“I need a little time. I’m going through all our bank statements and paperwork right now.” What I didn’t share was how bleak my financial situation seemed. From what I could tell, we owed for George’s Jaguar, my Lexus, the new pool he’d insisted we put in last spring, the furniture, and all our country club memberships, as well as our ongoing house payments, utilities, food bills, and the cost of Anya’s school.
Our savings were severely depleted by the cost of George’s funeral. Not wishing to upset Sheila further, I’d allowed her to make most of the arrangements. She’d given her son a grand send-off.
“Maybe I can help you,” Bill interrupted my thoughts. “The attorney who drew up George’s will does a lot of work for Dimont. How about I contact him for you? He probably won’t charge me to go through whatever needs to be done.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, like making sure the death certificate is in order so you can claim any property jointly held and filing for his life insurance. How about it?”
“Under the circumstances, that’s very, very kind of you, Bill. I can’t thank you enough.” Maybe, I thought, maybe the attorney will find money for us to live on. I sure hoped so, because my preliminary analysis told me all we had was the money in my household expenses account. I hadn’t gotten up the nerve to open my husband’s checkbook. It felt strangely invasive, like a breach of privacy. I assumed there was money in his account, but each time I picked up the leather folio, I felt too nauseated to look. Perusing the check ledger might tell me more about my husband’s personal life than I wanted to know.
My carefully constructed ignorance might crumble even further. I wasn’t ready for that. I felt like a kid on a bike with training wheels. I knew the time was fast approaching when I’d have to go solo, but I hadn’t yet found the courage to wean myself.
Bill smoothed his slicked-back hair with both hands and worked his jaw. “I don’t want this to get out, Kiki. If people think they can’t trust Dimont Development with their money, well, I hate to think how it could impact the business. And if the banks we work with find out? Good lord, the auditors would swarm this place like flies on a corpse—” he blanched. “Sorry.”
I forgave him. I heard a lot of stupid things in the aftermath of George’s passing.
“Can Sheila help? Half a million is a lot of money.”
I’d gone over and over this in my mind. On one hand, Sheila had the money. Her late husband (and George’s father) Harry had left her well off. A half a million wouldn’t even put a dent in her savings. Why not ask her for help? Wasn’t that what family was for?
On the other hand—and this hand seemed preternaturally big to me, like the right hand of Michelangelo’s David—George was Sheila’s son. She was already despondent. Wasn’t it better to handle this myself? And if she did get involved, what repercussions might follow? The woman didn’t like me, never had. I needed a good relationship with her so we could both be there for Anya. My own mother paid little attention to either Anya or me. Sheila was all Anya had. Going to her for money could only make a bad situation worse.
No, I didn’t want Sheila involved. I told Bill I’d handle it. All I needed was a little time.
Surely, George’s life insurance policy would yield enough money to pay Bill back.
And it would have.
But the money didn’t go to me.
George’s insurance all went to Sheila. I dropped the phone when the insurance policy representative delivered the blow.
By my calculations, I could make one more house payment. Basically we had nothing to live on. Scratch that, less than nothing. I was in the hole a half a million dollars.
I called Pamela Bertolli, a real estate agent for whom I’d once helped make a business scrapbook. That afternoon, she brought over a suggested selling price and a marketing plan. I listened carefully as her head bent over the figures.
Pamela wore her hair in solid swerves, a style faintly reminiscent of the modern art museum in Balboa. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, but she was a paragon of good taste.
I did the math. The classic BMW convertible George had purchased on a lark had no Blue Book value so I decided to sell my Lexus and drive the Beemer. If our humongous home in Ladue sold for within ten percent of the asking price, I could pay all our obligations plus the money George owed Bill. Sheila had offered to take over paying Anya’s tuition, and I’d taken her up on it. I’d have just enough for a few months’ rent on a handyman’s special in a less-affluent neighborhood. (That’s real estate speak for “a dump in a bad area of town.”)
The phone rang just as Pamela tucked the signed copy of the sales contract into her leather briefcase.
Detweiler didn’t waste time on small talk. “I’ve been looking over our department’s report. I want to make a few phone calls. Something doesn’t feel right. I’m going to the hotel this afternoon. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
___
A few days later I ran into Elise Maddis picking up her preschooler at CALA. Okay, reporters can be scum-sucking, ambulance-chasing vultures, but some are kind and decent people. Elise was the latter. We’d worked together on a project to bring scrapbooking supplies to the Ronald McDonald House. For a person who covered the society beat, she was amazingly uncomplicated and unpretentious. She dressed nicely, but her eyeliner and lipstick were always on crooked, making her eyes and mouth seem off kilter. On the other hand, maybe her makeup reflected her world view. Who could tell?
I waved her over to a quiet corner. There, huddled beside the enormous white columns that marched the length of CALA’s administration building, I found the courage to ask, “Elise, do you know anything about my husband’s death? Anything the police don’t know?”
She glanced around. “Nothing we could print. A source did tell me that George had lunch with friends earlier that day over at Antonio’s on The Hill.”
The Hill is an ethnic neighborhood and home to many of St. Louis’s best restaurants. Three-quarters of the residents are Italian, and such baseball greats as Yogi Berra and Joe Garagiola grew up there.
“Friends?” I hugged my arms tightly around my body. It was cold out on the portico, but I didn’t want to blow my chances by asking her to meet later. That might give her time to reconsider talking. I shivered. “Uh, and who would that be?”
Elise winced. “Two women. Young. Well-dressed. I tried to get their names but I couldn’t. A waiter saw the three of them all drive away in one car.”
“Really?”
“Yes. But this is strange. When I called back, my source dried up. Couldn’t convince anyone else at the place to talk either. Their mouths were tighter than a Mississippi mud flat in an August dry spell.”
___
Not long afterward, Mert and I cleaned George’s closet.
“You think George didn’t go to the hotel alone.” Mert folded a dozen silk ties I’d given her for her son.
“Yep. I mean it could have been a business meeting, but if so, why wouldn’t his friends talk to Elise? Why did the waiter and everyone else clam up?” I put rolled-up socks in a pile for Roger. The kid had a habit of ramming his big toe through them, and Mert was always buying new pairs. This would hold him for a while. “And I bet Bill knows something. He and George went to high school together. At CALA, of course. But I can’t ask him now. I need to wait until I sell the house and pay him back.”
“Maybe Sheila paid people at Antonio’s to keep quiet.”
I nodded. “That wouldn’t surprise me. She’s always been overprotective. It was probably just an innocent business meeting.”
Mert snickered. “Right. The only kind of business a man does with two young women is monkey business. Girl, you gotta wake up and smell the coffee.”
I cleared my throat.
“Sorry,” she said. Mert could be blunt sometimes, but she means well.
I’d have taken her words better if handling George’s clothes didn’t make me so emotional. They smelled like him. I pr
essed one of his slightly worn oxford shirts to my face. I wanted to cry, but I’d wait until Mert left and I was alone. Anya was spending the night at her grandmother’s. Having her visit seemed to be the only thing that brightened Sheila’s days.
I missed my daughter’s father and worried about how I’d come up with the money to pay Bill, but I was lucky compared to Sheila. I hadn’t lost my child. I couldn’t even imagine that. A pain in my throat choked me, and I gasped for air each time I imagined what Sheila must be feeling. Poor Sheila! If I lost Anya, I’d lie down and die. I wouldn’t be able to go on. Yes, Sheila had it much worse than I did.
In fact, compared to most widows, I was lucky. I hadn’t lost my soul mate. But I had lost my parenting partner and my friend. I lost the person I talked to daily about life’s ups and downs, the local news, the weather, and most of all, our child. Just knowing someone was coming through the front door at the end of the day was one of marriage’s greatest blessings, and I definitely mourned that loss.
Despite our problems—and they were many—I had loved George.
“What’s next?” asked Mert. “The house is on the market, and you’re waiting for that police report. What else can you tell that detective to help him see this weren’t no natural death?”
I finished shoving suits into the bag for Goodwill. “I don’t know. I finally got the courage last night to open George’s checkbook.”
“And?”
I turned my back to pull down sweater boxes from the top shelf of my husband’s walk-in closet. I didn’t want to face Mert. I didn’t want to see her expression. “He’s been writing big checks to someone on a regular basis.”
“Got a name?”
“The ledger said ‘orb.’ ”
“Like shorthand for orbit? And you didn’t call that cop and tell him?”
“I left a message on his voice mail and asked him to call me.”
Seeing her skeptical expression, I added, “I couldn’t get to it until this morning. I’ve been busy.”
Pamela explained the concept of staging a house. “Make it look like a movie set. Inviting. Cozy, homey, romantic. Glance through a home décor magazine and you’ll get my drift. We want potential buyers to see themselves living here. And clear out the personal effects. Prospects don’t want to be reminded you live here. That ruins the fantasy.”
Yeah, well, my fantasy was definitely gone with the wind, but if helping other people along with their personal delusions would sell my house, so be it.
Pamela was stopping by later with a couple who’d expressed interest. If they didn’t buy, I couldn’t make my next payment. I could no longer afford Mert, and my whole life had been taken over readying my home for lookie-loo’s.
I fluffed and folded fresh towels, lit candles, and took a Pyrex dish of noodle kugel out of the oven. Cooking one of George’s favorite dishes was oddly comforting. The scent of cinnamon and vanilla filled the house.
I worked my way from the top floor down and dragged the vacuum after me, leaving a barely discernible nap in the deep carpet. Everything on the top floors was perfect, but as I finished mopping the kitchen floor, I slipped and spilled an entire bucket of water on myself.
I wasn’t about to run upstairs to my closet and leave footprints in the carpet.
I was soaked to the skin. Since I cranked down the heat to save on my gas bill each day when Anya left for school, I was freezing. Goose bumps rose as I stripped and threw my soggy clothes into the dryer.
The doorbell rang.
I stood buck naked in my laundry room. From the hanging rod, I grabbed a damask tablecloth I’d just washed and wrapped it about me like a sari.
The bell rang again, more insistently. Whoever was out there had seen my car and knew I was home.
I shuffled toward the front door, the tight wrap curtailing my stride. My bust wasn’t big enough to hold up the makeshift dress. The whole shooting match started to slither away from me. I grabbed the fabric and re-tucked the white length of cloth into the selvage around my bust.
“Coming! Coming!” I swung the door wide.
Detweiler stared at me. For a moment, he said nothing, the gold flecks dancing in the bottle-green of his eyes. Then, “Your husband was found naked. Hmmm. Are you a family of nudists?”
“Not hardly. Look,” I said with a sigh. “I was just leaving.”
“In that? That’s a tablecloth, right?” His finger inched toward my bustline and the wad of cloth I clenched in my fist. “And you were going out? Aren’t you a bit underdressed? This is Ladue after all.”
“No. I mean, yes. I was just getting my coat.”
“Oh. And mittens? To complete the ensemble? That’s kind of a new look for you, isn’t it?”
A release of tension told me the cloth around my chest was giving way. I needed to hurry this conversation along. “People are coming to see the house.”
He nodded. He was biting his lip to keep from laughing. “And you are what? The greeter? Like at Wal-Mart? Let me guess, it’s a toga, right?”
“Uh-oh,” I could feel more fabric starting to slip. I grabbed a hunk in my free hand. Now I was using both hands to hold the tablecloth in front of me like a shield.
A breeze tickled my rear end.
This was bad. Really bad.
“How ’bout you come back later.”
He watched me struggle, his eyes twinkling. “Why? Is there a floorshow?”
“My clothes are in the dryer. I’m having a bad day, okay? Give me thirty minutes and I’ll meet you at St. Louis Bread Co.”
He smiled. “No problem. You might also want to grab a pair of shoes. Or maybe sandals would go better with your … uh … outfit.” Then, he winked at me. “Remember, no shoes, no shirt, no service.”
“There’s an interview missing.” Over a smoked turkey sandwich on focaccia and a cup of broccoli cheddar soup, Detweiler was all business now. He insisted on paying so I ordered a tall glass of green tea and a sourdough bread bowl of low-fat vegetarian black bean soup.
He continued, “Another detective was supposed to talk to the housekeeper who found your husband’s body. And we’re missing information because of the shift change. The hotel records show the assistant manager was on duty when Mr. Lowenstein died. But—and here’s where it gets interesting—the responding officer only talked with the manager.”
“So what happens next?”
“I follow up. I talk to the housekeeper and the assistant manager. Now, what did you want to see me about? Anything I need to know?”
The nearness of his body, the smell of his cologne, the sound of his voice were all getting to me. I wanted to reach over and touch him.
Which was silly. Really silly of me. This was business. And he felt sorry for me. That was all.
I cradled a heavy coffee mug in my hands. I’d shivered after the iced green tea. Without a word, he’d gotten up, ordered two coffees, and placed one in front of me. I took a sip and decided to trust the man. “I heard George had lunch with two people, two young and well-dressed women, the day he died. They left the restaurant and got in a car together. My source tried to follow up and no one would talk.”
There. I’d made a contribution to the investigation.
“You heard this? From who?”
“I need to protect my sources.” After all, I’d been a journalism major in college. Time to use what little education I had.
“Your … sources? That’s rich.” Detweiler tapped my hand softly with his index finger. “Did your sources have any idea who your husband might have been with?”
My stomach flipped. “No.” I glanced up at him. “No,” I repeated more firmly.
Detweiler moved on. “Something else that’s bothering me, I don’t remember seeing a report on the key cards.”
“Key cards?”
“They’re coded. I couldn’t find where anyone checked whether Mr. Lowenstein was issued one card or two. Or if anyone entered the room just before the housekeeper did.”
“
You could learn that from those silly plastic cards?” I was impressed.
“Maybe there’s a reason all this isn’t in the report.”
“Such as?”
“Could be sloppy police work. With ninety-one different municipalities in the greater St. Louis area, stuff falls through the cracks.”
“Or?”
“Or maybe someone is covering up.” He sighed. “I hate to think that. But I’m not naïve. This is St. Louis. People here have—”
“Connections,” I supplied.
“What high school did you go to?” We chanted in chorus. That question was the standard opening gambit for anyone in the area. By learning what high school you attended, a native of St. Louis could tell what religion you were, your ethnic background, how much money you had, and what your social status was.
Detweiler nodded and continued, “People in St. Louis go to school together, worship together, marry each other, and spend the rest of their lives hanging out together.”
“Exactly.” Which went a long way toward explaining why I never fit in.
I took a deep breath. “There is one other thing …” I told Detweiler about the regular checks George had written to “orb.” Then I swallowed hard and added, “And I have no idea who or what ‘orb’ might be.”
My imagination must have kicked into high gear. I could have sworn he stared at me with sad eyes as he said, “I’ll check into that.”
___
A few days later Mert and I pulled up in front of a small apartment building not far from the Busch Brewery. A set of rickety wooden stairs once painted white climbed past the first floor to a bent aluminum storm door on the second. The glass was missing, if indeed it had ever been there. All that stood between the apartment and the cold winter wind was an insubstantial wooden door that didn’t even meet the floor. Splinters of wood along the perimeter told me the door was hollow. Mert rapped sharply and the sound of her knuckles echoed.
A dark-haired woman with drooping, worried brown eyes answered. Under an oversized man’s sweater, a faded housedress clung to her, draped like a thin painter’s cloth. As I glanced down to step over the threshold, I could see angry purple veins running up her legs like a trellis.
Paper, Scissors, Death Page 3
