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Copyright 2014 by Rohn Federbush
Book Cover Design and Book Formatting by Rebel Ink Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from the author at [email protected].
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
For more information on the author and her works, please visit Rohn’s Website at http://www.RohnFederbush.com.
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Section II
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Other Books by Rohn Federbush
About Rohn Federbush
PART I
Chapter One
Ann Arbor, Michigan
September, Monday
In the middle of a fine afternoon, heading east on State Street, Sally Bianco stopped at the three-way stop in front of the Michigan Union, before she noticed the police car parked among the taxi cabs. She kept her foot on the brake waiting impatiently for two students blown with a gust of maple leaves to cross the intersection, only to be further stalled by a straggling professor attached to his cell phone. Finally, Sally eased her old Mustang through the intersection. However, as soon as she passed the cruiser, its flashing lights rotated. Without a siren, it made a quick U-turn and followed her through the next light. The signal was green at Liberty Street, so Sally made a left-hand turn, planning to park in front of the Michigan Theatre to receive whatever ticket the good ‘occifer’ wanted to award her.
Across the street two bicycle cops, Sylvester and Sam Tedler, escorted Robert Koelz out the door of his second-floor, used bookshop. The cruiser’s multi-colored lights created a confusing strobe effect as the Tedler brothers marched Robert across to the cop car.
Sally jumped out of her car and reached for Robert’s arm. “Now, what have you done?”
His hands were cuffed behind him or his fingers would have tugged at his kinky grey curls, as they always did when Robert needed to explain a questionable deed. “Call Sites.” He frowned to keep his frustrated tears at bay. “They think I murdered Mary Jo.”
“Nonsense.” Sally scowled at the brothers for making her old friend weep at such a ridiculous charge. “Sam, you and Sylvester have known Mr. Koelz all your lives.”
Sylvester responded by lowering his voice to an officious tone, “There’s a warrant for his arrest. He’ll need to answer the charges.”
“Call his lawyer, Mrs. Bianco,” Sam said, as he extracted Sally’s claws from Robert’s sweater. “I’m sure he’ll be out before dinner.”
A bookish crowd of Border’s customers and between-class students crossed Liberty Street and gathered around them. From the back seat of the cop car, Robert called out something to Sam. Sam bent down to fish in Robert’s suit coat pocket. When he straightened up, Sam handed Sally the bookshop keys. “Mr. Koelz says to lock up and feed Miss Poi.”
Before climbing into the seat next to Robert, Sam turned to his brother. “Sylvester, take care of my bike.”
The other infant officer behind the wheel turned off the cruiser’s lights and proceeded down Liberty Street toward the county jail. Officer Sylvester Tedler touched Sally’s shoulder. “Better move your car, Mrs. Bianco.”
“My car?” Sally asked. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Illegally parked.” Sylvester couldn’t meet her glare.
“Well, give it a ticket, Sylvester.” Sally’s angry tone let him know he was lucky she didn’t wrestle his nightstick away from him and beat him to death. “I have a few things to take care of, thanks to your diligence.” Instead of rescuing her car, Sally pushed Sylvester’s six-foot-two bulk out of her path to cross the street back to the Bibliopole’s entrance.
The rare bookshop stairs seemed steeper than usual. Sally was puffing by the time she reached the landing. Leaning against the railing to catch her breath, she checked on Sylvester’s activities through the upper hall’s Liberty Street window. He had graciously decided not to ticket her red vintage Mustang.
She asked for the Lord’s help as she fumbled with the shop keys. Her eyes were smarting with frustration by the time she realized the upper door was unlocked before she inserted Robert’s keys. She sighed at her own idiocy, then unlocked the door to gain admission to the shop. Miss Poi, Robert’s cat, rubbed against her jeans in greeting. “Just a minute, sweetie.” Sally sat down in the nearest chair. Letting her hand keep Miss Poi’s fur and ego occupied, Sally tried to get her mind around Robert’s present plight.
Seven years earlier, when Sally first met the zealous bookman, she judged him to be an invincible guru. After tracking his goofy endeavors, she eventually understood the motivations behind Robert’s discontent with society. However, the energy level at his advanced age of 79 to pursue convoluted schemes against every form of governmental injustice continued to amaze her. Anarchists should retire at fifty as far as Sally could surmise. “Mellow out.” Sally advised the empty air.
The comforting smells of old leather, a heady scent of binding glue, and the odors of accumulated cardboard boxes, overflowing with reclaimed books, intermingled with the tannic-acid tang on the autumn breeze rustling papers on Robert’s metal desk.
Since her husband’s death six years earlier, this room qualified as Sally’s refuge, the place closest to her heart. The yellowed high ceiling, the carved woodwork, the patina on the oak floors, the jumble of brimming bookcases and the mismatched chairs assembled exactly the way a mysterious bookshop would. There was room to walk around a set of bookcases in the side room. In the central area, enough chairs welcomed conversation. The freedom-loving customers supported Robert’s myriad causes. Sally considered the shop a perfect sanctum for the illusion of peace in a violent society.
Miss Poi mewed.
Andrew Sites. She needed to find the lawyer’s phone number. Ignoring the cat, she brushed a stray tear off her nose and searched through piles of correspondence on Robert’s desk. A metal, pop-up address book provided the number. What should she do first, save Robert or feed Miss Poi?
She had never ventured into the storage-room before, but the can opener and stack of cat food tins were in plain sight on the windowsill overlooking the State Street University ‘diag.’ As she opened one can, Miss Poi leaned into her ankles. Through the dirty window Sally could see Sylvester Tedler back on his beat, accosting two homeless women who were asking for funds from passersby at the corner.
With a satisfied Miss Poi curled on her lap, Sally dialed the ancient rotary phone for Andrew Sites’ office. His secretary sounded young and efficient. Understandably, Andrew’s voice could not have echoed more of a shocked response. “Sally, who made the accusation?”
“Oh, Andrew.” S
ally used her ‘pity-an-old-woman’ moan. “I have no idea. Are you able to get him out of jail?”
“Absolutely,” Andrew said. “Will you stay at the shop until I bring him back?”
“I need to move my car.” Sally knew Andrew wouldn’t be interested, but couldn’t stop chatting. “I abandoned it when I saw Sam and Sylvester arrest Robert.”
The lawyer hung up.
After Sally moved her car to the high-rise lot next door, she returned to the rare bookshop and started a fresh pot of coffee. Robert’s metal address book flipped open on its own accord, or Sally might have touched its button as she stared at the State Street Theatre marqueè. The large black letters made no sense. She couldn’t remember what was playing at the Michigan Theatre just a few steps down Liberty Street either. Her mind drifted in a state of transitory shock; or some child in charge of changing the titles of movies was on a lark. The State Theatre sign spelled. “N A M E N O O N E M A N.”
Mary Jo Cardonè, the young woman Robert was supposed to have murdered was skinny and scared with dark, flyaway shoulder-length hair. Big brown eyes flitted behind pink-tinted glasses. Sally had only met her the previous week. Mary Jo had rubbed her nude ring finger as if removing the ‘promise of forever’ damaged tendons. The young woman had listed her reasons for leaving her marriage, biting her lips repeatedly as if to apologize for the unsavory truths. The only time Mary Jo calmed down and stopped chain smoking was when Robert handed her a book to peruse. She purchased every tome he suggested, as if Robert were prescribing exact narcotics for each of the poor girl’s anxieties.
Someone murdered Mary Jo?
Sally could believe several people might desire intimacy with Mary Jo and in her vulnerable state, Mary Jo have might encourage such momentary felicitations. But murder…? Surely the police questioned Mary Jo’s abusive husband?
Sally pushed the button on the address book again. Would Robert want his friends to know? Without dwelling further on the proper etiquette, Sally started telephoning. Penny Savage, his youngest conquest, answered her cell phone. Sally struggled with a few words. “Robert’s in trouble.”
“What now?” Penny sounded exasperated. “Who is he picketing now?”
“Worse.” Sally managed.
“Really?” Sally heard Penny’s intake of breath, as if expecting the very worst.
“He’s okay.” Then Sally asked hurriedly, “Will you come by the shop tonight?”
“Are you crying, Mrs. Bianco?”
“No.” Sally lied. “I have to make some more phone calls. See you tonight.” Sally replaced the headset in its cradle.
Sally reached for a blank index card. She needed to perfect her presentation. What could she say without telling his friends she didn’t know enough even to bother them? Poor Penny. There were other female customers, like Sally, Penny and Mary Jo, who hung on Robert’s every word. They praised his readings of his favorite poetry, prose, and the lyrics of his esteemed Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. Robert Koelz proposed no agenda for his patrons. They were accepted, foibles, wrinkles, stiff joints and all. However, he did not allow pomposity or any cruelty to linger long in the shop. Robert, of course, did not mind if they kept him in business by buying his unlimited supply of rare books.
Sally wrote down her spiel on a salmon-colored index card before ringing up Henry Schaeffer, Robert’s buddy since grade school. “Robert needs you to come by the shop this evening.” She read from the card.
“His cleaning isn’t finished yet,” Henry said.
“Robert’s embroiled in an arrest.” Sally ventured nearer the truth in the next line of her text.
Henry’s immediate loyalty spoke volumes. “You know he’s innocent.”
Sally reassured him, but added from her script, “I’m not aware of any of the details. Andrew Sites is with him, hopefully, as we speak. Can Robert count on your being here tonight?”
“Absolutely.” He paused longer than was necessary. “Sally?” His tone highlighted the coming equivocation. “If an arrest hits the papers, my wife will get involved.”
“Robert will understand.” Sally gently disconnected. Henry’s wife, no doubt, would forbid Henry from seeing his closest friend until Robert’s name was cleared. The bookshop crew never blamed Henry for his lack of courage at home. Now there was a woman more deserving of Robert’s wrath than Mary Jo. The nameless wife, Henry’s former model, trapped him by claiming pregnancy and continued to torture poor Henry for their entire forty-eight years of marriage.
At least, the index card’s prompts were helping Sally Bianco prepare Robert’s directory of friends for this fresh disaster. Edward Thatch said his wife, Smilka, needed to stay home with the babies; but he would be on hand. Sally liked the attractive young man. Ed’s father had been Robert’s high-school teacher fifty years earlier.
Sally failed to venture her voice out into the electronic ether to announce Robert’s arrest to anymore of his friends. Robert’s eclectic array of friends was a tribute to his expansive intellect and his emotional resilience. His stated philosophy was, “Laughter is better than tears, gentleness sought, bitterness naught.” But, how would Robert reconcile himself to being accused of murder?
Robert might need her more, now. Penny was too immature and busy getting her law degree in Lansing. Sally’s resources as a widow with a comfortable legacy might be the only charm Robert recognized, if the truth needed to be faced at some future juncture. For the present, imagined her intellect and love of fun entertained the bookman. The flattery of Robert’s attention was palatable, addictive even. She found life as a widow became somewhat giddy. Nevertheless, Sally would assure anyone on a stack of King James Bibles that the man who ran the Bibliopole could no sooner see to the demise of another human being than the Pope could smoke grass.
Sally felt a grin ease the tension from her face as she imagined Robert’s response when or if she recounted the picture of his archenemy, the Pope, toking marijuana. Sally’s moment of cheerfulness was interrupted by customers, who had mounted the staircase without her knowledge. Sally fiddled with her hearing aid, turning up its volume, wondering how long it had been since she had changed the battery. ‘We’re closed.” Sally decided, on the slim evidence that Robert had directed her to lock up the shop.
The older gentleman shook his head. “The sign says, ‘Open.’ And my wife needed an outing.”
Sally started to explain that she had forgotten to turn the sign to ‘Closed,’ but the wife was already seated in the chair next to Robert’s desk.
“Robert knows Hilda from his old neighborhood.” The older man took off his hat.
Hilda handed Sally a stack of photographs. “You must tell Robert I brought him the spirits.”
“Spirits?” Sally questioned her husband with a look.
“In the trees.” Hilda pointed. “See there’s a face, the eyes, the mouth. And here are two in an embrace, and one here.” Hilda continued to chatter, while Sally acknowledged she understood the lay of the land to her husband. When Hilda seemed to run completely out of words, she stared at Sally. “When will Robert return?”
“Tomorrow.” Sally rose from Robert’s chair and gently guided the woman to the shop’s door. “I’ll explain to Robert about the spirits. Did you want to leave the photographs?”
“Oh, no.” Hilda carefully placed the pictures in her handbag. “We’ll come again.” Her husband bowed goodbye and politely preceded his wife’s exit down the shop’s stairs, as if to buffer any stumble by the fragile woman.
Sally thanked God. Her own husband, Danny Bianco, had retained his mental facilities until the end. Losing a mate to a fog of confusion must be heartbreaking. Sally asked God’s compassion for the gentle lovers leaving the shop.
Three hours later, near eight o’clock in the evening, Sally was exhausted but not ready to go home. The shop was crammed with Robert’s hoard of friends.
Henry Schaeffer folded his raincoat inside out before placing it over the wooden chair, which faced the dr
op-leaf writing desk between the Liberty Street windows. He removed a checkbook from his inside left pocket and a small strap-bound notebook from his right-hand suit pocket. Finally situated behind Robert’s desk, Henry consulted his notebook. He added up a sum of figures from its pages, while taking care to watch the street below for Robert’s return. He wrote a check and placed it under a brass paperweight in the shape of a reclining nude woman engaged in self-gratification; a disgusting piece. Robert said the sculpture belonged to his mother but Sally didn’t believe it. Although he was the same age as Robert, Henry appeared much younger. His blond hair was a bit sparse, his chin line fallen somewhat. His blue eyes dull from living in an unhappy marriage.
According to Robert, the University of Chicago supplied the art degree and the deferment from the World War II draft. Henry’s father-in-law owned the dry cleaning establishment that Henry managed. Henry’s art was relegated to a weekend hobby. One of his oil paintings of Lake Superior’s shoreline, strewn with stones instead of sand, hung in the upstairs hall of Sally’s condominium. “No one yet.” Henry answered Sally’s unasked question about his latest survey of the street.
Penny Savage draped one leg of her torn jeans over the arm of the chair next to Robert’s desk. Sally could reluctantly accept the fact that young people purchased attire without knees and frayed cuffs. However, Penny carried the style of scuffed elegance to the extreme. Sally allowed herself an inner censoring, ’tsk.’
Ed Thatch arrived with the evening’s libations. He carried bottles of Taylor’s Cream Sherry in each of his hands. Ed lifted the bounty over his head. “The liquor store manager says these are on the house to celebrate Robert’s release from jail. Where is he?” Ed approached Henry, shook his hand sadly and positioned himself to appreciate Penny’s display of tattered glory. “Not returned?” Ed asked Penny.
Penny straightened her posture, as if in deference to the missing Robert Koelz. “Mary Jo is off somewhere flat on her back enjoying…,” she turned her attention to Sally and added demurely, “some view.”
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