The Parlor City Boys

by Arno B. Zimmer

  “ You remember Stanley Ward at the bank Adelbert, of course. He was a nuisance more than once but since he’s dead, what does it matter? Anyone else comes to mind” said Braun, suddenly deferential. Wattle noticed that they were back on a first name basis and relaxed in his seat.

  “I’ve already spoken to our two friends downtown and what’s his name moved away. That leaves one possible weak link that you might want to look into.” Wattle didn’t mention any names but Braun understood and nodded his assent as he took a long draw on his cigar.

  Braun then tried to commiserate with Wattle about the unfortunate circumstances of his resignation but his empathetic skills were lacking and he soon gave up. He then asked about the new minister and Wattle explained that he was a bit quirky and unorthodox which had upset some of the old timers. And then Wattle added, hoping to get a reaction from Braun, “Rumor has it that he might be sweet on your daughter-in-law and that he might have competition from that young detective, Captain Meacham’s son.”

  Wattle had been intermittently sipping his drink as he talked, slowing his cadence down to let the words sink in. He noticed that Braun had filled his glass for the third time since his arrival and seemed to be agitated by these latest comments.

  As if suddenly aware of his social faux pas, Braun said “Let me freshen you up Mayor. Sorry for being so neglectful.”

  “No, thank you. I know my limitations” said Wattle. And then he quickly excused himself and was gone with the promise that they would certainly speak again before Braun left Parlor City.

  ***

  On the ride back to his lake cottage, Wattle pondered the changes in Braun since he had left Parlor City. He had always been a brusque, even abrasive person but now there seemed to be some mental imbalance that would have been more disturbing in the old days because it made him unpredictable. But now, perhaps it could be used to Wattle’s advantage. He wouldn’t attend the funeral and felt certain that Braun wouldn’t consider it a sign of disrespect. Just the same, he would like to have been there if only to see how Braun comported himself.

  What Wattle didn’t tell Braun, and had no intention of doing so, was that Stanley Ward’s widow had for years, and possibly to the consternation of the banker, been on intimate terms with Mrs. Wattle and it had recently come out, over a cup of tea, that when her husband updated his will near the end, he had turned to Randall DePue for guidance. Mrs. Ward also let out that her husband had kept a diary which had been locked in a safe deposit box at the bank and had been given to DePue at the time of his death, in accordance with the will.

  This news that Ward left a diary behind bothered Wattle and he had been racking his brain for a way to get his hands on it, certain that it was now in the possession of Mrs. DePue. He wasn’t sure that its contents wouldn’t implicate him in any misdeeds but since Wattle had always been an exceedingly careful man, he wanted to be sure. Plus, if the diary indicted the conduct of others, like Braun, that information could buy him leverage with others - including the DA.

  Wattle doubted if Mrs. DePue had given any thought to the diary or even knew of its existence. If Mrs. Ward were to request its return, she would most certainly comply. It would then be much easier for Wattle to get his hands on it. Now, Wattle just had to find the means to execute his plan.

  ***

  After Wattle departed, Braun sipped his scotch and tried to sort through what they had discussed. He wasn’t drunk but felt tipsy and couldn’t seem to focus like the old days.

  He did sense that Wattle had not been entirely forthcoming and it also struck him that he might have been played. He decided to be more forceful at their next meeting.

  Then he thought about Wattle’s wife and was determined to avoid her at all cost. He remembered her as the “fat beast” who always seemed to be puffing and sweating regardless of the time of year or the temperature. He could picture how the perspiration accumulated above her upper lip, enhancing the outline of her faint but clearly visible moustache. Just watching her get out of a chair was annoying and comical at the same time. Braun had almost suggested once in one of his particularly dark moods that Wattle rent one of his forklifts from the lumber yard to transport his wife around. He also remembered that Mildred Wattle was fiercely loyal to her husband and a trusted advisor. If for no other reason, he had always held his acerbic tongue regarding the beast and would continue to do so.

  Braun then turned his attention to Carmichael and Meacham in succession. He had made a few calls to old acquaintances and the reverend sounded like one of these new age preachers who want to upset all the traditions. Braun had liked Rev. Smythe because he had been a benevolent and unswerving advocate of the status quo. He had meant to call Carmichael but, the hell with it, he would just speak at the cemetery when he was ready. No one would dare deny him.

  He really didn’t care who might want to marry his daughter-in-law but anyone becoming a father in place of his son, well that was intolerable. He thought he had come up with a sure-fire plan to put a stop to that whether it was an upstart preacher or a two-bit detective. Certainly, Gwen Braun would listen to reason if she knew what was good for the boy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Monday, July 25, 1955

  It was a quiet, somber day inside the Braun home as Woody sat in his room looking out the window. He had grabbed his Louisville Slugger from where it stood in the corner and was tapping it mindlessly on the floor.

  On the bed next to him lay a dark blue suit, white shirt and red clip-on tie. He looked down at the box on the floor containing a pair of black shoes that had been purchased the day before along with the rest of his funeral attire.

  He had been trying to imagine a connection between the hobo he had confronted at the creek and the father who had left him behind years ago without even a word of explanation. He knew for sure that he didn’t feel a loss of something valuable and it bothered him. What he couldn’t suppress, nor did he try, was the anger toward a man – could he even say father – who had put his mother through such agony? Woody made a vow then to protect her with all his might from any further pain. He owed her that, at the very least.

  There was a light tap at the door and without waiting Jerry opened it slowly and peaked his head in. “Your Mom sent me up, Woody. You ok? Hey, we don’t have much time – c’mon, get into that monkey suit.” Jerry approached the bed and gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. Woody felt better.

  ***

  Gwen and Angie were sitting on the couch close to each other and Rev. Carmichael was standing nearby when the boys came down the stairs. On any other day, she would have teased them and made them pose for a picture. Instead, everyone moved silently to the door.

  On the drive to the church, Woody sat in the back between Angie and Jerry. Rev. Carmichael and his Mother were talking quietly up front and their words were unintelligible but Woody suspected that they were holding hands. His Mother’s face was turned toward the minister and she appeared to be smiling. Woody was bewildered and confused. He had just vowed to be her protector and suddenly his mission was being usurped.

  He leaned forward for a closer look, pretending to adjust his clothes, and saw the minister’s right hand move back to the steering wheel. Woody slid back in his seat as Angie gave him a quizzical glance but he just stared straight ahead and clenched his teeth.

  ***

  The church was sparsely populated for the funeral of Woodrow Thompson Braun, Jr. that day. Old friends, golfing buddies and classmates stayed away but a few business associates of the senior Braun, bending to tradition, showed up to pay the customary respects. Relatives had received calls from Braun urging them not to attend and most had readily complied. When Meacham entered the church, he saw Angie and Jerry sitting a few rows back and joined them.

  When Rev. Carmichael ascended the pulpit, he paused to acknowledge Gwen and Woody in the front row. He also nodded to the Brauns who had seated themselves behind and to the side of Gwen and Woody.

  It was certainly
no time to list the achievements of the deceased. What would the minister say, that he was an accomplished golfer who destroyed himself with booze without doing anything of substance in his life? Or that he had abandoned his young family only to return years later and torment them with a final act of selfishness?

  And so Rev. Carmichael stuck to the banalities, as he was often forced to do, but then closed by citing a few biblical sinners like King David, the apostle Paul and the Prodigal Son who were not banned from the kingdom of heaven because of their sinful lives. “Had Woodrow Thompson Braun, Jr. returned to Parlor City in a final desperate effort to atone, to seek expiation like these biblical figures? We will never know but we can hope that the spirit of the Lord did compel him back among us in a futile attempt to ask for forgiveness. Let us leave here today without rejecting the notion outright that atonement was his motivation.”

  When Rev. Carmichael finished, Gwen and Woody were weeping and Meacham put his arm on Angie’s shoulder to comfort her. Mrs. Braun was dabbing her eyes but Tommy’s father sat staring ahead, seemingly unmoved.

  Then there was a final prayer and it was over.

  ***

  Most of the morning clouds had cleared and a bright sun was shining intermittently off some of the grave markers when the small procession arrived at the cemetery. Deacons from the church had been enlisted as pallbearers, inflaming Braun when he heard about it, even though his option would have been former business cronies and golfing buddies. Braun had been subdued at church but he was still angry that his demand that Tommy be buried at the family plot had been dismissed. By the time he reached the cemetery, his volcanic mood had returned and he was ready to erupt at the least provocation.

  When Rev. Carmichael had finished a few consolatory words over the casket and paused, Braun seized the opportunity to step forward without first being asked. The minister graciously stepped back a few steps and Braun stared at the casket for a while before saying, “My Tommy was a fine young lad and on his way to great heights. But then he got side-tracked, some might say ambushed, during his college years and then things turned bad – not just for him but for the entire Braun clan. God bless you boy.” After he finished, Braun knelt down and laid one hand on the casket before struggling to his feet and walking away.

  Rev. Carmichael, startled by this speech but maintaining his composure, stepped forward to take Gwen’s arm as Woody and her moved forward slowly to sprinkle dirt on the coffin before it was lowered into the ground.

  Meacham was standing back from the gravesite but not so far that he missed anything that Braun had said. As he saw Braun pulling his wife along, hurrying to his car, Meacham intercepted them and thrust his hand into Braun’s chest. “How much lower can you get, Braun” said Meacham, fuming.

  Braun glared and called out to his driver to start the car. “So you’re Meacham, right? I’ve heard about you. Put your hands on me again and see what happens” bellowed Braun. And with that, Braun pushed Meacham’s arm away and hustled his wife into the car.

  ***

  Back at Gwen’s house, friends and co-workers from the hospital had been preparing and laying out trays of food as people started arriving. The Kosinskys came over along with some other neighbors. Even a few former co-workers from the Institute stopped by.

  Meacham drove around for a while to cool down before deciding to join the gathering at Gwen’s house. With Braun’s words echoing in his head, he tried to picture anyone else who could have spoken such despicable words at such a moment. Who could misinterpret what Braun had meant by suggesting that his son had been ambushed by Gwen? No, not even Frederick Hawkins would have sunk that low.

  When Meacham walked into the house, some people were mingling and others were sitting with plates of food on their laps. He noticed Woody and Jerry in a corner with their ties already pulled off. Entering the kitchen, he saw Gwen and Rev. Carmichael standing close together and they were once more holding hands. They didn’t seem to notice him and, with a sharp pang, he turned away and went back into the living room. Positioning himself by the open front door for a hasty departure, Meacham was flustered and embarrassed. Outside of work, he was starting to feel awkward and ill at ease most of the time.

  As he looked out through the screen door, he saw Mrs. Braun looking at him with a meek expression on her face, as if she was seeking his permission to enter the house. Meacham backed away to let her pass and she quietly asked, “Do you know where I might find Gwendolyn?” Meacham said nothing but pointed toward the kitchen. He looked out to see the black Chrysler Imperial parked in front of the house but couldn’t see if her husband was inside.

  In another minute, Rev. Carmichael came out of the kitchen and approached Meacham. “Well, at least he didn’t have the gall to show up here, Detective; decided to send his poor wife instead.” Meacham just shrugged his head as the minister gave him a pat on the arm and left.

  Meacham looked around again for Woody and Jerry but they were gone. Probably upstairs, he thought, and not a good time to invade their sanctuary. He then walked into the dining room and saw Gwen and Mrs. Braun seated close together. Meacham caught Gwen’s eye and pointed to the door, signaling his departure, but she held up her arm and quickly came over to him. “It’s kind of hectic here right now, Billy, and Mrs. Braun says she has some things we need to discuss. Can we talk tomorrow?” Meacham nodded yes and watched her turn back. Then, he bolted for the door before anyone else could stop him.

  ***

  Meacham called his Mother and told her he wasn’t feeling well so would skip Sunday night dinner. Well, he wasn’t exactly lying because his spirit was troubled and he knew that a big meal and the penetrating gaze of his Mother were not the remedies he needed right now.

  Around dusk, he drove over to the park and sat in his car. It seemed like ages since he had seen Woody and Jerry there with their flashlight.

  He felt good about how he had handled the investigations at the Institute and at Lattimore’s – not to mention the cigar factory caper. Sure, there were loose ends but he had proven to himself and others that he was a good cop. But in the midst of these successes his personal life was gnawing at him more than ever. He had sold the sports car – that was good – but the cash was sitting in his bank account so he hadn’t entirely resolved the problem.

  And now that Gwen was “officially” available, what was he going to do about it and was he simply too late? It had taken him a while to acknowledge that he had never pursued a girl in his life. Back to high school, all of his dates had been fix-ups, or in the case of a girl like Big Red, he had been the prey.

  Had he delayed too long? Every time he saw Gwen and the minister together, they were holding hands or talking in whispers. And what was happening between them that he wasn’t around to see? He thought of the minister walking out the door just a few hours ago, patting him on the arm like he was a boy and smiling smugly as if to say “It’s too late for you Billy, I won.”

  And Gwen’s parting comment caused a lump in his throat. Did she want to explain to him about her attachment to Rev. Carmichael? Meacham stared at the yawning gap in the horse chestnut tree where Woody had hidden the gun and wondered how it would all end.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday, July 26, 1955

  Meacham walked into the station in a foul mood and was immediately accosted by the Chief. “Interesting call this morning, Billy. Randall DePue’s widow has something she thinks we should look at – a diary of some sort.”

  Meacham knitted his brow and said, “That is interesting. Probably his documentation of foul deeds up at the Institute.”

  “No, it’s not DePue’s, it’s the diary of Stanley Ward. He died about a year ago. Long-time banker at Parlor City Savings. DePue was his lawyer. Ward was a stand-up guy, Billy. Served on the City Council for a time then resigned when Wattle continued to ramrod projects through with the support of his allies. If nothing else, I would be curious as to what Ward wrote in that diary and why he put it into DePue�
��s possession before his death. Now, get over there” said the Chief, smiling almost mischievously.

  Meacham knew the Ward family but not well. They were a quiet, childless couple and, as the Chief pointed out, well respected in Parlor City. As he drove to the DePue house, he surmised that a banker wouldn’t keep a diary about work unless he was recording events that he felt were important. Had it been a personal diary, it is doubtful that Ward would have even given it to DePue. And the fact that Ward despised Wattle was certainly something in his favor. The Chief was right – his curiosity was aroused.

  Mrs. DePue greeted Meacham at the door with a wan smile. “Well, I must say, you have the look of your Father, young man. Please come in. The Chief told me you would be coming by.”

  Following her into the den, Meacham saw that she had already set out a tray with coffee and muffins. “After my husband’s death, the revelations about the Institute and now the Mayor’s resignation, you might say my faith in mankind has been terribly shaken. I am suddenly quite a skeptic – you might even say a cynic.

  “So, when I first received a call from Stanley Ward’s widow asking if I had any records belonging to her husband, I told her I would have to check and get back to her. Then, I had a visit yesterday from Mildred Wattle. She had for years pestered me to join the garden club and some civic organizations – more like gossip gatherings if you ask me, so I always politely declined.

  “Well, for some reason, she brought up the name of Stanley Ward and asked if I knew how his widow was getting along. It all seemed so strange and coincidental.

  “Feeling uncomfortable and even somewhat suspicious, I went down in the basement and rummaged through the boxes containing Randall’s records. Just when I was about to give up, I came across a file labeled Stanley Ward. When I pulled it from the box, this item fell out.”