by Julie Hyzy
A flash of something I couldn’t describe crossed his face, and he said, “Yeah,” with what seemed like regret. “That’s part of what I wanted to talk with you about. Last night . . .”
I opened my mouth, about to say that all things considered, the night had been a whole lot less painful than I’d expected it to be. That once I’d gotten over Dan’s acceptance speech, I’d been okay. I wanted to focus on that part of the evening so that William wouldn’t have any clue that I’d been disappointed when the night ended and we were still just as platonic as ever.
I stopped myself. Better to hear what he had to say first.
Taking his time, he set his mouth in a line and stared at me. I know it couldn’t have been longer than fifteen seconds, but it felt long and drawn out. Like I was about to hear some really bad news. It dawned on me, however, that he didn’t have any idea how to phrase whatever it was he wanted me to know.
“I wasn’t exactly there for you,” he said finally.
Confused, I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. I was fine.”
William touched the back of my right hand again. It sent a tingle up my arm. “Be that as it may, I’d like to get a chance to talk about last night with you.”
“Sure.” I shrugged my shoulders, in a “go ahead” move.
“No,” he said. “Outside the office.”
I kept my face neutral.
“What I’m trying to say is,” he said, with raised eyebrows, “would you like to go out . . . maybe tomorrow?”
Before I had a chance to answer, he added, “It being a Saturday, I thought we might find something we’d like to do . . .”
He let the sentence trail off, leaving the rest to my imagination, perhaps.
He and I had gone out a few times before, but it had always been for lunch during work, or for coffee after hours. We’d usually taken an hour or two, purportedly to discuss the day’s business, but often we’d find ourselves sharing tidbits of personal information. The time flew, for me at least, and if I had to take a stand on it, I’d have to say William enjoyed our times together, too.
This, however, was a first.
“That’d be nice,” I said.
He smiled. Not a big one, but a gentle one. “Great. It’ll give us a chance to talk. How about if I pick you up around one?”
We decided to start with lunch and progress from there. He wanted to know what sort of things I’d like to do. At the moment, I couldn’t think of a one. I’d hoped to have some time alone with William, almost from the first day he started. Now presented with the opportunity, I couldn’t come up with any options. But I wasn’t worried; I’m sure we’d make do.
“Now, your turn,” he said.
Momentarily perplexed, I furrowed my brows. “My turn?”
“You had something to tell me about yesterday. Something ‘not good.’”
In a rush, the night’s events and Evelyn Vicks’ murder tumbled to the forefront of my brain. I felt my shoulders drop ever so slightly, as though weighted down with the knowledge that I’d been able to forget when the chance of going out with William popped in front of me.
“Oh,” I said, “that.”
I told him as much as I knew and about my discussion with the detective last night. “I have to head over to the police station to provide a set of fingerprints, since I was there yesterday.” I suppressed a shiver of apprehension. “I just can’t get over it. I mean, I’ve had people die before. I’ve had people closer to me than Evelyn Vicks die. This death seems to be hitting me harder.”
He leaned forward, reached for my hand. This time, not with his fingertips, careful-fashion, but by taking it in his own, gently. “Would you prefer we go out a different time? Maybe wait till things settle down?”
“No,” I said, touched by his concern. “I’ll be fine. I can handle it. I’m tough.”
“That’s right, you are.” He shot me a smile, and stood up. “Okay, I’ll stop by later. But, let me know if anything changes.”
“Sure,” I said, thinking that there was no way I would let anything change tomorrow’s plans. “Oh,” I said, stopping him before he left. “There’s an article in the paper—” I began.
“Sandra Stanek’s?”
“You saw it?”
“Don’t give it a thought. No one’s going to pay any attention.”
I let myself smile too. “Thanks.”
As he left, I moved to sit behind my desk. Jordan came around the open doorway. “You have a phone call,” she said.
The tone of her voice coupled with the puzzled look on her face made me ask, “What’s wrong?”
She bit the insides of her cheeks, cocked her head and asked, “Exactly who is David Dewars?”
“He’s on the line?” I asked, reaching for the phone.
Just as my hand lifted the receiver, Jordan headed back out the door. “Must have been some party last night,” she said.
I didn’t understand her comment, but answered the phone in my business-like voice. “Alex St. James.”
“Good morning!”
My first reaction was that he sounded far too happy. Or maybe it was just me, transferring my grief over Mrs. Vicks to everyone else. I managed to answer, “Good morning,” more out of habit than feeling, before he jumped in to take charge of the conversation.
“I’m sitting here, in my corner office, overlooking beautiful Lake Michigan. The sunlight is dancing on the water, catching the tips of the waves like glints of morning joy. The variegations of the water produce the most spectacular collection of blues in one place.”
I didn’t say anything. I had no idea what an appropriate response would be to such poetic observations.
“In other words, it’s a beautiful morning. One of the best ever.” He paused for a beat. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“To tell you the truth, I’ve had better.”
His tone changed immediately. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there something I can do to help?”
“I doubt that,” I said, deciding whether or not to burden him with my lousy news.
“Have you given thought to my offer?”
“What offer was that?”
His tone dropped even lower, slowed. “Dinner, Alex,” he said, his voice softening as he said my name. He had a smooth way of saying it, and it made me immediately annoyed with myself for wanting him to say it again. “I was thinking maybe tomorrow night. I know of a wonderful place not far from here that has the perfect ambiance for quiet discussion.”
“To tell you the truth . . .” I began.
“Or a place of your choosing. Whatever would make you most comfortable.”
I’d been hoping for a handsome man to ask me out one of these days, and here, in the course of five minutes I had two. Feast or famine, I thought. “Actually,” I said, hearing the smile in my voice as I spoke, “I have plans for tomorrow.”
“I’m disappointed,” he said. “Please don’t break my heart and tell me you’re refusing me because you have a date.”
A date. With William. I felt a thrill of excitement at the use of the word. “Well . . .” I said. Truth be told, it was none of his business whether I had a date or not. “A colleague and I are getting together to get a few things done for a story here. It’ll take all day.”
“Remember Alex, all work and no play . . .” He paused just a half beat. “How about Sunday?”
He was one of those folks who calls a person by name at every opportunity. “David,” I said, trying out his name myself, “there is something else I think you should know.”
“Uh-oh, here it comes,” he said. He waited a beat before continuing. “You’re not married, are you?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“Good,” he said. “Then I anticipate we’ll get together some other time. Soon. You’re an intriguing woman, Alex St. James.”
Okay, I was flattered. Here he was, a bright, handsome, albeit older man, who was interested and who came at me with a directness sorely la
cking in most of the male species. Still, I thought, time to return to business at hand. “I’m afraid I have some personal business that might keep me occupied for a few days.”
“Oh?”
I told him about Evelyn Vicks.
“What?” His voice, filled with incredulity, boomed loud over the phone. I heard a hollow seashell sound, as though he’d cupped his hand over the mouthpiece. When he spoke again, it wasn’t to me, but I could make it out. “Donna, get Owen in here. Tell him it’s urgent.”
Geez, I thought, dialogue right out of a suspense film. I couldn’t imagine why he was getting so worked up.
The seashell-against-the-ear sound disappeared and he returned to talking with me. “Oh, Alex,” he said, his voice soft, like butter. “Not Evelyn Vicks.”
“You know her?” I asked.
“She works . . . worked for me.”
“You work at Banner Bank?”
“Well, I suppose you could say that.” He cleared his throat. “I . . . own the bank.”
“Oh,” I said, astonished to speechlessness.
David chimed in to help. “She was a friend of yours?”
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly finding it hard to talk. “I’ve known her all my life.”
I’d not had a chance to fully appreciate the situation. Instead I’d been hit in small, unexpected moments. This was one. A friend of mine. I wouldn’t have described her in those words. I would have said she was my parents’ friend, or my neighbor, or the elderly lady whose house was one of the best for trick-or-treating when I was a kid.
Remembering the casserole she brought over when my grandmother died, and the scarves she’d knitted for me and Lucy, and even last night, the fact that she knew the whole story about how Dan had stolen my feature and had taken all the credit—she suddenly felt more real to me than she ever had, and the fact that she was gone, murdered, felt like I was being sliced from the inside.
“It’s hard to lose someone we care about,” David said.
“It is,” I answered, not knowing what else to say.
“Alex,” he said, “if there is anything I can do, you’ll tell me, won’t you?”
“Of course,” I said. It was a remote, automatic response.
“I’ll call you another time,” he said.
“Sure. Thanks.”
I hung up, thoughtful, both hands resting on the receiver for a long moment. I was supposed to go visit that detective again today, and maybe, if I played my cards just right, I’d get some information out of him. Unlikely, since he seemed circumspect, to say the least. Still. I hadn’t become one of the top researchers in my field by waiting around for details to fall into my lap.
Jordan popped around the corner again. “So?” she said, affecting a sassy air as she meandered into my office and pulled up a chair. “You want to tell me about this Dewars fellow?”
I brushed my hand in front of me, like shooing a pesky fly. “Nobody important.”
“Uh-huh,” she said in a flat, “I don’t believe you for a minute” voice, her brown eyes widening in amused affectation. “Girl, you are holding out on me.”
“Why all the interest? I met him at the dinner last night.”
Her lips set into a smug smile. “Don’t you tell me that he’s nobody important.” She lowered her voice in an imitation of his, “‘May I be connected to the lovely Alexandrine St. James, please?’”
“He didn’t say that.”
She wiggled her head and shot me a pursed-lip smile. “You bet he did.” She grinned bigger, then asked, “There was something else you wanted to talk with me about?”
“Yeah.”
I had an immediate crazy desire to pull everyone I knew into my office so I could tell them about Evelyn Vicks’ murder all at one time. I’d never had such difficult and weighty information to impart to so many people, and I hated the thought of explaining it yet again.
I went through the whole scenario, trying my best to keep it light, and angry at myself for doing so. Somehow each time got easier to tell and I didn’t like that. As if Mrs. Vicks’ murder somehow got lessened with each telling. That’s how murderers get away, I decided. Enough people tell the story enough times till everyone is desensitized and the crime no longer holds the capacity to horrify. By the time the criminal makes it into court, the facts have been rehashed so often that it becomes simply words on a page, or facts stated aloud. The victim, the person whose life has been cruelly stolen from the rest of us, has turned into a mere statistic.
I managed to get through the ordeal of telling her without as many guilt pangs and without feeling like my throat was closing up. Dragging my purse onto my lap, I switched into business mode.
“I have to go down to provide my fingerprints today,” I said, pulling Detective Lulinski’s card from my wallet. “Here,” I handed it to her. “Would you mind calling him and asking if there’s a good time for me to show up? I’d hate to spend the afternoon sitting there, if they’re busy.”
“Sure,” she said, standing. “You sure you’re okay?”
I wrinkled my nose. “I will be. Thanks.”
After she left, I remembered the phone message from Lucy’s school. Dialing it, I got a sudden tingle of fear. What if they were calling me because something had happened to her? I berated myself for not phoning them the minute I’d gotten in.
The receptionist connected me with Lester Raymond almost before I’d finished giving her my name.
“Good morning, Les,” I said.
“Alex.”
Thirty seconds into our conversation, I was relieved to realize that things were fine with Lucy, but that the institution was in the midst of an upheaval. Inspectors had discovered asbestos in a high-traffic area, and plans were in place to effect its removal.
I knew the man on the other end of the phone, Lester Raymond. A slight fellow, with dark hair and deep brown eyes that stayed alert behind dark-rimmed glasses like a studious bird, he spoke with a bit of a speech impediment that caused him to slur his words. In person, I could tell that he was an intelligent, caring man. Over the phone he sounded like a drunken Elmer Fudd.
“We are sorry,” he said, and I felt myself cringing at the hollow sound of his “r’s.” “But we require all the residents to be relocated.”
“I understand,” I said. “When will this take place?”
“Well,” he said, and I realized that his “L’s” were lost, too, “we were planning to have them all resettled by this weekend.”
“Oh,” I said.
My mind raced. This weekend. That was pretty short notice. He must have read my mind because he added, with a bit of apologetic haste, “I am very sorry, but we weren’t aware that your parents were out of town. We left them two messages, but received no reply.”
It took me a moment to decipher “awawe and pawents,” but I understood a moment later. “My parents are in Europe.”
“We discovered that this week. I’m afraid that we were so certain that Lucy would be picked up that she dropped through the cracks. You know, your family is very good at visiting. Most families are not.”
“Thanks,” I said, but my mind was still processing his comment about this weekend.
“We really need Lucy to be relocated,” he said again. “We have made arrangements with another school, but the closest one that we feel comfortable with is on the far west side of Iowa, and I don’t know if you would want your sister that far.”
“No,” I said, quickly, as though he was about to make an immediate decision and send her off that minute. “No, she can stay with me. Do you have any idea how long the asbestos removal will take?”
“We anticipate no longer than two weeks,” he said. “What time can you be here tomorrow?”
I thought about William. “Can’t I pick her up on Sunday?”
“I’m sorry, no. They’ll be bringing in all the crew on Sunday, and taking over the area. We don’t want any of our residents here at the time. We think it would be too stressful for
them. Too difficult to see so many strangers here. Upsetting, you know.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, the earlier the better.”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Maybe, I thought. Maybe if I started out really early, I could have her back home by mid-afternoon, and still make my date with William. Maybe we could push it back a bit, but still . . .
I shook my head. Lucy would expect to spend time with me. I couldn’t leave her alone—not with some kind of mad killer running loose in the neighborhood. I couldn’t just drop her over at my aunt and uncle’s house when I hadn’t seen her in almost a month, either. They’d probably generously offer to have Lucy come visit while I was at work during the week, but to take advantage of their good nature by imposing on their weekend wasn’t fair to them and it wasn’t fair to her.
Even if I started out at eight in the morning, it was a three hour trip one-way, in good weather with no construction. Add in packing her things up for an extended stay, and the trip back, and the day was shot.
I stared out the window at the sunny day. Just as beautiful as David Dewars had described. I wished I could feel as good as the day looked.
Chapter Six
I pulled Jordan in and brought her up to speed after my phone call with Lucy’s school. I then stopped by Bass’s office to tell him about Evelyn Vicks.
The team’s offices lined the perimeter of the entire second floor of our building. Bass had a corner office facing north and west. My office was just a couple of doors away, and I overlooked the Chicago River, with a gorgeous view of the Wrigley Building and the Tribune Towers. Hank had the corner office that faced North and East, but William, tucked at the far end of the line of offices, faced south—right into the side of a marble building, so close he could touch it if the windows hadn’t been welded shut.
His door was open, and the lights were on. Poor guy always had to have lamps and overhead lights on, seeing as how no natural sunlight ever pierced the narrow opening between the two buildings.
“Hi,” I said, as I walked in.
He looked up and smiled. A genuine “glad to see you” smile. It both warmed my heart and made me feel immense disappointment at the same time.
