1 - Artscape: Ike Schwartz Mystery 1

by Frederick Ramsay

  “It staggers the imagination.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Time slipped by. They didn’t notice the other diners finish and leave for home, or assignations, or whatever came next on their program. Ruth kept Senator Rutledge in view from the corner of her eye, fascinated by the process unfolding at the table. The waiter appeared with the dessert cart.

  “Oh my, did you ever.…A person could gain five pounds just by looking.”

  “Well, are you going to slide all the way into decadence and take one of those or are you just going to drool down the front of your blouse?” Ike said.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she said and pointed at a big éclair on the cart. “That’s got to be at least thirty-five hundred calories—one pound. I’ll risk a pound.”

  Ike waved off dessert. The waiter shrugged and rolled the cart away.

  “So, how about you? How did the gum-chewing grunge child I saw years ago end up in the Shenandoah Valley?”

  “Oh, it’s not much of a story. I went to college, tried my best to outdo my parents in upholding the great causes of the day. Then my father had his first heart attack. It sobered me up, I guess. It is one thing to be forever young and believe you are on society’s cutting edge, another when you realize that your father might die and you haven’t done anything with your life except embarrass him. All the fun went out of hell-raising so I settled down. No more marching, no more provocative articles in the school paper, that sort of thing.

  “Graduate school was a logical next step, and before I knew it, I became my dad. Academia is a safe haven for us left-liberals, you know.”

  “Oh yes. So what did you study?”

  “Majored in political science, switched to history in graduate school. It gave me a wider range of things I could study.”

  “Let me guess—you did research on the history of women in politics.”

  “Close. I did my doctoral thesis on Margaret Sanger.”

  “No romance? No great affair of the heart?”

  “I got married. Does that count?”

  “But you’re not married now?”

  “No, not any more.”

  “It’s none of my business, but what happened?”

  “I’ll tell you my story, but only if you promise to tell me yours. Deal?”

  Ike hesitated. Could he? He had not spoken of those events in three years. Why now? Why this woman?

  “Okay, it’s a deal.”

  “Well, by the time I’d finished my doctorate in history, I had made a name for myself. I signed on as a faculty member, published journal articles, and wrote chapters—earned my academic merit badges. I sat on committees, commissions—all the usual stuff. But I did not feel good about me. Too many men. Don’t raise your eyebrows like that, Sheriff. There weren’t that many.

  “Then I met David. He was four years younger than I, a graduate student in the medical school studying reproductive physiology. We used to meet at night in the rat lab, gave the rats lessons in reproductive technique. We got married. I loved him, and it might have worked—only it didn’t.”

  Ike signaled the waiter for more coffee. When he left, Ruth continued.

  “I married David because I wanted stability. He gave me self-respect. In return, I supported him while he finished his Ph.D. He got a junior faculty position at the medical school and everything seemed to be fine. The problem was—I was doing better professionally. As hard as he worked, he couldn’t get into a tenure track. I got promoted and started receiving offers from more prestigious schools.

  “We told each other nothing changed, that the differences didn’t matter, but they did. I resented having to turn down offers. He resented my success. But we could never bring ourselves to talk about it. That was our big mistake.

  “Then, one day I got an offer I couldn’t refuse, department chair at the University of Chicago. We talked about it, or rather I talked, and David listened. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘there’re six or seven medical schools in the area. I’m sure we can find you something.’ What a terrible thing to say.

  “I moved from New York and commuted home on weekends. It wasn’t too bad at first. He began to look for jobs, but all his prospects fell through. He wasn’t that good professionally, to tell the truth, and he was in a crowded field. I got more and more involved in my work. I stayed in Chicago one weekend a month, then two. I was flying high and I never noticed. I was meeting new people. I was important. I was appreciated and—”

  “Another man?”

  “No. Yes. No, it just happened. The pressure got to me and I went crazy for just a moment. It meant a fifth weekend in a row away from home, the sixth in two months. You know the funny thing about it? I intended to tell David, say ‘look at what’s happened to us.’ I reached a point where I was ready to quit even, come home if that would save the marriage. I came to believe what I had only given lip service to before, that I loved him.

  “When I got home to put my marriage back on track, he’d gone—left me a note. ‘Dear Ruth,’ it said, ‘I accepted a position in La Jolla. I wanted to tell you when you came home for the weekend, but you never came. I called, but you were out.’ Then he put in the clincher. He said, ‘Don’t worry, there are six or seven undergraduate schools there, I’m sure we can find you something.’ It was dated two weeks earlier. Two weeks.

  “I called him and he said, ‘How’s your friend?’ and I said ‘I love you, David,’ and he said, ‘I can’t live with that kind of love’ and hung up. Since then I made a vow—no more messing up other people’s lives. No commitment. Have fun, but do not get involved. Besides, my work takes up most of my time. There’s not much left for a social life outside it. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I do, maybe. It sounds pretty final—a commitment to not commit. I guess that paradox ought to be explored sometime.”

  “Maybe, but not now, not by me.” Ruth glanced around in surprise. “Ike, do you realize we’re the only people here?”

  All the tables were stripped of their linen and silver and the candles out. Their waiter chatted with the maitre d’, glancing in their direction. Ike looked at his watch.

  “Good Lord, it’s nearly twelve. This place closes at eleven. We’re holding these people up.”

  “Is it that late? Make it up to them, Ike. Give him a big tip. Did you know you’re an easy man to be with? And all this talk about the past makes me very sentimental and sad. But I have a full day tomorrow and we, sorry, you have a tiger by the tail. Home and to bed.”

  They drove down the mountain in silence.

  “Pull over here,” she said.

  Ike slowed the car and then pulled into an overlook. He killed the ignition and turned off the lights. A nearly full moon bathed the pull-off in silver-blue, its carefully ragged stone walls contrasting sharply with the soft symmetry of the forest. Puzzled, he got out of the car and went around and opened the door for her. She walked across the few feet of gravel to the wall.

  “In all the time I’ve been here, I’ve never gotten away from my desk long enough to see any of this.” The ground fell away at her feet creating a magnificent panorama. She gazed across the tops of trees and down into the Shenandoah Valley. She stood in silence, unsure if she was overwhelmed by the view, the day’s events, the wine, or inner turmoil as she realized, to her amazement, that this man had more than just charmed her. He stepped up behind her and for a brief moment she let her head fall back on his shoulder.

  She turned to face him. The moonlight filtering through the pines made his features seem dashing and mysterious. Ruth felt her heart turn over. This is crazy, she thought. What am I doing here?

  “Ruth?” Ike murmured. She said nothing but turned back to the view, as if she might find some guidance from the twinkling lights scattered across the valley floor. A sha
dowy movement caused her to jump.

  “Something moved down there.”

  He moved behind her and looked in the direction she pointed.

  “A doe and her fawn.”

  “Oh, I’ve never seen one, not in the wild. They’re beautiful.”

  They watched as the slender wraith-like forms, washed in moonlight, ears alert, stepped from the brush into a small glen, stiff legged and cautious. They hesitated, nibbled the tough mountain grass, and drifted silently into the trees. Ruth turned to face Ike.

  As a child, when left to play alone, she had invented an enchanted place—the Fairy Ring she called it—where she imagined wonderful, magical things happened. Her dolls were no longer plastic and stiff, but moved, talked, and drank tea. Later, when the dolls no longer served as her companions, she dreamed of adventure and romance. Inside the Ring, she believed, anything could happen.

  As she gazed into Ike’s eyes, the moonlight worked its magic and the world drifted away. He moved closer and time slowed, then stood still. She felt the Fairy Ring coalesce, circle, and enclose them. She waited. Ike put his hand on her cheek. It was not a caress, just a touch. Ruth felt her eyes begin to tear.

  “Oh,” she said, eyes wide, lips parted. “Oh.”

  Ike drew in his breath and exhaled. “Time to go.”

  They returned to the car and rode in silence. As they neared Pickettsville, she turned to him.

  “Ike, what happened just now?”

  She searched his face in the dim light, looking for some hint, some clue, perhaps just reassurance.

  “It’s not you, Ruth. God knows.…”

  The pause seemed to last forever. She realized ghosts stood in the space between them. They defeated the Fairy Ring’s magic.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ike ignored the stares when he walked into the office. In his three-year tenure as sheriff, he’d never been late. But today he wandered in, waved vaguely to his staff, and closed the door of his office behind him without a word. He had some serious thinking to do and did not wish to deal with the idle chitchat that usually marked the beginning of his day. He’d managed to cool the relationship between himself and the formidable Ruth Harris to something approaching normal—at least he hoped he had. Something good happened the night before, he knew that, but he didn’t feel brave enough this early in the morning to explore what it might be. He put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. He needed to think.

  When he caught himself dozing off, he dropped his feet to the floor with a crash loud enough to earn a worried look from Essie.

  She peered around the doorjamb.

  “Ike, are you all right?”

  “Fine, Essie. Long night.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but it looks like its going to be a long day, too.” She handed him a fistful of pink phone slips. He shuffled through them and called after her, “None of these press guys gets a return call. If they insist, say we can’t talk while the investigation is still in progress. There will be a press conference soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “Never. Then call my father and have him deal with this stack.” He scowled at the messages from the governor’s office, local congressmen, the chief of the county police and an assortment of current and wannabe politicians. “This is right up his street. He’ll have a ball. Put the rest in a pile for later.”

  Essie smiled and nodded.

  Calls, he had to make some calls, but not to that bunch. He heaved a sigh and decided to call Charlie Garland. He punched in the number at the Agency. Funny, Charlie’s number was the only one he could remember. All those years dialing Operations and myriad departments and offices and the only number he could remember was Charlie’s.

  The phone rang twice before Charlie’s nasal baritone came on the line. “Garland.”

  “Charlie, a voice from the past. It’s Ike. I need some help. Have you heard about the robbery down here?”

  “Oh, a little something, Ike, little of this, a little of that, you know, office scuttlebutt.”

  “Charlie, whoever did it were pros, real pros, our kind of operators—well not mine anymore, but your kind. Someone who knew his business deactivated the alarm and surveillance system. There can’t be more than a half dozen or dozen people in the world that could have done it. Can you get me a line on who might have been available?”

  “Oh gee, Ike, I don’t know. You know we don’t fool around with local stuff, not since 9/11. Holy Hannah, if we even so much as ask about stuff like that, the FBI and every local police agency in the country’s likely to climb all over the boss. I’d like to help, but I don’t have a thing for you, pal.”

  “Charlie, just poke around, will you?”

  “Ike, I can’t, but say, I do have something for you. Do you remember a guy named Elwood Farnham?”

  “Elwood who?”

  “Farnham, Elwood Farnham.”

  “No, never heard of him.”

  “That’s funny, he remembers you. I saw him six or seven days ago at O’Rourke’s in Georgetown. He says he went to school or something with you. He’d like you to call him.”

  “Charlie, I don’t know any Elwood.…He wants me to call him?”

  “Right. You should call him, fill in the gaps for you, maybe.”

  “Thanks, Charlie, I’ll do that, and if you hear anything, you’ll let me know?”

  “Sure thing, Ike, but don’t expect much from here.”

  Ike hung up and stared at the phone. Now what the hell was Charlie playing at? It had been how long? Five, six years since he had pulled that one. It was a wonder either of them remembered. There was nothing to do now but wait.

  Ike dialed the college and asked for Ruth.

  “President’s office.” Ike recognized the inflated tones of Agnes Ewalt.

  “Is President Harris in, Ms. Ewalt?”

  “Whom shall I say is calling?”

  “Isaac Schwartz, Sheriff Schwartz.”

  “President Harris is in a meeting right now, Mr. Schwartz, and she can’t be disturbed.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Ewalt. Would you tell her I called?”

  Ike hung up and wondered at the mentality of this executive assistant, that’s what they called themselves now, not secretaries. Who would ask for a name when she knew she was not going to put the call through anyway?

  Ike left the office telling Essie he was going home and then out to Lee Henry’s to get his hair cut. Essie sat, mouth agape, a new fistful of pink call slips in her hand, and watched as he left the office whistling.

  ***

  Shaved and freshly dressed, Ike drove down on one of those rural roads that zoning boards and planners like to ignore. All sorts of businesses get located in and around their owner’s residences. Body shops, truck, and auto repair garages operate from large buildings at the rear of the properties. He pulled into the parking area in front of Lee Henry’s house. A sign on the front steps read: Lee Henry, Hairstylist. Lee set up shop in a room just off her kitchen in what would have been a mudroom or family room, between the living room-dining area and the garage. The house was a fairly new split-level south of Picketsville. Lee “did hair” and told stories. For her male customers, the stories ran to raunchy. For that matter, so did the ones she told her female customers, but holding to an old tradition, she never told an off-color story in mixed company, at least not very often. Ike hoped she was not busy. He had no appointment, but he also knew from experience that Lee would fit him in somehow. Lee greeted him with a smile like summer at the beach.

  “Ike Schwartz, you old Jewish Paul Newman, where have you been for the last God knows how long?”

  “Busy, Lee. Busy stamping out crime and corruption, apprehending villains and bringing malefactors to the bar of justice.”

  “That means you’ve been han
ding out a lot of parking tickets, right?”

  “Something like that. And we had a robbery—I guess you heard about that.”

  “Heard? Honey, there ain’t nobody in the county that ain’t. Robbery and, bless the Lord, that son-of-a-bitch Parker missing. You think he did it?”

  “I doubt it. He is not smart enough, and the people who did it are very good. He might have been party to it somehow, you know, looked the other way, but that wouldn’t jibe with his disappearance. I don’t know what happened. He’s probably sleeping it off somewhere.”

  “Shoot. I was hoping to see that bastard behind bars.”

  “Parker’s not one of your favorite people?”

  “Not mine, not anybody around here who knows him. You were away when he was sheriff, but you saw enough when you got back to know, Ike, no disrespect intended, but we would have voted for an old yellow dog for sheriff if we had got the chance. Best thing that ever happened to the town, when you ran. You were the only one around who could and get away with it.”

  “He hurt you, Lee?”

  “Not me—my baby sister, Ike. Locked her up one night when he caught her and her boyfriend smoking a little grass. He and them goons he had for deputies. They had her searched, you know what I mean? Strip search, they call it. There she was, a sixteen-year-old girl scared out of her mind and four grubby grown men watching her undress, feeling her panties, saying things, you know. Then they said they had to make sure she didn’t have anything hidden inside her.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Four grown men groping her, and her just a kid, a terrible, rotten thing to do to anybody, and all the time them remarking. That little thing like to went crazy. Almost twenty-five before she’d even look at a man again, much less go out with one.”

  “Did anybody do anything?”