The Widow's Mate

by Ralph McInerny

  “A client.”

  There were one or two calling cards in Tuttle’s tweed hat, but there seemed no need to waste one here. “I’m a lawyer.”

  Tuttle was dying to know what Gregory Packer was doing hanging around the Flanagan house, shooting buckets as if he owned the place.

  “If you came to see Melissa, you’re out of luck. She’s having lunch with her father-in-law.”

  Tuttle’s wonderment must have been written on his face. He had removed his tweed hat and rubbed his face with his free hand.

  “You’re wondering what I’m doing here.”

  “That’s none of my business.”

  Packer pointed. Tuttle thought his gaze was being directed to the backboard, and then above it he saw windows.

  “My apartment. Melissa was kind enough to let me have it while I get settled.”

  “No kidding.”

  “You should see the place.”

  “I’d like to.”

  He had surprised Packer, but then the man seemed delighted. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  Behind the garage, an outside stairway rose to the entrance to the apartment. Packer let them in, switching on a light. It was cool, obviously air-conditioned. They were in a very large living room off which a bedroom opened on one side and a kitchen on the other. A television with a huge screen was on, its sound muted.

  “Pretty nice.”

  “I haven’t lived this well in years.”

  Knowing that in the man’s past there was a marriage to Sandra Bochenski, one that had ended in divorce, Tuttle wondered if Packer’s ease and comfort had not gone into steep decline when he came home to find that his wife had skedaddled with the money he had hoped to get control of.

  When they went outside again, Packer asked Tuttle to stick around and shoot some buckets. “I keep the ball a little soft, so you get the benefit on rim shots.”

  “I wish I had the time.”

  If Melissa was having lunch with her father-in-law in the Loop, there was no point in waiting for her. As a concession to Packer, he took the ball and heaved it toward the backboard. Swish. Nothing but net. Packer cheered. It was all Tuttle could do to go on to his car and get out of there. He had never made a bucket like that before. But character prevailed. He wanted to get downtown and find out if Cy Horvath was checking out Gregory Packer as well as Sandra. The trail to one would surely lead to the other.

  17

  Ferret, the manager of the building where Sandra Bochenski had lived, just looked at Cy. “I know you.”

  “We talked years ago.”

  Ferret was still thinking.

  “About a woman who used to live here. Sandra Bochenski. I wondered if you had seen her lately.”

  Ferret stepped back, his mouth twitching, putting his little mustache in motion. “That was years ago. She went to California.”

  “I understand she’s back.”

  “No kidding!” His delight was short-lived. “Well, she’s not back here.”

  “It was just a thought.”

  “Geez, I wish she was. What a fine woman.”

  Well, it had been a long shot. Cy left. His car was in a lot on Michigan. It had been a long walk from there to the building, as if he were punishing himself for going on a wild goose chase. Going back, he thought of stopping somewhere for a beer, but that brought memories of the time he had run into Wally and the woman Sandra had joined them and Cy had just known his old friend was fooling around. Being a cop means being mixed up with the seamy side of life, but when the people involved were friends, those you have known since you were a kid, it was different.

  Ever since Wally had vamoosed, Cy had been certain there was a connection with the woman he had met with Wally in the Loop bar, but missing persons did not fall within the scope of the department run by Phil Keegan. Even if they did, Cy figured Wally was just another husband who had run off with another woman, however incredible it seemed that he would leave someone like Melissa. He had talked with her and not discouraged her wild hope that Wally was afflicted with amnesia and wandering around somewhere wondering who he was. His efforts to turn up Sandra in San Diego had been perfunctory. For one thing, he wasn’t sure he would be doing Melissa a favor by discovering her husband shacked up in San Diego. For another, they were suddenly swamped with cases that did concern the department. A body was found in the Fox River with a rope around the ankle, apparently loosened from the concrete block that had been meant to make it fish food. It was the body of a foot soldier in the diminished ranks of the Looneys, a family that had finally lost out to the Pianones in Fox River. The poor slob had been given a magnificent funeral, with Looneys and Pianones shedding crocodile tears. They had been poised on the brink of a war, but then the Looneys threw in the sponge. One of the Looney boys joined the Jesuits, and the heir apparent, Frank, a nephew of Luke Flanagan, took the place in the business the old man had hoped Wally would fill.

  When Wally’s body was found in the cement mixer, Phil Keegan’s first thought was that the war between the Looneys and Pianones had only been postponed, but that had made no sense. The Looneys no longer represented a threat; the old man was dead, one son was a Jesuit, and the other was running Flanagan Concrete, where the body had been found. Only a cop with a long memory would recall that old rivalry. The Pianones in the meanwhile had become almost respectable. Once their major interest, gambling, became legal, they launched a fleet of moored craft where gamblers could throw away their money, and their sleazy bars were sold or made respectable, all the women hanging around in them amateurs, products of the sexual revolution. Why should a man pay for what he could have for the price of a couple of drinks and listening to some woman gripe about her husband?

  The obvious explanation of Wally’s death was no longer applicable, but that made it more mysterious rather than less. Now, belatedly, at Amos Cadbury’s request and with Phil Keegan’s blessing, Cy was finally trying to piece together the lost years of Wally Flanagan. All he had come up with was the lost years of Sandra Bochenski.

  The wedding in San Diego between Sandra Bochenski and Gregory Packer was a surprise until Cy wondered if Wally had used their old friend’s name to throw off anyone who might be trying to locate the couple. The subsequent stories about Greg Packer and the owner of the driving range he managed, ending in marriage, made it unlikely that the accused was Wally. Indeed, newspaper photographs made it clear that the culprit was Gregory Packer. That woman, Cecilia, had been found drowned in her pool. It was declared accidental, but how could Cy not wonder if Greg Packer had decided to become sole owner of the driving range? So what had happened to Sandra Bochenski? A helpful colleague had scanned databases and come up with a Sandra Bochenski in Oxnard. Cy had been ready to fly out to interview her but received word that she had returned to Chicago. Hence the trip to her old apartment building in the wild hope that she might be there.

  Cy was on Michigan when a couple emerged from the little park around the old water tower. The tweed hat in this kind of weather would have caught his attention in any case, but there was little doubt that it was Tuttle. The woman, Cy would have bet his pension on it, was Sandra Bochenski. Cy watched them, keeping out of sight. They parted, Tuttle heading in one direction, the woman in the other.

  Cy followed her to the Whitehall Hotel. He waited several minutes and then went in. “Is Sandra Bochenski staying here?”

  A blank look. Cy read the clerk’s name tag and asked the question again in Hungarian.

  The broad face lit up. He punched the computer and said, in English, “Eight-oh-three.”

  Cy wrote it down.

  “You can use the house phone.” He said this in Hungarian.

  “How long has she been registered?”

  The clerk became wary, and Cy showed him his identification. All camaraderie was suddenly gone. Who knows what memories were awakened in the transplanted Hungarian? He suggested that Cy talk to the manager.

  Cy took a chair in the diminutive lobby and thought. Now
that he had located the woman, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to confront her until he knew why she had been talking with Tuttle. That suggested that she would be around for a while. If he did call her room and she came down, she might clam up like the clerk, and there wasn’t much he could do about that. He decided that having a little talk with Tuttle first was the way to go.

  18

  “Get him out of there.”

  “Dad!”

  Luke Flanagan paused and rubbed his face, as if to remove the scowl brought on when Melissa told him she had let Gregory Packer use the apartment over the garage. He had always been proud that she was his daughter-in-law, and her calling him Dad moved him.

  “He was a friend of Wally’s, you know that.”

  “A bad influence. The guy’s a bad apple, he always was.”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  “How long is that?”

  “I didn’t set a deadline.”

  “Then I will. I don’t want him staying there.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I didn’t think you’d mind. What’s the point of an empty apartment?”

  Luke had turned the huge attic over the garage into an apartment for himself when he had imagined Wally and his wife living in the house. One more plan gone to hell. He had convinced himself that Greg Packer was behind his son’s decision to refuse to take over the family business. Hearing that the man was now settled in the apartment over the garage was like a kick in the stomach.

  He and Melissa were in the cafeteria of the retirement home where Luke lived. He looked around at the old people scattered among the tables, and the scowl returned. What the hell was he doing in a place like this? It had seemed a good decision: Plunk down a wad of money and say good-bye to all the usual frets and cares of living; no more bills, only the phone bill; he had housekeeping service, a neighborhood with dozens of distractions. But how many times can you walk along Navy Pier and find it interesting? Several times, Luke had come back to his building semidrunk from sitting over a series of beers, half watching a game on television, bored stiff.

  “What’s he do, anyway?”

  Melissa smiled. “He shoots baskets.”

  Luke stared at her. He had put up that backboard himself, and he had memories of playing one-on-one with Wally. Losing to his son had never hurt although he hated to lose at anything. Wally’s winning was like himself winning, so how could he lose?

  “I want him out of there.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  Luke looked at her. Melissa was still beautiful, and she had held her chin up during the long period while the search for Wally went on and afterward. His daughters thought she would marry again, but she hadn’t. If she had, it would have been like the final blow to his hopes. Suddenly Luke understood why he reacted so strongly to the news that Greg Packer was occupying the garage apartment. He was Melissa’s age; they had known one another as kids; proximity was a dangerous thing between a man and a woman—and of course Melissa was a woman. The character that had kept her loyal to Wally could be worked on by a bum like Packer. The thought of the man moving from the garage into the house was too much. “I mean it.”

  “I said all right.”

  “I’ll go back with you.”

  “No, no, Dad. I said I’d take care of it. I really had no idea you would object.”

  “So why did you want to see me?” he said, his tone turning a page in the conversation.

  “Do I need a special reason?”

  Her hand covered his. She still wore her wedding ring. God bless her. Luke still wore his, all these years after Dora was gone. He turned his hand and squeezed Melissa’s. “More coffee?

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t blame you. It’s weak as dishwater.”

  “Have you made lots of friends?” She was looking around the cafeteria.

  “The place is full of widows.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Ha.” Thank God Maud wasn’t in evidence. There was no way he could avoid introducing Melissa to her.

  The thought seemed fanfare for her appearance. In the lobby, the elevator doors opened, and Maud stepped out, saw Luke, and came right up to him. She looked at Melissa with mock suspicion. “Is he trying to pick you up?”

  “Maud, this is my daughter-in-law!”

  Thus Maud was introduced to Melissa, and Luke could only imagine what stories would begin to circulate. Ever since he had hinted to Amos Cadbury at the possibility of remarrying, he had regretted it. Melissa was beaming at Maud. Her arm went around Luke. She might have been blessing them.

  “Maud is one of the cleaning ladies.”

  “Oh, stop it, or I’ll scrub out your mouth.”

  They went on, he and Maud, like a comic routine, to Melissa’s delight. Damn it.

  “Beautiful girl,” Maud said when Melissa had kissed him, patted Maud’s arm, and gone through the revolving doors.

  “Girl! She’s middle-aged.”

  “And you said your daughters were fat.”

  Luke let it go. Now that Melissa was gone, his anger that Gregory Packer was occupyng the apartment over the garage in the Flanagan house in Fox River returned. If Maud hadn’t shown up, he would have driven to Fox River and kicked that SOB out of the apartment.

  “I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “Only if I can buy you one.”

  “That sounds fair.”

  She took his arm and steered him toward the revolving doors.

  It was good to have her back from visiting her son the monk in Kentucky. She told him about the guesthouse where the monks put up visitors, just across the road from the monastery, and gave them retreats.

  “Some stay in the guesthouse longer. Thinking about joining, I guess. One of them was your namesake.”

  “Luke?”

  “Flanagan.”

  “No relative of mine would think of becoming a monk.”

  “What else are you?”

  Her eyebrows danced, and she pressed her knee against his beneath the table.

  “A retreat didn’t do you much good.”

  “I’m better at advances.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Another beer?”

  “They make me amorous.”

  “Good.” She signaled to the waitress.

  19

  Tuttle sauntered into Cy Horvath’s office, took a chair across the desk from him, and tipped back his hat. “Why don’t we pool resources?”

  Cy just looked at him.

  “The Wally Flanagan case. I’ve been hired to find out what he was doing from the time he left here until he turned up dead.”

  “Is that what Sandra Bochenski wants to know?”

  Tuttle sat back. “How do you know that?”

  “You’ve been under surveillance.”

  “And you’ve been checking out Sandra Bochenski.” Two can play at that game.

  “What else did Peanuts tell you?”

  “So you see, we have a common interest.”

  “I thought you were interested in Wally Flanagan.”

  “Let me tell you what I’ve learned.”

  Tuttle took off his tweed hat and fitted it to the knee of his crossed leg. While he spoke, he had the impression that none of what he had to say came as news to Cy, but with that face you never knew. He told Cy about the affair between Sandra and Wally and about their plan to run away together and start a new life in California. “She went ahead. He never showed up.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Are you saying he did?”

  “You’re doing the talking.”

  “You realize that I am under no obligation to tell you these things. It’s all confidential. But why should we duplicate efforts?”

  “You could just have Peanuts get you my report.”

  “I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “How long is Sandra Bochenski in town?”

  “Until I find out what she wants to know.”

  “What’
s her interest?”

  Tuttle had thought about this. Why should his client be paying him good money to find out things that could not do her any good. Curiosity? That seemed the only motivation. Of course, she was still a woman scorned, but any revenge she had in mind involved Greg Packer, not Wally Flanagan. Her suspicions about Packer seemed Tuttle’s hole card.

  “What’s your interest?” Tuttle asked boldly.

  “I’m a cop.”

  “Things must be pretty slow around here if you can devote your time to ancient history.”

  “You think Wally Flanagan is ancient history? How long has it been since his body was found?”

  “Long enough to be forgotten.”

  Even as Cy said it, Tuttle considered what that meant. The body of Wally Flanagan had been mainly hamburger. The identification had been made by his wife from the wedding ring on the undamaged left hand. A ring can be put on any dead hand.

  “Get the hell out of here, Tuttle. I’ve got work to do.”

  Tuttle rose. “I just had an idea.”

  “I thought I heard a buzzing sound.”

  “More like ringing.”

  * * *

  He found Peanuts napping in the pressroom and shook him awake. “Can you get a car?”

  “What’s wrong with yours?”

  “I’m low on gas.”

  Peanuts rose slowly. “Meet me downstairs.”

  Tuttle took the circular staircase that gave those going up and down a view of the dome above and the great checkerboard floor of black and white tile below. What if the death of Wally Flanagan had been staged? He had to ask Melissa what had happened to the wedding ring that convinced her the body in the cement mixer was her husband’s.

  He waited outside, and five minutes later Peanuts drove up with a patrol car.

  “Couldn’t you get an unmarked car?”

  “Look at the dents in the fenders.”

  You never knew with Peanuts. Tuttle got into the passenger seat, and Peanuts took off, turning on the siren briefly, then grinning at Tuttle.

  “Leave it on.”

  “I don’t want to get arrested.”

  20

  After she left her father-in-law, Melissa drove to St. Hilary’s. She smiled as she thought of the perky little woman with whom Luke had been so friendly. Was it possible that he would marry again at his age? It seemed a comic possibility, but that wasn’t fair. His life had been as devastated as her own by Wally’s disappearance. In his case, it went back further, to Wally’s turning down the offer to succeed his father in the family business. That had opened the way for his cousin Frank.