Sophie grinned at him.

  Helen set her martini glass down on the coffee table, then continued, “Just for your information, my personal expertise is in the areas of spousal abuse—both psychological and physical—and also religious cults. At first glance, you might think those two are worlds apart, but they’re not. What they have in common is mind control. Psychological manipulation. The manipulator, whether it’s a spouse or a religious guru, uses similar techniques to persuade, often to the detriment of the person being persuaded. Whether or not John Washburn is a true sociopath, if what you tell me is accurate, he may have used some common mind control techniques on his various wives.”

  “Like what?” asked Bram, rising to refill the martini glasses.

  “Well, speaking about cults in general terms, the forms most often used are control of information, which then limits alternatives from which the members can make choices. Also, outright deception. Group pressure. Intense indoctrination into a belief system that considers the world outside to be threatening, evil, or in error. Isolation from social supports, especially friends and family. And, in my opinion, the most effective tool in the mind controller’s arsenal is alternating threats of physical violence with human tenderness, love with harsh disapproval. It keeps the members off-balance, and makes them yearn to do whatever is necessary to feel they’re once again basking in the glow of acceptance and love. It’s the same with spousal abuse.”

  Helen held her martini glass as Bram poured. “I’ve thrown a lot of theory at you. Let’s get down to specifics. One of the key points in your story about John Washburn is that, with the exception of his current wife, he seems to have isolated his wives, either by moving them away from their family, or moving them out to the country. He also lavished them with love and attention. It’s not a huge leap to assume that when he withdrew that love, it had a big impact. It’s what I call ‘tending and narrowing’ behavior. You bombard the person you’re after with total adoration. You literally whisk them off their feet. Then you slowly begin to isolate them, cut them off from opinions that might differ from yours. This ultimately leads the victim to second-guess her own thoughts and opinions. If the victim is a woman, society has already programmed her to blame herself for problems in a relationship. If the family of the victim should happen to suggest that her loved one is less than saintly, the victim takes the blame herself. It’s her fault if he gets angry. Her fault if he hits her. And perhaps even more importantly, her fault if he withdraws his love. It becomes an insidious cycle. The more abuse, the more guilt the victim feels. I’ve seen it so many times, but it still surprises me.”

  Sophie mulled it over. “Maybe Laura Walters did commit suicide. Her husband drove her to it.”

  “The problem is, Sophie,” said Helen, taking a sip of her drink, “if your man did marry all these women, if he did have a hand in two deaths, it’s going to be virtually impossible to prove so many years after the fact. Your theory might be correct, or you could be way off base. There’s no way to know for sure.”

  “But what about the tattoo?” asked Bram.

  “It proves the bigamy, but it hardly proves Washburn was a murderer.”

  “But he admitted to a murder,” said Sophie. “He killed a man in his hometown because the man was blackmailing him. I’ll bet a million bucks it has to do with his past.”

  “That’s highly likely,” admitted Helen.

  “Isn’t the bigamy bad enough?” asked Bram.

  “It’s illegal,” replied Helen. “But in the scheme of things, it’s certainly possible to love more than one person at the same time. If it was love, not manipulation, it doesn’t make him a monster, just a felon. There’s a lot of room for interpretation.”

  Sophie immediately thought of Nathan. Her own life was living proof that a person could love two people at the same time. And if two, why not three? Or more? Sophie loved Bram deeply, passionately, but that didn’t erase her feelings for Nathan, as hard as she willed it to be so.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” said Helen, finishing her martini. “But hopefully, I gave you some psychological context.”

  When Sophie looked up this time, she saw that Bram was watching her, his eyes narrowed, his expression intent. Had her face given something away? Did he know she was thinking about Nathan? Perhaps, in the end, nobody’s life was free of secrets. Or maybe that’s what she wanted to think to rationalize her own disgusting behavior. “No, Helen, you’ve been a huge help.” She forced a smile.

  “I’m usually around evenings and weekends if you need any other questions answered.”

  “Or a little family therapy,” said Bram. The comment was obviously meant as a joke, except that the smile that accompanied it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  After almost ten years together, Sophie still wished she could read her husband better. There were times when she had no idea what he was thinking. Bram probably had moments when he wished he understood her better, too. If she wasn’t mistaken, this was one of them.

  23

  Milton settled himself into a green plastic chair in his brother’s hospital room. Before John’s therapy session today, his nurse had decided to let him sit up in a chair so that he’d be ready for breakfast. He spent the better part of each morning in physical therapy, and every afternoon he saw a speech therapist. Slowly but surely, he was returning to life. There were tears in Milton’s eyes when he looked at him now. He was so glad that, for the moment, John was out of danger. He couldn’t imagine a life without his big brother.

  The Washburn family had been taking turns to be with him, just in case he felt the urge to talk about the Runbeck murder again. They couldn’t allow that to happen. Mary stayed nights—from eight in the evening until seven in the morning. That left the breakfast, lunch, and dinner shifts to be divided up among Milton, Bernice, and Plato. Bernice was taking the afternoon shift today—twelve to four. John would be whisked away right after breakfast and when he got back, he’d be too tired to talk, so this was the best time to do it. Because it was Saturday, there were fewer people around. Right now, before the food arrived, Milton had a green light.

  Pulling his chair directly in front of John, Milton sat forward, trying on his friendliest expression. “How are you feeling today, buddy? You’re lookin’ so much better.” He could tell his brother was tired, but happy to be out of bed and sitting up.

  “I’m o . . . kay,” said John, nodding. The right side of his face lifted easily in a slight smile.

  “Listen, Johnny, I know this might not be the best time, but I need to talk to you. It’s about Kirby Runbeck.”

  The smile faded. He looked away.

  Milton felt his brother’s resistance, but plunged ahead. “Why did you admit to the murder? That was so . . . so incredibly stupid.”

  “Mm . . . be . . . I . . . um . . . shtupit.”

  “Of course you’re not. Don’t get all melodramatic on me now.”

  Again, John looked away.

  “They say Kirby was blackmailing you before he died.”

  “Nnnn . . . a . . . your . . . bish . . . nush.”

  “Of course it’s my business. Ten minutes after you found out the guy was dead, you had a goddamn stroke.”

  John shrugged his right shoulder. “Co . . . ennn . . . shi . . . dence.”

  “Don’t lie to me. That was no coincidence. I saw the look on your face, saw how agitated you got. He was blackmailing you, wasn’t he?”

  John looked over at the bed. Finally, his eyes averted, he nodded stiffly.

  “Why?”

  He puckered his mouth, then said, “We . . . all . . . shinners, right?”

  Milton folded his arms over his chest. “Look—”

  “No,” John said with surprising vigor. “E . . . nfff.”

  “I won’t let you squirm out of this. We’ve got to put our cards on the table. It’s the only way out of this mess.”

  John gave his head a determined twist.

  Milton was at a loss. If his brother refused to open up, there was no way he could figure out what to do next.

  They sat for a few moments just looking at each other. To Milton, it felt like a staring match, like when they were kids. Who would blink first? But Milton wasn’t the gullible kid brother any more. He’d be damned if he’d give in.

  Finally, John’s eyes dropped to the tray table in front of him. After a long moment, he raised his chin. “I . . . love my . . . kilren. I love . . . my wife. En . . . I love . . . my bro . . . er. You . . . are all my . . . life.”

  “We know that, John. We all love you, too.”

  “Do . . . ou?” He met Milton’s gaze directly. “I know . . . wa . . . you’f done, Mil . . . en. I . . . know the truff.”

  Milton’s mouth tightened. “What are you saying?” Before John could answer, the nurse pushed through the door with his breakfast tray. She was early. Damn it all.

  “They’re all ready for you down in physical therapy,” she said, setting the tray in front of him. Removing the plastic dome covering the plate, she added, “Since the trays came up a little early, I thought I’d bring yours in first. Give you a head start.”

  John looked up at her. “Gooh,” he said, the right side of his mouth curling into a smile.

  “We’ve got your favorites today. Low sodium chicken broth, a big glass of apple juice, and some chocolate pudding.”

  John raised his eyebrows, glancing at his brother. “My . . . favoritesh,” he said.

  Milton could read the sarcasm in his tone, even if the nurse couldn’t. For a man who’d been living on wheat grass and carrot juice for the past year, hospital food must feel like torture. Not that John wasn’t taking it all in stride. His characteristic humor had even returned, something he’d lost entirely before the stroke.

  “Here, let me fluff that pillow behind your back before I go.”

  “Th . . . ank . . . uo, Ca . . . ol,” said John, easing forward.

  “You’re welcome. Remember, if you need anything, just push your call light.”

  Milton turned his head and watched her go. As she pushed out the door, he saw that there was a cop standing outside. Why didn’t they leave his brother the hell alone? He wasn’t going anywhere. It was harassment, pure and simple. When he looked back, he saw that John had seen the cop, too.

  “I’m a . . . fwight rishk,” said John, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Milton shook his head. “We’re not done with our conversation.”

  “Yesh . . . we ah.” He picked up his spoon. “Wou . . . you care to . . . join me?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m not eating that pig shit.”

  The right side of John’s mouth spread into a grin. “I . . . for . . . give ou, Mil . . . en. We won’t shpeak of . . . ish . . . again. Come on. Dig in.”

  “You’re something else, you know that?”

  “I do . . . know . . . that. Thass my pro . . . blem.”

  24

  Homicide. The word had a smell to it. It was dirty. Urban. Not the kind of thing that happened in Rose Hill. Plato had seen the headline in the morning paper, and the word was so huge and black and ugly, it nearly jumped off the page and punched him in the gut.

  Plato stormed into Byron Jenny’s office shortly after ten on Saturday morning. He’d made it crystal clear last Wednesday that no further mention of his father was to be made in the Rose Hill Gazette. Jenny had thumbed his nose at him. He’d connected the blackmail to the murder with the headline GRUESOME HOMICIDE TIED TO BLACKMAIL OF EX-MAYOR JOHN WASHBURN.

  “Can I help you?” asked Jenny, looking up from his tea.

  Plato flung the crumpled Saturday edition across the desktop.

  Jenny turned the paper around. “Today’s edition. One of our better efforts.”

  “I gave you a direct order. No more coverage of my father’s legal problems.”

  “Is that what you call murder? A legal problem?”

  “I’m your boss. You do what I tell you.”

  Jenny pursed his lips. “I’m a professional journalist, Mr. Washburn. I don’t take orders that compromise my judgment.”

  “You have no judgment, you pedantic prig.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve got the execrable instincts of a tabloid hack.”

  Jenny rose from his chair, meeting Plato’s eyes. “Careful. You’re about to exhaust your vocabulary.”

  “I want your resignation.”

  Slowly, Jenny pulled open the top desk drawer. He slipped his hand inside and took out a typed sheet of paper. Crumpling it into a ball, he tossed it at Plato’s chest. “There it is.”

  Plato had expected an argument. A little healthy groveling. But Jenny wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Fine. It was his funeral. “Don’t expect a letter of recommendation.”

  Jenny glared at him, then threw his head back and laughed. And he kept laughing. Louder and louder. His face contorted. Tears leaked out of his eyes. He was a braying mule. A human gargoyle.

  Plato stuck a finger in each ear to stifle the sound, but the laughter was like a virus seeping into his brain, making his instincts boil out of control. Before he knew what was happening, he had his hands around Jenny’s neck. He was squeezing and squeezing, enjoying the sensation of power, the look of Jenny’s face as it turned a deep purple. Jenny fought to push Plato away, but nothing could stop him. If he wanted, he could snap Jenny in two.

  And then he let go.

  Jenny fell backward into his chair, gasping for breath. “You’re insane,” he said, ripping his bow tie off and massaging his neck.

  Plato loomed over him. “Maybe I am,” he said mildly, even cheerfully. “If you’re right, you better not mess with me or my family again. You got that?”

  Jenny looked up at him, swallowing with some difficulty. After a moment, he gave a grudging nod.

  “Clean out your desk and get out.”

  Half an hour later, Plato pulled his car into his parents’ backyard. As he trotted up the back steps, a delicious smell tickled his nose. He’d been secretly hoping that nobody would be around today, that he’d have the house all to himself, but with Bernice still in town and his mother spending her days at home now, he knew it was unlikely.

  After his run-in with Jenny, he felt uncharacteristically loose and lighthearted. He’d always shied away from confrontation before. Who knew it would be so much fun?

  “Oh, good,” Bernice said as Plato entered the kitchen. “You got my message.”

  “What message?” he asked, noticing that his mother was sitting at the kitchen table next to a man he’d never met before. Both of them had plates of food in front of them.

  “I’m testing meat loaf recipes again today,” said Bernice, getting another plate out of the cupboard. “I called your house last night and talked to Kevin. You weren’t home, so I told him to be sure and tell you that I needed you to stop by this morning. I need another taster.”

  On the counter, Bernice had lined up six plates of meat loaf. As he bent over to sniff the first one, he said, “I’d be happy to help.” The fact that he hadn’t received the message was just more proof that he was invisible at home.

  “Oh,” said Bernice, handing him the plate and a fork. “I should introduce you to a friend of mine. Plato, this is Angelo Falzone. Angelo and I met while I was doing research on the New York club scene for my latest book.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “You from New York?” asked Plato, taking in Angelo’s shiny gray suit and gaudy gold jewelry. People dressed a certain way are never wrong, he thought to himself. Angelo was that kind of man. He looked rich and confident—and connected. He looked like a mobster.

  “I was born in New Jersey,” said Angelo, resuming his place at the table. “But I was raised in Brooklyn.”

  You could cut the New York accent with a knife. Plato took an instant dislike to him.

  “Dish yourself up some food,” said his mother. “I know which one I like best.”

  “How are you feeling today, Mom?” asked Plato, breaking off a piece of each loaf.

  “Remarkably fine,” she said, dabbing a napkin at her mouth. “Your father had a good night. When he sleeps peacefully, so do I.”

  Bernice watched expectantly as Plato tasted each piece.

  “This one,” he said, finally, pointing his fork at the first loaf.

  “We all agree then,” Bernice said with a triumphant smile. “Good. Now, I’ve got six more meat loafs coming out of the oven in a few minutes. You’ll stay, won’t you? I really need your help.”

  “It’s a dirty job,” Angelo said with a smirk. “But somebody’s gotta do it.”

  Trite, Plato thought, setting his plate down. He leaned back against the counter. He might not have Angelo’s easy self-confidence, but he was feeling pretty pumped this morning. He’d dealt with one asshole; he might as well deal with another. “How come you’re in Rose Hill?”

  Angelo shrugged. “I like to travel. I’ve never been in Minnesota before, but Bernice made it sound like a place I should visit. So—” He spread his arms. “Here I am.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What more do you want?”

  “What do you do? For a living, I mean?”

  “I own laundromats.”

  “In New York City?”

  “In and around, yeah.”

  He looked pretty flush for a guy who owned laundromats. “Must be a good business.”

  “I do all right.” He adjusted his diamond pinky ring.

  “Mr. Falzone has been entertaining us with stories of his childhood,” said Plato’s mother, flashing him a look that said “stop the third degree.”

  “I’ve had a . . . colorful life,” said Angelo, smiling at Bernice. “What can I say?”

  Plato watched his sister. What was this guy to her? “Well, I’ll let you get on with your stories. I’ve got a few calls I should make. If you need me, I’ll be in Dad’s study.”

  As he walked past his sister, he could see the relief in her eyes. She was glad he was going. My God, he thought. She’s sweet on the guy. Bernice was totally inexperienced when it came to men, and this proved it. Falzone was too slick to be anything other than a shark in pimp’s clothing. What did she think she was doing, getting mixed up with a man like that?