seems to take up most of the male brain, he wouldn’t have been normal, would he?”