Grave Designs

by Michael A. Kahn

  “She must have been proud.”

  “Sure. I was the beautiful princess she never could be.” There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. “Classic textbook case, right? Klutzy fathers make jocks out of their sons. Homely mothers make their daughters beauty queens.”

  “My mother wanted me to be the wife of a nice Jewish doctor,” I said. “Still does. And my father wants me to learn how to cook a tzimmes like his mother.”

  I flipped slowly through the scrapbook. Little Miss Peoria—five years old in a short dress, patent leather shoes, and a sunbonnet. Camp Wallawalla Queen for a Day. Homecoming Queen, Peoria High School. And then the big time. Miss Southern Illinois, Miss Corn-belt, Miss Heartland, University of Illinois Homecoming Queen, and then Ms. Illinois. News clippings for each, and hand-printed notes by her mother, loaded with exclamation marks—“We did it! My princess was wonderful! The judges loved her!”

  “This is impressive,” I said. “Did you really tap-dance for the talent part?”

  “Sure. When I was little it was perfectly adorable. And once I reached puberty the male judges loved it. Lots of jiggling.”

  I turned to the last page. Ms. United States. The headline read: NEW MS. UNITED STATES CROWNED; MISS ILLINOIS THIRD RUNNER-UP. In the picture Cindi was hugging the newly crowned queen. The defeat had been hard on her mother. No notes, no exclamation marks. Just the essentials: “7/28/85 C.H.T.—Third Runner-up.”

  “What does C.H.T. mean?”

  “Chicago Herald Tribune. That’s where the article’s from. The July twenty-eighth edition of the Herald Tribune.”

  “That’s my birthday.” I read the article. “Third runner-up. That’s not bad.”

  “I was lucky it wasn’t fourth runner-up after the way I screwed up.”

  “What happened?”

  “I made it to the finals. Then came the part where each of us was asked one question. The idea is to see who has grace under pressure, or some baloney like that. Which is ridiculous, anyway, since you give the same answer no matter what you’re asked.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You plan your answer ahead of time. Something really patriotic and tear-jerking.”

  “Did you?”

  “Sure. Mine was the social-worker-in-the-cancer-ward-of-a-children’s-hospital shtick. Then, no matter what I would be asked, that was the answer. If they asked me what my future plans were, I’d say I wanted to be a social worker in the blah, blah, blah. If they asked me what I’d do to make this country better, I’d say I’d train social workers and put them in blah, blah, blah. If they asked me what I’d do during my reign as Ms. United States, I’d say I’d spend my days visiting the cancer wards of children’s hospitals, blah, blah, blah. Get the idea? Total bullshit delivered in a trembling voice.”

  “Okay,” I said, smiling. “So what happened?”

  “Well, the emcee called my name and I walked over to the microphone. He said a few cutesy things and then he held up the card and read the questions. ‘Cynthia,’ he said, ‘if an alien from outer space landed in the center of your hometown and asked to see the one thing that typified the spirit of Peoria, what would you show him?’ The question was a cinch. And I had the answer ready. You know, I’d take the alien to the cancer ward in the children’s hospital, blah, blah, blah. But I didn’t say anything at first.” She frowned, crinkling her nose. “It was weird. Have you ever been talking with someone and suddenly become aware of your own voice? Like you’ve stepped out of yourself and you’re watching yourself talk, and your voice sounds odd, and the words stop making any sense? Or maybe someone is talking to you and you suddenly are noticing the hairs sticking out of his nose or the perspiration on his upper lip, or you even begin to watch yourself standing there listening to him?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, something like that happened. I started thinking, which, believe me, is never a good thing to do when you’re one of the finalists. I realized how my whole life had been leading up to this stupid question from this little jerk. All those years, all those pageants, all the pep talks from my mother, all those hours of smiling and saying cute things and giggling and wiggling my tush. Suddenly the whole thing seemed kind of ludicrous. And then I realized he had stopped talking and was staring at me in a funny way. And I couldn’t remember what he had asked. Something about outer space. If I asked him to repeat it, I was dead. Every judge knows that’s the oldest ploy for killing time while you’re trying to think of an answer. So I just launched into an answer to what I thought he might have asked. ‘If I was an astronaut and landed on another planet,’ I said, ‘I would establish a cancer ward in a children’s hospital and spend my life as a social worker for those little aliens and tell them how wonderful life was back in America.’”

  “And?” We were both laughing.

  “Oh, he paused and gave me a weird look. And then he said, ‘Isn’t that wonderful. Thank you, Cynthia.’ I looked over at the judges and I knew what they were thinking: This broad is either deaf or crazy or both. So…” She shrugged. “I lost.”

  “Well, at least you beat one of the five. After all, you were third runner-up.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” She grinned. “Imagine how rotten the fourth runner-up must have felt when she realized that I beat her.”

  I closed the scrapbook and leaned back. “You know it’s so…uh…”

  “Right. How did a nice girl like me get into a job like this?”

  “It’s none of my business.”

  “You’re absolutely right, Rachel. It isn’t any of your business.” She smiled. “But I bet you’d love to know, eh?”

  “Well, I was sort of wondering.”

  “My downfall was nothing special, believe me. I had moved to Chicago a year before the pageant and was doing some modeling with an agency here in town. About three months after the pageant the agency was sued for unfair competition, or something like that. Some of the models were going to be witnesses at the trial. The agency’s lawyer met with me the day before my deposition to prepare me. He was a good-looking guy, about fifty-five. He asked me out for dinner. We went to dinner and afterward I invited him up for a drink. He spent the night and left the next morning before I got up. I guess he had to hightail it home and work up some explanation for his wife. When I woke up I found two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills on the other pillow.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I had done it, you know, just for fun. No one had ever paid me. I didn’t know whether to be hurt or what. I just left the money on my dresser. A couple of days later another lawyer from this guy’s law firm calls up and asks if I’m free that night. I asked him how he got my name and he told me the first guy had recommended me. I said no to that guy, and no to the next guy. But they kept calling. And I kept saying no. At least for the next several months. Well, I was getting bored with modeling. I hadn’t been getting many assignments, anyway. They said my boobs were too big.” She shrugged. “To make a long story short, I finally agreed to have lunch with one of the ones who called. We just had lunch. He was charming. And clean-looking. His wife didn’t understand him, he’d just lost a big trial. The usual stuff. I felt kind of sad for him, and finally agreed to sleep with him. It was actually kind of nice. And the poor guy was so grateful. He paid me two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars for three hours! Where else could a tap-dancing English major make that kind of money? Well, he had friends, and his friends had friends, and before long I was working four nights a week at five hundred dollars a night. Of course, that was two years ago. I’m up to nine hundred these days, but that’s partly because of inflation.” She smiled. “Also, I’m better.”

  “Do you work every night?”

  “God, no. I keep it to two or three nights a week. That’s my limit, believe me.”

  “How much longer will you keep at it?”

  “Not muc
h longer. I’ve saved plenty of money. Believe it or not, I’ve even been thinking about law school. Listen, when you screw three lawyers a week, it starts to rub off.”

  “Really? Law school?”

  “Yeah. I did pretty well in college. Graduated with honors.” She shrugged. “If people will pay good money to screw me, they ought to pay me good money to screw someone else.” She paused for a spoonful of yogurt. “If you think about it, Rachel, you and I are just in different lines of the same business. I sell my body and hang on to my brains. You sell your brains and hang on to your body. You tell me who’s got the better deal.” She shrugged. “I might take the law boards this fall.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Sometimes I think I’d like to stay in Chicago. But then I think, why not try for the best? Who knows, maybe I can get into Harvard. If I get a high enough score on the LSATs, I’ll apply there. If I need extra money up there, it shouldn’t be a problem. If those professors are anything like their former students, I’ll find plenty of work.”

  We both laughed.

  She stopped laughing and frowned. “This Graham Marshall thing. God, it really shook me up.” She looked down at her apple, turning it slowly in her hand. “I didn’t really like him that much at first. He could really be a cold bastard. But you don’t have that sort of relationship with a guy for that long without developing some feelings.”

  “It must have been a terrible experience.”

  “It wasn’t a picnic, Rachel. He looked terrible lying there on the floor. And his eyes. I’ll never forget those eyes. He was so scared.” She shook her head slowly. “Like a little boy.”

  She pulled a handkerchief out of one of the pockets of the robe and blew her nose. I stood up and walked over to the window. Cindi concentrated on her yogurt, spooning it out slowly.

  “Jesus, Rachel,” she finally said, “can you imagine what they thought at the hospital when Marshall arrived in that rubber suit?”

  I turned toward her. She was smiling. Her eyes were red.

  I smiled too. “I can imagine.” I walked back and sat down across from her. “I’ve been wondering about that. Did he always wear that outfit?”

  “A lot of the time. He liked rubber.”

  “Isn’t that a little odd?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Actually, it’s not that odd for a Yale graduate.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “From my experience, Yalies are into that sort of stuff. They’re a kinky crew. They seem to like rubber.”

  “Just Yalies?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said, smiling, “each law school has its tendencies. I’ve noticed patterns.”

  “Like what?”

  “Where’d you go to law school?”

  “Harvard,” I said.

  “Perfect example,” she said. “They like English.”

  “English?”

  “Whips, chains, S and M. From my experience, Harvard men are into humiliation.”

  “Must be the side effects of three years of the Socratic method.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what they do to those poor guys in Cambridge. Listen.” She leaned forward, her eyes twinkling. “I have one Harvard man—a senior partner downtown—he comes up here with his own suitcase full of bondage equipment. He likes me to tie him up.”

  “He’s from Harvard?”

  “Yep. I can’t tell you his name—hooker-client privilege, you know.” She winked.

  “How about Michigan?”

  “Michigan, Michigan…let’s see…I’ve had about five clients from there.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I’d have to say most of them have been quick-draw artists.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “Premature ejaculators.”

  I laughed.

  “Rachel, I’m serious. You name the law school, I’ll tell you their quirks. I’ve seen it all.”

  “You should write a book.”

  “No, thanks. What about you? You have any lovers who are lawyers?”

  “Not since law school.”

  “Probably a good idea not to.”

  “Do you do anything during the day?” I asked.

  “I read some. And I still do some modeling. Boobs are in again these days. Which reminds me. I gotta kick you out of here. I have an appointment at a modeling agency in an hour. They’re interviewing for a swimsuit layout. Sorry.”

  We both stood up. “Thanks, Cindi. I appreciate your taking the time.”

  “No problem, Rachel.” She handed me my legal pad. “Was I any help?”

  “Sure. Anything I can find out about Marshall might help.” I snapped my briefcase shut and followed her to the door.

  “Well, give me a buzz if you need any more help.” She smiled and opened the door. “I enjoyed it. I really did.”

  “So did I. Take care, Cindi.”

  “You too, Rachel.”

  Chapter Seven

  My next stop was Abbott & Windsor. I called my secretary from the telephone in the reception area.

  “I just got here,” I told Mary. “Any messages?”

  “A few. Most can wait. But that Maggie Sullivan called twice. She sounds upset.”

  “About what?”

  “She wouldn’t say. I told her she might be able to reach you at A and W.”

  “Okay. I should be back in an hour.”

  Helen Marston was waiting for me at her desk with a manila folder in her hand.

  “Any luck?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I believe so,” she answered. I followed her into Marshall’s office.

  “What turned up?” I asked.

  “The filing department ran my request on the computer. Nothing under Maggie Sullivan. But this”—she held out the manila folder—“apparently was filed under Canaan. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  I opened the folder and lifted out a single page of lime and white striped computer paper. Centered at the top of the page in block letters were the words Canaan log. Below that heading, in a single column of computer print, was the following:

  3-20-CN-17-3

  7-28-CHT-4-3

  9-12-CP-23-6

  11-30-CHT-4-2

  “This is all?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid it is. I’ve already had them doublecheck the files.”

  “Some sort of code, I guess. Helen, could you make me a copy of this?”

  “Certainly.” She took the page. “I’ll be right back.”

  After she left, I remembered the dictionary. I opened the box I had placed it in last night. It wasn’t there. I looked around the room. No dictionary. I checked the other six boxes. No dictionary.

  “Here, Rachel.” Helen handed me a photocopy of the computer printout.

  I looked at it again, still baffled.

  So was Helen. She nodded at the printout. “I’ve never seen that before.” She paused. “But even after all those years of working for him, that man was still a mystery to me.”

  “I wish I knew what this means,” I said, studying the printout. “By the way, did you take the dictionary out of this office? The one that was here yesterday?”

  “No. It isn’t there?”

  “I don’t see it anywhere in here. I checked each of these boxes.”

  “Hmmm, I can’t imagine what happened. Perhaps someone borrowed it. Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe I’m starting to get paranoid. There was something odd about that dictionary. It had three definitions for Canaan and mine has only two.”

  “Isn’t that peculiar? Let’s check mine.” She walked out to her desk and returned with her dictionary. “Here,” she said, handing it to me.

  I found the entry for Canaan. Just two definitions. No mention of Canaan, Massa
chusetts.

  “Helen, could you see who might have borrowed Graham’s dictionary? It could be important.”

  “I’ll ask around.” She paused. “But be careful, Rachel. I have a feeling you could find out more about Mr. Marshall than either of us wants to know.”

  “I’m afraid I already have,” I said to her just as Benny Goldberg strolled in.

  “Greetings and salutations, Mrs. Marston,” he said.

  Helen nodded curtly at him and walked out.

  Benny waited until she was out of earshot and then, gesturing with his head in her direction, said, “She’s one of my biggest fans. All I have to do is smile at her and her colon goes into vapor-lock for a week.” He closed the door and sat down behind the desk. He had left his suit jacket back in his office. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the shirttail was hanging out of the back of his pants. “Nu? What’s happening with you and Captain Kink’s little pet?”

  “Take a look at this.” I tossed him the photocopied computer printout and explained how Helen Marston found it.

  “Looks like a code.” He studied the numbers and letters. “I don’t recognize the pattern. Checking account? License plates? Beats the shit out of me, Rachel.”

  “This whole thing is getting strange,” I said. “And now Marshall’s dictionary is missing. The one with the extra definition for Canaan. Someone borrowed it, or just took it. Helen is going to try to track it down. Say, aren’t you supposed to be in a deposition? Wasn’t it this morning?”

  “Oy, what a disaster. The other lawyer was a cretin. The deposition lasted only ten minutes before he stormed out with his client.”

  “What happened?”

  “He tells the witness not to answer one of my questions. So I turn to the witness and explain that under the rules of procedure he can decide whether or not to follow his lawyer’s instruction not to answer my question.”