Or maybe that was just his imagination, Gunner thought, looking as he was for signs of Del’s discontent everywhere.
He was rummaging through his cousin’s desk drawers, discovering treasures no more meaningful than old coffee mugs and packs of gum, when the office door opened and Viola Gates walked in, a jangling keychain in her right hand and a look of surprise on her face. And it was surprise, not fear, Gunner noted; in fact, he got the impression she could have found him robbing her own home and not been more personally insulted.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded.
Gunner had met her at least twice before, long after he’d left Del’s employ, but he took fresh stock of her now. What he saw was a middle-aged black woman of medium height, 140 to 150 pounds arranged in the shape of a teardrop vase, and a face chiseled in smooth brown marble beneath a Rasta’s mane of beaded dreadlocks. A black mole the size of a small diamond drew attention to her left cheek, just beside her flat nose, like a lighthouse calls out to stray ships in the night.
“I have my own keys.”
“I thought you said 5 o’clock.”
“I did. You’re right on time.” With his right hand, he slid closed the desk drawer he’d been rooting about in, not wasting the effort to be discreet about it.
Viola’s eyes drifted over to her desk, seeking signs of invasion, as Gunner stood up to join her in the anteroom. “Is it really true?” she asked, and up close he was able to see her eyes were rimmed in red. “Mr. Curry’s really dead? And he killed Noelle and shot Zina?”
“They were all shot, and Del and Noelle are dead, yes,” Gunner said. “But we’re still trying to find out how and why.”
“We?”
Gunner ignored the bitter skepticism in her voice and said, “The police and I. Their investigation into what happened this morning is still open, and I’m just doing my part to help them with it. You don’t have any objection to that, do you?”
Viola pushed past him to take her seat behind the desk, leaving him with the other so that he’d have no confusion about the pecking order in this room. “So why haven’t the police called me yet? Shouldn’t I talk to them first?”
Gunner sat down in the hard-backed chair across from her, accepting her terms of fealty without complaint. “To be frank? I doubt you’ll ever hear from them. The detectives in charge of the case seem pretty satisfied that things went down exactly the way you just said they did—Del shot Noelle and Zina, then turned the gun on himself—so it’s unlikely they’ll look very hard for a reason to change their minds.”
“What about Zina? What does she say happened?”
“She’s in no condition to say. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”
Gunner waited for her to respond. Tears slowly pooled in her eyes and her head began to swivel from side to side, almost imperceptibly. “I can’t believe it,” she said.
“What?”
“He wouldn’t do such a thing. He couldn’t have!”
Gunner didn’t push; he knew she’d get around to explaining herself eventually.
Viola yanked a tissue from the box on her desk and dabbed her eyes with it, expelling a deep sigh. “Things were bad. He was having a rough time. I could see how he might’ve wanted to kill himself just to put an end to his troubles, but killing his family, too? No.” She shook her head more emphatically. “No.”
Gunner let a moment pass, determined to tread softly. “How bad were things? Exactly?”
Del’s assistant appraised him carefully. “I’m not sure I should answer that.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I don’t mean to be rude. But I barely know you. Why should I tell you all of Mr. Curry’s business?”
“Because—”
“I know what you said your motives are. But that doesn’t explain everything.” She pulled herself upright in her chair, becoming Del’s fire-breathing, outraged protector again. “Like why you broke in here before I showed up so you could go through this office, instead of waiting for me to let you in. Mr. Curry hasn’t been dead a full day yet and already he’s got relatives sniffing around his things, looking for their piece of what little the poor man didn’t take with him.”
“It’s not like that,” Gunner said, though he fully understood how she might have thought otherwise. He’d seen it himself too many times, the dead’s so-called “family” picking over whatever riches had been left behind, desperate to be the first in order to get the best. No amount of wealth was ever too big or too small to fight over like hyenas over a carcass.
“No?” Viola said. “Then tell me how it is.”
It incensed Gunner to be questioned like this, when he had more right to his pain than she had to hers. But he gave in and said, “Del was my first cousin. And the closest thing I have, I guess, to a best friend. I loved him. And it pisses me the hell off that I’m so goddamned clueless about what happened to him today. I’m the only family he had out here, and family’s supposed to know when the world’s turned so far upside down for somebody that they’re thinking about picking up a gun and using it. So that’s what I’m doing here, snooping around his office and talking to you.” Gunner forced himself to stop and take a breath, before the train that was his guilt could accelerate beyond his control. “His parents are going to arrive from Atlanta tomorrow or the next day for his services, and when they get here, they’re going to ask me to explain why their son and daughter-in-law are dead, and their only grandchild is the next thing to it. Assuming Zina’s even still alive by then. I want to have answers for them when they ask their questions, Viola. And you can help me do that.”
She took a long time deciding whether or not she wanted to help him. “How?”
“I asked you how bad things had gotten for him, and in what ways.”
“I don’t know everything. I only know what I’ve seen and heard in here, and I’m only here Monday through Thursday.”
“Okay.”
She sighed. “He had money problems. Business was down and he couldn’t pay his bills on time. I think he was tapped out on all his credit cards.”
“And you know this because?”
“Because I was taking the calls from people demanding payment. Banks, suppliers, utilities. We had the electricity cut off in here at least once.”
“How long had this been going on?”
“I don’t know. Three, four months, maybe.”
Gunner couldn’t believe it. Four months in debt and Del had never once asked him for a dime.
“How deep in the hole do you think he was?” he asked Viola.
She shook her head. “I really couldn’t say.”
“You weren’t responsible for his books?”
“His
