Dear Irene,

by Jan Burke

  “Blue tennis shoes? I thought dogs were color-blind.”

  Frank shrugged. “She would have known which ones I meant.”

  It sounded like classic dog-owner bragging to me, but I didn’t want to further impugn the memory of Trouble.

  “I used to have a dog,” I said. “She was mostly a beagle—named Blanche.”

  “Blanche?”

  “Blanche Du Bois.”

  He smiled. “Blanche Du Bois? A Streetcar Named Desire?”

  “You are a detective. My dad named our pets, too. Blanche was a stray, and Dad said she had survived because she had ‘always depended on the kindness of strangers.’ ”

  “Were your other pets named Stanley and Stella?”

  “No, Blanche was the only one that took her name from Tennessee Williams. Dad was being a little dramatic himself. It was a protest of sorts. He wanted us to get rid of her.”

  “Your dad didn’t like dogs?”

  “He was just exercising his authority. You know how this goes. He grumbled that he didn’t want a dog, told us to take Blanche to the pound, but then he ended up being the one who fed the dog from the table—he’d even let Blanche sneak up onto the couch when my mother was in the other room. Blanche was crazy about him. She was only my dog until my dad came home from work, then she shadowed him.”

  “Trouble used to follow me everywhere I’d go,” Frank said.

  I laughed. “Sorry. It still sounds funny.”

  “I had the same problem talking about her as a kid.”

  “I used to take Blanche hunting for hot dogs.”

  “Had a lot of wild hot dogs burrowing around in Las Piernas back then?”

  “Given the opportunity, I will explain. I’d steal a hot dog out of the refrigerator, drag it around on the ground, and hide it somewhere in the yard. Then I’d put her on a leash, and she would follow the trail and track it down. She’d find it every time.”

  “Poor mutt. Reduced to stalking Oscar Meyer.”

  “At least she got to eat the hot dog. I never asked her to fetch my stinky old tennis shoes.”

  He laughed. We sat there for a moment, remembering our dearly departed canines, listening to a blues program on KLON. The wood popped and crackled in the fireplace. We began softly touching each other. The caresses weren’t so much sexual as tender; small gifts of affection. I traced the ridge of his eyebrows, ran the back of my nails beneath his chin; he stroked the back of my arm above my elbow, found that place along my left shoulder blade that loves to be lightly scratched.

  “About the mountains,” he said. “Let’s wait. We can go up for the weekend sometime in January or February.”

  “Frank, really, I don’t need to be babied about this.”

  “Neither do I. Could you stand to pass up all that food Lydia was talking about?”

  “First you practically hypnotize me with whatever that wonderful thing is that you’re doing to my ear. Then you bring up Lydia’s cooking. Do you use these same methods at work?”

  “You get all kinds of special privileges.”

  “Keep it that way, Harriman.”

  We watched Cody trot in through his new cat door and head straight for the fire. He gave us a look that said we should have called him to let him know there was a fire in here for a cat to enjoy.

  “Think Cody would run away if we had a dog?” Frank asked.

  “No, he knows who owns the can opener. Oh, I shouldn’t insult him. Cody’s a handful, but he’s loyal. He’d probably sulk for a few days, then he’d adjust. We’d just have to give him extra attention.”

  I got up and refilled our hot chocolates. Cody noticed the mint smell, of which he is enamored, and made a pest out of himself trying to get a taste of it.

  Frank gently pulled me back over to him, encircling me with his arms. “You haven’t had so many nightmares lately.”

  “No. At least, not the really intense ones. I might wake up, but I’m not screaming bloody murder.”

  “So you are still having them.” I could hear the worry in his voice.

  “Not as often as before. I’m almost used to it now.”

  “These letters and pranks getting to you?”

  No use lying. “A little.”

  I felt him tense. “I guess they worry me, too. Especially because I know you won’t be able to resist trying to track him down.”

  “It’s in my nature, Frank. A strong sense of curiosity is one of the things we have in common. You know I can’t ignore these letters. I don’t know why you find that hard to understand.”

  “It isn’t hard to understand. There’s just a difference between what I understand and what I feel happy about.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  Lots of silence. Finally, he sighed and relaxed a little.

  “You worry too much, Frank. Besides, I’m not his target.”

  “Not yet,” he said, and the tension returned.

  I reached up and started massaging his neck. He murmured something about it feeling good.

  “You know what, Frank? I’m really enjoying having two hands.”

  “Wrong. I’m the one who’s enjoying it.”

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was sitting at my desk, daydreaming about my old friend O’Connor. The desk used to be his, and it took a while for me to learn to say “my desk” when referring to it. It would always be his, of course, and I often felt especially near to him when I sat there. O’Connor was fond of quoting things he had read here and there; he was a walking book of proverbs, old saws, and words of wisdom. He had one for any occasion, but you were especially likely to hear them from him when he had a skinful.

  One night at Banyon’s he had been holding forth on the role of the press, and he asked me if I had ever heard of the Greek historian Herodotus. O’Connor was just short of being knee-walking drunk, so I wasn’t even sure I had heard the name right, and said no, I didn’t know about Herodotus.

  “Well, my darling,” he said, trying to look me straight in the eye, “Herodotus said a thing or two worth remembering, but my favorite is this: ‘Of all men’s miseries the bitterest is this, to know so much and to have control over nothing.”

  How he could pull these things out of his memory when he was soused I’ll never know, but he did it again and again. And he’d remember he had said them the next day and give me a follow-up lesson, if my own hangover would allow for it.

  That’s how I happened to be thinking of Herodotus when Frank called.

  “I think I know who Thalia is,” he said. “A good candidate, anyway.”

  “Who?”

  “A woman by the name of Thayer. Rosie Thayer. Owner of Rosie’s Bar and Grill down on Broadway—about six blocks from the paper.”

  “I know the place. I’ve never been in there, but I’ve walked past it. How did you come up with her?”

  “I asked Missing Persons for a list of everyone reported to them since the day Edna Blaylock was killed. Thayer seems to be a good candidate.”

  “Good Cheer—a bar owner?”

  “Yes, and a couple of other things. Thayer sounds a little bit like Thalia, and she’s the same age as the Blaylock woman.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, she’s fifty-four. I don’t know what to make of that; in fact, I don’t have the complete file on her yet. But I wanted you to know. If it checks out, do you think John would let you run something on her, help us try to find out if anybody has seen her?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  “If he says yes, give me a call back. I should have the rest of the file by then. Oh—have you asked Lydia about Christmas?”

  “Not yet. I’ll try to ask her on my way out of John’s office.”

  But John was busy and I had to wait until a copy editor had finished talking to him. In the meantime, I told Lydia that we were staying in town and ready to invite ourselves to Christmas dinner. She was more than pleased with the news.

  “Fantastic! We’ll all be together!”
/>   “You’ll be able to feed two more people?”

  “Both nights, without any trouble. Never worry about having enough to eat when a bunch of Italians are doing the cooking.”

  Stuart Angert walked over and we started exchanging stories about oddball letters. “I’ve got a fish advocate now,” he said.

  “Someone who promotes eating seafood?”

  “No, just the opposite. Every time a photo of someone standing next to a big catch appears in the sports section, this woman writes in to say that fishing is cruel and immoral and that printing a photo of a fish carcass is demeaning to the fish.”

  A couple of general assignment reporters gathered around us, and one of them urged Stuart to tell me about someone they referred to as Zucchini Man.

  But before Stuart could reply, John yelled out, “Kelly? You want to see me?”

  I went into his office and told him about Rosie Thayer and my conversation with Kincaid. He thought things over for a few minutes then decided he didn’t have a problem with my writing a story on Thayer. He also said I could go ahead and tell Frank what I learned from Kincaid.

  I had just walked back out into the newsroom and was looking for Stuart when Mark Baker called out to me, telling me I had a phone call. I forgot all about Zucchini Man and hurried over to my desk and took the receiver from Mark.

  “Miss Kelly? Steven Kincaid.”

  “Hold on a minute.” I gave Mark a “get lost” look but he ignored it. I covered the phone and said, “Thank you very much, Mark, you can go back to whatever it is you do around here.”

  “You’re starting to sound like John Walters,” he said, but moved away.

  “Hello,” I said into the phone, “I’m back with you again. What can I do for you?”

  “You mentioned wanting to talk about E.J.’s research. I stayed up last night and made a list of the things she had written and worked on. I thought you might want to have it as soon as possible and, well, I couldn’t sleep anyway. Would you like for me to bring it by?”

  “Sure. Listen, did Dr. Blaylock know someone named Rosie Thayer?”

  He thought it over before answering. “I can’t remember her ever mentioning anyone by that name.”

  “Did she ever go to a place called Rosie’s Bar and Grill down on Broadway?”

  “No, at least not with me. Why?”

  “Nothing important—I was just thinking of trying it out for lunch, wondered if you’d heard of it. In fact, why don’t you let me buy you lunch, Mr. Kincaid? You’re doing me a real favor by gathering information on Dr. Blaylock’s research.”

  “Sure, I’d like to have lunch with you. And please call me Steven.”

  “Then I’m Irene, not Miss Kelly, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I called Frank back.

  “Hi. Christmas is all set. Tell me about Rosie Thayer.”

  “First of all, turns out Rosie was a nickname. Her real name was Thelma. Thelma Thayer. Thalia from either one, I guess.”

  “Any connection to Edna Blaylock?”

  “None we’ve been able to uncover. In fact, they only share one or two similar traits. I mentioned the age business. Both longtime residents of Las Piernas. Both unmarried.”

  “Blaylock was married and divorced.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t the police find out about that? According to my source, she was married for about a year when she was at UCLA, during or immediately after grad school.”

  “Your source?”

  “That will have to do for now, I’m afraid.” It wasn’t the first time one of us had been forced to say something like that; I didn’t think he’d mind. We had agreed early on in our relationship to respect certain job-related boundaries.

  “Who did she marry?”

  “Don’t know. Think your guys could find something out? All I have is a first name—James. Apparently it was long ago and no ill-will remaining, at least not on Blaylock’s part.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “I’m thinking of going down to Rosie’s Bar and Grill for lunch,” I said.

  “I’ve got to get down there myself. Want to have lunch together?”

  “Uh—no, not really. In fact, could you be out of there by eleven?”

  Dead silence.

  “Let me rephrase that, Frank. I’m going to be having lunch with someone who won’t be comfortable talking to me in front of a cop. I’d love to have lunch with you, but I think this guy will speak more openly to me if there isn’t a third party involved.”

  “Who is ‘this guy’?”

  “Can’t tell you. Not yet.”

  “A suspect in this case?”

  “Frank, I said I can’t tell you.” I emphasized each word, wondering if my growing irritation would make any impression.

  “Look, Irene, I know we’ve agreed to some limits, but just about anyone who has information about this case is potentially a murder suspect. And I don’t trust anyone who tells you they don’t want the police around. It’s a homicide investigation, for Christsakes. What if you’re meeting Thanatos for lunch?”

  That really steamed me. The man clearly thought I was an idiot.

  “Never mind who I’m going to lunch with,” I hissed from between clenched teeth.

  “Who the hell is it, Irene?”

  “Goddamn it, Frank, it’s none of your business. I’m not required to report every contact I have with another male in Las Piernas to the local police department. Or to you personally, for that matter.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Just drop it.”

  “Are you near your period?”

  “No, Frank. Is someone pinching your balls?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Don’t be an asshole!”

  He hung up. I slammed the phone down so hard, the casing cracked. I looked up to see Mark Baker a few feet away, trying desperately to stifle laughter. I stomped out of the newsroom, stringing swear words together under my breath. I went downstairs.

  “Geoff, you know where I’ll be if anyone comes looking for me,” I said on my way past the security desk. I went down into the basement.

  Geoff is a skinny old gem of a man, and he often looks out for me when I’m in hot water. He has known me for a dozen years, and that means he knows that when I need a break from the Express staff, I often go down to the basement to watch the presses run.

  Danny Coburn, one of the press operators, smiled when he saw me, but quickly figured out that I needed to be given a wide berth. He let me go past him without doing more than handing me some ear protectors and saying, “Go on, just about to start them up.”

  I knew my way through the maze of presses. I stood somewhere out in the middle of that web of machinery and wires and paper and ink. Just as Danny had said, they were starting up. Of course, the fact that I wasn’t really supposed to be there made it more enjoyable.

  The growling start-up built into a roar, and I put the ear protectors on. Within a few minutes, the rumbling could be felt in the floor beneath my feet. The newsprint was moving faster now, flying past the place where I stood and weaving over, under, and between rollers. It came back up out of the presses in a blur, was cut and rolled and turned and folded. Knowing I’d never be heard over the presses, I hollered half a dozen obscenities at the top of my lungs. I breathed in the smell of the ink and the paper and felt better for it. I was at home there.

  I have a fierce temper but I don’t usually stay mad for long. I know myself well enough to realize that one of my challenges in life is to keep it under control, to accept the fact that most of the things that make me angry aren’t worth the effort. It’s usually a matter of perspective.

  But being engaged to be married does strange things to one’s perspective. Everything gets filtered through a sieve labeled “the rest of your life.” As I stood there watching the intricate network of paper and machinery do its work, I wondered if Frank and I could possibly overcome this particular obstacle.


  There was an important principle being tested here, I told myself. As a reporter, I needed to be able to move among a wide variety of people—including unsavory characters. I didn’t believe I should be obliged to get Frank’s approval to talk to them. Frank’s protectiveness, so welcomed when I was injured, would suffocate me if it went too far where reporting was concerned. I needed him to trust me.

  “No use asking anyone to trust you, Irene.” O’Connor once told me. “It’s like asking someone to love you. He either does or he doesn’t. The request doesn’t change a thing.”

  The love I was sure of. The trust? Only a maybe. No matter what my sister had read while getting her nails done.

  I looked up and saw Coburn waving me out from my hiding place. I took a deep breath and walked out to see why I was being summoned.

  “Geoff says there’s someone here to see you,” Coburn shouted. I nodded and handed back the ear protectors. I glanced at my watch as I walked up the basement stairs. 9:30. Way too early for Kincaid. I reached the top of the stairs and Geoff motioned to me. I didn’t see anyone in the lobby.

  “What is it, Geoff?”

  “Detective Harriman is waiting to talk to you.”

  “Look, Geoff—”

  “I asked him to wait outside. Now, I ain’t so old I don’t see you two must have had a scrap of something—he don’t leave his police work to come down here all of a sudden-like just on a whim. It’s none of my business, but I’ve never seen you be a coward, Miss Kelly, so you better get on out there and talk to the man, or you’ll disappoint me.”

  I had to grin. “Lord knows, Geoff, I can’t afford to do that.”

  I went out the front doors and saw Frank leaning against the building, looking at the toe of one of his shoes like it held the secret of life.

  “Crime on a coffee break in this town?” I asked.

  “Hi.” He stood up straight, but didn’t come closer. Wise man.

  “I’m under strict orders from Geoff to listen to what you have to say. Have you been bribing that old geezer?”

  “No, but it’s a thought. I came down here to apologize. They told me your phone is out of order.”

  I reddened a little, but held my ground. “I was just thinking about why you made me so angry.”