Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  Fritz shrugged yet again, as if it were I who had brought this up rather than he. “He brought his girl to practice a couple of times. Never said too much about it. We didn't ask him too much. And she didn't bring anything fun to the table, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, I really don't. But if you're implying that Jamie doesn't have much of a personality, it's not true, because—”

  Gerhard interrupted, gently. “Not his wife, Madeline. His girlfriend.”

  I stared, open-mouthed, at my nodding brothers. I was no Puritan, but then again I was very much a Puritan. “Didn't you say anything to him when he showed up at practice with a woman while his wife watched his children at home?”

  Gerhard shrugged uncomfortably. Fritz shook his head. “What were we going to say? Especially with her right there?”

  Jack said, “This is getting complicated,” and looked into his beer, as if for guidance.

  I took a sponge off my sink and, thinking over the new information, gave the table a vicious rub-down. Knowing what I knew about Logan, I guess I wasn't surprised that he would have an affair. To have it so openly, though, and to assume that he would receive approval from his friends—did that seem like Logan? I supposed it did. A lifetime of inappropriate behavior, unchecked, would probably encourage new lows.

  “So who was this girl?” I asked, rinsing the sponge at the sink.

  Fritz cleared his throat and fingered a glass paperweight on my coffee table; again, there were fingerprints. Fritz would never get away with murder, I thought. “You know that girl that works with Mom?”

  “Pamela?” I asked. “You're saying this girl looked like Pamela?”

  “I'm saying it was Pamela. And she's a total nutcase.”

  “High-strung,” Gerhard corrected.

  “It was not her, Fritz,” I insisted. “For one thing, Pamela is too ambitious to get involved in—”

  Gerhard, who had just shoved a piece of pizza into his mouth, held up his pointer while he chewed to indicate that he had something to say. We all watched him as if the fate of the world hung on his next words. He finally swallowed and said, “It was her, Mad. I've seen her when I visit Mom. And she recognized us. She even remembered my name.”

  “She remembered mine too,” said Fritz, not to be outdone.

  “And you never mentioned this because…?”

  “There was no way we wanted Mom to find out. She'd blow a fuse,” Fritz said.

  “Telling me wouldn't guarantee that Mom would find out,” I said, exasperated.

  All three men regarded me, smiling.

  “Oh, for Pete's sake!” I yelled. “I can't believe this. You're saying that Pamela and Logan Lanford were having an affair. This is what you're telling me.”

  “Does it surprise you?” asked Jack. He seemed to be enjoying himself, but quietly, careful not to be noticed.

  I looked at them for a moment, trying to make sense of what I'd heard. “Excuse me,” I said. I went into my bedroom and took out my phone book. Pamela and I had gone on more than one shopping spree together. This was the sort of thing I should have been able to weasel out of her. I'd known nothing, absolutely nothing about it. I had always assumed Pamela was too busy to have a love life. But it made sense that the man she met would be a man who worked with her.

  I called her. She answered on the third ring.

  “Pamela,” I said. My blood was pounding in my ears.

  “Oh, hi, Madeline. Listen, I have someone on the other line—”

  “Were you having an affair with Logan Lanford?” I asked, ignoring her.

  I was rewarded with a full minute of silence. “What do you mean?” she asked eventually.

  “It's not like you were subtle, Pamela. My brothers saw you at band practice. You were there as Logan's guest. They seemed to think you two were an item. And if you weren't together, just what made you hang out with him at night, when good little mayor's assistants should be writing their press releases and dreaming dreams of winning election polls?”

  “Listen, Madeline. I…don't know what to say. I was a fool. It only lasted a couple of weeks. There was a short time when I just found him kind of…irresistible.”

  “Coming from an eighteen-year-old, that might seem like a believable argument,” I said angrily. “This guy had a wife and two kids that he neglected terribly. Apparently while he was out with you.”

  “Save the judgment, Madeline,” she said, getting angry herself now. “I said it was just a couple of weeks. I admit it was stupid, but there you have it. I followed him around for a while, thinking he could do no wrong, never mind that I was doing wrong with him. Logan could have persuaded me that the moon was purple if he'd wanted to.”

  “So what else did you lie about, Pamela? Did you know more than you were saying about why he was fired? He must have confided in you. And what about the weekend he was killed? Maybe you were there with him?”

  She snorted in disbelief. “Whoa, there, Madeline. Lots of people try to hide their affairs. I'm sorry I lied to you. I just didn't want it clouding the issue. I'm afraid that the rest of what I told you is true, whether you believe it or not.”

  “Why was Fawn Paley at city hall today? Where did she go with Don Paul?”

  “What? Who's Fawn Paley?”

  “She's a teenage girl. From Saugatuck. She was at city hall, and she left with Don Paul. So you didn't see her?”

  “No, I had no idea. And I have no idea why she's with Don Paul. Maybe they're sleeping together.” Pamela's voice quavered slightly, perhaps at her own daring.

  I stared at my bedroom wall, which sported a poster of Germany that I'd had in my college dorm at St. Fred's. It was a picture of a Bierhaus: smiling women with braided hair held trays of foaming beverages high above their heads. “Why was Logan fired?” I asked again.

  Pamela sighed. “Listen, I know that now you won't believe anything I say, but I'm not sure why he was fired. I was surprised when you told your mom and me that Paul thought Logan was having an affair. I thought we'd managed to keep it from everyone. I don't really think it was the reason, though. It could have been, but I don't think it was,” she said stubbornly. “But I do know this, Madeline. There is something going on in that office. You should be careful. I mean, really careful. Lately I've been sensing that—well, nothing I can prove for sure. So I'm not going to say. But just watch out for yourself, okay? You can still believe that I care about you, and I want you to know that you're in dangerous territory.”

  I was getting a little tired of people warning me off. “Okay, Pamela. I'll be careful. In the meantime, maybe you can think twice about what you're willing to tell me. Because whether I drop this story or not, my paper will pursue it.”

  Pamela's political self re-emerged. “Listen, Madeline, you know that I have aspirations in this community—”

  I sniffed. “I'm certainly not going to expose your affair to anyone, for fear of hurting Logan's wife. But there are people out there who'll find out your little secrets, even if they have to trace them back to California,” I said, still in an ill humor.

  “What do you mean?” asked Pamela.

  “Your political enemies. Opponents. Whatever they're called. Someday when you run for office, they'll hire people to find you out. Isn't that how it's done? Isn't that how Don Paul does it?” I asked meanly.

  “How did you know I was from California?” she asked brightly.

  Some people just won't take an insult. I was suddenly sick of Pamela and her cheery smile and her professional demeanor with lies underneath. “You told me, I'd imagine. Anyway, I've got to go. I have guests here, and you have someone on the other line, remember?”

  She gasped in remembrance, and I broke off the connection.

  In my living room, the men had gone into leisure mode. Gerhard and Fritz were lounging on my couch, watching a basketball game and eating my box of doughnuts. Jack was sitting on the floor with his guitar in his lap, listening to an Alison Krauss song on my CD player and trying t
o strum along. That was how he learned things. He rarely needed to buy sheet music.

  I sat down to listen, and my melancholy grew. The song was more plaintive than the Irish music we'd heard in the car, probably because of her voice, which is like a teardrop come to life. Added to my disillusionment about Pamela and Logan, it was proving to be a very depressing evening.

  “So, you going to the wake and funeral?” Fritz asked, putting the icing on the cake.

  “The funeral,” I responded. “I don't think I have what it takes for the wake,” I decided suddenly. “I'll see both of you Thursday, right?”

  My brothers nodded. Despite their faults, I knew that they wouldn't back out of something like a funeral, no matter how difficult it was. Logan had been a friend, if only a casual one, and they had, after all, been raised by my mother.

  Jack stopped playing and looked at me. “Need some moral support?” he asked.

  I shook my head, a lump in my throat. “You have to work Thursday,” I said. “But you could come and see me when you get home.”

  “Deal,” he said. He smiled at me, and the dimple appeared in all its glory.

  I smiled back, and I must have been wearing what my brothers called my “romance face,” because the two of them started making kissing sounds, living up to their respective emotional ages of twelve and ten.

  “Time for the brothers to go,” I said loudly. “You've been forgiven, temporarily; you've eaten the peace offering, you've left slimy trails on all of my knickknacks, you've chastised me about my avoidance of laptop computers, and you've destroyed my illusions that anyone in this world is monogamous. It's time for your little heads to rest on their pillows.” I began clearing the glasses in the room.

  Fritz yawned and stretched, staying where he was. “Don't worry, Madman. Logan's not the norm. Most guys don't have the charm to attract tons of chicks.”

  “Not helping,” I yelled as I walked toward the sink.

  “What he means is that there are plenty of devoted couples in this world,” Gerhard tried. “Look at Mom and Dad. They've never had affairs.”

  “That we know of,” I said darkly.

  “I've never cheated on you,” Jack said softly, strumming his guitar.

  “Well, no one would cheat on me,” I joked feebly.

  Jack laughed, still looking at his guitar. Finally my brothers started to sense the vibe in the room. Anyone else would have felt strangled by it at this point.

  Gerhard slapped Fritz on the knee. “Come on, man. We've got to clean up our place in case we meet any gorgeous babes at the funeral.”

  Everyone knew he was joking, so we didn't bother to react. “I thought you were spoken for,” I said.

  Gerhard blushed. “We'll see,” he said, looking sixteen again.

  After about fifteen minutes of bluster and bellow, my brothers finally catapulted themselves out the door, leaving a vacuum.

  I turned to Jack, who sat on the floor still.

  “That song was too sad,” I said.

  “These lights are too bright,” he returned.

  We turned out everything except the candles on my faux mantle. Jack turned off the CD and played his version of the song, which sounded a bit less melancholy but undeniably good. We held hands then, and he kissed me. “I'll show you why people remain monogamous,” he said.

  I said I hoped he would.

  sixteen

  I told Bill at our morning meeting that I would rather stay at the office than attend the wake. He was impressed with my work ethic, but my real motive was an unwillingness to see Logan in a coffin. Therefore, I spent the morning finishing some stories. I had completed my travel piece, but since it described the area where a local man had been murdered and recommended the hotels of the local man's father, Bill had decided to table it.

  Instead I was doing a piece on autumn festivals, which involved a great deal of phone calling and searches on the Internet. I was just starting a local news piece when Bill returned from the wake. I continued the topic of our earlier meeting, filling him in on my suspicions and my talk with Detective Perez. I didn't tell him what I'd learned about Pamela; I was tempted to tell Perez when I saw her, however. After all, if Pamela had been emotionally involved with Logan, didn't that give her a motive for murder?

  Bill suggested that I talk to Logan's mother. No one had really mentioned Maggie Lanford's name up until now. I knew that I should speak with her, but I felt awkward contacting her on the day of the wake. Still, after my final meeting with Bill, I called her at home. I remembered her number from high school days, when I'd rung Logan a few times a week.

  Mrs. Lanford was home; the wake was over for the morning and would continue again later that night. She said she'd like to talk to me, if only for a way to pass the time. “And I haven't seen you in ages, Madeline,” she said to me, sounding no older than she'd been when I was a skinny freshman at St. Roselle.

  After eating leftover stir-fry Jack had frozen for me once, which I'd actually taken the time to defrost and bring with me to work, I drove to Logan's childhood home. Maggie Lanford lived on Graham Street in Webley. It was not the richest section of town, but the street had character and was well-maintained. The houses were older, some dating back to the nineteenth century, and the area had a historic feel to it.

  The Lanford home was a long brick bungalow, the fourth from the corner. It had always been a bit too dark for me, inside and out, and I'd joked as a kid that Logan was a vampire. He'd responded, if I recalled correctly, that not everyone's life was full of sunshine. I think he meant it in a nasty way, implying that I was a bit too Mary Poppins for him.

  Looking at the house, I remembered the exchange and wondered if Logan had been hinting that he was unhappy.

  Maggie Lanford was a good-natured woman, and I recalled this the moment she opened the door and embraced me. “Oh, Madeline, you're as pretty as ever,” she said. “I always thought Logan would marry you. Children will surprise you,” she said, and she started to cry there on her porch. Behind her hung a merry wreath with a smiling scarecrow at its center. Underneath him on a wooden board were the words “Happy Harvest!”

  I ushered her inside, my arm around her shoulder. She looked older; her hair was graying and she wasn't trying to touch it up. She was a bit more plump than I'd remembered, and the black suit that she wore didn't flatter her. Then again, she'd probably bothered very little about her appearance since she'd heard of Logan's death. I knew I wouldn't, if it had been my son.

  Mrs. Lanford led the way into her living room, where a woman she introduced as her sister was seated on the couch, looking equally bereft. Logan's mother sat down on the edge of a recliner, as if she had to leave soon. The room looked almost the same as I remembered, but more barren, as though bits and pieces of it had migrated with her children. Beside her chair was a round wooden table that held several crossword puzzle books, some pencils, and a half-drunk glass of water. Loneliness clung to the very objects in the room, from the couch with its draped and faded afghan to the television flashing soap opera images in one corner to the dusty blinds on the windows.

  I handed Mrs. Lanford her water, and she took a few gulps. I wondered if that had been her method all day for dealing with her crying.

  She soon quieted, but she still held my hand. I sat on a low hassock in front of her. “I'm sorry about Logan,” I said. “I hadn't seen him in years, but I can still picture him clearly as my high school friend.” My look included her sister, Beth, in my condolences.

  Maggie nodded. “You were a good friend.” She set her water down and took a shuddering breath. “I think I can talk now. For a while. It comes and goes, the grief. Like labor pains. You'll know what I mean someday.”

  “Is it just you two here today?” I asked, thinking they could use some support.

  “Wick and the others are coming in a short while.” She looked as though the prospect was a bit overwhelming.

  “Had you talked to Logan recently?” I asked.

  �
�He spoke with me a couple days before he went out to Saugatuck. I didn't even know he was there until Wick called me with the news. I said, ‘What in the world was he doing up there, Wick?’ ” Her voice sounded quavery when she said this, like an old woman's.

  I let go of her hand to retrieve my purse, from which I took my notebook. “Do you mind if I write a few things down?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Go ahead, honey. Whatever you can figure out, that's great.” She stared at my notebook for a while, as if in a trance. Her pink lipstick was almost gone, but I could see it in the cracks of her dried-out lips.

  “You're a detective?” asked her sister meekly, from her couch.

  “I'm a reporter,” I said. “I'm looking into Logan's death.”

  “You know,” said Maggie Lanford, “I was afraid Logan would die young. Like Jackie Kennedy always feared her son would die in a plane. I never worried about Linus. But from the time Logan was little, I'd look at him and I'd think about how people used to have eight, ten children as a kind of insurance. So that some of them would survive. Logan made you think about that. He was a risk taker. But I just had the two sons, Madeline, and now I have only one.” She wasn't trying to make herself cry; she was trying to work out the cosmic unfairness of it all.

  I asked gently, “Did the boys get along?”

  She smiled and looked at her sister, probably picturing the boys as babies. “Most of the time. They were like all kids. They'd fight with each other, but neither one would hear a bad word about his brother. They cared, you know?” She went to a cabinet by the TV and picked up a studio portrait of Logan and Linus, probably when Logan was about ten and Linus twelve or thirteen. Linus wore geeky glasses and a superior smirk; Logan looked handsome, but his hair looked as though he'd trimmed it with a machete, and he had refused to smile for the photo. Little brat, I thought.

  “You think Logan's boys look like him?” I asked.

  Maggie brightened. “They do, they both do. When they smile, you know? And of course Jamie's side is there too. They have her light hair. She's such a pretty girl. The children can't go wrong with good-looking parents like that.” The tears were on the verge of returning, so I moved on.