Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  “It's Logan,” I said quickly, not wanting to talk over him.

  “The fact is, Maddy, I still think of you as one of my truest friends, and one that I can trust with my secrets. I know that's weird, because you've pretty much outgrown me, haven't you? But you have a special place in my heart, Madeline. And frankly, there are a lot of secrets in my possession, and I need to share the burden, and to—ah, protect myself. I know, I sound like I'm in a bad movie, but I'll feel better after I tell you. And best of all, I won't get one of your sermons at the end, because you're not here looking at me.”

  Jack sort of smiled, but I could see that it was amusement laced with compassion for this man he never met.

  Logan continued. “There are so many people to tell you about, I don't know who to start with, old pal. There are my friends in the mayor's office—what a scary lot they are. There's the Saugatuck gang, not to mention my fam—”

  The tape was cut off by some sort of horrifying guitar solo, and then a voice yelling, “Stop, man. That one was no good. Let's try this again. I want to hear one good one on tape.” Fritz. My little brother Fritz had taped over Logan's last words, words that were meant for me. Words that might have helped the police locate Logan's killer.

  Tears of frustration were running down my face as I hit buttons on the cassette player. “Maybe I can fast-forward,” I said angrily.

  “Maddy,” Jack said gently.

  “This stupid machine, I can't—”

  “Maddy,” said Jack again.

  “My God, this could be important to the police,” I shouted, my body shaking.

  I played the entire tape. Fritz's band eventually disappeared, but was replaced only with those retro songs once beloved by Logan and me. Logan's voice did not return, just as Logan would not return.

  “I'm sorry,” Jack said when the tape was finished.

  I sat stewing for an hour. Jack thoughtfully allowed me my quiet time, and I finally came to terms with what had happened; I also began to make plans.

  “I need to follow up on that Don Paul bumper sticker,” I told Jack as we drove closer to Webley through typical October mist and fog.

  “What do you mean, follow up?” he asked.

  “I need to find out if someone in the mayor's office drives a black Caddy with that bumper sticker in the rear window instead of on the bumper,” I explained with exaggerated patience.

  “Why, exactly?” asked Jack.

  “Why? Because…because. Because I want to know, and because I might have something more to tell Detective Perez, and because it might somehow be linked to Logan's murder. He specifically mentioned the people he works with. I mean, you have to admit it's kind of a coincidence—”

  “I just don't think it's your job.” Jack was getting his stubborn look. That always brought out the stubbornness in me as well.

  “Why are you immediately averse to the idea, Jack? It's not like I'm going to get murdered just because I do a little research.”

  “That's exactly why some people get murdered. And chased by dogs.” I could feel the blue in his eyes turning colder as they directed their beams at me.

  “Oh, for gosh sakes,” I yelled. “I'm not going to get into a fight over this, Jack. In fact, I'm going to go straight to Mayor Paul's office. It's Sunday, so no one will be there, except my mother and a few of Paul's festival slaves, but all city vehicles should be in the lot, right? And that car had a government plate. So no fear that anyone will kosh me over the head, because you'll be standing right by my side, all big and masculine.”

  Silence reigned in the car again, and I felt the weight of our old familiar argument bearing down on me. It wasn't just fear of commitment that got me upset with Jack, after all. It was at least partly his overbearing protectiveness.

  We entered Webley in a mutual snit, and Jack drove to the mayor's office, as I'd demanded. He pulled into the back parking lot, where my mother and the other employees usually parked, and pulled up next to two city vehicles. One of them was a black Cadillac with a blue bumper sticker in its rear window. It read, “Don Paul Has It All!”

  I looked at Jack, trying not to emanate smugness, and then jumped out of the car. Jack got out too. We stood looking at the Cadillac.

  “It must be the same one,” I said excitedly.

  “There's no way to tell,” Jack cautioned. “There must be—”

  “No, no—how many official black Cadillacs have that particular bumper sticker? And it's the same first digits, W23!”

  “Madeline, don't go jumping to conclusions. A good investigator would—”

  “Jack, stop trying to hamper my investigation!” I yelled, taking a wild swing at his arm. I sometimes try to solve problems with plain old violence. This time it backfired, landing me on my posterior in the mayor's parking lot. I had put a lot into the swing. An hour of pent-up hostility in bad traffic will do that to you.

  “Ouch,” I murmured, feeling the sting of embarrassment more than the pain in my backside, and stared blindly at the tires of the Caddy. Jack held out his hand, but I didn't take it.

  “Come on, Maddy, it's cold,” he said.

  “Jack.” My tongue felt suddenly dry.

  “What? Come on, take my hand,” he said impatiently.

  “Jack.” I pointed, and he looked.

  “Tires. Yes. All cars have them. What's the point, Madeline?”

  “The point is they look just like mine.” I pointed at my own car. “Covered in mulberries, remember?”

  Jack looked from my car to the black Cadillac and noted the similar sticky substance stuck in the grooves of the tires. Mulberries. The horrible, blood-colored fruit that had littered the long driveway to Logan Lanford's cabin. Now they were providing my first clue that someone in the mayor's office may have committed a murder.

  ten

  That night I called Detective Perez, using the number from her business card. I told her about the tape and the circumstances under which I received it, and why it didn't dawn on me until later that it could be what Logan was referring to in his note. I had already called her office once before, to tell them about Quinn Paley and his creepy dogs and how Quinn may have been the last person to see Logan alive. Now I added the information about my friend and his cryptic message.

  “But why did the note say he misled you?” asked Detective Perez.

  “I'm not sure. Maybe because he didn't tell Fritz what was on the tape, and he was going to explain it to me in his note. A crisis of conscience. Logan usually got those later than other people, but he did get them sometimes,” I said.

  When I explained that Fritz had taped over anything potentially helpful, Perez said I didn't have to FedEx the tape to her; she would be in Webley soon herself to follow up some leads and would get it from me then. I agreed that this would be fine, and we said polite good-byes before hanging up.

  I called Fritz, who was surprisingly sensitive and upset. He had genuinely liked Logan, he told me, although he wasn't unaware of the man's selfish tendencies. “He just had a way about him, you know?” Fritz asked me sadly. I agreed, thinking of Logan's voice in the car, a voice frozen in time, a voice that I would always connect with youth and fun. He had accused me of “outgrowing” him, and it rankled, mostly because it was true.

  I was tempted to yell at Fritz about the tape. Something stopped me, even then, when my anger was fresh. Now I'm glad I never said anything.

  “Will you still sing in the festival?” I asked. I knew that it was only a week away.

  “Yeah,” Fritz admitted. “The guys have been trying out a new man, you know, in case Logan didn't make it back. He'll do fine. His personality is a zero, mind you, but he can play.”

  “You're the personality of the band,” I assured him. I wasn't only catering to his narcissistic tendencies. Fritz was nothing if not a visible, interesting presence. I was sure that it would be a plus in a rock band. I just hoped that they were better than they'd been three years ago, when I'd heard them last. I had nightmarish visi
ons of people bringing in dead cats, à la Huck Finn, and flinging them up on the stage.

  “You gave Jamie that money, right?” I asked him.

  “Yeah. Boy, she really needed it too. I actually watched her kids for her while she ran out and got some groceries.”

  “You watched her kids?” I asked, shocked.

  “Yeah. Well, one was sleeping like the whole time, so I just played cards with that little Noah dude. He's pretty cool for a little tyke.”

  I thought of Noah and Calvin and how they would react to the news about their father. And poor Jamie, who loved him despite his shabby treatment.

  I said good-bye to Fritz and called my mother.

  She had not heard the news about Logan, although I imagined it would be on the television news soon enough. My mother was devastated, as she always was at news of the death of a young person.

  “Oh, he was just a boy,” she lamented.

  “I know. It's hard to take in, really,” I agreed. “Mom.”

  “What, honey?”

  “He was murdered. I think he was murdered by someone in Webley.”

  There was silence on my mother's end for a moment. “Madeline, I know you've always been…rather…open to your instincts, but—”

  “Mom, I'm not asking you to commit to any of my ideas, I'm simply asking if I can visit you at work tomorrow.”

  “What?” She seemed nonplused by this request. Apparently she'd expected me to wildly accuse some member of my own family.

  “I'm coming to visit you at work tomorrow.”

  “But why?”

  “I need to interview the mayor, for one thing. Get his comments on the death of a former employee. I'm covering the story.” I actually had no idea if I was covering the story. “And don't call and tell him now. I want him to hear it from me, tomorrow.”

  “What's this all about, Madeline?” she asked crisply.

  There was no point in telling my mother about the car, the bumper sticker, the tape that said nothing, and the mulberries. She'd use her common sense to try to talk me out of my gut responses, as Jack had wanted to do. “And I need to interview some former coworkers. Find out their feelings on the matter.”

  “Well, we're very busy right now, what with the festival this weekend, and the mayor's speech, and his upcoming re-election campaign,” she said.

  “Mom! I just wanted to let you know, okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, subdued. “The earlier you come, the better. Now I have to go wash the dinner dishes and tell your father this bad news. And then your father and I are watching a video.” The final comment made me realize she wasn't taking it too hard. I promised to be there early in the morning and hung up the phone.

  Jack was playing his guitar again, one floor above. The two of us had parted with a kiss, but there was an uneasy feeling that we were on the verge of another argument. Jack seemed concerned that I would somehow be murdered if I asked some questions about Logan Lanford. I wanted to feel free to ask all the questions I wanted to ask. I decided that the less I told Jack, the happier both of us would be.

  I tried to determine what potential message he was sending my way via the melodic strings, but I couldn't quite make out the words. It sounded like it might have been “We Can Work It Out.” I sort of hoped not. Normally Jack wasn't that overt.

  I walked to the window and opened it a crack. Cold air blew in on my face; it felt good. I could hear Mr. Altschul grumbling down below. He was painting over the scratches on the door. He'd obviously made it to the hardware store in the last two days. I felt sad as I heard German swear words floating up to my window. “Scheisse,” he was saying over and over. Shit. The world was full of conflict, full of mysterious intruders. The wind made a howling sound as it slammed against my little fortress.

  I suppose I should admit again here, as I did at the start, that it was partly Jack who made me determined to get involved in the whole investigation. That rebellious streak of mine, which appears at odd moments in my life, had surfaced. I wanted to know who had killed Logan Lanford, and I had a good idea where I could start looking.

  Mayor Don Paul's office was located in the city hall, a traditional structure with small-town appeal. It looked like a cross between a post office and a cathedral. Carved into its stone facade were its date of construction, 1919, and a quote from Coriolanus: “What is the city but the people?”

  It was to this philosophy that Mayor Paul had ostensibly dedicated himself from the start, with increased “Meet the Mayor” town meetings, regular “State of the City” letters published in the Wire, and increased community involvement on a host of new committees. He was a popular mayor, destined probably to be re-elected, although he faced an attractive young opponent, Wendy White, who was currently blazing her own campaign trail.

  I was in the minority of people who did not like Mayor Paul. To my mother's astonishment and chagrin, I had difficulty forcing out a greeting when we did meet. My main objections were rooted, again, in my basic intuition about people. From the time I first laid eyes upon the mayor, I realized that I did not trust him. My lack of confidence lay in the conviction that his entire public persona was a fiction. While this was probably true of many politicians, it hadn't been true of Webley's previous mayor, Arthur Weiss, whom I had liked greatly and whose death after twenty years in office had saddened the entire town. Don Paul was a phony; I felt it deep down.

  I was determined to talk to him face to face and ask him for a comment about the tragic death of his former employee. I felt that for once that mask of his might slip and I'd get a look at the real mayor. Maybe even a man who had arranged Logan Lanford's death?

  These were my thoughts as I ascended the steps of Webley City Hall in the drizzle of an October Monday morning. In a nutshell, this was what I knew: Mayor Paul had fired Logan Lanford. Two months later, Logan was seen talking to someone in a city car (probably). Logan seemed agitated. That same night, Logan left Illinois and went to Michigan. Fleeing, perhaps, from the people in the car? Before he left, he made me a tape, which he said was for his protection. Three days later, when I went to find him in Michigan, he was dead, killed that same day by an unknown assailant. He'd lunched with a man named Quinn Paley—a man, he'd told his son Noah, who would get him “out of a hole.” Quinn Paley had drooling guard dogs named Rambo and Killer. He had a gun that had been missing from his wall on the day of the murder. A city vehicle had been seen at a rest stop on the way to Saugatuck. That same vehicle was later covered with mulberries, which could be found in plentiful amounts on the driveway of the Lanford cabin.

  I had seen Logan's father at a restaurant. He had seemed to think nothing was amiss at home, although he'd asked me if my mother had sent me.

  “My mother!” I said aloud, freezing in my tracks, as a trench-coated woman held the door open for me.

  “Okay,” she said under her breath, obviously thinking I was here to sign my own commitment papers. She let the door close and hurried past, avoiding physical contact.

  My mother, I thought. Wick had asked, “Did your mother send you?” Why had he asked me that? Could it have been, perhaps, because he knew my mother worked for the mayor? Was Wick concerned that someone in the mayor's office had it in for his son? I took a little pad out of my purse and jotted a note on the first page: “Call Wick Lanford.” He had some explaining to do, if he hadn't already done it for the Saugatuck police. I opened the door for myself and entered the lobby.

  I approached a circular staircase about twenty feet from the entrance and began my ascent. My mother's desk was in the “mayor's area” of the city hall: a lovely, airy loft with natural light emanating from a series of skylights. It was a primo workspace, modernized by Mayor Paul three years earlier. He'd made a point of leaving the traditional look of the outside of the building while turning the inside into a Frank Lloyd Wright–like dream of efficiency and beauty. It had cost a lot of money.

  My mother excused the mayor's extravagance by saying that the townspeople had
been asking for this for years. From what I'd read, the changes were suggested and pushed through by Mayor Paul himself. It was mainly his office that had been beautified, after all—a place that few Webleyites would ever see without a special invitation. My mother says that I'm unduly critical. She just doesn't understand vibes.

  Despite my mayoral gripes, I was enjoying the new office now, as I plunked my bag down on my mother's desk and listened to her complaints about my blonde hair. “It's not that you're not still pretty, Madeline, but you somehow don't have the family resemblance without your dark hair. It's like you're trying to be out of the family.”

  My mother took my purse off her blotter and stowed it under her desk. “You never know,” she murmured, looking suspiciously around her.

  I almost laughed at that. My mother's coworkers weren't likely to steal a purse, for various reasons. There was Blanche Henry, a woman who'd been old when Mayor Weiss had taken office twenty years before and who still reigned in ancient splendor as the gossip queen of city hall. She also drove my mother to despair with her extremely short-term memory and her amazing capacity for remembering other people's words and ideas as her own. My mom, for example, had come up with the slogan for that bumper sticker: “Don Paul Has It All!” Blanche usually remembered it as her own brainchild.

  Blanche was a tall, skinny woman who favored polyester fashions. She liked to smoke, although Mayor Paul had taken all the joy out of her when he'd insisted she'd have to do it in the alley behind the building. Blanche always smelled like she'd just sneaked a cigarette, although even my canny mother couldn't figure out where she was smoking them.

  At the next desk over was Pamela Fey: young, ambitious, pretty, impeccably groomed. Pamela would hesitate to steal a purse, not because it was immoral as much as because she would perceive it as unprofessional. Pamela was all about image, which is why she was the perfect staffer for Mayor Paul. She drove a new Beetle because they were back “in,” and she wore designer suits and had a Lhasa apso, which she talked about incessantly. She walked faster than most people ran, and in high heels. As evidence of my fickle personality, I liked Pamela despite her phony image; I disliked Mayor Paul for the same reason. Perhaps I sensed more hypocrisy behind his facade than I did behind hers. Beyond Pamela's image, I sometimes feared, there might be nothing at all, aside from ambition. Pamela wanted to be mayor of Webley one day.