Mixed Messages (A Malone Mystery)

by Gligor, Patricia

  Our family has quite a history in this house, she thought. She knew that her great-grandfather, Wolfgang Berger, and his new bride, Helga, had come to America in the late 1830s. Like so many others, they had left their native Germany for a new life where they would be free to use their talents to earn a living. Many settled in Cincinnati where jobs were plentiful and the Ohio River offered the transportation necessary for commerce. Olivia remembered reading somewhere that, by 1840, the German population had become so large that Cincinnati’s city ordinances were printed in German as well as English.

  According to the stories her father had told her, Wolfgang Berger worked hard, bought a lot of land and developed it. He was responsible for the construction of many of the buildings in Westwood and in other parts of the city. So many old buildings are gone now, she thought. Little by little, other entrepreneurs had come along and replaced the old hotels and theaters in downtown Cincinnati with structures that were more modern and even, in some cases, with parking lots. It saddened her to think that so much of the old architecture, so much history, was gone. At least this house is still here, she thought. Papa’s grandfather built it in 1863, it’s been home to generations of Bergers since then and it’s still standing, a tribute to him.

  Olivia’s father was born in the house and both of her parents had died there. She believed their spirits still lived on in the house. It was a comfort to her, feeling they weren’t really gone from her life. Now, she and her son, Lawrence, lived on the second floor and rented out the downstairs apartment. Someday, when she was gone, the house would belong to him. How sad, she thought, that Lawrence had never gotten married and had a child; that, someday, the Berger name would die with him. How disappointed Papa would be.

  She was in a nostalgic mood today. Some of her memories, growing up in the house, were happy and some were not. She was just a little girl at the time but she remembered toward the end of the Great Depression how the beggars, men down on their luck, would knock on their door, asking for food or spare change. Her mother had never turned anyone away. “We are fortunate,” she would say. “We have food on the table and enough money. Not everyone is as blessed as we are.” She was a wonderful person, Olivia thought, recalling the night she died, still a young woman, stricken with influenza.

  Olivia remembered the beautiful orchards that had surrounded the house when she was young: acres of apple, peach, pear, cherry, apricot and other fruit trees. She had especially loved early spring when, from her bedroom window, she looked out on the luscious pink and white blossoms and, when she opened her window, she could smell their sweet fragrance. She smiled as she recalled the time she ate too many pears and was up sick all night. To this day, pears were not one of her favorite fruits. And, she remembered playing hide ‘n seek with her friends, giggling when one of them found her hiding behind one of the large evergreen trees that bordered her father’s property.

  She rolled over to the built-in bookcase and took her family Bible off of the shelf. The cover was worn and many of the pages had come loose from the binding. It contained the names and dates of the births, baptisms, marriages and deaths of her ancestors from Germany. Some of the entries were so old that the ink had faded and she could hardly read them.

  She went back over to the window, put on her reading glasses, which hung from a gold chain around her neck, and carefully opened the Bible. She leafed through the pages that had turned yellow with age. There, in the Book of Psalms, was the four-leaf clover Jeremy had given her all those years ago. She touched it tenderly with the tip of her finger and felt tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  Oh, Jeremy, she thought, when I think of the orchards, I think of you with your bright blue eyes, eyes I could never forget. She smiled as she remembered sneaking out of the house at age seventeen and climbing down the fire escape to meet Jeremy. Her father didn’t approve of her seeing Jeremy and so they always met in the early evening because Olivia had to be sure she wouldn’t get caught.

  Since the fire escape creaked loudly as she let it down, she would wait until her father was seated comfortably in the parlor with his after dinner drink and the strains of Mozart, Bach or Beethoven reverberating throughout the house. Papa was a good man, she thought, but he was a strict old German, determined to run his household and his family the way he saw fit.

  After secretly seeing each other for over a year, she and Jeremy had planned to elope. He was so handsome and she’d loved him with all her heart. She gently brushed a strand of hair away from her face. She reached up and unclasped the ornate silver barrette, which she used to hold her hair in a topknot, tucking the strand in and refastening the barrette. She smiled, remembering how Jeremy had loved to brush her long, silky hair. “I’ve never had it cut short like most old ladies,” she whispered. “It might not be blonde like it used to be but I’ve always kept it long for you.”

  With tears in her eyes, she thought back to the night she’d planned to tell him that she was pregnant with his child. She knew in her heart that he would be happy, that somehow, even though they were young, they would figure things out and make a good life together.

  She remembered standing in their meeting spot, under the sprawling limbs of the Osage orange tree, waiting for what seemed like hours. When she finally heard footsteps approaching, she ran through the trees to greet him, her arms reaching out to him. But it wasn’t Jeremy. It was Papa. He’d grabbed her roughly by the elbow and pulled her into the house. She could still feel his anger and see the rage in his face. She would never forget his loud, hurtful words. She’d cried all night.

  She was sure that her father had driven Jeremy off. She knew that Jeremy loved her and she knew he would’ve wanted to see his baby. She decided to run away the next night. She would find Jeremy and they would go far, far away, somewhere where her father would never find them. They would raise their child and live happily ever after.

  The next day it rained all day and, by evening, it had gotten colder. The sidewalks and trees had a thin layer of ice. She dressed warmly and, carrying a small satchel with only the most necessary things, she opened her bedroom window and started to climb down the fire escape. The metal was slick and she held on tightly as she slowly descended. About halfway down, she lost her grip and fell to the ground. She lost consciousness and, when she woke up, she was in a hospital bed and her father sat, slumped in a chair at her side.

  It was a miracle, the doctor said, that she hadn’t lost the baby. But she would never walk again. And so, she’d given birth to Lawrence. And, a year later, Papa had the beautiful orchards torn down, subdivided the lots and built modern houses. That was a hard time, she remembered. I felt like a prisoner in my own home. It was hard enough adjusting to being crippled but Papa turned the back parlor into a living area for Lawrence and me and restricted me to the first floor of the house and the front porch. I couldn’t even go out into the yard anymore. He couldn’t deal with having an illegitimate grandchild, much less one who had been born with albinism. Lawrence and I were a disgrace and an embarrassment to him.

  Many years later, after her father died, she had an electric lift installed, connecting the two floors of the house, and a ramp, alongside the front stairs, so she could go for a “walk” when she chose to. She also divided the house into two apartments and rented out the downstairs apartment because, she’d reasoned, the house was too big for just two people.

  It wasn’t a question of money. Papa may have been strict and unyielding, she thought, but he made sure that Lawrence and I would never have to worry about money. He was a perfect example of what many people on the west side of Cincinnati have always said, “We Westsiders save our money so people on the Eastside can borrow it.”

  Poor Lawrence had never met his father, a father who didn’t even know he existed. She hadn’t had the opportunity to tell Jeremy she was carrying his child and, after her father ordered him to stay away from her, she’d never heard from him again. She knew that her father believed that he was doing the righ
t thing and she’d forgiven him long ago but she’d always wondered what had become of Jeremy. Did he go off to the Korean War? Had he married another woman and had children and a happy life with them? Thousands of times through the years, she’d considered trying to find him but something held her back. How could she intrude on whatever life he’d made for himself? Still, she’d always hoped and prayed he would come to her.

  Years ago, she had gotten into the habit of reading the obituaries in the Cincinnati Enquirer every day, looking for Jeremy’s name but hoping she’d never see it. All of her senses told her that he was still alive. Then, a little over a year ago, her hands began to tremble and her eyes welled up with tears when she read that, at age seventy-nine, he had died.

  There was no mention of a wife or children left behind, only a younger sister. He, like Olivia, had never married. The details of the funeral arrangements didn’t interest her; there was no way she would go because she wanted to remember him as the young man who had courted her. The only thing that mattered and she believed this with all her heart: someday, in the afterlife, she, Jeremy and Lawrence would be together.

  The sound of a car door slamming brought her back to the present. She rolled back over to the window, took off her glasses, looked out and saw David in the driveway, standing next to his car.

  Ann and David make such a nice couple, she thought. It’s a shame he drinks so much and has such a bad temper. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop but sometimes she couldn’t help but hear his angry voice coming up through the heat vents. It reminded her of her father shouting at her when he’d found out she was expecting a baby. Whenever he was excited or upset, he would lapse into the German he’d spoken when, growing up, he’d spent his summers with relatives in Germany. “Du hast shamed mich! Du hast shamed die familie!” he had shouted. She had shamed him. She had shamed the family.

  She glanced up at the shiny, brass clock on the mantle above the fireplace. She rolled over to her spot across from the TV, picked up the remote control and turned on the local news. She watched the news every day to stay informed of what was going on in the world even though she often found it troubling and, at times, downright depressing.

  There were so many hurricanes, tornados and earthquakes every year, which destroyed homes and, in many cases, took peoples’ lives. It seemed to her that in the last decade there had been more natural disasters than ever before. The TV documentary she’d recently seen about global warming, the greenhouse effect and the devastating impact it was all having on our planet confirmed that. And, according to the experts, as time went on, it was only going to get worse.

  Aside from natural weather related disasters, it seemed like there was always something new to fear. Since nine-one-one, there was the constant threat of terrorist attack in the back of most people’s minds. At least once a week you heard that something you ate, drank or came into contact with would cause some form of cancer. Add to that the threat of deadly mosquitoes, germs that literally ate your skin and lethal viruses and it was a wonder anyone could sleep at night. The world was a very scary place.

  She turned up the volume so she could hear what the newscaster was saying. “The police have released the name of the Westwood Strangler’s third victim. The body of thirty-nine year old, Tanya Brown, was found yesterday by her mother who had become alarmed when her daughter didn’t return her phone calls.”

  She reached down into the leather pocket on the side of her wheelchair and pulled out her thirty-eight-caliber revolver. She pushed the lever forward and the cylinder popped out. She checked to be sure that it was loaded with five bullets. Then, she closed the cylinder and carefully put the gun back in the pocket, hidden from view.

  It’s not safe anywhere anymore, she thought. Thank God, Papa taught me how to shoot. She remembered his words, “If you’re going to pull the trigger, Liv, shoot to kill.”

  Chapter 9

  DAVID WILL BE HOME ANY MINUTE, Ann thought. I need to come up with something quick for dinner. She decided to make pasta. She filled a large pot with cold water and placed it on the stove. She turned the burner to high and added a few drops of safflower oil. When the water came to a boil, she broke the vermicelli into thirds as she put it in the pot. Ten minutes later, when the pasta was the consistency she wanted, she transferred it into a colander in the sink. She was cutting up tomatoes for a salad when David came in.

  He walked right by her and went over to Danielle and kissed the top of her head. “How’s my girl?” he asked.

  Just then, Davey came flying around the corner and almost collided with his father.

  “Well, would you look at this? Hi, Spiderman, how’s it going?”

  Davey jumped up and into David’s arms, hugging him. David gave him a squeeze and kissed the top of his head. Almost immediately, Davey wriggled free.

  “Davey, go take your costume off. It’s almost time to eat,” Ann instructed. The words were barely out of her mouth when Davey swooped over to the kitchen sink, grabbed a handful of spaghetti out of the colander and began hurling it in all directions.

  “Stop that!” she yelled. “What are you doing?”

  Davey looked up at her and said, in a matter-of-fact way, “Mommy, I’m spinning a web. You know.” He began singing, “Spiderman, Spiderman. Does whatever a spider can. Spins a web … .”

  She had to struggle to keep from laughing. In her most serious voice, she said, “Okay, young man, enough. Now, definitely, go take that costume off!”

  * * * *

  An hour later, they’d finished dinner and Ann began to clear the table. David started to get up.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said. “Kids, why don’t you go watch TV in Dani’s room. I think there’s a Charlie Brown Halloween special on.”

  “Why can’t we watch it in the living room?” Danielle asked. “My TV is so little.”

  “Because I need to talk to your father in private,” Ann told her. “Now scoot.”

  Danielle and Davey raced down the hall. David sat there, hands folded on the table, looking at Ann. She waited until she heard Charlie Brown’s theme song blaring from her daughter’s bedroom before sitting back down at the table.

  She cleared her throat. “I’ve got some news, David. First of all, I called Father Andrew today and I’ve got an appointment with him tomorrow morning to interview for the job at the church.”

  He smiled. “Great! That’s great! You’ll see, it’ll be a good thing. It’ll help out a lot.”

  “I think so too,” she agreed. “But let’s not count our chickens. I don’t have the job yet.”

  “Not to worry. You’ll get the job. I know you will.”

  “And, there’s something else I have to tell you. I met with Davey’s teacher today and she believes Davey has ADHD. That’s Attention Def . . .”

  “I know what that is!” he shouted over her. “That teacher, she’s nuts! There’s nothing wrong with my son! He’s a normal, red-blooded boy, for God’s sake.”

  “How can you say that? He can’t even sit still. The teacher says there are special diets and medications … .”

  “You are not giving my son drugs!” He slammed his fist down on the table.

  “I didn’t say that, David. It’s not that bad. There are all kinds of treatments. We should be grateful it’s something so minor. Think about all the things it could be: leukemia, a brain tumor. My God, we’re so fortunate.”

  “Fortunate my ass!” he screamed. “You and that stupid teacher. You’re both crazy! You want my son to be a zombie!” He pushed back his chair, picked up the serving platter of spaghetti with meat sauce and hurled it at the kitchen sink. “That’s what I think of that. I’m outta here. I can’t stand the sight of you right now.” He grabbed his trench coat off of the hook by the door and his car keys off of the counter and slammed the door on his way out.

  Tears streamed down her face as she stood back, staring at the mess. There was spaghetti dangling from the faucet and clinging to the wall and red sauce spla
ttered all over the stove, wall and counter tops. She retrieved a bucket and sponge from under the kitchen sink and started to wipe up the mess.

  Part of her was so angry that she felt like screaming. How dare he do this? she silently fumed. It isn’t fair! I can’t even talk to him without him going ballistic. He should have to clean this up! Not me! But another part of her felt sad. I can’t even talk to him, she thought. I can’t even talk to my own husband anymore.

  After she finished cleaning up and did the dishes, she walked down the hall and peeked in at the kids. She was relieved to see that they were still engrossed in their program. At least this time they didn’t witness David’s tantrum, she thought. It’s bad enough what goes on between their father and me but I wish there was a way to keep them from being affected. She went back to the kitchen, grabbed the overflowing bag of trash from the garbage can, secured it with a tie and opened the kitchen door. It’s getting dark so much earlier now, she thought, as she stepped outside into the drizzling rain, and we haven’t even turned back the clocks for Daylight Savings Time yet.

  As she turned the corner of the house, she let out a small scream, almost dropping the bag of garbage.

  “Oh, my God, Lawrence, you startled me!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at this feet. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Oh, no problem. I guess I’m just a little jumpy tonight. How’ve you been?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, shuffling his feet back and forth.

  “How’s your mother? I haven’t talked to her in a couple of days.”

  “She’s fine.” He pushed his shirtsleeve up and glanced at his wristwatch. “Speaking of her, I have to go in. It’s time to watch Jeopardy with my mother.” As he turned and headed toward the front of the house, he called over his shoulder, “I think I hear your phone.”