Instead, I pick up the phone and call Kerrie.
A half hour later, we’ve moved from talking about Doug— Kerrie was very sympathetic, offering a whole thesaurus of words to describe his dastardly behavior, which is a change, because she’s usually so sympathetic to the guy — to talking about Steve Paluchek and my dad. I fill her in on what’s been going on, and Kerrie is oddly excited, coming down on the side of Connie’s suspicions.
“I think your sister might have a point,” Kerrie says.
“Yeah, but if she wears a hat, nobody’ll notice.”
Kerrie ignores my sarcasm. “No, I saw this rerun of Law & Order on A&E where a guy murders this woman’s husband so she’d be a widow and could marry him. It was creepy. And she realized it during the trial and … wow, it was great.”
Great? A guy plotting to marry my mom by killing my dad? As if realizing how she might have sounded, Kerrie quickly adds, “I mean, the actress was great. She was really good at looking conflicted.”
Kerrie has toyed with the idea of studying acting, so it’s no stretch she’d notice that sort of thing. Truth to tell, Kerrie probably would go far in the acting world. She’s got the looks, even without an UberPlex Bra helping her along.
Speaking of DataPlex Bras, Kerrie is unstoppable when she’s decided on a self-improvement project (with me being the “self” involved). I know this will not end until I agree to accompany her to Victoria’s Secret for a veritable MagnaPlex Bra Fiesta. We set a date and time in the coming week.
Yikes! I’ve been in Connie’s office nearly an hour now. I shut down her computer, lock up everything tight as a vault, and jog home, hoping I haven’t missed any more detecting. At least I’ve got more intel coming from Brenda.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I ARRIVE HOME to confront two churning items of turmoil. Item A: Steve Paluchek is “dropping by,” says Mom, around dinnertime. Item B: Connie has gotten it in her head that this is the perfect time to do some sleuthing at Paluchek’s house.
“You’ll take me with you,” I tell Connie, “or I’ll go downstairs right now and tell Mom you’re not hanging around because Paluchek’s coming over!”
Part of me wants to stay and “observe” Paluchek. “We could be friendly,” I say to Connie. “Get his guard down.” Connie agrees, and immediately tries to use that to counter my threat. I can stay home and “observe,” she tells me, while she digs around his digs. In fact, I can call her on her cell to let her know when he’s headed home.
I regret mentioning the observing thing and have to do some fast backtracking to convince her to take me. After Connie’s previous performances with Virginia Winslow and Kerwin Moffit, I don’t think she should sleuth alone. Besides, Paluchek visit or not, looking around an empty house is more fun than sitting around our full one.
Nothing seems to get Connie to budge until I suggest that if I stay and talk with “Steve,” I might accidentally spill some info, so it’s not safe for me to be here without her. The whole “dumb Bianca” thing? It works!
We stand in her bedroom. She has her arms crossed over her chest. I have my hands on my hips. It’s a veritable standoff. I can almost hear the theme song from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly in the background.
At last, she lets her arms drop to her sides. “All right. If you come, I can say we’re headed to the mall to get some last-minute supplies or something for a school project.”
“Mall stores will be closed by now.” It’s early evening, and it’s Sunday.
“Whatever. Wal-Mart then.” She turns and grabs her purse, slipping her cell phone into her jeans pocket. “C’mon. Let’s get crackin’.”
We give our excuses to Mom, who looks both irritated and befuddled at the same time. “Tony can’t be here either,” she sighs. “He’s working.”
“Sorry. Can’t help it,” I mutter, not looking her in the eye and wondering what the penance is for lying to one’s mother. “Tell Steve we said hello,” I add, smiling. Connie chimes in with an insincere, “Yeah,” and we’re out the door before you can say, “I think my nose is growing.”
Inside Connie’s Saab, she shoves some papers at me along with a book map of Baltimore County.
“Here, you navigate,” she says, taking off down the road, heading north toward the Jones Falls Expressway.
I might be a slouch at college prep, but I can read a map as well as any guy — that is, if guys consulted maps.
We end up retracing our steps of the previous week, during our foray into Timonium, when we followed Paluchek to Gardenia’s place.
Once past the State Fairgrounds, traffic thins and we’re headed up into Hunt Valley, until finally we turn somewhere after Phoenix Road, heading back into less densely populated countryside. The evening shadows have turned the sky a royal blue, making the trees stand out in black silhouette against the dusky glow. It’s a pretty sight, and I’d spend some time admiring it if I didn’t have to keep my eyes glued to street signs. We’re looking for Dove Lane, one of those newly cut roads not yet on the map, running east from York. After a few twists and turns that have me yelling at Connie, we spot it. She veers to the right and we enter a community still under construction, one of those developments with theme names. This one is “Swallow’s Ridge” and Paluchek’s house is on “Capistrano Court.”
His house sits up on a ridge, with large homes spaced far apart on what are probably half-acre lots or bigger. As Connie turns off her headlights and inches closer, we both utter a “wow” in unison.
Paluchek’s new home is the biggest on the block. The biggest in the neighborhood. It looks out over the sparkling lights of Hunt Valley and beyond, over the glittering snake of red and white car lights streaming along I-83 in the distance below. The house itself is a two-story McMansion with a porticoed horseshoe drive in the front and a four-car garage on the side. It sports professional landscaping, complete with ornamental tall grasses swaying in graceful clumps, a burbling fountain, and more.
Connie shakes her head. “How in the world …”
“… does a cop afford this?” I sweep my arm toward the palace in front of us while Connie finds a shadowy curve down the street to leave the car. Some of the homes still look unoccupied, with driveways yet to be paved and sod yet to turn green. Still, we close our doors quietly and creep up to Paluchek’s domicile.
When we reach the front door, Connie immediately grabs the knob and turns it, then kneels and pulls out her assortment of lockpicking wires and tools. Oh, no.
“You keep an eye out,” she whispers.
“Connie! Don’t you think a house like this would have a security system?” I nervously glance at the windows, looking for a telltale decal.
She snorts out a laugh. “Cops don’t buy security systems,” she says. “They are the security system. Besides, there’s probably nothing to steal in here yet.”
But there would be clues to a 17-year-old murder? I don’t say it out loud, though — at this point, we’re here, and I’ve got to take a look around this palace.
She goes back to working on the lock, trying this device and that until a good twenty minutes later, we’re tramping around the perimeter of the building looking for easier access. She mutters an expletive when she steps in something that smells like dog expletive. We find no doors or windows that give way. She’s actually thinking of breaking some glass when I restrain her.
“Call Kurt, for crying out loud. He’s good at this.”
“I don’t like to always have to call in the cavalry,” she whines.
“Kurt’s not cavalry. He’s more like an entire army.”
She pulls out her cell and punches in the number of her erstwhile boyfriend, who arrives within a quarter hour.
Kurt is rippling muscle and black leather tonight. He pulls up in a battered jeep, seemingly hopping out the side even before he screeches up the parking brake. He’s got Paluchek’s front door open so fast I swear he just murmured “Open Sesame,” gives Connie a quick peck on the forehead whe
n he thinks I’m not looking, and tells her he’ll call her.
As fast as he came, he’s gone.
“Kurt’s nice,” I say as we wander into the cathedral ceiling foyer. Connie pulls out a flashlight and first shines it down a long hallway, then to the right, where there’s an empty living room the size of Camden Yards.
“He’s okay,” she says, walking through the living room. Only one chair sits in a far corner, and it’s obviously a new delivery from a furniture store — it’s still covered in stapled heavy plastic.
“He’s more than okay. And he likes you. Is it serious?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“I’m asking you.” We head through an empty dining room with huge bay windows overlooking the backyard and valley below and into a kitchen with terra cotta tile floors, dark shiny granite counters, and everything from a built-in trash compactor to a spanking new cappuccino maker. We open cabinets and find neat rows of dishes. The dishwasher contains a couple mugs and plates. Paluchek must be camping out here while the work is in progress.
Connie nearly trips over a wadded-up drop cloth. Painters must have finished recently.
“Why the interrogation on my love life? We’re on a case here.”
“I’m just thinking that Kurt looks like a nice guy, and it’s not like you’re getting any younger or anything.”
She stops and turns the flashlight on me, nearly blinding me with the glare. “Are you saying I need a man to make my life whole?”
“Hey, get that thing out of my eyes! I can’t see!”
She redirects the light and continues leading us through the home. “Kurt’s commitment-phobic.”
“I’ve got one of those, too,” I say as we head to another hallway, this one leading to a den and what appears to be a game room. A new pool table, wrapped in plastic like the chair in the living room, sits in the middle of the open space.
We head upstairs, where we find four bedrooms, all unfurnished except for neutral-colored curtains. The two bathrooms on the second floor are completely empty — no shaving cream, no soap, no shampoo. Connie notices this, too, and motions me back toward the stairs.
We head down and around to another staircase off the den. This leads to the master bedroom suite downstairs, which is tucked under the first floor into the slope of the hill, one whole wall a sliding door arrangement that leads onto a private terrace. The view here is spectacular, and I can see why the architect arranged the master suite this way, away from the traffic in the rest of the house, overlooking a great expanse of field and valley, dark trees against night sky, and the county’s lights winking way far away.
This room, unlike the others, is furnished, and Connie flips on the light switch, revealing an absolutely appalling purple velvet duvet, which must surely be in the dictionary next to the word “hideous,” spread neatly over a king-size brass bed. To complete the Playboy Mansion look, a fake zebra skin rug, near the bed, covers the floor.
Connie and I lock gazes for a second. Don’t ask me to translate. It’s too embarrassing.
Connie moves over to a heavy dresser that looks like Paul Bunyon himself hewed it from gigantic maple trees — it has rough edges and exaggerated grains and knots. She begins rummaging through drawers of underwear and socks, shorts and polo shirts. Nothing unusual.
It makes me uneasy seeing her rifle through someone’s personal things. She’s too good at it. I mentally rewind to the times I’ve come home and wondered if someone had been through my things.
She moves over to the mirrored closet doors, sliding them open to reveal a huge walk-in closet with two chambers the size of small rooms, one of which is filled with suits and jackets, slacks and shirts. Here, at last, we find some boxes of personal papers, and Connie pulls out a mini-digital camera, instructing me to take pictures of anything that looks interesting.
“Like what?” I kneel down and start pawing through one of the boxes. It’s one thing to watch Connie do this. It’s another to help her. I think they call that “aiding and abetting.”
“Checks, letters, photos. Use your judgment,” she says as she checks jacket and pants pockets.
Oh, well. Too late now. Might as well dig in with her.
Paluchek is an organized man. I find old tax records and receipts, some newspaper clippings — some about my dad — and cancelled checks. Among these are regular checks to Gardenia in varying amounts — nothing less than a thousand a month, and some as much as five thousand. I snap away.
That is, until I stumble upon one misfiled slip of paper. A paper written by hand. A paper with one word scrawled out at the top in big box letters: “Balducci.”
A paper I can’t let Connie see.
This whole adventure has my “uneasy” button on overload, so I can’t think about the paper as I slip it into my jeans, or what Virginia Winslow said — “They were all good men.” As if she was defending them — my father included — from accusations of unstated misdeeds.
Next to the financial records are boxes of old photos. I paw through them with more interest. Most of the faces are unfamiliar — groups of smiling, laughing friends I don’t know, some old pix of what are clearly family members from previous generations, and some heartbreaking photos of policemen. There’s Paluchek in uniform in what looks like a class photo. I snap away, taking photos of things I think are important and some I just have hunches about. Connie looks over my shoulder and points to a tall man in the back row, the hint of a smile on his otherwise serious face. I really want to get out of here.
“That’s Dad,” she says softly.
Another photo is of several fellows around a table littered with beer bottles. “That’s him, too,” Connie says, pointing to our father, smiling broadly and giving a thumbs-up sign to the photographer. Paluchek isn’t in the scene. Maybe he was behind the camera.
There are numerous photos of a good-looking woman I assume to be Paluchek’s first wife. She’s willowy and raven-haired with a shy smile. A shiver runs through me. Where is she now? Connie drifts away as I paw through the rest of the photos. At the bottom of the box, I hit pay dirt.
“Bingo,” I say.
Connie turns and comes over to me.
I pull out a file marked “Jimmy W,” and the year our father was killed.
“Winslow,” Connie whispers.
I open the file.
Nothing — except a sealed envelope.
“Open it!” she says, but she doesn’t wait and grabs it from me. In a half second, she’s ripped the end off and shaken its contents free — a solitary, small key. It’s not a door key, but something else— the kind of key that fits a fireproof safe or a jewelry box.
“Let’s take it,” I say, putting my hand out for it.
“No. We can’t do that. He might notice it’s missing.” I almost laugh at that — he’d notice the missing key, but not the gaping hole in the envelope?—but Connie says to just take a photo, and I do.
Then she places the key on the front of the envelope, onto which she hastily scrawls a rough inch-by-inch grid, using her knuckle as a measure so we’ll get an accurate size when we look at the photo later. I do as she says and snap several photos of the key. She then pulls out a stick of gum, chews quickly, pulls the gum from her mouth, and uses it to make an impression of the key. She places the chewed gum in the remains of the envelope and pockets it.
“We need another envelope,” I say.
“No problem.” She grabs one from a drawer of the bedside table.
She slips the key into the envelope, licks it, and places it back in the folder. I have to say — I’m impressed. It’s as if we were never here. I go to place the envelope in the bottom of the box when I notice some scraps of paper lying there — four to be exact. It’s a photograph ripped into four pieces. I place them before me, arranging the puzzle.
Dad.
In this photo, his head is turned toward the camera, as if made aware of the photographer just before the shutter snapped. He’s got that big open g
rin on his face and isn’t in uniform. Instead, he’s wearing a tee shirt and jeans, and behind him I can see a shoreline and water of some sort. Connie comes over.
“He liked to go fishing,” she says. And then, “Why is it ripped?”
My question exactly. I can imagine ripping photographs only if I’m so angry at someone I want to destroy them, but their image is all I’ve got. I shiver again.
“Maybe we should get going.” I don’t want to be here any longer. It’s making me feel heavy and unsettled. All these photos represent one more person with a part of my dad’s memory that I don’t have, and the ripped picture tells a story I may not want to know. I glance at my watch, and it’s nearly eight. Mom will be wondering where we are. I’m surprised she hasn’t called Connie by now.
“Just a sec.” Connie heads to the bed and is about to lift the mattress when we both hear something that sends electric shocks up my spine. A door opens upstairs.
Footsteps. Laughter. Talk. Someone is in the house!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
PALUCHEK IS HERE! With a woman! And that voice — I know that voice!
Mom!
Connie’s eyes widen to the size of hubcaps. She places a finger over her mouth as if I need to be told to shut up. I freeze, then point to the sliding door to the terrace. She vigorously shakes her head “no” and whispers, “They might go outside.”
But they don’t go outside. They walk around upstairs for awhile, their muffled voices communicating nothing but good cheer. From the sound of it, Mom is making interior decorating suggestions. I can only make out an occasional word, but I clearly hear “oak table” and “linen tab curtains” and “brocade swag” — hey, I don’t watch HGTV for nothing!
Their footsteps head away, toward the top floor, and Connie rethinks her previous warning, grabs my hand, and gestures with her head toward the door. “Let’s make a break for it!”
No good. Clear as a bell, we both hear Mom say, “Steve! I’m going outside.”
Recovering Dad Page 10
