Mixed Messages (A Malone Mystery)

by Gligor, Patricia

  Chapter 39

  ANN WAS STILL SHAKING WHEN SHE GOT HOME from the cemetery. She set her purse on the kitchen counter and went into the living room. Without even removing her coat, she sat down on the living room sofa and put her trembling hands over her face. My God, she thought, what a day! What else could possibly go wrong?

  The sight of the handmade tombstone with its bold black letters had terrified her. Who would do such a thing? she wondered. And why? Does someone want me dead? Does someone plan to kill me? Segments about the Westwood Strangler on TV flashed before her eyes. What if he’s targeted me as his next victim?

  What if something happens to me? Who would take care of my children? David’s in no condition to raise them. No, I’d want Marnie to take them, she realized, but if it came down to it in court, David would win because he’s their father and Louise would raise my children. Dear God, please don’t let that woman raise my children. Look what she’s done to their father.

  Stop it, she reproached herself. You’re not going to die, at least not for a long time. Don’t even think that way. No one wants you dead. The tombstone was most likely a couple of neighborhood kids playing a practical joke on you. After all, it is Halloween.

  Then she remembered the man dressed as the Grim Reaper outside her office window. She shuddered as she visualized the grotesque mask on his face, as he appeared to stare straight at her, pointing and screaming. You’re getting paranoid again, she told herself. It was probably just another Halloween prank. You have to think rationally. Don’t overreact.

  Her thoughts jumped to the scene with her mother-in-law. Louise had blamed her for David’s drinking problem and everything that was wrong in their marriage. Oh, no! David! So much had happened that she had forgotten that her husband was still sitting in a jail cell in Indiana. Louise had screamed that she would take care of it, but would she? I can’t call her. I can’t deal with her right now. Should I call all of the Indiana jails? she wondered. What should I do?

  Suddenly, she felt overwhelmed; it was all too much for her to deal with. Maybe it would help to talk to someone. She considered calling her old friend, Bernie. He would know what she should do about David and it would feel good to talk to him about all that had happened lately, to unburden herself. She knew that Bernie would take her seriously and that he would listen without judging her but, when she mentally listed the things she would tell him, she had to admit that it all sounded a bit ridiculous. A man dressed like the Grim Reaper, a black cat and a handmade tombstone with her name on it on Halloween … .

  She leaned back with her eyes closed. I can’t think about all that now. I have to calm down, she told herself. The kids will be home soon. I’ve got a lot to do. Take a deep breath. Focus! What do I have to do? As she exhaled, she counted on her fingers as she said aloud, “I have to iron the kids’ costumes as soon as they get home. I know they’ll be wrinkled after today. I have to make dinner and I have to get the candy ready for tonight.” I haven’t even checked today’s mail, she realized.

  She willed herself to get up from the sofa and went out into the hallway. She retrieved her stack of mail from the table, shuffling through the envelopes and postcards as she walked into her apartment. The last piece of mail in the stack was a plain, white envelope with her name typed on the front. Her hands shook as she tore open the envelope and read, “For the wages of sin is death. Romans, 6:23.”

  “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. Shaking, she balled the paper up in her fist and shoved it into her coat pocket. “It’s just another prank. Get busy! Don’t think! Get busy! Don’t think!” she told herself. She went over to the hall closet, hung up her coat and pulled out her ironing board. She carried it into the living room and set it up in a corner against the wall. Then she went back to the closet to get her iron, setting it on top of the ironing board. As she walked down the hallway toward her bedroom, intending to change her clothes, she heard the kitchen door slam and the sound of Danielle’s voice.

  “You’re not supposed to slam the door, you doofus!”

  “I’m in here, kids,” she yelled.

  Davey burst into the room, climbed up onto Ann’s bed and began jumping up and down. “Look Mommy,” he said. “I’m in the circus! This is my trampoline.”

  “Davey Kern, you get down from there right now,” Ann scolded him. “You’re gonna break your neck.”

  “But Mommy … .”

  “Right now!”

  Davey flopped down on the bed and started wiggling back and forth, pulling the covers with him.

  Ann stood at the foot of the bed, watching him. “What’s gotten into you, young man?” she asked. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized what was causing her son’s hyperactivity. “How much candy did you have in school today?”

  Davey stopped moving and looked up at her, his eyes wide and a big grin on his face. “I didn’t have any candy today. We had our Halloween party and I had cupcakes and ice cream and punch but no candy. It was so good,” he said, patting his tummy.

  “Well, I think a little fresh air would do you good. Change your clothes and go play in the backyard for a little while. You need to use up some of this energy. Dani!” she called.

  “Hi, Mom,” Danielle said.

  Ann turned around, surprised to see that her daughter was standing right behind her.

  “Honey, would you do me a favor? Would you please go outside with Davey for a little while? I’ve got some things I need to do.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes. Just for a little while. Please.”

  “Oh, okay,” Danielle moaned. “I’ll go change. You get ready, you little twerp,” she said to her brother. “Fifteen minutes, Mom, that’s it. I have things to do too.”

  Ann couldn’t help but smile to herself as she went into the kitchen, retrieved the kids’ costumes from their backpacks and carried them into the living room. Danielle was growing up so fast. She does stand up for herself, she thought. No one will ever walk all over her. I was so concerned that I was showing her a bad example by not standing up to her father when I know he’s wrong. Maybe I don’t have to worry about that after all. Good. One less thing.

  She plugged in the iron and turned it on. As she was about to start ironing, the doorbell rang. “Now what?” she muttered, as she headed for the door. She paused to glance in the oval mirror that hung on the wall near the door. She grimaced as she looked at her reflection. Tucking a stray strand of her hair behind one ear and shrugging her shoulders, she looked out the peephole. Dr. Susan Thatcher was standing there. She opened the door.

  “Hi, Ann,” she said, smiling. “I hope this isn’t too inconvenient of a time.”

  Ann thought about all the things that she still had to do but she didn’t have the heart to refuse the doctor. After all, she remembered, I told her on the phone that she could stop by. It sounded as if she really wants to help me and I definitely need all the help I can get right now. She must consider what she has to say to me to be important because doctors don’t make house calls anymore and she’s made a special trip just to see me. She motioned for her to come in. “Dr. Thatcher, I’m afraid I don’t have much time,” she said.

  “I know. This will only take a few minutes, I promise. And, please, call me ‘Susan.’”

  Ann led her into the living room and the two women took seats on the sofa, turning to face one another. “I’m sorry the place is such a mess,” she said. “Things have been a bit hectic lately.”

  “I know they have. That’s why I’m here. As I said on the phone, I owe you an apology. I was out of line when you came to see me the other day. I won’t go into the reasons, excuses, right now. The bottom line is that I put the responsibility for your marriage problems on you and I was wrong to do that. From everything you’ve told me, I believe your husband is an alcoholic.”

  Ann stared at her, her mouth open. “I know he drinks too much but he drinks because he’s not happy,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I don’t make
him happy anymore, I guess. I try to. I try to be a good wife but I always fall short. I always do something wrong. If I could just do better, maybe he’d stay home. Maybe he wouldn’t have to drink.”

  “Oh, Ann! There’s so much I need to tell you,” Susan said, patting Ann’s hand. “The first thing you need to know is that alcoholism is a disease and it affects the people who love an alcoholic. You didn’t cause it, you can’t control it and you can’t cure it. I know that’s a lot to take in and I know you have no reason to but, please, trust me.”

  “I can’t. I mean, a disease? How? Why?”

  “I know you have lots of questions. I brought you some pamphlets from Alanon,” Susan said, reaching into her briefcase. “Alanon is for families and friends of alcoholics. They have meetings and … .”

  “But why should I go to meetings,” Ann interrupted, “if I’m not the one with the problem?”

  “As I said, I know this is a lot to take in at one time,” Susan said, “but … .”

  “Will they at least tell me how to stop David from drinking?”

  Susan smiled. “No, Ann. They won’t. Alanon is for you. Again, I know that’s hard to grasp right now but I promise you, if you’ll go to some meetings, if you’ll make a commitment to yourself to do that, things will become clear. And,” she added, “you’ll feel so much better.”

  Ann glanced up at the clock above the fireplace. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be rude but I … . ”

  “I know. You have things to do and you need me to leave.” Susan reached over and hugged Ann. “Promise me, you’ll read these,” she said, setting the pamphlets on the coffee table. “I’ll call you tomorrow and we’ll get together when you have more time. Will you promise me?”

  Ann hesitated for just a second. “Yes,” she said. “I promise.”

  When she opened the door to let Susan out, Lawrence was walking out the front door with a suitcase in his hand. She got a glimpse of a taxicab in the driveway.

  He turned toward her and smiled. “Well, I’m off to Chicago now. Have a Happy Halloween and I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  She smiled back. “Happy Halloween to you too, Lawrence. Have a good time at your convention.”

  A tear slid down her cheek as she watched Susan follow Lawrence out. Well, my first impression of her sure was wrong, she thought. She really does seem to care about me. She didn’t understand all that the therapist had said but, as she headed for the kitchen to throw together a quick dinner, she breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe, she thought, there is hope after all.

  She looked out the kitchen window to check on Danielle and Davey. She smiled as she watched the two of them as they took turns running and diving into a large mound of leaves. They were having so much fun. She remembered how much she and Marnie loved doing that when they were little girls. Oh, to be a child again, she thought; to have such complete freedom and joy with none of the adult inhibitions or worries. She cranked the window open and listened to their giggles and squeals of delight, remembering that she had once been that happy and wanting desperately to feel that way again.

  Chapter 40

  FATHER ANDREW WENT INTO HIS BEDROOM and flipped the wall switch to turn on the overhead light. He was weary, drained of all his energy both physically and spiritually. The anointing of the sick, still referred to as “the last rites” by some of his older parishioners and a few elderly priests who were too set in their ways to accept change, always had that effect on him. He took off his coat, laying it on the bed. How ironic, he thought, as he removed his clerical collar, that, even as a child, I never could stand anything tight around my neck.

  After he forced himself to finish undressing and slipped into his bathrobe, he went over to his desk and sat down. Because he was so tired and definitely not in the mood for any distractions, he’d decided to work on the notes for his sermon for the Saturday evening and Sunday morning masses at home instead of in his office at the church. Although tomorrow was All Saints Day, because it fell on a Saturday this year, it was not considered a Holy Day of Obligation. So, there’d been no special masses to prepare for this week; he’d only needed to write a regular sermon and he’d put that off till the last minute. He picked up a pen and sat there for several minutes, tapping it on his desk, trying to come up with an idea. But his mind refused to focus on the task at hand.

  All he could think about was how shocked and angry he’d been earlier that day when he found Ann Kern in his bedroom. He pushed his chair back, stood up and walked across the room. He stood gazing for several minutes at the photograph of his sister. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he said aloud. “I’m sorry that woman came in here. I was careless; I left the door unlocked. It will never happen again.”

  Even so, he thought, even though I should’ve remembered to lock the door, how dare she invade my private space! He picked up the picture of his sister and sat down on the edge of the bed, clutching it to his chest. “Oh, Mary! I still miss you so much! Why did you have to leave me? Why did you have to die? You’re the only person I’ve ever truly loved.”

  He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about the years since Mary had been killed. All those lonely years in the seminary, never connecting with anyone, never having anyone that he could really talk to. The holidays were the worst, he remembered.

  Everyone else had a family to go home to but, without his sister there, he’d seen no reason to go home. His parents had never pushed the issue either, he remembered. They were too busy attending their numerous social events to be bothered with him. So instead of delicious home cooked meals, he’d ordered carryout and eaten alone in his room. I was so young back then and I hadn’t learned yet how to deal with my aloneness, he remembered. So I suffered in silence; I held it all in. I had no outlet, no way to vent the pain and anger inside me.

  The holidays are still difficult for me, he thought. Usually, at least one of his parishioners invited him to have dinner at their house with their family and sometimes he accepted the invitation. He never fit in though. He felt uncomfortable and out of place making small talk and trying to be sociable.

  If only you had lived, Mary. I would have a family of my own. I would come over every week for Sunday dinner and I would spend holidays with you and your children.

  He closed his eyes and pictured himself in the living room at his sister’s house. Mary was in the kitchen, whistling a cheerful tune, as she set the table. He could smell the aroma of her homemade lasagna baking in the oven.

  “Read me another story,” his young niece pleaded, looking up at him with her soft, big brown eyes and sweet smile, so like her mother when she was that age. “Please.”

  “No,” his nephew argued. “Uncle Andy, you promised you’d come outside and toss ball with me.”

  Andrew smiled. The image of spending time with a family who loved him warmed his heart. He wanted to stay in the daydream.

  But that’s what might have been, he thought. Instead, I have no one; I was lonely then and I’m lonely now. I became a priest, someone who has no real life of his own, who lives vicariously through others, celebrating other people’s marriages, the births and confirmations of their children and all the other joyous events in their lives.

  I listen for endless hours to other people’s problems. I hear their confessions. I help them to resolve their conflicts and assuage their guilt and, in the end, I offer them peace and solace for all eternity. Yet, I’m nothing more than a guest in their homes; I’m not a member of any of their families. How many parishes have I served in since I took my vows? And, in none of them have I felt like I really belonged. I’ve been at St. Pat’s for seven years already, the longest I’ve stayed anywhere, and I’m still and always will be an outsider.

  I know I’m not the only lonely person in this world, he thought, picturing the faces of the elderly people he visited at the Westside Nursing Home. It was so sad, seeing them sit there day after day waiting, hoping that someone would come to see them. So many of them ha
d lost all their old friends and their siblings. Their families, if they had families, usually consisted of their children and grandchildren, who were too busy most of the time to take a few minutes out of their busy schedules to visit their aging relatives.

  On the rare occasions that family members did manage to give up a precious hour of their time, out of guilt or pity or both, it was obvious by their body language that they couldn’t wait to escape; that seeing people who have trouble walking or talking or remembering was just too much for them. How can people be so selfish? he wondered. Don’t they realize that, if they’re fortunate enough to live that long, someday they too will be old? How will they feel when no one has time for them? When people look at them with pity and even disgust in their eyes? Don’t they know that what goes around, comes around?

  He thought about the eighty-seven year old woman he’d visited that afternoon on her deathbed. How many times had he gone to spend hours with Doris Schweitzer at her apartment, listening to her reminisce about her life? He smiled, remembering how she always had a freshly baked batch of his favorite oatmeal raisin cookies waiting for him when he visited her.

  When he was ready to leave, she’d always insisted that he take the rest of the cookies home with him because, she told him, she was on a diet. He smiled to himself. She weighed all of a hundred pounds, if she was lucky, he thought. She was such a sweet, considerate woman. She even gave me a key to her apartment, he remembered, because it took her so long to get to the door with her walker and she didn’t want me to have to stand out in the hallway waiting.

  But there would be no more visits with her, he thought, remembering the peaceful expression on her face as she’d passed over. She too had died with no friends or family at her side, to hold her hand, to say goodbye to. True, she hadn’t had any children of her own but where were the nieces and nephews who would inherit all her worldly goods? They were all too busy. Would they be too busy to be there the day the will was read?