by Dorien Grey
“But like I say, he keeps mostly to himself, so all I get are stories. One of the guys in accounting lives in the same building as Bruce, and it’s from him I’ve picked up that it’s the wife who wears the pants in Bruce’s family, and he’s none too happy about it.
“I think the only reason he comes to the office party is to butter up the boss by showing he’s a team player…which is the last thing in the world he is. About the only time he says anything to anyone is when he wants something—like lately when he’s trying to drum up business for his wife.”
There was a slight pause before Elliott asked, “So, you don’t know anything about his wife, either, then?”
“No. The party was the first time I ever set eyes on her. Why?”
“No reason. Just curious.”
“Uh-huh.”
Elliott sighed. “Okay, maybe a bit more than curious. The woman who lives in the building mentioned that Bill and Aaron might have been looking for a house. Bill was found in the garage of a house that was up for sale. I met a friend of Aaron’s who told me Aaron had set his sister-in-law up in business—real estate, I’d bet—and from what I’ve heard, it would be just like Aaron to throw the business her way.
“I think I told you Brad had Bill’s case, and of course, he followed up on the chance that the realtor who handled the property might have known something. But he had no way of knowing Aaron’s sister-in-law was a realtor, and even if he knew about Aaron at the time he wouldn’t have made any connection since she uses her maiden name—remember, she told us at the party, and it’s on her business card. I…damn it! …I didn’t keep it. Do you still have the one she gave you?”
“No, I pitched it, too. But I can get another one easily enough. Bruce always leaves a few of them on the bulletin board in the breakroom.”
“That’d be great. Thanks. Granted, given the number of realtors in Chicago, the chance that there is any connection at all is really, really remote, but…there’s just so much I don’t know and have no way I can think of to find out.”
“But what reason would Bruce have to kill Bill?”
Elliott sighed. “I know. It’s really reaching. But I’ve gone about as far as I can go with Jim Babcock and Irv Wilson, and I’ve hit a brick wall with both of them. I know Aaron didn’t have a will, and that he and Bill had an appointment with a lawyer for just after Bill disappeared.”
“Why do you suppose Aaron never made a will before?”
“Who knows? A lot of people seem to see making a will as an admission of mortality and think that if they don’t do it they won’t die. In Aaron’s case, I think he held off because he really hated the idea of Bruce getting his money.”
“So why hadn’t he made one leaving everything to a charity or whatever?”
“From what I know of Aaron, I suspect that he could never have done that. Bruce treated him like shit, but Aaron had always felt responsible for him. Maybe it was a subconscious form of passive aggression—he knew Bruce would end up with it anyway, but wanted him to have to work for it by going through the hassles of probate.
“It’s possible Bruce found out about the lawyer’s appointment and figured Aaron was going to leave everything to Bill—though how he might have found out, I can’t imagine, since I understand he and Aaron hardly ever spoke. But if Aaron had left everything to Bill, which I sure as hell would have done under the circumstances, Bruce would be up the creek. The question is, could he possibly be so greedy he would kill to get Aaron’s money? That might work in a novel, but not in real life.”
“Yeah, but if greed were a motive, he could have killed Aaron at any time.”
“He probably didn’t think there was any need to until Bill entered the picture.”
“Okay, so then why not just kill Aaron instead of Bill?”
“Just guessing, but it’s possible that if Bruce wasn’t sure whether or not Aaron already had a will before he met Bill, he might believe that if he did he’d probably change it to leave everything—or almost everything—to Bill. That would leave Bruce up a creek. So, whether he knew about the meeting with the lawyer or not, getting rid of Bill would guarantee he’d end up with everything.”
Elliott sighed again. “Damn, but it’s all so frustrating. Sometimes I really don’t know what the hell I’m doing getting into all this. I didn’t know Aaron, I didn’t know Bill, and they’ve both been dead for four years now, which makes following up on things next to impossible. Oh, yeah, and the fact that I’ve got a life that has nothing whatever to do with trying to play detective. Other than that…”
* * *
Cessy had called Monday to remind him to be sure to call their parents before they left for a month on the Riviera.
“Good Lord,” Elliott exclaimed. “Don’t those people ever stay home? And they aren’t going to leave before your birthday, are they?”
“I’m afraid so. Some friends offered them use of their villa outside of Cannes, and I loved Mother’s explanation: ‘We couldn’t very well refuse their offer. And the villa would just be sitting empty if we didn’t take it.’ When I told her they could well afford to rent any villa anywhere, anytime they wanted, Mother appeared shocked. ‘Cecelia,’ she said, ‘we’re not made of money, you know!’ I nearly died laughing, and I’m afraid I hurt her feelings.”
Elliott, laughing as well, said, “She’ll get over it. But still, your birthday is Saturday. It wouldn’t kill them to postpone their departure for a couple of days.”
“True, but you should be used to our parents by now. I am. And Mother did make a nice gesture—she and Father said to make dinner reservations at the club for as many people as I wanted to invite.”
“Get out the phone book,” Elliott suggested, and Cessy laughed again.
“I should. But I think it would be nice just for the family to go out together—Brad, the kids, you…and you will bring Steve, won’t you?”
The use of family and Steve in the same sentence didn’t escape him.
“You never give up, do you?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Uh-huh. Well, let me give him a call and get back to you as soon as I can. And thanks, Sis.”
He’d called Steve right after he hung up to extend the invitation.
“That was really nice of her,” Steve said. “I’d be happy to come. What can I get her for her birthday?”
“You don’t have to get her anything. Maybe a card, but no gift.”
“What’s her favorite flower?”
“Roses.”
“And her favorite color?”
“Uh, yellow. But like I said, you don’t have to bring her flowers.”
“If you say so.”
“I say so. And let me call her back right now to let her know you’re coming. I’ll talk to you later.”
* * *
It rained most of Tuesday, making it clear that winter was not too far behind. Elliott was grateful the majority of outside work had been done on what his mind had begun thinking of—most uncharacteristically—as “Aaron’s House.” He’d never done that with a building before, and didn’t want to start now.
However, by the time he got home, the weather had cleared and the temperature had actually risen. After dinner, he took a drive out to the Lincolnwood Mall to the only shop in town he knew that carried Cessy’s favorite perfume. Although she had more than enough money to buy gallons of it, she was always aware of Brad’s pride and played the frugal housewife. Elliott had no such restraints, and though he, too, was very careful never to flaunt the family wealth, a little occasional, within-limits pampering of his sister or her kids was okay with Brad. He was just always careful not to get anything Brad couldn’t afford to buy himself, if he had to.
He’d heard nothing from John Monday night, but was still not able to get Aaron’s concern over Irv Wilson out of his mind. Remembering having been told that Wilson usually was at the Anvil on Tuesday, instead of returning directly home, he decided to drive past
the bar and, if he could find a parking place, go in and see if Wilson were there.
He was lucky enough to find a place between the Anvil and Broadway. Putting Cessy’s package under the front seat, he locked the car and walked to the bar. It was only a little after nine thirty, and he had no way of knowing if Wilson would be there or not, but convinced himself he could use a beer in any case.
Even though the city had banned smoking in bars, the scent of stale tobacco smoke was still present as he walked in. As usual, his opening of the door acted, briefly, as a magnate for every pair of eyes. There were maybe ten people scattered around the room, including Button and Paul, standing in the same place he’d last seen them. He exchanged a smile with them, and noticed Button giving him a slight heads-up nod toward the end of the bar. Following it, he saw the third stool from the far end of the bar—Irv Wilson’s favorite spot, according to Troy Fashow—was occupied by a nice-looking, casually well-dressed guy in his late thirties talking with the bartender.
Acknowledging Button’s help with another smile and small wave, he walked directly to the far end of the bar, stopping in front of the stool next to the man he now assumed to be Irv Wilson.
“What can I get you?” the tall, gaunt bartender—one he’d not seen before—asked.
“A Bud,” Elliott responded, aware, as the bartender moved over to get it, that Wilson’s eyes were on him.
“New in town?” Wilson asked, and Elliott was slightly taken aback. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but Wilson’s voice was as pleasant as his smile.
Elliott grinned. “Not exactly. Just more or less new here.” Wilson extended his hand. “Irv Wilson.”
“Elliott Smith.” Elliott took it. The grasp was firm but not as aggressive as he had anticipated, nor was it held longer than normal. Just a regular, friendly, introductory handshake.
The bartender returned with his beer, and Elliott reached for his billfold, but Wilson waved him over, pushing a bill on the bar in front of him toward the bartender.
“Take it out of here, Andy,” he said. Elliott noted a slight twang in his voice—Texas or Oklahoma.
“Well, thanks,” he said, somewhat surprised by the gesture.
“Call it a welcome to the bar,” Wilson said with another warm smile. So far, Irv Wilson was far from the mental image Elliott had painted of him.
He glanced—he hoped subtly—toward Button and Paul, who, he was sure, were watching.
“You know those two?” Wilson asked, gesturing with his glass toward them.
So much for subtlety. He deliberately looked toward them now, as if confirming that was whom Wilson was talking about.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was talking to them the last time I was in here. Nice guys.”
Wilson gave him a quick look he could not interpret and shrugged. “I’d watch it with them,” he warned cryptically.
“Ah?” Elliott took a sip of his drink after tilting the bottle toward Wilson in a silent toast. “How so?”
“They’re like a couple of biddy hens, scratching and pecking and gossiping, and if they don’t find dirt on anyone, they make something up.”
Elliott wondered if Wilson were referring to himself, which, given his own impressions so far, gave him further reason to question what he’d heard from Button. Still, it was Aaron’s reactions that mattered.
“So, what do you do for a living, Elliott?” Wilson asked.
“I’m in construction.”
Wilson edged forward on his stool. His knee brushed Elliott’s, and Elliott shifted his position slightly to break the contact. Wilson didn’t appear to notice.
“Yeah? Small world! I work for C and C Demolition. Ever hear of it?”
As a matter of fact, he had. C&C belonged to a crony of Elliott’s one-time arch rival, Al Collina, and Elliott had developed a negative knee-jerk reaction every time he heard the company mentioned. But rather than go into unnecessary detail, he merely nodded.
“How about you?” Wilson asked. “Who do you work for?”
“I move around a lot,” Elliott lied.
“Well, if you’re ever looking for a job, I can put in a good word for you at C and C. We’re always looking for good men.”
Elliott gave a small smile, since C&C’s high turnover rate was known all over town.
“Thanks,” he said, “but I’m doing okay for the moment.”
“So, what brings you in tonight?” Wilson asked.
“Actually, I’m working on a building a guy I used to know lived in. He used to come here a lot, and I just thought I’d stop in.”
“What’s his name? I know just about everybody here. I’ll see him, I’ll tell him you were in looking for him.”
Elliott shrugged. “That’d be nice, but he won’t be coming in. He’s dead. But maybe you knew him. His name was Bill Somers.”
For a brief moment, Wilson’s face froze as though Medusa had suddenly appeared over Elliott’s shoulder, turning him to stone. Then mobility returned in the form of a scowl.
When Wilson asked, “He was a friend of yours?” Elliott recognized it as a probe to determine what the next response would be.
“Not really,” he said. “We had a thing for a while, but it didn’t end very well.”
Elliott was not used to lying, and resented the necessity to do so.
“You, too, huh?” Wilson said.
Elliott shrugged.
“Well, I’m glad that lying, prick-teasing scumbag’s dead,” Wilson continued with a casualness that shocked Elliott.
The bar door opened, and a short man so rotund he appeared to Elliott to be only slightly taller than he was wide waddled in folding an umbrella, which dripped a stream of water onto the floor.
“Shit!” Wilson said. “I didn’t hear that it was supposed to rain tonight.”
“Me, either. But welcome to Chicago.”
“You walking or driving?” Wilson asked.
“Driving.”
“You mind giving me a ride home? I don’t live far—just over on Thorndale.”
Elliott was well aware of a possible ulterior motive in the request but dismissed that for the moment.
“Uh, sure,” he said, “but I was getting ready to leave in a minute, and I don’t want to cut your evening short.”
“That’s okay,” Wilson assured him. “This was going to be my last drink. You’re sure you don’t mind? I can catch a cab.”
“No need for that,” Elliott said. “Thorndale’s not out of my way.
Taking a sip of his nearly finished drink and staring at the melting remnants of an ice cube in the bottom of the glass as he set it back on the bar, Wilson said, “You live around Thorndale?”
“Not far.”
Wilson shrugged and polished off his drink. “Well, I’m ready when you are.”
Draining his beer, Elliott got up as Wilson did. He noticed Button and Paul watching them with obvious curiosity. He nodded to them as he passed and saw a look of what he took as barely concealed disapproval on Button’s face, but they merely returned the nod without saying anything.
“Good night, ladies,” Wilson said as he passed.
The rain was steady, but short of drenching, and Elliott led the way to his car at a run, Wilson following close behind. When, a bit later, they stopped for the light on the corner of Broadway and Granville, Elliott said, “So, what happened with you and Bill, if I can ask?”
Wilson stared out the window at the rain. “Nothing. He was a prick-teasing slut who led guys on just long enough to trap them, then he dumped them. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, then turns right around and moves in with some rich faggot. Well, they deserved one another.” As they turned onto Thorndale, he added, “You want to stop in for a drink? I owe you for the ride home.”
Again, Elliott suspected an ulterior motive behind the invitation and said, “Thanks, but it’s getting late and I’d better be getting on home.”
“One drink won’t hurt.”
“Thanks, but
I really have to get home.”
Obviously disappointed, Wilson turned to look at him. He was silent to the point where Elliott was beginning to feel uncomfortable, then finally said, “Rain check?”
“Sure,” Elliott replied, rather than drag the moment out any further.
Wilson pointed to a building and said, “Right here.”
Pulling over, Elliott stopped in front; Wilson unfastened his seatbelt and opened the door to leave.
“Sure you won’t reconsider?”
“Next time,” Elliott replied, then instantly wished he hadn’t. Wilson reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out what looked to be a business card.
“Here’s my number. Give me a call,” he said, handing it over. He then got out, closed the door and waved as Elliott drove off. Glancing in the rearview mirror Elliott saw him standing in the middle of the street in the rain, watching until he turned the corner to head for home.
* * *
He was a bit surprised to realize on waking Wednesday morning that he’d not heard from John during the night. He’d expected John would have some sort of comment on his meeting with Irv Wilson. Nor was there any contact Wednesday, and work kept him so busy he didn’t have time to think much about it.
Thursday evening he talked to Cessy to coordinate details for her birthday dinner at his parents’ club—they’d left for the Riviera. Wednesday, his mother having left a brief good-bye message on his machine while he was at work. Cessy suggested he and Steve drive with her, Brad, and the kids, but he pointed out that even though the SUV could accommodate seven, it might be a little crowded, and that they’d join them at the club.
He next called Steve, rather hoping they might spend Friday night and Saturday together, but Steve mentioned he was working on a project he wanted to finish, and thought he’d just stay home Friday night. They agreed Elliott would pick him up at six on Saturday.
He’d just started dinner when the phone rang again.
“Elliott, hi.”
“Hi.”
It took him a few seconds to place the voice.
“It’s Irv. I wanted to thank you for the ride home the other night and was wondering if I could buy you a drink by way of thanks.”
