Deadly Interest

by Julie Hyzy

  “I’m a suspect?” My voice squeaked.

  “No,” he said. And then, with a comedian’s sense of timing, he waited till my shoulders relaxed and I breathed out a sigh before adding, “Not anymore.”

  “I was?” I asked, aghast.

  “Everyone involved is a suspect until it’s proven they’re innocent.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be the other way around.”

  The corners of his mouth curled upward. “Why did you go out with David Dewars?”

  “Is this an interrogation?” I asked.

  “Why, do you have something to hide?”

  I felt like we were playing the “Questions” game from the Whose Line Is it Anyway television show.

  “No,” I said, putting an end to the silliness. “I went out with David Dewars because he asked me. I’ve been looking into Mrs. Vicks’ bank records—at David’s invitation—and he wanted to touch base with me about all that.” Punctuating my sentence with a look that said, “I hope you’re satisfied,” I continued. “Last night was really the first opportunity we had to connect.”

  I couldn’t read Lulinski’s expression. “What are you hoping to find in the victim’s bank records?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea,” I sighed.

  “But the bank president is letting you have free rein over her accounts, and he took you out on a date.”

  I was beginning to wonder why he seemed so interested in my social life. He certainly had no romantic interest in me, and my perplexity came out snappish.

  “We went to a play, and that was it,” I finished, feeling foolish at my attempt to say “nothing happened” without actually saying the words.

  He seemed to get it, but his expression was still off-kilter as he focused on the empty space between my left shoulder and the wall behind me. “Okay.”

  “That’s it? Okay?”

  I’d gotten an impression from the very start that Lulinski was the sort of man who didn’t answer when he didn’t want to. Nothing in his manner contradicted that notion now. “So what exactly are you looking for?” he asked. “I mean, I can’t imagine why the victim’s bank records would be of interest. But,” he interrupted himself, “I’m no ace reporter, so what do I know?” He tempered the sarcasm with a smile. Glancing over to my left, lifted his chin. “What have you got there?”

  “Mrs. Vicks’ mail. My aunt took it in all week.”

  “You haven’t opened it, have you?”

  “That’s actually next on my exploration agenda,” I said. Responding to the look in his eyes, I added, “I’m sure Barton’s okay with this.”

  Lulinski pulled out his cell phone and flipped a few pages in his notebook. Moments later he’d connected with Barton and identified himself. “We’d like your permission to take a look at your mother’s mail.” I couldn’t gauge Barton’s answer from the look on Lulinski’s face, so I waited till he spoke again. “No, really, you don’t have to,” he said. After repeating himself, he rolled his eyes my direction. “Sure, okay. We’ll see you then.”

  “He’s coming here?” I asked as he snapped his phone shut.

  “Wants to help.”

  “Only if it means he gets the reward.”

  Lulinski sat back again and scratched at his left eyebrow. I got the feeling that, for a few moments, he forgot I was there. “Something doesn’t add up.”

  “Care to share?”

  Like a camera lens he blinked, and suddenly his focus was back to me. “Not particularly,” he said with a grin.

  “Where was he?” I asked.

  “He’s staying at the Tuck Inn Motel,” he started to say, stopping when he caught my expression. “What?”

  “I didn’t know that place rented for longer than four-hour increments.”

  He snorted what could have been a laugh. “And how would a nice girl like you know about places like that?”

  “I grew up here, remember? That’s the neighborhood skank place. Everybody knows about it.” Lucy moved into playing an off-beat version of “Chopsticks.” I stood up, smiling. “I hope he asked for a second floor room.”

  “Why is that?”

  Smiling to myself, I recalled some of the rumors that I’d heard over the years. “The owners supposedly rent out the rooms in numerical order,” I said, then amending. “And so, if you want half a chance at something clean, you have to ask for the rooms that have seen the least action. Second floor.”

  Lulinski shook his head, wearing a grimace that matched my own reaction. “Well, Big Bart must not have gotten the scoop,” he said. “He’s in one-thirteen.”

  “Lucky number,” I said. “And he’s a gambler?”

  I’d forewarned Lucy, but when Barton showed up, minutes later, he threw open the front door with the force of a gale wind. Simultaneously, I heard the concomitant dissonance of a misplayed chord coupled with Lucy’s squeak of terror. I jumped up, meeting her halfway between the rooms. She grabbed my arm.

  “Barton,” I said in a sharp voice.

  “What?” his insolent tone led me to believe he’d shared company with a warm bottle of booze in that hotel room.

  I wanted to tell him he should have knocked, but we were in his house now and that would have come out childish, not to mention stupid. So, all I said was, “Settle down.”

  “Sorry,” he said, then looked at me, as though seeking for an atta-boy.

  Lucy stayed close, whispering in my ear that she wanted to go home now and could we please leave. I could feel her entire body tremble next to mine and I could only imagine how frightening a big lout like Bart was to my tender sister. “Sure,” I said. I gestured Bart into the kitchen and pulled out my cell phone to call Aunt Lena.

  Within five minutes, our aunt had zipped over to spirit Lucy back to her house. As she did, she handed me a bag, and plate full of food for those of us remaining to work. “Just a little something,” she said with a wink. “It’ll give you strength to deal with Barton.”

  The two men’s eyes lit up when I uncovered the tray of sandwiches. My aunt had included chips, cans of pop and some side items in the bag. She’d made ten half-sandwiches in turkey, beef, and ham. Since the two fellows seemed to be waiting for me, I grabbed one of the roast beef sections and then watched them dig in too.

  Ten minutes later, I’d eaten my single half-sandwich and a handful of chips, but all that was left on the plate was a slice of tomato and some crumbs. I eyed the tomato, and when it looked safe enough for me to take it without having one of the two guys mistake my arm for another sandwich, I grabbed.

  “So, down to business?”

  I took charge of the mail, and sorted it into three piles, trying not to make it look too obvious that I was handing Barton mostly sale paper and credit card offers. I split the personal correspondence, banking stuff, and anything that looked official between myself and Detective Lulinski. For a good five minutes, we worked in silence.

  “This is shit,” Barton said, flinging a shiny flyer across the table—it landed, tented, so that the zero-percentage rate faced us in bold red and blue. Immediately after his pronouncement, he belched, and the stench of lunch mixed with sweet alcohol that bubbled my way nearly curdled my stomach. “What do you think we’re going to find in this crap, anyway?”

  “Probably nothing,” Lulinski said, without looking at him.

  “Shit,” he said again. He began ripping envelopes open with uncontained fury. “This is a waste of time.”

  I’d seen Barton fight off those security guards; I knew he could be a formidable adversary when he was in a snit, especially when tanked to the gills the way he was now. Lulinski placed one piece of mail to his left, and picked up another, still apparently unconcerned. Still paying no attention to Barton.

  Seated at the head of the table, to Barton’s immediate right, I could see the big guy’s hands spasm, even as I tried to concentrate on the handwritten envelope in front of me. Barton moved his neck and jaw at once, like his shirt was too tight. Unlikely, since h
e wore a torn polo with an open collar. A few dark chest hairs sprouted from its “v” and I reassessed whether Barton was a natural blond or not.

  Eeyoo.

  He looked from Lulinski to me, then at the mail. His mouth twisted downward. “You think I don’t know what’s going on?” he said, standing. “You two gave me all the shit mail because you both really just want to get that damn reward for yourselves. What do you think, I’m some kind of idiot that I don’t see that?” With one angry sweep of his arm, Barton scattered his pile of mail across the table and onto the floor.

  Faster than I could say, “smooth move,” Lulinski was out of his seat and up in Barton’s face. I hadn’t realized until I saw the two men nose-to-nose that Lulinski was taller, by several inches. Barton just always seemed so much bigger to me.

  “Listen, fat-ass,” Lulinski said, and I could see tension in his body fighting the urge to grab Barton by those wayward chest hairs and twist, tight. “Your mother was murdered. Or did you forget that?” As Lulinski advanced, Barton backed up. “She was murdered, here, in her own goddamn kitchen—a place where she should have felt safe.”

  The red-rimmed bottoms of Barton’s eyes twitched. “Yeah,” he said, bluster fading, “and all I want—”

  “All you want is walk away from this with the goddamned reward money in your pocket so you can pay off your bookie.”

  Barton’s color drained. He shot an accusatory look my direction.

  “Don’t look at her. It’s my job to know these things. And it’s my job to find out who killed your mother. For all I know, you did it.”

  Barton’s attitude swung from anger to simpering fear in the time it took for me to switch my glance from Lulinski to him. “I didn’t do it, I swear.” His hands came up in a gesture of surrender. “I swear it,” he said again.

  Lulinski turned his back on Barton, making his way back to the table. “She was your mother, asshole. When did you forget that?”

  Suddenly it was too much for the big guy. Too much liquor, too much tension, too much confrontation. Barton’s face crumpled and tears leaked down his pudgy cheeks as he started to blubber right in front of us.

  Embarrassed for him, I looked back down at the square envelope in my lap. Hand-addressed on plain pink stationery in a woman’s hand, it felt weighty, as though there were several sheets inside. I’d been about to add it to Barton’s pile of to-be-reads when I noticed the return address.

  Iowa.

  Standing so close now that he could have read over my shoulder if he wanted to, Barton gripped the back of his chair, leaning hard. I kept the letter on my lap, wanting to read it, but wanting even more to keep it from Barton, at least for now. I didn’t know why, but I knew I wanted to digest its contents alone. I could feel its importance tingle along my tips of my consciousness.

  I hated waiting.

  Standing, turning, I grabbed my purse which I’d slung over the back of my chair. “Excuse me,” I said, and I pressed the envelope against the back of my bag, hoping Barton wouldn’t notice the awkwardness of my movements.

  Lulinski gave me a look that asked what was up.

  “Washroom,” I said.

  His skeptical gray eyes shot from the purse, clasped at my mid-section, to my face, but he said nothing. I held tight, letting the long shoulder strap dangle, feeling as though any idiot could see that I was hiding something. I counted on the fact that Barton wasn’t just any idiot.

  Five steps away, the bathroom door stood open. I was just about to cross its threshold when I glanced back.

  “Hang on a minute there,” Barton said, his voice cracked and impatient.

  Without meaning to, I pulled my purse tighter into my gut.

  “What’s up?” Lulinski asked, moving between us.

  The big lug pushed past the detective. “Let me get in there first, okay?” he asked. “Just want to splash some water on my face, is all.”

  “Sure,” I managed.

  When I heard the small lock click, I blew my bangs out of my face in relief.

  “All right,” Lulinski said in a low voice, sidling up to me as I moved back to the table, “what’s going on?”

  I gave him a sheepish half-shrug as I set my purse on my chair and pulled the pale pink envelope from behind it. “I don’t know. Maybe nothing.”

  “But you think it might be something.”

  Knowing Barton might emerge any moment, I moved as fast as I could, sliding my finger into the corner where the envelope glue hadn’t stuck, loosening it. The letter, three pages folded in half, had been sent two days before Mrs. Vicks’ murder, according to the handwritten date up top. Before reading it, I flipped to the last page to see who signed it.

  “Theresa,” I said, quietly.

  “Mean anything to you?” Lulinski asked.

  “No.”

  Turning back to the first sheet, I began to skim. Theresa’s letter began “Dear Evelyn,” and, in the way that friendly letters often do, asked if everything was going well in Chicago. I wondered, briefly, at Theresa’s age. Beginning her letter by using Mrs. Vicks’ first name might indicate that they were contemporaries.

  Theresa then went on to mention a couple of recent events in her own life, including the fact that she’d apparently been out on “another date” with a farmer named Ned.

  When I heard the toilet flush in the next room, I read faster, vaguely aware that Lulinski wasn’t reading over my shoulder, but appeared ready to run interference the moment Barton stepped out.

  Before the end of the first page of script, Theresa asked about Diana. She mentioned the fact that she hadn’t gotten a call from her in over a month. She said that she knew that Laurence Grady had been released from prison, and that her concerns for Diana were mounting. The next page held another interesting tidbit. She wrote: “Dr. Hooker called me at home again today. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to make the trip to Chicago, but he thinks it’s important that I be there when the time comes. What do you think?”

  The bathroom door clunked open and I slammed the letter to my chest in a “Look at me, I’m guilty!” move. Lulinski moved to intercept Bart and I shoved the pink sheets into my purse as the two did a narrow-hallway dance, buying me some time. I still didn’t have any reason to hide the letter from Barton, beyond a sense of needing to sort things out in my own mind before sharing them.

  With a neat little click, a piece of the puzzle fell into place. Remembering the day Mrs. Vicks had shown me Diana’s school picture and spoken fondly of her, I knew, even before confirming it, that Theresa was the girl’s mother. My eyes shot to the top drawer of the built-in china cabinet where Mrs. Vicks had stored the photo that day. I would bet there were more letters like this one, there and I’d bet some of them would explain why Mrs. Vicks had sent money out to them all these years.

  Barton dropped into the squeaky kitchen chair with resigned lethargy. “I’m bored with this crap,” he said.

  I returned to the same chair I’d occupied earlier and fingered the next few pieces of mail in front of me while I waited for the detective to come back from the washroom. Nothing else looked promising at the moment, and I wanted to get into the little room myself to read the rest of Theresa’s letter in peace.

  “Hey,” Barton said. “This isn’t where Ma worked.”

  He held up a blue bank statement.

  I’d seen several similar statements in the fire box in the closet, but I hadn’t paid them much attention. I took a closer look. “May I?”

  He handed it to me.

  I had to give the big guy credit, this was indeed not issued by Banner Bank. According to this monthly statement, Mrs. Vicks maintained a savings account and two certificates of deposit at a neighborhood bank.

  “This is the bank on Pulaski,” I said aloud, “The one on the corner.”

  Maybe those bank statements I’d seen earlier this morning deserved a closer look. I grimaced. Yet another thing I’d rather do with Barton out of my hair.

  Lulinski
came back to our little group and after a few minutes of watching me fidget, asked Barton where he could get a pack of cigarettes in the area. As Barton started to give directions, Lulinski interrupted. “It’d be just as easy for you to show me. Come on, let’s take a ride.”

  Not realizing he was being manipulated, Barton gave a so-so motion of his head and stood, with a little bit of interest in his eyes. I resisted the urge to ask Lulinski if he was going to let Barton play with the siren along the way.

  The detective caught me as they headed out the door. “I expect you to share,” he said with a wink.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The moment they were gone, I grabbed the old wooden buffet drawer with both hands and dragged it out from its recess. Cumbersome and heavy, it was almost a perfect square, about eighteen inches to a side, and a good six inches deep.

  Crammed with a lifetime of miscellany, this was Mrs. Vicks’ important junk drawer. Easy to recognize, since I had several of them, myself. My eye caught a thick envelope labeled “Photos” next to a four-inch ball of string, and I knew I’d struck gold.

  Inside the envelope were pictures of Diana from the time she was a toddler. Each photograph, whether a candid, or a posed school portrait, had been carefully labeled with her name, her age, and the date.

  Quite the cutie when she was little, Diana morphed from a sweet-faced little girl who wore every shade of pink into a sullen young woman who preferred deep browns and black. I came across the graduation picture Mrs. Vicks’ had shown me last summer. Such drastic changes over the past eight years.

  Pushing the pictures aside, I searched for more letters. I knew deep down from the insoles of my Reeboks that Mrs. Vicks had kept her correspondence from Theresa. Just as she’d kept all those pictures of Diana.

  The biggest question in my mind, was why. To find out, I kept digging, through Christmas card lists, twenty-odd years’ worth of pocket-date books, and about a dozen keychains, each holding a single key. These had been labeled with all the neighbors’ last names. Everyone on the block apparently stored their keys with Mrs. Vicks’, and I shook off a shudder when I thought about how close the murderer had been to getting to the rest of us.