by D. C. Brod
“Did you show it to that policeman who was here the other day?”
“No.” She hesitated. “I... I should have, but it was a very personal letter. I didn’t even know that man.” She looked up at me. “Should I have done that?”
“That’s okay.” I looked around the room. “Could you have put it in your purse?”
“I-I don’t think so. No.” She shook her head. “I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Do you mind if I look?”
“Of course you can look, dear. If you don’t trust my memory.”
“You’re always warning me about it.” I unzipped the nylon purse she carried with her everywhere, and she started to reach for it. I handed it to her. “Why don’t you look?”
A few moments later the contents of her purse had joined her emptied drawer on the bed. Aside from her wallet, a napkin blotted with lipstick, lipstick and a compact, her purse was empty.
“Robyn, I-I don’t know what—”
“Maybe it’s in your dresser.”
“No.”
I believed her.
“Could you have put it in the pocket of something you were wearing?”
I rifled her closet, feeling for anything other than tissue and hard candy. Then I went through her books. She sometimes used whatever was convenient for a bookmark. I found a stamped envelope with a return address in California. It was empty. I held it up. “Did the letter come in this?”
“Yes. I think it did.”
“Is it okay if I take it?”
When she didn’t answer right away, I added, “Just to keep it safe.” I wanted to check out the return address.
“All right,” she acquiesced.
When my search turned up nothing, we sat in silence for a few moments, my mother on her bed and me in the chair she usually sat in.
“Was anyone in your room?”
“Why, no. Just the nurses. They all have keys. And the young Hispanic woman who cleans. She might have come in.” I could hear the rawness in her voice. “But why would they take the letter?”
It didn’t make sense to me. Then it hit me. I think my mother had the same idea at the same time. “That man,” she whispered.
“The one who was here playing guitar?”
“Yes. Your friend.”
“He was in your room?”
“Well, yes, we were talking about you, and I mentioned I had some photos of you as a little girl. He was so interested. I-I offered to show them to him.” She shook her head. “The door was open all the time.”
“Was he ever in the room alone?”
“No.” She stopped. “Well, it was time for my medications, but I was gone only a few minutes. And the door was open.”
It could have been a long few minutes. The residents lined up for their medications like they were getting... well, drugs. It was a first-come-first-served arrangement, and everyone wanted to be first. Besides, it wouldn’t have taken Jack more than a minute or two to find the letter.
“Robyn, what did I do?” She was on the verge of tears.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll talk to him. Maybe he didn’t take it.” Right. And maybe I hadn’t been hoodwinked. “Or maybe he just borrowed it.”
I punched in his cell phone number. He didn’t answer. No surprise. I didn’t leave a message. I had to think about what I was going to say.
“Robyn, I have to have that letter. It’s all that I’ve got. You understand, don’t you?”
“I do, Mom.” Then I said, “Did you and Erika talk about this at all?”
She worked her mouth a couple of times before saying, “Well, yes. I mean, Robbie brought it up.”
Sure he did. “What did you tell Erika?”
“I didn’t remember. I mean that’s what I told her. She—I mean Robbie—got a little short with me. I—”
“It wasn’t Robbie who was short with you, Mom.”
“What...?”
I grabbed my purse. “You take a nap. I’ll take care of things.”
“Do you promise?” She seemed both relieved and unsure.
“I promise.”
On my way out of Dryden, I checked the sign-in book. There he was—Jack Landis. And he was there to see Lizzie Guthrie.
Bastard.
“Is April in?” I asked the receptionist, Bobbie, a young blond woman who got a kick out of my mother.
“She’s out to lunch, Robyn. Can I help?”
“You know that guy who was playing guitar here yesterday?”
She perked up. “Yes, he was wonderful. Everyone loved him.”
“He took something from my mother’s room.”
“No—”
“His name is Jack Landis. Please make sure he doesn’t get anywhere near my mother. Better yet, make sure she doesn’t have any visitors.”
Her eyes widened. “Should I call the police?”
“No,” I said, perhaps a bit too quickly. “It may be a misunderstanding.”
She nodded. “I’ll let April know.”
“And would you tell the nurses? Especially whoever is working Mom’s floor.”
“Will do.”
She was punching numbers on the phone when I left.
I was fuming by the time I got to my car. And part of the anger was self directed. Did I really think this guy was interested in me? God, how gullible can you get, Robyn? Charmed by a good-looking guy. I thought I’d learned.
I pulled out of the lot and ground a gear as I shifted into second. Damn. I imagined the gear shift knob was a sensitive part of Landis’s anatomy and I squeezed hard. Bastard.
I thought about driving back to the Psychic Place, but I needed to collect my thoughts. And there was another thing I needed to do even before I paid Erika a visit. Although, the last thing I wanted to do on the day I would commit my first major crime was call the police. But I had to do it. Detective Hedges might not know about Jack Landis. And if he knew that Mary Waltner was bringing something to my mother—something Landis wanted enough to attempt to steal—well, I didn’t need a badge to know that made Landis—if not her killer— at least a suspect. At the same time, I warned myself to be careful. If Landis was desperate, and if he’d killed once already, then nobody involved in this was safe. That included my mother and me. So I needed to call Hedges not merely as this might pertain to Mary Waltner’s murder, but also for my mother’s—and my own—sake.
I waited until I got home to call. As I was keying in the number, I thought of how my mother had been this morning. I’d seen the way she’d looked at that space that Robbie had occupied. Whether Erika had conjured him up or not, it was as if she’d seen him there with his tousled hair and his sweater and denim shirt, and for a few moments it was as though the years lifted off of her.
To me, it was both puzzling and sad. I had never known my mother to be head over heels in love with any man. With my mother and Wyman there was a level of partnership they developed. They worked together well, complemented each other. But I seldom saw them exchange longing glances from across the room. They probably had a pretty good sex life—there was the bank vault, after all—but I wondered how much affection was exchanged. But during the part of the séance I’d witnessed, my mother had sounded, at times, downright flirty and at other times almost tearful with longing.
That was the thing about unrequited love. It never has the chance to sour.
I put the call through to Hedges and got his voice mail. A little relieved, I left a message saying I’d learned something he might find interesting. At that point, I again debated returning to the Psychic Place and confronting Erika. I knew she had more she could tell me about Robert Savage. Did she know about Mary Waltner’s death? If she didn’t, that would prompt some kind of response. On the other hand, if she did know, she might be involved. I sat down. Maybe I needed to rethink this visit to Erika’s. If she had something to do with Mary’s death, then what was to stop her from bashing my head in?
I settled down to do some of my own digging. I started by examining
the envelope my mother’s letter had come in. It was addressed to my mother at her old address. The one in Westchester, where she hadn’t been in almost two years. There was a return address—in Thousand Oaks, California—but no name. And the stamps had not been cancelled, so it had never been mailed. But at one time he had intended to mail it. Maybe he had known that my mother moved. The address was printed in neat, black letters, all in caps, but the first letter in each word was larger. I believed this was my father’s hand, and I tried to see some of my own writing in the blocky letters.
Deciding I’d need the contents of the envelope to get any further, I snuggled up to my laptop and started by Googling “Robert Alan Savage.”
By the time Hedges called me back an hour later, I had learned some interesting things about my father—like the fact that I had a half brother and sister, and that he had been a wealthy man, but there were no clues as to what had been in that letter. And there’d been plenty of photos—a number of them taken around the time I was born. He’d been a handsome man, with wavy, dark hair; a wide, white smile and arresting eyes. I wasn’t sure I saw a resemblance when I looked in the mirror, but I wouldn’t have minded.
“What’ve you got?” Hedges asked.
“Well, I’m not sure this is anything, but Mary Waltner gave my mother a letter when she visited her. It was from a man my mother had a relationship with decades ago. And that letter is missing now. I think I know who took it.” I went on to explain about Erika and Jack Landis and Erika’s connection to my father. As I attempted to explain, I began to wish I had rehearsed, written it down. I was rambling and he wasn’t interrupting to ask questions or give me better focus. When I finished, he didn’t say anything for several moments.
Finally, I heard his intake of breath. “You say this woman is a psychic?”
“That’s what she claims.”
“And your mother talked to your father—your dead father— through this woman?”
“Yes.”
“And you just found out he was your father?”
Sensing where this was going, I didn’t prompt Hedges.
“And after all these years of lying, your mother—who is a little confused, right?”
“Right.”
“—your mother tells you all this and you believe her?”
I flapped my jaw a couple of times, then realized there was no way to explain why I did believe her this time. “You’d have to know her,” I said, realizing how feeble that sounded.
“You never saw the letter?”
“No. But I did see the envelope. It was from Thousand Oaks, California.”
I heard him sigh and imagined him rolling his eyes at the guy sitting at the desk facing him. The other cop was trying to grin and drink weak coffee at the same time.
I pressed on. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on or even what’s in the letter, but I do know that Mary Waltner and Erika Starwise are from the same area.” I paused, realizing this tack wasn’t helping any. “I just thought you might want to talk to her. Or to my mother again.”
After another moment or two, he said, “Maybe I will later, Miss Guthrie. Thing is, we brought in a suspect last night who’s looking pretty good for it.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, he was caught using one of the victim’s credit cards, and he’s got a history of assaults on women.”
“Oh,” I said again.
“But I appreciate you calling. And depending on how this goes, maybe I’ll come out and talk to your mother again. I’ll give you a call.”
I was about to tell him I wouldn’t be home tonight, but decided the less said the better.
When I hung up, I sat there for a minute. At first I was perturbed with Hedges. Some cop he was. But then I considered all of the elements this story contained—a psychic talking to my dead father, a love letter the psychic’s brother stole, and their connection to a dead woman—well, I guess I couldn’t blame him for being dubious. But that didn’t make me doubt my theory any less. Mary Waltner’s purse had not been found at the scene. If Landis had killed her, he could have tossed it into a dumpster, figuring someone would find it and start using her credit cards. And maybe get arrested for her murder.
Bix uttered a guttural moan from his doggie bed. His eyes were closed and his jowls twitching as though an electric current were running through him. Then his feet started jerking as he pursued some dream creature.
I glanced at my watch. Almost four. I needed to get to Bull’s by seven. That meant I had a couple of hours to spend in a state of anxiety. Or, I could stroll over to my neighborhood psychic’s place and ask a few questions. Granted, if my theory was right and Jack Lan-dis—and possibly Erika as well—had something to do with Mary Waltner’s death, then confronting her could get me in trouble. But if this nebulous promise of my father leaving something for my mother were true, and if that something translated into money, then that meant I would not have to sneak into a party disguised as a caterer, steal a goat and then hold it for ransom. I could call Mick and tell him to find another woman to do his dirty work. I decided I’d risk confronting a killer.
CHAPTER 16
When I arrived at Erika’s shop she was standing behind her desk with the phone to her ear. As I opened the door she looked up. Into the phone, she said, “I’ll have to call you back,” but her expression didn’t change. I had to admit, this woman really had a lock on cool.
Even when I said, “We need to talk,” her composure remained intact. But when I added, “Your brother took something from my mother and I want it back,” I saw something flicker in her eyes. Anger? Surprise? Again, she was tough to read.
When she didn’t say anything, I blundered on. “That is if he is your brother.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she regarded me with annoyance. “Of course he’s my brother.”
“You must be proud,” I said, nodding as though I never doubted it. “He steals personal letters from little old ladies.” After waiting a beat, I added, “I think you know what letter I’m talking about.”
Her eyes widened and she drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know anything about this, Robyn. I can’t imagine he would do that.”
“Then you won’t mind telling me where he’s staying so I can ask him about it myself. He’s not returning his voice mail messages.”
Her mouth twisted into a wry smirk. “Are you sure this isn’t personal? Just because he didn’t call you back doesn’t mean he’s out to do you or your mother any harm.”
“Don’t let yourself get caught up in your brother’s appeal. He’s a nice-looking man, but he’s about as exciting as steamed polenta.”
For a second there, I thought she was going to laugh. But then she thrust her chin forward. I moved a step closer. She didn’t back up, but she coiled.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know where he’s staying.”
“Right.” Then I said, “He told me he was in town for a pharmaceuticals conference. Surely you know where that’s being held.”
“He doesn’t have to keep me informed.”
“There was no conference, was there?”
Nothing.
“Gee, I thought he shared everything with you. He made it sound like you practically raised him.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“How did you know Robert Savage?”
Her eyes widened again and she drew herself up. “I didn’t know him, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, I have an appointment in a few minutes, so you’ll have to leave.”
“I will. When your appointment shows up, I’ll leave.”
That didn’t make her happy.
I repeated my question. “How did you know my father?”
She shook her head.
“And don’t tell me you met him just this morning.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “It doesn’t matter what you think of my abilities—I am not a charlatan.”
“Just sometimes.
”
She didn’t respond.
“You knew my father, didn’t you?”
Her jaw muscles flexed.
I continued. “It’s no coincidence that your shop in California was close to where he lived. He was a customer. He had a fascination with the afterlife. He saw you as a psychic, didn’t he?”
Finally, she swallowed and said, “Yes, he did.”
I nodded. There it was.
But then she continued. “His spirit—your father’s spirit—is very powerful.”
“I’ll bet it is.”
“Your attitude is not helpful.”
“Oh, gee, I’m sorry about my attitude. Your brother finagled his way into my mother’s room, stole a letter from her, and it’s just breaking her heart. I’ll do whatever it takes to get it back.”
This time she sighed. “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
Again, no response.
“When you and my mother—or rather, my parents—were talking this morning, after you got rid of me, did you talk about something he left for my mother?”
“We talked of many things.”
“You know what I mean.” I paused. “You talked about that letter, didn’t you?”
“Robert only asked if she had received it.”
“What’s in the letter?”
“How would I know?”
“Your brother knows.”
“I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No.”
“If that letter were specific, you wouldn’t still want something from us, then would you?”
She blinked once, slowly. “You don’t know what’s in the letter, do you?”
“I haven’t seen it. Thanks to your brother.”
“Your mother seemed... confused by it.”
“Okay, so you don’t know what it is he left her, do you?”
“Not specifically.” Her mouth twitched. “You don’t strike me as the material sort, Robyn.”
“Whatever he left her, it’s not mine. And it’s certainly not yours. Or your brother’s. It belongs to my mother. I don’t know what my father gave her or how much it’s worth, but I’ll bet it doesn’t come near to what child support payments would have cost him over the years.”
