Debra Angelo sat on the comfortable, canvas-covered couch with her arm around Gia, who looked scared and small among the big down cushions. Bessie perched stiffly on a straight-backed chair, facing her adopted family. Marvin Samuels was settled into an overstuffed club chair on the other side of a wide coffee table, on which rested a gin and tonic he was working on. And Dr. Bob Jamieson was pacing. Debra had summoned the lawyer and the therapist, and assembled the group in her living room to go over the horror story, and to try to figure out what they should do for her daughter on every level.
“I think,” Debra said soberly, “we should begin by having Bessie tell the story that she told me an hour ago.” The nanny had a fresh cotton handkerchief at the ready. All eyes turned to her, including Gia’s, who looked relieved that she wasn’t being asked to speak.
“I lied to the detectives,” Bessie began, and Gia looked startled at her admission. “I told them Gia did not leave the kitchen the whole time Mr. Nathanson was here the afternoon he was… was shot, and that isn’t true.” Marvin Samuels shifted in his chair and watched her intently.
The woman went on to tell what really happened, how Gia followed her father into her bedroom, how Bessie had heard a shot but wasn’t sure what it was, then heard another. And how Gia had come running back into the kitchen then, crying and gasping and saying her daddy got shot with her mom’s gun.
“Tell them what you told Gia,” Debra said sternly, and Bessie began to weep.
“I did wrong,” the housekeeper whimpered forlornly. “I told her not to tell anybody, not to ever talk about it again, and that I would say she’d stayed right there in the kitchen with me the whole time, and I asked her if she understood.”
“Evidently she did,” Debra said dryly, directing her words at Marvin. “Gia never said another word about it.”
The attorney was the only one in the group who looked comfortable, Debra noted, and that was reassuring to her. Of course, she knew in her heart that it didn’t necessarily mean anything. She was sure Marvin Samuels would be comfortable in a burning building. He would probably sit and have a drink, and maybe some crackers and pâté, while he considered which route would provide the most efficient egress.
“What should we do, Marvin?” she asked. He had come out to the beach as soon as he got her frantic call telling him that the person who killed Jack was actually Gia. By accident, of course. She explained how the girl had found her gun and wanted to show it to her father.
“Are you sure it was an accident?” he’d asked her.
“For God’s sake, Marvin!” she’d exclaimed. “Could that even be an issue with a ten-year-old?”
“In today’s world, yes,” he’d said. It had been Marvin’s idea to get the psychologist over there, too. Meanwhile, he’d told her on the phone, she should hold all thoughts and comments until they got there, and they’d go through it together.
“Can we freshen your drink?” Debra asked him now, taking his cue to stay civilized, stay cool.
“That would be great.” Marvin smiled, and Bessie jumped to her feet, grateful for the diversion.
“And Bessie, bring some cheese, would you, and whatever else you can put together… some of those lovely green grapes. Who else would like a drink?” she asked. Gia wanted lemonade; Debra would have a glass of wine.
It was amazing what interjecting small amenities into the most horrendous of crises could do to put a better face on things, she reflected. Even wonderful, concerned Dr. Jamieson, who still wouldn’t sit down, whose veins pulsated at his temples as he paced—even he visibly relaxed a bit and asked Bessie for a glass of juice.
Bessie escaped into the kitchen, and Marvin addressed Debra’s question. “What to do? I’m going to have to call Mike Cabello and tell him, of course, right away,” he said.
“Well, what would the procedure be in a case like this?” Debra asked with a hint of exasperation. “Surely they’ll just dismiss everything and close the book on it—it was a tragic accident involving a youngster; you read about this kind of thing all the time.”
“Debra,” Marvin said quietly, “it’s not going to be that simple. They are not going to just accept this scenario at face value, thank you very much, case closed. They are going to tear the stories apart, second by second, Bessie’s, and Gia’s, too—”
“Oh, Marvin,” Debra wailed, giving Gia a supportive squeeze, “can’t they at least spare her?”
“No,” Marvin said. “Time for a reality check, Debra. For all they know, you might have cooked this story up to get yourself off the hook. They know that you know they can’t throw a ten-year-old in prison. They’ll be all over the kid’s story, and so will the press—count on it.”
“There’ll be more publicity?” she asked with a sinking heart.
“Debra, the hordes of hell will be on your doorstep. Starting tomorrow. Maybe even today, after I tell Mike Cabello. It’ll leak right away, trust me on that—those guys need to close this case.”
Dr. Jamieson had dropped into a chair. “The best thing would be to get Gia out of here for a while,” he said. “Take her to the mountains or somewhere—she’s out of school anyway, and you could use a change of scenery, too,” he told Debra.
Catching the glint of hope that sprang into Debra’s eyes, Marvin pronounced resolutely, “Nice idea, but they won’t let either of you go out of town, so don’t even think about it.”
“Well, then, we’ll just have to help Gia through this, won’t we?” Jamieson said, smiling kindly at the girl.
“Gia,” Marvin said, “we want to hear from you, now. Tell us everything that happened on the day your daddy got shot. From the beginning, Gia,” he said when the girl hesitated, looking up at her mother for reassurance.
Bessie had come back into the room with a tray of drinks and snacks, which she set on the coffee table. Once again, Gia was temporarily spared by the distraction presented by the refreshments, and she jumped up and made a great production of building herself a sandwich with meat and cheese, spreading the bread carefully with mustard, arranging pickles and olives just so on her plate. Debra gave her a minute to play with her food before she yanked her back on the spot.
“Well, uhh,” Gia stammered, licking mustard off her fingers, “I went in my room to get my red sweater?” She made it a question, looking for approval.
“Yes,” Marvin encouraged her. He already knew the opening text; he’d heard it from both Debra and Bessie. But only Gia knew exactly what had gone on inside that bedroom, and that’s what he had come to hear. He’d told Debra not to press the child for details until he got there, that handling it would have to be delicate. Everyone in the small group was facing Gia now, paying her rapt attention.
“And we found my jacket,” Gia went on. “And my boots with the fur inside? And I showed Daddy Debra’s gun,” she said, lowering her voice, reddening, dropping her head. She used “Debra” instead of “Mom” sometimes, when she was trying to detach from her. Gia knew that taking that gun out of the drawer was strictly forbidden, and now that the secret was out, she’d be punished for it.
“Go on,” Marvin said gently. Gia started to cry, her tears splashing onto the plate of food she was holding with both hands on her lap.
“Then Daddy got shot,” she sobbed, not looking at anyone, her eyes riveted to her soggy sandwich.
Debra couldn’t bring herself to ask the question. Dr. Jamieson did. “Did you shoot your daddy, Gia?” he asked.
“No,” Gia wailed.
“Don’t lie, young lady,” Debra pressed, all too aware of her daughter’s usual tactic when in a tight spot—it was her father’s tactic as well, she knew.
“I didn’t shoot him,” Gia cried, and the plate slid off her lap onto the floor, spilling its contents onto the Kashan carpet. Bessie leaped to clean up the mess.
Debra knew that Gia actually could handle a gun—her father had taught her, she’d told Marvin that. And she knew that it would be natural for her daughter to want to show off the firearm to her dad, just as she knew Gia would have had every intention of spiriting it back into her nightstand drawer without letting her mother find out. Debra wondered now how many times she’d had it out, examined it, maybe even played with it—a loaded gun! She’d been a fool to leave it in that drawer, but she’d wanted it readily accessible in the middle of the night if she ever needed it, and it had never occurred to her that Gia would ever see it, let alone handle it. And it had a hair trigger! Tony Morano at the gun club had recommended that, for Debra’s protection. She had been meticulously instructed, and he’d trusted that she was coolheaded enough never to aim the weapon unless she feared for her life. If she ever were in danger, he didn’t want her having to struggle with the trigger and risk being overpowered. Yes, Gia definitely could handle that Smith & Wesson.38.
“Well, then, who shot him?” Marvin asked, never expecting to hear what came next.
“Zahna,” Gia said. Bessie let out a gasp.
“And who is Zahna?” Debra demanded incredulously.
“Daddy’s girlfriend,” Gia whimpered.