by Elaine Viets
“And I can have a beer,” Phil said.
“I hear a theme,” Helen said. “Beer garden, beer mailbox, beer and barbecue.”
“This city was built on beer,” Phil said. “It’s the home of Anheuser-Busch.”
“Which has been sold to a Belgian conglomerate,” Helen said. “Now Tom Schlafly is the town’s biggest beer baron. He owns the Schlafly brew pubs.”
“We can go there, too,” Phil said. “I should know St. Louis culture.”
“Not today,” Helen said. “Here’s our hotel. And believe me, you won’t admire its architecture.”
They checked into their beige hotel and ten minutes later were driving toward Webster Groves, a St. Louis suburb built in the 1890s.
“Look at those old trees,” Phil said.
“We have trees in Florida,” Helen said.
“We have mostly boring palm trees. These are big, burly and twisted. They shade the whole street. The streets are cleaner here than in Florida. And quieter. Nobody honks or flips us off.”
“Wait till we’re on the highway at rush hour,” Helen said. “It’s only eleven in the morning.”
“I like the flowers in these older yards. Florida plants are scary-looking.”
“Excuse me? You find flowers scary?” Helen asked. “Did the flight attendant put something in your coffee?”
“No. It’s true. Florida flowers are loud, rubbery things that look like they’re going to either eat you or poison you. These are gentle, old-fashioned flowers: hollyhocks, black-eyed Susans, geraniums, and what’s that one there that looks like a purple daisy?”
“Echinacea, I think. I’m trying to drive.”
Helen was irritated by Phil’s praise for her former home and wasn’t sure why. “It’s only eighty degrees today,” she said. “Don’t think this is a typical St. Louis summer. In an ordinary August, the temperature will hang around a hundred for days.”
“Well, it’s pleasant now,” Phil said. “Maybe we could get married here.”
“I’d rather not. My first wedding was in St. Louis,” Helen said. “It was a disaster. This isn’t my home anymore.”
She parked their rental car in front of a two-story house with a wide white porch. Pink rambler roses cascaded over the picket fence.
“It looks like a Hallmark card,” Phil said.
For the final sentimental touch, a sturdy blond boy came running out of the backyard, carrying his aluminum baseball bat and yelling, “Uncle Phil! Uncle Phil! Can we play baseball?”
“Later this evening, Tommy,” Phil said. He hugged the boy, then his small blond sister, Allison, who trailed shyly behind her big brother. Phil waved to Kathy, who was standing in the front doorway, and drove off.
“Hi, Aunt Helen,” four-year-old Allison said.
“Cool red-checked playsuit,” Helen said. “Beyoncé has one like it.”
“Who’s she?” Allison asked.
“A famous singer. But you’re cuter.”
“Enough compliments,” Kathy said. “I want to talk to your aunt Helen. Allison, go play in the backyard with Tommy.”
Kathy had fixed a salad for lunch and the sisters settled in for a chat. Kathy was two years younger, four inches shorter and thirty pounds heavier than Helen. Kathy’s plump figure radiated contentment. Helen had a nervous racehorse energy. Today, Helen thought her younger sister looked tired.
“Has it been difficult making the plans for Mom’s funeral here?” Helen asked.
“The real strain has been fighting with Larry,” Kathy said. “I want to kill him and make it a double funeral. Tommy’s taking his grandma’s death badly. He’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of a school bus. Oh, hell. He’s tormenting his sister again.”
Helen could hear the children arguing under the kitchen window.
“Gamma is too in heaven with Jesus,” Allison shouted, her voice shrill.
“Grandma is dead. They’re going to put her in a box in the ground,” Tommy said.
Allison burst into tears. “She’s not in a box. She’ll catch cold. She’s in heaven with Jesus.” Helen heard small feet stomping up the porch stairs.
Kathy sighed, rose wearily to open the kitchen door and gathered Allison into her arms. “Grandma is with Jesus, honey,” she said, kissing away her daughter’s tears. “She’s been sick for a long time, but now she won’t hurt anymore. Jesus took her home.”
“He didn’t have to take my grandma,” Tommy shouted. “There are lots of other people. Why didn’t he take Larry? Larry wouldn’t even let us play in Grandma’s yard. Nobody likes Larry, not even you, Mom.”
“Tommy, we’ve talked about this,” Kathy said. “Grandma is in heaven now, but time is different there. You’ll live to be an old, old man, but it will only seem like a blink of an eye to Grandma before she sees you again. We don’t know God’s plan. He may have something else in store for Larry.”
“Something bad?” Tommy asked hopefully. “Something badder than what happened to Grandma?”
“It’s possible,” Kathy said.
“I hope God runs him over with a dump truck,” Tommy said.
“Or puts him in a concrete mixer. There’s a bunch of construction at church, and there are giant trucks all over. If one of them ran him down and squashed him, would that be part of God’s plan?”
“It could be, but we can’t expect miracles,” Kathy said. Helen worked hard to suppress a smile.
“Now apologize to your sister for making her cry,” Kathy said.
“It’s not my fault she’s a baby,” Tommy said.
“She’s younger than you. Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m not sorry. She should grow up.”
“Then if you won’t apologize, go sit in your room. And leave your bat by the porch.”
“Oh, Mom,” Tommy said. He dropped the aluminum bat with a thunk and stomped upstairs.
Later, Helen wished he’d dropped the bat in the Mississippi, where she’d dumped her wedding ring. She wished she’d never seen that bat.
Before the night was over, it would kill someone. Whether that was God’s plan or the devil’s meddling, Helen would never know.
CHAPTER 18
“Kill the fatted calf!” Phil shouted into the phone.
“Kill the what? Where are you?” Helen asked. “How did you get Kathy’s number?”
“I’m a highly skilled detective,” he said. “Also, it was in the phone book. I’m at the St. Louis County Courthouse with a copy of your divorce decree.” Phil was talking so fast, Helen had trouble following him.
“Wait till you hear my news, Miss Helen Janet Geimer.”
“That’s my name,” Helen said. “I haven’t heard it in so long, I almost forgot. Quit dragging this out, Phil. Tell me.”
“I have information about your divorce judge, Xavier Smathers,” Phil said. “Do you know he was arrested for bribery eighteen months ago?”
Helen could see the man who had turned her old world upside down: His well-fed face was a waxy, heart-attack red. His wispy white hair barely covered his square skull. She remembered his smug words as he gave away her hard-earned money to the worthless Rob.
“Judge Smathers took bribes?” Helen said. She sat down hard on her sister’s kitchen chair and stared at the rooster clock on the wall. It was twelve forty-five.
Kathy hovered over Helen. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Helen covered the phone and said, “It’s okay. It’s good news.”
“Then why are you white as a sheet?” Kathy asked.
“Sh. Pick up the extension and listen in,” Helen said.
“Are you there?” Phil asked.
“Yes, yes,” Helen said. “Now tell me.” She heard Kathy’s footsteps on the stairs to her bedroom, then a small click as her sister lifted the extension.
“Judge Xavier Smathers was convicted of bribery in July of this year,” Phil said. “The story was in the St. Louis City Gazette. How did Kathy miss it?”
“Oh, I do
n’t know,” Helen said. “Maybe she was preoccupied with a dying mother, a greedy stepfather, a part-time job, two kids and a husband.”
Helen thought she heard a gentle snort from Kathy.
“You sound sarcastic,” Phil said.
“I was just giving you a few reasons,” Helen said. “Besides, most people don’t read newspapers anymore.” The last of her patience vanished and she raised her voice. “Now tell me the rest before I die of old age.”
“You don’t have to be angry,” Phil said. “This is good news. Judge Xavier Smathers’s bribery trial focused on one person, a real estate broker who wanted sole custody of his son. The broker paid the judge two hundred thousand dollars in cash. He got custody of his six-year-old boy despite two experts who testified that the broker’s wife would be a better caretaker parent. The judge also overlooked the husband’s cocaine addiction and anger-management issues.
“The prosecution’s investigators found nearly two million dollars in cash in shoe boxes in the judge’s weekend home near Lake St. Louis, so they’re pretty sure he made more crooked deals. Your ex-husband’s name wasn’t mentioned during the trial, but I think Rob bribed the judge.”
“How? Rob didn’t have any money,” Helen said. “He still doesn’t. He spends everything he gets his hands on.”
“He got half the proceeds of your St. Louis house sale, didn’t he?” Phil asked. “That’s what it said in the decree.”
“Yes,” Helen said. “We’d sold the West County house just before the divorce for six hundred thousand dollars. The money went into our joint account. I’d expected to split the sale proceeds with him as part of the divorce. I put my share in a money market account for Helen Hawthorne, the name I use now. I didn’t have time to reinvest any of it.”
“You used a fake name back then?” Phil said.
“Just that once. I liked it and used it when I left town,” Helen said. “Rob didn’t know about my new name. Another name would make me harder to find.”
“And the money is still there in the account?” Phil asked. “Why didn’t you spend it when you were on the run?”
“I couldn’t do anything that would help the court or Rob find me,” Helen said. “I’d expected a fair divorce.”
“Really?” Phil asked. “That’s why you hid your money under a fake name?”
“I didn’t hide it,” Helen said. “The money was legally mine. But maybe some part of me expected the worst. When the judge gave Rob half of my future earnings, I was so furious, I took whatever cash I had on hand, then maxed out the advances on my credit cards and the cash limit at the ATM. I left St. Louis late at night with about ten thousand dollars. I never used my old accounts or credit cards once I left my hometown.
“I didn’t go near that money market account, afraid it might lead Rob to me. Even after he tracked me down to Fort Lauderdale as Helen Hawthorne, he could have taken some of that three hundred thousand dollars, claiming it was owed to him as part of my earnings while I was on the run.”
“Then you have money!” Phil said. “You must have at least three hundred thousand dollars in your account. Maybe more, if it paid interest for nearly three years.”
“Only if Rob didn’t know about my personal account at National Bank and Trust on New Ballas Road,” Helen said.
“Your bank accounts are listed in the decree,” Phil said. “There’s a joint account for you and Rob at Commerce Bank. It also looks like Rob had his own account at Heartland Bank. Is there really a Heartland Bank?”
“That bank name couldn’t sound more trustworthy if it tried,” Helen said. “I’m sure that’s why Rob used it. He’s probably closed his account there by now. I don’t know if he had others.”
“No sign of any account at National Bank,” Phil said.
“Oh,” Helen said. “Maybe I forgot to list it for the decree.”
“Good thing you were forgetful,” Phil said. Helen could tell he wasn’t buying her excuse. “Rob would have remembered that money. I’ll need his Social Security number to check all his accounts.”
“Is his Social on the divorce decree?” Helen asked.
“Not sure,” Phil said. “It’s thirty-one pages long. I’m still going through it.”
“I can give you Rob’s number,” Helen said.
“You remember your ex-husband’s Social Security number?”
“I’m an ex-number cruncher,” Helen said. “I was better dealing with numbers than with men like Rob.” She rattled off a nine-digit number.
“You’re amazing,” Phil said.
“Yes,” Helen said. “Now go back to work.”
“Only if you promise to check on the balance of your private account,” Phil said.
“Easy. I can do it online at Kathy’s house,” Helen said.
Kathy ran downstairs, her face glowing with excitement. “I heard the news! The computer is in Tom’s basement office. Follow me and watch where you step.”
Helen sidled past Allison’s folding baby crib, boxes of winter clothes and a broken chair, to a small office with fresh white walls. As Kathy bent to turn on the computer, Helen noticed the gray in her little sister’s dark hair.
“You’re ready to go,” Kathy said. “Do you still remember your online password?”
“It’s ‘Cool Valley,’ the town where Grandma was born,” Helen said. “I figured Rob wouldn’t know that.” She typed it in, then shrieked, “Yes, it’s there! I have $306,021.17.”
“Then you’re rich again,” Kathy said.
“Nope. That money goes to pay Mom’s Florida funeral expenses, the lawyers who might be able to get me out of this mess, and any back taxes and penalties I’ll owe the IRS.”
“Why would you owe the IRS?” Kathy asked.
“I haven’t filed income taxes in more than two years,” Helen said. “The feds don’t like that, but with the right lawyer and the right attitude, they might show mercy.”
“Let’s work on dinner while we wait for Phil’s next call,” Kathy said. “We still have a bottle of white wine to finish.”
Helen tore romaine and chopped onions, tomatoes and cucumbers for a salad. Kathy made potato salad. They finished most of the white wine while they prepared for the barbecue.
After an hour, Tommy Junior crept downstairs. “Mom, can I go play outside if I tell Allison I’m sorry?”
“There, that’s my little man,” Kathy said, and hugged him.
The two children played peacefully in the backyard. Tommy hit baseballs with his aluminum bat and said in his pretend sports-announcer voice, “It’s Cardinal star Albert Pujols up at bat and he’s having another great day, folks.”
Tommy swung the bat, connected with the ball and shouted, “Pujols hits the ball out of the park. THERE HE GOES! ANOTHER HOME RUN!”
“The kid has quite a swing,” Helen said. “Does he break any windows with that baseball?”
“It’s a spongy thing. He can’t use a real baseball in the yard,” Kathy said.
Little Allison fetched the ball and presented it to the star. “She’s nice to help him,” Helen said.
“Don’t worry,” Kathy said. “She does more than wait on her brother. Tommy plays goalie and fetches the ball for his sister when Allison plays soccer.”
“Is Allison good at soccer?”
“Better than her mother. She’s young yet, but we hope she’ll continue. There are good college soccer scholarships for girls.”
Phil called Helen back at three thirty-two, talking faster than a tobacco auctioneer. “Rob had three accounts in his name that I can find. It took Rob three months to take out one hundred thousand dollars in cash in ways that looked sneaky but wouldn’t have fooled an experienced investigator.”
“Like yourself?” Helen asked.
“Maybe not as good as me, but they would have caught it, too,” Phil said. “I gave the account numbers to the prosecutor’s office. The accounts Rob routed them to are connected to the crooked judge. The prosecutor’s assistant said if
ex-judge Smathers admits he took bribe money from Rob, you’re home free.”
“Why would Smathers do that?” Helen asked.
“Smathers made a deal with the prosecutors that he would tell all to get better treatment. That means he’ll get a name change, a transfer to a penitentiary in another state, and he won’t be locked up with the hard cases. You don’t want to know what they do to former judges.”
“But Smathers wasn’t a criminal judge,” Helen said. “He never sentenced anyone.”
“Think all those cons got along well with their wives?” Phil said. “They get divorced, too.”
“When is Smathers supposed to spill the beans to the prosecutor’s office?” Helen said.
“He’s doing it now,” Phil said. “He’s been warned that if he’s caught in a single lie, the deal is off. Because you were the victim of a bent justice system, the prosecutors will mention Rob’s name and see what the judge says.”
“And if Smathers doesn’t admit Rob bribed him?”
“No chance,” Phil said. “Smathers knows a lie is his death sentence. They’ll ask His Dishonor tomorrow.”
“That’s the day of Mom’s wake. The funeral is the next morning.”
“Then I suggest we see a lawyer late that same afternoon,” Phil said. “I did some asking around and found us two good ones. We can have an appointment at three p.m. with Tarragon Tyler. She’s a family-law specialist.”
“Her name is Tarragon?” Helen asked.
“Hippie parents,” Phil said. “She rebelled against Mom and Dad by putting on a pin-striped suit and going to law school, but she has her parents’ same distrust of the system. Her nickname is ‘Terror’ Tyler. After that, we can see a lawyer who handles IRS problems, Drake Upton.”
“What’s she famous for?”
“Drake is a he,” Phil said. “Drake is good at getting the IRS off people’s backs. Which you’ll need if you’re going to be a solid citizen again. Then we can go before a different judge to redetermine if you owe Rob money.”
