“Could I talk to you privately for just a minute, Dorothy?” I asked.
“Melanie, excuse us, please.” Dorothy issued it more as an order than a request.
Melanie gave me a weak smile and ducked out of the room. Dorothy ushered me to a white brocade sofa. She made a production of folding the hand towel while I sat down. She took a seat on a pale aqua chair next to the sofa and placed the folded towel in her lap.
“Now, what’s this about?” she asked.
“Did someone from the Lincoln County Sheriff’s Department contact you yesterday?” I asked.
“A woman asked if I knew the name of my father’s dentist. I gave it to her and she thanked me.” Her face registered mild puzzlement. “Why?”
This wasn’t going to be easy. “A body was found at a small mining camp near White Oaks,” I said. “It was an elderly man, but they haven’t identified him yet.”
“Oh, my.” Dorothy’s face registered a look of disbelief.
“There’s no easy way to do this, I guess. The sheriff asked me to see if you could identify this shirt.” I pulled the plaid shirt from the bag and handed it to her.
She turned it over in her hands and looked at the tag inside the collar. “It looks familiar,” she said slowly. “He has several plaid shirts and I don’t remember this one specifically. Melanie and Bob gave him one for Christmas a couple of years ago and he wore it quite a lot. It could be this one.”
“Could we ask Melanie if she recognizes it?”
“It will upset her. She’s very close to her grandfather.”
“The police really need to know.”
“Let me get her,” Dorothy said, rising.
She returned a couple of minutes later, trailing behind her daughter. Whatever Dorothy had told Melanie had left her visibly upset.
“What’s this about Grandpa’s shirt?” she asked in a quivery voice.
I stood up and carried the shirt to her. “Do you know if this is your grandfather’s?” I asked.
She looked at it and nodded. “It’s the one we gave him for Christmas. Why do you need to know this?”
“We don’t know for sure,” I told her. Her petite face crumpled when I told her about finding the old man’s body.
I put an arm around her shoulders and led her to the sofa. Dorothy took a spot primly on the side chair again. Melanie leaned forward, elbows on knees, and held her face in her hands, staring out at a point somewhere in the middle of the beige carpet.
“Will we know something definite by the end of the week?” Dorothy finally asked. “This is certainly going to put a damper on our reunion.” Her fuzzy gray curls dipped with the emphasis she put on her words.
Melanie clenched her fists and turned to Dorothy. “Mother! You and your damned reunion! Just shut up about it!”
“Well!” Dorothy’s curls were bobbing like nervous corks on water now. She stood up and stomped back to the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” Melanie said to me. “I never . . . I mean . . . I just never have the courage to speak to Mother like that. I mean . . .”
“It’s okay, I know what you mean.”
“She just, I don’t know, just never seemed to care that much about Grandpa. Now she’s got this burr under her saddle about this reunion. I just wish the whole damn thing would go away.”
“I can’t promise much. Finding answers in the next couple of days may be impossible.” I watched her mood sink again. “Hey, you want to get out of here for awhile?” I asked. “Maybe go have a cup of coffee or a drink?”
She brightened a little. “I could use a break. I’ve been here all day. It’s getting a little overwhelming. Let me take my own car and I’ll meet you somewhere.”
She showed me out after we’d agreed on a little neighborhood bar on Lomas, just a few blocks away. I pulled away from the curb, wondering if Dorothy were watching me from her kitchen window. The woman had always set me on edge. She seemed obsessed with finding Willie, but only because of the reunion. I hoped Melanie would open up over a drink and shed some more light on her mother’s attitude.
I’d parked behind the bar and secured a corner table by the time Melanie arrived. She’d donned a short leather jacket over her T-shirt and I noticed several male heads turned as she walked through the room. We both ordered wine and reached for the basket of crunchy nibbles at the same moment.
“I’m trying to get a picture of your grandfather’s habits,” I told her after our drinks had arrived and we’d skimmed over a little idle chit-chat. “Did he often go out prospecting by himself?”
“Oh, all the time,” she said. “When I was a little kid, sometimes he’d take me with him. It was fun for me, but I got the idea—later, of course—that he was perfectly happy to be out there by himself where he could get some serious work done.”
“So he thought of his prospecting as a job? Did he actually find much?”
“Oh, yes. Well, every time I went out with him, he’d find a few little nuggets. I thought they were just pretty little sparkles. I had no idea what gold was worth. I guess, in retrospect, he probably netted a couple hundred dollars worth a day.”
“I wonder where he kept it. Dorothy gave me a key to his house and I looked around there for some idea about where he’d gone. Didn’t see any sign of any gold nuggets lying around.”
She crunched a minute on a pretzel. “I imagine he cashed in some of it whenever he needed money. You probably saw that his needs are simple.” I nodded agreement. “Maybe that’s all there ever was, just a few nuggets. Could be, he carried it with him. I don’t know.”
Or had a secret hiding place. I remembered the map Keith Randel had given me, but didn’t mention it to Melanie.
“So what’s this big deal your mother has about this family reunion? It looks like she’s making it quite a production.”
She rolled her eyes again. “I don’t know. I swear, Mother has never pushed family togetherness like this before.” She stared into her wine glass for a long minute. “Something you have to understand about her, Charlie. Mother was one of those women who wanted a career many years before the feminist movement made it the thing to do. In the ’50s, when every other woman in America was having babies and being a housewife, Mother applied to law school.”
I guess my face registered my surprise.
“Oh yeah. She got turned down three times. This is family lore that was drilled into us from the time we were little. Well, she finally got accepted but it was still a battle against the all-male powers-that-be to finish school, pass the bar, and get hired to a very secondary position in a small local firm. It was the only job she could get and it grated against her constantly when she realized that she’d never rise much above that starting position.
“She’d married my father when they were both in law school, when her dreams were still vivid and exciting. By the time she was thirty she’d become an embittered woman who felt stuck where she was in life. If she stayed home to raise the two kids they’d produced, she’d be admitting defeat, admitting that she was just one of the masses of women who were ‘doing nothing’ with their lives—her words, not mine.” She paused to take another deep sip of her wine. “As it turned out, the decision was made by fate, and that probably served to make her even more bitter.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“My father, whose position was with a bigger firm and better prospects, had a stroke. I think his firm helped the family out a bit financially—I never really knew—but eventually they had to cut him loose because he was unable to work. Mother had no choice. Her salary couldn’t support the family and his medical bills and keep two kids in day care. Her firm was already lukewarm about having a woman lawyer on staff and they probably put even more pressure on her. She eventually caved and gave up her dream. Quit the firm to stay home with the family and care for Dad. We had to go on welfare for awhile. It was humiliating for her, I’m sure.
“I don’t remember many of the details. I was about seven at the time.
I just knew that, for once, she was there when I got home from school. We always had food and clothes. Beyond that, I wasn’t privy to anything behind the scenes. When I was ten my father had another stroke and that one killed him.”
I made a sympathetic motion.
“I didn’t really miss him. He hadn’t been there mentally for a long time. I did miss her. We were now into the 1980s and feminism and discrimination were big buzz words. Even though we had Dad’s life insurance money, Mother wanted her career. She had no trouble getting into a prestigious firm then, and she made the most of it. Suddenly, Roger and I were latch-key kids and the home cooked dinners came to a screeching halt. There were a series of cleaning ladies who would sometimes be there when we got home. Some of them were even nice to us. But I guess Mother thought we were old enough to fend for ourselves after school. It never even occurred to her that we were lonely.”
“Sounds like she must have been happy though. Did it improve her disposition?”
“Hah. Not really. I don’t think she ever became financially successful. And, believe me, Mother definitely equates money with success. If you don’t make lots of money, you’re nobody. Well, she continued to rail against her bosses and the system and everything else she could remotely attribute to discrimination. Well, you’ve seen the result. She’s never been happy.”
“Sounds like she just never allowed herself to be happy,” I commented.
“That’s about it. Whatever she had was never good enough.”
“And so this reunion is all about . . .” I shrugged.
“About pretending that we’re just one great big, wonderfully happy family. She’s invited all her siblings and their families. They’re spread out all over the country now. I think the guest list at last count was somewhere around fifty people, and I don’t know if that even includes the littlest ones. She wants to do this big meal at her house, for which she’ll do most of the cooking. Heaven knows why.” She sipped again. “I guess so everyone will look at her and think what a wonderful homemaker and mother she turned out to be. Now that’s a laugh—her wanting to show what a great homemaker she is, when it’s the last thing she ever wanted in real life.
“And of course, part of this image of the big, perfect family is, in her mind, having Grandpa . . .” her voice broke off. “Do you think there’s any hope of that?” she asked, giving me a long, hard stare.
“I don’t know, Melanie. I just don’t know.”
Chapter 8
We parted outside in the parking lot, with my promise to find out what I could. She’d also asked me to come to the reunion dinner on Sunday. I agreed without really wanting to, but figured I might pick up some clues by meeting the other family members. I didn’t hold much hope for a happy outcome to this one. I drove home, heated myself a bowl of soup, and fell into bed for the night.
I spent the weekend puttering around the house. I was still enjoying our new addition and found I liked straightening and tinkering with the little bit of decorating I still had to do. On Saturday, Dorothy called to restate Melanie’s invitation to the reunion dinner and I found myself trapped into going. Sunday evening I drove up to the northeast heights once again and hunted for a parking spot among the dozens of cars that lined her street.
Dorothy opened the door herself, wearing a silk broomstick skirt in shades of coral and brown, with a rust-colored tunic top and a string of silver and coral heishi around her neck. Her gray curls were upswept in back with a spiral curl dipping low over her forehead.
“I hope you have some good news for us tonight,” she whispered through her teeth.
“It’s only been a couple of days, Dorothy. I don’t have any news yet,” I told her.
She dropped my elbow and ushered me through the living room to a large den at the back of the house, where six large round tables had been set up for dinner. Across the crowded room I spotted Melanie as she finished setting butter dishes on a couple of the tables.
“Hi, Charlie,” she greeted. “So glad you came. I’ve put your place right here next to mine. Bob, my husband, will be with us.”
Dorothy stood at the doorway into the kitchen and rang a small crystal dinner bell. Talk among the guests gradually faded away. “Dinner is ready,” she announced.
“We’re doing this buffet style,” Melanie whispered in my ear. “Let’s go fix our plates and we can visit while we eat.”
By process of deductive reasoning, aided by hints from Melanie, I began to figure out who the family members were. Seated at our table were--besides Melanie, Bob, and myself--one of Dorothy’s sisters, Beatrice, her husband Ralph, and a sullen teenager named Heather. Dorothy presided over a table with another sister and spouse and a few people about Melanie’s age, presumably children of Dorothy’s other siblings. Another table hosted Dorothy’s brother Felix, rugged and outdoorsy with a craggy face and deep tan, and a svelte woman in her sixties whom Melanie said was Felix’s date. Altogether, I came up with four in Dorothy’s generation, about ten of their respective children (and children’s spouses or dates), and an assortment of teens and kids who belonged in there somewhere. If Willie had been here, he would have been the patriarch over the four generations.
“Well, Dorothy’s really outdone herself,” Beatrice sniffed after we’d finished our dinner and were well into the desserts.
“She worked hard to put it together,” Melanie acknowledged. Her eyes became red around the edges. “I just wish Grandpa could have been here. tab
Beatrice stiffened. She busied herself with her chocolate mousse but had a hard time eating any with her lips clamped shut so she ended up just stirring it to death in its crystal glass.
“Aunt Beatrice, what’s the matter?” Melanie asked.
Ralph tried to dissuade the question with a subtle headshake but no one noticed it. Heather didn’t say a word but a spark of interest had appeared in her eyes. I attempted to tune my senses to every little nuance while appearing as though I hadn’t the slightest interest in the conversation. I doubt I succeeded.
Beatrice fired a poison-dart look toward Dorothy at the other table. The other woman was in an animated conversation and didn’t notice. Ralph nudged his wife. “Bea, settle down,” he whispered. She turned on him.
“I’m not settling down,” she hissed. “It eats at me every time I see my sister. The thought of how she’s controlling Daddy and making him do things he wouldn’t normally do.” She scraped furiously at the sides of her dessert dish. She looked at Melanie. “She’s got all his important papers hidden somewhere and won’t tell any of the rest of us what’s going on. I know for a fact that she got him to take the rest of us off that insurance policy of his and make her the only beneficiary. Lord only knows what he’s done with his will by now.”
Melanie looked like she’d cry any minute. I glanced around the room to see who else was listening in. All the other tables were absorbed in their own conversations.
“I’m sorry, dear,” said Beatrice, patting the middle of the table as if she were touching Melanie’s hand. “I don’t mean to upset you. I know it’s none of your doing.”
Bob put his arm around Melanie’s shoulders. “It’s okay, honey,” he said in a low voice. To the table at large he launched into a story about how legend in his family had it that his great-grandpa Joey had changed his will twenty-seven times in the last year of his life. It got to be such a game of musical chairs in the family, trying to guess who would be in and who would be out, that everyone finally gave up and told the old man they didn’t care. After that, he wrote them all back in equally. “Willie will probably do exactly the same thing,” he tried to assure them.
I got the sense that no one was buying it.
“I just hope he’s really alive somewhere,” Melanie said, sniffing into her napkin.
I squeezed her hand and told her I hoped so too. People were getting up and milling around now and I felt myself drooping. It had been a long day. I said goodbye to Melanie and Bob, looked around for Dorothy but didn�
��t see her, so I ducked out the front door without any fanfare. By the time I got home I didn’t have the energy for much of anything. I watched television for a few minutes and caught myself dozing off so I went to bed. It was only nine o’clock.
Rusty woke me the next morning at daybreak by resting his large head on the edge of the bed and staring at me until his presence became undeniable.
“All right, all right,” I groaned. I slipped on a robe and let him out the back door. The thought crossed my mind that I’d just tippy-toe back to bed for another couple of hours, but the phone rang as I was crossing the living room.
“Randy Buckman here.” His voice seemed softer and less officious over the phone line. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
I swallowed to clear the fuzziness from my voice. “No, it’s fine. I was already up.”
“I’m getting an early start today on that White Oaks case,” he said. “The dental charts aren’t here yet but, being as I have to go to court this afternoon, I thought I’d clear away a few other things. You have any luck with an ID on that shirt?”
I told him that Melanie had definitely recognized it. “The family is pretty upset about this,” I fudged. “They’ve got a big reunion going on now and I’m afraid any outcome except Mr. McBride turning up alive and well is going to put a real damper on all of them.”
“Well, let’s see what the dental charts turn up. I’ll notify them as soon as possible. If the body is his, it’s better that they know as soon as possible, I’d say.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Privately, I was just glad he would do the notifying. I hung up the phone, feeling down because the case was ending so quickly and so badly.
Rusty scratched at the door just then and I let him back inside. Fed him a scoop of nuggets and myself a piece of toast. By then I was feeling decidedly grubby sitting around in my robe, so I opted for a very long, hot shower where I shaved my legs, shampooed and conditioned my hair, and gave myself a mini-facial. I followed all this by polishing my toenails and sitting back on the new chaise lounge in our bedroom while they dried. Having done all the girl-stuff I could think of, I slipped into jeans and a cotton sweater and put on sandals so I wouldn’t ruin the new polish job.
Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery Page 6
