I grasped the frame with my good hand, studied it. Nothing special about it or the drawing, which looked to be done on heavy card stock. On impulse, I fumbled to remove it from the frame and found that it wasn’t just a drawing, but a folded, handmade, one-of-a-kind invitation.
Come to a first birthday party for Jackie, January tenth, seven o’clock, three years before.
No address listed, so whoever sent it assumed Sumner knew where the party was to be held. But who was Jackie? It wouldn’t be too hard to check the birth records for that date. I hoped the child had been born in the Buffalo area. I jotted down the date.
I slid the invitation back behind the glass, turned it over, and continued to study it. It must’ve meant a lot to Sumner, or why would he have framed it? Then again, why wasn’t it on display any more? Why was it hidden?
Suddenly that queasy, unsettling feeling coursed through me. My fingers convulsed around the wooden frame as intuition flashed:
Nightfall.
Chest constricted. Throat closed on stifled sobs.
No!No!No!No!No!No!
A venom-filled voice—slow, draggy: “Get back in the car.”
Rising panic.
Closed in. Dark. An unspeakable horror—
I dropped the frame as though burned, shattering the vision. Gasping for breath, I pulled at my suddenly too-tight collar. I sat back, wiped my damp palms on my pants, willing myself to relax.
Fear. Got that in spades.
Raw terror. The world destroyed in a way that nothing could ever make right.
I frowned. These little nuggets of psychic insight were graphic, but not particularly helpful. At least not yet.
Unwilling to touch the frame again, I used a ruler to push it back into the cabinet, slamming the door.
“Can I help you?” An attractive redhead stood in the open doorway, her mouth pursed in annoyance. “This is Mr. Sumner’s office. Unless you have a damn good reason to be here, I’m calling security.”
“Sorry. I—” My mind raced, and in an instant I decided to tell the truth. “I’m waiting for my brother. He’s meeting with Ron Myers. I didn’t feel well, and the door was open, so I ducked in.”
She looked at me with suspicion. Okay, so it wasn’t the whole truth.
“I’ll leave.” I quickly rose and the room suddenly lurched around me. I grabbed at the file cabinet for balance, and the woman hurried to my side, grasping my elbow to steady me.
“Are you okay?”
“I need to sit.” She led me over to the low couch. “This is embarrassing. I thought I was better, and now. . . .”
She took in my lopsided haircut. “Were you in an accident?”
“Mugged. In New York.”
“That happened to my sister a couple of years ago.”
Now that I had her sympathy, I might just get some information out of her. “My name’s Jeff. Jeff Resnick.”
“Maggie Brennan,” she said, and offered her hand.
My fingers clasped hers, my gaze captivated by her deep blue eyes.
She wasn’t what you’d call beautiful. Fine lines around her eyes hinted at years of smiles. The color of her eyebrows didn’t match her auburn hair, cut in an out-of-date Dorothy Hamill wedge, but the style suited her. Her dark business suit made her look confident and competent.
“Umm. My hand?” she prompted.
Like a fool, I still clasped it.
“Oh, sorry.” I pulled back my hand; the palm had gone moist again. “Did you say this was Mr. Sumner’s office? Wasn’t he the guy in the paper who—”
“Yes. Isn’t it awful? I’m packing his personal things for his family.”
“Did you know him?”
“Everybody around here knew Matt.”
“I’ll bet the bank practically had to shut down with everybody going to the funeral?”
“Not as many went as you’d think. The rules for time off are strict. A bunch of managers went, but nobody I know would waste a vacation day for a bastard like him.” At my startled reaction, she quickly explained. “I can’t believe I said that. I just meant that he could be hard to get along with—a perfectionist who expected daily miracles from his subordinates. But nobody deserves to die like that.”
I indicated the photos on the wall. “He must’ve been devoted to his family.”
“Devoted to bailing them out of trouble.”
“Oh?”
She didn’t elaborate. In the pictures, Sumner’s children appeared to range in age from fifteen to thirty. No little tykes.
“Did he have grandchildren?”
“Not that I know of. His oldest son got married this past fall.”
Okay. The invitation writer could’ve been Sumner’s girlfriend, with a baby—his baby? If so, someone had to know about them. The question was who? But the woman standing over me wasn’t the person to ask.
“Are you feeling better now? I can show you to Ron’s office.”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” I rose to my feet.
She closed the door behind us. As she led the way down the corridor, I noticed how nicely her skirt fit. She paused at a door, knocked, then poked her head inside. “Ron? I think I found your errant visitor.” She held the door open for me.
“Thanks. For your help.” I offered her my hand again. She took it and I held on.
I liked Maggie Brennan.
* * *
Richard’s bank advisor was more interested in talking about trust funds than his murdered colleague. At my every attempt to change the subject, he’d jump in with some dull fact concerning loopholes and tax benefits Richard could enjoy if he’d entrust all his money to good old Ron. I didn’t much care for the man, and I suspected Richard felt the same, although he gave me a few sharp glances when Myers’s patience stretched thin. Eventually, I gave up.
From the bank we crossed the street and headed for The Extra Point, a sports bar lavishly decorated with local sports memorabilia—especially the Buffalo Bills. I’d lived away from Buffalo for a long time, and although I still cheered for the team, I’d forgotten what they meant, not only to the city, but to all of western New York. Didn’t Richard say he had season tickets?
Seated under one of Jim Kelly’s jerseys, we ordered lunch, and my physician watchdog brother actually allowed me to have a non-alcoholic beer. I could only look longingly at his glass of the genuine article.
Over lunch, I filled Richard in on what I’d learned, leaving out my memory of meeting Sumner. He didn’t seem impressed.
“Guess you didn’t expect all this when you invited me to stay with you.”
Richard set down his glass. “No.”
“I thought things would be a little less hectic, too.”
“Except for this psychic stuff, I expected you to be a lot more belligerent.”
“Belligerent? You mean like when I was a kid?”
Richard blinked. “Why would you say that?”
“It seemed to me I was constantly in trouble. How about when I bugged your grandmother?”
He almost smiled. “Maybe. But getting you to talk was as hard then as it is now. In some ways, you haven’t changed at all.”
I didn’t know how to reply to that.
“Belligerent, huh? Like those poor souls in the brain-injury rehab hospitals?”
“Jeff, I don’t think you understand how serious your injuries are.”
The chip on my shoulder grew bigger and heavier. “I’m not sick.”
“Look, don’t get angry—”
“I’m not angry. I’m adjusting—slowly—to everything that’s happened to me. Let me do it my own way, okay?”
“Okay.” He drained his glass. “Where do you want to go next?”
“Public library. I want to check the birth announcements in old copies of the newspaper.”
“Has it occurred to you that you’re going over the same ground as the police? What do you think you’ll find that they won’t?”
“I don’t think they’re looking into
the same things I am. Besides, they’re not likely to tell me what they know. By the same token, I’m not prepared to tell them what I know. At least not yet. Hell, Rich, I practically witnessed the murder.”
He looked around, lowered his voice. “Then go to the police.”
“How can I convince them when I can’t even convince you? And what am I supposed to tell them? ‘Uh, I have a funny feeling about this murder.’ They’d send me to a psych ward. Uh-uh, I can’t talk to the cops until I have some kind of hard evidence. Now can we pay the check and get out of here?”
It took longer to find another parking space than to drive the two blocks or so to Buffalo’s main library. True to his word, Richard brought his own book along. A heavy medical tome with a long, boring title. He sat and read for two hours while I gave myself one hell of a skull-pounding headache and a good case of vertigo whipping through the microfilmed records.
I ended up checking two months’ worth of newspapers for the names of children born the week before and after the January tenth date. I found three possibilities. John Patrick Ryan, Jacqueline Tamara Prystowski, and J. Matthew Walker. I hoped one of them was the Jackie I was looking for. Otherwise, I didn’t know what I’d do.
I wrote down the names and addresses. Two of the announcements listed both mother’s and father’s names. The Walker kid’s did not. Not unusual these days.
Closing my notebook, I found my very bored brother, and had him take me home.
Nausea kept me from eating dinner. I took two of the pink tablets and waited for sleep, the only haven of relief from the headache.
The memory of my only meeting with Sumner and the terror and horror I’d felt when touching that invitation kept circling through my aching head. I was onto something. I was going to find Matt Sumner’s killer.
CHAPTER 8
I awoke late the next morning—perfect timing for calling Sumner’s widow. I checked on Richard’s availability first. Funny, my brother didn’t seem to have a lot to occupy his days.
According to the newspapers, Claudia Sumner had been visiting friends in Florida at the time of the murder. Since she’d found the body, I wanted to talk with her while her memories were still fresh. When we spoke, I’d mentioned my former employer’s name, carefully avoiding the fact that I no longer worked for them. Without that ploy, she’d never grant me an interview. Our appointment was set for one. In the meantime I hauled out the phone book. I wasted an hour trying to call the parents of the kids born January tenth. No luck.
Next I called the funeral home. No, they would not discuss the church guest list or any arrangements on the Sumner funeral. Instead, they referred me to their attorney.
Richard and I hit the road about twelve forty, giving us a twenty-minute window to get across town. We hadn’t gone far when I pulled down the visor, inspecting my hair in the attached mirror. Maybe I should’ve asked Brenda to concoct some kind of bandage to cover my unusual haircut. I’d explained to Mrs. Sumner about my . . . accident . . . so that when she saw me she wouldn’t wonder what kind of nut case had come to visit her.
“What’s the matter?” Richard asked, glancing over at me. “Nervous?”
I flipped the visor back into place. “Yes.”
“Why? You interviewed six or eight people on Monday.”
“Yes, but none of them was the victim’s wife, and none of them found the guy hanging in the garage.”
“Just what do you hope to learn?”
“I don’t know. What I really want to do is get in that garage—”
“To see where it all happened?”
“Not the murder. Just the aftermath.”
Richard made no further comment. He still didn’t believe me. The logical part of me didn’t blame him. The brain-damaged part of me was irritated.
“Look, after we finish here, I’ll take you where I go and we’ll get you a haircut,” he said. “Maybe they can trim it up so that you don’t look like a—”
“Psycho?”
Richard smiled. “Nonconformist.”
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. The visor came down for another look. Definitely nonconformist.
Sumner’s house appeared no different than it had before, except for the uniformed security guard posted at the bottom of the driveway. Mrs. Sumner had found it necessary to hire someone to keep the hounding press at bay.
Richard waited in the car while I checked in with the guard, who waved me through.
I walked past a late-model Lexus. Mrs. Sumner’s or a friend’s? After climbing the concrete steps, I thumped the door’s brass knocker. Seconds later it opened a few inches on a chain, as though she’d been waiting behind it. All I could see were a pair of sharp, gray, schoolteacher eyes.
“Mrs. Sumner, I’m Jeffrey Resnick. I called earlier.”
“Can I see some identification?”
“Of course.” My old insurance ID worked again.
She scrutinized the card. “I must confess I don’t recall Matt having a policy with your company.”
Then again, maybe it hadn’t.
Just when I thought she’d slam the door in my face, she released the chain.
“May I take your coat?”
I waved off her offer and followed her into the house.
Claudia Sumner was an attractive woman of about fifty. Her short, permed hair was colored an appropriately light shade of brown, and her face was virtually unlined. Either she never had a care in the world, or knew a skilled plastic surgeon. Petite and trim, she wore a beige cashmere sweater, matching slacks, and comfortable-looking leather pumps. I bet she never sat down in front of the TV with a bag of nachos and a pot of salsa.
She seemed to be alone in the house, with no friends or relatives in attendance for emotional support. In fact, her attitude was very businesslike, not at all the bereaved widow I’d expected.
She settled on one end of the overstuffed couch in the living room, motioning me into a chintz-covered wing chair. The furnishings stressed comfort. Antiques and expensive-looking porcelain figurines graced the shelves and tabletops. Several framed photographs were scattered throughout the room, but they seemed to be exclusively of her children. No books or magazines, and no lingering aura of Matt Sumner, either.
“Are you working with the police?”
“I expect to share some information soon,” I said, hoping I’d effectively evaded her question. “I’m grateful you agreed to talk with me. It must’ve been unpleasant to find your husband.”
“I really don’t care to discuss it.”
“Can you give me some background on Mr. Sumner? His interests . . . ?”
“The newspaper was quite thorough. He was active in The United Way. He served as last year’s campaign chairman. Matt truly cared about people.”
Oh yeah?
“Did he have any enemies?”
She hesitated. “Not that I’m aware of. Matt was . . . could be,” she amended, “very charming.”
“Is it possible he might’ve had financial problems?”
“If you mean blackmail, no.”
Her perfectly calm statement took me by surprise, but then she’d probably already been over this with the police. And if she was willing to be blunt, there was no reason for me to dance around certain issues.
“Did he have a girlfriend?”
The widow was not surprised by the question.
“Perhaps. He worked late a lot these past few years. I suspected he might be having an affair . . . but I guess I didn’t want to know for sure. We lived a quiet, comfortable life.”
Her cold gaze made me shudder.
“Did he ever mention Jackie?”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I ran across the name in conversation with someone at the bank.”
“I know of no one called Jackie.”
I got the feeling she wasn’t exactly being candid with me. But then, I hadn’t really expected her to.
“When did you last speak with your husband?”
<
br /> She sighed. “Last Sunday evening. He said he had meetings all day Friday and I should take a cab home from the airport.”
“Did you find him immediately?”
“No. I was home for about an hour. I’d unpacked my suitcase and thought I’d go to the grocery store. That’s when I found him.” She looked away, her eyes filling with tears. I wasn’t sure if it was from grief or revulsion. I pretended to jot down a note, giving her a moment to collect herself.
“Who was the last family member to actually see your husband alive?”
She cleared her throat. “Me, I suppose.”
“None of the children visited while you were gone?”
“I don’t think so. Michael’s school is in Erie, Pennsylvania. Diane and Rob haven’t lived at home for several years.”
Which confirmed what the neighbors had said. “Do they live in the Buffalo area?”
“Yes, Rob does. Diane. . . .” Her gaze narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’d like to speak with them, too.”
She sat straighter in her chair. “I would prefer that you didn’t, although I suppose there’s no way I can stop you.”
I changed my line of questioning. “Did your husband hunt?”
“Never. He could never kill anything.”
Maybe not, but as a bank V.P. he’d had the power to ruin someone’s financial life with the stroke of a pen.
“Any other hobbies?”
“He golfed. He was quite good at it, too. He was to head a tournament in June. A benefit for one of his causes. At the moment, I can’t think which one.”
“That’s quite understandable. How tall was your husband?”
She looked at me as though the question was ridiculous, but answered it anyway. “Five-eleven.”
“And his weight?”
“I don’t know. Maybe two hundred and ten pounds.”
I jotted it down. “I’m curious; there were no calling hours at the funeral home. Was there a reason?”
She pursed her lips. “You are curious.”
I was afraid she was going to refuse to answer the question. Then she sighed.
Murder On The Mind Page 6
