by Lee Harris
“You’ll have Harriet and me out one day and we’ll let you pick up the bill,” he said gallantly, as though we would take them to a New York–style restaurant in Oakwood.
Ten minutes later, we were getting into the car.
I dropped Ariana at the hotel, where she wanted to open the fat envelope in private. She promised to call when she had a plan arranged to investigate the murders, and I assured her that if she wanted to travel, Elsie would be ready on the spot to take over Eddie. I needed time only to pack a bag and make sure there was food in the house for the next couple of days.
She called back at five-thirty, having spent two hours alone with her parents’ envelope and her thoughts. She had decided to eat in her room, although she wasn’t very hungry after our lunch in the city. There was more in the envelope than a letter, which I had surmised from its irregular bulkiness. In addition to a considerable amount of money, there were addresses and keys and hand-sketched maps. What was entirely missing was an explanation of why anyone would want to murder her parents. Apparently, they did not want Ariana to know, and I found this troubling although I said nothing.
“Besides the personal letter,” she said, “there’s a letter of instructions. It sounds as though they owned that little house in Madison and they want me to go out there. They have a lawyer to contact right away, and I just talked to him.”
“Was he expecting your call?”
“He didn’t know my parents had died but he knew he would hear from me when they did. He asked me some questions and agreed I was their daughter. If you think you can leave tomorrow, I’d like to make reservations.”
“No problem,” I said.
“I’ll be paying for these tickets, Chris, and for all your expenses.”
“Thank you. That’s very generous.”
“There’s enough in this envelope to cover all our costs. I have no idea where we’ll go after Madison, but we can play it by ear as we uncover more clues. It sounds more like a treasure hunt than anything else.”
Her next phone call reported our departure time and other necessary information I would leave with Jack and Eddie.
“I would have thought, if these folks were innocent, that they would tell their daughter what the hunt was all about and who the killers were,” Jack said in the evening.
“Me too, and I’m concerned. If they committed some felony a long time ago, the killer may have had a rightful grudge, although I don’t condone murder under any circumstances.”
“Well, maybe there are more answers in the Madison lawyer’s office. It sounds as though these people planned very carefully for their daughter to inherit.”
“But inherit what?” I asked, not expecting an answer.
“Take a shovel with you,” Jack said with a laugh. “Maybe you’re going to dig for buried treasure.”
We had adjoining seats on the plane, Ariana in the window seat. Since no one sat on the aisle, I did. We talked sporadically and I showed her the list of Brinkers living in Portland that we had taken off the Internet.
Thinking of the silver anniversary, I said, “Did you ever see your parents’ wedding pictures?”
“They had a few, not many. They looked as though they had been taken by a professional photographer, but they weren’t in an album and some of them were trimmed.”
“Maybe they were removed because your parents didn’t want you to see the faces of all the guests.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” She looked troubled. “That would mean someone at their wedding may have killed them. But you’re right, the only pictures I ever saw were of the two of them. No, wait, that’s not true. My grand-mothers were in one picture and I think maybe a grandfather.”
“How was your mother dressed?”
“In a long white gown. And my father was dressed formally, too.”
“So it was very likely a big wedding.”
“And the killer may have been there,” Ariana breathed. “How terrible to think that someone you cared enough about to invite to your wedding would hate you enough to kill you. If only I could get a list of guests.”
“Not likely if the killers covered their tracks as well as they seem to have. Did your parents have brothers and sisters?”
“They said they didn’t.”
“And you never met an old friend from when they were younger?”
“Never.”
“Will the lawyer see you tomorrow? It’s Saturday.”
“He said to call when we arrive today. I think we’ll get to come to his office this afternoon. If not, I have his home phone number.”
“Your parents certainly found accommodating lawyers,” I said.
“They were nice people. Other people went out of their way to be nice to them.”
I thought about the wedding, the Brinker-Something wedding. Had they been married in Portland? I supposed we could go from church to church, from hotel to hotel, from restaurant to restaurant, looking for the one that had held the wedding. But old hotels are torn down, restaurants go out of business. Even churches sometimes close their doors when the neighborhood changes and their congregation moves to another part of town. I wasn’t optimistic. Maybe there would be answers in Madison.
12
As it happened, leaving New York early had been wise. We arrived at our hotel in mid-afternoon and Ariana called the lawyer before she opened her suitcase. He was waiting for us. We got a taxi and landed at his office about ten minutes later.
Madison is, of course, a college town. It exudes the kind of feeling that has always appealed to me. There’s a relaxed atmosphere among the people in the street, particularly near the campus. The taxi driver offered to give us a brief tour, but Ariana said we were in a hurry and he took us directly to the lawyer.
The office was on the second floor of a low building on a commercial street in the heart of the city. The receptionist was expecting us.
“Mr. Keller is waiting for you, Ms. Brinker. Come this way.”
The office had a friendly, homey look, a far cry from Beverly Weingarten’s lush appurtenances. A graying man in shirtsleeves and little glasses on the tip of his nose rose and came around the desk to greet us. He carried a snapshot of Ariana in his hand and he compared it to the real face for several seconds. “I’m Wally Keller. Glad to meet you, but I’m sorry about your parents.”
Ariana made a brief introduction of me and explained she had picked up an envelope from the lawyer in New York, which he had already guessed. There was no other way she could have come upon his name and phone number.
We sat and he offered coffee, which I accepted. I noticed a file folder on his desk that I assumed was the Brinker file. He pulled out a brown envelope, very much like the one Beverly Weingarten had delivered to Ariana in New York, and left it on his desk. It, too, was sealed with wax and wire. We had arrived at step two of the hunt.
“Let me begin by giving you some information you may not yet have. Your parents owned a house here in Madison.”
“They owned it in their names?” Ariana said with surprise.
“Through a corporation we set up for them some years ago. I manage the details, provide for maintenance, pay the taxes, and so on. It has been rented to a few professors at the university over the years, and when it was empty for a while, one or the other of your parents would stay in it for a week or two. It’s completely furnished.”
“Is someone living there now?” I asked.
“Not at the moment, as it happens. The Farrels left for a year in Europe a few weeks ago and gave up the house. You’ll be able to visit it without intrusion.”
“What’s in it that I would want?” Ariana asked.
“I don’t know the answer to that, but it’s a fine house and it will be yours.” He handed her the envelope. “Whatever your parents wanted you to know is in here. When the paperwork is done and you have death certificates, you’re free to put the house up for sale, unless you choose to live in it. It’s in a nice neighborhood, not far from the cam
pus, and I can tell you it’s in A-one condition. By the way, I talked to Ms. Weingarten this morning and she confirmed what you told me on the phone yesterday.”
“You had her name and phone number?” Ariana asked.
“Well,” he said with a smile, “you may not recall, but you gave it to me when you called yesterday. I had it from your parents, too. I gather she has spoken to the police in the town where your parents died.”
“She got as much information as she could from them, including copies of the autopsies. But she didn’t tell them I’m their daughter. I’d like to do as much as I can before I cooperate with the police.”
“I understand,” he said. “I hope you’ll keep me up to date on whatever you learn. That’s not to say you have to tell me the contents of that envelope. That’s yours and yours alone. If you decide to sell the house, I can handle that for you.”
“Thank you.”
We returned to the hotel, and I decided to go for a walk while Ariana opened the envelope. We were sharing a room and I didn’t want to get in her way at a potentially emotional time. It also gave me a chance to make some calls from a phone downstairs. I talked to Eddie, but it was too late to reach Jack at work and he hadn’t come home yet. Elsie said she had brought a good dinner with her so that poor Jack wouldn’t have to do any cooking tonight. Poor Jack, I thought. It was bound to be the best meal he’d had all week. And if I knew Elsie, there would be plentiful leftovers.
I walked around the hotel lobby, looking in the shops on the main floor, wondering if Eddie would appreciate a sweatshirt from the university. I decided he’d like it very much and went in and picked up a child’s size. As I paid for it with my one credit card, a chill went through me. My son might want to go to college away from home. Come on, Kix, I said to myself silently, using my childhood nickname, you’re a woman of the world; you have to let him go one day. Just not too soon, I added, taking the bag from the cashier.
I gave Ariana a full hour to absorb whatever information and possible surprises might be enclosed in the brown envelope. When I returned to the room, I knocked and waited for her “Come in” before I slid my key card in the slot.
“Chris,” she said. “I don’t know how to tell you this. It’s very weird.”
“What do you mean?”
“It really is a treasure hunt. My parents have buried something on the property they own. Look. They drew a map for me.”
The map was done on graph paper to keep the perspective accurate. It showed the rear of the house, the brick patio, the lawn, and the limits of the property. Marked in heavy black ink were a number of bricks in the center of the patio. “Is something buried there?” I asked.
She nodded. “It’s all explained in the letter. A long time ago, they hired someone to put in a patio behind the house. They told him they were thinking of planting a tree or putting in a piece of sculpture, so the workmen left this area in the center without a concrete base. Then they buried whatever it is they want me to dig up.”
“This is unbelievable,” I said. “My husband said I should take along a shovel—”
Ariana laughed. “Did he really?”
“He did. I guess I should have. We’ll have to find a hardware store.”
“I’m going to rent a car,” Ariana said. “Even if it’s for just one day. It’ll make everything easier, and we can get around the city and back to the airport.”
“Good idea.”
“Maybe they buried a sculpture. But what will I do with it? And where did it come from?”
“Let’s not speculate. It may just be another envelope all wrapped in plastic directing you to another location. How are we supposed to dig up these bricks? Aren’t they cemented in? Otherwise the tenants might find them getting loose.”
“They’re cemented in but Mom says they’ll be easy to get up. We’ll need a chisel, too. I guess when she visited over the years, when there were no tenants, she checked on whatever was buried there.”
“It’s too late today. Let’s have dinner and set the alarm for tomorrow morning. Hardware stores open early and someone at the desk ought to be able to steer us to one.”
Ariana called the desk and ordered a rental car for the next day. Then we went down to the hotel dining room and had a good dinner. I could safely call this the most mysterious trip of my life.
After breakfast on Saturday we picked up the car and drove to a huge hardware store where we bought a hammer, a chisel, two pairs of work gloves, and a spade. Then, using the Brinkers’ map, we drove to the house at the edge of the campus.
It was on a beautiful tree-shaded street lined with brick and frame houses as far as you could see. Some must have been rented to students, who were out this sunny morning washing their cars in bare feet and entertaining friends. There were also children scattered around. Ariana drove slowly, looking for the number of our destination. When we found it, she pulled into the drive and stopped in front of a one-car garage. The front lawn was clipped and trees shaded the front of the house and the well-trimmed hedges.
“This is it,” she said. “The house I loved so much.”
Ariana used one of her keys to unlock the front door. Inside, the house was clean and pleasantly furnished. The kitchen had dishes in cabinets and flatware in drawers. The refrigerator had been cleaned and turned off. The door hung open.
I followed Ariana upstairs, where she wanted to look at the bedroom she remembered so well from her childhood. She walked in and stopped, looking around at the furniture, the windows, and the rug.
“It’s almost exactly the same,” she breathed. “I loved those curtains. Aren’t they wonderful?” She walked over and touched their pristine whiteness. Then she flicked the bedside lamp on and off.
I watched her open the closet door. Hanging on the rod were a number of hangers. Otherwise, the closet was empty.
“Let’s go out back,” she said, and we left the room. She glanced in the master bedroom and the tiny third bedroom, and then we went downstairs and out the back door. She took the map out of the brown envelope and we stood side by side on the brick patio, looking for the bricks we needed to dig up.
“I’ll get the tools,” she said, “and put the car in the garage.” She walked around the side of the house to the car. I followed in her wake, opened the garage door, and grabbed from the car the hammer, chisel, spade, and work gloves we had bought.
It was easy to identify the bricks we had to dig up and even easier to raise them with the chisel. They came out smoothly and we set them aside. When they were all out, we discovered a covering made of a stiff sheet of plastic. This we pried up and found packed earth underneath. Ariana took the spade and began to remove the earth, working carefully as though she might injure a piece of glass. She went down several inches and said, “I think I’ve found something.”
We dropped to our hands and knees and pulled away the earth with our fingers.
“Here it is.” She reached down and jiggled something black, moving it from side to side to free it. It, too, was encased in plastic. She brushed the dirt away and tried to tear the plastic, but it was strong and didn’t yield. I handed her the chisel and she poked a hole in it. From there, it was easy going.
“It’s a suitcase,” she said, pulling a stiff-sided bag out of the covering material, “kind of like an old-fashioned salesman’s bag. And look, it has my father’s initials on it in gold.”
“I’m going inside,” I said, getting up off the brick surface. “You look at it alone.”
“That’s OK, Chris.”
“No. This is your message from your parents.” I went inside and sat on the sofa in the living room. If it was old, it had been well cared for. It was firm and comfortable and faced a television set across the room.
I must have sat there for a full ten minutes before I heard the back door close and Ariana call, “Chris?”
“I’m in the living room.” I rose and started toward her voice. When I saw her face, I was shocked. “What’s wrong? Wh
at’s happened?”
“It’s not what I expected.” She dropped into a chair, the closed suitcase on the floor beside her.
“Is it something bad?”
“I don’t know, but I think it is.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Ariana. You don’t have to show me. We can go back to Oakwood or you can go anywhere you like by yourself. You have no obligation to me.”
She sat back in the chair, her hand covering her mouth as though she were afraid she might speak the wrong words. Her eyes were moist and fearful. Finally she said, “There’s money in there, lots of money. And jewelry.”
“Is there a letter?”
She nodded. She was holding it in her other hand. “My mother writes that the jewelry came from Grandma Brinker and the money—”
“You don’t have to tell me, Ariana.”
“She says they inherited some and earned some and it’s all mine.”
“Was your grandmother wealthy?” I asked.
“My mother says so in the letter. There’s even a letter from my grandmother in the suitcase telling me how much she—” She paused. “How much she loved me and how much she would have liked to know me.”
“Is there a return address?” I asked.
“There’s no envelope at all. She just signs it ‘Your loving grandma, Adelaide Brinker.’ ” She looked desolate, unable to say more.
I had a feeling I knew what was bothering her but I didn’t want to be the one to say it. Walking to the kitchen, I looked out the window for a minute or so, and then returned to the living room. Ariana was sitting just as I had left her.
“What if they stole it?” she said in a voice so low I could hardly hear her.
“You don’t know that.”
“But that could be the reason—the motivation for the manhunt. Maybe it happened while we lived here, maybe later.”
“When did your grandmother die?”
