You'll have to forgive my infernal lateness. Spring Break, mucho schoolwork, and a surprising amount of research on this story in particular (as well as the seeds of a new story that I'm slowly waffling over). Damned if New York isn't a tough place to navigate. If I've made any mistakes, please feel free to correct me. The way I see it is: my house in Germantown, MD was about a half hour from D.C. I guess Mineola is the same way. Only, you know, I'll bet Mineola isn't a hell hole.

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Furious

by

Fashionably Stupid

Chapter Seven: Gates to the Garden

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Marjorie Lee Charles first met Arnold Bettis in the summer of 1978 when some of her mail accidentally found its way into his mailbox. She remembers the wariness she felt when she heard the knock on the door; she had always been unaccustomed to company. Marjorie's childhood had been, on the whole, a happy one, if quiet, and strangers had always left her self-conscious and on slightly shaky ground. Arnold, of course, remembers the sheer beauty of the woman who opened the door.

For the first three years that they knew each other, one considered the other a friend. They dated other people, but each regarded the other as a beacon and a rock-solid foundation. Their sudden marriage in January of 1981 came as a shock to their friends, but they soon came to accept the private, mysterious couple.

Marjorie took a job as a professional landscape designer and continued her studies on rose breeding. Arnold, who had only recently received his master's degree in biology (from Princeton, no less, and intended to seek his Ph.D.), received an invitation to teach a Living Environment at the Manhattan Center for Science and Mathematics, a prestigious, privately funded high school.

When Marjorie's father, Willard Stanley Charles IV, a greatly acclaimed lawyer and general philanthropist, died after a bold struggle with stomach cancer in late 1984, he left the bulk of his fortune to his daughter, his only child. While Marjorie loved her father dearly and was much aggrieved to see her second parent die, the money, approximately $500,000, bequeathed to her and her husband was, to say the least, most welcome indeed. Combining this with the sizeable nest egg they had accrued through three years of steady frugality, they moved out of their cramped apartment and took out a mortgage on the spacious five bedroom home in Mineola they still occupy today. They enjoy the distance from the city, but they also appreciate their proximity to what some would consider the cultural center of the country, if not the world.

It was a February morning in 1985 when she woke up feeling that something was not right. She went to the bathroom and threw up.

"I think I'm going to have a baby," she told her husband.

"Huh."

Marjorie was a very personable expectant mother. For the most part, her temper was even, though the pains in her back became somewhat intolerable. The majority of her work can be done in her own home; during her pregnancy, she allowed herself time in her small office only to negotiate and begin preliminary designs. As she was in everything, Marjorie was sensible and calm.

In October of that year, Adam Charles Bettis was born, slightly heavier than average, but slightly longer, too. He was a difficult birth.

"It sounded like a battle to the death in there," a doctor who was passing by her delivery room was heard to remark. "Worse than usual, even."

Adam was the pride and joy of the Bettis family: handsome, sharp, classy. He was always the first in his class to learn the latest skill. He was blessed with his mother's even temper, but his father's secret lust for adventure, and though he was never denied even the slightest whimsy, he did not turn spoiled. When Arnold completed his postgraduate work, however, and was offered a professorship at NYU, the family's social station became their life. Suddenly, Adam's generous intelligence was just another symbol of prestige, another pawn in the societal game. But if you asked Marjorie or Arnold, "We're no different than most folks," would be their only reply.

It was two years ago, when Adam first introduced Clare Bergen, that Marjorie started to feel the effects of her high status. She did not want to shake the thin girl's hand; she didn't even want that thing in her house. She feigned cordiality until Clare announced that her departure.

"Good Lord, Adam," she exclaimed after Clare was gone. "Where on earth did you find this girl?"

"She's in come of my classes, mom. She's my friend."

"But she's so - "

"She's so beautiful is what she is. She's so articulate and well-read and…and just beautiful."

"Adam, she's completely disheveled. Her hair!"

"Maybe it's time those things stopped being important! Maybe it's time to stop thinking about things in terms of - "

"Mrs…Bettis? I'm detective…Goren and this is detective Eames."

"We were just asking Adam a few more questions about Clare."

"Are you allowed to do that? I mean, without me here?"

"It's all right, mom, I let them in."

A small argument ensued, but Marjorie allowed the detectives to stay.

"I suppose you'll be needing some answers from me, too," she sighed.

"Only if you have answers to give, Mrs. Bettis. Any information you have would be helpful."

"Well, I didn't like her, detectives. I'm not glad she's dead, but I simply didn't like her, for my own reasons." She gave a longsuffering glance at her son. "I certainly didn't like my boy being seen with her."

"Mom - "

"And don't think people didn't say things, Adam!" She turned to him now, raising her voice. "Your father and I have been dodging bullets – figurative bullets, of course, detectives, verbal bullets – from everyone in this neighborhood since you first started holding her skinny, grubby little hand."

"Mom! Can this wait? I'm sure these detectives only want to know about Clare's…you know…"

"Well," Marjorie turned back to the detectives, seamlessly flowing from spiteful to benevolent, almost like an ancient god, "I know for a fact the Bruyard's boy, Samuel, who always has a kind word to say about everyone, he's such a sweet boy, he tended to get a little, how should I put it, strange whenever the subject a Clare came up, like he knew something we didn't."

Goren was writing everything down as if it were a question to which he didn't already know the answer. He would periodically glance at Adam, trying to gauge his reaction, noticing that the boy's handsome face was contorting somewhat, especially at the name of Bruyard, and his hands were subtly clenching in and out of fists.

"In my experience with that girl," Marjorie continued, "I never found a reason for anyone to like her, nor could I ever see the object of my son's affection."

"Well," Eames interjected coolly, "love is different for everyone, Mrs. Bettis."

The occupants of the room raised their eyebrows at the comment, including Goren. He even dared to breathe out slightly in what could have been construed as a laugh, breaking the ensuing stillness.

"That's very true, detective." Marjorie blinked several times to compose herself.

Eames drew in a deep breath and closed her notepad.

"I think we have all we need for today, Mrs. Bettis."

"But we'll…get back to you soon."

"Well, you're always welcome in this house, detectives." Marjorie paused a moment. "I really am sorry that she's dead. I am never happy when someone dies, and when it's in such a horrible manner…do you have any, what do you call them, leads?" Her tone was earnest.

"Not yet, Mrs. Bettis. But we've just gotten started."

"If you…think of anything else, Mrs. Bettis…don't…hesitate to call us. Anything at all."

"Of course."

"Thanks, guy – detectives," Adam said quietly. "And if you need, like, anything else, or if I think of anything…" he trailed off, visibly aggrieved.

***

When they got back to the car, Goren opened the door for his partner.

"And they say chivalry is dead."

"They say…the same thing about punk, but I'll never believe 'em. You were a real badass in there."

Eames had to laugh out loud. It had been a very long day for her and she could see her partner faring no better. He took his place in the passenger's seat and they set back for "the office."

"Well, that's what happens when people dick me around."

Goren let out a low whistle. "They really…they really pissed you off, didn't they?"

"More mother than son. Anyway, I just hate the rich in general."

It was Goren's turn to laugh. Not only because he shared her sentiments (but only to a degree), but also because he always enjoyed her more candid moments.

"So whaddoyou think?"

"What…like, who done it?" He made an effort to divide the three separate words.

"Pretty much. I want this to be over."


"…I don't…think it's going to be easy, Alex…or pretty. I don't think Adam had a…a hand in it, but he…didn't do much to prevent it."

"But who would? According to popular record, Clare was a terror. And the who sex thing…" She pulled a face without even knowing it and made a gesture of pushing something away with her hands. "Honestly, I don't even want to touch it."

They drove in silence for a little while, contemplating, concentrating, but trying their damnedest not to.

"I think…we need more from…Mr. Bruyard. I think it's…safe to say he had a hand in it."

"I think he lost a watch in it. And don't you mean you need more from Mr. Bruyard?" Eames was only half joking. For some reason, and she knew she was being silly, she couldn't bear the thought of being in the same room as that boy.

"Actually, I was thinking…just the two of you…"

"Bobby -"

"Come on, Eames, you can probably get more out of him."

"What? Why? Because I'm a woman?"

"…Yes."

"B -"

"AND…And because of that, I think he'll trust you more than he'll trust me."

"I hate you, Bobby. I hate you so…fucking…much." In the course of her sentence, she had descended into laughter. Bobby's pleading face was simply too much for her.

"…You wouldn't be the first."

The rest of the drive was filled with talk about the recent information. Adam was sketchy, they decided. He certainly had motive, but lacked the brutality and, Goren pointed out, the necessary brute strength.

"So does Bruyard," Eames replied.

"But Bruyard would be able to…bend someone more readily. Do you…d'you see what I'm saying?"

"Blah blah blah," Eames replied. "Evil genius. I've heard it all before."