She stopped and looked at me, managed a shrug and a smile, both of them half hearted. “I apologize. I know you’re only trying to help.”
“Fine. Back to Meredith. Is there anyone you know of who’s especially close to her? Someone she might have confided in, told something to that could be of use to us? Her mother indicated that Meredith was pretty much a loner.”
Dianna turned down the corners of her mouth. “Two days ago I would have told you that I’m close to Meredith. At least, I thought so. But I guess there are things she’s kept to herself.” She shook off the self-pity and looked directly at me again. “You’ve talked to Thomas.”
“Thomas?”
She frowned. “Thomas Wayne.”
I frowned. “Thomas Wayne?”
Her frown continued for some time, but not as long as mine did. Mine was still in place when she began laughing and dropped onto the short sofa near the chairs.
“Perfect,” she managed between guffaws. “Just perfect.”
“I do my best,” I said, “but isn’t ‘perfect’ a little strong?”
She wiped at one eye and successfully smeared her mascara. “Perfect in terms of the whatever-you-want-to-call-it between Meredith and her mother, I mean. It’s absolutely perfect that Meredith wouldn’t tell her mother about her engagement.”
The frown on my face vanished; more correctly, it did an about-face and my eyebrows headed for the high ground. “Engagement?” I echoed. “Donna Berens told me Meredith didn’t even have a boyfriend, much less a fiancé.”
The woman, still smiling, spread her green-and-yellow arms. “What’d I tell you? Perfect. I wonder if she’s ever going to tell Donna, or if she’ll just let her see the wedding picture in the paper.”
I rubbed my forehead. Heavy, close weather of the kind we’d been having lately gives me a headache anyhow, and this business with Meredith Berens wasn’t helping. “What’s the story of this Thomas Wayne?” I said. “Besides the fact he has two first names.”
Dianna Castelli shrugged and rearranged herself on the sofa, tucking her legs under her. “What’s to tell? He’s a nice guy, good-looking, about my age—late twenties.”
I had gotten up and gone into the little bathroom for aspirin. Now I leaned out the doorway and looked at Dianna.
“All right, all right—late thirties. Early late thirties. Anyhow, he runs Midlands Realty and Development. You’ve heard of them.”
I swallowed three aspirin, scooped water from the tap into my mouth, and reemerged daubing my lips with my handkerchief. “Commercial property, aren’t they?” I said. “They’re big.”
“Pretty big. Thomas’s dad, Alexander Wayne, started the business. He’s Midlands’ chairman, I think, but it’s Thomas who handles the day-to-day.”
I sat again, in the armchair that Dianna had occupied. “So there’s money there.”
She nodded. “Not oodles and oodles, but, yeah, I’d say they’re doing all right. Why?”
“Merely an observation. Money changes everything, as the song says. This engagement—how long ago was it announced?”
“Not long. They haven’t known each other long. They only met last February, at my Doldrums party—I have a Winter Doldrums party every February, sort of to carry us through that long dry spell between New Year’s Eve and Saint Patrick’s Day—so, anyhow, I was pretty surprised here a couple of months ago when Meredith announced they were getting married.” She shook her head. “I guess it happens.”
“I guess so. Have they set a date?”
“No. Meredith said they were thinking of next year sometime. She joked that maybe they’d hold it to coincide with the Doldrums party next February.” She laughed. “That would liven things up. Why are you looking that way?”
“The word elopement is flashing across my brain like a stock-market quote.”
Dianna’s eyes widened. The mascara smudge gave her face a lopsided, off-center look. “Holy cow,” she said reverently. Then the wide-eyed look disappeared and was replaced by one of resolution. “Nope. Impossible. Meredith would never do something like this without telling me. Without telling her mother, sure; me, never. She knows I’d kill her, and then I’d fire her.”
“Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment kind of decision.”
“You don’t know Meredith,” she said with certainty. “And anyhow, Thomas would never go for it. If he’s going to get married, he’s the big church type. Tuxedos and ice carvings and hot-and-cold-running champagne—all that traditional stuff.”
It sounded like Dianna Castelli knew Thomas Wayne rather well, and I said as much.
“Oh, no, I’m not falling into that again. I thought I knew Meredith Berens pretty well, too. But seriously, I don’t know how well I know Thomas, but I’ve known him a long time, at least five or six years, I suppose. We know a lot of people in common.”
“That’s it?”
She looked at me and pursed her lips. “We dated two, three times. Nothing serious. That was a long time ago.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“The parting was friendly?”
“There wasn’t any parting per se. We just didn’t go out together anymore. We still saw each other—here and there, at friends’ houses, at parties. Thomas handled the negotiations for my office space. I invited him to the Doldrums. We’re friends.”
“So it didn’t bother you when he and Meredith became friends.”
Dianna laughed, but in an incredulous, not amused way. “I think I’m supposed to resent that, but what the hell. No, it didn’t bother me. I encouraged it, if you must know—and I guess you must. Ask Thomas. Ask Meredith. Donna Berens steered you right on one thing: Meredith didn’t have any boyfriends, or any close friends at all. I could see that Thomas was interested in her at the Doldrums. When she told me he had asked her out I practically insisted she accept. Thomas is a great catch—geez, is that sexist or what? But he is. Good-looking, successful in business … there’s even talk of a political career for him.”
It seemed a little to me that Meredith had traded a smothering, overprotective mother—Donna—for a bold, overbearing one—Dianna—but it wasn’t anything to me. My only interest was getting a line on the girl; how she conducted her life, or let it be conducted, after she got found was no concern of mine. It’s been my experience that fiancés usually have at least a general idea of the whereabouts of their fiancées, so an interview with Thomas Wayne rocketed to the top of my list of things to do.
“When was the last time you spoke with Meredith?”
“Friday evening,” she answered promptly. “We stopped off for a drink after work—Meredith and I and Steve, Steve Lehman, my account exec.”
“How did Meredith seem to you then?”
“Fine. Perfectly fine.”
“Did she mention any plans she had for the weekend?”
She chewed away some of the paint on her lower lip. “I don’t think so.”
“Was she going to see Thomas?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think she mentioned it, but I suppose she would see him. I mean, after all, they are engaged.”
“Why were you surprised when Meredith told you about the engagement? Hadn’t you known they were seeing each other?”
“Sure. Meredith had kept me pretty much up to date on it, I think. But, like I said, they hadn’t known each other very long …”
“No, there’s more to it than that. You said, if Thomas were to get married, he’d prefer a traditional church ceremony. If. Why if?”
Dianna put a hand behind her head, catching tendrils of hair between the scissors formed by the first and second fingers of her hand, twirling them into ringlets. “Well … to be honest, I was partly surprised about the engagement, partly because I knew they hadn’t known each other very long, and partly because I never figured Thomas had much interest in marrying anybody. He’s dated some, sure—he dated me—but he never seemed interested in getting too serious with anybody. I just assumed
that he was more interested in his career, his business and civic organizations, and maybe this political thing. I remember warning Meredith—I knew she was real starry-eyed about Thomas, and knowing what I thought I knew about him, I didn’t want her getting hurt. She laughed it off, said that Thomas loved her as much as she loved him and this was the real thing.” She shrugged. “I guess I was wrong and she was right—Ms. Right, for Thomas Wayne.”
I said, “Who else was surprised by news of the engagement?”
“Well, Donna Berens will be surprised, I bet,” she said with a certain malicious glee.
I smiled tolerantly. “I’m thinking more along the line of friends of Meredith—acquaintances, coworkers …”
“Well, you know, Meredith really did keep to herself pretty much. Outside of Thomas and those of us at the office, I don’t think that she knew very many people. And at the office, well, there’s only me, Steve Lehman, the receptionist, and a production artist. And Meredith, of course, my copywriter.”
“What’s a production artist?”
“Someone who specs copy for typesetting, then keylines it when it comes back—cuts it up and pastes it down on a board that the printer shoots to make plates. There’s more to it than that, but not much more. Anyhow, that’s the gang, and I don’t think Meredith really associated with anyone but me and Steve. Kelly, the receptionist, is only eighteen: Even a twenty-five-year old doesn’t speak her language. Don, the production artist, is about Meredith’s age—twenty-seven, I think—but he’s married, and that puts people into a different mindset, too, socializing-wise. Steve was probably a little surprised—I mean, we all were—but I think maybe Steve had a little bit of a crush on Meredith.” She smiled fondly. “There are days when I wish I could afford to hire adults.”
I said, “Meredith was pretty taken with this Wayne fellow, huh?”
She said, “It’s what usually happens to people before they decide to get married.”
“I meant before that even. Was everything between the lovebirds on an even keel, as far as you know?”
She made a face that said the same thing her mouth did a second later “Sure. Why? You think they had a lovers’ quarrel and Meredith took a powder?”
“It wouldn’t be an original idea. Think about it: Young love nose-dives into the crapper. The dream of a lifetime, shot between the eyes. What’s Meredith going to do? Where’s she going to go? Home to mama? Hardly. That would be the final, the ultimate humiliation. ‘See, baby, this is what mommy told you would happen if you didn’t do what mommy said, so let’s pack up now and you can move back with mommy where you belong.’ I don’t think so, not after what you’ve told me.”
Dianna pursed her lips. “Well,” she said a little poutingly, “she could have come to me. She knows that.”
“Does she? No offense, Dianna; I know you’re deeply concerned about Meredith. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t; we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But think about it—you warned Meredith. You told me so yourself. You told her to be careful of Thomas and she laughed you off. Now, say, it turns out you were right. Thomas says, ‘You’re a nice kid and all, Meredith, but I’m not ready for the old ball and chain.’ Is Meredith any more likely to come boo-hooing on your shoulder than her mother’s? I doubt it. The girl must have some pride.”
Dianna sighed. “You’re right, of course. I should stop thinking of myself and think of Meredith. Love’s tough at her age.”
“What’s age got to do with it?” I said. “What’s the line in that Paul Simon song—the only time love’s an easy game is when other people are playing.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” she agreed fervently. “But, Nebraska—if Meredith and Thomas did split up, and Meredith couldn’t turn to me or her mother, why wouldn’t she just come here and be alone?”
“Alone? With her mother calling every thirty seconds and private detectives and worried bosses letting themselves in? You can be more alone at the airport.”
“Well, wouldn’t she at least come home, pack a bag, and call to tell me she wouldn’t be in today?”
“You’d question her, you’d want to know if everything was okay, and she wouldn’t want to talk about it. She and Thomas have their falling out, she’s very upset, she needs to get away … she gets into her car and goes.”
“Goes where?”
“Wherever the freeway takes her. Wilmette. I don’t know. I’m guessing, all down the line. Given a little time, I probably could come up with two or three other story lines that seem to fit the situation … and which would be of exactly as much use to us as the one I’m playing with now. We don’t know that Thomas or Meredith had a row. We don’t even know whether they saw each other over the weekend. I’ll find out when I talk to Wayne.”
“You want me to talk to him? Like I said, I know him pretty well.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I had better do it myself. And—I’m sure I don’t have to mention this—but this all stays on the qt, hmm?”
“Of course,” she said with an offhand kind of gesture. “I just wish there was something I could do …”
“You’ve done a lot, believe me. You’ve provided a lot of information.”
Dianna Castelli straightened her legs, worked her way off of the sofa, and came over toward me to retrieve her bag. “I’d better get going. My girl can’t go to lunch till I get back.” She looked at her watch and tched disapprovingly. “Two-thirty already. I might have to fire me for taking these lunches. You’ll let me know if there’s anything I can do to help?”
“Of course.”
“And you’ll let me know what’s going on? What you find out?”
“Sure,” I said. “As far as I can.”
She nodded, hefted the huge bag onto her shoulder, and trudged toward the door. There she paused. “Nebraska,” she said.
I turned in the chair to look at her.
“She’s all right, Nebraska. Isn’t she?”
According to the Code, that great body of regulations promulgated by the International Federation of Private Detectives and adhered to religiously by anyone who seeks eventual admission to the Private Eye Hall of Fame, I was supposed to say something inane. Such as, “I’m sure she is, Dianna,” or, “Don’t torture yourself, Dianna. Don’t give up hope.” In the clinch, however, I blanked out and couldn’t come up with any of the union-approved, hard-boiled-type platitudes.
All I could think of was, “I don’t know.”
CHAPTER FOUR
We of the Midwest do not properly value our history—perhaps because, in terms of much of the rest of the country, and certainly of the world, our history is short. The pioneer spirit here on the flatland is still strong within us. That is both good and bad. Good for all of the hackneyed, platitudinous reasons—we’re hard workers, we’re God-fearing family people, we’re trustworthy, honest, brave, clean, and reverent, and so on. Bad because the pioneers of necessity led a lifestyle that can perhaps best be described as temporary. Except for the land itself, nothing was permanent—certainly no human invention or structure. Their sod houses were designed to carry them through the long, cruel winter; come spring, something better could be built. The attitude has lasted more than a hundred years, indeed, it has hardened, ossified, into today’s almost unshakeable belief that that which was built yesterday is temporary and therefore without value; first chance we get, we’ll pull it down and throw up something newer and, naturally, better.
“Throw up” is the operative phrase there. The glass-and-steel boxes that pass for improvements on the local skyline are enough to make you puke. Especially if you remember the buildings that were razed to make room for these modern monstrosities. Of all the cities of the Midwest—the real Midwest, from the Great Lakes to the Rockies, not the Eastern states that the TV weathermen mistakenly think constitute the Midwest—only Chicago is well in touch with its architectural heritage. The so-called Twin Cities, Minneapolis and St. Paul, have gotten on the bandwagon in recent years. Omaha, except fo
r the ubiquitous small pocket of preservationists and historians and other wrong-thinkers, is far behind. In fifty years, we’ll wake up. By which time, of course, it will be too late.
Not that I’m that much of a historic-preservation buff. I don’t believe in hanging onto anything simply because it’s old. But I know that a lot of the charm, if you will, a lot of the soul, has been hacked out of Omaha, especially downtown Omaha, in the past twenty or twenty-five years. In the process, we are destroying our own bridges to the past.
Which is perhaps the long way around to saying I didn’t think much of the big square gray box in which Midlands Realty and Development Corporation was located. But, as usual, nobody asked me.
It was a five-story building—we also don’t go in for height in a big way around these parts, having got a lot of width and depth to fill—that had a nice view of the telephone company headquarters. Midlands occupied most of the fourth floor, according to the directory in the lobby. The elevators were conspicuously convenient, but I sought and found the stairs, physical-fitness buff that I am.
Nothing too overwhelming about the offices, from what I could see from the reception area. Lots of glass. Lots of oak. Thick, mauve carpet, green leafy plants in oversized woven containers. Textured wall coverings, generic prints in brass frames. Your basic late-twentieth-century office, right out of the catalogue. Hey, Murray, send up a number seventy-two.
The young woman who helped me—there were two behind the big oak-and-red-granite reception desk—was very pleasant, very professional. She asked if she could help me. I said I wanted to speak to Thomas Wayne. She asked if I had an appointment. I said I did not. She asked if she could ask what it was in regard to. I said she could ask, but that it was personal. She said Mr. Wayne was out of the office and she didn’t know when he would be back. I said why did we have to play twenty questions, then.
The police station was only a few blocks away. I hoofed it. The physical-fitness thing again. Unlike Travis McGee, I don’t own a houseboat on whose deck I can do eleventy-six sit-ups every morning. Unlike Spenser, I don’t belong to a seedy gym where I can box and lift weights and rub shoulders with the kind of people who leave something on you when you rub shoulders with them. My idea of a morning workout is bending down to pick up the newspaper at the door. And I have the paunch to prove it.
Things Invisible (A Nebraska Mystery Book 4) Page 5
