Suddenly, a woman stepped into the driveway, wildly waving her arms at them. It was Detective O’Connor. “Stop the car,” said Laurie. Then she pressed the window lever.
*
For the first time in twenty-five years, Gerald fit a key into the lock of his secretary’s coat closet. He was still reeling from his sister’s unsettling letter, followed by his secretary’s abrupt departure from the company. Was there some strange connection between the two occurrences or a mere coincidence? Griselda’s only explanation entailed a cryptic one-line note left atop his desk: I can no longer live this charade. Curious, thought Gerald. Griselda had never lobbied for higher pay over the years. She had neither requested promotion, nor balked at performing her professional duties. A valued, trusted employee. Why this? Why now?
Griselda’s coat closet appeared empty. Gerald was just about to bid it adieu when he noted a carved square on the raised floor of the closet. He retrieved an envelope opener from his desk, then knelt by the carving and wedged the tool along its borders. Carefully, he lifted the top of the carved square and peeked beneath the oak flooring. Stacks of rubber-banded envelopes greeted him. How odd. His secretary had been obsessive about efficiency and order.
Gerald had never actually visited Griselda’s apartment. Yet a picture graced her desk of a short-haired cat lounging on a green sofa sleeper. The sofa sleeper leaned against a wall whose windows reflected the back stairway of a neighbor’s porch. Even if a studio apartment was her choice of lodging, she still would have room for her tax returns or letters. Yet, twenty-five years of documents would call for a lot of storage.
Sighing deeply, Gerald reached into the open floor and extracted the first stack of envelopes. Then he laid the unwieldy pack on his desk and severed the rubber band with a letter opener. The array of envelopes cascaded across his desk.
Gerald haphazardly chose an envelope to view. He registered the address block typed on the first envelope. Frowning, he raised a second envelope to eye level. This address block was handwritten, yet the contact information was identical to the first.
Gerald leaped out of his chair and rushed back to his secretary’s closet. He reached into the dark hole and extracted yet another bundle of envelopes. Tearing through the rubber-banded mass, he pulled out the next to the last envelope. Through tearing eyes, he glimpsed the address block, then the return address block. The addresses were completed in calligraphy, however they were carbon copies of those in the first bunch.
Groaning from his very core, Gerald stumbled back to the open sore and pulled a third stack from its pit. Again, both the address label and the return address label broadcast the revolting truth. Gerald thrashed around for an explanation, but his excuses inventory turned up empty. His heart plummeted at the realization that his trusted secretary had systematically hidden his love letters and cards to Elizabeth for twenty-three years. In one fell swoop, he’d been betrayed. Handcuffed, stripped naked, and whipped. Unlike the domination club Gerald frequented when he needed to be “punished,” this torture was not his choice.
Gerald seriously considered lowering himself into the black hole in the coat closet, then pulling down the hatch. He’d devoted his whole life to being a class act. As a soldier in the Korean War, he’d won the Bronze Medal for Valor. In the beginning of his insurance career, he’d followed every rule and regulation to its zenith. He’d futilely attempted to dissuade his partner’s son from swindling their insurance clients in order to make a profit.
Most important, he had repulsed the marriage claws of a number of lovely heiresses because of his intense devotion to one woman. Gerald sincerely believed that someday he and Elizabeth would reunite. Yet tampering with her marriage or daily life was beneath his moral code. Secure in the fact that in the first ten years of their break-up, Elizabeth had received each of his correspondences—although she had not responded to even one—Gerald had confined himself to sharing her life vicariously. He only regretted that not one of his three private investigators had mentioned Elizabeth had borne a child.
And now to learn his secretary had secreted his correspondences. That all these years, Elizabeth had lived her life, completely unaware of his love for her. A pain worse than twelve cancers.
Why? He lamented aloud, his words echoing into the empty office. Griselda’s typewritten words sprang to mind: I can no longer live this charade. What if Griselda Jones, as moral and ethical as she’d appeared, had funneled her own reports on Brad Jr.’s shenanigans straight to the Illinois Department of Insurance, then left before the company fell apart? He needed to seek her out and demand an explanation.
*
They were seated in a hospital conference room.
“First you harass my son,” said Norman Atkins. “Now you harass my daughter-in-law. What do you people want?”
“The truth,” said Detective Maggie O’Connor.
“What makes you think I knew anything about this microcassette?” Laurie asked fitfully.
“After the ambulance took you to the hospital, we searched your house for DNA evidence on Brad Hamilton, Jr.”
“And you found it, right?” said Laurie. “The orange juice carton, the sponge, his semen.”
“Colleague of mine discovered something we didn’t expect.”
“What was that?” Norman asked snidely. “An ice cream cone?”
“An intact micro video cassette buried in the kitchen trash.”
“You searched my garbage?” Laurie asked in disbelief.
“The contents of the videocassette were disconcerting.”
“The last video we took was of my son’s eighth birthday party celebration,” said Laurie. “I certainly wouldn’t have thrown that away.”
“The video shows your husband loading a body into a wheelbarrow and carting it off.”
Laurie paled. That video. With everything that had been going on, she’d totally forgotten she’d finally tossed the offensive video into the trash. Norman looked at her strangely. “What’s going on?”
“Transferring a dead body from one location to another is considered a misdemeanor,” Laurie said defensively. “I researched it out on the Web. Ryan wouldn’t do jail time.”
“That isn’t your decision to make,” said the detective.
“My son transported a dead body?” Norman asked, his voice dazed.
“The victim found on Helga Beckermann’s driveway,” said the detective.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” said Norman.
“When I found out, I kicked your son out of the house,” said Laurie.
Norman frowned. “Ryan didn’t mention you kids were having problems.”
“He denied moving the body,” said Laurie.
“Did your husband kill that boy?” asked the detective.
“That’s ridiculous. Ryan’s a pacifist,” said Laurie.
“That’s why he bent your assailant’s head into a pretzel,” said the detective.
“Animal instinct,” Laurie said.
“We’ve taken Ryan into custody.”
“You can’t do that without just cause,” Norman protested.
“We’ll be in touch,” said the detective.
*
Thanksgiving. A time for giving thanks, for feeding the homeless. This time, a take-out meal from Boston Market consumed in seclusion with her son and dog.
Sure, they’d had invitations. Mitzy had invited them to her mom’s condo. Ryan’s father had offered to take them out to a restaurant. At the last minute, Laurie’s mother had phoned from Arizona with an invitation to stay the week. Laurie wondered if she’d read about her ordeal in the Phoenix Sun. She politely turned down that invitation.
Even Rory had been subdued since her return from the hospital two days ago. Laurie questioned her son about the fateful afternoon his dad had brought him home from school. She’d steeled herself for some heavy revelations, but Rory mumbled that Ryan’s legs blocked his view of the hallway.
Her son hesitantly admitted s
eeing two paramedics wheel a sheet-covered board into an ambulance. Yes, he knew the body on the board was not his dad. Yes, he saw a police officer push his handcuffed father into a squad car. No, he did not have any questions. “The police took Daddy away because he slammed the door on me and Rocky and left us out in the cold.”
And Rocky? Thankfully, neither his organs nor his limbs had been injured. Since Laurie arrived home from the hospital, the Bichon had slunk around her legs. Normally he’d be begging for food at the dinner table. But during this pre-packaged Thanksgiving meal, he lay morosely at Rory’s feet.
The doorbell broke the silence in the darkened house. Laurie shivered as she arose from the kitchen table. Would that stimulus response forever remind her of her unwelcome visitor? She tentatively headed into the hallway.
Laurie squeaked open the front door. “Yes?” she said through the crack.
“Laurie Atkins?” asked a British-speaking female voice. A tall, thin woman in a black floor-length wool coat stood on the front stoop, her gray hair done up in an old-fashioned bun. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Can I help you?” said Laurie, her foot holding the door slightly ajar.
“Actually I’ve come to help you,” the woman said kindly. Her clear blue eyes appeared guileless in the waning daylight.
The British voice sounded so familiar. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“We’ve spoken on the telephone.”
“Mom?” Rory’s frightened voice echoed from the kitchen.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Laurie called back. “Eat your dinner.”
Laurie mentally scanned the repertoire of phone calls she’d received since returning home from the hospital. “I think you’re mistaken.”
“I’m not mistaken, dear. It’s quite chilly out here. Would you mind if I come inside?”
Visions of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs flashed through her memory, accompanied by her mother’s entrancing voice. Together they’d acted out all the characters of her favorite fairy tale. Now she was faced with whether or not to open her door to this complete stranger with an elegant sounding lilt to her speech. Would she, like Snow White, fall deathly asleep from taking a bite of the proverbial apple, she wondered.
“Mrs. Atkins?” Late afternoon sunlight had progressed into darkness. The woman’s teeth were chattering.
Laurie swung open the door.
“My name is Griselda Jones,” the woman said, her clipped English enunciation piercing the brisk fall air.
“Can’t say I recognize the name.”
“I apologize for not introducing myself to you on the telephone when we last spoke.”
“Seriously, Ms. Jones, I think you’ve mistaken me for a different Laurie Atkins.”
“You are married to a gentleman by the name of Ryan Atkins. He worked as a health insurance adjuster for Great Harvest until he abruptly quit the company fifteen months ago. Shortly thereafter, he suffered a heart attack. He’s functioning quite well now, due to twelve months of rehab exercise at a local health club.”
A chill ran through Laurie’s body. “You’re the private investigator who’s been following my family?”
“Could I trouble you for a spot of tea? It’s quite frigid out here.”
“Mom! More turkey,” Rory whined from the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, Laurie gestured for the woman to enter. “I don’t want my son upset by anything you say.”
The woman crossed the threshold. “Fair enough.”
Laurie led her down the ceramic tiled hallway and into the kitchen.
Rory peeked his head in from the family room. “Third quarter’s almost over. Can I finish eating in front of the TV?”
Laurie nodded. Waving the woman to a kitchen seat, she carved a turkey leg for her son.
“Who are you?” Rory asked the woman as she shrugged off her raincoat.
“I’m a friend of your parents.”
“Nice meeting you.” Taking his plate, he headed back into the family room.
Laurie put the teakettle on. “Tell me why you’re here or you can take your tea in a doggie bag.”
“That sounds horrid, what with the tea soaking through the bag,” joked the woman.
Laurie frowned as she sponged down the flannel-backed Thanksgiving tablecloth.
Griselda cleared her throat. “I was Gerald MacFerron’s private secretary for twenty-five years.”
Ryan had introduced Laurie to Mr. MacFerron at the company’s holiday party several years back. He’d struck her as an old-fashioned courteous gentleman, chatting with her while everybody else was at the watering hole.
“I left Great Harvest last month,” said the secretary. “Too much spying and intrigue.”
“Spying?” Brad Jr. had told her the company had been spying on her and her family.
“Great Harvest contracted with private investigators to track the daily routines of its health insurance claimants so they wouldn’t have to pay out,” Griselda explained. “One claimant we kept tabs on was a young veterinarian grad student who required a heart transplant. A lifetime of hospital stays combined with a botched pacemaker surgery deleted his entitlement. When your husband protested the decision, Brad hired an unscrupulous individual he’d met at a bar to visit your summer home and convince him to keep mum about his suspicions.”
Laurie lifted the whistling teakettle from the burner. Then she poured boiling water into two mismatched tea mugs. “My husband already shared the intricacies of the situation with me.”
“If you’ll bear with me for just a few more minutes, Mrs. Atkins, I think you’ll find what I have to say quite illuminating,” Griselda said.
Laurie nodded while she surveyed a shelf of herbal tea boxes, finally selecting Bitter Lemon. A most fitting choice for the occasion.
The older woman leaned her face over the cup. “Smells lovely. May I trouble you for cream and sugar?”
Laurie fetched the supplements, along with a teaspoon, and placed them before the woman. Then she took a seat facing Griselda.
“Over the last twenty-five years, I edited and mailed Mr. MacFerron’s personal and professional correspondence. Ten years into my employ, Mr. MacFerron asked me to author a letter to a Miss Elizabeth Grabowski.”
Grabowski. Where had she heard that name before?
“He wished to assure his family’s housekeeper that, should she need professional references, she could rely on him. These one-way correspondences continued quarterly for another decade. Each correspondence included a personal check.”
The housekeeper she’d met on Helga Beckermann’s doorstep! “You say one-way. She never responded to his letters?”
Griselda shook her head.
“What about the checks?”
“They were never cashed.”
“You think they were lovers?” Laurie asked.
“What I do know is that Mr. MacFerron remains a bachelor. He’s kept a framed picture of a young woman on his desk all these years. She had the fresh clean look of a farm girl, with her wavy blond hair and ruddy cheeks.”
“Did Elizabeth and Gerald have a child?”
“My employer recently received a correspondence from his estranged older sister indicating her desire to clear her conscience on that particular matter,” mused Griselda. “In that letter, Helga alludes to the single family dwelling they shared during Gerald’s early years at Great Harvest. Elizabeth had been hired to cook and clean. Unbeknown to his sister, Gerald and the housekeeper fell in love. Six months into their relationship, Gerald left Chicago for an extended business trip. Helga found their young housekeeper vomiting into the toilet, her belly swollen. Elizabeth pleaded a case of the flu. Her employer believed otherwise.
“A doctor confirmed Helga’s suspicions. She envisioned her brother’s career aspirations wilting in the wind. The next day, she packed Elizabeth home to Poland, along with one hundred dollars in cash. Helga directed Elizabeth to give the baby up for adoption. The last line of her letter to Gerald rea
d: Somewhere in this world, You have a son.”
Laurie had not expected the secretary’s revelation. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“It is my understanding you are seeking answers regarding the identity of a ‘TG?’”
“There are people
who have an appetite
for grief;
pleasure is not strong enough,
and they crave pain.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
32
Temporarily incarcerated. Ryan paced back and forth across his eight-foot cell, tasting the foreign vocabulary which coated his tongue like lead mouthwash. Words alien to his lexicon. Until now. The first person in his family to be placed behind bars. Thankfully his mother was not alive to share his shame.
Ryan’s father hadn’t visited him since “Black Friday.” The day Detective Maggie O’Connor confronted him with the insidious videotape. The same tape that had caused his distraught wife to exile him from home and family. Burying his head in his arms, he racked his brain over who had installed the hidden video recorder. When it came to technology, Laurie was no wizard. Her parents even less so. Helga Beckermann and their renter were the only other key holders to their summer home. All this conjecture was driving him nuts. Right now he needed to focus on repairing his relationship with his wife.
Ryan’s thoughts centered on the unspeakable abomination to which Laurie had been subjected. Would that bastard’s prick ever be erased from her mind? Would she ever be able to resume a normal sex life with him or would her carnal interest skitter into a mousetrap? Ryan wondered if Laurie had been preoccupied with those same thoughts.
Why hadn’t his wife notified the police of the videotape the night she packed his bags and said good riddance? His ego shouted the answer he longed to hear: Laurie still loves you. She believes this temporary separation will rekindle the spark you once shared.
His superego whispered an alternate truth: She’s not sure if you killed TG and she’s erring on your innocence. She doesn’t want Rory to lose his father.
Ryan closed his eyes to pray for his redemption.
Window of Guilt Page 20
