Trip Wire_ A Cook County Mystery - Charlotte Carter [37]
I needed to measure my words, remain respectful. I knew that. Even if he was making no sense and looked as if he wanted to rip my throat out.
“I think you’re misinterpreting. I only meant that the police think whoever did this had some reason for targeting Wilton. It wasn’t a matter of how he lived, or where or with whom. I think so, too. Oh, never mind that now. I only wanted to tell you how sorry I am. And I thought I might be some help to you at the service.”
“Service? You’re not coming to any service.”
“I can’t come? But why?”
“You will be no part of it. Stay up north with those other hooligans.”
My God. So my last image of Wilt would be that bloody torso lashed to a chair. Boy, that hurt me so much, I nearly bent double.
“Okay,” I said. “Forget about the funeral. But don’t you at least want to hear how much we all thought of Wilt?”
“I don’t want to hear a goddamn thing. What are you going to tell me about? How much marijuana you smoked at those degenerate parties he was throwing? Your criminal enterprises? I know everything I need to know about all of you. You think justice will come at the point of a gun. You’d rather act the fool than put your shoulder to the wheel. You want to tear down everything we built with our blood and tears.”
Blood and tears. Where was all the purple rhetoric coming from? His manner was flipping from heel-clicking hussar to country preacher. The guy must’ve been waiting a long time for somebody to dump all this on.
My temper was rising like a doughnut in hot oil. “Mr. Mobley, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, the hell you don’t. You lazy, raggedy—living up north with the worst kind of decadent white do-nothings. You people have got no decency in you, no more morals than a farm animal. God knows what kind of place you’re from.”
Okay. I’d had it.
“I’m from a place where I was taught to have some basic kindness and manners.”
“That much is clear,” Hope Mobley spoke as she stepped into the room. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. Please have a seat.”
Mobley turned on her, furious at her invitation, but she just shook her head at him. “What you’re doing won’t help, Oscar. Go someplace. Go upstairs.”
He bellowed at her, “He wasn’t welcome in this house. Now, why in hell should I have to entertain one of them?”
She shook her head again. “Go on up,” she said mildly. “Go upstairs and hide your face. You’ll be all right.”
She waited with her eyes lowered until he left the room.
Wilt sometimes referred to his father as a pompous shit. I had no trouble seeing why. But that didn’t keep me from pitying the rigid, heartbroken man.
“Will you—I’m sorry, what was your name?” Hope asked.
“Cassandra.”
“Will you excuse me, Cassandra, if I don’t offer you refreshments?”
“Of course I will.”
“Yes, you seem like a nicely raised child. I thought you could understand.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can.”
The old fantasy had me charming the pants off the Mobleys, making peace between them and Wilt. I’d make out a case for our choices: Yes, we wanted out from under their supervision and their set of morals; yes, we were impatient with the high-cost education they were underwriting; yes, we liked the idea of a handpicked family rather than a biologically determined one. But none of that meant we dishonored their generation and all its sacrifices—blood and tears, if you must. Oh, I was going to be wildly articulate, and I was going to be Exhibit A, Wilt’s lovely little friend, a nicely raised child.
“I know I’m intruding, Mrs. Mobley. All I wanted to do was bring my condolences.”
No wonder I mumbled those lines. I was lying. In part, anyway. I did want to show sympathy, but I was also looking for information. I hoped she had enough left to give it to me.
She repeated my word. “Condolences.” It had the ring of a melancholy musical piece, something by Scott Joplin.
“Can you stand to hear me out?” I asked. “And then I’ll go.”
“What is it?”
“Your husband talked about wild parties and criminals. Like Wilt was doing something wrong and should have expected to