Madeline Mann

by Julia Buckley

  “Let me tell you something, Bill. If I know Pamela, she was probably campaigning somewhere, trying to persuade the locals of the glory of her. Or her candidate. Although I don't know her as well as I thought I did,” I said petulantly. “Anyway. You've saved the best for last.” I stared at him expectantly, waiting for the news gleaned on Don Paul.

  “He's better at covering his tracks, I'm afraid.” Bill wilted slightly as he admitted the fact. “I just know he's from the Midwest—Chicago area, I think—and he graduated from DePaul. Family was supposedly wealthy.”

  I snorted. “It sounds like Gatsby! ‘I am the son of some wealthy people from the Midwest, all dead now.’ Wasn't that the story?” I asked.

  Bill nodded. “If I can remember back to high school, which was the last time I read that book. Also, Paul had a stepdad, whose name he bears. Estranged from the real dad, who is still living. Mom died in a car accident. 1997, I think.”

  Suddenly I had the chills. Bill was still talking. “Paul started working for an Illinois congressman on an internship after college—”

  “Bill.”

  “What?”

  “The car accident Paul's mom died in. Was it the one Lyle Sylvane caused? Could that be why Lyle is willing to do Paul's dirty work? Because he owes him a debt he can't repay? Would he kill Logan Lanford for Paul because he killed Paul's mother?”

  Bill remained calm while I tapped nervously on the sides of my chair. “Hold on, partner,” he said. “There's no evidence to link the two accidents. I'll have to check; for all we know, they were years apart. I'll put that on my list. It still doesn't explain Paul's motive for killing Logan, though.”

  “No. Sorry. I got carried away because I thought I saw a common denominator.”

  “Maybe you did, Sarge. I'll look into it. Meantime, what's your plan for tomorrow?”

  “I have some other stories to work on. I have to finish that voter apathy piece, and my Halloween Headquarters page, and the editorial piece about gun control.”

  “So you'll be in the office?”

  “For most of the day, yeah. Then I'll head home and make my arrangements with Pamela for Saturday. And spend some time with Jack. I've kind of been neglecting him lately. He's been very busy at school, though. He's in charge of the National Honor Society, and they're doing their own haunted house in a couple of weeks. They're spending a lot of late nights trying to construct it and get all the materials together.” Bill didn't care about any of this, I realized, but he nodded politely at me while I arranged my calendar out loud.

  “Well, old shoe,” he said gently. He loved calling me by a variety of inappropriate nicknames. “Let's go grab our dinners. The wife is making lasagna tonight, and I'm planning to have three helpings. I've been starving myself just for that. You can join us, if you want.”

  I still felt the guilt of my Elizabeth House lunch. “No thanks. I think it's a Lean Cuisine night. Or maybe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Who knows? At least that mystery will eventually be solved,” I said, pouting slightly.

  “Sooner than you think,” Bill said in a comforting tone. “This whole thing will be over, and we'll get a Pulitzer for the coverage.” He ushered me to the door with these ultra-ambitious words. Bill was one of those people who was good at “creative visualization”: visualize your success and it will be yours.

  Taking a leaf from Bill's philosophy book, I visualized my perfect life as I drove home. In the daydream, Jack met me at the door of my car, congratulated me on being the independent young woman that I was, and asked if I was making any progress on the case. “Can I help you in any way?” the faux Jack asked admiringly. “Not that you need it, but I'd just like to be a part of your investigation. By the way, when we get married, I'd love for you to keep your name. Will you make me the happiest man in the world and become Madeline Mann-Shea?” I frowned at the daydream here. First, the name sounded like a sinister sea creature; second, there was no joy in turning Jack into some sycophantic bore; third, it was already tiresome to me for the aforementioned reasons. Apparently this really wasn't what I wanted.

  I tried again. This time Lyle Sylvane met me at my car. (Yuck.) He said he could no longer hold it in: he'd murdered Logan Lanford at the behest of Don Paul (who grinned and floated on the fringes of the parking lot in a black vampire suit like a helium-filled carnival monster); Paul had to have Lanford killed because Logan knew of Paul's intention to take over Webley, and then the world, with his phony promises and a computer that could read and control minds.

  I frowned again. This creative visualization was harder than it sounded; one kept derailing from one's actual intentions. Despite what I'd told Bill about a Lean Cuisine, I steered into the Taco Bell drive-through and ordered my dinner. A taco, a bean burrito, a Diet Coke, and some of those cinnamon things were enough to end my funk. I munched as I drove, which I knew would chagrin any police officer who happened to pull me over; however, I had a safe-driving certificate from the secretary of state, which attested that I was careful despite my predilection for dining at the wheel.

  I pulled into Mr. Altschul's lot fuller but no wiser, and still unclear of my visualization for the ideal future.

  Jack, preparing for a run, met me at the car. “Hi, sweetie,” he said. He helped me out of my seat, and telltale wrappers and crumbs tumbled from my lap. Jack reached out and rubbed something off of my lower lip. He managed to restrain his judgmental comments about my diet, but I could see them humming beneath the surface of his well-controlled face.

  “Hi,” I said brightly, creating a diversion. “I've got a Mexican-flavored kiss for you, if you'd like it,” I said.

  He took me up on my offer. “How was the funeral?” he asked.

  “Not so bad. I didn't think about Logan much, if that doesn't sound too callous. I think I've put a wall up somewhere inside. Maybe I'll feel a rush of grief someday. Right now I'm just really pissed off at his philandering ways. He was given a stately funeral, and people said nice things. I couldn't wish for better when I cross the divide.” I grabbed my Diet Coke, and we meandered toward the building. “How's the Haunted House going?” I asked.

  “Slowly. The scariest part of ‘Dracula's Crypt,’ as the kids have decided to call it in their originality, is the thought that we might not get it done.” This was pretty dry for Jack, who loved teaching, so I knew that things must have been draining. No Dracula pun intended.

  “I'd invite you to dinner, but I seem to have eaten without you,” I said contritely.

  “I'll take a movie and some popcorn. I'll go for my jog and make a stir-fry for dinner. I can pick up a video on the run.” He turned to face me at the door, pushing my hair behind my ears in a tender gesture.

  “Sounds great,” I said. Because there's something confessional in my nature, and because I thought a lot about being a nun in the seventh grade, and because my mother raised me to be a good Catholic girl with a conscience, I felt the need to confess my life-risking adventures to Jack, who loved me. I took a deep breath. “And then I'll fill you in on what I've been doing—or if you'd prefer, I won't fill you in—but there have been some interesting complications to the, uh, case, and I know you don't necessarily approve, but I thought I'd best be honest with you and let you draw your own conclusions. Because I do want to pursue this, but I am a little scared, and it might be nice to talk to someone who loves me but isn't going to judge me.” Jack looked at me, his hands still in my hair. I had a moment of fear that he'd give it a mighty tug on both sides. Instead, he smiled.

  “What movie do you want to see?” he asked. He opened the door with a key he had in his pocket and waved me in.

  “I don't care. A comedy would be nice. No National Geographic specials. I don't doubt that they're educational, but I'm just not in the mood.”

  “Yes, dear,” he said mockingly. He gave me a kiss and jogged across the parking lot of the Old School, down Stewart Street and out of sight. I walked slowly up the stairs, thinking that Jack was better in reality than m
y paltry creative visualization had given him credit for.

  He ended up getting The In-Laws. I watched the antics of Peter Falk and Alan Arkin with a growing sense of dread. Is this what happened when you involved yourself in mystery and intrigue? You ended up running serpentine to avoid bullets and ultimately had to face the firing squad? Of course, it didn't end there. In the comedies, there was a happy ending; no one died. The ultimate question, I supposed, had to be: Was my life a comedy?

  After the movie, I told Jack about the note I'd received, about Fawn Paley, and about my plans to search the mayor's office with the help of Pamela. I revealed my basic intention to pursue the facts, despite my fear, because it was my job and because I owed it to Bill, and myself, to follow through.

  Jack had taken out his guitar, and he sat strumming as he listened. “So, basically, you're risking the anger of someone who might conceivably do you physical harm. And you're risking arrest, if someone catches you snooping in the mayor's office.”

  “Yes. In a nutshell,” I agreed.

  “And you want…what? My approval?” He wasn't exactly being nasty, but he seemed to be in one of his “Madeline is beyond my comprehension” modes.

  “Not exactly approval. I just wanted to be honest with you. And tell you my feelings. All that jazz. I'm not trying to anger you. I'm trying to share.” I tried to look open and trusting as I finished the last of the popcorn in the bottom of the bowl.

  Jack let out a mighty sigh and started strumming a John Denver tune. “You know I love you, Madeline,” he said softly.

  “I know, guitar man.” I stretched out on the floor, placing my head on his knee while he played his song. “I love me too. And I'm really not trying to get myself killed. I want to live for my wedding. Why don't we set a date?”

  Jack stopped strumming. I met his eyes. They were beautiful, Jack's eyes: a blue that I'd never seen in anyone else's. “For real?” he asked me.

  “No joke,” I answered. I felt good, the way I did when I ate healthy food or lifted weights.

  He moved the guitar and kissed me, softly, the way he had done with our very first kiss. I felt butterflies of desire in my stomach. I touched his cheek, then slid an appreciative finger into his dimple. We stood up by tacit agreement and kissed again; then Jack took my hand and led me to the kitchen. We removed the calendar from the door and perused it together. We decided, after discussion and more kissing, to get married in late spring, on June third.

  We both felt excited after that, at the concrete plan of our union; but beyond that we felt comforted. It was as though a plan for the future would somehow keep anything bad from happening. It would keep, we felt, the proverbial wolf from the door.

  twenty

  Friday seemed to pass quickly. I put the work hours in at the office, as I'd told Bill I would. Sally was there with me, wearing a tight pink sweater glittering with a sequined cat applique. She talked and glimmered while I dully did my work, thinking what a bad job I'd done on this whole Logan thing. I was happy at the same time, though, because Jack and I had talked long into the night about our wedding and our possible living arrangements. We'd done other things long into the night too, which was why I hadn't slept much and why I felt so tired on Friday.

  After I finished my deadline work, I went home to give my apartment a thorough cleaning. I like to host a Halloween party every year for a few friends. The mess in the apartment had been growing for months, and I knew I'd never be ready to hostess an event unless I got started.

  While I scrubbed my toilet, I thought of Don Paul. Why were people like him drawn to politics? Had he absconded with Fawn Paley? Had he murdered her, or was he keeping her chained in his basement? Had the police managed to get any information out of him?

  Then, of course, there was Pamela, the great white hope. I was starting to wonder if she wouldn't be just like Paul in the end—a smiling phony. Maybe she would find her own Lyle Sylvane and rule with an iron fist. Pamela had aspirations to ascend the Webley ladder, maybe someday the Chicago ladder; I wondered if she had that kind of grit. In any case, all three could be considered candidates for murder. I couldn't really take them seriously, and yet someone had done it. Who were my other suspects? There was Linus, the brother who vowed nonviolence but looked fit and contented at the funeral. There was Jamie, the scorned wife who didn't seem like the murdering kind; there was Wick, the father who was in the right location but didn't seem to have any apparent motive. There was Maggie Lanford, the sweet-tempered former secret drinker. Could she have killed Logan in a drunken rage? I almost laughed aloud at that thought.

  There was Quinn Paley, the possibly drug-dealing friend of Logan. Perez assured me he'd been under scrutiny and therefore wouldn't have had the opportunity. Somehow I didn't believe he was under twenty-four-hour surveillance, though. They weren't a big-city force, and they had too much to do. Paley was still a possibility, and I wondered why Perez had put me off of him.

  Since I'd heard of Fawn's disappearance, though, I'd changed my opinion of Paley. He was a concerned brother, at the very least, and I have to admit that it made me judge him less harshly. Perhaps it was because there were many miles between me and his drooling hounds. I wanted him to find Fawn; I wanted everything to be okay for them. And I didn't want him to be Logan's killer.

  Was anyone else on the list? There was Blanche, the former shoplifter and current professional smoker. Like the others in the mayor's office, she knew Logan and had access to the car. But she too had no recognizable motive.

  I kept waiting to have a Columbo moment, when everything fell together and I simply knew. I could don my trench coat and cloak my revelation in self-deprecating humor, scratching my head and smoking a cigar.

  I enjoyed the image and moved on to another: the Agatha Christie ending, in which all the suspects are called together and I, the brilliant detective, explain at length why it wasn't the first six people I named but the last, and least expected. Then someone—Lyle? Don Paul?—would pull a revolver on us all and run out into the fog-shrouded night.

  Speaking of revolver, I thought, I hadn't even checked to find out who actually owned a gun.

  I ran to the phone and called Bill. He wasn't in, but I left a message with Rose, asking her to find out if Bill intended to check gun registrations when he did his background work tomorrow. She promised to ask, and I rang off.

  Feeling a bit at loose ends, I completed the cleaning of my pad and collapsed in the papasan chair, grabbing for the Agatha Christie I'd started almost a week before—the day of the big fight. And now I was getting married. I shook my head at the irony of life and read. Miss Marple waxed philosophical, in her quiet way. “You don't start with murder, with wanting to do murder or even thinking of it,” she tells Lucy. “You just start by being greedy, by wanting more than you're going to have.” Was that what it all came down to? Money? The lottery? Something else? Logan's “treasure chest”? I thought of P. D. James, one of my other favorite writers. Her detective Dalgliesh averred that it all came down to “love, lust, or lucre” when one was hunting for motives. Had someone been in lust? In love? Either was certainly possible with the charming Logan.

  I finished the book, admiring the tying up of loose ends, the resolving of three crimes. “So you see,” said Miss Marple, “it really turned out to be, as I began to suspect, very, very simple.” I felt another of my twinges of envy, but without any passion, and dozed off until dinnertime, at which point Jack came by and we decided to dine out at Billy's, a Webley favorite that served Chicago-style hot dogs with everything. (Or, in Jack's case, with nothing.)

  After we ate, Jack and I went to the Movie House, our local discount theater, and watched a special showing of The Maltese Falcon.

  When we got home, I went sleepily about my evening routine, wanting only bed. The phone rang while I was brushing my teeth. I was alternately cleaning molars and trying to talk like Humphrey Bogart into the mirror. Jack answered, then came to the door of the bathroom. “It's for you, Maddy.
It's Quinn Paley.” Jack looked surprised.

  I felt that way too. I wiped toothpaste off my mouth and took the phone with slightly trembling hands. “Hello?” I said. Jack watched me protectively.

  “Madeline. You said to call you. I'm going crazy here. No one knows where Fawn is, and the cops aren't helping me much.”

  “Did you tell them I saw Don Paul?”

  “Yeah. They say they questioned him. He said they just had lunch together. He even let them search his house. They didn't find her.” Quinn's voice trembled slightly. I could tell he was holding himself together with an effort.

  “Where are you, Quinn?”

  “The Webley Arms. I'm gonna stay here until I know something. I don't suppose you have any leads?”

  I tried to think back to what Fawn had told me. “I don't know why she was at city hall. She didn't tell me. But that might be the key to it all. I'm going to be at city hall tomorrow. I'm going to be snooping around anyway, if you want to know the truth, so I'll let you know if I find anything that might help. Try to be calm, okay? She seems like a resourceful young lady. I mean, to drive all the way out here on her own—”

  “Without permission,” Quinn said darkly.

  “Well, yeah, but that's just it. She was being independent, and bold. So wherever she is, she's looking out for herself. Maybe she's just hiding. Maybe she knows something about Logan's death and she needs to hide from someone who knows that she knows.”

  I was just thinking out loud, but that idea was worth pursuing, I thought after I said it. “Do you think she knows anything about Logan, Quinn?”

  He sighed. “I don't think so. I mean, I don't.”

  “Okay. I'll check with you tomorrow. Um—take care, Quinn. Keep the faith.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I went to bed, and despite the strange and worrisome phone call, I fell asleep fairly quickly, tucked into Jack's warm arms. Friday hadn't been all that eventful, after all.