Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  “I'm sorry too. I guess a lot has changed since Logan and I used to bug the heck out of you,” I said with a wry smile. A comment like this might have wrung tears from my own eyes if I hadn't been investigating Logan's death. As it was, I felt too betrayed by Logan to feel much grief. Maybe the grief would come later, for me and for Linus. I wondered in the back of my mind if Logan had ever betrayed his brother.

  Linus chuckled at my attempt at humor and waved toward an empty chair at his table. “Have you had enough to eat?” he asked hospitably.

  “Yes, thank you. It was delicious.”

  Linus nodded. He knew that already, his expression said. “My company is a supplier to Elizabeth House. They were one of my first clients. We have a mutually beneficial relationship,” he said, taking a sip of something that looked like a highball. Apparently Linus did get special treatment. It was just after noon.

  “Your company supplies what, exactly?” I asked, waving at Wick, who was now looking in our direction.

  “Restaurant supplies. Some food. Mainly non-perishables. We're expanding all the time, though.” I was guessing that Linus smoked, because he was patting his pocket and looking around the table in that lost way smokers have when they aren't allowed to indulge.

  “And I understand you're a supplier to your dad's inns?” I asked.

  Linus nodded again. “Yup. I've got several clients in Michigan now—in fact, twenty clients out of state. Dad gave me the initial investment capital, and I've been able to repay it all.” He managed to convey gratitude rather than smugness, so that his comments didn't sound like bragging. He was confident, though, very confident.

  “So were you able to visit Logan while he was in Saugatuck?” I asked casually.

  Linus's face hardened. “No. Not after I dropped him off. Logan and I didn't spend much social time together. For one thing, I work for a living, and work hard. We're different, my brother and I. I would never lie around for two months letting my family live from hand to mouth.”

  The murmur of conversation at our table meant that Linus wasn't heard by anyone but me; still, he looked over his shoulder at Jamie before he added, in a low tone, “Not to mention the fact that he slept around. My little brother was a real class act, and I didn't have a lot of time for those kinds of shenanigans. I thought he'd cut it out when he graduated from high school, but he just kept it right up, even after his wedding. That poor kid deserved better than him. I have to say it, even if he is—was—my brother.” He seemed unwilling to change the tense, as though he hadn't been ready to bury his anger this quickly.

  “Maybe Jamie married the wrong brother,” I said idly.

  Linus's face turned suddenly red, and his expression suggested that we'd all just seen him naked.

  “Oh,” I said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have.…”

  Linus took another drink. “It's all right. I didn't know I was wearing my heart on my sleeve. Again. Pretty much everyone knows my silly little secret by now. Even Jamie. She was the first.”

  “She guessed?”

  “I told her.” He smiled wryly. “Back when I thought that her common sense would make her leave him and come to me. Noah was just a baby then. But then there was Cal, and…well, she's just hooked on him. Always has been.”

  I thought suddenly of Pamela's contention that Logan and Linus had hated one another; perhaps, if it had been true, this was the reason at the bottom of it. Would Linus have killed Logan to get Jamie? Would he have killed him to avenge Jamie? Or could they simply have argued, and Linus lost his temper? Plenty of domestic disputes ended in shootings, after all. There didn't have to be a big mystery about the whole thing. Linus had brought Logan to Saugatuck, which put him on the scene of the crime.…

  “Did you know that Logan was deserting Jamie when you drove him out there?” I asked.

  Linus shook his head. “He fed me the line he fed my dad. That Jamie and the kids were in Peoria with the Donnellys, Jamie's parents. When I think of how he lied for his own selfish pursuits, I could just—” He broke off, perhaps realizing that he was getting into dangerous territory.

  “Kill him?” I finished quietly.

  “Yes.” He forced a smile. “Listen, Madeline. I know Logan was a friend of yours. And Dad tells me you're looking into his death. But do yourself a favor and don't waste time looking at me. I wasn't my brother's biggest fan, although I could have been if he'd just—” He stopped his tangential remark with a look of true regret, and the hint of tears. “Anyway. I didn't shoot Logan. I don't have a gun. I'd never kill another human being, much less my own brother. I want you to know that.” Linus's face, for a moment, looked like a carving of a defeated soldier. Then he straightened himself, let out a sigh. “And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to talk about something else.”

  “Sure,” I told him.

  “Do you ever have catered meals at the Wire?” he asked.

  I couldn't believe he was going to talk business with me; then again, it was probably the only thing Linus knew how to talk about. “Sometimes,” I said.

  He waved down a waitress. “Tara,” he said, “bring me one of the Excellence brochures, would you?” He turned to me. “We're called Excellence Restaurant Supply.”

  I nodded, not sure what to say in response. The waitress hustled back with the requested pamphlet, and Linus handed it to me. “I'm starting a little catering as an extension of my business. So far it's going quite well, so I'm looking at expansion possibilities in Webley. I've got a great woman running it for me, and we'd give you a special rate.”

  “That's great,” I said. “I'll have to run all this past Bill.”

  “Sure, sure. What do you think of the brochure?” he asked. Linus was obviously a man in love with his job. He leaned over and looked with me, like a proud papa showing off baby pictures.

  I felt his scrutiny as I perused the little booklet. It was filled with glossy color pictures: chefs with tall, pristine hats; diners with perfect smiles contemplating plates abundant with splendid culinary creations. I stared at a picture of a woman who was obviously smitten with her crème brûlée. What she'd always wanted. I felt a stab of inexplicable envy; was it because she was svelte, dark, and flawless, I wondered, or because pictures make happiness look so complete, so contained?

  “That's one of Logan's conquests,” Linus said bitterly.

  “Really?” I asked, surprised. Ms. Crème seemed a bit out of even Logan's league.

  Linus snorted impatiently. “Not her. Her. The one at your table.” He glared in the direction of Pamela's group.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling awkward. “Yes, I actually just found out about that. Somehow my brother knew, and—”

  “Logan wasn't very discreet,” his brother said. “I think Jamie must have known about some of it, despite her trusting nature. But to have an affair with her, of all people. And the fact that she's here at all, it's just beyond comprehension.”

  “I suppose she wanted to offer her condolences,” I said.

  “It's just not appropriate. She of all people would understand the term ‘conflict of interest.’” He glared some more in the direction of my mother's table, then turned his withering stare back to the melting remains of his ice cream. I would melt too, if subjected to that expression.

  Linus told me I could keep the brochure. I thanked him and made my way back to the table of disfavor.

  My mother was deep in conversation with one of the mayor's aides: Perez was standing, smoothing down the skirt of her pale pink dress, and Fritz was next to her, in harassment mode.

  “Detective Perez, are you leaving?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Madeline, come out to my car with me for a minute. I want to talk to you, if you don't mind. Fritz, it was great meeting you—,” she began.

  “I'll walk you guys out too,” he said. Fritz is nothing if not determined. He made it sound as though the two of us might require his knightly protection.

  Perez must have exercised her eye muscles to keep from rolling
them. She managed a polite smile and walked rather stiffly toward the exit. Fritz practically galloped after her. I stopped by my mother, interrupting her conversation long enough to tell her that I'd be right back. She smiled absently and patted my arm.

  Perez was again leaning on her rental car, despite the stain it might cause on her pretty pink garment. Fritz was speaking animatedly when I arrived. From the few words I caught on the brisk wind—“major,” “killer,” and “guitar”—I gleaned that he was discussing the festival and the performance of the Bishops, or one Bishop, anyway. Perez was smiling bemusedly, the way someone might do at the zoo if she came across a species she didn't know existed.

  “Fritz,” I yelled over the wind. “Can you take off for a minute? I want to talk to Detective Perez alone.”

  Fritz gave me a quelling look. Obviously he was quite smitten, and in the Velcro stage.

  Perez took pity on him. “I might be able to catch it before I leave town on Saturday,” she offered.

  Fritz yahooed in an embarrassing fashion, leaping into the air and throwing a fist toward the sky. Perez laughed. I chose to look away until it was over. “You know,” my brother gushed, “we're trying to get out of state with our gigs. Maybe you could hook me up with some connections in your neck of the woods. Saugatuck's a resort town, right? There must be some places that young people come to hang out.”

  “Sure,” said Perez.

  “Great,” Fritz said. “Hey, you still haven't told me your first name.”

  For good reason, I thought as I examined the rusting chrome on the Buick parked next to Perez's Nissan.

  After a pause that would have killed the enthusiasm of any young suitor but Fritz, Perez reluctantly said, “It's Arcelia.”

  My mouth gaped. Persistence did pay off. People like Fritz really did succeed in life, often merely by bugging the heck out of other people. I wondered if Perez would marry him if he badgered her beyond her threshold of endurance.

  Fritz finally walked away, victorious. Even I didn't know Perez's first name; then again, I hadn't thought it appropriate to ask.

  I began to apologize for Fritz, but Perez laughed and held up her hand. “It's okay,” she said. “He's kind of cute.”

  My idols were crashing down around me.

  “You wanted to see me?” I asked. “Is it about the note?”

  “I guess that's what it comes down to. I want to tell you not to be foolhardy. I'll see what I can do with the note, but somebody out there has an eye on you, and your best bet will be to lie low for a while.”

  I considered this and watched her very green eyes, which were narrowed against the glare. The day was cloudy yet bright, as autumn days can be, and Perez and I were both without sunglasses, squinting at each other like cowboys at high noon. “I'll try to lie low. But I'll still try to do my job,” I said diplomatically. “I certainly don't intend to get killed.”

  “Neither did Logan,” Perez reminded me. “Let me give you something. Do you have a cell phone?”

  “No,” I admitted, with the embarrassment of someone who has not embraced technology in the expected way.

  “Well, I have an extra. You can have it until Saturday.” She retrieved a tiny phone from the car and held it up for my inspection. “You can use it like the bat signal, right? If you're ever in trouble. Press this button and you're on my pager. Then just type in your location, or a message. Might come in handy, okay? I'd actually prefer if you checked in with a little message every day, so I can be aware. Or press this for a direct call. I'm going to be all over the place, and you probably are too, so this will be a good source of communication. Okay? If nothing happens, I'll see you at your brother's concert, and we can exchange notes. Or at least you can give me yours.” She smiled, and I saw why Fritz was enchanted.

  “I'll do that. I may have the case solved by then, and you can take all the credit. Poor old Krosky will be out in the cold,” I joked. Perez looked suddenly wistful; she made no comment.

  I watched her bend her sturdy form into the driver's seat, and waved as she drove away. Clutching my new toy, I went back inside.

  My mother was talking to Jamie, who had come to our table. I joined them after briefly squeezing Jamie's hand.

  “What will you do now?” my mother asked.

  “Well, I have some packing to do, tomorrow and Saturday, and then on Sunday Wick and Linus will help me load it all into the caterer's van, and we'll go to our new digs. My parents are here, but they have to get back. My dad is actually having an operation on Saturday.” She gave us a watery smile.

  There isn't too much to say to a newly bereaved person, not unless you're going to offer some concrete help. I considered my calendar. I was supposed to work tomorrow, and Saturday was my clandestine appointment at the mayor's office, as well as Fritz's concert. “I can help you, Jamie, for a couple hours on Saturday,” I said. “If you need it. Is eight o'clock too early?”

  My mother nodded her approval, and Jamie wiped away a tear. “That would be great. You've been so terrific, Madeline. You really have. I just can't—”

  “I didn't do anything at all, Jamie. And soon you'll be in a position to invite me up to see the inn, and I'll take you up on it. First things first.”

  “I can help too,” my mother said. “Do you need boxes?”

  She and Jamie began discussing the realities of moving, and I looked at my watch. It was already two o'clock, I was shocked to learn. I needed to get some work done and talk to Bill about my note. I stood up with an apologetic wave. “Jamie,” I said. I hesitated, unsure of how much to say and not say. I settled for brevity. “I'll see you on Saturday. The boys will be there, right?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said, growing misty again.

  “Okay. I'll see you then.” I found myself in that social situation that involves saying the same thing several times, like an incantation, in order to politely extricate oneself from a conversation. People seem to feel slighted, somehow, if one's departure is too abrupt, no matter how lovely the parting words. “Later,” I added for good measure. I gave my mother a kiss and headed for the door.

  Fritz and Gerhard waved to me from their table. They seemed to have befriended the strangers sitting with them. I was sure they were all being invited to the festival and that Gerhard was advising them about the capabilities of their computers.

  Fritz had a new, Perez-inspired glow about him; I felt a twinge of envy, the way I had once when a babysitter seemed to prefer one of my brothers to me. I really needed to grow up, I decided.

  I felt nervous and vaguely depressed. I hadn't forgotten about Fawn Paley, and her disappearance gave me bad vibes. It never boded well when a person went missing, especially not a pretty young girl. I had to hope that the police had some leads to pursue. I'd provided the one about Don Paul. I hoped they were grilling him at that moment.

  By the time I reached my car, I realized I'd forgotten to ask Perez why she'd come to my apartment the day before.

  nineteen

  Bill and I spent a few hours after the funeral luncheon at the cramped Wire office, trying to go through our leads and establish a list of investigative priority. Bill was going to handle the mayor's office for a while, although he knew of my appointment on Saturday. “Just be careful,” he'd advised in his avuncular way. “I'd come with you, but I have a friend in the social security office who might get me some tidbits of info on some of these mayor's people.”

  My mouth hung open for a moment. “You can't do that. I mean, you can't use that information. It's illegal.” I was a bit surprised at Bill.

  “Madeline, everyone does a little bit of this. It's background, that's all. I can't quote the person, but I can sniff in the right direction with a little hint, right?”

  “What ‘mayor's people,’ exactly? Are you investigating my mother, for example?” I queried indignantly.

  “Not extensively. I have found out a few things, just light background.”

  My curiosity was piqued. “Like what?”
<
br />   He consulted a sheet of paper. “Oh, that her name is Delia Schuler Mann, that she was born in Frankfurt, Germany, that she was naturalized in 1979. That sort of thing.”

  “Anything scandalous?” I asked with a laugh.

  “Not yet,” Bill said, with a feigned mysterious expression.

  “Who else did you get facts on?”

  “Your friend Pamela. Lyle Sylvane. Blanche. The good mayor. Various staffers.” Bill flicked through some papers on his lap. “Lyle has done time. Are you surprised?”

  “You should have let me guess that one,” I said drily. “And I'll bet it was for something like intimidation with the use of force, or whatever the police call it.”

  “Reckless homicide,” Bill intoned dramatically, looking at me over the little half-glasses he donned for reading.

  “What?” I asked. “Lyle killed before?”

  “Drunk driving. Served three years. Guess who else did time?”

  I stared. Of the people he'd named, I couldn't imagine. None of the faces seemed to fit behind bars. Maybe I just wasn't imaginative enough. I shrugged, giving up.

  “Blanche,” he said.

  I started to laugh. “Blanche? Did they let her smoke in jail? Or maybe that's where she developed the habit. What, did she kill someone too?”

  “Shoplifting,” Bill informed me. “When she was a kid, basically. Nice of the mayor to overlook that.”

  “Yeah, he's real nice. Please don't tell me Pamela's done time too.”

  “No, not Lady Ambition. She was into politics even in her California high school. Student council president.”

  I nodded wryly. That was more like it.

  “There is a whole year of her life I can't account for, though,” said Bill thoughtfully. “And you know what we gossipy reporters would say. Pregnancy. Or the loony bin. Plastic surgery doesn't take a year, and she doesn't look like she's had any, anyway.” His eyes glowed as he speculated on the potential source of gossip in Pamela's missing puzzle piece of a past.