A Life for a Life - Lynda McDaniel (whitelam books TXT) 📗

“Isabella—but I go by Izzy. Izzy Martinez, though that’s my married name. Before, I was Sanchez. Lucy’s last name.”

“Please, have a seat by the fire.” Our warm May had turned into “blackberry winter,” that surprise cold-snap (though it happened every year) that came just as the blackberries were beginning to bloom. We settled in, coffee in hand, fresh banana bread refused with a sorrowful shake of her head. Neither one of us knew where to begin, so we sat in silence.

Finally, Izzy said, “Lucia was a lovely person. Our mother died a few years ago, so that left us alone to deal with our dad, Miguel Sanchez. She cared for him long after he’d given up caring for himself.”

“Did she ever live in Westend?”

“No, no. My husband and I moved from Atlanta to a community about thirty minutes this side of Westend. We’re trying to make a go of it with a small farm and some other things. I’m a jeweler, he’s an artist,” she said, sipping her coffee. “Lucia—though she preferred Lucy—stayed in Atlanta to be near our father. I begged her to come live here, surrounded by nature instead of all that filth she put up with.”

I didn’t want to intrude on her recollections, so I just poured myself more coffee. She put her hand over her cup and continued. “Lucia had a nice enough apartment for herself, but she kept going down to that dump where our father lived. He’d been in a mental institution on and off for years, but when funds were cut for those facilities, he was planted in one of those oatmeal factories that made people sign over their Social Security checks to the proprietor to pay for a bed and meals. No care, just food, water, and a roof.”

“Why did you call it an oatmeal factory?”

“Because they served the cheapest, worst food—mostly oatmeal. A disgrace, but those facilities were his only option, at the time. He was a large man—at least the last time I saw him—six feet tall, and no way could we control him, especially when he was drunk or on goodness knows what. I couldn’t take it any longer, but Lucia wanted to be able to visit him regularly. Like I said, she was a lovely person.” 

The tears flowed while she talked, at times turning to sobs. I didn’t know if she wanted comfort from a stranger, but when I tentatively reached out, she grabbed my hand and hugged so hard I spilled my coffee on my jeans. She didn’t notice, and thank heavens it was cold by then, so I didn’t even flinch. After a while, she wiped her face with the backs of her hands and blew her nose. “When he died a few months ago, I asked her to come for a visit. If I hadn’t invited her—no, if I hadn’t begged her to come—she’d still be alive.” She blew her nose again and didn’t speak for some time.

As a reporter, I’d heard that refrain so many times—if only I hadn’t ....  But I knew my consolations wouldn’t help. Only time would. I sat with her for a while and then asked, “How long was her visit with you?”

“Almost a month. We had a good time together, too. I’m at least grateful for that. She got bored after a while, though, and started looking for things to do. Not much going on, and that’s how she got involved with that hateful Green Treatise. My husband, Javier, went one time to their meetup, and he took Lucia with him—but only the one time. He came home telling me how weird the members were—all tattooed up, grassed up, messed up.

“Lucia, though—she came home wired. Something really got to her about the group. But what did she know about their issues, living in a studio apartment in Atlanta? She went back a couple more times, borrowing my husband’s truck. The last time, she came home and told us she had to come down here. We drove her down to a campground, and that’s the last I saw her.”

“What’s your take on the Green Treatise? Any idea why she got hooked?”

“None. The whole way down today, I kept trying to figure out why she kept going to those crazy meetings. You can imagine what they’re like. Lots of guys with motorcycles, bandanas, weed, and a grudge against the world. Not her type of guy at all. As for their philosophy, Javier said they just spewed a lot of hate about the wilderness being taken over by the government. What we see as land protection, they saw as theft. But again, not the kind of folks Lucia would want to hang out with—unless her experience with the government turning its back on our father turned her head.”

We talked a while longer, then Izzy said she’d like to shop a little in the store before dealing with Lucy’s identification. “Chorizo!” she called over her shoulder, a wan smile briefly easing her grief. “And marcona almonds! I miss some of these foods living on the farm, but not enough to move away.” When she came to the register, I refused payment, which caused a good-natured standoff, for a while. It seemed like the least I could do.

“But you’re doing so much to find out what happened to Lucia. That’s so much more than the sheriff you described. Please let me pay.”

I told her I just couldn’t—this time—but I hoped she’d come back, and I’d let her pay then. She nodded and picked up her bag of groceries. I walked her to her car and gave her directions to the sheriff’s office.

It was suppertime, and Abit was home, tucking into a meal that was undoubtedly a lot better than the one I was about to make. I was relieved that I didn’t have to explain who Izzy was—though I wondered if much got past that big window in the front of their house. I thought I saw the curtains twitch as Izzy drove off. I walked back to the store to get Jake, wondering how—or if—that damned Green Treatise figured into her sister’s death.