Deadly Blessings

by Julie Hyzy

  “Sexual harassment.”

  “What?”

  “It was perfect,” he said, shaking his head. I could tell that he’d left me, that he was reliving the incident as he spoke. His words had gone quiet, almost as though he was talking to himself; he wasn’t seeing me any longer. “It was so manipulatively worded, I could almost believe it was true myself.

  “In the memo, she explained how she tried to bear up under the strain of working with me, but that my lewd and obnoxious behavior had gotten progressively worse. And while she’d repeatedly spurned my advances, she didn’t know how long she could work under such dire circumstances. My impending advancement to features editor, she claimed, would only increase my power over her. She wanted to trudge on like a good soldier, but the strain was too much. In a very vulnerable and polite way, she let the administration know that, unless they rethought my promotion, she’d move forward with the lawsuit and pull the Daily Times down, along with me.”

  The key to this man’s soul was his eyes. He told the story entirely deadpan, but his eyes blazed with anger.

  I was speechless.

  William looked at me with an expression of anticipation. “Bet you didn’t know I was a lech, huh?”

  “But you’re not.”

  He leaned forward again, his head canting slightly. “How do you know? Maybe I am.”

  I held his gaze. “No.” I said. “You’re not.”

  He blinked an acknowledgment and sat back in his chair. “Thank you.”

  “And so they fired you? But it was her word against yours, right? You’d been there for a long time. How could management take her claims seriously if they knew you?”

  “Management had a responsibility to investigate her claims. And as much as it burned me to cooperate in the farce, I understood their position and complied. But the feature was gone. They couldn’t start a whole new series under the sword of Damocles. Their hands were tied. That’s the beauty of all this. They did know better. All the players in this little drama knew the truth. But they decided that promoting me wouldn’t be in the paper’s best interests at this time.”

  “So you left?”

  “So I left. Right away. Chloe immediately dropped the lawsuit. Surprise. Surprise. I took a few months off, traveled a bit, wore down my retirement savings and rainy day money because it felt damn good to do it, and then I wound up here.”

  I nodded. And completely understood.

  “The reason I’m telling you all this now,” he said, reading my next question off my face, perhaps, “is because—having had a sexual harassment suit slapped on me—I’m a little uncomfortable with this undercover assignment with prostitutes.”

  “Geez,” I said, running a hand through my hair, gripping it atop my head. I let go almost immediately when I realized how attractive that must look. “We’ll get someone else. That’s not a problem.”

  “No. I’ll do it. At this point it would be tough to bring someone up to speed who could get the information we’re looking for. I’m up for it.” He leaned forward. “It’s just that I thought you ought to know.”

  I was shaking my head, trying to come up with other ways to handle the situation. He interrupted me.

  “Listen, I’ve already talked to the film crew and they’re going to digitalize my appearance so that if we broadcast the tape, I’ll be completely unrecognizable.”

  I leaned forward on my forearms in a clear spot on my desk. My hands were crossed one over the other in body language that meant I was “serious.” “William,” I said.

  “You know, you can call me Will.”

  I gave a tiny sigh of impatience for the interruption. “Will,” I shot a smile at that, “there’s no need—”

  He placed his hands over mine. Their warm weight sent an immediate rush of blood up into my chest. “Yes, there is. I want to do this. If I let her stop me, then she’s won, again. I just wanted to let you know. I thought you deserved to know.”

  For one more heartbeat maybe two, we stayed connected, hands and eyes, until he pulled away. I sat back too.

  He asked me, “Do you remember the other day when you stopped by my office?”

  I remembered. Right after Matthew’s funeral. “Sure.”

  “I’d just gotten off the phone with Bernie about five minutes before you came by.”

  “And?”

  The amusement in his face this time was tinged with sadness. “They’re bringing out that new Sunday section again. Next issue. And guess who’s the new features editor?”

  * * * * *

  The front door creaked.

  It never creaked. Not when it was closed.

  I’d been home for at least ten minutes, my jacket thrown over the back of one of the kitchen chairs, and I headed to my room to change out of my work clothes into jeans. Just as I pulled my long-sleeve gray T-shirt over my head, I heard it.

  This was the house I grew up in. I knew every regular noise: the groan of the octopus-like furnace in the basement, the blast of the fire as the gas came on, the click-hum of the refrigerator that was as old as I was, and the rattling sound of the windows when a sturdy breeze hit. This noise was different, and though quiet, it stood out like a misplayed chord in a familiar melody.

  A definite creak. And I realized with alarm, that it was the sound of my front door opening.

  Two seconds earlier, my bare feet appreciated the cool varnished wood beneath them. Now, they just felt cold. And no light coming from outside my window made the house seem dark. Very dark.

  For a moment I was frozen in place. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. But somewhere in the depths of my brain, I remembered I brought my purse in the room with me, and I dug out my cell phone to call 9-1-1.

  Then stopped. For crying out loud, I was about to call to report a noise. That wouldn’t exactly bring the fleet flying over.

  I listened again, but heard no footsteps. My house was old enough to broadcast any movement with a cacophony of wood squeaks. Unless an intruder could make himself weightless, I had to believe there wasn’t anyone was in the house with me. Yet.

  Trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart by taking a few deep breaths, I wandered around the corner of my door, cell phone in hand, 9-1-1 keyed in. All I needed to do was hit “send.” As I came around the corner, and all was clear, I realized that I’d be better off dialing from my home phone. At the very least, they’d have my address if I suddenly got disconnected.

  I tiptoed to the kitchen, grabbed the portable phone, and cursed myself for not having programmed it to speed dial in an emergency. I’d do that right after this, I promised myself.

  The front door was open. Wide open. It moved with minuscule swings as air pressure coming through the aluminum screen door pushed it back and forth, as though on an invisible string. I inched toward it, making plenty of squeaks myself, questioning how this could happen. I rarely used my front door, except to check the mail. And I never forgot to set the deadbolt.

  Closer now, I saw the marks. Deep grooved scratches at both the doorknob and deadbolt levels. Someone had pried my door open. Today.

  I dialed 9-1-1 in a hurry.

  Two officers arrived minutes after my call. I was surprised at the speed, actually, because I’d told the female dispatcher that though it appeared my home had been broken into, I didn’t believe anyone was inside. Still, they showed up, one coming directly to the front door and the other walking around the back of my house before joining us.

  Officer Cross, a tall black man wearing a navy blue winter uniform jacket, stood in the center of my living room. “What’s been taken?”

  I had to give both officers credit, I thought later. They were extremely gracious as I walked through the house with them. Nothing appeared to be missing. Not the TV, not my VCR, not my laptop. Nothing. Not even a gold earring off my dresser.

  They followed me from room to room, down to the basement, and around the perimeter of the house as I checked everything. I was apologetic, almost
disappointed, that nothing appeared to have been disturbed other than the front door.

  Both men took a close look at the scratches by the lock. They exchanged a look and asked me if the marks were new. I assured them that they were.

  Despite the fact that I could tell they were convinced I’d simply neglected to shut my door completely, they were professional and courteous. And free with advice. My deadbolt, they informed me, was not very high quality, but they gave me the brand name of another type that was. And suggested I have them installed both front and back. My back door was accessed by a long, round key into a old-fashioned keyhole—the kind people usually try to peep through. Once inside, I had a bolt I could throw, but seeing it through their eyes now, I was embarrassed. A quick hip hit against the door, and even my arthritic neighbor lady would be able to break past that wimpy barrier.

  “My guess is whoever broke in was frightened away. They probably just got in the door and heard you coming in through the back and ran off,” Officer Cross said, shrugging.

  His partner, a middle-aged white man with dark hair, brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow that made him look like Fred Flintstone, nodded in agreement as he inspected the scratches once again. I felt foolish and paranoid for having called them. About to apologize, I wondered if he’d read my mind when he said, “You did right calling us. You can never be too careful.”

  Officer Cross added, “You know I thought I saw movement down by the alley when we drove up, anyway. Coulda been the guy getting away.”

  The other officer, Ellis, turned to me. “You live here alone?”

  I nodded.

  They exchanged a look again. I wondered if they thought they’d be making more trips here in the future. That I might be the type who jumped at every little indistinguishable sound. I hoped not.

  “What do you do for a living?” Officer Cross asked. He’d already snapped his notebook closed, so I guessed he was just making conversation at this point.

  “I work for Midwest Focus NewsMagazine. I’m a researcher.”

  Ellis raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Do you know Gabriela Van Doren?”

  I nodded.

  “She’s something,” he said with gusto. “Man, that woman’s a babe. Smart too. I like those smart ones.” He shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes that made me not want to try and imagine what was going on in his mind. “She’s gotta be something in real life too, huh? Is she as gorgeous in person as she is onscreen?”

  “I’m not the best judge of gorgeous women,” I said, smiling.

  “Oh yeah,” he said, “But she is smart, isn’t she?”

  I opened my mouth, and caught the snide Gabriela-bashing reply before it hit my tongue. Why ruin this guy’s impression of our anchor? “She’s a major asset to our station,” I said.

  “I thought so.” He grinned. “Maybe you can get an autographed picture sent to me?”

  I smiled and said I’d do what I could.

  Officer Cross looked around again, offering, “There’s a chance too, that whoever broke in here was looking for something specific.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Don’t know. You’d be a better judge of that than we would. Maybe something to do with your work. And maybe they looked around but didn’t find it.” He gave a grimace, “Although usually, when a guy’s looking for something, they toss the premises. And your place looks—lived in—but not disturbed.”

  I got the distinct impression that I’d wasted their time, but they were trying to not make me feel like such an idiot. I appreciated the gesture, and as I saw them out, Officer Ellis reminded me, “It wouldn’t hurt to get those locks changed, you know. The quicker the better.”

  Five minutes after they left, I hauled out the yellow pages and left messages with several different locksmiths’ answering services.

  Which is why, when the phone rang twenty minutes later, having just shoved an Oreo cookie in my mouth, I never expected it to be Father Bruno.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It took a couple of beats for me to switch my brain trajectory and I stutter-stepped my first words, trying without much success, to mask my bewilderment.

  “Father Bruno. How are you?”

  While we exchanged pleasantries in polite pretense, faking the tone of voice the people do when they’re happy to hear from one another, my mind raced. I knew I gave him this number, and my address, but I didn’t expect him to do more than shove the information into his desk to be tossed out some day when he forgot who that Szatjemski chick was.

  A protracted silence fell over the line after we exhausted scintillating observations about the weather. I waited. After all, he made the call, he must have had a reason.

  I expected him to ask how Sophie was doing. Instead, he cleared his throat and went a different direction. “You were baptized at Good Shepherd Church in the fall of …” I heard paper shuffling, and then he named the year. The right year. “That’s correct?”

  “Yeah,” I answered, too stunned by curiosity to even consider anything but answering truthfully.

  “Would you be free for a brief meeting say, sometime tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “If you can carve a half-hour or so out of your busy schedule?”

  I massaged my eyebrows, then pinched the bridge of my nose. His question about my baptism had thrown me. “What about?”

  A noise came over the line—lip-smacking. “Just a half-hour of your time.”

  “Well … let me check my calendar.” I stalled, trying to figure out what was up. But who was I kidding; of course I’d meet him. “Sure,” I said. “I can come by the rectory …” I felt the gears click into place as my brain finally engaged itself. “Or, how about if we meet for lunch somewhere? My treat.” I had no idea what was up, but all I could think about was avoiding that dreary room at the rectory, and keeping my distance from Emil. Particularly if I hoped to glean any information from Father Bruno about the little pervert.

  I heard a short laugh over the phone, which could have meant nothing, but felt liked condescension. “Lunch. What a delightful idea, Alexandrine.”

  Odd, how he emphasized my name just then.

  We arranged to meet at one o’ clock the following afternoon at the same neighborhood diner where I’d met Dan. My idea. Might as well just have one place for all the screwed-up meetings; better than sharing the wealth.

  * * * * *

  I stood in Will’s door early Saturday morning, “Hey,” I said.

  Other than the two of us, and Bass in his office down the hall, the place was quiet. The rest of the staff had the weekend off, like normal folks, but we’d agreed to meet this morning, to keep the momentum going on this story.

  “Alex,” he answered, with a pleasant lilt to his tone.

  The cleaning crew hadn’t made it here, yet, but I refrained from commenting on the pervasive smoke smell. If an item didn’t affect Bass personally, he didn’t attach much weight to it, and situations such as this one could go on indefinitely unless Will pushed it. I might throw out the hint that he engage a cleaning crew himself and bill the station for it on an expense account, but that would have to wait. I had other things on my mind.

  “Were you able to reach Lisa?”

  He answered me with a look.

  “And?” I asked.

  “She’s something else, that one. Prostitution with the personal touch.”

  “What do you mean?” I was about to take a seat in front of his desk when he stood up.

  “Tell you what,” he said. “I was thinking about grabbing a cup of coffee downstairs. You want to join me? I’ll bring you up to speed.”

  The Emperor’s Roost, downstairs, was a throwback to a time before I even toddled around my parents’ coffee tables. Dark, with sooty pictures of Napoleon in various battle poses decorating the cheap paneled walls, it had crescent-shaped seating arranged in semi-circles around a bar and along the perimeter. We chose a scuffed-white booth far from the two boo
zers hunched over the bar, drinking their early lunch. The place did a great business during the week, especially when the weather was either too hot, too cold, or too wet, which in Chicago is nearly every day. Eating here at The Roost, as cheerless as it was, was often preferable to braving the elements. Today being a Saturday, the place was desolate and the dinginess overwhelming.

  Our waitress, a redhead who looked like she could be an advertisement for Lisa Knowles’ organization, swish-swished over to us. The sound, I realized, came from her large support-hosed thighs rubbing together as she walked. She wrinkled her nose when we told her we were there for coffee only. “Fine,” she said, turning her back to us and returning moments later to fill our upturned mugs.

  Will and I added cream to our coffee as she left. He stirred, I didn’t. I preferred to let the light brown clouds take over in their slow-motion ballet. Holding the cup close to my lips, I blew a short puff of air downward to facilitate the process. Wisps of steam curled above the cup and I looked over the rim to see him watching me. “You first,” he said.

  I gave him a quizzical look.

  “Something’s happened. Something’s on your mind,” he said.

  My look shifted to one of disbelief. “How the heck could you know that?”

  He put his hands out. “It’s a gift.”

  I took a sip of the coffee, enjoying its warmth and aroma and the comforting way it eased down my throat, savoring the pleasure of the moment before I shot him a wry smile. “My house was broken into yesterday.”

  “What?” he asked, his cup returning to its saucer with a clatter. “Are you okay? What did they take?”

  “I’m fine, actually. And believe it or not, not a darn thing was taken.”

  “You reported it?”

  “Right away. And,” I said, forestalling his next question, “I got all my locks upgraded. Right now my house is so well-protected, you’d need to detonate explosives to get in without a key.”

  “Nothing taken?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” he said.