Page 25 of A Week Away
“Do people like being poor?”
“How far is she willing to go to have money?”
“What does that mean?”
I decided not to tell him I’d been rifling through her desk and knew about her (or their) cagey little games with credit cards.
“You told me she took out credit cards in your dad’s name after he disappeared. You don’t think that was a little dishonest?”
“She was a single mom. He abandoned her.”
“She seems to have done all right.”
“I know she bends the rules. That doesn’t mean she killed my dad.”
Seemed like a good idea to drop it. “I’d like to go see your aunt.”
“Which one?”
“Your father’s sister. Suzie.”
“Sure, I’ll call her.”
“Let’s just go.”
“How come?”
“Because she might say sure, come by on Tuesday. I want to see her today. I don’t want to be here very long.”
“Yeah, okay. Come on.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
September 14, 1996
Saturday late afternoon
The house was on Dugan Street in Roseville. It was one of those split-level houses that was popular in the late sixties and early seventies. The bottom half was part basement. The front door and tiny foyer floated between the two floors with a short stairway running up or down to either floor.
We climbed out of the Belvedere and walked up the cement walkway to the front door. It was election season and the lawn was decorated with political signs: CLINTON/GORE, LEVIN FOR SENATE, BONIOR, NO ON E. After Clinton, none of that made much sense to me.
After we rang the bell it took a minute or two for Suzie Reilly to answer. She was a thickset woman wearing a pair of jeans and men’s cotton work shirt. Her hair was graying and cropped short, and her skin was nearly as white as snow. My gaydar went into four alarm mode.
“Hey,” Cass said. “Can we come in and talk to you?”
“Of course, you can. I’ll make some coffee real quick. Make yourselves comfortable in the dining room.”
Before she walked up the short flight of stairs to the main floor, she gave me a suspicious glance. As she should. I followed Cass into the house.
On the main floor, the living room was one of those sets you buy from the back of the newspaper for a scandalously low, low price. Four or five or six matching pieces. Sofa, love seat, not-so-comfortable chair in a thick, scratchy brown fabric. Coffee table and end tables. There was a reproduction of the Last Supper on the wall above the sofa.
The dining area was off the living room. It was pretty bare, other than the table and chairs and a large crucifix on the wall. I was sensing a theme. Cass made himself comfortable at the far end of the table. I sat at the other end, far less comfortably. I could hear a Mr. Coffee chugging away in the kitchen, when Suzie came through the swinging door and set a bowl of sugar and a creamer on the table.
“All I have is skim. Cutting down on fat. I hope that’s okay,” Then she went in for the kill, “And you are?”
That was a tough question. Cass tried to field it starting out, “He’s, uh…”
Avoiding the idea of a name completely, I said, “I work with a charity. Loosely affiliated with Big Brothers of America. We help unite kids with their parents. Cass wants to find his father.”
