Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  “All right.”

  Marlee wondered if Jenifer meant that. “And he’s right about the Gazette and how it’s never come to the rescue of any cops who got shafted for political reasons, Jenifer. I’ve been around the Gazette a long time.” Much longer than you have, Marlee thought.

  “And you’ve lived in Bessemer all your life, which means you know at least as well as I do how a few people at the top of the social structure run the town.”

  “I sure do.”

  “And somebody’s covering up something. Somebody’s been covering up for a lot of years. If not the family of that priest, then, I don’t know, maybe someone close to the bishop.”

  Marlee was silent for a moment. What Jenifer was suggesting sounded fantastic to her, yet she could not dismiss it. She knew Bessemer too well—and she knew that Jenifer Hurley had instincts that were as good as those of any reporter who had passed through the Gazette.

  “Ed Delaney said he’d keep his ears open, Jenifer. I believe him.”

  “Fine, but we need more than that.”

  “For what?”

  “To break this thing, of course. I’m as hungry for this as I’ve ever been for anything. It’s a great, great story. I know it.”

  Marlee didn’t know what to say, or how to feel. The kind of investigating that Jenifer was talking about went way beyond newspaper reporting—or at least way beyond the kind of reporting Marlee was good at. And there was something else: “Jenifer, you know damn well the Gazette’s never going to print anything like that if the diocese doesn’t want it printed. Not unless somebody is actually arrested or indicted and the paper can’t ignore it.”

  “First things first. I’m going to do a little poking.”

  “How?”

  Jenifer chuckled. “I’ve been going out with an assistant district attorney. You know how those people are chosen, from the political clubhouses. They’re privy to a lot of stuff, and sometimes they’re willing to talk. My friend is from a large Italian family: cousins in the steel plants, in the school district, at city hall, you name it. I can get him to talk a little.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Jenifer chuckled. “I’m sure. He’s nuts about me.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t approve?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’m certainly not going to go that far for a story, but I’ll use whatever I can. Besides, he likes my company.”

  “I wasn’t making a judgment,” Marlee said. “At least I was trying not to. You have to do what you have to do.”

  “Right. Hey, Marlee, I’m young and hungry. What can I tell you? I’m only gonna be young and hungry for a little while. The Gazette’s got lots of people who wish they’d had more spark way back when.”

  Marlee wondered if Jenifer included her in that legion. “We’ll talk some more, Jenifer. Right now, I’m going to get some sleep.”

  “Okay. You did good, Marlee. I mean it.”

  “Thanks. We’ll talk some more after the reunion.”

  “You know who must have some unbelievable stories to tell, if he only would? Will Shafer.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because in his job he must know a lot of things that the Gazette has covered up. Or finessed. Too bad he’s so damn discreet. Maybe if he gets to drinking at the reunion he’ll open up.”

  “Not Will. Good night, Jenifer.”

  Bone tired, Marlee locked the door to her room and flopped down on the bed. After a quick prayer for Nigel, she fell into a deep slumber.

  Twenty-nine

  THE GAZETTE MARKS 90 YEARS

  WITH A REUNION AND A TRIBUTE

  TO THE GREAT CITY OF BESSEMER

  The Gazette Company, publisher of the Bessemer Gazette since the newspaper’s beginnings, marks its 90th birthday this weekend with a reunion of former staff members, a series of social events and a celebration of the city’s industrial heritage.

  Lyle Glanford, publisher of the Gazette, has dubbed the celebration “Breaking Ninety,” a reference not just to the birthday but to the golf tournament at the Bessemer Country Club that will be a central part of the festivities …

  “We want to show the world, as we remind ourselves, that we are part of a postindustrial Renaissance,” Glanford said.

  “There are those who say that big steel is finished. Well, we know that the great men who built the steel industry in Bessemer had strong hearts as well as strong shoulders. So do their children and grandchildren …

  What total horseshit, he thought, wadding the newspaper in disgust and tossing it into the wastebasket. Some things never change. And now it was here—the event he had mostly dreaded but could hardly avoid.

  How fitting that the memories and the ghosts should be summoned because of a reunion. What was it the advice columnist had written years before? “Regret is the cancer of life.” True enough. But the regret was there, part of his life, and might always be.

  Sometimes, even though it made his head throb, he would replay the string of events. The decisions that were trivial in themselves, but whose sum had meant blood and death.

  If he had not gone out that long-ago night of the ice storm … but he had.

  If he had chosen a cheap workingmen’s saloon down near the steel plants … but he had gone to a place where he could feed off others’ happiness.

  If he had not liked the priest’s company …

  His head throbbed. That last thought was silly; one didn’t choose to like someone’s company, for God’s sake. One didn’t choose to be drawn to someone.

  All right.

  If he had not followed the priest that night to the house … but he had.

  If he had drunk less beer that night, maybe he would only have pushed the priest away instead of …

  If he had stopped after hitting the priest once … but he had hit him again and again until, until …

  If he had called the police right away—God, if only—it would all be long behind him now, no matter what. But he had fled into the icy night.

  If he had just kept quiet at the farewell party … but no, he had to make his jokes. His harmless little jokes!

  All right, all right, all right. Please, God, just let me get through this.

  It was almost time to leave for the reunion.

  Marlee parked in the ramp under the Bessemer Hotel and took the elevator to the main floor. She thought of the night so many years before when she had come to the hotel with a tall, awkward boy for her high school prom. Then as now she had had butterflies, although then they had been due to adolescent shyness. Now?

  Emerging from the elevator, Marlee immediately saw the results of remodeling. It had been a long time since she had had occasion to go to the Bessemer Hotel, and the chandelier, carpeting, and paint were all new. But they could not hide the underlying tackiness. It was not just the water stains already visible on the new paint high up in the dim ceiling corners, or the tired-looking, poorly dressed old men who sat on sofas way off to the side—permanent hotel residents who paid a weekly rate.

  Those sights were part of it, but only part. Beneath it all was the sense that the hotel—and outside, Bessemer, her hometown—was decaying. Dying?

  No, not dying. Dying ends. Decay can go on and on. The hotel (and the country club, and the golf course) had been given a face-lift, in large part because the publisher had wanted it. He had probably thrown in some of his own money. But a face-lift was only a face-lift.

  Enough, Marlee thought. I can’t change the world. I have enough trouble with my life.

  Her day had actually gone well: the vet had called to say that Nigel was improving, that there didn’t seem to be any damage to his intestinal tract, and that he could probably come home in the next day or two. Stupid dog, she thought. But she smiled.

  Marlee ducked into the ladies’ room, saw the same face she had fussed over not a half hour before at home, decided that the face and her pale blue dress looked pre
tty good.

  Out again, onto the main floor, to the big open staircase that led to the Ingot Ballroom of her prom memory. Large tables flanked the staircase; one table held T-shirts (red, blue, yellow, black) with the words I Survived the Ice Storm. The other table held stacks of reunion programs. Marlee was not interested in looking at the program right now; she knew there would be extras in her office.

  She went up the stairs, walked in to the music and the low babble of conversation. She was not too early. Some Gazette people and some Chamber of Commerce types were standing around, talking over drinks, waiting for the alcohol to loosen them up.

  She would get herself a drink, try to have a good time.

  “Hi, Will. Hi, Karen.” On her way to the bar, Marlee passed the executive editor and his wife. Karen Shafer looked so … together, Marlee thought. She always did, much more so than Will, although he was handsome in a new seersucker jacket that went beautifully with his shirt and tie. Karen must have advised him on his clothes, Marlee thought.

  A small, dark-skinned bartender in a white coat served her a vodka tonic. Marlee looked around the room, filling up now with more Chamber types, some Gazette people, and here and there, someone who had worked at the paper and left. Oh, there was Charlie Buck over in a corner. He had gained weight, but he looked prosperous. She would say hello to him when she got a chance, maybe chat for a minute or two.

  Marlee sipped the vodka, studied the faces, flashed half-smiles at some of the faces that met hers. God, this is awkward, she thought. Just like my high school reunion.

  In the center of the room stood a long table banked high with beds of ice on which lay hills of shrimp and sliced turkey, ham and beef. Nearby, there were melon balls and cheese cubes pierced by brightly colored toothpicks.

  “Nice spread, huh?”

  Marlee turned to see her friend Carol Berman. “Oh, hi! Now I have someone I can talk to without worrying about what I say.”

  “I didn’t think you ever did. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t that hot on coming here, but both Lyles did some gentle arm-twisting, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  After watching Carol pile food onto a plate, Marlee felt hungry, so she speared some shrimp and melon. Yes, the food was good, and the vodka was giving her a pleasant glow.

  “So, how are you?” Carol said.

  “Okay. I have a minor health crisis with my dog, though.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Carol was fond of Nigel and wanted to know about the Airedale’s problems. When Marlee told her what had happened, Carol clucked sympathetically—then laughed. At first Marlee was offended, but the more she thought of it, the more it seemed funny to her. At least it was funny since it was going to turn out all right. Marlee laughed, too.

  “Weren’t you thinking of showing the dog once?” Carol said..

  “Oh, that was a long time ago. Some dog groomer told me Nigel was a very handsome dog and might do well in shows. I put him in a couple of events, but nothing happened.”

  “Did they give him an IQ test? I mean, any dog that can’t tell hamburger from plastic …”

  “Oh, you bitch!”

  The conversational group was breaking up, its members attaching to new groups. Marlee headed for the bar for another drink, picking up snippets of talk along the way.

  “… playing golf tomorrow …”

  “… early tee-off? How about you, Will?”

  “I lucked out,” Shafer said. “I don’t have to tee off until almost noon.”

  Marlee wondered, not for the first time, whether she would like golf. Neither of her parents had played, so she had never taken it up. Maybe next summer …

  Marlee got another vodka tonic, stepped away from the bar, looked around the room. She saw Lyle Glanford, Sr., holding forth with several businessmen and a few people who had worked at the Gazette years before. She recognized the president of the telephone company, the head of the power company, a builder named Archangelo Grisanti. Not for the first time she thought that Bessemer, especially if it was one’s hometown, was so easy to cover as a journalist because the same people (usually men, a fact she resented) belonged to more than one sphere of influence. Maybe I do belong here, in this small town, she thought. Maybe …

  “Marlee?”

  She turned and looked into the face of Grant Siebert. “For goodness’,” she stammered, almost dropping her glass as she transferred it to her left hand so she could greet him. “It’s good to see you, good to see you.”

  “Same here.” Grant was smiling.

  “You look good.”

  “Thanks. You, too.”

  He really does, Marlee thought. Fuller face, trim mustache, thick hair. And yet a way about him that’s—what? Defiant? Vulnerable? Both?

  “Well, I’m glad you could come. I’ve been pressed into service as kind of a semiofficial part-time organizer, probably because I’ve been at the Gazette so long.”

  “I imagine it’s been a lot of work.”

  “Oh, well, Will Shafer did a lot more. That’s him over there, with his wife.”

  “I already said hello to Will.”

  “How are you anyway? Where are you staying?”

  “Little motel on the edge of town. I wanted to be near the golf course instead of right in the city.”

  “Good idea. Did you drive?”

  “No, I flew. Rented a car once I got here.”

  Marlee took a long gulp of her drink and was afraid the vodka wasn’t helping her poise much. There was a nervous silence, and Marlee was relieved when Grant ended it.

  “I’m not that sentimental,” he said, “but I did enjoy circling over the city in the plane, seeing new things and trying to recognize things that were here when I was.”

  “God, so long ago now. I guess, I guess I haven’t seen you since your farewell party.”

  “The party, right. At the … what was it?”

  “The Silver Swine. It’s changed a lot. Last I heard, someone was trying to make it go as a vegetarian restaurant. Quiche and yogurt and all that.”

  “Really? In this town?”

  “In this town. Bessemer, city of broad shoulders and quiche.”

  Grant laughed, seemed to loosen a little. Marlee was starting to enjoy his company. Then she got an idea. “I think I remember you told me Ed Sperl hadn’t written for you recently,” she said carefully.

  “Right. He used to string for us a long time ago. But I never dealt with him directly.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Why?”

  “Just that there might be something happening right here that would make a good story for your magazine,” Marlee said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh boy, where to begin. When we talked long distance a while ago, I told you about Ed Sperl’s death, didn’t I?”

  “I already knew. I mean, my mother saw an obituary in the Albany paper. That’s how I knew.”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, a lot’s happened since then.”

  She told him as much as she could as concisely as she could without mentioning Jenifer Hurley by name. Marlee was deliberately vague about Ed Delaney’s on-again, off-again interest. She figured Ed Delaney would be scared off but good if he found out she had told anyone else about his semiprivate investigation (halfhearted though it was), especially if the person she told worked for a true-crime magazine.

  “Isn’t that the darnedest, Grant?” Marlee said when she was finished.

  “You could say that. What’s it all mean, do you think?”

  “Well, I have wondered—I guess I can say this, because he is dead, after all—but I’ve wondered if Ed Sperl was gay. That could explain a lot, couldn’t it?”

  “Uh, maybe. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  “That maybe, somehow, Ed bumped into the man who killed the priest. Now, that wouldn’t seem all that farfetched if the priest was killed by someone who was gay, would it? I mean, it would narrow down the possibilities a lot. This is
a small town in a lot of ways. And if you go back twenty years, being gay was something a lot more people kept secret.”

  “Suppose it wasn’t a man. The killer.”

  “Oh.” Marlee was stunned; she had not thought of the possibility of a woman.

  “Think of it,” Grant said. “How strong would a woman have to be? Do you play golf?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay. If you did, you’d understand how much force a club generates even when the person swinging it is of very average strength. So say a woman hits him once, stuns him so he’s helpless. She’d be able to finish the job with no resistance at all if she was of such a mind.”

  “You think so?”

  Grant laughed in the old familiar, slightly smart-alecky way. “I shouldn’t claim to be an expert, but I deal in stuff like this on my job. And sure, a woman swinging a golf club would have all the strength she’d need.”

  “God, that would be something.”

  “And you think, uh, you think there might have been a cover-up?” Grant said.

  “Well, yes. Anything’s possible.” And I’ve said way too much already, Marlee thought.

  “And if the killer was a woman …” Grant flashed a knowing, slightly wicked grin.

  “That would be something,” Marlee said.

  “Wouldn’t it? Believe me, if you stay close to this kind of stuff, it gets in your blood. There’s a lure to it. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, but it’s the truth. Hey, you look a little pale.”

  “I feel pale.” What he had just said had made her feel like a snake was crawling over her back.

  “Well, let me get you another drink. I’m in need myself. Gin?”

  “Vodka. And tonic.”

  The room was much more crowded now, noisier. The men and women around Marlee—some of them bumping her as they made their way to and from the bar and the buffet table—may as well have been painted clowns. She felt dizzy and nauseous from the image of a woman’s battering a man’s head in with a golf club. Could that be?

  “Here you are, Marlee. I didn’t mean to paint such a gory picture for you. Maybe I’m too used to this kind of thing.”

  “I hope not,” she managed to say. This time, she took two big gulps from her drink. The vodka was like plasma.