by Sandra Balzo
'Me, too,' I said, following her out to the living room, where we settled down to await our pizza.
I took a sip of wine. 'Did you see your lawyer yesterday?'
I was treading carefully, trying not to bring up unpleasant things in a way that might upset my friend.
'I did,' Sarah said, sliding a coaster under my glass as I went to set it down.
'And?'
'He told me I do have rights in this situation.'
'Terrific,' I said, glad there was positive news. 'What's he suggesting?'
'First of all, he's going to contact Patrice and inform her that I am still Sam and Courtney's legal guardian and they are still minors. She is to have them call me immediately.'
'They haven't replied to your messages yet?' That was just plain wrong. How thoughtless could Sam and Courtney be?
Then again, both were teenagers.
'No, they haven't. And my calls go right to voicemail, like their phones are turned off. I did try texting, like you suggested, but not a peep.'
Nor a 'tweet', presumably. 'What will you say to them when you do get the chance?'
'I'm going to tell them that I love them. That their mother loved them, too, and she wanted me as their guardian, not an aunt they never knew.'
'Pitch-perfect,' I said. And remarkably sensitive.
'That's all I can do. If it doesn't work, my lawyer is going to demand Sam and Courtney return here while the whole issue of custody is considered.'
'Even better,' I said. 'Once they're here, face-to-face—'
'Unless Patrice blocks it.'
'If they don't come to Brookhills, would you consider going to Cape Cod?' I asked it hesitantly. I was trying to imagine the scene as Sarah pounded on Patrice's door and came up only with Armageddon.
'Damn right, I will.' Sarah stood just as a Volkswagen with a 'Pizza Palace' placard turned into the driveway.
'That's the spirit.' As Sarah went to the door to pay the pizza guy, I got out plates and napkins.
Fighting Patrice, buying a new car, throwing in with me on Uncommon Grounds. Sarah didn't need any help. She seemed to be doing wonderfully.
Which meant that maybe my generous offer of onions as an additional topping was precipitous of me.
Three slices later, I had a suggestion. 'Want to sit outside?'
'That bad?' Sarah asked with a wicked grin.
'Mere preparation.' I picked up my glass and led the way to her brick patio.
'It really is beautiful out here,' I said, surveying the spring flowers in the beds skirting the bricks. 'Did you do the plantings yourself?'
Sarah snorted and waved me toward the umbrella-topped glass table. 'You've known me how long now?'
'Just a couple of years, when you think about it. We became friends only after Patricia was killed.'
'Huh.' Sarah cocked her head. 'I guess that's true. It seems so much longer.'
It did. No matter which way she meant that.
'And what about Patricia?' I asked. 'How long were the two of you friends?'
'We met just after she moved to Brookhills, so about four years. Before she died.'
Sarah took two fingers and touched her lips, then tilted back and puffed heavenward. Blowing a kiss to Patricia up there somewhere or, more likely, another pretend smoke ring. When Sarah talked about the past, it always seemed to dredge up her old habit.
'Did Patricia tell you anything about her family life?'
'Nope.' Sarah looked sideways at me. 'Why? What do you know?'
'Nothing, I--'
'Spit it out Maggy. Just because I'm on drugs doesn't mean I won't rough you up.'
An idle threat. Perhaps.
I reluctantly filled her in on what Caron had told me about Patricia's childhood. Then I told her what Pavlik had found or, to be fair, not found.
'Huh.' Sarah tapped her index finger on the table like she was knocking the ash off a cigarette.
Not exactly the response I'd expected. I didn't want to color her thoughts with my own take on the situation, though, so I kept quiet.
'Huh.'
But now I couldn't stand it. 'All right. "Huh", what?'
'Granted, Patricia was not wrapped particularly tight,' Sarah said slowly, 'but I can't believe this is something she would make up.'
'She never said anything to you?' I asked.
'Nothing. No indication whatsoever.'
'Yet Patricia wanted you to have custody of the kids over blood relations on her side of the family tree.'
'True.' Sarah had a rueful grin on her face. 'Guess it shows "tight-wrapping" was not exactly a pre-requisite for guardianship.'
I punched her shoulder. 'That's not what I meant. You're plenty wrapped.'
'You wouldn't just say that, would you?'
Quite honestly, I probably would.
But I was telling the truth in this case. Sarah, sans mood swings, was one of the most dependable people I knew. 'Of course not.'
'Liar.' The grin faded. 'Thing is, Patricia, whatever her background, wasn't abusive to Sam or Courtney. I'd bet my life on that.'
'So you're saying all is well with Patrice, too?'
She shrugged. 'Innocent until proven guilty, Maggy. Pavlik didn't find anything. Even I came up empty.'
I looked at her.
'My kids were staying with her,' Sarah said. 'You'd have to guess that I'd check the family out the best I could.'
'Like how?' I asked. 'Google them?'
'I started there and found Patrice's name on a list of her church board members.'
That was a good sign, I guessed. Though God knew--and I concurred--it wasn't conclusive. I'd had a run-in or two with crazies intertwined with their churches like yarns in a sweater. 'Did you actually talk to anyone?'
'Their pastor. The church organist. Oh, and the woman who does their flowers. All passed Patrice with flying colors.'
I had to give it to Sarah. She was thorough.
'Even so,' she continued, 'I'm going to call my attorney in the morning and tell him what you told me.'
That Caron told me.
That Patricia told her.
I felt like we were kids again, playing a game of telephone.
Maybe it was time to grow up.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The next day was Sunday. As it turned out, it was the day of rest before . . . well, the rest.
By the time Monday morning dawned, my Escape had been washed, the lawn cut and a plan made.
Art Jenada might well be the one behind all the 'accidents', but if I didn't have proof, the harassment wouldn't stop. And, so far, if you didn't count Kornell's crash--maybe a true accident--no one had been seriously hurt.
Unfortunately, I couldn't count on that continuing as September first approached. It was time to protect ourselves.
Jenada said he didn't know who owned the building the florist had rented. I had no reason to doubt the caterer any more than I had reason to trust him.
So I didn't.
I found Laurel Birmingham, town clerk, unlocking the door of our municipal hall at eight a.m. sharp.
'Morning, Laurel,' I said as I came up behind her.
She jumped, hand to her breast. 'You scared me to death, Maggy. What are you doing here this early?'
'I need to find out who owns a property. Can I do that with you or do I have to go to the county courthouse?'
The courthouse was five miles away, but boasted the advantage of having Pavlik's office nearby. If I needed to go over there, maybe he'd buy me breakfast.
'Come on in.' Laurel swung open the door, but blocked my way while she reached to turn on the corridor lights.
'Sorry. There are no outside windows in the passageway, so it's pitch dark,' she said, letting me pass by.
Laurel is tall and well-proportioned, with what my mother had called an hour-glass figure. Laurel's cellphone would stay put. In fact, she'd probably have to send divers in for it.
'Thanks,' I said, willing myself to be tall. 'I wouldn't
want to break a leg on the cow.'
I patted the snout of a life-sized, plaster Holstein displayed in one corner. The animal was mostly white, but instead of the requisite black patches, hers were red and shaped like apples.
'Careful.' Laurel was sorting through her key ring for the one to the Clerk's Office. 'That thing's worth ten thousand dollars. It's here on loan from an art museum in Manhattan.'
New York lending Wisconsin a cow. How wrong was that?
I followed Laurel into the office and waited on the public side of the counter as she went around back, dropping her purse on a desk. Then she came toward me and straightened her nameplate.
'Can I help you?'
'Funny. And I hope so.'
I explained about the broken window in the store next door to the depot.
'Did you report it to the police?' Laurel asked.
'I didn't even think about that,' I admitted. 'Is it too late?'
'No, and it would be a nice favor to the owner. That way they'd have a police report for the insurance company.'
If their insurance coverage was like mine, another twenty windows would have to be broken before the deductible was exhausted and coverage kicked in.
Still, it was the right thing to do. Plus, it would get me the information I wanted without having to explain why. Laurel might be a fount of data, but this wellspring flowed both ways.
'Who does own it?' I asked.
'If I had a dollar for every time someone asked that question.' She brought her laptop computer to the counter.
'People always want to know who owns the property next door to them?'
'No, not just any property,' Laurel said, slipping on her reading glasses. 'I'm talking in particular about the one next to the depot. A hotel chain is looking to build in the Junction area.'
Ah-hah.
As Laurel spoke, she was tapping at her keyboard. Now she swiveled the laptop so the screen faced me. 'I keep telling people this is all public record and available online. Anyone can access it, you just need the address or the owner's name.'
'I don't have the owner's name,' I said.
Laurel rolled her eyes. 'But you do have the address, right?'
'Umm.'
'Oh, for God's sake.' She turned it back and tapped some more. 'At least the last guy had the address.'
'And who was that?' I asked it in what I hoped was a casual, I'm-just-marking-time kind of way.
Laurel eyed me over her glasses. 'Why do you care?'
'I don't.'
'Then why are you asking?'
'Just marking time until you're done.'
'Right.' She was searching through the paper on the counter. 'I think I still have the sticky-note with the address. It has his name on it.'
She selected a miniature sheet of lined paper and held it up. 'Here it is.'
'Seven-fifty Junction Road,' I read. 'And,' I looked up at Laurel, 'From the Desk of Art Jenada?'
She hit enter and positioned the laptop again so I could see the screen.
Why would Jenada look up the ownership of his own property? Unless . . .
I pulled the computer closer to me.
Site Address: 750 Junction Drive
Property Owner: Eisvogel, Kornell
Son of a gun.
Chapter Twenty-Six
'This can't be right,' I said more to myself than to Laurel. 'He's dead.'
'Then the property will go to his heir or heirs.' She reclaimed her computer. 'The hotel people have probably already tracked them down.'
'Him,' I corrected, 'and they probably have. But I have next dibs on the guy.'
They say you always find what you're looking for in the last place you look.
Well, duh.
So, of course, I didn't expect to find Ronny in the first place I looked.
On the way to the depot I called Sarah, only to get her voicemail. I couldn't remember the code to bypass it, so I had to wait through the long-winded menu of 'Kingston Realty--if you want this, press that'.
When I finally heard the beep, I left my own long, meandering message--too long, apparently, because the phone beeped back at maybe the four-minute mark and cut me off. When given the option, I pushed the '7' key to delete, intending to re-record more succinctly.
The thing was, though, how does one say, 'I think your cousin has been playing us. He will inherit the florist shop from Kornell and may have killed him to get both that and the depot. You might be next, so give me a call when you get the chance. Toodle-oo.'
By the time I'd worked out the perfect message, I was at the depot. There was no sign of life when I pulled up in front. I checked my cellphone. Nine a.m. No wonder Ronny wasn't here at the Junction; he'd still be at Sarah's place.
I tried her again and was rewarded with the same Kingston Realty greeting and menu. Not wanting to waste more Ronny-free time, I flipped my phone closed before the outgoing message ended and exited the Escape. As I did, something caught my attention.
The florist shop. Something was different.
I approached. Same dirty windows, but the broken one had been boarded up. I assumed the police hadn't done it, because I hadn't called them. And I didn't see Art Jenada doing manual labor that benefitted someone else. Besides, he saw the florist shop as a 'tear-down'.
So that left Ronny. Was there something valuable inside? Or maybe just something he didn't want anyone to see?
The window was covered by a 4-foot by 4-foot sheet of plywood. It had been a hasty job--nails instead of screws, like the sabotaged deck railing, and not many nails even at that.
I looked around for something to slip under the edge of the board and pry it off. I tried a branch from the flowering bush, but it was too flexible. As I went to toss it away, I realized the twig, like the blossom that had snagged in my hair, had no scent. So if Jenada was not the talcum-wearing culprit, where had the aroma come from? I certainly hadn't imagined it.
Had I?
I returned to the Escape and got its tire iron. Then I went back to the window. The job didn't take much effort with the right tool. I pried one side free and the weight of the wood did the rest.
As the plywood fell away, I got the familiar whiff of flowers. No, I hadn't been imagining it.
Levering myself up on to the windowsill, I was reluctantly grateful to Ronny for clearing out the glass shards before boarding the thing up.
This visit, it was the morning sun that was slanting through the filthy windows, illuminating the check-out counter and skanky fake flowers.
I swung one leg over the sill, catching my knee on a stalagmite of glass that had been missed.
'Careless, Ronny,' I said, as I felt blood--but no pain--run down my leg. I dearly hoped I wouldn't stumble across a body, as was my habit. The DNA evidence alone would put me away for life.
Once in, I opened my cell to try Sarah again. If I bled out, I wanted them to find my body before it started to smell.
As I selected her name from my address book, I circled the room, trying to locate the floral smell. My nose led me to the grocery bags on the floor.
The rock that had been used to break the window was still atop one of them. I nudged it aside.
That bag and its twin, sitting cockeyed nearby, were both from Schultz's, just like the bag Mario had salvaged from the trunk of Sarah's Firebird.
Two Schultz's sacks. Ronny had come into the depot with them. This was just after Sarah's car had taken its last, lamented dive on to the porch. Ronny had--supposedly--returned from the senior home and the bags--supposedly, too--contained things from the room Vi and Kornell shared before she went into the Sunrise wing.
Cellphone still clutched in one hand, I picked up the crushed bag and dumped out the contents.
A sweet-smelling white cloud enveloped me.
'Silken Petals,' I said, almost choking on it.
'Vi's favorite,' a voice from outside the cloud said.
As the talc cleared, a form started to take shape.
Tight black pa
nts, white socks, black shoes, open shirt. Inked-on sideburns. Slicked back hair with a lock dangling down.
Apparently, Elvis was in the building.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
'Did you buy all these for Vi?' I still had my cell in hand and faintly registered the Kingston Realty message starting. I slid the phone, open, into my pocket hoping Ronny wouldn't hear the outgoing announcement, too.
'I did. Every one of them.' He even sounded like Elvis Presley. Low-pitched, southern twang. 'But they kept disappearing. Vi especially loved the sprinkle bottles, so she could just turn them over and tap the powder out. Arthritis, you know.'
'No, I didn't know.' Edging away, I tried to string Ronny along. 'Did the arthritis contribute to her fall?'
'My father "contributed to her fall". The bastard killed the only person who ever loved me.'
I thought it best not to expand on that just yet. 'You said Vi's Silken Petals kept disappearing?'
'That witch in the souped-up wheelchair was taking them. Everybody knew that. Her room was next to Vi's and my father's, so I took them back.'
A beep from my pocket.
'Clara Huseby is dead, you know.' I said it loudly to cover the cell sound. 'An accident with her wheelchair. Sarah and I found her.'
'So I heard.' Ronny was squirming in his pants, like they were chafing him. Or maybe it was his homage to the pelvis of Elvis.
Now Ronny smirked. 'That wheelchair was giving Clara all sorts of problems. I tried to fix it, but . . .' He shrugged.
'You are good with your hands. Did you inspect the car Sarah wants to buy?'
'I did. Looks like just the thing for her.'
I'd have bet it was. Ronny probably turned Firebird II into a death trap. And he already had the deed to the depot. If Sarah was out of the way, even without the partnership papers signed, he could forge the deed with nobody alive to question the signature.
Except me.
I needed to warn Sarah. Get enough damning information on tape so that when the recording ended and she received it as a voicemail, Sarah would know not to drive the new Firebird.
Somebody knowing where Maggy Thorsen was would be a good thing, too. Blood still trickled down my leg, but I had a feeling that was the least of my current worries.
