Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 02 - The Appropriate Way

by Rohn Federbush

  “I’ll bite. I’ll question every one of these.” Sheriff Woods reached for the envelopes with Wayne addresses. “You and Tim scour Enid’s neighbors and see what you can find.”

  Sally’s mind approached a painful subject. “Do we know what set Bret Armstrong off? I was under the impression Matilda was not going to reveal her lover.”

  Gabby’s attention zeroed in on Sally. “Who was Matilda’s lover?”

  “We’d rather not say,” Sheriff Woods said.

  When the tea tray was depleted of everything edible, Tim and Sheriff Woods left with Gabby. Sally picked up the phone to call Grace in Ann Arbor.

  “Thank God you called,” she said. “I’ve been praying for you. Are you able to attend a meeting?”

  “God knows I need one.” Sally laughed. “I’m feeling like my old crazy self. Do you think I’m going to be okay?”

  “Self-pity is a cruel hook. Alcohol just loves grieving widows.”

  “I’ll go tonight. Grace, thanks for being there.”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t forget to thank our Maker. His mercy endures forever.”

  Sally called the hotel’s front desk to find out if the Honda was parked nearby or if she would need to call a cab. When she slid behind the wheel of John’s car, she thought about driving all the way to Ann Arbor. Instead, the numerous loose ends concerning Enid Krimm’s death convinced her to search out the Bethlehem Lutheran’s AA meeting place. The modern flagstone façade was adequately labeled with a low sign near the street; however, none of the doors were open.

  Consulting her pocket calendar, Sally recalled the Lutheran Church held a Monday night meeting, not a Tuesday night. She repeated her third step prayer as a substitute for the meeting. “Lord, I offer myself to you to do with me and to build with me what you will. Save me from the bondage of self. Free me from my present difficulties so that I may bear witness to those I’m trying to help of Thy power, Thy love, and Thy way of life. Help me to do Your will always.” She also promised herself to attend a Thursday noon meeting at St. Mark’s in Geneva.

  Sally slept well Tuesday night. The two cases needed solving in the morning and she needed her rest. The ghosts surrounding her could wait their turn for her attention.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Second Wednesday in January

  When she woke, a list of questions filled her mind. Did they find Geraldine’s ring in the Masters’ blackened fireplace? Who set the fire? How long was Enid in the house alone after Geraldine left? Where was Peter Masters at the time? Who laundered Enid’s linens? Did John find out who the movers of her furniture were? What was her destination? Most importantly, who triggered Bret’s ire enough to want to kill her? She tried not to dwell on John’s death. How many people had been blackmailed?

  Tim phoned early to find out when Sally would be ready to interrogate Enid’s neighbors. “I thought we could bring them into the station. Then, they would understand how serious we are.” When Sally didn’t respond quickly enough, he added, “You know, about any information they might give us.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sally said. “We can always threaten to question them at the police station, if they won’t help us.”

  “What time will you be ready?”

  “Nine. What time is it now?”

  “Eight. Do you really need an hour for breakfast?”

  “You haven’t eaten?”

  “No,” he said.

  Sally laughed. “Why don’t you eat. You’re always hungry.”

  “I forget about it. I still live in my folks’ house in Geneva, the one you cleaned for us. Jeff is out of the house by five for his job in Chicago. Molly teaches in Elgin, so nobody’s here when I wake up.”

  “Poor bachelor. Come on over. The hotel’s breakfast has a long menu. Wait half-an-hour before you start.” Sally glimpsed her smile reflected in the hotel room’s mirror. Young people were such a joy to be around.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Enid Krimm’s Neighborhood

  Tim parked the police cruiser in Enid’s driveway. “Which side of the condo do you want to interrogate?”

  “Better stick together,” Sally said, “to act as each other’s witness for any facts we might uncover.”

  Only one housing unit was attached to the left of Enid’s. In the small dooryard, a wooden wheelbarrow held a peck of snow. Sally imagined flowers were expected to bloom in its interior in the spring. She knocked on the door, checking her watch -- ten o’clock.

  Taking her own sweet time to answer the door, or perhaps jumping out of a bed in the upstairs, a skimpy-haired woman appeared in a long fleece bathrobe. “Yes?” she asked, quickly adding, as she began to shut the door. “I’m not interested.” Tim stopped the door with his arm. He poked his police badge through the opening. “You’re not allowed to come in,” the woman said. “I know my rights.”

  “We want to inquire about your neighbor.” Sally positioned herself in front of Tim.

  A faint odor of something like the alfalfa, Sally remembered from her years on the farm, issued from the house.

  “The Krimms?” the woman asked, opening the door an inch more.

  “Yes.” Sally moderated her tone to friendly. “Have you known them long? Mrs.?”

  “Sederbush,” the older woman said. “Don’t know them at all. Minded the traffic, though.”

  “Traffic?” Sally pushed lightly on the door.

  “Well, come in if you’re about to. You’ll have to sit yourself down. I need to get presentable. Or, go ask the other neighbors and come back.”

  “We will,” Sally said. “I don’t suppose you kept notes.”

  “I certainly did. License numbers and all.”

  Sally thought about protesting against the closing door, but decided the information was too valuable to irritate the source. “Thank you.” Sally managed as she followed Tim down the front stoop.

  The neighbor on the Krimm’s right was more welcoming, but less helpful. “Enid Krimm?” Another older woman answered their question. “Was that the daughter’s name? I met her mother, Kathleen, for exactly two seconds. Come in, come in, I love company.”

  Sally and Tim followed the fragile woman into her dining room, where she folded up her walker before easing into a soft chair. “Young man, there’s coffee on the kitchen counter. Why don’t you pour your mother and me a cup? Donuts in the fridge. I like cream, too.”

  Sally took out her notebook. “You are Mrs.?”

  “Pierce, Miss Pierce, thank you very much. You can write down ninety years old, if you’ve a mind to.”

  Tim busied himself in the kitchen and then served them coffee and donuts. Sally asked, “Have you thought there was anything odd about your neighbor?”

  “Always been odd. But then, who isn’t. Did notice the movers.” Miss Pierce broke a piece off one of the un-iced donuts and dunked it into her coffee, without apology. “Those guys had a heck of a job. They packed up everything into huge wooden crates. The truck’s crane mechanism pulled the crates up a ramp to its flatbed. Took them all day. I went to sleep before they finished.”

  “Did you happen to see the name on the truck?” Tim asked between mouthfuls of donuts.

  “International Seaways, something like that I’m sure.”

  “We thought Enid lived alone,” Sally said.

  “She did for the last fifteen years. Her mother died from AIDs. One of the first cases I heard about. I don’t suppose anyone will be wanting to buy the place for a long time.”

  Mrs. Walker and her son, Gary, the neighbors to the right of Miss Pierce’s unit, were not as welcoming. Tim and Sally stood in the hall during for the entire interview. Mrs. Walker summoned her son from the basement, where a television was blaring drug commercials. “Gar-ryee, get up here. Police officers want to know if you knew the Krimms?” Mrs. Walker winked at Tim. “In the biblical sense, I assume.”

  Tim stepped away from the woman. So, Sally questioned the two, who resembled each other enough to play Tweedl
e Dum and Tweedle Dee. Both sported thick long yellow hair. Their height, stomach, blue eyes, and lack of eyebrows also matched. Even their blue jeans, fleece-lined slippers and sweatshirts were identical. Each shirt was emblazoned with reindeers, sporting Christmas bells in their noses. Trying not to reveal her astonishment, Sally asked. “When was the last time you met with the Krimms?”

  “Christmas Eve,” they answered in unison. They smiled at each other and then added in perfect harmony, “She moved out.”

  The son stepped forward, which caused the bell on his shirt’s reindeer to tinkle. His mother also moved toward Sally and Tim with the same tinkling of bells. “Laundry,” they said, together.

  The son deferred to his mother with a courteous sweep of his hand. Mrs. Walker said, “We thought it odd, after we moved in. A linen service made deliveries once a week.”

  “What name was on the delivery truck?” Sally asked.

  Simultaneously they answered. “Stuart’s.”

  “They lived here, how long?” Tim asked.

  Mother and son smiled at each other, and answered in concert. “Ten years.”

  Tim pulled at Sally’s sleeve. “Thank you, both.”

  Once outside, Sally and Tim hurried to the cruiser. Tim drove the car a block away, out of sight of the Walker’s windows. He parked as quickly as he could. “Good Lord,” was all he said.

  “See what can happen.” Sally couldn’t stop laughing. “When, when a mother and son live together.”

  “Gave me the shudders.”

  “I haven’t laughed, since seeing Bret in John’s house.” Sally wiped her forehead free of irrelevant cobwebs.

  “We better get back and see Mrs. Sederbush.” Tim suggested.

  “Did you see Matilda, after?”

  “With Sheriff Woods. We drove her to the Montgomerys, where her mother and father are staying. We didn’t think we should leave her alone.”

  “I don’t wish to get into your personal business.” Sally equivocated. “What did she say for herself?”

  “She said she did not mention me to Bret. She was shocked by his violence. He never said a word about me to her.”

  “Where was the butler?”

  “He is never around, when I show up to see Matilda.”

  “Yes, but,” Sally began and then changed the direction of her question. “Do you know his name?”

  “J. K. Reeves.”

  Back at Mrs. Sederbush’s condominium, Sally was astonished at the woman’s transformation. She no longer looked over sixty. In fact, if you ignored the out-of-style wig and the condition of the skin on her neck, she might pass for the heavy side of fifty.

  Tim seemed oblivious to how nicely Mrs. Sederbush cleaned up. He was busy writing down license plate numbers from the list she provided.

  “Oh, don’t waste time.” Mrs. Sederbush scolded. “Just take the list with you.”

  “When did you start recording Enid’s visitors?” Sally asked.

  “They’re dated.” Mrs. Sederbush pointed to the list. “When I first retired from DuKane, I marveled at the different cars. First, I thought I wasn’t acquainted with how busy people could be at home. You know, if they didn’t work for a living.”

  “How long have you been retired?” Tim paged through four pages of numbers.

  “Six months.” Then Mrs. Sederbush laughed. “I should tell you. One night, about 1:00 in the morning, mind you; I crept outside and used a flashlight to read the plate on a Cadillac.” She pointed to the final entry on the last sheet of paper Tim spread out on the dining room table. “For about three days, there were no visitors. Then the movers showed up. How’s that for a successful neighborhood action committee of one.”

  “Very brave.” Sally decided to put the fear of God where it belonged. “Enid Krimm died in a suspicious fire.”

  Mrs. Sederbush shuddered and reached for her list.

  Tim kept the evidence safely away from her. However, he saw fit to add to the proud vigilante. “And a man who drove a Cadillac shot and killed Sally’s husband last week.”

  “Please,” Mrs. Sederbush said, completely chagrined, “Will I need to testify against anyone?”

  “You might,” Sally said. “In the future, you would be safer to call the police when there is a problem.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Kane County Sheriff’s Office

  At the Geneva police station, Sally entered Sheriff Woods’ empty office. The large squad room could be viewed through the office’s glass walls. Tim was explaining, to a female officer, how the license number list should be checked against the stack of addressed cards Sally provided.

  Sheriff Woods’ wooden desk held a minimum of personal belongings. A picture of Gabby stood behind a silver paperweight with a Chinese inscription. Sally studied the bookcases around the window behind the desk. A credenza with three, model sailing ships added a nice touch. The room was his safe haunt, since his father retired from the hardware store.

  Sheriff Woods returned with a pot of coffee.

  “Fifty years? Is that how long you’ve been here?” Sally asked.

  “About.” He handed her a filled cup of coffee. “Can’t complain. Jill Wisnewski-Reddinger did not fare as well.”

  “Gabby said she’s okay.”

  “After a long stay in Elgin’s mental ward. Didn’t your mother write you about her?”

  “Mother?” Sally easily summoned up her mother’s reaction to Tony Montgomery’s suicide.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  December 1958

  The night Tony slaughtered himself in the Hotel Baker’s fourteenth-floor hallway, Art had telephoned Sally. In shaking sobs, he described the details of Tony’s last moments. That morning when Jill, the new Mrs. Charles Reddinger, opened the bridal suite’s door, she found Tony sprawled on his back. He’d bled to death. At the funeral, Jill’s new husband supported her as they walked down a side aisle at St. Patrick’s, leaving Art to sit with his parents. Sally sat next to Jill. Jill held out her hand for Sally. Sally grasped Jill’s cold hand with both of hers, unable to speak.

  Jill pulled her hand away and then thrust it close to Sally’s face, whispering, “Can you see it? The devil is trying to get out of my hand?”

  Sally stood up and pulled Charles Reddinger to his feet. “We’ve got to get her out of here.”

  Jill began to cry, then wail.

  By the time Charlie, with Art Woods coming at last to help, and the three of them shoved Jill into the back seat of the Reddinger’s car, even closing all the doors didn’t cut down the noise of Jill’s hysterics.

  “What should I do?” Charles wrung his hands as he stood at the driver’s door.

  “Art, go back inside,” Sally said. “Explain to my folks.” Then deciding for them all she added. “We’ll take her to the hospital. They’ll know what to do.”

  In the back seat of the car with Jill’s cries in her ears, Sally turned to see Art still standing on the steps of St. Patrick’s. His shoulders slumped, his hands hung at his side. Finally, he lumbered back inside. Sally’s heart went out to him. If only she could mend all the grief and hurt he suffered since she’d met him.

  At the hospital, Charlie signed forms and nurses stuck sedative needles into Jill. Jill’s screams diminished and the staff wheeled her away.

  “They said to wait here,” Charlie said, as if glad to be told what to do next.

  Sally tried to get him to talk, but he only shrugged his shoulders, shaking his head in despair at every question. After two hours of inhaling disinfectants, a doctor as young as Charlie explained Jill would need to stay. Waiting for Charlie to bring the car around, Sally questioned the doctor about how long Jill would be hospitalized.

  “Oh, she may never recover,” the doctor said, cheerfully. “There’s a chemical imbalance, indicating she may be institutionalized for the rest of her life.” He left Sally standing in the lobby. Charlie coaxed her into the car, and then wheedled her into giving directions to her Dean Street home.
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  Two days later, Sally was finally able to tell her mother about the doctor’s diagnosis.

  If patience had been a ticket to heaven, Mother would not have needed a priest for a son. She waited for Sally to bring up the wedding disaster. She did prime the pump by expounding on the un-virtuous acts of Kathy Krimm, Tony’s date for Jill’s wedding.

  Kathy, it seems, came early to church auctions, picking through the donated jewelry. Kathy pocketed the best pieces and then bought a bag of costume jewelry for a quarter. “She’s a money grubber; I don’t care how fancy she dresses. She’s old enough to be Tony’s mother.”

  Sally opened a line of inquiry as mildly as she could. “Do you think craziness is hereditary?”

  “Well, Tony’s mother is -- different.”

  “He wasn’t buried in hallowed ground?” Sally realized what the answer would be.

  “We can’t be sure he didn’t repent.” Her mother was being unusually charitable. “He died alone.”

  “You were right about the hair dye,” Sally said. “Jill won’t be getting out of the mental hospital. Charlie will probably divorce her.”

  Sally’s mother pulled a kitchen chair out to sit down next to Sally. “Jill reminds me of a girl I knew when I was little older than you, before I married.”

  Sally looked into her coffee cup. Nothing tasted right anymore. She realized she was losing weight.

  Mother had continued, when Sally looked up again. “She married a concert violinist. They were Jewish, the family of the guy. I couldn’t very well accept his proposal, so Tyke married him. I visited them once in Bloomington. Their back door entrance was through a wood-latticed porch, covered in morning glories.” Her mother rose and fussed around the sink. “I’ve never been able to grow morning glories either.”

  “Mother?” Sally asked, missing the morale of the story.

  “Oh.” Mother returned to her chair at the table. “She, Tyke, kept house non-stop. If she offered you a cup of coffee, she’d pick it up and wipe imaginary spills away from under the saucer. They gave birth to one child. Tyke nicknamed him Chicken. The kid was a scrawny, an un-cuddly thing.”