by Sara Blaedel
Several moments crawled by. “Okay,” Jette finally said.
That was exactly what Ilka liked about her. She never judged, and she wasn’t prejudiced against her father, which was why she never took for granted that anything he was involved in would turn to shit.
Ilka decided to change the subject. “How did it go with canceling the last shoots?” When she left for the States, she’d tried to talk another photographer into doing the jobs she had scheduled. She’d helped him when he went on vacation with his family, and when she’d screwed up and booked two jobs on the same day, he’d stepped in for her. But unfortunately, he’d been too busy to take over more than a few shoots.
Ilka had sent her mother out to a school to take student pictures, but that hadn’t gone well, to put it mildly. Her mother was far too meticulous and spent way too much time on the photos. The school secretary complained. After that Ilka gave up and asked her mother and Jette to cancel everything else.
“Just fine,” Jette said. She explained that most of her customers were understanding when told it was because of a death in the family. “Everything’s taken care of, there aren’t any shoots scheduled. We also shut down your website and answering service, so nothing more will come in.”
“You didn’t have to shut down the website!” Ilka hated the thought of being dumped directly into the dreaded welfare system when she got home. “Couldn’t you just have written that we were booked up?”
“You can do that when you come home.” Jette was discreet enough not to ask exactly how much she owed. Or maybe she was scared to hear, Ilka thought.
“Okay. And thanks for all the help.”
She answered patiently when Jette wanted to know how she was doing and what it was like over there.
“There must be a lot of interesting things to see and do,” Jette said. “And what about the food, I’ve heard it’s so good.”
When Jette retired, she’d begun arranging walking tours around the old city center of Copenhagen. She was fascinated by its history. But food? Maybe it was a new interest, Ilka thought.
“Uh, do you mean the burgers, or…” Suddenly she felt like she hadn’t eaten a single decent meal in Racine.
“I read that someone in Wisconsin is the American champion at making cheese. They learned it from European immigrants.”
It sounded as if she was just getting warmed up, so Ilka broke in. “I could bring some home.”
“There’s a cheese museum, you really should stop in and see it.”
“Could I borrow twenty thousand from you? And please don’t tell Mom. Of course I’ll pay you back.”
Pause.
“It’s just until I get through this last funeral,” she explained quickly. “The woman was shot in her home. Artie and I misunderstood each other, he didn’t realize we weren’t going to arrange any more funerals.”
“Shot! So it’s true: It’s dangerous over there. I read on the Internet that Racine is the tenth most dangerous city in all Wisconsin. I figured they were exaggerating after you told us how peaceful it was. And from all the photos you sent, it looks nice too.”
“I haven’t been here long, but I haven’t seen anything bad happen.”
Not until the last two days, at least, she thought. She googled the Racine shootings and skimmed the latest headlines while Jette spoke. “SWAT Unit Called to Racine.” “Police Searching for Suspect in Connection with Shooting.” And the latest: “Woman Killed and Thrown in Trash.” A body had been found close to Sunshine Supermarket. Also, police were looking for witnesses to a robbery at a pizzeria. And late last month a thirty-six-year-old man had been shot to death. But there was nothing about any horses or the showdown at Mary Ann’s house. The two episodes were of course minor compared with the headlines. The murder of Margaret Graham was also mentioned, though it was farther down the list now.
“It’s good you’re coming home soon.” Typical Jette. One second gushing about how exciting it was to travel, the next second frightened by the thought of all the dangers lurking out there.
Ilka put on her most convincing voice. “It’s peaceful here. It must have happened out in the suburbs. You hardly even see anyone here in town.”
“To get back to your question, I can’t loan you the money without telling your mother. That’s not how she and I do things, you know that.”
Ilka thought about giving it one more shot, but then she dropped it. Before hanging up she asked Jette to not tell her mother that she’d asked. And yet ten minutes later Ilka’s phone rang. Mom.
She muted the phone; she couldn’t bear the thought of being lectured, reminded that she should have listened to her mother. Apparently, the scolding never stopped. She put the phone down and walked downstairs to get things ready for Margaret Graham’s husband.
Michael Graham had already arrived. He was leaning forward in a high-backed chair in the reception, crying with his head in his hands. His shoulder blades rose underneath his short-sleeved, light-blue shirt with every sob.
She showed him into the arrangement room. A notebook lay on the table. “Have a seat,” she said, then she poured him a cup of coffee and asked if he’d like a glass of water too.
“No thank you, this is fine.” He dried his eyes and apologized. “Suddenly everything is just too real. I don’t think it’s really hit me, what’s happened. I was out bowling, I always go bowling the last Monday of the month. I met up with some of the guys, old friends, and we went out to eat before hitting the lanes. Just like we’ve done the last thirteen years.”
He was staring straight ahead. An attaché case lay on his lap, but his hands were draped over it, as if he’d forgotten it was there.
“I’m always home around ten, never any later. Five to ten.” He emphasized that, as if it were vital. “She was there in the hallway. The front door lock was broken, and she was just lying there, right inside. One arm stretched out, shot in the forehead.”
He straightened up and set the case on the floor. “She was brave. Most people would’ve probably tried to hide, but she wasn’t like that. My wife wasn’t afraid to stand up to people, she never was. She always thought people could be talked out of things. I’m sure that’s why she walked out to the door when she heard someone trying to break in.”
“Was there anything stolen?” Ilka said, to encourage him. Sister Eileen had said it was her father’s way of doing things. Let the family get it all out, until they were ready to discuss the details of the funeral. And it looked like Margaret’s husband needed to talk about what had happened.
“The police said the killer didn’t get past the front door. She stopped him out there.” He wrung his hands and looked up at Ilka. “They asked me if I shot her. If I came home early, if I was just pretending to be in shock.”
Ilka smiled in sympathy. “I’m sure they have to ask questions like that. Have they arrested anyone?”
He shook his head. “No clues. Nothing to go on. They think professionals did it. But wouldn’t they empty the house? If they were so professional, they’d have broken in when nobody was home. The police officer said there’s been several robberies in town, he seems pretty sure this was meant to be one.”
He began sobbing again, and Ilka waited patiently. She slid the box of tissues over to him and drank some of her coffee.
“If she’d just gone to something, this might not have happened.”
Ilka raised her eyebrows. “You mean like self-defense?”
“No, just something, anything to get her out of the house.”
That was one way to look at it, of course, Ilka thought. But it could have been so many things. A bus driver could have lost control and run over her.
“It’s only the men who bowl.” He was quieter now. And he seemed to need to explain why he hadn’t been there to protect his wife. “The wives never go along.”
After they sat for a while in silence, Ilka decided to move on. “Have you thought about how you’d like to say goodbye to your wife? Do you want a funeral,
or just a memorial service?”
“She wanted to be cremated. My wife was a medical secretary, she worked for the clinic here in town for years. She knew exactly what she wanted done when she died. We were married almost thirty-five years, she’d just turned twenty when we met.”
“Do you have children?” Should she suggest a memorial service? Or should she just let him go on? No one had ever told her about how to handle the family of a murder victim. Maybe they needed more time to prepare. And a police investigation might also be a factor.
“Ruth was born the year after we were married. She lives in Australia with her husband and kids. Three grandkids, we have. I’d like to hold off on the service until they’re here.”
“Of course. There’s no hurry, take all the time you and your family need.”
She saw no reason to mention they had plenty of space in the cold room, now that she’d decided to stop taking on business.
He opened the attaché case and pulled out a thin book. “My wife filled this out several years ago.” He handed it to her. “This is how she wants things done. A burial testament, she called it. Like what music she wants, about the urn, the flowers.”
He paused a moment. “And she decided what she wants on her gravestone. ‘A good and long life.’ That’s maybe not so good now, though, is it, after what happened.”
Ilka nodded and agreed with him. He had a few more suggestions, but she wasn’t listening. She’d thumbed through the little book and now was staring at Margaret Graham’s signature, written with a black pen at the bottom of the last page. Immediately she recognized the slight loop in the M, and if she was in doubt there was also the short dash over the i. Precisely as in the letters.
The signature on the burial testament was “Maggie Graham.”
She stood up with the book in her hand. “May I borrow this?”
He nodded and stood up too, looking relieved that they were through. “I’d like you to follow her instructions. What she wanted is what I want. There’s also something in there about what to serve afterward. My wife wanted to keep it simple, just coffee, but my daughter bakes her mother’s favorite cookies. We’ll bring them along.”
Ilka nodded, and though it was impolite, she asked if he could find his own way out. For a moment she stood watching him while her gangly body seemed to be sinking into her shoes. It couldn’t be right. She was tempted to run after him and ask him to come back, then show him the letters, ask if his wife really had written them. But she couldn’t do that to him.
After she heard him drive away, she pulled herself together and went out to the reception. She unfolded all five of Maggie’s letters and showed them and the burial testament to Sister Eileen. The signatures were identical, there was no doubt, and even the normally stoic sister reacted.
“Did you say anything to the husband?” The nun sounded worried.
Ilka shook her head. “Of course not, but I’ll have to contact the police.”
Sister Eileen stood up at once and strode off; obviously she disagreed.
“Hello! We have to show the police these letters.” She waved the five envelopes in the air.
The nun turned. “We don’t have to do anything. The best thing you could do is stay out of it.”
Ilka stared after her in bewilderment. Of course the police had to see the letters! She’d tell them when she’d found the last one and hand it over, together with the others she’d found in the desk drawer in her father’s room. From then on it was up to them.
She found her jacket and was about to leave when the front door opened and a broad-chested man wearing dark sunglasses came in. He stood for a moment looking around before walking into the reception. Seconds later he reappeared and walked back out. Before Ilka could do more than wonder what was going on, Raymond Fletcher strode inside, accompanied by the man in sunglasses and what looked like his identical twin. Fletcher wore an elegant pin-striped jacket. There was no sign of the helpless elderly man she’d seen at the ranch the day before.
He looked around as if it were the first time he’d been there. “Could we talk?” He gestured with his hand, inviting her farther inside. Into her own funeral home.
“Of course.” She heard the nervous uncertainty in her voice, but he didn’t seem to notice. She cleared her throat and straightened up, then asked him to follow her into the arrangement room. Michael Graham’s cup was still on the table; she took it away and offered him coffee.
He shook his head and said this would only take a moment.
Settle down, Ilka told herself. “How’s Amber?”
They stood facing each other, and he showed no intention of taking a seat. One of his men stood just outside the door.
“She was operated on this morning.” Fletcher frowned in worry; now he looked more his age. At least eighty. But with an authority that made it feel as though an army had invaded her funeral home.
She sat down. Let him stand if he wanted, she thought.
“New X-rays showed the injury to her hip is more serious than they first thought,” he said. “But it’s back in place, and her mother is with her. I want to thank you for what you did. It meant a lot to me that she wasn’t in there alone.”
Ilka was about to ask why he hadn’t told Mary Ann to take care of her own daughter, but she held her tongue when he reached into his inside pocket.
“I understand you have some financial problems.” Something in his eyes told Ilka to steady herself, that he might be about to tell her she reminded him of her father. But he simply handed her an envelope. Thick and full of bills.
“This isn’t a loan,” he said. “It’s a gift, to thank you for your help, and for me to help you. You’re one of us now. Welcome to Racine and welcome to our family.”
Ilka was astonished. He was the first of her father’s family to welcome her. But before she could reply, he turned and headed out the front door. She watched from the reception window as he got into the back of a car just outside. As they left the parking lot, an identical black car pulled out right behind them. They turned the corner and disappeared. Normally she would have frowned at such a blatant demonstration of power, but after all that had happened the past few days, the security and bodyguards made perfect sense to her.
When she turned from the window, Sister Eileen was sitting at her desk. Ilka hadn’t heard her come in, and it bothered her that the nun could still sneak up on her like that.
“You had a visitor.” Sister Eileen showed no sign of how much she’d overheard.
Ilka held out the envelope to her. “Raymond Fletcher was here. He wants to help, and this is a gift, not a loan.”
Sister Eileen didn’t touch it. “We can’t take his money.”
“We can, and we will, we have to. We can’t afford not to.”
“It’s not a good idea to let Raymond Fletcher get involved in our problems.” The nun spoke sharply and looked Ilka right in the eyes, which she rarely did.
Ilka lowered her hand. “He’s helped my father before.”
Sister Eileen broke the tense silence. “How much is in there?”
“I haven’t looked.”
Sister Eileen grabbed the envelope, slit it with a letter opener, and pulled out the bundle of bills. Ilka watched her count them. Twenty thousand, in hundreds.
Ilka felt an enormous sense of relief. A gift, not a loan to be paid back. What luck that she hadn’t pressed Jette harder for money. She ignored the nun’s frown and told her to pay the most urgent bills. “And set aside enough for Margaret Graham’s ceremony. I still don’t know when it’s going to be held; it might be a while before we’re paid. It depends on the daughter who lives in Australia.”
Sister Eileen looked disapprovingly at the envelope, but she stuck the money into a small box she pulled out of the cabinet under the desk.
“I wish Fletcher would take over the whole business,” Ilka said. She felt much lighter, knowing she wasn’t alone anymore. “The house too. His people could sell it, I’m sure they could g
et more out of it than me. They’re tough.”
“There’s nothing your father would have hated more,” Sister Eileen mumbled as she carefully closed the box with the money.
Ilka looked at her a moment but decided not to press her on it, though something in the nun’s voice hinted that there was much Ilka didn’t understand. Clearly Sister Eileen had a need to emphasize how close she’d been to Ilka’s father, and thus knew better.
Why did Sister Eileen keep making that point? Everyone understood she hadn’t known her father and had no idea what he would or wouldn’t have wanted, so of course the nun knew better!
Ilka rushed past several police cars parked in front of the station. Patrol cars, transports, four-wheel-drives. All of them displaying the Racine Police emblem.
She held Maggie’s letters and the burial testament as she approached the front desk and asked to speak to someone working on the Margaret Graham case. The officer behind the desk told her to take a seat in the waiting area, but moments later he called her back and pointed toward a hallway. “This officer will help you.”
It was Jack Doonan, a young officer she already knew. “Hi,” she called out. She hurried to follow him through a swinging door. When he turned, he looked confused for a moment before recognizing her.
“Oh hi.” His chin and cheekbones stood out, the sleeves of his light-blue uniform were rolled up, and his service revolver stuck up out of his belt. They’d last seen each other in connection with the tragic deaths of two young men. Back then his eyes had been red and deep furrows had lined his mouth, but now he looked well rested.
“I have something you need to see.” She handed him the letters and the thin book.
