by Sara Blaedel
He looked her over. “I’m looking for a guy by the name of Javi Rodriguez.”
Ilka hesitated. “Is he attending the memorial service?”
He walked all the way into the hallway before shaking his head and explaining that the man was a friend of the owner of the funeral home.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Ilka said, trying to sound polite, even though she felt extremely uncomfortable when the man began forcing her back to the door of her father’s office. “The owner died almost two months ago.”
The music and voices from the service had stopped, and she heard Artie and Sister Eileen speaking in the reception. The man would have gone right on into the foyer, but she planted herself in front of him. “We’re closed. This is a private memorial service, and I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The man pulled a photo out of his pocket and handed it to her. It looked like an enlarged passport photo. A black-haired man in his forties, she guessed, staring sharply straight into the camera. His mouth seemed to be pulled up on the right side. He was a total stranger to her.
She shook her head and handed the photo back to him, but he asked her to keep it. His eyes blurred for a second, then he straightened up and looked over her shoulder; when she turned there was no one there. She stepped toward the door, but he didn’t take the hint, so she raised her voice and told him to leave. Artie walked in and glanced at the man and nodded before asking what was going on.
Something in the man’s expression changed, and finally he retreated a step. “My friend there is missing.” He nodded at the photo in Ilka’s hand. “His phone was last registered here, at this address, and no one has seen him since.”
Ilka asked Artie if the name Javi Rodriguez rang any bells. He thought for a moment before shaking his head. He went in to ask Sister Eileen, but when he returned he shook his head again. “Sorry, I don’t think we can help you.”
They followed him to the door. He stopped and said, “Who owns this place?”
Ilka’s hand was on the doorknob, and she was about to close the door. “I do, I recently took over the business.”
“And when did the former owner die?”
“August.”
“I don’t believe I caught your name,” Artie said. He was behind her now, backing her up.
The man kept staring at Ilka without answering. She thought about Stan Thomas. “There’s a policeman here. If you’re searching for this man, he’s the one you should talk to.” She asked Artie to get him.
The man shook his head, then stared at Artie a few moments before whirling around and walking off without a word. They stood in the doorway and watched him leave.
She closed and locked the door.
“What did he want?” Artie said.
“He just wanted to know if we knew the guy in the photo, that was it.”
Artie glanced at the grainy photo before walking into the office and standing by the window.
She followed him. “Have you heard the name before?”
He shook his head. “But the guy who was just here is the same guy who came by this morning, wanting to know the way to the harbor.”
After they’d finished cleaning up, Ilka felt the service had gone better than she’d dared hope. Apparently, nobody noticed they didn’t have electricity; they even complimented her on the candles in the bathrooms. And the neighbor hadn’t barged in to ask what the hell they thought they were doing.
All in all, she felt it would have been a total success, if not for Stan Thomas hanging around afterward. He’d been more than a little interested in Michael Graham and her conversations with him. He also wanted to know if she was certain the relationship between Graham and Mary Ann was over, but he seemed to accept Ilka’s explanation that the affair had ended shortly after the car accident. Nothing Thomas said set off any alarm bells with Ilka, though she had the feeling he was holding something back. Not that she had a right to know everything, but after all, her father had been the one being blackmailed, and they should be keeping her informed. At the same time, it was a relief to know the police were no longer interested in her. She’d love to find out why the sudden interest in Maggie’s husband, though.
Ilka followed Thomas out the door and asked if he happened to know a Javi Rodriguez. “A guy came by asking about him.” She showed him the photo.
Thomas shook his head. “I don’t recall the name.” He nodded curtly and headed for his car, his mind on other matters.
Ilka thought about Michael Graham. The red-eyed widower had been clinging to his oldest grandchild when they came out from the service, struggling to not break down.
Back inside the funeral home, she noticed Sister Eileen standing in the kitchenette with a stack of dirty plates and cups in her hands. Ilka was still holding the photo. She asked the nun exactly what the man had said that morning.
Some of Sister Eileen’s head covering fell into the sink when she shook her head. Without a word or a single glance at the photo, she lowered everything she was holding into the sink, elbowed past Ilka, and vanished.
Ilka was staring after her when Artie walked in. “He’s a long way from home,” he said. “Texas plates. Quite a little trip he’s taking.”
Artie had already rolled the heavy-duty extension cord up on the drum. She went in the office and closed the window.
“Was the guy looking for Rodriguez this morning too?” Ilka said.
Artie shook his head. “No, he only asked where the harbor was.”
Ilka went upstairs to take off her father’s suit. She noticed that Amber had called; she needed to go see her half sister, but she had no idea what to tell her. She’d already written that everything was okay. Lying in a text was one thing, though; she couldn’t sit there and lie to her face. And no way could she explain that Scott Davidson had specifically gone after her horses. That he was using her to pressure Fletcher.
She picked her jeans up off the floor. Amber would know that her grandfather wouldn’t hesitate one second to sacrifice her horses, if it got to that point. Davidson might think Amber was the old man’s soft spot, but the truth was, he had no soft spots. That much Ilka understood.
She’d asked Artie to cash Davidson’s check at the bank, and now she had an envelope with a bundle of bills like the one Fletcher had given her. She needed to take it out to him before deciding what to do about Amber.
Instead of sneaking around the back way, this time Ilka drove straight up to the house and parked next to the front steps. With the envelope in hand, she walked up to the door, but it opened before she rang the doorbell. In front of her stood the young man who had brought out a clean shirt for Fletcher the first time she’d been there.
Ilka wasn’t surprised they were aware of her; she’d noticed the surveillance camera when she’d turned into the driveway. And she’d braced herself for Fletcher’s security people. If she ran into Jeff, she’d ignore him.
But the young man politely invited her inside. He wore a suit, which made Ilka think he was a butler or something similar. He wasn’t a bodybuilder type either, unlike the others she’d seen on her first visit. He led her down the hallway without asking why she was there. A door was open, and sunlight cut a sharply defined pattern on the wood floor inside the room.
“He’s expecting you.” He ushered her in.
Fletcher sat behind his desk, and they stared at each other as Ilka walked over and laid the envelope in front of him without saying a word.
“Is this the smart thing to do?” His voice sounded weaker than when he’d come to the funeral home.
Ilka held his eye as she nodded. “Tell me what happened back then.”
She sat down in the high-backed chair and pulled it closer to the desk; she didn’t intend to leave before getting some answers.
Stone-faced now, he picked up the envelope and stuck it in the right-hand drawer of his desk, then leaned forward and laced his fingers. Ilka guessed he was trying to figure out why she’d come.
“Wh
y him? Why did you pick my father for the job?”
Fletcher raised his eyebrows.
“The racetrack, back in Denmark. How did you find out about him? How could you know he’d just won a small fortune? Did you have spies? Were they the same ones you sent after me, when you needed my father to toe the line?”
She took a deep breath.
He still didn’t answer her.
“He’d just won the largest payout of the year at the Charlottenlund Racetrack. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you went after him because of the money. Over one hundred fifty thousand dollars. In 1983 that would’ve been enough to pay off our house in Brønshøj and his funeral home’s debt, with quite a bit left over for him and my mother. If you hadn’t made that offer. Why him?”
Fletcher’s eyes twitched, as if he were thinking back to that time. Or trying to. Maybe he didn’t really remember anymore?
Finally, he spoke. “We believed in him. I sent a few of my men to Europe, to get an idea of the standard over there and find the man I felt we needed. They happened to be in Denmark during that race your father cashed in on, and it caught our attention. We needed a man with a sharp eye for winning horses. Someone who didn’t just play it safe and go with the favorites. A man who could see something nobody else could. After that race, my men asked around and found someone who knew him well. He said Paul had been around racetracks all his life. We became convinced he was the man for the job. So, we made him an offer, and he took it. Later on, your father turned out to be a complete dud, but of course I didn’t know that back then.”
Ilka thought she heard anger behind every word he spoke. Or was it disappointment? A frustration that had grown with the years and affected him personally.
“If you investigated him, you must’ve known he had no experience running a stable. It was his hobby, his passion, but he wasn’t a professional.”
“He took our offer, didn’t blink an eye.”
Ilka clenched her fists and tried to hold herself back. “You showed up at a difficult time in my father’s life. You offered him his dream for a new start, to get away from his problems. His inner demons, even. Who fooled you into thinking he was the right man to bring over here?”
“Like I said, we needed a smart horse man, and we found someone who knew your father and recommended him.”
“You needed an undertaker from Copenhagen?”
Someone walked by out in the hall, and she lowered her voice. She was sweating. Dorothy had mentioned photos from her confirmation in Denmark, from her time in school and beyond. From Flemming’s funeral. Suddenly the pieces began falling into place. She remembered the old photos she’d found in her father’s office.
Fletcher was squinting now, and a vein stood out on his forehead.
It came to her. “Freddy! It must have been Freddy!”
Fletcher didn’t react, but he didn’t need to. She knew.
Her father’s two cousins had been close to him, according to her mother. They’d been at her confirmation, and one of them had also attended Flemming’s funeral. Freddy in particular had stopped by their house often, so it seemed natural that he kept in contact after her father abandoned them. And not long after his disappearance, Freddy moved into a large house in a Copenhagen suburb.
“You asshole! How did you get him to do it? Did you pay him to convince my father to come over here? And what about the photos? Maybe you told him, what, that they were for my father, so he could see how his daughter was doing?”
Ilka was standing now, leaning over the desk as she yelled in his face. She clenched the edge of the desk to keep herself from strangling him.
“And what about the photos from my husband’s funeral? How did you explain that to Freddy?”
Fletcher was suddenly wide awake. He shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less. “I didn’t need to explain anything. The check I sent was enough.”
Ilka let her hands fall to her sides. Everything she’d meant to say about Amber’s horses, about wanting the funeral home chain to leave her alone, about the explanations he owed Frank Conaway and Scott Davidson—none of it mattered now. She was speechless.
On the way to the door, she realized she’d never actually hated anyone before. Not even her father. But she was absolutely certain she hated Raymond Fletcher and the cynicism and inhumanity he stood for. She hated him for taking her father from her, which meant nothing to him. And for keeping her father over here when he obviously despised him. She hated Fletcher for his power and influence. And money.
She turned at the door. “I’m going to tell Amber she won’t be getting her horses back. And to call you to find out why.”
She closed the door behind her and stopped to catch her breath.
She had no idea how long she’d been standing there when she was startled by the sound of something being smashed behind a door farther down the hallway. The butler was nowhere in sight. On her way to the room she heard screechy female voices and more porcelain breaking, shards rattling when they hit the floor. She was sure it was Leslie yelling, but only when she reached the door did she recognize Mary Ann’s voice, sharp but calm in comparison with Leslie’s.
“That’s no excuse!” Leslie shouted. Something heavy rammed the wall beside the door. “I had a right to know he wasn’t my father, I had a right to get to know my real father!”
Ilka couldn’t hear Mary Ann’s answer, only the murmur of her voice. She glanced around to make sure she was alone, then she leaned against the wall and listened. Mary Ann was closer to the door now, maybe only a step away. Ilka put her ear to the wall.
“You’re right, I should have told you. We were going to tell you, but after the accident it didn’t seem to matter.”
“How can you say that? I have the right to know the truth about my father. Even though Paul killed him.”
Ilka had the feeling Mary Ann was crying.
“I was twelve when the accident happened, and I’ve spent all my adult life taking care of you,” Leslie yelled. “How can you treat me this way? Did you think I’d never find out?”
Mary Ann’s voice was resolute. “It’s not as simple as you think. Paul didn’t kill anyone. And if I could have, I would’ve told you everything. But I couldn’t. You can’t imagine how many times I wished Frank Conaway had never called me.”
The women stopped talking. Ilka was shocked by what she heard, and she backed away. What did Mary Ann mean, that her father hadn’t killed anyone? And what did Frank Conaway have to do with the accident? She hurried out and closed the front door behind her as quietly as she could; she didn’t want anyone to know she’d been eavesdropping.
The second she pulled out of the long driveway, she parked on the side of the road. How she’d gotten in her car and driven that far, she had no idea. She rolled down the window and breathed in the fresh air.
No one had told her exactly what happened at the accident eighteen years ago. Only that her father had been reckless. Her hands shook as she rummaged through the glove compartment for something to smoke. She plucked out a broken cigarette from under a map. Suddenly she realized she was crying.
For a moment she closed her eyes and let the smoke surround her. It was a cowardly thing to do, but right now she couldn’t help it. She grabbed her phone.
The horses aren’t back. Talk to your grandfather about it. He’s the only one who can get them back again.
She pushed SEND, leaned her head back against the headrest, and finished her cigarette.
After driving for half an hour, she pulled into a filling station for gas. Neither Sister Eileen nor Artie had been around when she’d returned from Fletcher’s ranch to get the Conaways’ address and give Frank a call. She’d wanted to make sure he was home before driving all the way out there.
She bought a cola and emptied out her coin purse on the counter. Graham would be paying them for Maggie’s funeral soon. They also had the money from the flea market. They could get by for a while.
She saw the message from A
mber when she got back into the car. Call me. Ilka left it as unread and opened her cola.
She’d been aware of the car since leaving Racine. Even though it kept a good distance behind her, she was positive it was following her. Now, though, after she pulled out of the station, it seemed to be gone. She kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but she more or less had the road to herself. If they really had been following her, they’d turned around, she thought as she pulled into the Conaways’ driveway.
Their dog ran out and barked at her when she pulled up to the house. Frank Conaway came out of the stable. Ilka hadn’t told him why she was coming, and he checked her expression to see if the news she had for him was good or bad.
“Let’s go inside,” he said. He explained that Karen had taken their daughter over to her parents’ house. “We’re trying to get back to normal around here.”
He showed her into the kitchen and offered her one of the sandwiches Karen had made before leaving.
Ilka politely declined and said that a cup of coffee would be more than enough.
She came right to the point. “You were with my father at the track the day of the accident. Could you please tell me what happened that day?”
Conaway had been taking food out of the refrigerator, but he stopped and slowly turned to her. He laid the sandwiches down, pulled out a chair, and sat down facing her. “That’s right, I was with your dad that day. I was the one who called Mary Ann.”
He laid his hands on the table and looked down, as if he were inspecting his fingernails. His long curly hair had been cut, and he’d tucked his checkered shirt in his pants and tightened his belt to the last hole. He still looked a bit worn out from his time in jail, but not exhausted like he’d been out at Davidson’s, just after his release. Now he sat up straight and began by telling her that already that morning, when he picked Paul up, his friend had been grouchy.
