Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 01 - The Legitimate Way

by Rohn Federbush

  “Zelda,” Sally said.

  “Who?” Sam asked.

  “Zelda Cameron was cleaning in here yesterday. Seems so long ago. I guess it was two days ago.” Donna rubbed her forehead.

  “Saturday, yesterday.” Sally said. “She told us she took a key out of David’s desk.”“She’s been over-helping me cope,” Donna explained to Sam.

  “I met her,” Sam said. “We were both late for the memorial service.”

  “Who would want to rob us?” Donna asked Sam.

  “The obituary notice notifies thieves everyone will be out of the house. Of course, because of the upcoming inquest, the police department will look for evidence of more than a simple robbery.”

  Donna turned to Sally. “It seems to me Harry should be released. He certainly wasn’t involved with this.”

  “Maybe Steve could try again, for bail,” Sally said.

  “He should be here shortly,” Donna said. “Sam, could you go with Steve. The police, you, arrested Harry because he was with David when he fell. You’re holding him for no good reason.”

  “He hasn’t been cleared.” Sam wished he could return her husband’s friend to her side.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sally watched Donna focus on Sam as the four of them returned to the front room. He was taller than John, and his proportions were pleasing for a young man. Donna licked her lips. Sally sighed. This child bride certainly had not died with her husband. Sally chastised herself for judging Donna. Perhaps she viewed Sam as an object to paint. Sally finished pouring Sam a cup of coffee. He sat down next to Donna.

  Donna asked him, “You know I’m an artist?”

  “Yes,” Sam shook his head to Sally’s offer of a cookie. “We itemized your paintings after I arrived.”

  “I’m not upset about the thievery.” Donna smiled at him. “I’ve already lost everything important to me.”

  Sally noticed John was frowning. Sam coughed breaking away from the intimate exchange, as if embarrassed. “None. No paintings were stolen.”

  Sally wondered if she needed to speak to Sam about how vulnerable a widow might be. She felt somewhat divided on the issue. She wanted to comfort Donna, too; besides, Sam would be of help on the case. The three of them were a successful team previously.

  When the phone rang, John answered. “Leonard residence.” He motioned for Sam to take the phone. “Sergeant Cramer is on the line.”

  John returned to the couch moving close to Sally. He laid his arm in her lap. She held onto John’s hand, but she couldn’t control her tears. She wanted to apologize to Donna, but her emotions wouldn’t let her speak. She felt so guilty to own so much love from a living husband, while wanting to deny Donna any contact with Sam.

  Sam returned to Donna’s side. “My boss wants me to file a report. They’re too busy to send over a crime team.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Third Monday in November

  Donna dipped her favorite brush into the mixture of blue-grey paint. If dreams were seeded by reality, she needed to re-examine her life as a married woman. In her nightmare Sunday night, an earthquake was survived by a brother and sister in their early teens.

  In the midnight dream the boy, Sepal, two years older, was the same height as his twelve-year-old sister, Naia. Sepal let Naia’s knees embrace him as he sat a step lower on the broken stairs outside their father’s place of refuge with their uncles.

  Seven men waved them away when the children tried to enter the heated, lit room. The glass windows of a bamboo porch were not broken, even though the house behind was now a heap of gray rubble. Dust covered the windows making the crowded scene appear in a removed, misty world. Brass cups steamed with freshly brewed tea and the circles of hookah smoke rose above the gathered hoary heads. Soft cold rain dripped down Naia’s hair unto the boot tops of Sepal. He shivered closer to his sister’s offered warmth.

  Tang, just sixteen, agreed to marry Naia. Tang dug a cellar under the heated remnant of the porch. Naia’s father agreed to the marriage of words, not ceremony. Naia was thankful to lie on the flat, dry blanket next to a travel poster of their country. In the torn advertisement, the mountains were pictured green with flowers dominating half the view, delicate in their soft pink hues. Outside the wind howled and a landslide frightened Tang at the moment of his ejaculation. His cry woke her brother.

  Naia did not agree when Tang pulled her hand along the rocky paths to the refugee camps. She did not count the dollar bills Tang pocketed and closed her mind after he ripped the buttons off her blouse to show her budding chest to the giant strangers.

  Tang bought a bed and three soft chairs and there was a table, tea and food. Naia awoke from her months of catatonic horror to hold out her hand for some of the money Tang was handing Sepal. “I want a pencil sharpener,” Naia said. The boys laughed at her childishness.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Donna studied the empty paintbrush in her hand. Gold flecks added illumination to the canvas scene of a precariously positioned porch on the cliff of mountainous rubble. The amber was also reflected in the brass object in a young girl’s palm outstretched in the foreground as well as the subtle tones of a cloud-dimmed sun, high above the shattered hills.

  What price did she pay? Donna wondered. Did she sell any part of herself to David by accepting his marital fortune? Did she freely give her love to him? Or did she reluctantly share his bed; too lazy to demand a life afforded by her own hands? Guilt for the days of luxury with David, for not appreciating his generosity, his love, hung in the air.

  Donna dropped the offending brush into the soap-filled jar of paintbrushes. “One problem at a time,” Donna whispered to herself as she rolled back into bed, exhausted. The painting of her night’s offering glistened in the north light of a fresh dawn.

  She awoke late on Monday to the sound of pounding on her front door. She looked down at the front step only to see her distraught friends, Sally and John Nelson, pacing up and down the sidewalk. Without donning a robe or brushing her hair and still in pajamas, Donna nearly ran down the stairwell to open the door. “What is it? Come in, come in.”

  “I’m all right.” Sally withdrew from Donna’s hug. “I’m not all right.”

  John added to the conversation. “The university sent Harry a telegram. They are rescinding his tenure.”

  “Can they do that? Steve was no help?”

  “He recommended a good lawyer.” Sally patted her white hair as if primping would save the day.

  “Come up while I get dressed. You can critique last night’s painting. I’ll go to the police station with you.”

  “John, could you make us coffee?” Sally followed her back upstairs. “Please do not go to the police station. Did you know Sam is sitting in his car in front of your house?”

  “He is not.” Donna could not see his car from her bedroom window.

  “He’s parked in front of the garages.”

  Suddenly Donna could not decide what to put on. Sam was here? Again? “What does he want?” Donna stood in her underwear surveying the racks of clothes in her walk-in closet. Black, think black, she told herself. Instead, she chose a pink sweater over black jeans. Half in mourning, she told herself.

  “What inspired your depressing painting?” Sally watched Donna brush out her long black hair.

  “A nightmare. I can’t even figure out what triggered the thing, unless it is guilt about not supporting myself while David was alive.”

  “What is in the little girl’s hand?”

  “A pencil sharpener.” Donna laughed. “Isn’t that a hoot? No one will be able to figure out the symbolism.”

  “What does it stand for?”

  “Hope.” Donna went down the stairs with Sally following. “Make us breakfast and I’ll go out and drag Sam in here. Maybe he can give us ideas on how to get Harry out of jail.”

  “He’s not a lawyer,” John said.

  Donna could not remember Sam saying anything about his work as a police offi
cer. Did he talk to her when she was passed out? Donna intended to make Sam answer lots of questions. Outside, her first demand was, “What are you doing out here?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Sam smiled and cocked his head as if he were going deaf. He stalled getting out of the car or rolling down the window, taking his time to appreciate the real beauty before him.

  Donna pounded on his Cadillac’s window. “Get out of there.”

  “Hi.” He pushed the button for the automatic window to open, slowly.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m keeping watch by night.” As she stepped back from the car, he opened the door slowly.

  “You idiot,” Donna said as soon as he got free of the car. “Get in the house.” She shoved the side of his arm. “Sally is making breakfast. You have a lot of answering to do. Are you sitting out here as part of your detective duties?”

  She liked him, Sam could tell by the smile teasing the corners of her sedate, but sweet mouth. He didn’t care if he played the clown for her; he wanted to cheer her, somehow.

  At the table in front of eggs, waffles and fragrant, honey-cured bacon, Donna asked him again. “Who told you to camp outside?”

  “Just myself.” Sam played with a bite of waffle on his plate, hoping the questions would give him time to eat. “The police can’t afford to stake out your house, even though they consider your husband’s death suspicious after the house was robbed.” He took a bite and rolled his eyes as a compliment to the chef. Sally poured second cups of coffee for all four of them. Sam stopped eating long enough to continue. “The police think the thieves didn’t find what they were looking for.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Donna liked Sam’s eyes. He seemed to appreciate her. “That’s why they took both file cabinets.”

  “And I like you,” Sam added.

  “Well that’s inappropriate!” John huffed.

  “Why?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know.” Sally took Sam’s plate away. “You don’t go around telling widows you like them.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Sam defended himself. Donna patted Sam’s hand and he quickly turned over his palm, grasping her smaller hand. Sally stared at their entwined fingers.

  “Well,” John said, mildly outraged.

  Donna withdrew her hand, but stared at it in her lap. How could a friendly touch set off so many nerve endings? “You’ll have to go.” Donna told Sam. Thinking about a future mate was all well and good, but getting this close to another man nearly sickened her. David had only been gone out of her life since Thursday!

  “No, I don’t.” Sam walked into the front room and made himself comfortable on one of the couches. “I told the department I am on vacation.”

  “Not in my house,” Donna said. John patted her back as they joined Sam in the front room.

  Sam smiled at Sally and Donna. “Why don’t you let me take you out to lunch before we visit Harry?”

  “We do not have permission to see Harry.” Sally sat on the couch facing Sam and Donna.

  Sam changed the subject. “I saw the lights on in your studio all night.’

  “I painted for a little while.”

  “Go ahead.” Sally waved away Donna’s implied question about the appropriateness of showing Sam one of her paintings. Sam followed Donna upstairs to her studio. All of Donna’s latest paintings were in full view. The Red Sea and the Bleeding Heart were propped on the seat of a rescued church pew under the huge north window. The peaceful farmhouse scene stood against the south wall and her latest earthquake rendition sat uncovered on the easel.

  “Moody aren’t you?” Sam stretched out his hand as she passed him.

  Donna could feel her hair sweep his fingertips. “That’s a terrible thing to say to an artist.”

  “Sorry. You really show your emotions in your art.” He took her hand. “I like your moodiness.”

  Donna tried to tug her hand away, but not too forcefully. “I guess widows are allowed some range of emotions.”

  “Certainly hope so. Is Zelda going to exhibit these in New York?”

  Donna turned to the farmhouse scene. “She doesn’t like this one.”

  “May I buy it?”

  “You can’t afford to buy the silly thing.”

  “I can buy every last one of your paintings, if you’d let me.”

  Donna laughed and listened for Sally’s censure from way down in the front room. “Zelda seems to think those two could keep me in kippers for a year or two.”

  “I like kippers, toasted or grilled?”

  “Fried.” He liked kippers. Not many people even knew what they were.

  “I’m partners with my brother in our detective agency.” Sam continued to stare at the farmhouse painting. “We Tedlers keep every dime we make. Sally and John helped put a wife-murderer in prison last month. With our contacts in the police force, you’d think we could get Harry released.”

  “Why did you never marry, are you gay? Sorry. What a horrible thing to blurt out.”

  Sam patted her shoulder. “Nevermind. I won’t tell Sally on you.” Donna laughed again waiting for an answer. Sam held her gaze. “I never found anyone I wanted to spend more than three hours with.”

  “Or make breakfast for?”

  “Well, maybe a few times.” It was Sam’s turn to laugh and a right manly laugh it was.

  Donna touched her face. “I’m a widow and my face hurts from smiling.”

  “We probably should get back to the front room or Sally and John will have more to worry about.” He didn’t need to explain.

  The sexual arousal between them was palatable, if not pitiful. “I’m so sorry.” Donna said, as if she made a pass at him.

  “Nothing happened.” Sam smiled at her as they returned downstairs.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Sally stood with her arms akimbo. “Then why are you both blushing?”

  “Me? From compliments about my work.”

  “I have Rosacea.” Sam claimed.

  “Likely story.” John grumbled.

  “He wants you two to stay on the case.” Donna avoided looking at Sam and toughed out the rest of her speech. “He wants to help prove David died after an accidental fall.”

  Sally cocked her head in Sam’s direction. “Sam seems pretty surprised to hear about the direction for our investigation.”

  Sam cleared his throat. “If they won’t let us visit Harry, let’s find Harry’s lawyer.”

  “Okay,” Sally said. “But don’t take advantage of Donna’s grief.”

  Donna and Sam looked at each other. “I would never,” Sam began.

  And Donna interrupted with, “Not ever. He’s an okay guy, Sally.”

  “Sorry,” Sally said, clearing the last of the dishes off the dining-room table. “We would be glad for the company. Harry’s lawyer looks about fifteen.”

  “Why hasn’t the university provided a good lawyer?” Donna asked.

  “They’re not sure they want to defend him.” John sounded resigned. “Alex Cornville is so scrawny his neck doesn’t fill his collar.”

  “We’ll take him out to a buffet,” Sam said.

  “Great idea.” Donna touched Sally’s cheek.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The lawyer met with them at 1:30 at Weber’s. After introductions, they walked around the buffet tables where mountains of food tempted them. Alex was the least able to resist. However, Sam managed to devour a considerable amount of food, considering they just finished breakfast. Then Donna remembered, Sally snatched his plate away. The poor guy was as hungry as the underfed lawyer.

  By a series of hurried swallows and faster shoveling of food into his face, Alex managed to answer all their questions about Harry’s need for defense. “He will be indicted Tuesday morning.”

  Sally sighed and pushed a piece of a pecan waffle through the rivers of maple syrup on her plate. “Why would they even think Harry had anything to do with David’s death?”

 
; “He was the last person to see the victim alive.” Alex explained.

  “David,” Sam and Donna said in unison.

  “My husband’s name was David.” Donna did not feel unduly upset. She smiled at Sam, who had felt the same inclination to clarify the situation to Alex. She did not relish hearing David described as a victim. “Is there any way for you to obtain release of my husband’s body from the morgue?” She noticed the nice thing about focusing on David was her guilt about wanting to know Sam completely disappeared. Sam let go of his fork and studied her. At least, Donna knew from the flood of feelings swimming through her veins, she was still alive for whatever the future brought.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  Donna checked her watch when she got home. Where did she hear four o’clock on Sunday afternoons was when more people committed suicide or murder than at any other specific day or hour? But this was four o’clock on Monday. She was surrounded with friends. Sally, John and Sam seemed convinced someone was out to do harm, specifically to mess with David’s home and perhaps his widow. None of her escorts were prepared to leave her to her own devices. She shut the door to David’s study and started picking up the scattered books and papers. She could hear Sam, Sally and John walking around in the house. They tried not to intrude on her privacy. The three of them hung around all day, bringing in groceries, taking out the garbage, watering the funeral arrays in her bedroom. She heard them go upstairs. The heating vents groaned with their weight. She could not avoid listening each time someone turned on the water. She wasn’t ready to relate to anyone, not even Sally and certainly not Sam. She tried to numb all her nerve endings, but the constant attendance of her friends and the handsome, out-of-uniform policeman denied relief.

  Her wounds felt raw. Where was the point of entry and when would the pain end? A dryness filled her mouth as if the injury occurred from speaking. Her brain ached and her body screamed abhorrence to the enforced state of grief. The shock of David’s death was wearing off and the pain of missing him was settling in for the long haul. David’s chair behind his desk offered her some comfort. This was where he sat. His hands were on this glass, his thoughts in this room, once. Only days ago. Would she sleep when the house was devoid of sounds?