Dangerous Habits

by Susan Hunter

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” I said, putting another $5 on the table. “Did she say why she didn’t tell the police?”

  She dealt me a card and turned her own over.

  “Delite?”

  “Look, I don’t know why she didn’t tell, I don’t know if she was gonna. I don’t know anything. Except your sister stole my phone. And that was f’n’ hard to get, too. Had to have it sneaked in, cost me a lot in trade. And I had some pretty special pictures on there, if you know what I mean.” I signaled for another card.

  “Are you saying it was your phone the police found with her body?”

  She shrugged and laid down cards for both of us.

  “I’m sayin’ I had a phone and then I didn’t. I’m sayin’ I shared a room with your sister. I’m sayin’ if she had one on her, and mine was missin,’ which it was, she took it.”

  “Do you know if Lacey was using drugs again?” I signaled and she dealt me another card before answering. I busted again.

  “I got hold of some Vicodin one time, offered to sell her some, but she didn’t want any.”

  “They found drugs in her purse when they found her body.”

  “Don’t know anything about that.”

  “Did you ever see Lacey with Father Hegl?”

  She shook her head. “She couldn’t stand him. He was always buggin’ her to be in his stupid choir. Your sister could sing,” she added with a grudging note of admiration.

  “Why did you lie and say you didn’t see Lacey the night she disappeared, then come forward after her body was found and claim she was at a party with you?”

  “Like I told the cops, I didn’t want to get in more trouble. One more screw-up and I was going to juvie.”

  “Weren’t you afraid of that when you finally did confess?”

  Her face had a sly expression, and she answered as if tutored by Dr. Phil. “I wanted to give your family, like, closure, right? I couldn’t cover for her anymore. It was dysfunctional. For me. Mentally, like. I didn’t want to be doing codependent behavior anymore.”

  “But Lacey wasn’t with you, was she? You made that up.”

  Her eyes hardened as she said, “Look, I’m workin’ here. If you’re not gonna play, you better move on.”

  Two men, one wearing a Brewer’s T-shirt that rode up on his belly and left a hairy gap above the top of his droopy jeans, and the other sporting a Green Bay Packers sweatshirt, lumbered up to the table and put down a stack of chips.

  “No. I’m done, thanks. But if you do think of anything,” I reached in my purse and found a business card. “That’s my cell phone, you can reach me anytime.”

  “Hey, honey, you got one of those for me?” said hairy belly.

  “No.”

  Delite hesitated for a second, then scooped the card off the table and put it in her pocket.

  “See you.”

  She didn’t answer.

  Eighteen

  I was ready to go, but I saw that Miguel was the center of a group of players urging him on at the craps table. He’d come all the way up there with me. I couldn’t make him walk out on his run. Instead, I wandered over to a video poker machine near the cashier’s window. I put $5 in a nickel machine and settled down to play some draw poker, but all I did was stare at the screen thinking about what Delite had said.

  I still didn’t believe her story, but I no longer thought she had offered a fake confession to demonstrate she was a reformed sinner who should be allowed to stay. No. That sly look on her face, those psychobabble words she used, “closure” “codependent”—someone was feeding the rationale to her.

  But who and why? She said Lacey was abused by a “big shot.” What would a big shot be to Delite? A doctor? A lawyer? A dentist? Miller Caldwell was a lawyer. Did he connect with Delite, get her to lie when Lacey’s body was found to wrap things up quickly, keep the police from doing an actual investigation, instead of the pro forma walk through Ross had led? Or, there was Hegl, would a priest be a big shot to Delite?

  Miguel walked up just then with a big grin, waving three $100 bills.

  On the ride home I told him about Delite and speculated a little more about Miller Caldwell, but I was hit by a sudden wave of sleepiness and begged off further chatting. Miguel drove all the way back. I was a little coma-sleep groggy when I woke up as we pulled into the parking lot at the Times. But by the time I pulled in my driveway, I had started to perk up a bit. I opened the front door quietly, but knew that my mother and I would have to do our usual call and response.

  “Leah?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “You’re awfully late.”

  “Sorry, I know. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

  “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

  “G’night.”

  It was 4 a.m. but no way could I go back to sleep. Instead I put and switched over from Miguel’s playlist to stream a mix of old school folk/rock—Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, The Band—singers my mother had conditioned me to like growing up. I turned it down low, so I wouldn’t wake her. I made some tea, and sat down in the rocker to think. After a few minutes, I got up and set my laptop on the kitchen table and typed in www.delaneysmemorialgarden.com.

  When the site came up, I clicked on For Always. From the list there I chose “Lacey Nash,” and then there she was in a smiling school picture, wearing the silver locket I gave her for her 13th birthday. Delaney’s Funeral Home, for a fee, provides permanent memorial web pages with photos, condolences, memories, and comments for its “clients.” Mom and I never talked about setting one up for Lacey, but she must have wanted something she could go back to. I’d only visited it once.

  I reread the obituary that Max had written for her.

  I had tried to write it myself, but the anger and sorrow got so tangled up in me that I couldn’t make it work. I wanted people to remember the good about her, but it felt like a lie to ignore all the terrible things she’d done. I couldn’t strike the balance between tribute and truth. Max did a beautiful job.

  * * *

  Lacey Nash, 17, daughter of Carol (Collins) Nash and the late Thomas Nash, died November 2, 2007. Cremation has taken place and the funeral Mass for Lacey is scheduled for 11 a.m. Tuesday at St. Stephen’s Church with the Reverend Gregory Lindstrom officiating.

  Lacey was born in Himmel, Wisconsin, where she spent her entire life. She loved singing. She was also a talented artist, often sketching pictures of her family, friends, and pets.

  As a member of the Himmel Community Players, Lacey found an outlet for her vocal talent. She was chosen for a role in the Sound of Music at age 10. She performed with the local theater group for several years and was always a crowd pleaser. Her last appearance was as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.

  Lacey was also active in swimming and church choir. And she enjoyed helping others. At age 12 she organized a carnival for Muscular Dystrophy in her backyard that raised more than $1,000. After a heavy snow, she often rounded up neighborhood kids to help her shovel the driveways of elderly neighbors.

  As a youngster, Lacey’s favorite author was Dr. Seuss, and her favorite book was Horton Hears a Who. As a middle schooler, she loved Madeleine L’Engle and she read A Wrinkle in Time multiple times. She also loved the movie The Parent Trap and is believed to hold the world’s record for number of viewings.

  But this bright, talented, kindhearted girl entered a very difficult period as a teenager. She spent her last years troubled and isolated, and that was a great sorrow to the people who loved her.

  May she be remembered for the happy and loving spirit inside her, and granted compassion for the tragic ending of her too brief life.

  Lacey is survived by her mother Carol Nash of Himmel, her sister Leah Nash of Grand Rapids, Michigan, her aunt Nancy Taylor of Wadley, Michigan and several cousins. She was preceded in death by her sister Annie and her father Thomas.

  * * *

  I scrolled down through the comments. Lots from old classmates, stuff about school and favorite class trips, and I’ll-never-
forget-the-time stories. They were fun to read, because they reminded me of a time when Lacey was like any other kid.

  There were some nice tributes from teachers and old neighbors, and as I moved on through I noticed over the years people periodically posted things, though far less often, of course, than when the page first went up. Most were signed by name but a few weren’t.

  And then as I read through them, I realized there was one that had recurred each year since Lacey died. The same quote, no signature.

  “Thank you for making life less difficult.” Earlier I would have skimmed right over it. But this time the phrase set off an echo in my mind, and I heard Miller Caldwell say as we sat sipping coffee in his sumptuous home, “What are we here for if not to make life less difficult for each other?”

  First thing in the morning, I stopped by Delaney Funeral Home and talked to Mary Beth. She co-owns the business with her husband Roger.

  “Mary Beth, is there any way to tell who posts anonymous comments on a memorial website?”

  She looked startled, though with her carefully drawn in and unnaturally high arched eyebrows, Mary Beth always appears somewhat surprised.

  “I don’t know, Leah. I suppose maybe. I wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to do it. And don’t even think about Roger. He still doesn’t really get what the online site is. Our oldest boy talked him into it. Why?”

  “There’s a comment on Lacey’s site that I’d like to track down. Thank the person, you know. They’ve posted it every year, so I know Lacey must have been special to them. Could I talk to whoever set up the page for you? There’s probably something that could be done through the host site to track messages.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Really, the page kind of belongs to the person who paid for it, and I wouldn’t feel right without talking to him.” She started twirling a strand of copper colored hair that had escaped from the old-fashioned bun on the back of her head. Her eyes blinked rapidly.

  “Him? Don’t you mean her, don’t you mean my mother?”

  Mary Beth’s discomfort increased. “I promised it would be anonymous. I thought it was such a nice gesture. A lot of our families would like to do it but, well, it’s no secret funerals are expensive and so many people just don’t have the extra money. Not that we’re overcharging, mind you.

  “There’s a lot involved with keeping the online memorial garden up. I just thought it was such a nice thing, to set up the perpetual site for a family in need. Not that your family is in need, I didn’t mean, that is—” If she could have blinked me away, it was obvious she would have.

  “Ahh, of course. I should have realized right away. How nice of Miller,” I said, taking a guess that I knew Mary Beth would confirm.

  She looked relieved. “Exactly. That’s what I thought, and to pay in advance. We charge the yearly fee you know, and really $200 is a good rate, I think, but he asked how much would it cost to keep it up indefinitely. We do offer the perpetual package for $5,000. He wrote me a check for the full amount right on the spot. Such a good man.”

  I nodded. “Did he say why he did it, Mary Beth? Just a random act of kindness or what?”

  Now that her secret was in the open through almost no fault of her own, she could indulge her natural inclination to chat.

  “That’s what I wondered when he came in. ‘Miller,’ I said, ‘that’s really nice of you, but can I ask why?’ And he said that he and his family were so fond of Lacey and wanted to be sure her memory stayed alive. But he didn’t want you and your mother to feel uncomfortable or obligated or anything. That’s why he swore me to secrecy. You just don’t see that kind of thing often enough, do you? I mean, just doing good for the sake of doing good. You’re not upset are you, Leah? You wouldn’t even know about it, if you hadn’t come in here and tricked me. Now, don’t tell him I told you.”

  “Sorry, Mary Beth, I can’t promise that.”

  I went into the office for meetings with two school board candidates and got their views on test scores, and school improvement, and the importance of an upcoming referendum vote; and when they left, I wrote up the story, but my mind wasn’t on any of it. By then it was nearly noon, and I decided to take a run over to the cop shop. The bare bones activity log is online, but I wanted an excuse to run into Coop, and see if we could end the weirdness that had sprung up between us.

  I pushed through the double doors and into the scruffy reception area. The Himmel Police Department is on the first floor of the city hall and looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since 1975. The avocado green and beige tile floor is cracked and chipped. On one side of a scarred, wooden counter is a row of orange plastic chairs bolted together, apparently to prevent someone from absconding with valuable late 20th century artifacts. On the other side is a large metal desk where Melanie sits. Coop’s office is down the hall.

  “Hey, Melanie. How’s it going?”

  She looked up from her computer screen and didn’t answer. Instead, she frowned at me and shoved reading glasses onto the top of her curly, gray hair, then laboriously lifted her heavy body off her chair. She walked slowly over to the counter with a side-to-side gait. Reaching underneath it, she pulled out the log book and shoved it toward me, then went back to her desk. Still without speaking. Sometimes she was friendly, other times not. This was apparently a “not” day.

  “Hey, I see Harold Dane had his house TP’d again. Wouldn’t it be easier for him just to quit yelling at kids to get off his lawn?”

  She looked up, but just shrugged.

  “I’m thinking about doing a story on vandalism, maybe how neighborhoods can get together to help prevent it, that kind of thing.” It sounded lame, and Melanie didn’t bother to respond.

  “So, is Coop around? I thought I might get some ideas from him.”

  She picked up her phone and punched in his extension. “Leah’s here.”

  I prepared to stumble through my story all over again. But when Coop came through the door, he smiled and said, “Hey. Hi. C’mon back.” He lifted up the pass through in the counter so I could follow him. Relief rushed through me as I realized how easy it was going to be to get back to our old familiar footing.

  I dropped down in the chair opposite his desk and shook my head when he offered me coffee. He sat in his chair and leaned back a little.

  “Haven’t seen much of you lately. Nice special section you guys did on the summer recreation stuff.”

  “Thanks. Grantland’s Summer Wonderland isn’t exactly the high water mark for Himmel journalism, but it generated some ad revenue for Max.”

  He nodded. I nodded. This was the most stilted conversation I’d ever had with Coop. We waggled our heads at each other like bobble heads for another few seconds, and then I took the plunge.

  “Look, I haven’t called you back because I didn’t want to hear you tell me how ridiculous I am, and how I’m wasting my time, and how my ideas are stupid, and I should just let things go.”

  “I don’t recall saying you’re ridiculous. Or stupid.”

  “You might not have said it in so many words, but admit it, you think tracking down the truth about Lacey is a waste of time.”

  “Leah, c’mon. I don’t want to fight with you again. But I’m not going to lie to you either. So yeah, I still have serious reservations about what you’re doing. I’m hearing things, and it worries me.”

  “What things?”

  “Like you’re stirring things up, harassing people even. I saw Mary Beth at the Elite today and she was all shook up because you pressured her into giving out confidential information. Max is scared to death you’re pissing the bank board off, and Georgia Caldwell is telling people you’re trying to sabotage Miller’s campaign. You’re setting yourself—or the paper—up for serious trouble. Maybe a libel suit.”

  This wasn’t going the way I planned at all. “Slander. It’s only libel if it’s printed.”

  “This isn’t funny, Leah.”

  “Coop, listen, just listen for a minute. I know whe
n I talked to you before I wasn’t connecting the dots. I didn’t even know where the dots were. But I do now, I’ve found out a lot more.”

  I told him about Hegl hiding the fact that he knew Lacey before she went to DeMoss, about his abrupt departure from Florida after another young girl died; about Miller paying for Lacey’s perpetual memorial and posting to it every year; how I was sure Delite had lied about going to the party with Lacey, how she’d confirmed—sort of—that Lacey was sexually abused; and that I knew the name of the kid who’d been with Lacey. I finished in a rush, as though by spilling it out fast I could speed by his skepticism and bring him over to my side again. Where he had always been before.

  Only it wasn’t working

  “Leah, I wish you could see yourself, hear yourself. You look like you haven’t slept in days. You drove eight hours round trip to the UP for a 10-minute conversation with Lacey’s old roommate? You just said yourself she wasn’t changing her story about the night Lacey died. She didn’t admit to lying; you’re basing that on the look in her eye?” His tone was mocking.

  “And she didn’t give you a name for this alleged sexual abuser, did she? As far as the young kid with Lacey, you still have no proof that Cole even saw her, let alone that she had a kid with her. All you know is the name of a boy who was a friend of hers. And what were you doing dragging Miguel along with you? If you don’t care about your job, you should at least give a thought to his.”

  I recoiled as though he’d hit me. He’d been leaning forward with his hands resting on the desk. Now he lifted them up in obvious frustration.

  “Leah, you’re so fixated on—I don’t know, making up for not saving Lacey?—that you can’t think logically. You’re tearing through this town hurting people, whether you mean to or not. It’s reckless, and it’s cruel. Look what you’re doing to Max, to Paul Karr, to Miller and his family. You and your mom are at odds too. If I thought you were right, I’d be behind you a hundred percent. But I think you’re wrong, and somebody’s going to get hurt. I don’t want it to be you.”