Widow's Row

by Lala Corriere

  “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “We can’t go anywhere. We’ve just consumed almost two bottles of wine. Besides, it’s getting dark. I don’t even think I could find the place.”

  “Jonathan will drive.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Putrid Air & Warm Breath

  Kate was right about one thing. She’d have trouble finding Baird’s cabin in the dark. ‘Twenty minutes away’ turned into an hour and a half of wrong turns on wrong dirt roads. Even I admit I was ready to give up the hunt when Kate spotted the line of trees that obscured the landing strip from anything but a birds-eye view.

  “Are you sure?” I didn’t see anything. Maybe a somewhat even wall of pines.

  “From here, go 1.4 miles.”

  “How do you know?” Jonathan’s voice carried the vague hint of frustration. Maybe fear? Whatever it was I’d gotten him into he surely didn’t deserve.

  “Because Baird wasn’t a gracious date. He didn’t exactly come and pick me up. I’ve made this drive.”

  Jonathan set his trip meter and at almost one and one-half miles an even more rugged and almost invisible dirt road veered off to the side. The terrain bounced the three of us around like Mexican jumping beans on quad-shots of Starbucks.

  Kate said the cabin was ahead of us. I saw nothing but a dense circle of trees. Jonathan saw that the so-called road was coming to an abrupt end. He pulled up to what appeared to be a dark gateway through the pines and killed the engine.

  He placed his hand on my arm and squeezed. “Breecie, just what exactly are we doing here? What do you think we’re going to accomplish by going in there? We can stop right now and call the sheriff.”

  Kate, riding in the back, crouched over the console between the front seats, apparently equally eager to stop.

  I crossed my arms to keep from seeing the trembles in my heart. “No sheriff. Not yet. And I really don’t know. Supposedly, I have all the answers I need in the stuff spread across my desk right now. The things my father left me to make everything all right. But I can’t leave it at that. I thought I could, but I can’t. I need to check this place out before somebody else does.”

  “You think some clue in this place is going to lead you to your father?” Kate scrunched even nearer to the front seat.

  “Maybe.” There, I admitted it. I wanted to find my dad.

  “Are you sure you want to find him?” Kate asked.

  Unbelievably, at this last moment we all sat motionless in the car while I presented my case. “For sure, I won’t chase after him, no matter where he is. But yes, in some weird way it will give me peace of mind. At Christmastime I can imagine him in arctic mukluks, or wrapped tight in a Japanese kimono. Just maybe I can feel closer to him.”

  Jonathan asked me to retrieve the flashlight from the glove compartment. He reached under his seat and pulled out a Glock.

  “Why do you need that?” Kate shrieked. Her brown eyes turned black as her pupils dilated.

  “The place looks dark, even abandoned,” Jonathan said. “But we’ve been making plenty of racket wheeling up this dirt road. If someone’s in there, they know they have company.”

  “Kate, why don’t you stay here?” I urged.

  “No fucking way.”

  “I think you both should stay here,” Jonathan said.

  “Kate said it best. No fucking way.”

  My legs were shaking as the three of us crawled out of the SUV. I eased my door shut. Jonathan slammed his.

  “Like I said, if anyone’s in there, they know we’re not just passing through.” He nodded toward the inky silhouette looming in front of us.

  Kate proved to be correct on another count. The cabin was a dump. Loose decaying boards somehow held together enough to support a sagging roof of cheap asphalt tiles. Windows were cracked or broken. Bindweed had become a comfortable sidekick to the host of compromised panes of glass. The welcome mat must have been on holiday.

  Holding the gun inside his jacket and close to his chest, Jonathan rapped on the door. Why not? A civil thing to do.

  The quiet stillness stirred the small hairs on the back of my neck as I watched him reach for the doorknob and twist it. With a slight click, the door opened.

  He grabbed the flashlight from my hands and whirled the beam around, searching the corners of the room. “Matches?”

  “I have some,” Kate whispered from behind us.

  The Coleman lantern brought the shabby room into view. Wood Parsons table. A couple of spindly wood chairs I could hardly imagine bearing Baird’s weight.

  The label on the half-empty bottle of wine caught my attention. It was one of my father’s favorite. Honig. One of my favorites, too.

  I eased into the cabin, breathing in the putrid air while feeling Kate’s warm breath on the back of my neck as she followed right behind me. Jonathan inched in further, checking out a couple of side doors.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Looks like we have the place to ourselves.”

  I noticed the ashtray. Sobranie butts. Baird didn’t smoke, that I knew of. My dad only smoked stinky cigars. Ari Christenson smoked. His tobacco of choice, Sobranie.

  So you were lying, you S.O.B. You knew exactly where this cabin was. You’ve been here. The question is, how recently?

  Kate flung open the cupboards and rifled through them. “What?” She glowered, pulling out three thick cafeteria-like glasses. “George would never want a bottle of his cherished wine to go to waste.”

  Kate was handing me a glass when I heard Jonathan. “Oh, Mother of God.”

  I reeled around to see him backing away from a small hallway. “What is it?”

  Jonathan put his arms out like a steel blockade. “Stay back.”

  “No!” I screamed, pushing forward. “What is it?” I vaguely remember seeing Kate pressing her body back into the furthest corner of the cabin.

  Jonathan pinned me against the wall. “Darling, wait. There’s a body in there. A man.”

  I thrust my very soul into his eyes and read them like the New York Times. Falling to the floor, I curled myself into a ball. “You think it’s my dad, don’t you?”

  He looked back at me. Sympathy. Confirmation.

  “Why would you think that my daddy would kill himself? I’ve told you. He’d never do it. He was too tough.”

  “Breecie. Listen to me. I know it’s your father. Trust me. There’s no reason on this Earth for you to go in that room.”

  I glanced over to see Kate. She’d curled down onto the floor, too, looking like a fetus whose umbilical cord had been severed long before she could survive on her own.

  I swerved back to Jonathan. “He really killed himself? I just can’t believe he would.”

  “No, Honey. I’m guessing the same men that took Baird out paid a visit here.”

  Kate started wailing.

  I don’t remember what I did.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  That’s Not Détente Written On Your Face

  Four days later we held a memorial service for Dad. It was a far cry from the pomp and circumstance the great James Lemay I knew would have commanded. But his final wish, as demonstrated by his actions, was to disappear quietly. He just hadn’t realized he would be disappearing from this earth. Not in this way.

  A few of Dad’s old Washington cronies sent their regards. I knew D.C. politics well enough to understand the tainted reputation of my father mandated they remain at arms length. The cards and notes expressed little more than sympathy for the family.

  Turns out the family was just me. My sister stayed in London, smart enough to say her goodbyes telepathically. She’d cling to her childhood memories of Dad, which both of us realized we didn’t much cherish, but seemed a whole lot better than falsely eulogizing Dad’s later years of life.

  Kate helped make arrangements at the church she intended to join. She introduced me to a few of her friends, but it was unclear whether they really knew Dad or were merely appoint
ed good shepherds of the congregation.

  Jonathan never left my side as an usher led us to the front of the chapel. Macayla followed, assuming the role of another person never to leave me. I loved that little girl, and that’s what she was. Yet the swell of her abdomen loomed large and told a different story. She still wore her pants slung low. It looked as if her belly-ring was about to blow off and become a lethal weapon to some unsuspecting fake mourner.

  Rudy and Rosa paid their respects, kneeling low to the floor and vigorously drawing crosses in front of their bodies before entering the pew.

  “I did not know your papa, Senorita,” Rudy said. “We are here for you, to help deliver his soul to his loved ones.”

  Like my mother? I’m sure she’s waiting for him.

  Rosa grabbed my hand and shoved a warm object into my palm, then pressed my fingers closed against it. “Para usted.”

  “For me?” I smiled and opened my hand to find a small wood-bead rosary. Before I could thank her, both she and Rudy had taken their places at the center of a pew on the kneeler.

  The usher’s hand signaled our seats in the front pew. Before sitting, I noticed Ari Christenson, in the back, whispering to the man with the hairy arms. Summer Straw. With the change of seasons, I guess I had to start calling him Big Black Felt. I still had no idea who he was.

  That left one person unaccounted. It was a legendary trio, after all, and only Adam Chancellor remained, alive. No phone call, no floral spray. Not even an email.

  I was in my disconnection mode and thinking. The service had begun. The minister that didn’t know my father was telling us what a fine man he was. And I was thinking.

  It was the eighteenth of September. I considered my options. National news had picked up the story of James Lemay’s murder. None had yet conjured up a motive, although details of Dad’s sordid second life began seeping into articles.

  Headlines: Duplicitous D.C. Esquire Found Murdered in Shack. Several Murders Tied to Prominent Attorney. Lemay Fell in Love with Man, Made Him Woman. And my personal favorite, Who Killed Cecilia Lemay? Police to reopen case in light of husband’s secret life.

  I could imagine Adam, lounging about in his Hefner-style black robe. His redhead would be massaging his neck and shoulders as he relaxed to a putty under her kneading fingers. I envisioned him reaching for his copy of the Washington Post, then spewing coffee all over the redhead as he choked on his own worst fears.

  Should I also imagine Adam’s throat being slashed, or better yet, imagine him imagining it? Should I wait until my intended rollout date? The third of October?

  If I waited, there was a remote possibility my imaginings would come true and the Russians would pay Adam a visit. And like Kate, if the redhead was anywhere nearby, she’d wake up less a few female organs tossed into some trash bin.

  I heard my name called out. The minister was concluding with blessings for my absent sister and me. No one else spoke. A soloist began singing The Lord’s My Shepherd in an emotive soprano voice.

  The Lord’s my Shepherd, I’ll not want,

  He makes me down to lie in pastures green,

  He leadeth...

  An usher reached for my arm to lead me toward a side exit door.

  Yea, though I walk through death’s dark vale,

  Yet will I fear no ill...

  We walked down the outer passageway. “That’s not détente written on your face,” Jonathan said. He pressed his fingers across my forehead, as if to smooth away the worry.

  “No, it’s not détente. It’s more like vigilantism.”

  The service had concluded. James Lemay would be returned to dust.

  And full salvation flows. If e’er I go astray,

  He doth my soul reclaim…

  I buried my father on the morning of September eighteenth. I later broke bread amongst my friends back at The Lost Cat, where Rosa laid out dishes of Arroz Con Pollo, homemade tortillas, and an array of fried squash.

  I kept thinking.

  After helping Rosa and Kate clean the kitchen, I sped off to the local printing center, making six copies of fifty-seven chronicled documents I happened to have waiting in my Jeep. Jonathan drove back to the ranch and retrieved the four flash drives I had already duplicated. He met me as I was paying my copying bill. We made it to the post office just before they locked the doors for the day.

  Some would find it a strange activity following a funeral. I elected to believe I was just helping ensure my father’s full salvation.

  And full salvation flows. If e’er I go astray,

  He doth my soul reclaim...

  Six packages. Express mail. The Denver Post. The New York Times. The Los Angeles Times. The Washington Post. The Washington Times. And one for me, for when the shit hit the fan and I had to be reminded why I was doing what I was doing.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Change of Plans

  When we drove back to the ranch house we found Ari, despite the chilly fall air, sitting out on the porch. His yellowed jersey hung out from beneath the Hawaiian shirt waving its colors in the wind. With his knees spread apart, ankles crossed with Tevas over white stockings sticking up on both sides, he clutched a beer in his right hand and a cigarette in his left. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  Jonathan and I looked at each other, suspect. The Welcome Wagon, Ari was not.

  Lifting off the wood chair, Ari clawed at his ragged hair, his fingers getting caught in the tangles mid-way. “I was kind of worried about you two. You okay, Breecie?”

  “Thanks for coming to the church this morning, Ari.”

  “Didn’t know if you saw me there or not. I’m not much good at that kind of thing. Skipped out before that after-gathering stuff.” He took a step back, and put his lips around the bottle, taking a final slug of beer.

  Jonathan opened the front door for me. “Good of you to be there today, Ari.”

  “Wait, guys.” Ari followed behind us. “I didn’t know your old man, but I wancha to how sorry I am.”

  I had a clear vision of the Sobranie cigarette butt back at the cabin.

  “Look, let me pour you both a good stiff drink. I’ll even break open some of my good stuff.” He stomped his cigarette out on the porch floor.

  I had heard him swear to Johnny Yan he wouldn’t smoke inside anymore. He didn’t say anything about cigarette butts, Sobranie cigarette butts, littering the outside.

  Jonathan raised his hand in protest. “I’m guessing it’s been a long day for all of us, especially Breecie.”

  “Why not?” I said. What the hell was Ari up to?

  Ari pulled out his prized bottle of Glenmorangie, unaware I’d spied him, on countless occasions, refilling the empty bottle with a cheap blended scotch.

  “Any bites on the ranch? I haven’t seen anyone come through here,” Jonathan said. Good move. Start with the small talk, that wasn’t all that small to me. Ari promised we would have plenty of notice should a potential buyer want to see our apartments.

  “Well, it’s still early, but some New Yorker is flying out next month. Guess he gave himself a virtual tour on Johnny’s web page and likes what he saw. Course, he’s already balking about my asking price.”

  “Guess it is a little steep,” Jonathan said. We both knew Ari had the ranch listed at a ridiculous price.

  “And I need every damn penny to cash out.” Ari slammed the three scotches down in the center of the table.

  I took a glass and cupped it in my hands. The last thing I wanted to talk about was the sale of the ranch. “Who was that man in the black hat I saw you talking to at the church today?”

  Ari furrowed his unruly brows. “That would be Larry. Larry Walden. Kind of exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  I adjusted myself on the chair, attempting to quiet down an uncontrollable shaky knee. “Did he know my father?”

  “Yeah well, Larry pretty much knows everyone in this town. He’s Trinidad’s Jack-Of-All-Trades. A decent carpenter, a plumber, an electrician.
Even knows his way around the computer. Anyways, for years he made his living off a bit of everyone around here, that is, until he hooked up with Baird.” Ari took a steep pull on his scotch. “None of us around here even knew he was a pilot until Baird came along.”