Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 01 - The Legitimate Way

by Rohn Federbush

  “Were you the football player?” Sally asked, thinking he’d probably knocked his brains around too much.

  “I am,” he actually blushed from what he thought was flattery, “I mean was. You remembered?” Sally couldn’t lie, but she did nod with her shoulder dipping to show it was no big deal. Apparently high school acquaintances revert a person’s psyche immediately back to the imbecilic days of high hormones and no sense. “James,” John called out, at some noise in the hall Sally’s hearing aid had not detected. “Look who’s here.”

  James had no clue which of the old dame’s names he was called upon to remember. “Sally,” John provided. “Sally Stiles.”

  “Bianco,” Sally added, then just to keep the record straight, “widowed for six years.”

  “Sorry,” James said, actually bowing at the waist. “You were a librarian helper for a while for Flash Jordan.”

  “Yes,” she said, surprised James did recognize her or at least remembered her mousey role at school. Miss Jordan, the white-headed, four-foot-eleven librarian, was remarkably quick on her feet, and a strict disciplinarian of absolute quiet in the school library. Flash Gordan was the white-tights wearing space cadet on a popular, science-fiction, black-and-white television program many years ago.

  Sally had wanted to fit in at high-school, but the lunchroom gauntlet past the popular kids’ table, and not knowing how to react to all those lovely boys, caused her to dive into books, not rearing her head until after high school and one last romance of Jane Austin’s, when she decided to get some romance for herself. The next man Sally looked at, a taxi driver, asked her out. Sally smashed his head, hard, against the taxi’s window when he tried to kiss her after a revelation he was married. But life worked itself out. Danny Bianco had been the grand passion in Sally’s life.

  “We’re glad you decided to stay with us,” James said, sincerely but professionally.

  “Sally wants to know about, who was it?” John directed James to a seat at her table, their table.

  “Mary Jo and Ricco Cardonè?” Sally repeated.

  “Only from the newspaper,” James said. “Wife abuse, I think.”

  “I could find the article at the library,” Sally said, really uncomfortable for some reason, probably just teenage nerves from her past. Then she zeroed in on the source of her unease. James wore a wig, not an expensive one either. Why did he bother?. Everyone would know he was as bald as his twin. Probably a wife’s vanity required the unflattering rug. “Are you both happily married?” Sally batted eyelashes she no longer owned.

  “James is,” John said. “I never married.” He continued, with an unflattering chortle, “Once you left town, all was lost.”

  “Right,” Sally said, getting her dander up.

  “Ricco Cardonè probably has an arrest record,” James quelled Sally’s nervous reaction to John’s taunt. “My wife, Cindy, runs the women’s shelter here and filled in some details the newspaper failed to report.”

  “Like what?” Sally asked, regaining her role as detective on a murder case. She produced a notebook identical to Henry Schaefer and Andrew Site’s. “Do you know where they lived?” Sally realized she had almost blown her cover of innocent inquiry by asking the question as if they were no longer residents of St. Charles.

  “Mary Jo worked for Dukane at the time,” James said.

  “Oh, I remember now,” John said. “Hostage scene, guns and all.”

  “Why didn’t they keep him in jail?” Sally asked.

  “No one was actually shot,” James said. “Mary Jo left the state and the prosecutor dropped the case, according to Cindy. She, Cindy, was angrier than I think I have ever seen her.”

  Sally got the impression Cindy’s temper knew few bounds. “Was Mary Jo that afraid of her husband?”

  “Must have been,” John said. “I could drive you out to their house.”

  “Really?” Sally said, floored with his immediate interest.

  “Sure,” John said. “I’m their realtor.”

  “Would you know how to get in touch with Mary Jo?” Sally asked, as cold chills ran up the back of her neck. John left the restaurant part of the hotel to find Mary Jo’s number apparently. Sally excused herself to James. “I need to run up to my room for a minute. Tell John I’ll be right down.”

  James caught her hand. “You’ve become a lovely lady,” he said.

  “I wish I was young enough to faint without breaking my hip,” Sally laughed, but she appreciated every syllable of the flattery. “I’ll be right back.”

  This was fun. She should have come up with this volunteer work, years ago. Digging into other people’s private business, righting wrongs, playing with old schoolmates. Not bad work. They could keep those cards and letters coming. Then her stomach hurt. Mary Jo’s life did not sound like a bed of roses. Sally sent her good thoughts to the missing woman and called Robert Koelz. “Is Andrew with you?” Sally asked Robert.

  When Andrew took the receiver, Sally told him to contact the St. Charles police department, ask for Art Woods, and have Ricco Cardonè’s arrest record faxed to the Ann Arbor police station.

  “No word yet,” Andrew answered Sally’s unasked question about Mary Jo’s call.

  “I don’t understand why she told Robert they tried to reconcile. Mary Jo fled a case here in St. Charles, over a month ago. I think Ricco might have harmed her and planned to shift the blame on Robert.”

  “Me too,” Andrew said. “Keep digging for us.”

  “I don’t intend to find a body, Andrew.”

  “You know what I mean.” Andrew Sites never appreciated a sense of humor, but Sally could imagine the grin under Robert’s grey moustache as he recognized her probable reply.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  John Nelson opened the front door of Mary Jo and Ricco Cardonè’s split-level home. Apple-and-cinnamon room deodorizer scent wafted outdoors as they entered. “You might want to open some windows while we’re here, to let in some fresh air,” Sally suggested.

  “Good idea,” he said. “Take a look around.”

  “Did you sign the deal with Mary Jo or Ricco?”

  “The sales agreement carries both their signatures,” John said, defensively.

  “Mary Jo signed in front of you?”

  “No,” John rubbed that glistening head of his. “Ricco said she had to be out of town so she signed the agreement before she left.”

  “You know her handwriting?”

  “Actually, no. I was hoping to see her at the closing, when the house sells. So far, people haven’t taken to the house.”

  Sally could understand why, but she didn’t want to discourage John. Scars and telltale signs of a violent environment were everywhere. A missing piece in the frame of a starving-artist oil over the fireplace was complemented by a pair of antique lanterns with the glass missing in one. She caught up to John in the master bedroom. “Do most of your clients know the history of the couple selling?”

  “I’m not sure. They don’t bring it up, but I notice them pointing out the obvious.” He shut the bedroom door, to show Sally a fist size hole bashed into the back of it. “Must have broken his fist on that one.”

  “How long has the house been on the market?”

  “A little less than a month,” John said. “I don’t hear from Ricco very often, but Mary Jo called once to check on the possibility of a sale and if her belongings were still in the attic.”

  “Does Ricco ask about the storage items?” Sally hoped she was on to something.

  “He’s never mentioned them.”

  Sally came clean. “John, a friend of mine in Ann Arbor is accused by Ricco Cardonè of murdering his wife. He claims my friend, Robert Koelz, was the last to see Mary Jo alive. I came to town to try to clear his name. Could I go through Mary Jo’s personal effects?” Sally purposefully selected those evocative terms to imply Mary Jo might be dead; although she hoped with all her heart Mary Jo was very much alive, even on her back in some lover’s arms, just no
t dead, not a cause for Robert to be jailed for the rest of his life.

  “I’ll help you,” John said eagerly, the dear.

  Access was gained to the attic by a pull-down ladder in a guest bedroom’s closet. The attic sported dormer windows, which they quickly opened for fresh air. A trunk, four huge, cheap pieces of luggage, and about twenty cardboard boxes were in the farthest reaches from the attic’s entrance. Sally’s first thought was that Ricco might not even know the attic storage area items existed. Her hands and hairline started to sweat and she felt the unusual at her age, yet familiar heat-flash symptoms start to overwhelm her. “John,” she whined. “Is there anything cold to drink in the refrigerator?”

  “I keep diet pop in there. I’ll be right back.”

  Even if Ricco had peeked into the opening, his first sight would have been of baby furniture, which might have deterred any further search. A folded-up playpen of white netting, a bath and linen stand, a baby scale, a bassinette with the pink gingham-and-lace trim still decorating the sides, and a few boxes labeled ‘baby clothes’ and ‘baby blankets’ shielded the bulk of Mary Jo’s belongs.

  Sally ignored the luggage, which was probably carefully packed each time Mary Jo had decided to leave her monster husband, and went straight to the traveling trunk. Sure enough, the metal trunk held documents. Personal, dated journals, legal looking folders, family albums, jewelry, and an address book filled the trunk.

  John arrived with the cold drink before Sally decided which items to take with her. The latest, dated journal and the address book seemed the most pertinent. “John, I need to borrow these two items. If you let me copy them tonight, you can replace them tomorrow, no foul, no injury.”

  “I wish James had come with us.”

  “I know you defer to your brother, and we can certainly let him know what we’ve done as soon as we get back to the hotel.” Bless his heart, he took the bait.

  “No,” John said, buffing the outside of his brains with both hands. “One night won’t hurt and I gave you my word I would help.”

  “Come to dinner with Art and Gabby Woods tonight. Art is gathering more evidence for me.”

  His grin said she’d hit the mark. “I will,” he said. “I like Art, but Gabby….”

  “Never shuts up,” Sally laughed.

  “Yeah,” John said and chuckled, too.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  John seemed disappointed when Gabby and Art agreed the Hotel Baker’s ballroom dining room was the best place to have dinner. “There isn’t much privacy,” he said.

  “What about the side rooms off the balcony?” she asked. “I remember a birthday party that Bob Burger held in there, when we were dating.”

  “You dated Bob Burger, of Burger Drugs?” John looked Sally up and down with what she thought was some gall.

  For an old dame, Sally thought she shone fairly well for an evening meal. She had chosen a black long skirt and a cobalt blue wrap around blouse, with a matching modern, glass bead necklace for wrinkle duty. At least she was not fifty pounds overweight like Gabby. Gabby should have talked even more to keep her tongue busy with hot air instead of more food. Not a Christian thought and if John hadn’t seemed so shocked about Bob Burger asking out long ago for a date, Sally probably would have been less critical of another member of her side of the human race. “Well, yes, John,” Sally said, clearly miffed he thought such a thing improbable. “Bob Burger and I dated a few times.”

  Gabby took over, explaining Sally’s personal business for Art and John’s edification. “The Burgers and Stiles were both Roman Catholics and their parents probably thought they would become a fruitful couple.”

  “At least my mother did,” Sally disclosed. She needed these people to clear Robert’s name. And, she needed to keep her thin balloon of an ego in check.

  “Sure,” John said, hanging his head. “I hadn’t remembered that.”

  “What about the side dining room?” Sally brought John back to the immediate subject, touching his arm and letting her hand linger. All this reminiscing threw her momentarily off track.

  “The staff needs to set it up for us,” John said. “We could have a drink at the bar until they’re done.”

  “Sure,” Sally said. That’s about all she needed! Her nerves were shot and one thing she did not need was a drink. Admitting her alcoholism, again, to herself, Sally ordered coffee and dug her fingernails into the bar. She was not, was not going to drink just because that stupid Mary Jo had decided to lead a trail of bread crumbs to Robert Koelz’s bookshop for her dumb husband to hassle.

  “How have you been keeping yourself busy, since Danny died,” Gabby asked.

  “Selling used cars to tire salesmen,” Sally said out of the blue. “I’m sorry, Gabby.” Sally apologized and took her arm. “A friend of mine has been accused of murdering Mary Jo Cardonè and I’m in St. Charles to find out how to clear his name.”

  “Wow,” Gabby said, struck speechless for the first time in her entire life. Art smiled at Sally for accomplishing a miracle he, no doubt, had actively pursued for many years.

  John cocked his jealous head as if in disbelief in Sally’s mission, or fresh distaste in front of an officer of the law. “I guess I should ask for Mary Jo’s journal and address back.”

  “Yes, John,” Sally said. “I’ll go up and get them.” The hotel staff had already provided her with copies of both the journal and the address book. John and James Nelson were known for their ability to motivate the cream of any pick of schoolmates, employees or charity donors.

  Art Woods held out his hand for the books when Sally returned to the bar. “Sure,” John said. “I guess the police should have them.”

  They were informed the private dining room was set up and adjourned for a peaceful meal. Gabby was amazing, talking continually about most of the residents in St. Charles while devouring the food on her plate without ever, even once talking with food in her mouth. Gabby inhaled the food once it was atomized by her windy sentences. Art failed to even try to guide the conversation. He mutely handed Sally a stack of index cards from his inside suit coat pocket. His eyes were as blue as they were when he was only twenty, and the line of chin unchanged with age.

  Gabby watched the transaction without losing a syllable of her discourse. “So now, the assessor’s wife only roams her extensive gardens at Fourth Avenue and Main. Her hats change with the seasons. She is completely bald, they say. But few people stop to chat, because of the loud, black hound she allows to dog her every step.”

  Sally impolitely moved her plate of gleaned duck bones to the side of the table and laid out the multi colored cards filled with relevant case notes about Ricco and Mary Jo Cardonè. She shuffled them back together and placed them in her purse. She would stay up late to glean through all the clues in order to report to Andrew.

  Gabby’s explanation of the town’s villains and hero continued. The Viet Nam vet’s return, the beauty queen’s father, the growing numbers of residents in the housing projects littering the cornfields, the addition of traffic lights on Randall Road. The stories droned on and on. John’s eyes seemed to glaze over. Art’s studied Sally.

  The memories flooded back to Sally. The assessor’s wife, that was Judy. Judy and her lover, what was his name, double dated with Art and Sally. Sally remembered the corn husks stuck in the back of Judy’s hair after they left the car so Art could make out with Sally. Judy didn’t marry her lover. She married the tax assessor. And Sally knew why. The lover had no fortune, no future according to Judy. Judy and she and once attended a party after a football game. A very rare appearance for Sally. Nevertheless courage in hand (a glass of wine), Sally approached two young men and even spoke to them. Judy took her arm and pulled her away whispering, “You’re wasting your time. They don’t even own a car.”

  Sally shivered and John woke up. “It is chilly in here,” John said as he rose. “Should I get a sweater from your room?”

  Sally stood, too. “No thank you. I am tired. It�
��s been a long day.” She stepped to Gabby’s side of the table and watched Art’s face as she said, “I’m so glad Art found you. He loves St. Charles and his life here.”

  Art laughed, too loudly for good manners. “Judy’s lover killed himself,” he said, as if he followed her walk among their memories.

  Sally sat back down. Art and Glenn, Glenn was his name, were the best of friends. “You were inseparable,” she added sympathetically.

  “They were,” Gabby was off again, recounting more stories. She didn’t notice Art’s face or the tears sliding down his cheek, unchecked.

  Sally interrupted, “I remember a record you two bought that promised to arouse your dates. What was its name?”

  Art wiped his face. “Frank Sinatra,” he said and lifted his glass in a sort of goodbye wave.

  Sally got up and fled to her room. She looked at the pile of papers, which contained Mary Jo’s latest journal and address book. She placed the index cards Art had given her on top of them, but couldn’t think about Mary Jo. She was overwhelmed by the past and how lucky she had been to escape the disaster of St. Charles, when she did. She remembered meeting Danny, an ex-con serving bar at the Elks Club in Elgin. How she missed Danny’s olive-toned skin, his thick hair, turned white since he was in his twenties from the antibiotics they gave him in Viet Nam for the syphilis he was too much of a scared virgin to contract, about the nude she had sketched of him on her bedroom wall after he died. How she missed him, how much he had convinced her she was loved.

  A bitter sweetness enveloped her. Robert Koelz would understand the ebb and flow of her emotions. Robert. Sally dressed for bed in pink silk pajamas and cradled Mary Jo’s paper trail to her chest as she climbed up into the canopied bed. Time to study how to clear Robert.

  The July 20th entry in Mary Jo’s journal seemed close enough to the present mayhem to start. It was written in Greg shorthand. Sally’s could only translate the most carefully written words. ‘Husband’ was always capitalized. Some details were lost, but the word ‘pain’ was underlined as were the words ‘bruises’ and ‘escape.’