Chapter 20 #3
“Bec can be ruthless. But GG didn’t tell us about the DNA test or any of it, even though she had the opportunity. So…maybe?” He looks at me, and I’m just waiting for him to send me away when he says this instead: “What do you think?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. What do you think, Ruth? Don’t pretend you don’t have an opinion.”
I think about the Case of the DNA Letter and what Dad is really asking.
“I think it’s possible that Bec and Shippy might have…hurt GG to protect their secret,” I say slowly. “Shippy is the only one of us who might have driven GG’s jewelry up to Perth. He was also up late the night GG died, at least I think he was—I saw someone smoking in the garden.”
Dad and Aunty Vinka swap a look, but I can’t tell if it’s of the we need to get this kid to a psychiatrist variety or if it has more of a we are impressed despite ourselves vibe.
“Bec and Shippy were both with Rob at the beach,” Dad adds, and it’s equal parts alarming and reassuring that his suspicions so closely align to mine.
Possibly he’s to blame, and not my diet of horror movies and crime novels, for my slightly disturbing brain.
“We’ve only got their word for it that they left him there safe and sound. ”
“Why would they hurt Rob, though?” Aunty Vinka asks.
“Maybe he knew something about GG’s death and they thought he was going to go to the cops,” I suggest, feeling emboldened by the one-two combination of Dad’s apology and his effort to include me in the conversation.
“But Shippy hadn’t even met Rob when GG died,” Aunty Vinka says.
“Actually, that’s not true,” I say. “Shippy said he’d met Rob in town before any of this happened. Rob offered to lend him a surfboard.”
“Clever clogs,” Dad says, the way he used to when I was learning my times tables.
“What about the whole missing-half-sibling thing?” Aunty Vinka says. “Do you think we’ll ever get to meet them now?”
Dad gets a look on his face I recognize.
“That’s another thing. Didn’t you say Nick grew up in Yallingup, Vinx?”
Aunty Vinka frowns at the apparent change of subject, but with a sick lurch in my stomach, I have an idea of where Dad is going with this.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nicky,” Dad says. “Green eyes. Grew up in the southwest.”
He waits. I wait. Aunty Vinka waits for more of an explanation. Finally, she gets there on her own.
“No,” she says. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It really didn’t occur to you?”
“There are a lot of people called Ni—” Aunty Vinka starts to say.
“Who have green eyes?”
“I think a lot of people—”
“And grew up in the southwest.”
“It’s a big place.”
“It’s not that big.”
“He’s Korean, Andy.”
“So Dad’s fling was with someone from Korea. Where did those eyes come from, anyway?”
Vinka stands up and starts to collect mugs. “Nick is not my brother, Andy, and this conversation is offensive.”
“To you, or Nick, or Korea in general?”
“All three.”
“If it makes you feel better, he would only be a half brother.”
“He’s not even a quarter brother.”
“Uh-huh.” Dad is, at least partly, playing with Aunty Vinka. Certainly, he seems to be enjoying himself. Aunty Vinka is not.
“There are probably dozens of people in Western Australia called Nick with green eyes, who grew up around here and are adopted.”
Dad’s face sobers.
“Nick’s adopted?”
Aunty Vinka, realizing she’s said too much, dumps the mugs into the sink and breezes out the door. “I’m having a bath!” she shouts.
Dad follows her (best-case scenario he’s apologizing, but it’s hard to say) and I take advantage of the moment to duck out the front door before anyone discovers the pile of wet towels in the bathroom. There’s something I need to know.
Bec and Shippy are smoking in the garden, ashing into the lavender plants that wrap around one side of the house. Grandma used to dry the lavender and sprinkle it onto cakes.
“Ruth,” Bec says. Shippy’s stare should bruise my ribs, but with my family inside, he’s lost the power to scare me. Mostly.
“You’ve come back for round two?”
“Shippy,” Bec says, the same way she usually says Dylan. “What is it, Ruth?”
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I lie.
“I’m sorry.” I’m not sure what they think I’m apologizing for—snooping in their room or indirectly accusing them of murdering my step-grandmother are probably at the top of the list—but it does the trick, if the trick is to make Shippy stop looking like he’s trying to decide between the candlestick in the conservatory and the revolver in the library.
“It’s not your fault,” Bec says, which is the truth, so I’m not giving her bonus marks for being classy in the moment.
“Is Dylan okay?” I ask, which isn’t the question I want to ask but is the only one I can manage. Bec doesn’t answer.
“Do you think they’re going to call the police?” Shippy asks. I shrug, by which I mean yes, probably and also what do you expect?
“Thanks for checking on us, Ruth, but we’re fine,” Bec says. It’s a polite way of asking me to get lost, but it’s just polite enough that I can get away with ignoring it.
“I also wanted to ask something,” I say. “Shippy, uh, I know this is a strange question, but were you smoking in the garden the night GG died?”
He gives me a look like he’s considering that candlestick-versus-revolver thing again, but just as quickly his eyes slide to Bec and he looks guilty.
“It was a tough day.”
“Right, right, that’s always the line,” she says.
“Staying with this family would be tough on anyone. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re a bunch of psychos.
They probably all killed Gertie together, like that movie on the train.
” Bec and I meet each other’s eyes, and it’s a rare moment when I’m sure we’re thinking exactly the same thing: It was a book first.
“Sorry, but is that a yes?” I ask.
“Sure. Why?”
“I saw someone smoking out here that night.” So Shippy was out of bed and out of the house for sure on the night GG died.
It would have given him the perfect opportunity to set up the ladder, but if he was planning on killing GG, wouldn’t he go out of his way not to be seen outside?
“Did you tell the cops you were out there?”
Shippy frowns at me, but not like he’s angry. “I smoked a cigarette. I didn’t kill your grandma.”
“My grandma died”—quickly I do the math—“eight years ago,” I tell him coolly.
“Shut up, Shippy,” Bec says. “Ruth, I can see your mind working like it does, but Shippy only didn’t mention it because he was trying to keep his smoking a secret from me. For good bloody reason. It’s a disgusting habit. Ruth, don’t ever start.”
“I get it,” I say, baffled by the idea that she might imagine that her schlubby boyfriend could make cigarettes appealing in any way.
“It’s not like I’m the only one with a secret habit,” Shippy says. “There’s a bunch of butts in the driveway. In fact, if you’re going full junior detective on this one—”
“Is Nancy Drew still a thing?” Bec asks me, clearly trying to take the edge off Shippy’s anger. “Or, who’s that girl in the TV show? The one where Henry Cavill is her hot uncle or something?”
“—then you should ask Vinka what she was doing taking a cup of tea into Gertie’s room in the middle of the night.”
I perk up at this. “What?”
“I saw her when I came inside from my smoke. She was going up the stairs.”
“You couldn’t have seen her go into Gertie’s room from downstairs,” I point out.
“I didn’t see her go in,” Shippy says, “but I saw her go up the stairs and then I heard her say something to Gertie and Gertie say something back.” He looks pleased with himself. “Now go inside. I don’t want to be accused of murdering you via secondhand smoke.”
“One more question,” I say.
“Oh, c’mon.”
I ignore him and direct my question to Bec. This is the real reason I came out here. “Did Dylan know?”
She meets my eyes, and I wonder if I’ll know the truth when I hear it or recognize a lie.
“No,” she says. And, no, I have no idea if she’s lying.
I start to go back inside because Dad is, surely, mere moments away from filing a missing-person report on me and the bathroom mess is probably mostly cleaned up.
“Hold on,” Bec says.
“What?”
But then Shippy and I see it too: headlights coming up the driveway. (Lotta unexpected drop-ins for a supposedly remote farmhouse, I’ve got to say.)
“Seriously?” Shippy says, maybe thinking the same thing.
Bec raises her voice. “Guys!” she calls, her voice almost singsong. “We’ve got a visitor!”