by Julie Hyzy
I realized that if I had half the contacts people thought I did, I’d be able to write my own ticket in the world of network television. “Of course I’m curious. I’d love to be able to nail the bastard who did this. But I know my limitations.”
“Uh-huh,” he said without conviction. His glasses back in place, he turned himself to give his full attention to me, bringing his face close again. “You can tell me, Alex. Off the record.”
I shook my head, but that seemed to further convince him of my involvement.
“Alex,” he said in a voice that could have been termed sexy if we weren’t in the coffee room of a funeral home, “Is Barton Vicks living at the house?”
“No. He said he’d prefer to keep his hotel room while he was in town.”
“And the police, Alex? What are they up to?”
I opened my mouth to answer when I realized the trap he’d baited. I closed my mouth and stared at him. “Just because I know what’s going on doesn’t mean I’m investigating.”
He grinned, as though about to argue the point, but at that moment, his attention suddenly shifted to something behind me. As his hand raised in greeting, his expression relaxed, not quite into a smile, but his mouth set. Whoever he saw, he’d expected to see.
I turned.
The man who ambled in through the open double doors of the cookie room wore a dark suit and navy blue tie similar to David’s. I wondered if they’d intentionally color-coordinated.
He and David shook hands, then I was introduced. “Alex,” David said, “this is my senior vice president, Owen Riordan.”
I was taken with the difference in the two men. Owen had a pasty look to him, with bloodshot blue eyes that sagged downward at the corners, forming long lines running the length of his cheeks. Late forties, possibly early fifties, he had prematurely gray hair combed into a thin pompadour that sat like the Florida peninsula between the deep receding sides of his hairline. His facial bones were pronounced, giving him a sucked-in look, with bright red blood vessels that laced the tops of his cheeks. His broad, yet saggy frame said, “aging athlete.”
Owen nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”
I nodded. For my benefit, David added, “Evelyn worked for Owen in the loan department.”
Owen shook his head. “It’s a damn shame,” he said. “What kind of a world is it when a nice old lady can’t be safe in her own house?” He turned to me, adding. “The whole department’s supposed to stop by tonight. I made sure that everybody knew.”
“That’s nice.”
Owen turned toward the countertop and poured a cup of coffee. David raised his voice, just loud enough to get Owen’s attention. “Did you finish the paperwork on the Marple account today?”
“Yeah, but I still need your signature on a couple of documents.”
“Did you bring them?”
Owen looked around, his droopy eyes widening. “To a wake?”
David stared at the ceiling and let out a long hiss from between clenched teeth. “Where are the papers now?”
“I left them with Nina.”
Lasering his gaze back toward Owen, David’s tone was sharp as he said, “They were supposed to be Fed Ex-ed today.”
I wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass me by. Time to escape. “If you’ll excuse me,” I began.
“Alex.” His voice had returned to its soothing cadence. “My apologies. We shouldn’t be talking business here. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive,” I lied. “But I should get back in there.”
“I’ll follow in a moment. I’m sorry to bring business here, but we have a loan closing tomorrow morning, and our client is very particular.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I wanted very much to attend the services tomorrow, but this closing demands my attention. I fear I can never escape the tentacles of the workplace.”
“If you need to leave, I can let Barton know—” I began.
His relief on his face was palpable. “I do have to get back downtown to sign off on those papers.”
“Not a problem,” I said.
As I inched away, he grabbed my hand. “Thank you, Alex.”
* * * * *
I wandered back into the long room. With its upscale, designed-to-be-soothing furnishings, it could have been confused with a very large living room if it hadn’t been for the casket at the far end. Suffused under pink spotlights and flanked by tall floral arrangements, Mrs. Vicks, in death, held the crowd’s gaze like a compelling puzzle crying out for solution. Elderly folks who’d gathered early, had arranged the hard chairs in circles where they could converse and keep their canes and walkers out of the aisle. The line of mourners who’d come to pay their respects had grown, and as I breezed past them to talk to Bart, I caught the whiff of roses and carnations. Wake smells.
A quick grip to my arm stopped me mid-tracks. My first thought was that David Dewars had come back after all. I turned, instead, to see my Aunt Lena.
“Honey, can you do me a big favor?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes had watered up again. “It’s Diana,” she said, twisting her head toward the exit. “She’s still in the bathroom. She won’t come out. This has been too traumatic for her and I was wondering if you could take her home.”
“Sure.”
Aunt Lena scrunched her nose, wrinkling up her slightly pudgy face. She took a hesitant breath before continuing. “Do you think maybe you can take a look around while you’re there? You know, before the prodigal son gets his paws on everything.”
“I thought she was staying at your house?”
“Yes, but if you wouldn’t mind stopping back at Evelyn’s first,” she sighed with a glance toward the coffin up front. Her lips twisted and her eyes raked over Barton. “I guess I should call it his house now.” Aunt Lena had her arms folded. Her eyes focused on Bart, but she leaned my direction and kept her voice low. “I think he had something to do with his mother’s death.”
Involuntarily, my eyes shot up.
At that moment, across the room, Bart looked my direction and our eyes locked. I felt an immediate flush of discomfort and turned away. “He was in Wisconsin at the time of the murder.” I whispered.
“Do we know that for sure?”
I shrugged.
Aunt Lena clucked a sound of her disappointment. “I know I don’t. But maybe you could find out.” She gave me as motherly a glare as I’d ever seen from her. “All I’m saying is, Evelyn told me that there were problems with her accounts. It really bothered her and,” she said with effect, “she didn’t want Barton to know about it.”
I thought about what David Dewars had told me about her holdings. “What kind of problems?”
“She didn’t say, exactly. She just told me that she wasn’t sure that things were being handled quite right, and she needed someone she could trust to look into it.”
I remembered our last conversation. “She mentioned that when I helped her get into her house.”
“See?”
I saw nothing.
Aunt Lena continued, “I mean—she trusted you. She probably was going to ask you to look into that anyway. I sort of suggested she talk to you, you know.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, I did suggest Barton at first. I mean, really, if you can’t trust your kids, who can you trust? But she said no, Barton would try to ‘take advantage.’ Those were the exact words she used.”
I shook my head, but my curiosity was piqued. “Did she say anything else?”
“She was pretty close-mouthed about her financial stuff, but she’s been alone in that paid-off house for years. She’s got her husband’s pension, she held the job at Banner Bank, and she took in Diana, who I’m sure must have paid her some rent. I’m thinking Evelyn might have socked away quite a few dollars. And she wasn’t all that old, you know. Barton might have not wanted to wait for his inheritance.”
Bart was looking at me again, so I held off spea
king till he shifted his gaze. “That’s pretty thin. Unless I knew what problems she was talking about . . .”
“You see? Here’s your opportunity to find out.” She patted my arm. “You take Diana to pick up a few things—she’s running low on clothing, and some of her incidentals—and while you’re there you have a look around.”
Pleased with herself, her voice had risen just enough to make me uncomfortable that others had heard our conversation, but I reasoned that taking Diana home would give me a valid excuse to get away from this place, and if I took a quick look around, I’d keep Aunt Lena happy, too. Win-win situation. Those don’t come by all that often.
“Sure,” I said. “Just let me get Lucy.”
Quick shake of her head. “No, leave Lucy here. She’s good for everyone. She’s cheerful and she reminds us of better times. Moose and I will bring her home when we leave.”
“How late are you staying?”
She shrugged. “Until I know everyone’s been greeted and thanked. That’s what Evelyn would have wanted.” Her eyes flashed up again. “Lot of good he’s doing.”
Bart still stood at the left side of the casket, his large body swaying side to side as he faced an elderly couple who’d begun to offer their condolences. His face registered nothing beyond boredom, staring at the exit door, as more and more people walked in.
I waited to approach him, standing just out of his line of vision. He nodded at the two people in front of him, saying, “Uh-huh,” twice, clearly with no interest in their gracious comments about his mother.
Since the next set of people were still at the kneeler, I decided to make my move. Get in, get out, be done.
Barton, apparently, had the exact same idea at the precise time I did. As soon as the couple in front of them turned toward the waiting chairs, he stepped around them and stormed to the entryway. Before anyone knew it, he was gone.
I followed. Striding out the door myself, I heard a woman whisper, “Maybe he has to go visit the little boy’s room.”
Past the fireplace, over the wool rugs, he headed straight for the outside doors, pushing the right-hand-door with his open palm against the glass, his left grabbing for something in his back pocket. I expected him to dig out a pack of cigarettes, but instead he came up with a silver hipflask, and in a move so smooth that it had to be habit, he hoisted it to his lips as the door swung open, banging the back wall. A second later, I heard a swoop of air as he banged out the second door.
For a long moment there was no sound except the popping of wood in the lobby fireplace. Mr. Skulina, the funeral director, a squat fellow with salt and pepper hair, caught my eye and sidled over. Shrugging, he broke the heavy silence. “Had a snootful when he came in yesterday, too.”
“Yesterday?”
Mr. Skulina shook his head. “Mrs. Vicks took advantage of our personal pre-need plan.”
I shuddered. Pre-need. No matter how polite the term, the idea of planning your own funeral felt squirmy.
Mr. Skulina had to look up to meet my eyes. His were pale brown, rheumy, set deep in his creased, graying face. He blinked repeatedly, as if to clear them. I wondered who would meet his needs when the time came. “It’s a good thing she did, too,” he said, with earnest, “and that I got her decisions in writing. Barton came in here yesterday, demanding . . . and I do mean demanding.” He rose up on his toes, making his point, “. . . all her money back. He didn’t even want her to have a wake. Said it was a waste of money. No wake, no funeral. No flowers. What kind of son is that?”
The short speech had taken all his energy. He dabbed now at the corners of his mouth. “Get every detail in writing.” He shook a wet finger up toward me. “Mrs. Vicks, God bless her soul, got the sendoff she wanted because I got her signature on my forms.”
Aunt Lena bustled into the lobby, half-carrying Diana, who shuffled alongside, already bundled and ready to go. My aunt pressed Mrs. Vicks’ house keys into my hand. “She’ll perk up when you get outside.” A half-hearted look out the dark doors, “Lord knows it’s cold enough. She needs to rest up. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
Diana moaned.
Pulling me closer, my aunt whispered in my ear, “She’s terrified to go back there, especially when it’s dark out. But I don’t want her to get too comfortable at our house, if you know what I mean.” A glance back at Diana, still totally out of it. “I’m sure it’s safe now. You’ll convince her, won’t you?”
“Sure,” I said, “No problem.”
She then turned to Diana, with a more soothing voice, “You just pick up what you need, honey, and Alex will get you settled, okay? You’ll see how safe it is. Before you know it, you’ll be able to go back there all by yourself.”
Chapter Ten
Five minutes later I pulled up in front of Mrs. Vicks’ house. Up the block, one after another, solid brick bungalows hunkered down—their stalwart lines broken only by the occasional smaller, wood-porch cottage. No movement, no sound this night; it was brisk with the cold quiet of fading winter. Just like a ghost town, I thought. Mrs. Vicks’ ghost had drawn all her loved ones just two miles down the road, to gather where her empty body lay.
Streetlights dropped undersized pools of light here and there—just enough to create long eerie shadows between the narrow gangways that separated homes. Almost as though Mrs. Vicks’ ghost were truly here, I felt the pall that had settled over this neighborhood. My neighborhood. I’d never been afraid before.
My childhood sanctuaries were now tainted. The murderer had no doubt stood in one of these patches, waiting to move in on Mrs. Vicks, who wanted nothing more than to prepare a good dinner that night. And to talk to me.
Guilt spread its manipulative fingers through my mind and heart as I sat there. No matter what anyone said, no matter how much I tried to convince myself with logical arguments, I felt as though I should have been able to prevent her murder that night. I sighed both in regret, and with the realization that I could’ve been a victim, too. My aunt’s request that I look into the murder suddenly seemed like the only possible course of action. And where better to start than here?
I didn’t know much about the young woman curled in on herself in my passenger seat. I knew she’d attended college in Minnesota a few years back, but that it hadn’t gone well. Her freshman year she’d met a much older man, who’d seduced her in more ways than one. She’d succumbed to the allure of the highs he provided, both in drugs and in danger. It got sketchy at that point, but despite interventions, and lots of futile tries, she’d drifted deep under the man’s spell, and had begun to prostitute herself for drug money.
It had taken its toll on her. She was bloated—wasted, and now, at twenty-six, she was starting over—this time at a small Chicagoland community college, under Mrs. Vicks’ motherly guidance. I worried for Diana, with no one to watch over her any longer. I imagined she’d move back with her family, wherever they were.
Just this past summer, after extracting a promise from me not to mention it to anyone, Mrs. Vicks showed me Diana’s high school graduation picture. Back then she’d been slim, with shiny, poker-straight dark hair. Large expressive eyes, lined in black, stared back at me. Despite the bold makeup and the diamond stud in her left nostril, the girl was gorgeous. I’d said, “That’s Diana?” without tempering my disbelief. She’d nearly doubled her weight since that photo was taken.
Being the curious sort, I’d asked how Diana came to live here. As she tucked the picture away into a china cabinet drawer, Mrs. Vicks gave a little sigh, and messed with other paperwork in the drawer as she spoke. “Diana’s mother is a good woman,” she said. “We’ve known one another for a long time.”
I waited.
Looking almost as though she wished she hadn’t broached the subject, Mrs. Vicks shook her head. “Diana’s not that much younger than you, Alex. Her mother has had a hard time raising her alone. I almost wish . . .” She looked up at me with a sad smile. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. I’m helping her out
, is all. It’s the least I can do.”
As I left her house that day, Mrs. Vicks placed a warm hand on my arm. “You’ve been blessed to be adopted by such a wonderful family. Always remember that.”
“I do,” I said.
Halfway across her back yard, she called out to me again. “And they’re just as blessed to have you, too, honey.”
Now, parked in front of Mrs. Vicks’ house, I gave Diana a moment. She seemed to need it.
She uncurled slow-motion, her face scrunched up as she stared at the house, more than wariness in her expression, I thought. Terror. I wondered again what her story was. The deep breath she took came out ragged and uneven, as though she was fighting tears again. Deep brown eyes turned my direction.
“You’re coming in with me?”
“If you want,” I said. I’d planned to; after all, that’s what my Aunt Lena had asked me to do. “But if you prefer I wait here . . .” I let the thought hang.
“No, please,” she said, startled, grabbing my arm. “Please come in.”
Moments later we stood inside Mrs. Vicks small entrance hallway, the ribbed rubber mat still right inside, Mrs. Vicks shoes exactly where she’d left them the day I’d helped her break into her own home. Two worn white gym shoes, their laces loosened, one of them knocked on its side, probably by the many people who trampled through the night of the murder.
I shut the front door, and heard a dull rattle from far across the house.
“What was that?” Diana asked. Even though she whispered, panic shot through her words.
“Air pressure,” I said. “Probably the back windows vibrating. Happens at my house all the time when I open and close the door.”
“You sure?”
I wasn’t, but I knew better than to admit it. “Yeah. Same sound. Exactly.” I turned on a nearby lamp, and smiled when light dispelled the creepy emptiness of the room. “See?” I said. “Nobody’s here.”
We took off our coats right inside, and draped them over one of the fat green swivel chairs that flanked the front windows. “Come on,” I said, my voice a little loud, “we’ll take a look around and you’ll see it’s fine.”
