SAFELY BURIED Chapter 17: Us Brandons Stick Together

“I suppose so, as long as it’s not too early. His body clock is going to be all mixed up for a while—you know, jet lag. He’ll probably sleep in Saturday.”

“How about Saturday afternoon?”

“That should work.”

I was about to say goodbye, but she quickly added, “Phil . . . I never thanked you properly for your help last week. You went way beyond the call of duty.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’m just glad nobody drowned.”

“So am I.”

“Has Scott been behaving himself?”

“Yes. He’s doing fine.” She hesitated, then confessed, “I increased his medication. The Judge will throw a fit if he finds out, but I don’t care. It needed to be done.”

“What’s Scott on?”

“Barbiturates. I think he’s developed a tolerance though. It takes more than it used to to calm him down. It’s a good thing the Judge will be home soon. When his papaw’s here, Scott hardly needs any pills at all. He does whatever the Judge tells him. The Judge is like God to him.”

“I bet you’ll be happy when the Judge gets back.”

She made a low sigh. “Yes, in all honesty, I will.” Her voice trailed off again, then came back. “Actually, this has been a nice, quiet day for me. Scott’s father came and took him to the Kentucky State Fair in Louisville. Scott loves to go on the rides.”

“Lillian,” I said, “why doesn’t Scott live with his parents?”

“Oh,” she fretted, “that’s a long, unpleasant story. Listen, I know you’re probably busy, but I just had a thought. How would you like to come out here for a drink a little later, and maybe something to eat? It would be my way of thanking you for last week.”

I was tempted to decline. I still had a full day’s work ahead of me. I thought of suggesting tomorrow instead—I was off Wednesdays. But she’d have to take care of Scott tomorrow. What the heck, I had to eat sometime. “Sure,” I said, “that sounds good.”

“Okay. . . . Super.” She sounded surprised. “How about sixish? Is that too late?”

“No, that’s good. It gives me time to bat out some work here.”

“Okay. . . . I’ll see you then.”

I edited copy until five o’clock, when I made myself stop. I raced home, took a quick shower, and put on a clean shirt and slacks. Then I drove to Hampstead my usual way, through Brickton and Blind Horse Hollow. There was a shorter route, but I wanted to see if the barrier that Sheriff Eggemann had mentioned this afternoon was still in place at the Garth house.

It was. Two sawhorse roadblocks with Keep Out signs on the crossbeams stood end to end at the entrance of the driveway. It wasn’t much of a deterrent to a committed sightseer or housebreaker. I decided to move it myself on my way back to town and take another look at the house.

I arrived at the Brandon estate fifteen minutes late. I rang the doorbell and peeked inside through narrow windows on each side of the door. Lillian appeared at the back of the entrance hall and came hurrying toward me. She was wearing a blue and green skirt that looked like a swirly abstract painting and a silk blouse that was a lighter shade of blue.

“Here I am,” I said as she opened the door. “Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s okay,” she said with a harried smile. “I didn’t give you much notice. Come in. I’ll give you a little tour.”

I followed her from the hall into a posh living room with oversized sofas and armchairs strategically grouped on plush ivory carpet. A wide archway on the right led to a Queen Anne dining room. Then came the kitchen, where an array of copper utensils hung over a granite island that matched the surrounding countertops. The strains of Bach or Vivaldi or another one of those guys settled on us from small speakers in the ceiling.

Lillian said, “What would you like to drink, Phil?”

“Whatever you’re having.”

She fixed me a Gibson, the first of my life. Then she led the way down two steps to the family room, which featured a stone fireplace big enough to roast a hog. I stood at the French doors and surveyed the pool and patio, the fields and hills, as if I were lord of the manor.

“You’ve got a beautiful place here, Lillian—in case you don’t know it,” I said.

“Thanks. We like it. It’s a little bit out of the way though.”

“That’s okay. The whole county’s a little bit out of the way.”

“I know. My grandfather wishes it was even more isolated than it is. He wouldn’t mind if I-65 was moved a couple of counties away.”

“The Chamber of Commerce might mind.”

“No kidding.”

She sipped her drink and wandered to a sofa facing outside. She settled into the big cushions and tugged her skirt over her knees.

The chitchat continued. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. I began to regret that I had come. Supper was nowhere in sight, and I still had a ton of work to do. Another five minutes ticked off the clock. When was she planning to feed me? I should have known better than to do this on a work night. I should have said I could come tomorrow, Scott or no Scott.

“Would you like another drink?” she said.

“No thanks. I’d better not.”

“How are things going with your murder story?”

I shrugged. “It seems to have stalled out. The police don’t have any leads, or if they do, they’re not telling. But I haven’t talked to the detective in charge of the case today. Maybe I’ll try to get ahold of him tonight.”

“Tonight? Must you go back to work?”

“Yes, unfortunately. We’ve got to get tomorrow’s paper out.”

“Oh, of course. I should have realized.” She pushed herself up. “I’d better put the steak on. How long can you stay?”

“Long enough to eat.”

“I’m so sorry. I should have thought.”

I felt bad for making her feel bad. “Don’t worry, Lillian,” I said. “We’ll get the paper out. We always do.”

She took a thick sirloin out of the refrigerator and plopped it on a grill on top of the range. She was a little nervous, rushing. She fixed a large bowl of salad and slid a loaf of French bread wrapped in foil into the oven. I asked if there was anything I could do to help, and she said I could open the wine. I poured us each half a glass. The smoke from the steak billowed up into a large copper hood. She dumped a can of corn into a sauce pan.

Her slightly flaring skirt, which ended a few inches below her knees, was flattering to her straight figure, and her brunette hair, curling inward at chin level, softened her face. She wasn’t gorgeous, but she knew how to make the most of what she had.

She took the bread and two baked potatoes out of the oven. We ate in the kitchen under a hanging Tiffany lamp that looked like the real thing. There were no candles on the table, nothing romantic, nothing pretentious, unless you counted the house itself.

“This is delicious,” I said.

“Thank you.”

She sounded chagrined, but once we had some food in our bellies, we both did better. She struck me as a natural, kind, generous person. She had to be generous to have devoted herself to taking care of Scott the way she did. I liked her. But there was no spark.

Halfway through the meal I began quizzing her about her family: “You said Scott’s father took him to Louisville. Why does Scott live here instead of with his parents?”

“They’re divorced,” she said, chewing her steak. “His mother, Marilyn, lives in California. His father, my uncle Frank, is too busy to look after him.”

“Why is it your job?”

Her lips squeezed into a frown. She looked at her plate, then at me. “It just worked out that way. The family has always been close. ‘Us Brandons Stick Together’—that’s our motto.” She laughed. “But Marilyn never fit in. She wanted to have Scott put in a home as soon as she learned he had a problem, but Gramps wouldn’t hear of it, and Frank came down on his father’s side. Marilyn said, ‘All right, then you two take care of him,’ and away she went.”

“But the burden is all on you,” I said.

“Not all of it,” she said with a shivery shake of her head, “it’s not so bad when my grandparents are here. This summer was rather unusual.”

“Have you ever thought about getting someone to help you with Scott—a male nurse maybe, someone big enough to handle him.”

She nodded slowly. “My grandmother and I have actually talked about that. But it won’t happen as long as Gramps is living. He considers it a sacred duty for us to take care of Scott.”

“Well,” I said, “that’s certainly admirable.”

“I know. But sometimes I wonder if we did the right thing. Maybe Marilyn was right. Maybe Scott should be in a home where he can get the kind of help he needs to reach his potential.” Her eyes glistened. “But the Judge said no. He said he could give Scott what he needed better than anyone else.”

“I still think it’s asking too much of you.”

She stared at her plate and used her fork to fold a piece of lettuce on itself. “I’ve dealt with it this long,” she said. “I can go on dealing with it.” Her voice betrayed her discontent.

“What does Frank do that keeps him so busy?”

“Mainly he’s a property developer. His latest project is a lake in Washington County. He’s got the dam finished. Now he’s building a road and waiting for the lake to fill up so he can start selling homesites. He also owns Omega Construction. It does a lot of road paving for the state. And,” she went on, rolling her eyes, “he’s still in the garbage business with my father.”

“What garbage business is that?”

“MWM—Meridian Waste Managers, Inc. The two of them started the company thirty years ago, but they may be getting out of it soon. You can’t put this in the paper, because the contracts haven’t been signed yet, but they’ve been negotiating with a national firm that wants to buy them out. Gramps is against the deal. He says the company wants our landfills so they can ship trash here from Pennsylvania and New Jersey.”

“How many landfills are we talking about?” Another story was taking shape.

“I’m not really sure. Several.”

“I understand there’s an old dump on the other side of the hill behind Don Grapevine’s house. I guess Don is your uncle too.”

“Step-uncle,” she said. “That’s right, but that landfill is not one of the ones they’re selling. It filled up years ago. It was MWM’s first property. My father and uncle bought it and signed a contract with the county. Some people claimed there was a conflict of interest because Gramps was circuit-court judge, but he had nothing to do with awarding contracts. That was up to the county commissioners and county council. Even so, my grandfather insisted that his sons bid as low as they could afford to when dealing with the county. And they always have. No one has ever accused them of bilking the taxpayers.”

“I just realized something,” I said. “Your father’s Ralph Brandon, the president of Campbellsville State Bank, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Who doesn’t? I didn’t know he was in the trash-collection business though.”

“It’s not something we brag about, but it’s a very good business. Dad says there’s more money in trash than the bank.” She began twirling the stem of her wine glass. Then she laughed again. “I’m talking too much. It’s your turn. Tell me about yourself. How long have you been with the Gleaner?”

“Seven years now.”

“Do you like your job?”

“Yes I do. That’s why I’m still here.”

“Did Ed Wylie hire you to be editor?”

“No. I was just a reporter. It was my first job after college. I planned to stay a year and use it as a stepping stone to a bigger paper, but a few months after I started, the news editor left, and Ed Wylie gave me his job. A year later he made me editor-in-chief.”

A big smile broke out on her face. “Wow, you must really be good.”

“No. It was the Peter Principle—I was promoted to my level of incompetence.”

“I don’t think so,” she said, sitting back and smiling at me. “You just won’t take a compliment, that’s all.” She had perfect white teeth.

As a rule I did not let my mouth run on about myself. The cocktail and wine must have gone to my head.

“How about some coffee and dessert?” Lillian said.

“No thanks. I’d better get going.”

“Can’t you stay for dessert? I made a raspberry pie this morning. It’s awfully good.”

What the heck, I thought. Have some pie. “You talked me into it,” I said.

“Good.” She hopped up and took the pie out of the refrigerator. As she began slicing it, we heard the front door open. “That’ll be Frank and Scott,” she said, less than overjoyed. Footsteps and voices approached through the hall.

First to appear was Scott. As soon as he saw me, he stopped and stared.

His father squeezed around him and saw me at the table. “What’s this?” he said. “Company, Lill? Sorry to barge in.”

He was about five-eleven and slightly on the heavy side, with a ruddy handsome face and a full head of golden-brown hair. It didn’t look like a wig. Implants, maybe.

Lillian said, “Uncle Frank, this is Phil Larrison. He’s the editor of the Gleaner.”

“I recognize the name,” he said, striding forward to shake hands. “I’m surprised we’ve never met. “Hello, Phil.” His grip was firm, tight. His eyes seemed ultra blue, and I realized he was wearing tinted contacts. “Those are some stories you’ve had in the paper about the murders.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Come on in, Scott,” Lillian said. “Would you like to have some pie?”

Scott had on a red and yellow T-shirt, and he needed a shave. His broad face seemed even larger than when I had met him in the pool. His lips pouted. His eyes were squeezed nearly shut, as if he were squinting to see me better. “How are you, Scott?” I said.

His expression did not change. He did not move.

Lillian said, “Did you have fun at the fair, Scott?”

“Tell Lill what we did, Scott,” his father said.

Scott’s eyes widened as he turned to Lillian. “Un . . . un . . . un . . . un. . . .”

“We had a blast,” Frank said. “We went on the double ferris wheel. That was real scary, wasn’t it, Scott?”

“Un . . . un . . . un. . . .”

“Sit down, Scott,” Lillian said. “Here’s a nice piece of pie.”

She guided her much larger cousin to the table and sat him on my right. He began rocking slowly back and forth, repeating his syllable. He no longer stared at me. He was focused on the reflection of the lightbulb in the middle of the table.

“Scott’s really tired,” Frank said. “I wore him out. He’ll sleep like a log tonight. Hey, I’ll take a slice of that pie too.” He sat down across from Scott and waited to be served.

“Frank,” I said, “Lillian mentioned that you and your brother own the old county-dump property.”

“We prefer to call it a landfill,” he replied.

“Do you know it’s still being used as a dump?”

The news startled him. “What do you mean?”

I told him I had climbed the hill behind the Garth place the other day and happened to see a pickup truck drive over the filled area and get rid of a load of trash at the bottom of the hill.

“Damn, I guess we’re going to have to put a fence around the whole thing. But they’ll probably keep dumping there no matter what we do. Once a dump, always a dump.” He did not sound upset until he demanded, “What were you doing on top of the hill?” When he realized he had struck the wrong note, he forced a laugh and said, “What were you looking for, more dead bodies?”

“No,” I said, “just enjoying the view.”

He stuck a forkful of pie in his mouth and said, “How’s the murder investigation going? Are the police any closer to solving it?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

He shook his head hopelessly and finished gobbling his pie. Then he got up and laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “We had a good time today, didn’t we, Scott. You hit the sack now. And listen to Lill.” As he left the kitchen he gave me a perfunctory glance and said, “Nice meeting you, Phil.”

Lillian followed him to the front door. Their voices echoed softly in the hall as I watched Scott make a mess of his pie.