“Do you have any recent pictures of Logan?” I asked.
“Yes, of course,” Maggie said. “Let me run to my room.” She got up and wobbled for a moment, then walked toward her bedroom at the back of the house.
I wondered if she'd had anything to eat. I was considering running out and buying another bucket of chicken for a suffering Lanford when she returned and handed me a snapshot. “That's Logan and the kids on the Fourth of July. I have a whole envelope like this. They came here to see me, and then they drove out and visited Wick and his girlfriend.” There wasn't a trace of bitterness in her tone; perhaps she'd come to terms with the reasons for her divorce.
“Do you get out sometimes, Mrs. Lanford?” I asked gently.
She smiled, almost coyly. “There's a man at the stationery company—you know I still work there? He takes me out a lot. He's probably going to pop the question. I'll probably say no. I'm not dying to be married just for the sake of saying I got hitched. Then again, Roy is a nice man. I really don't know. I certainly won't be making any decisions in the near future.” She sighed and settled back into her chair.
“He dotes on you,” offered Beth. “You should capture that man while you can, Maggie.” I noted that Beth sported a wedding ring.
I looked at the photo Maggie had handed me. Logan sat on a lawn chair with the two boys in his lap. Cal was on the verge of tears, and Noah's right hand was a blur, as though it might have just smacked the smaller boy. Logan looked the same as he had the last time I'd seen him at city hall, yet different—larger, somehow, more filled out. He was undeniably handsome. Looking at the picture, I could imagine a woman falling for him from his portrait alone. Perhaps Perez, in a modern-day version of Laura, except it would be a woman who fell in love with a male corpse—and there was no doubt that he was dead.
My questioning was getting me nowhere, and I felt like an intruder. Still, I hadn't asked Mrs. Lanford everything I'd wanted to.
“Did you ever meet Quinn or Fawn Paley?” I asked.
She squinted her eyes. “Mmm, no, I don't think I ever did. The names ring a bell, though. Weren't those some friends of his up by the cabin? I think they used to get together up there. He met them way back when he visited his dad in the summers.”
“Right,” I said. I looked at the picture again.
“Do you think Logan was faithful to Jamie?” I blurted, hoping not to offend.
Maggie merely shook her head. “I don't think so, honey. You know, back in high school, so many tearful girls called here, and I'd hear Logan give them all sorts of lines and make up creative excuses. Some of the girls believed him. Some of them figured out what he was like. I think a person's character is pretty much established by the time he's seventeen, don't you, Madeline? I loved my son, but he didn't share my ideas about morality and honesty. Madeline, I just realized I'm hungry. You, Beth? Do you think you could make us a sandwich? I'm afraid my sister has taken this as hard as I have. But I feel a little better, talking things out with you, and I feel like I could eat now.”
I practically ran into the kitchen. Maggie Lanford's was better stocked than Jamie's, although there was just enough to feed her, and no junk food. I found some cold cuts and lettuce in the refrigerator and opened some cabinets to hunt for bread. A piece of paper fluttered out of one when I grabbed a loaf of wheat.
I recognized Logan's handwriting when I retrieved the little square. It was a Post-it note, faded and glueless. It read, “I owe Mom $400. Thanks! You're the Best! Logan.”
How recently had Logan borrowed the money? I wondered if Maggie had ever been repaid. Odds were against it.
I put the note back in the cabinet and finished making the sandwiches. I poured the sisters two Cokes from cans in the fridge and found a little tray leaning on Mrs. Lanford's toaster. On this I placed the sandwiches, the Cokes, and two paper towels, which I tore off of the dispenser on the wall. The kitchen was drafty and cold; I wondered how chilly it got in winter. I also found myself wondering sternly whether Wick ever checked up on this poor woman.
I brought the ladies their lunch. “Did Logan have trouble holding on to money?” I asked.
Maggie chewed her first bite thoughtfully, then answered with her mouth full, un-self-consciously. “Logan just always wanted more. You know, when Wick and I divorced, I wanted to prove I could make it on my own. Since I had custody of the kids, that meant that they had to live with the poor parent. Don't get me wrong, I managed to provide, and Wick did send me child support, but I was proud. I told him no fancy presents except at Christmas, and he abided by that. Of course, the boys took vacations with him, and he managed to buy them things then. That's when they first got used to that cabin up there. Logan just loved it.”
“Just loved it,” said Beth bitterly.
Maggie took another bite, chewed, and set down her sandwich. “Logan had enough money to support his kids, just like I had enough to support mine. But it wasn't enough. He wanted his father's lifestyle. He wanted—I think—his father's life. But he couldn't ever tell his dad that. Or me. He just figured he'd get it for himself. But Wick got his through hard work, you see. That wasn't for Logan. He figured he was smart enough not to have to do that.” A shaft of sunlight lit her gray hair and gave her a saintly light.
“You're awfully honest about Logan,” I said.
“I don't have illusions. I don't think I ever did. It didn't keep me from loving him. Nothing could.” She grabbed a nearby tissue and dabbed at her eyes. “I guess I was hoping that someday he'd wake up and smell the coffee.”
I nodded, then reached out and patted her hand. “Can I do anything else for you while I'm here? Pop in a load of laundry, something like that?”
She was still eating as if it were her last meal. “Oh, no thanks, honey. I've been doing those things to keep myself busy. It's hard, you know, knocking around a house with only your thoughts for company.”
“Will Wick or Linus stay with you?” I asked.
“Linus will stay for a couple of nights. After that I'll let him go back home. He has a lovely apartment here in Webley, and he's looking at houses. Linus is quite a catch, you know. He can cook, and his house is very clean, and he's fun to talk to, not to mention that he's a very handsome boy. He and Logan both got a lot in the looks department. I don't know if you're seeing anyone.…” she asked, her eyes moist, picking a piece of lettuce out of her teeth. It was absurd to see her shedding tears for one son and trying to find a wife for the other.
I smiled. “I'm dating a teacher at Webley High. I'm going to marry him,” I added, surprising both of us.
Mrs. Lanford seemed genuinely thrilled. “Oh, good for you, Madeline! That's so nice! Now you let me know when, so I can send you a gift!” Her sincere happiness on my behalf brought sudden wetness to my eyes and made me unwilling to ask anything about how likely Linus was to have killed Logan. I'd talk to Linus myself, I decided.
After making sure that Logan's mother and her sister didn't need seconds and that the faintness caused by hunger had abated, I got ready to leave.
“I won't be at the wake tonight, but I'll be at the funeral tomorrow,” I promised.
“Thank you, Madeline. And you let me know if you have any success. You know, at finding out anything.” We both avoided Logan's name as we bade farewell.
When I reached my car, Maggie Lanford was still standing on her porch in her funeral suit, her arm tucked into the arm of her sister. Aside from the gray hair, she might have been the woman who plied me with cookies while I did my sophomore algebra at her kitchen table. Time was deceptive. In ten years, it had brought few changes, except the final alteration of death.
By the time I reached home, it was four o'clock. Jack was still at school, planning the haunted house fundraiser for the National Honor Society. Mr. Altschul was in his back garden, pulling weeds and gathering pumpkins. He called me as I emerged from my car and offered me a fat little pumpkin about ten inches in diameter. “Great for making pie,” Mr. Altschul said, wav
ing off my thanks. “Ya. And a friend of yours was here, ah…” He got absorbed in his weeding. “Name started with P.”
“Perez?” I asked, feeling a sense of dread.
“Ya,” he said absently. “She wanted to wait, but I said I didn't know—”
“Thanks,” I said, and I left him to his garden. I wondered what Perez could want to talk to me about so soon after we had spoken.
After getting my mail from the second box on the front door, I walked wearily up the stairs, fumbled for my keys, and opened the door to my personal paradise. There's nothing like your first apartment, not ever again. I kicked off my shoes and set my fat little pumpkin on my kitchen table. Then I flopped in the papasan chair and listlessly studied my mail, which consisted of three bills and one postcard. The card was from my friend Daphne, who traveled every summer and taught at an Indiana college during the year. Daphne had a doctorate in cultural studies. She clicked her tongue at me whenever I admitted that I still hadn't gone back to school for my master's degree. I was used to the various sounds of disapproval.
Daphne, who had summered in Greece, had filled the postcard with tiny cursive, paying endless, lustful homage to the beauty of the Greek man. She concluded with, “And, trite or not, I really did wish you were there.”
I smiled sleepily at her note, then was stricken with a sudden memory. Logan had sent me a postcard once. I still had it somewhere. It was immediately imperative that I find it, for some reason.
I tore through some shoeboxes of correspondence in my closet, and one under my bed. I found it there, covered with dust bunnies and yellow with age. He had written it seven years before, when Wick had taken him (not Linus, who was off on a college trip) on a cruise in Hawaii. It was the spring break of our senior year. The card read, “Hey, Mad. I know you're ticked that I'm off cruising and you're stuck with the summer job. I also know how much you love waitressing.” This was an ironic comment on Logan's part, since I had been the worst waitress in the world, and was tipped accordingly. “The weather is amazing, and the skies are not cloudy all day. No sign of deer or antelope, but plenty of gorgeous Hawaiian babes. I may have connected with one—not a word to Jamie, please. I'll bring you some sort of trinket, because I know that's what all girls want. Hang tough. Logan.”
I stared at the card for a while. The front was a picture of his cruise ship, which was called the Island Star. Logan's mother had been right after all, I decided. One's character is basically developed by the age of seventeen. Before Logan and Jamie were even married, the writing was on the wall, and Jamie had chosen not to read it. I understood, though, because I'd been charmed by the card. I remembered reading all but his infidelity aloud to my parents. And, true to his word, Logan had brought me a little gold chain in a blue silk purse. It had probably been cheap, but I'd treasured it. I still had it somewhere.
I set the card on a side table and went to the phone book to look up Linus's address. He was listed. He lived on Connolly Street, which put him in a much more affluent part of Webley than that in which his mother lived.
Part of my plan had been to see Linus tonight, but soon he'd be at the wake. Tomorrow at the funeral was soon enough, I thought.
I went to my refrigerator to see what sort of dinner options existed. On my way there, I noticed that my answering machine light was blinking. I had three messages. One was from my mother, asking me if I wanted to come over there for dinner after they got back from the wake. Another was from Pamela, who wanted me to attend the wake with her. “I can pick you up,” she offered brightly. Probably trying to get back in my good graces. A third was from Jack, saying that he might be late at school because the kids were dilly-dallying. They would order a pizza, and hopefully the students would be spurred to action.
Jack's message helped me decide the answer to my mother's. I called her up and told her that I'd be there and that she should feel free to make rouladen, her German specialty.
My mother hadn't made rouladen, she said, because it was too time-consuming and she and my father had needed the precious minutes to dress for the wake. She looked at me meaningfully.
“I don't generally do wakes, Mom,” I said, forking some spaghetti onto my garlic bread. “You know that.”
“The wake is for the family, Madeline. I'm sure they would have liked to see you there.”
Her impeccable posture made me realize I was slouching, and I straightened. “They'll see me tomorrow, Mom. And I've already spoken to Logan's mom about it.”
My mother's expression grew more sober. “How was she when you saw her?” she asked me.
I shrugged. “Sad, but okay. She seems kind of lonely in that gloomy house.”
“Yes.” My mother and father exchanged a glance.
“Did it seem like she might be drinking?” Dad asked bluntly.
“Drinking?” I asked dumbly. “No, there was no evidence of that. And I was in her kitchen. There were no empty glasses in the sink, no bottles of anything. She had a glass of water in the living room. Her sister was there. And more family was on the way.”
My mother looked relieved. She and Maggie Lanford had once been quite close, back when they'd had children in the same school. “She had a drinking problem for a while. After the divorce. Dad and I wondered if it might have been a way of coping.”
“I don't think so,” I said thoughtfully. Certainly Maggie Lanford could have had a bedroom full of empty whiskey bottles, but I hadn't smelled it on her breath, and her eyes hadn't looked bleary.
My father and I were both eyeing the last piece of garlic bread. I considered giving it up, in homage to some antiquated notion of femininity. I decided against it and grabbed the piece. “Did you want half, Dad?”
My father pouted slightly, then patted his portly stomach. “I suppose not. Your mother's cooking has me twenty pounds overweight.”
“Oh, Karl!” my mother yelled exasperatedly. “You could just eat less and then take a walk every night.”
They sighed at each other and shook their heads. This was a common argument: my mother, my father contended, lured him with rich, high-fat foods. When my mother made salads, however, my father craned his head with obvious disappointment, looking for the missing main course.
In defense of my father, however, my mother had a way of ambushing good intentions, like making apple strudel and presenting the platter to Dad after he emerged from a session on the Exercycle. My dad had been sick once, with cancer, and my mom's caretaking got a little oppressive sometimes. She had been raised in a culture in which food meant something; offering food showed love and a nurturing spirit.
I left them to their discussion, giving them both a kiss and a thanks for the meal. “You can't stay?” asked my mother.
“I want to look over my notes and then go to bed. Maybe read my Agatha Christie,” I said.
“What notes?” asked my father.
“You know. Things I'm learning about Logan. People who might have had a grudge, people with a motive, that sort of thing. Speaking of people with a motive, the Webley police detective thinks I killed Logan.”
“What?” my parents cried in unison.
“Or at least he finds me suspicious. He said he didn't believe the story I was telling.”
My mother's mouth hung open; this was rare. “Karl, you must call the police and complain. We have paid taxes in this town—”
“Don't worry about it, Mom. Sooner or later they'll have to confront the real evidence,” I said. I hadn't forgotten the slight myself, or the humiliation of being called in. It was just an added impetus to complete my own investigation.
“Madeline, when this is all over, you should demand an apology,” my father said sternly. “In the meantime, perhaps you can share what notes you have with this detective. But don't tell him what we said about Maggie. Just because his mother was a drinker doesn't make her a suspect,” he said.
I shook my head at him, smiling. “I know, Dad. I do have a sense of what I'm doing here, believe me.”
&n
bsp; My father gave me a look that was half proud, half doubtful, and then summed up the entire investigation with regal finality. “One of his ex-girlfriends killed him, mark my words,” he said importantly. “From what you've told us, he was a louse.”
I shrugged. “The mystery writers say that guns aren't women's weapons. Poison is preferred.”
My father laughed. “That was in the 1930s. When's the last time you read about anyone in the news being poisoned to death?”
He had me there. I picked up my plate and walked it over to the sink.
“What about you and Jack?” my mother asked pointedly.
“We're fine,” I said. I'd told Maggie Lanford, of all people, that I was ready to commit to Jack. But I wasn't ready to tell my own parents, perhaps because I still needed to tell Jack.
“Madeline, you really need to think about where your relationship is going—”
“Oh, look at the time!” I yelled, stifling a garlic burp. “I hate to eat and run. It was delicious, Mom. Please invite me again.” I jogged to the door, avoiding the look in my mother's eye. I hadn't quite made it out into the chill of night before I sensed my mother turning her guns in another direction. Her voice floated out to me.
“You really have to come up with some sort of fitness regimen, Karl.…”
I could almost hear my father's eyes rolling.
seventeen
It was raining the following morning, in a funeral cliché. I ate a somber breakfast of oatmeal and apples and dreaded the day to come. I put on my only black dress, the equivalent of a long turtleneck, and covered it with my trench coat; then I braved the drizzle and jogged to my car.
Everything I noted on the route to St. Catherine's added to my depression. The trees had relinquished more leaves with the night's rain and wind, and they stood, shivering and defenseless, in the cruelty of the gray morning. A man in a dark tweed coat casually looked the other way while his ancient setter pooped on the lawn of the Webley Library. A pair of irate Webley drivers stood yelling at each other at the intersection of Grace and Hope, pointing at their respective fenders.
Madeline Mann Page 15
