Darkness, Sing Me a Song--A Holland Taylor Mystery

by David Housewright

  Unfortunately, all I learned was that Emily was a particularly conscientious and resourceful employee who never missed a day, who was well regarded by customers and co-workers alike, who was quick to cover for fellow sales clerks that needed a break, who performed all the tasks assigned to her with a smile, who was on the bullet train to promotion.

  “You get the impression that she actually enjoyed her job,” I said.

  “A lot of people do,” the supervisor said. “Believe it or not.”

  I asked if I could interview Emily’s co-workers. The supervisor granted permission, yet only after I promised not to be disruptive. It was a promise I couldn’t keep because Em’s friends all seemed to have an emotional investment in the girl. Some laughed while recalling her kindness and generosity. Others wept. They told me Emily remembered everyone’s birthday and work anniversary with a small token—flowers, chocolates, homemade cookies, or tiny stuffed animals, depending on the temperament of the recipient. She drank white wine at the bar across the mall when her fellow employees gathered after work, but only a glass or two, and she never shirked when it came her turn to buy a round. Those who knew of her relationship with Joel Barrington, and it turned out to be nearly everyone, approved wholeheartedly.

  “You should have seen his eyes light up when he saw her,” one person said.

  “You should have seen her eyes light up when she saw him,” said another.

  I suggested that Emily was a gold digger who was only interested in Barrington’s money. No one believed me. A few of her friends—both men and women—were ready to take it outside to defend Emily’s honor. I was impressed and more than a little embarrassed. In a short thirteen months, Emily had filled her life with friends, and lots of them—people who were literally ready to fight for her. I, on the other hand, was virtually friendless.

  After my wife and daughter were killed I shed my friends the way you would change from a summer wardrobe to winter, a little at a time—quitting the cops to work in a one-man office, retiring from various softball and hockey teams, ignoring my family, passing on invitations to parties and barbecues until they stopped coming, spending my days solving the problems of strangers so I didn’t have to deal with my own. That had changed when Cynthia came into my life, but only for a time. Now I was partnered with Freddie, who was no friend when we first started. While Emily seemed desperate to connect with other people in her new life, I was actively disconnecting, keeping them at a distance.

  You can’t go on like this, I told myself. Yet that was only the amateur psychologist talking, and by the time I reached my car my mind was focused on other matters.

  * * *

  The trainer who kept an eye on Emily when she worked out liked her as much as her co-workers.

  “She was always smiling,” he said. “Some people, they march into a gym like it’s community service, like a judge is forcing them to either work out or go to jail. They never last, either. You get the New Year’s resolution crowd, more than seventy percent won’t use their memberships more than a couple of times, if ever. Sure, they want to lose weight, get in shape, but if they don’t see results right away, they go back to Ol’ McDonald’s or his friends Taco and Bell.

  “Emily, though, she joined in August, and you could tell right away she was dedicated. Not like she wanted to be a bodybuilder, no, no, no. She just liked to exercise, liked to run. On odd days, she hit the weights. On even days, she did a couple miles on the oval. She told me she’d been into it, running, ever since she ran track and field back in high school.”

  “What high school?”

  “She didn’t say. She did say she finished first in the 800-meters at state, though.”

  “Which state? What year?”

  “I thought this state. The year—man, I don’t know where you come from, but around here you never ask a woman her age, especially in a gym.”

  * * *

  Freddie had left the office before I arrived. Or maybe he had never returned after his sojourn to Manny’s. We had worked with Sackett before, and the man has been known to stretch his lunch meetings through the afternoon. The last time I had to take a cab home.

  I fired up the computer and searched the websites of the Minnesota High School League, the Wisconsin Interscholastic Athletic Association, and the Illinois High School Association, taking down the names, schools, and locations of every winner of the girl’s 800-meter run during a six-year period when I figured Emily must have competed. There were a lot of names. Minnesota had divided its high schools into two separate classes, and Wisconsin and Illinois had three each.

  Afterward, I cross-checked the names against Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, and every other social site I could think of. People are outraged that the federal government and various internet companies have been actively compiling information about them, as well they should be. Yet they upload a terrifying amount of personal intel every day—especially the so-called millennials—that can be accessed by just about anyone, from prospective employers to the guy with a telescope that lives down the street. It took hours, but eventually I satisfied myself that forty-three of the forty-eight girls I had originally identified had not disappeared during the past thirteen months (half were still in college). That left five names, one in Minnesota, one in Wisconsin, and three in Illinois.

  I used sites like the White Pages to find phone numbers; in some cases there were more than a dozen numbers for each spelling. I called the numbers one at a time, asking whoever answered if they had finished first in the 800-meter run at the state high school finals. Two women said they had. The sister of a third said the girl had taken a job teaching English in Beijing six months earlier. A mother in Minnesota told me her daughter was serving with the 101st Airborne. A man in Wisconsin said, “My daughter’s not in right now, may I take a message?” Which I took as confirmation that she was alive and well.

  I shouted at the ceiling above my desk.

  “Sonuvabitch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The sun had already set by the time I reached the apartment. I was unlocking my door when the door across the landing opened. Amanda stood inside the frame, still dressed in her private-school uniform.

  “Hey, kid,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “Okay.”

  “Is your mother home?”

  “No. She had to work late. Again.”

  “Want to hang out?”

  “Can I?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just a sec.”

  Amanda disappeared from view. When she returned she was carrying a carrot.

  “You know, you don’t have to bring food when you come over,” I said.

  “But what would Ogilvy say?”

  I propped open the door like I always did when Amanda came to visit. She stepped inside. She didn’t need to call for the rabbit; he was already waiting for her. Amanda sat down on the floor, as was her habit, and Ogilvy climbed into her lap, as was his. She hugged him for a long time.

  I offered food and drink. Amanda turned me down.

  “I’m sure your mother told you not to, but you’re welcome to mooch off me as much as you like,” I said. “Since you’re always feeding my rabbit, the least I can do is feed you.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Sure?”

  “Do you have any”—she spoke the words as if she were naming a Schedule II narcotic—“root beer?”

  “Coming right up.”

  I found a can of A&W, opened it, and poured some over ice in a tall glass. I gave it to the girl.

  “I’d be happy to throw some ice cream in there, if you like,” I said.

  “Before dinner? My mom would freak.”

  “Your mom’s a good person. She works so very, very hard.”

  “I know.”

  “You need to cut her some slack.”

  “It’s not me. I can take care of me. I just want her to have some time for herself.”

  “You’re a good kid, Mandy.”

&
nbsp; I thought about how much I’d like a shot or two of bourbon, yet decided not to in front of the child. So I drank root beer, too, while I asked about her day. I surprised myself by actually listening to what she had to say.

  Eventually her mother appeared. Claire leaned against the door frame, the heavy bag pulling on her shoulder.

  “Mommy,” Amanda said.

  She brushed the rabbit off her lap and moved to the woman. Claire sank to her knees and hugged her daughter.

  “I missed you,” Amanda said.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. I tried to get away…”

  “It’s okay. Don’t be sad.”

  “Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Mother continued to hug daughter. She saw me standing there.

  “I keep apologizing to you,” Claire said. “I keep thanking you.”

  “And yet you don’t need to do either.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  What an odd thing to say, I thought. At the same time, I felt like the Grinch in the Christmas story. I could feel my heart suddenly growing larger.

  “You look tired,” I said.

  “Don’t get me started.”

  “You’re staying for dinner.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “What are we having?” Amanda asked.

  “Mandy,” her mother said.

  “Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said. “And salad.”

  “Salad?”

  “You want to grow up to be big and strong like Ogilvy, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Taylor, don’t be silly. He’s a rabbit.”

  “Taylor, please…,” Claire said.

  “What kind of friend are you that you’d make me eat alone?”

  She nodded as if I had just offered to pay her medical bills. It was spaghetti, for God’s sake. It wasn’t like I was making the sauce from scratch. While I set the water to boil for the pasta, I thawed some Simek’s meatballs in the microwave and tossed them into the store-bought sauce that was simmering on the stove. The salad was merely a mix of baby spinach and romaine lettuce from a plastic bag I picked up at a supermarket and a choice of creamy French, Italian, and honey-mustard dressing in plastic bottles.

  While the food was cooking, I filled a long-stem glass with Merlot and gave it to Claire. She savored it as if it were something she enjoyed very much yet hadn’t tasted in a long time. I gave Amanda an identical glass filled with root beer. She thought it was “very cool.”

  I closed my front door—the first time I had done that while the two women were in my apartment.

  We ate at my small table. Amanda practically drowned her spaghetti in Parmesan cheese. She didn’t talk much, but I figured that was because she didn’t want to draw attention while she slipped leaves of lettuce out of her bowl and fed Ogilvy beneath the table. Her mother didn’t seem to notice, and I certainly wasn’t going to bust her. Yet after the third leaf, Claire calmly said, “The salad is for you, young lady. Not the rabbit.”

  “Sorry, Ogilvy,” Amanda said.

  After we finished, Claire announced that it was time for Amanda to go home, take a bath, and get ready for bed.

  “Did you do your homework?” she asked.

  “Yep.”

  “I want to check it.”

  “You always do that.”

  “Go.”

  Amanda hopped off her chair and did something completely unexpected. She hugged me.

  “Good night, Taylor,” she said. “Good night, Ogilvy.”

  Then she was gone. Claire watched me as she fingered her wineglass.

  “Mandy wants to adopt you,” she said.

  “Seems that way.”

  “There are things you should know.”

  “You don’t need to tell me anything.”

  “My husband is in prison for embezzlement. My ex-husband. I wish I could say he stole for Mandy and me. He did it to support his gambling addiction. I tried to help him. For years I tried to help, even after he bankrupted us, even after our home was foreclosed on. Finally, he was arrested. I divorced him after the first six months he was in prison. His family, most of my family, they said I quit on him. They keep saying it. It’s not true. I didn’t give up. I was beaten. There’s a difference.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “I want you to know because I want to adopt you, too.”

  I shook my head as if it were the worst idea I had ever heard.

  “No, you don’t,” I said.

  “You’re lonely. As lonely as I am. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “That might be true. You and Amanda, you’re among the few bright spots in my life right now. But…”

  “But what? Are you going to recite that old line—don’t get involved with me, honey, I’m trouble?”

  “Hardly.”

  “What, then?”

  “I’m coming off a difficult relationship, and I don’t want you to be the rebound girl. I’d hate for anyone I care about to be the rebound girl. A month, three months, six—I don’t want to look across the hall and feel awkward. I don’t want you to feel awkward. I don’t want your little girl to stop knocking on my door.”

  “The policewoman—is she the rebound girl?”

  “Anne is my friend. Probably my best friend.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “I said it before and I meant it, Claire—you’re always welcome here.”

  She finished her wine and rose from the table.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Because I’m not giving up on you.”

  To prove it, she pressed her body against mine and kissed my cheek. A moment later, she was gone. I stared at the closed door. I spoke loud enough to spook my rabbit.

  “Taylor, you’re the most pathetic human being alive.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I waited until midmorning before returning to the duplex where the girl who was killed once lived because I wanted to give Mickie Umland plenty of time to eat her breakfast. I knocked, waited, and knocked some more. Even though I was expecting it, the door opened swiftly enough to give me a start. The woman standing on the other side seemed older than her roommate did by a couple of years and thinner by many pounds. She was wearing shorts and a tight tank top without a bra. Her feet were bare, and I wondered if I had roused her from bed. If so, she was one of those women who slept pretty.

  “Ms. Umland?” I said.

  “Are you with the airline?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Working for the airline?”

  “No, no. This has nothing to do with your airline.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “My name is Taylor.”

  “Oh, oh, okay. Lisa mentioned you when I got in this morning. She just left to do some shopping. I’m sorry. My head is … Please come in.”

  Mickie stood aside and let me pass, closing the door after me. She led me into the living room and gestured at a chair even as she spoke.

  “I’m expecting trouble from the airline, and I thought you might be it.”

  “Trouble?” I asked.

  “I love my job. I love flying. I love going places. There are some serious downsides, though, and the biggest of them is pilots, some pilots, not all. There are serious protocols in place that’re supposed to eliminate sexual harassment, yet you still get guys … The other day I got up at four A.M., drove to the airport, and was hit on by a pilot. He was relentless. The only time it stopped was when I was in the cabin. We landed, I got hit on some more; had to listen to his BS all the way to the hotel, had him follow me to my room, had him call me while I was in my room. Pilots are forbidden to drink, but he knew I could sure use one. Or two. Or three. To relieve the stress, he said. Finally, it’s midnight, I’d been on my feet for close to twenty hours, the pilot knocks on my door and tells me he can’t sleep and he’s pretty sure that I can’t either, if you k
now what I mean—he actually said that. The man is twenty years older than me and married, so I”—she feinted a jab from the shoulder—“punched him in the nose and slammed the door. I’ve been waiting for someone to punch me back ever since.”

  “Did he report you?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Not if it meant I had to explain to HR what I was doing knocking on your hotel room door at midnight.”

  Mickie wagged her finger at me.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “He could be in more trouble than me. Well…” She sat on a stuffed chair across from me, her long legs curled neatly beneath her. “How can I help you?”

  I asked Mickie to tell me everything she knew about Emily Denys, which turned out to be very little, now that she had time to think about it. Emily had asked her once about becoming a flight attendant, and Mickie said she would help as much as she could. Only it never went any further than just talk.

  “She was certainly pretty enough,” the flight attendant said. “That’s not supposed to make any difference in hiring, not the way it used to, anyway. You’d be surprised how much it helps, though. Or maybe you wouldn’t be. You meet as many people as I do every day and you get pretty good at reading them. Taylor, you don’t look to me like someone who’s surprised very often.”

  “Did Emily ever surprise you?”

  “Not really. She liked to play the virginal innocent, the sweet little thing from small-town USA, but really, she was just like everyone else, looking out for herself.”

  “How did she look out for herself?”

  “Well, first there was the psychologist fresh out of the U trying to get a job as a counselor in the St. Paul School District. He lasted until Em found out about the humongous student loans he was carrying. Then there was the investment banker who also just graduated who drove a ten-year-old Mercedes. He seemed like a keeper until Emily realized it would be awhile before he could afford to buy a new Mercedes. Next came Barrington. He was already where Emily wanted to be, so she played him.”