“I don’t get the connection.” Sally realized she spoke the same way her mother did. Books were not the cause of Sally’s miscommunication with her fellows. The problem occurred because she copied the stream-of-consciousness manner of speaking her mother indulged in. “Why are you telling me about Tyke’s baby? Because I was so ugly you couldn’t love me either?”
“I always loved you. When you were little and so sick all the time, you needed more attention than I could give. Now we’re off the farm and I’m freer, you don’t need all my attention.” Jumping back to her story, she said, “Marvin was killed.” As if that explained everything.
Sally sighed ready to give up trying to make any sense of the story.
Stroking her throat, her mother went on with the pointless tale. “Marvin was offered first chair in the New York Symphony. He killed a boy in a car accident.”
Nodding, Sally tried to encourage the end of the story.
“Marvin opened the door and the father of the boy he’d run over, shot him, dead.”
Sally realized her mother’s tragedy. “He’d asked you to marry him.”
“I worked for his parents, cleaning house like you did while you were in high school.”
“Why are you telling me now?”
“Because Tyke reminds me of Jill. They didn’t put Tyke away but she was crazy. It wasn’t hair dye. Without love growing between people, they shouldn’t live under the same roof.”
“Like Jill and Charlie?”
Her mother nodded. “When love is denied, negative elements are pulled toward the void.” She stared quietly at Sally, waiting for her to talk.
“Somehow I think Jill believed she was unlovable, not able to accept Tony’s affection.” On their first ride to Lincoln, Sally recognized Jill kept herself sealed away from any incrimination from her conscience. “Maybe Art was right. Jill found it easier to lust for money than to search for love.”
The monsters in the dark, unexplored territory of Jill’s mind grew stronger from the lust and greed she fed on. Love’s light from Tony could have weakened her fears. Instead, they overwhelmed and destroyed her.
Sally wanted a safe world. “You wouldn’t let me marry someone I didn’t love?”
Her mother put her arms around her shoulders, pressing Sally’s head to her amble breast. “No,” she said, adding in a lighter tone. “Art loves to dance.”
Even though Sally loved Art Woods, could he sustain the level of lifetime devotion a commitment of marriage required? They had eaten the Log Cabin restaurant across from the Hotel Baker. The waitress knew them well enough to make sure Sally’s coffee remained hot. Sally consistently left a two-dollar bill under the saucer each time she ate there with Art. The couple sat silently throughout their meal.
The waitress tried to cheer them up. “Hey. Did somebody die, or are you two love birds fighting?”
“Somebody died,” Art growled.
The waitress’ voice dropped an octave. “I’m so sorry. Forgive my big mouth.” With her coffee pot still in her hand, she sat down next to Sally. “One of your parents, and now you’re putting off the wedding. Just elope.”
“Art’s best friend,” Sally swallowed, “killed himself.”
“Over a girl, I bet.” The waitress patted Art’s hand.
Art clenched his jaw muscles. “Well, while we’re telling all. The girl, who married someone else, is now in a mental institution!”
His angry voice blew the waitress out of the booth; but not before she leaned over and whispered to Sally, “Be careful.”
Sally thought she might need to be cautious. Out loud, she repeated Hawthorne’s passage in the ‘Scarlet Letter’, “The sufferer’s conscience...corrupted his spiritual being.”
Art held his head with his hands. “I hate all women. Maybe only Jill. Most of the girls at school chased money, too.”
“Tony was comfortable. Jill’s father didn’t like his course language.” Sally argued. “And you know they made love.”
“She wanted it! She used him the morning of her wedding”
“Oh, Art! My sister, Loretta, was right.” Art eyes snapped, asking what her sister could possibly reveal. Sally quoted her. “Once you make love you can’t stop.”
“No,” Art said with patient sarcasm. “The fortune of the Montgomery family is a tenth that of the Reddinger family.”
Properly chastised, Sally said, “Jill didn’t talk about their money.”
Art pounded the table with both fists. “Because your family doesn’t have any!”
Sally commenced to cry. Didn’t Art understand he was trying to get even, to prove Tony right? Sally looked at him again. His actions were tainted with the angry burden of grief. He resembled a wounded, cornered animal fighting for its life, unwilling to look at the heart she held out to him. If she waited long enough, would he come back to her? Choose love, Sally telepathed to him, choose me.
“I want to go to bed with you,” Art said, as if astonished at his candor.
“I do too.” Sally took off her glasses to wipe away the tears. While she focused with her large myopic eyes, her lashes still wet from crying, she witnessed Art’s heart soften.
He reached for her hand. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I upset you. I think the world of you. I never leave you without feeling better about myself.” He stopped talking, and his head seemed cleared of a degree of agony. “...a better person, Sally.”
She smiled. He didn’t know he loved her. She crooned to him. “All night I could not sleep, because of the moonlight on my bed.”
Art released her hand. “Don’t bring it up.” He ran his hands through his hair as if hoping evil thoughts wouldn’t land on his brain, so soon.”
“It’s only from ‘Chinese Translations’.” She tried again to soothe him.
“Books can’t answer everything. Your head lets words leak out without logical antecedents. I often want to scream at you.” Staring as if hoping to find an answer in the depth of her eyes, he asked, “How long will Tony torment me?” Sally didn’t respond. The waitress re-entered their space, smiling at what she perceived was their happiness. She silently poured Sally a congratulatory cup of hot coffee. Then squeezing Sally’s hand, Art said, “It is as if you were given a sacred mission to defend me against a hostile world, even against myself.”
Sally recognized the quote. “Somewhere in ‘Evocations of Love’.”
“Yes, I’m not all the way through the book.” Art smiled sheepishly.
“Wasn’t it said between brothers?’
“Maybe Tony was my brother. I sure failed to defend him from Jill.”
“We all failed. Mostly, Tony chose to fail himself.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Second Wednesday in January
Kane County Sheriff Office
“Did you two find out anything at Enid’s?” Sheriff Woods asked Tim, when they joined him in his office.
“Probably an international move was planned, or carried out. We should go through Enid’s belongings, once we locate them.” Tim rubbed his forehead.
“The Stuart Linen Service records could add evidence to our theory,” Sally said. “Enid was running a house of ill-repute.”
“Evidence for the opportunity for blackmail,” Tim said.
“I’d like to question the butler, too.” Sally ran her finger over the book bindings on Sheriff Woods’ shelves.
“Oh, come on,” Sheriff Woods kidded with her. “You don’t think the butler did it.”
“He knew Tim was no longer Matilda’s lover.” Sally pulled out Sheriff’s Woods’ copy of Robinson Crusoe. “Do you still refer to this book, each day?”
“I do.” Sheriff Woods smiled. “Try it.”
Sally opened the worn copy to the face page to check the publication date. Chicago was the place, but no date survived the printing. so she scanned a page at random. From page 149, she read aloud. “But it is never too late to be wise. …they are proof of the converse of spirits, and a secret comminat
ion between those embodied and those unembodied….”
“You think the butler told Bret, you mean?” Tim asked.
“We’ll pick him up,” Sheriff Woods said. “Is John still helping us?”
“I don’t think you will be able to find the butler at the Armstrongs’ castle,” Sally said. “I suspect he’s long gone. If John Nelson could send us a clue, he would.”
Sheriff Woods set a file folder on the desk for Sally to review. “The fire inspector sent me the arson report for the Masters’ home. I’ll go file a missing person report on the butler.” He left the office.
Sally read parts of the report to Tim, “Mrs. Masters didn’t close the door, when she fled Enid.”
“What about the candle?”
“They found wax droppings. Enid used the candle to set fire, first to the couple’s bedding in the master bedroom, then the tablecloth in the dining room, and finally the couch skirt in front of the fireplace.”
“Did she set fire to herself then?”
Sally read. “At some point the heat in the low rooms and the fires Enid set flashed into the front room.”
“She could have escaped through the open front door.”
Sally shook her head. “The open door added oxygen for the fire.”
“No one else was in the house.” Sheriff Woods said, as he walked back in. “Peter Masters is off the hook.”
“Then why did he keep lying to us about going to Dallas?” Sally asked.
“They did find the ring Geraldine threw in the fireplace.” Sheriff Woods placed a blackened object on his desk. One diamond on the soot encrusted ring winked at them.
Just then, the policewoman Tim gave the task of identifying license plates numbers knocked on the door. “Officer Hanson, Bret Armstrong is the owner of the Cadillac on the list.”
“About Bret,” Sheriff Woods said. “His lawyer has asked for a psych evaluation.”
Sally shied away from the news. She purposefully avoided speaking by finishing her cup of coffee. The hot liquid helped to unclench her throat. “I know John’s death is connected to Enid’s. Whoever harmed Enid, aimed Bret’s gun at my husband.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Later that evening, Sally ate supper in the Hotel Baker’s dining room. A table next to the two-story windows provided a wondrous view. White Christmas lights trimmed the small trees lining the bank of the Fox River. The ice jam near the dam sparkled from the reflections. Changing tints in the city-hall tower across the river added their colors to the winter scene. She didn’t recognize any of the hotel’s other patrons. She left half the food on her plate, when memories of John bringing her a second cup of hot coffee when she was working on her first case overwhelmed her and negated her appetite.
Safely back in her suite of rooms, Sally reminded herself room service was a better option. Three of her suitcases and several storage boxes were dumped in the dining alcove of the hotel room. She recognized Betty’s handiwork. Too tired to unpack her clothes, Sally dragged one of the storage boxes over to the couch.
Ginger raced out of the bedroom nearly knocking her down with his greeting. Then she ran around the room with her nose to the floor. She was searching for John. “Ginger,” Sally called only once.
With her tale between her legs as if she was to blame for losing John, Ginger approached the couch. Sally patted the hotel’s couch. “Never mind, Ginger. We still have each other.”
The dog jumped on the couch and laid her head in Sally’s lap. Sally turned on the television for company and opened the lid of a storage box. A file folder marked with a black felt pen in John’s handwriting, read, “Movers.”
Ginger sniffed the file, apparently not relieved to only smell her master’s presence. Sally held the folder to her face. She could smell John’s cologne, too. His presence surrounded them for a moment. She kept her emotions in check. There was work to be done to find out why her sweet husband was annihilated.
John’s copious notes from telephone conversations were numbered and rated by possibilities. Sally read through the twenty legal-pad pages, before she came to one signified with a number 10. ‘French Flyways’ held Sally’s attention. A signed contract was faxed by the company to John. The signature at the bottom of the contract read, “J. K. Reeves.”
Sally checked her watch. Too late to accomplish anything. Ten o’clock. Nevertheless, she dialed Sheriff Woods’ home number. “Gabby, I apologize. Could I speak to your husband for a moment?”
“Absolutely. We were watching ‘Law and Order,’ of course.”
“Yeah,” Sheriff Woods said. “Who is this?”
“Sally. Who else owns the balls to call you this late?”
“What do you have?”
“The butler signed Enid’s moving contract.” Sally tried to keep a triumphant tone out of her voice. “We need a search warrant of the Armstrong castle.”
“Boy, this will crimp their breeches.”
Sally laughed. “And you, Sirrah, have been reading way too many Elizabeth George mysteries.”
“Could be; but I’ll call the Judge Schonemann tonight. Will you be ready to roll with Tim in the morning?”
“Yes, but,” Sally re-considered the ramifications, “With Tim so, shall we say, intimately involved, perhaps you and I should tackle this one.”
“Tim’s nose would be permanently out of joint. I’ll come along with you two, just to protect you.”
“Great,” Sally said, thinking she didn’t need protection. She needed more answers and quickly, if justice was going to be served in her lifetime.
Chapter Seven
Second Thursday in January
Hotel Baker, St. Charles
Sally’s mind drifted among the pillows. ‘Safe, Lord,’ she thanked her Maker. ‘Where?’ was her next thought. She fought against the answer: ‘Lost.’
Her pride in the intelligence still granted at her age demanded she sort things out. She straightened her body in the warm sheets and folded her hands over her solar plexus, right hand on top of the sinister left. The Hotel Baker’s walls acknowledged she was still in St. Charles, where she attended high school. The loss of John pressed her down into the hotel’s mattress. Grief was heavier than the thermal blankets. Her mind sought sleep, her spirit denied the oblivion. The rigor of memorized prayers struggled to focus her mind away from the terrors of a future without the steadying influence of her new, but late, husband. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.”
She relaxed in the safe routine of chasing the goal of sanity against a backdrop of jumbled thoughts. Would Tim marry the young policewoman in Sheriff Woods’ squad room?
“Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth.” Sally’s toes stroked the soft sheets, when she repeated the word ‘earth,’ as if checking to see if she was still tethered to the mortal realm. “As it is in heaven.”
John surely waited for her in God’s safest place, away from thoughtless criminals ready to snuff out life in a second. “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”
Of course, she would need to forgive Bret for killing her husband. Maybe not today. Resentments would lead her to drink, if not resolved. “And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” Perhaps vengeance was the only evil in the world. All wars were fought to get even. “For Thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, now and forever, Amen.”
Without waiting for troublesome realities to present themselves, Sally followed the prayer with St. Francis’ favorite. “God make me a channel of Thy Peace. Where there is hatred, let me sow seeds of love.” Perhaps the Lord could forgive Bret for her.
Did the Montgomerys and Peter Masters hate her for delving into their personal lives? Someone needed to solve the reason for Enid’s mysterious death. Of course, John wasn’t killed by Bret alone. Someone knew Bret well enough to break his heart and cause him to seek a violent remedy.
There was a joke with St. Francis and
St. Anthony arguing about who could concentrate better when praying. St. Francis asked St. Anthony to bet his horse. St. Francis claimed he could pray without interrupting the prayer with divergent thoughts. St. Anthony agreed to the bet. So, St. Francis began, “Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with Thee. Can I have the saddle, too?”
Sally continued his prayer. “Where there is wrong, let me bring the spirit of forgiveness.” Sally agreed to surround Bret with a cloud of forgiveness, not specifically for any deed, not outright forgiveness, but at least she owned sufficient motivation to find out who triggered Bret’s mad attack.
Forgetting was never an option for cruelty. Sally mulled over her upbringing for a brief moment, which had left her self-image in the pits. Without tapping the source of all love and realizing the Lord found her beautiful in His eyes, her fate and addictions would have predicted a shorter life. “Thank you, Lord, for today,” she prayed. She was alive still. Supposedly the Lord wasn’t through with her journey on earth.
She scooted to the edge of the bed, sat up and as her feet touched the floor, she asked earnestly, “Help me trust you more, Lord.”
Now where to find more black clothing. For six days she’d worn the traditional grieving color. Her wardrobe did not anticipate widowhood when she packed for the move to St. Charles. She yearned for home, where a closet in her condo’s basement held the clothes she’d worn after Danny Bianco died. Robert Koelz’s death required tapping the source, too. She longed for her books lining the walls in her condo. Ann Arbor awaited her return. Nevertheless, unfinished business loomed in St. Charles.
The emerald green jacket from the Nelson’s New Year’s Day party would serve. If she wore the dark jacket with black slacks and a black turtle neck sweater, the world might recognize her grief. “Where there is discord, let me bring harmony.” Sally concentrated on her unfinished prayers. “Where there is despair, let me bring hope. Where there is doubt, let me bring faith.”
Sheriff Woods and his life with Gabby came to mind. Gabby was a blessing. Sally assumed Gabby demanded little attention from her husband. Perhaps she was content with his presence. And Art, did he find peace? Losing Tony Montgomery left a mark on him. A key part of the young Art Woods was snuffed out when Tony took his own life.
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