Her Father's Secret

by Sara Blaedel

  Frank Conaway’s curly hair hung over his ears; he was thin and short, half a head shorter than Ilka. They took stock of each other, though not impolitely. More out of curiosity. Gregg Turner had said her father almost thought of Frank as his son, but it wasn’t jealousy she was feeling. Rather a strange, unfamiliar sense of connection with him, without really knowing why.

  “After you came out the other evening, Scott contacted me and offered to help,” Karen said. “Of course I knew him, he’s Davidson’s grandson, but I couldn’t figure out what he was up to. Or what was in it for him. Like I told Paul, I can’t pay anything back before we’re awarded damages, for Frank being falsely accused. And that could take a while. But Scott seemed really up front; he said he wasn’t doing this to help me or my husband. He wants Raymond Fletcher’s scalp.”

  Karen fumbled with her scarf. Her hair was brushed back, and she held her husband’s hand while she talked. “Scott’s sure that Frank didn’t embezzle any money. If he had, it would have been discovered a long time ago. He’s sure that Fletcher transferred money over the years to Scott’s grandfather, ’cause it turns out that Gerald Davidson had a separate account, with just under ten million in it when he died. The same amount the company was missing.”

  Frank took over. “Scott says his grandfather’s books show it’s ten percent of the total winnings from the races. In other words, every time Fletcher and Davidson Raceteam won a race, ten percent of the money was taken out of their joint account and deposited in Gerald Davidson’s account. Scott doesn’t know anything about this deal the two partners must have made, but after Gerald died the payments stopped. And Scott won’t stand for that. To him, the deal is still on, as long as they jointly own the stable. Fletcher used me as a scapegoat to cover up the deal. And that’s what your dad found out about.”

  “But do they still own the stable together?” Ilka said.

  Frank nodded. “At least on paper. They share the expenses and winnings, and they hire employees to run Fletcher and Davidson Raceteam. The stable is one of the biggest winners in North America in harness racing; these horses are too valuable to ax a deal just because of a change in ownership. And if they don’t have to actually see each other, the partnership works.”

  “So Scott Davidson took the horses in Fletcher’s private stable because he thinks his partner owes him, that he’s not being paid the percentage of winnings.” Ilka wasn’t completely sure she understood.

  “Right. He’s not going to let the old man screw him around.”

  They had passed through a patch of woods and were now in front of an elegant white building that in no way resembled Fletcher’s ranch. Also, she saw no stables on the property. Davidson and Artie stepped out of the car in front, and a little dog ran up to them and barked. It looked more like the peaceful home of a wealthy man than the gangster headquarters Ilka had been expecting after Amber’s warning.

  “Gerald Davidson bought this place several years after going into partnership with Fletcher,” Frank said after they were all out of the car. “He used to live down the road a way, on a smaller place.”

  They walked up to the front steps, and Davidson invited them in, but Artie held back. Ilka whispered to him that he didn’t need to go along, that she’d be out as soon as she had the urn.

  He nodded and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. She glanced back just before the door closed behind her; Artie was already sitting on the step, with a wispy thread of smoke trailing away in the wind. The dog was curled up beside him.

  Davidson showed them into a spacious hall with a broad stairway leading up to the second floor.

  Ilka stopped just inside the door. “Could I talk to you a moment?”

  He turned while the others went on. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to interfere. It’s very generous of you to help them. My father and Frank were good friends, and he tried to help too, but he couldn’t keep Frank out of jail. I’m sure it’s an enormous relief to his family that he’s home until the trial starts.”

  “There won’t be a trial,” Davidson said. “Frank didn’t steal from anyone. Fletcher’s the one who should be in jail, and he will be.”

  There was nothing threatening or aggressive in the way he spoke, just as nothing about him indicated he’d once been a shy, quiet boy. He seemed down-to-earth, an ordinary guy whose eyes may have narrowed when he said Fletcher’s name, but otherwise he came off as straightforward and harmless.

  “My father’s urn was on the mantel in Mary Ann’s house. I’d like to have it. I wasn’t here when he died, and it would mean a lot to me to be able to say goodbye to him.”

  He gazed at her for a moment, as if he was trying to understand what made her think he had the urn, but then he nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” He turned and headed for the stairway.

  Ilka felt relieved, and she also turned to leave, but Frank came over and stopped her. “I’m really sorry I wasn’t around to welcome you when you came to Racine.”

  She was about to smile, but his look told her he had something private and confidential to say. Something she wasn’t sure she could handle.

  “Paul was my best friend,” he said. “And I always hoped someday I’d get to meet you. There’s so many things I want to tell you, so much you should know about him.”

  His curly, much-too-long hair hung in his eyes, and he swept it aside. He seemed unsure of himself, as if he was trying to sort out what he had to say.

  “First of all, your dad hated himself for leaving you and your mother. That doesn’t help you now, I know, but he thought about you a lot. One time he said he had plenty of regrets, things he wished he’d done different. But not being able to shake off what he’d inherited, that was something he never forgave himself for. That’s why he left, to escape from the man he was becoming. Did you know that?”

  He spoke quietly. “He was afraid of ending up like his own dad. Gambling was like some demon inside him. He couldn’t stop it. He was afraid of totally losing control.”

  Ilka stood frozen as a chasm opened inside her.

  “He wanted to protect you and your mother. Get control of himself before he came back to you.” Conaway hesitated, then asked her if she knew why her father became an undertaker.

  “To take over my grandfather’s funeral home when the time came, is what I always assumed.”

  Frank shook his head. “Your dad wanted to be an engineer or physicist. Instead he left school when he was sixteen and started working for your grandpa.”

  She’d never heard this before. “So what happened? Why did he do that, leave school?”

  “To take care of his mother. And his little sister. He thought if he stuck around, he could protect the family when his dad got violent. Did you know Paul supported his family by the time he was eighteen?”

  Ilka was shocked to hear he’d grown up in an abusive home. “I didn’t know my father even had a little sister, I had no idea…” All she’d known about was the two cousins her mother had kept in touch with, even after her father left.

  Frank glanced at the window and nodded thoughtfully, then turned back to her. “I remember one time your dad and I were in the pub, we’d had a good day at the track and we were celebrating with Irish coffee. A few too many of them. That’s when he started telling me about his childhood home.”

  He gave up on swiping his hair off his face. In a way it was easier for Ilka to not see his eyes while he spoke.

  “His sister was twelve when she died. Their dad was out of his head one night, and when he saw she was scared of him, he got really violent.”

  Frank paused for a moment before adding that Ilka’s grandfather might not have known what he was doing when he took his anger out on his family. “Paul said his dad let the demon inside him take over. Sometimes he was a loving father, well liked and respected, also at the racetrack. But occasionally he couldn’t get a handle on himself, and it was scary.”

  Ilka looked awa
y.

  “His sister crawled up in a window to hide. Your dad and his mom were in the room when she fell. And no one ever talked about it afterward, ever again. That must have been almost the worst. His folks called it the accident but wouldn’t talk about it. Your dad stayed with his grandpa and grandma several weeks after she died, but nothing changed when he came back. And he started working again at the funeral home.”

  Ilka barely remembered her grandmother, and she’d never seen her grandfather; he died several years before she was born. “What do you mean, my father wanted to escape from the man he was becoming?” Two things he’d said kept turning in her mind: losing control, and couldn’t get a handle on himself.

  “He…” Frank looked at her. “What is it?”

  Ilka shook her head and stared at the floor. It wasn’t just a weakness she’d inherited from her father; it went all the way back to her grandfather. She was certain the same demon lived deep inside her. Maybe she was better at holding it down, but it unnerved her to learn the family had been battling it for generations. And that a little girl had died because of it.

  After several moments she said, “But why did he think leaving us would help?” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Davidson on the stairs with a few ring binders under his arm.

  “Your dad recognized what was happening to him. He saw a pattern, but he couldn’t control it. That demon kept growing inside, and he started in on your mom. He told me he was scared he’d hurt you. So he left to protect you from the man he was turning into.”

  His voice was weakening, and he cleared his throat before going on. “The first time we talked about it, I had the feeling he was planning on both of you coming over here. He never hid the fact he had a family. And he bought you a pony too. But then later he told me all this about being scared of himself and what happened to him when he…yeah, started losing control.”

  Ilka stepped over and leaned against the door for support, unable to speak.

  Frank stayed put. “I saw your dad like that. How he was when he lost control. Several times, actually. First time was one afternoon at the track, we didn’t know each other so well back then, but usually he was a lot of fun to hang around with. He was going to buy me lunch before the race.”

  For a second his lips trembled at the memory. “We had good seats, and there were two horses in particular your dad was keeping an eye on. The first race went okay, and we walked over to the stable between races to hear what they were saying. Your dad was there to set up a few meetings, he was helping start up the new stable. Trotter Magazine had written about how he’d been brought over all the way from Denmark, so people knew who he was, they wanted to meet him. They bought us beer, drinks, the best whiskey, and I wasn’t even twenty-one, under the drinking age, so I had to stay sober and drive home.”

  Ilka squirmed, but she didn’t interrupt him.

  “Then the last race, he changed all of a sudden. I noticed it when he didn’t answer after I said something to him. I was just a kid, I didn’t want to be impolite, didn’t dare say anything either. But I couldn’t help hearing how much he was betting on horses he didn’t know anything about. He’d just moved here, he’d never seen them run before, knew nothing about their training, their stable. But still I figured he knew what he was doing. Even though he was acting crazier all the time. He even started talking to himself.”

  He glanced at Ilka to see how she was taking this, but she nodded for him to go on.

  “He was scaring me. I didn’t understand what was happening. It was like he was in his own world, out of contact. On the way home, I realized he’d lost every cent he had. I was really shocked—I remember that. And embarrassed too; I didn’t know how to handle the situation. So we didn’t say a word all the way home, and the next day we didn’t talk about it. A year or so went by before he opened up about that day and told me why he left you and your mom.”

  Ilka caught herself clenching her fists in front of her mouth while trying to hold back tears. She lowered her hands and shook her head in apology. “I never knew. Thank you for telling me.”

  They looked at each other a moment, then she explained she’d come to pick up her father’s ashes. “I think Davidson has the urn, and I asked if I could have it back.”

  She told him about the episode at Mary Ann’s house. “I’d like to hold a small memorial ceremony for him. Would you like to come? You didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to him either.”

  Frank nodded. “I’d like that, very much. Your dad meant a lot to us, and when Karen said you’d stopped by the house, I felt terrible that you and Paul didn’t have even a little time together.”

  “Why didn’t he ever answer my letters? I’ve gone through his room, and I found a stack of letters he wrote me. Why didn’t he send them?”

  He looked surprised. “I didn’t know you two wrote each other. He never mentioned it.”

  “We didn’t write each other. Well, we both wrote letters, but I sent mine and he didn’t send his. They were bundled up in his room.”

  “I don’t think it was so easy for him. He used to say that sometimes you just have to stop looking back. I think he meant you can’t always control what happens, sometimes you just have to play out your hand.”

  Ilka let that sink in for a moment, then she nodded and said her father might have been right. “I’ll let you know when I have his urn.”

  Artie was still sitting on the step when she came out. He’d just lit another cigarette, and without a word Ilka snatched it out of his hand and inhaled deeply. The smoke burned her lungs before she breathed out. After a few more drags she walked over to the lead car and asked the driver to take them back to the gate.

  Ilka went up to bed right after they got home. She’d had the presence of mind to hide on the floor of Artie’s pickup before they reached the funeral home. Not that she cared right then if anyone knew she’d been smuggled out, but something told her that later on she might need to shake Fletcher’s man tailing her.

  Shadows flickered behind the curtains in the darkness that night as she lay thinking about what Frank Conaway had told her. She could barely breathe from the horrific thought that she carried her father’s demon around inside her. But by morning she’d cooked it down to a single fact: Her father had left his family to save them from the man he was becoming.

  She was all too aware of the reason he had fled. Not that she’d seen the demon’s face clearly, but she’d met it. She knew how it was to not be able to stop, that sense of being overwhelmed by an irresistible temptation, an intoxicating feeling of free fall.

  What scared her was not knowing how to find a way back to herself without leaving behind way too many casualties. It had already cost her dearly. Ilka had let people down, broken off friendships, cheated people she cared about. And turned her back on those who had tried to help. She knew exactly what Frank Conaway was talking about.

  But then she’d met Flemming.

  One afternoon at the racetrack, when she was sitting alone in the stands, he came over and put his arm around her. The race was over, the horses had left the track long ago, the spectators had filed out, and the stands had been swept. But Ilka couldn’t go home. She was twenty-five and had already burned all her bridges.

  During the night, while lying curled up in bed, images had flashed by in her mind like a slideshow. Glimpses, short episodes from the past twenty years of her life. Some were overexposed, others so dark that they barely registered. Generally, though, she’d viewed much of what she’d gone through. After high school, the world had been hers for the taking. Her grades were good enough for her to choose any career she wanted, and she chose law, but after her first semester the pains started in her abdomen.

  The tumor turned out to be malignant, and the doctors at Rigshospitalet wanted to remove her womb and both ovaries. The sooner the better. Her clearest memories of that time were of the female doctor who came to her bed, took her hand, and explained that Ilka might regret not letting them remove so
me of her eggs before the operation, that she should give it serious thought. The eggs could be frozen and used later if she changed her mind and decided to have children.

  “You’re not thinking straight now,” the doctor said. “And you’re so young.”

  Ilka insisted she knew what she was doing. She turned down the offer. She didn’t want children, she didn’t want responsibility for a human being she might deceive. The doctor persisted, telling her over and over it would be too late after the operation, but Ilka stood her ground. And she’d never regretted her decision. After the doctors gave her the green light, she hoisted her backpack and set out to see the world. She was gone for almost eighteen months.

  She’d been home a year when Flemming showed up that day at the track. He sat with his arm around her shoulder for a long time without saying a word. He was fifteen years her senior, though she didn’t find that out until later. And though he was a total stranger, she followed when he stood up and said it was time to go home.

  Flemming convinced her to seek help. He also set up a meeting with her bank, and together they wrote down a list of people she owed money. Her mother stood at the top of the list, which included girlfriends from school and Torkild, who owned the local grocery where she worked behind the counter three days a week.

  Later Flemming told her he’d noticed her several times when he was at the track to take photos (besides being a school photographer, he did freelance work). He knew she came alone, and he claimed it was her vulnerability and desperation that had attracted him. Many weekends Ilka had simply wanted to soak in the atmosphere and the sound of the horses’ hooves thundering toward the finish line. And when the last race was over, she went home at peace with herself. Other times she was barely aware of placing a bet until she noticed the ticket in her hand.

  Each Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday she made plans for the coming weekend. She tried to keep Sundays booked so she wouldn’t have time to go to the track. But when the weekend rolled around, she would find herself out there anyway. Her friends gave up on her; they’d gotten tired of her canceling plans to get together, of loaning her money she never paid back.