by Sara Blaedel
Ilka sat close to the door, and the officer sat down behind her desk. Mary Ann rolled up to it and explained there’d been an accident.
“And when did the accident take place?”
“May 1998.” Mary Ann explained that she wanted to change her statement.
Ilka guessed the officer was in her forties, certainly not over fifty, but she looked worn out, though she projected the type of authority that comes from seeing and hearing a little bit of everything. She leaned back in her chair in surprise.
“I know, it’s a little late,” Mary Ann said. “And maybe the case is past the statute of limitations, I wouldn’t know. But two people were killed in the accident, and I want to change my statement. I was the one driving the car.”
The officer studied her suspiciously, as if she wondered if this woman was playing with a full deck.
Mary Ann gave her Social Security number and the precise date of the accident, plus the names of the two people killed.
“Davidson,” she repeated as the officer wrote all the information down. “But at the time my husband, Paul Jensen, took the blame, because I was taking Xanax and shouldn’t have been driving the car.”
“Are there others who can verify this information?”
Mary Ann looked bewildered for a moment, then straightened up and asked sharply if they didn’t usually ask for witnesses to back up an alibi and not a confession. “Raymond Fletcher can verify I’m telling the truth,” she added.
The officer went out to find the case files. Suddenly the office was very quiet. Mary Ann sat erect, but she began fidgeting and lacing her fingers again. She seemed less sure of herself than when they’d arrived. Ilka checked her phone, but there were no messages from the hospital or Sister Eileen.
Fifteen minutes later the officer finally returned empty-handed and glared at Mary Ann before sitting down. “There is no case.”
She rubbed her nose and turned to Ilka. “Are you her aide?”
Ilka straightened up, irked at the annoyance in the officer’s voice. “No!”
“I found the name Davidson when I searched the date. A couple was killed in a one-car accident. In other words, there were no other people or cars involved.”
“That’s not true!” Mary Ann said. “Can I see the files?”
“There are no case files.” The officer stood up.
“Then I’d like to know how you found out it was a one-car accident.”
The female officer didn’t even try to hide her irritation. “I can’t reveal that.”
“I insist on seeing where that’s written.”
“Maybe we should just leave,” Ilka said.
“I want to see it! It’s not true. I was there.” She pointed down at her legs. “How can you explain me being paralyzed in the accident?”
“There are no records of any injuries.”
“Could I speak with someone who was at the scene of the accident?”
“Sorry.”
The officer opened the door and held it impatiently for them.
“Come on, we’re leaving,” Ilka said.
Without waiting, she grabbed the handles of Mary Ann’s wheelchair and pushed her out of the office. When they reached the parking lot, it occurred to her how disrespectful it was to treat her father’s wife this way. When she saw Mary Ann’s face, she knelt in front of her and apologized, but the woman waved her off.
“It’s him. My father made the accident disappear. Just like he’s done with so much else. Please drive me home.”
“Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not okay, but I only have myself to thank for that.”
Before leaving, Ilka found Gregg Turner’s number and called him. It seemed absurd that the man couldn’t afford a decent meal but had a cell phone, she thought.
He answered on the first ring, and Ilka asked him to tell Sister Eileen she’d be back soon.
“But she left right after you.”
“What do you mean, she left?” Ilka yelled, scaring Mary Ann. “I asked you to call me if you two went anywhere.”
“No, if I went anywhere. I’m sorry if I misunderstood, I thought it was a question of Sister Eileen knowing I’m here if she needed me. I promised to stay here, and I did. I’m still here.”
Ilka slammed her hand against the wheel and tried to get ahold of herself by breathing deeply and closing her eyes.
“What’s happening?” Mary Ann spoke quietly, as if Ilka’s panic had calmed her down.
“I have to stop by the funeral home before I drive you home.”
Mary Ann nodded. Ilka felt the woman’s eyes on her as she backed out and drove off.
“It wasn’t my father’s men who attacked Artie,” Mary Ann said. “I know they were keeping an eye on you. My father wondered why you were in Paul’s will. None of us knew that, not until the will was opened at the lawyer’s office. And he wondered about Paul changing it so soon before he died. I wondered about it too, because there was nothing valuable to inherit. Except for the funeral home, but it wasn’t worth much.”
Her voice sounded commanding again. It reminded Ilka of Raymond Fletcher standing up after the horses were taken at the ranch. One moment he was on his knees, the next he was standing ready to fight back.
Ilka kept her mouth shut. Now she knew that her father had wanted to make sure she came over. He’d wanted her to know his story.
“There’s a chip on Paul’s car,” Mary Ann said. “My father wanted to keep track of him. It’s still there, so they’ve known where you were all the time. But they did follow you quite a bit, to find out what you were doing.”
Ilka gripped the wheel tighter and sped up, angry now. Sweating. She didn’t understand how Mary Ann could sit there and calmly tell her all this, as if what Fletcher had done was okay. But maybe her father’s wife was too used to things happening this way in Fletcher’s world.
She barely slowed down when she turned into the funeral home parking lot, and she didn’t apologize when Mary Ann was thrown against the passenger door. She parked in front of Sister Eileen’s apartment, jumped out, ran up to the door, and threw it open so violently that she stumbled inside.
Sister Eileen was sitting straight up on the sofa, facing the door and pointing a long-slide automatic pistol directly at Ilka.
Ilka stepped back in shock, but Sister Eileen lowered the weapon at once and laid it in her lap. They stared at each other for a moment before Ilka walked over to her.
“Come on. We have to drop Mary Ann off at Fletcher’s ranch before visiting Artie. The car’s outside.”
She avoided looking at the pistol as she held her hand out to the nun. Again, she suspected Sister Eileen was in shock. She seemed terrified, but her calm, serene expression worried Ilka.
Sister Eileen picked a bag up off the floor, unzipped it, and stuck the pistol inside. It barely fit. Then she went out into the hall for her knee-length coat.
“Is that really smart?” Ilka said. She didn’t ask where the pistol came from.
“I’m ready.” Sister Eileen walked out the door and nodded curtly at Mary Ann before getting in back.
Everything’s falling apart, Ilka thought as she pulled out of the parking lot. Strangely enough, the pistol in the car was the only thing that made her feel safe.
They’d almost reached Fletcher’s house when Ilka noticed the two police cars. The front door opened, and out came a policeman with a firm grip on the young butler, who was waving his arms around and talking to the officer.
Ilka parked, and they watched as Raymond Fletcher appeared in the doorway with his hands cuffed behind his back. An officer held his left arm as they walked to the police car nearest the steps. Several patrol cars were now filling up the gravel lot in front of the house, and Ilka saw Jeff and several other security guards walking out in handcuffs.
Ilka looked at Mary Ann. “What’s happening?”
“I called them while you were getting Sister Eileen.” She was pale, and her voice was small, but firm.
“I told them my father was guilty of fraud, corruption, and false accusations against Frank Conaway. He made a deal with Scott Davidson’s grandfather after the accident, gave him ten percent of all income in exchange for his silence. When Gerald died, my father stopped paying, but he needed a good explanation of where the money had gone.”
“So you knew Frank might go to prison for something he didn’t do,” Ilka said.
Mary Ann looked away and nodded.
“Frank has two young daughters. He could have been sent away for life, and you knew he was innocent!”
A sudden surge of rage left Ilka speechless. Mary Ann must have known Frank all her life, and yet she’d allowed Fletcher to make him the scapegoat.
“I told the police I’m willing to make a statement about the false accusations against Frank. Like I promised Scott, I’m prepared to lay all my cards on the table.”
As if that suddenly made everything right, Ilka thought. But she cooled off enough to speak again. “Did your father have Maggie killed?”
Mary Ann turned to her in surprise. “Why in the world would you think that?”
“Because she knew the truth about what happened. She was blackmailing my father. Ever since the accident he deposited money in her account every three months.”
She looked puzzled. “I don’t know anything about that.”
Ilka dropped it. Sister Eileen opened the back door and got out, and Ilka watched in the rearview mirror as she dragged the wheelchair from the back and folded it out. Then she opened the passenger door and undid Mary Ann’s seat belt.
She looked over at Ilka. “May I have the car keys?”
At first Ilka thought she wanted to drive Mary Ann’s car; then she realized the nun was talking about her father’s car, which was parked nearby. She found the keys in her bag and handed them over.
“Let’s go.” Sister Eileen headed for the Chevy.
Ilka followed and joined her in the front seat. “I didn’t think you could drive a car,” she said.
“I can now.” She backed out.
Ilka nodded back at Mary Ann, still sitting in her car. “What about her?”
“I’m sure someone here can help her inside. We have to leave, now.”
She looked tiny behind the wheel, but she floored it. Gravel shot up underneath the car.
Ilka let Sister Eileen in on everything she’d learned. “I wonder if Fletcher even thought about the consequences when he involved Leslie in his fight against Scott. He should have talked to Mary Ann first. After all, Leslie has sacrificed most of her adult life taking care of her mother.”
Sister Eileen stared straight ahead. “At least Mary Ann is taking him down now.”
Did she even have a driver’s license? Ilka thought. But that was the least of her worries.
They parked in the lot behind the funeral home. Ilka needed a shower and a bite to eat, and the nun promised to call the hospital to hear if there was any news. When Ilka came downstairs twenty minutes later, Sister Eileen had made tea and sandwiches for them.
As they were about to eat, someone knocked on the back door. Ilka stood up, but after a moment’s thought she walked to the window and peeked outside. Two men in suits stood at the door; she was getting used to seeing gangster types practically everywhere she went, but these two looked more like bankers. Sister Eileen picked up her bag and set it on her lap as Ilka opened the door.
Immediately one of the men launched into a speech that essentially was a list of grievances. The only words she really caught were undertaker, authorization, education, permit, license, forbidden, fines, and shut down. She let him finish, then she stuck her phone in her back pocket as the other man explained it his way. The Association of American Funeral Directors, he said, had been informed that the Paul Jensen Funeral Home was being run by a person without the required training. The business lacked certification, and she also had broken current regulations by performing the duties of an undertaker. Consequently, the funeral home was now excluded from the association and had to close before the end of the month.
He gathered his hands behind his back and nodded.
“In addition,” the first man said, “the hearse and the business’s income in the period it operated illegally may be confiscated.”
“We haven’t operated illegally,” Ilka protested. She pointed out that Artie Sorvino had the required training, and the business did have the necessary certification.
“We’ve received photographic evidence clearly showing that you…” He glanced down at his papers. “…Ilka Nichols Jensen, transported a deceased person in the hearse, that you made use of an unauthorized crematorium, and that you have arranged and held a memorial ceremony.” After a moment to catch his breath, he added that they also knew she had spoken with family members and overseen the decorations.
“Flowers? That can’t be illegal!”
Obviously, he considered her outburst to be a victory, but she didn’t care. It dawned on her who might have been keeping an eye on her lately. But if the American Funeral Group thought they could force her out, they had another think coming.
“This funeral home must be closed by the end of the month,” the man farther from her repeated.
“You’re too late.” She took a moment to enjoy their startled faces. “We’ve already closed. If you had come to the front door, you’d have seen the sign. And if the American Funeral Group had hired decent detectives, they would know I was transporting an empty coffin in the car when I drove out to the old crematorium.”
She was bluffing, but she was fed up with them.
“I’m cleaning out our stock, and Dorothy Cane is running a ceramics workshop out there. She’s putting together an art exhibition, death is the theme, so I offered her a coffin. It was going to be thrown out anyway. Now, either you can go through with all this, in which case you’ll be contacted by my lawyer, who will sue for false accusations. Or you can apologize to me and send me a written copy of the reprimand you send to the American Funeral Group for harassment. It’s your decision.”
Neither of them moved a muscle while she spoke, but when she finished they seemed to consider what she’d said.
The man who had made the accusations spoke up. “How can we know it was an empty coffin?”
Ilka shrugged. “You can’t. But how can you know it wasn’t empty? If the people hired to spy on me had done their job, they’d have known I haven’t been out there since.”
She had no idea if they’d also been watching Artie, who had driven out in his pickup for Maggie’s urn, but it was a chance worth taking.
“A personal apology for making false accusations, and a copy of the warning you’re giving them for harassment and unethical behavior.” It took an effort to stop herself from going on and on.
The funeral home director trying to ruin her business infuriated her; after all, it was clear she was already finished. And if possible, she was even angrier at Fletcher and Mary Ann because of their lies. But the absolute peak of her rage was directed at the person who had tried to kill Artie. While she was ranting at the two men, though, she realized she might be lashing out from fear, not rage. The fear of not knowing if the people who had hurt Artie would come back, or what they were after.
“We’ll be back when we’ve investigated further,” one of the men said. The other nodded.
“No! You will not come back. If you don’t give me an immediate apology, I’m contacting my lawyer. You will be sued for character assassination and personal harassment, and we’ll see you in court. And I want to see the evidence the American Funeral Group gathered against us. We’ve done nothing to justify one of our competitors in town trying to harm us.”
She was just warming up, but she was interrupted by Sister Eileen. Mary Ann had called. “They’ve released Raymond Fletcher. He’s on his way home.” She sounded worried.
“We…we apologize for the inconvenience,” said the man farther from her.
“Oh, shut up!” She slammed the door, le
aned against the wall, and closed her eyes.
“She asked you to come out there,” Sister Eileen said.
After a moment’s pause, she followed the nun back to the office. She was still trembling with anger, but she managed to wash down the food with cold tea.
“Did you talk to the hospital?” She’d much rather be with Artie than waiting around at the ranch when Fletcher arrived.
Sister Eileen nodded. Her headpiece was pulled back now, and her hair was visible. “He’s in stable condition, but they’re keeping him in the coma until there’s less blood trapped inside his skull.”
“Thank God,” Ilka murmured. She slumped in relief; stable was more than she’d dared hope for.
“Mary Ann sounded frightened,” Sister Eileen said.
“All right, I’ll go.” Ilka thought about Amber. Hopefully she didn’t know what was going on.
As she put on her coat, someone began pounding on the front door. If I hear one more word out of those idiots, she thought, as she marched out to stick the CLOSED sign in their nose. She flung the door open, but stopped herself at the sight of an elderly man.
He wore a knee-length gray tweed jacket and a black shirt. His white tie was expertly knotted. “May I ask, is there a Lydia Rogers living here?”
Ilka’s arms fell to her sides as she shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She explained that she was new in town and couldn’t help.
The man stood for a moment, then pulled out a card from his inside pocket. He asked her to call him if she happened to meet a woman by that name. Then he apologized for bothering her and walked away from the residential district, toward the small row of deserted factories. Toward town.
