Moon Island

Chapter Twenty-seven

 
We moved to the bungalow's living room.
"These places aren't bugged, are they?" asked Allison.
"No," said Patricia Thurman, looking wet and miserable, and nothing like the socialite I knew she was. Her canvas shoes were soaked through and muddy.
The hems of her white pants were muddy as well. Her jacket had kept most of the water off, but her face was still dripping wet. She dabbed it with a bath towel that Allison had given her.
"I don't know why I'm here," she said.
I knew why she was here, but didn't say anything. As I'd left the family, of course, I had given her a very strong telepathic suggestion to come see me.
You devil, thought Allison.
Our secret, I thought, and turned to Patricia. "Maybe you're here because there's something you want to tell us."
"You know, get off your chest," piped in Allison.
Patricia Thurman, who was probably forty-eight years old, but looked, after all her plastic surgery, forty-six years old, also appeared flummoxed. She really didn't know why she had decided to come out into the rain to speak with me. But now that she was here, I could see she was warming up to the idea.
"Well, I'm not in the habit of discussing my family to strangers, you see."
"I understand," I said. "Your niece hired me to help. She felt she had a good reason to."
"And, with Cal dying, maybe she does," said Mrs. Thurman. She tried on a weak smile for size, but it didn't last. It faltered and her lower lip quivered. "God, not Cal, too. Honestly, that's still sinking in."
"You liked Cal?" I asked, just to get the conversation moving. Sometimes the simplest questions led to a windfall of answers. We would see, especially since I just encouraged her telepathically to open up to me a little more.
"Cal was always kind to me, always full of laughter. Always drunk."
I smiled. "There's a lot of drinking with the Thurmans."
"Not that there's any problem with that," added Allison, which earned her a scowl from me.
"Aw, yes," said Patricia, ignoring Allison. "The drinking. The endless drinking. Well, maybe that's part of the curse, too. Had Cal told you about the curse?"
"He didn't have a chance," I said.
"I'm not surprised."
"What do you mean?"
"Never mind, I've said too much as it is."
She made a move to stand and I gently prodded her to relax, sending her a comforting thought that should have put her at ease: You are among friends, it's warm in here, no one will hurt you, we're only trying to help.
"Would you like some coffee, Mrs.
Thurman?" I asked.
"Yes, please, that would be delightful." She smiled and blinked and then frowned a little, no doubt surprised to hear the words issue from her mouth.
"Allison?" I said.
"Yeah?" She'd been sitting at the edge of her seat.
"Could you make Mrs. Thurman some coffee?"
"Oh, yeah, right. I'm on it."
She got up and headed into the adjoining kitchen, working quickly, but listening, I knew, to the conversation going on in the living room.
"Tell me more about the curse, Mrs.
Thurman."
"I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Because the family isn't supposed to talk about it."
"What happens if someone talks about it?"
"They die."
"Because of the curse?"
"Because of...something," she said.
The smell of fresh coffee soon filled the small bungalow, awakening an old need in me, an old craving. I had once loved coffee more than life itself.
Mrs. Thurman was closed off to me again, and I prodded her further. But first, I wanted to make sure she was safe talking to me. Yes, I needed information, but, no, I didn't want to jeopardize her life in the process. After all, I had seen the dark snake rise up through Cal's solar plexus, to strangle the life from him...from the inside out.
Which, of course, left no mark.
Just like with George Thurman in the pool. Allison's thoughts appeared in my mind as she stepped out of the kitchen with two cups of steaming coffee. One for each of them...and none for me. I sighed.
I nodded. Which could explain why there were no marks on George Thurman.
And why the coroner could only conclude he'd drowned accidentally.
As Patricia Thurman accepted the coffee, looking a bit confused as to why she was still here, when, no doubt, her every instinct told her to leave, I gave her another gentle prodding, encouraging her further to tell me more of the family curse, but without divulging so much as to put herself at risk.
When she was done sipping her coffee, she smiled sweetly at me, crossed her legs, and said, "You were asking me about the family curse?"
"Yes," I said. "I was wondering if it's, well, real?"
She nodded and sipped more coffee and would have looked very elegant, if not for her muddy pants. "Oh, yes. It's very, very real."
"Does the curse extend to you?"
"No, not directly. Indirectly, maybe."
"What do you mean?"
"It means that if anyone in my family knows that I'm talking to you about the curse, I might not live to see tomorrow."
She smiled at me again then added pleasantly: "And neither will either of you."
Allison put down her coffee. That was, apparently, enough for her to lose her desire for the good stuff.
"The curse is passed down through the blood," I said. "Which is why you're not directly affected by it."
"Why, that's very observant, Ms.
Moon. I can see why Tara hired you. Yes, the curse has been passed down through the generations."
"Dating back to when?"
"Conner Thurman."
I knew the name. "George's and Cal's father."
"Yes, the bastard who caused this mess," she said and turned to Allison. "Do you have any sugar, dear?"
"Um, I dunno. Let me check."
While Allison went searching for the sugar, I asked Patricia to elaborate on Conner's involvement with the curse.
Which she did.
And what a curse it was.