by Matt Witten
Then I hesitated. What if Hack Sr. was spending the evening at the widow's house? I had no wish to confront him yet again. He might decide to shoot at me.
In fact, maybe he'd already tried to shoot at me, two nights ago. I kind of wished I had a gun myself—though I hadn't fired one since marksmanship practice at summer camp.
The front of the house was dark, but some thin light filtered in from the back. I walked up the driveway and around the side of the house, my feet squishing on the damp grass and fallen leaves, and found the source of the light. It came from Susan's empty kitchen. A half-eaten casserole sat on the counter, no doubt a remnant of all those casseroles I'd seen at the wake.
I stepped alongside the rear of the house toward the bedroom wing, where a couple of much fainter lights shone through partially opened curtains. In the first bedroom I came to, I looked through the narrow curtain opening and saw a night light on the wall. After a few moments, I was able to make out little Sean lying on his bed asleep, curled into a fetal position. I moved on.
The light in the next bedroom, judging by the way it flickered, came from a TV. I couldn't hear it, though; the sound was turned down or off. The curtains were shut almost all the way, so I had to press my face up close to the window to get a good view inside.
The TV, I now saw, was playing some old black-and-white Bette Davis movie. But the two people who were lying in the widow's bed together weren't watching it.
They had something much better to do.
The woman was on top and facing me, so I recognized her immediately. It was Susan. Her head thrown back, she was rocking gently back and forth.
The man was harder to see. His head was hidden by a pillow and some blankets. But then he reached up his hands and massaged the erect nipples on the widow's small breasts.
I recognized those hands—those gnarled, working man's hands.
They belonged to the dead man's father.
I stood there and stared.
Then the widow swirled her head to the side in a moment of passion, and her gaze hit the window. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a soundless scream.
I bolted and ran for the car.
Had she recognized me? Or had she just seen a shadowy face half-covered by an Adirondack Lumberjacks baseball cap?
I didn't know. I burned rubber out of there.
Maybe I shouldn't have run. Maybe I should have seized the moment to bang on the widow's door and give them both the third degree. After all, I'd caught them right at their most vulnerable. That's when they'd be most likely to open up and tell me the truth.
Either that or shoot me.
Was this a case of two lonely people coming together in their grief? Or were they sleeping together even before the Hack died?
Was his murder the result of an especially sordid love triangle?
"I'll tell you what I think. I think it's gross," Andrea said when I got back to Grandma's house and described what I'd seen. "Totally gross." She wrinkled her nose for emphasis.
"Why?"
"I'm picturing it. Sleeping with her father-in-law... I mean, she's younger than I am. Yecch."
"I think it's beautiful," I said, just to be ornery. "Love blossoming where you least expect it."
"Love I can see, but sex?"
"Speaking of sex . . ."
But she backed away from me. "Don't tell me seeing that turned you on."
"Not at all," I said, reaching for her. "It's all this talk about death that turns me on."
"You're weird."
"Your body is beautiful in the moonlight."
"Very weird."
"But handsome." I kissed her neck. "Incredibly handsome."
"No," she said, "just weird."
But I guess she was in the mood for weird, because before long we were tangled together in the double bed.
Afterward, as we lay with her head on my shoulder, she said, "Jake?"
"Yes, gorgeous?"
"How would you feel if, less than a week after you died, I was sleeping with your dad?"
"Come to think of it," I said, "it is kind of gross."
The next morning, Andrea and I got up early and went upstairs. She wanted to break out her AAA card and practice on Grandma's front door. Today was the day we were going to pull our scam on Jeremy Wartheimer.
The woman showed talent. She was able to break into the house three times in a row—the third time making it in less than twenty seconds, as Grandma and the boys watched.
The boys were thoroughly impressed, but Hannah just gave her daughter a puzzled frown. "Honey, why are you doing this?" she asked.
I answered for my wife, because even at age thirty-nine, she still feels uncomfortable lying to her mother. Myself, I got over any compulsion to tell the truth to my parents long ago. "We're just practicing, so in case we ever forget our keys, we can still get in the house this way," I explained.
"But I keep an extra key in the garage. You know that."
"But what if the extra key wasn't there for some reason?" Even as I said it, I realized how lame it sounded.
"What kind of foolishness are you up to now?" Hannah demanded crossly. "It's bad enough you run around like a chicken with your head cut off, putting my grandsons into who knows what kind of danger. Now you're getting my daughter mixed up in this, too?"
"Yay, Mommy's gonna be a private dick!" Bernie crowed.
"No, I'm not," Andrea said. "Really, Mom. It's just a little thing I'm doing."
"What is this 'little thing'?"
"Nothing important. Really."
But then Derek put in his two cents. "Mommy's gonna break into Jeremy Wartheimer's office and return the widow's portfolio that Daddy stole from Rosalyn."
Andrea and I stared at the little twerp. How did he know all this? We'd been careful never to talk about it when he was in the room. Jeez, both these kids had elephant ears. Andrea and I would have to start communicating in French.
Grandma was the first to find her tongue. "Could you say all that again, slower this time?"
So we had to fess up to the whole sordid business. In general, Hannah's a big supporter of mine, and vice versa. She never muttered an unkind word during all those years when I was a struggling artist, consigning her beloved daughter to a life of genteel poverty. But now Grandma had her gloves off.
"You jeopardized Andrea's tenure?" she yelled at me. "What were you thinking?"
Grandma waxed wroth for what felt like forever. I was grateful that I had to drive the kids to school, because it gave me an excuse to escape. Hell hath no fury like a Grandma pissed.
After dropping the kids off, I headed for Madeline's to drink in the coffee and the newspapers. I got lucky and found a parking spot right outside, so I could keep an eye on the car. The next time someone messed with it, they might do something worse than slash my tire.
As I got out of the car, I looked around quickly to see if anyone was following. My morning routine of going to Madeline's was pretty well set, and if somebody knew that they could lie in wait for me there. I didn't see anyone, but somehow I didn't feel reassured. I managed not to run into the espresso bar, despite a creepy feeling that someone was aiming at my back. Once inside, I breathed heavily with relief.
My goal that morning was to take yet another stab at collaring the widow alone. But once again I was thwarted. According to the papers, Susan had a morning appearance at some day care center down in Rensselaer County. No doubt she'd kiss a few babies and mouth a few platitudes, and no one would mention that the Republicans are always trying to cut funds for day care centers. Politics as usual.
I thought about heading south to harass Linda and Ducky, see if I could uncover the truth about Linda's whoopee-making. But I decided to work the bribery angle with Zzypowski instead. It was a tough choice: money or sex.
I sat at Madeline's and read the sports pages until it was late enough for the mall to be open and Zzyp to be in his office. Or rather, I tried to read the sports pages. Over the years I'd gotte
n to know a lot of Madeline's regulars, and now they kept coming up to me all morning to gossip about Will's case. Most of them had heard the latest poll results, and I got several offers to help out with the campaign.
Amazing what a good poll will do for you. Before, trying to get people to help Will's campaign was like trying to get my sons to go to the ballet.
But I wasn't ready yet to think about leafleting and canvassing. I left the coffee shop and drove to the mall.
At 10:15 on a mid-September Monday morning, Saratoga Mall was not exactly a bustling thoroughfare. In the entire wing of the mall where Zzyp kept his office, I only saw one other soul: a bored janitor pushing his broom along in a desultory way. I headed for Zzyp's office in the windowless alcove at the far corner. The door was unlocked, so I walked in.
He wasn't at his desk, where I'd seen him yesterday. Maybe he was in the back room. "Zzyp?" I called out tentatively.
The office seemed different somehow, like something was missing. Then I figured it out. Zzyp's computer was gone.
And another thing: there was an odor, not unpleasant really, kind of . . . earthy. Taking another few steps into the office, I noticed splashes of red paint on the floor behind Zzyp's desk. How odd, I thought—
But then I realized it wasn't paint.
I staggered backward, then turned around and almost ran out of there. To hell with this private eye impersonation. But I swallowed a couple of times and pushed myself forward, following the trail of blood.
Around the corner in the back room lay Zzypowski. There was a big hole in his chest and pools of dried blood all around him.
Enough already. It was time to get down to the serious business of puking my guts out. The bathroom door at the end of the back room was open, so I lurched over there, hoping I'd make it to the toilet before it was too late.
I made it, all right. But the toilet was otherwise occupied.
It was filled with electronic-looking stuff—busted motherboards and circuits and things. The bathroom floor all around it was littered with broken chunks of hard plastic. These were pieces of a computer, I realized. Someone had smashed Zzyp's computer, stomping the innards and bashing all the bytes to bits. Then they'd thrown into the toilet everything that would fit, no doubt flushing a few times.
I was so surprised I forgot to throw up. As I've mentioned, I'm not wild about computers myself. But still, this behavior seemed a bit extreme.
Obviously, there was something about Zzyp and his computer that someone had pretty strong feelings about.
Now what? I better get out of here before anyone found me. As Will's experience had shown, the police tend to get kind of suspicious when you're discovered next to a dead body. And the last thing I wanted was to give Chief Walsh an excuse to act like an idiot at my expense.
But I didn't take off just yet. First I backed out of the bathroom and looked around. A wallet was lying next to Zzyp's left knee. I leaned down gingerly to pick it up, holding my breath so the smell of his blood wouldn't hit me too strongly. Now that I knew what that smell really was, it no longer struck me as pleasant.
I took the wallet to the front room and opened it, hoping for a slip of paper with someone's phone number, or a telltale receipt or something. But all I found were Zzyp's driver's license, P.I. license, credit cards, and cash. Of course, maybe whoever removed the wallet from Zzyp's pocket had also removed any clues that were in there.
But he'd left the cash. An honorable killer?
Fighting off another urge to do the sensitive artiste number and run away, I went back to Zzyp's corpse and felt his pockets. I had to shove his body around some in order to get to the pockets in back. But my efforts went for naught. His pockets were empty.
He had two file cabinets in the back room. I stepped over the body, carefully avoiding the blood, and went through the cabinets as quickly as I could. I skimmed through case files from about thirty insurance scams and forty messy divorces, but none of them seemed related to the Hack's murder.
Outside Zzyp's office the mall Muzak started up, reminding me that I was dangerously pushing my luck. I headed for the front room of the office and hurriedly opened the top two desk drawers. Pens, paper clips, staples . . . and, I was gratified to see, Wite-Out. But so far, nothing else.
I was about to open the bottom drawer when I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye. Oh, shit. Through the front window, I could see the bored janitor heading straight for Zzyp's office door. I ducked down under the desk and shut my eyes tight, as if that could somehow keep him from seeing me.
Actually, maybe he'd seen me already. I waited for him to open the door. But nothing happened. Eventually I gathered enough courage to poke my head under the desk and check for the janitor's legs outside the door. His legs were gone.
I periscoped my head up over the desk and confirmed that his whole body was gone—at least temporarily. Then I tried the one place in the whole office that I hadn't tried yet: the bottom desk drawer. I opened it . . .
And found a bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey.
Finally. Something in this godforsaken, Muzak-ridden nightmare of a place that Raymond Chandler would have approved of.
But nothing that would help me solve my murder case. Or maybe now I should say, cases.
Discouraged, I headed for the front door. But at the last moment I had a minor brainstorm and came back to the desk. I picked up the phone and pushed the "redial" button.
The phone rang twice, then someone answered.
"Hello?" she said.
Whose voice was that? It sounded familiar. "Hello?" I replied.
"Yes, hello," the woman said impatiently.
I slowly put down the phone. I'd heard all I needed to hear.
It was Susan Tamarack.
12
Unseen by the bored janitor or anyone else, I snuck out of Zzyp's office and fled the mall. I put the pedal to the metal of my old Toyota and zoomed off to the widow's house, car engine screaming. How had she gotten back so quickly from the day care center? She must have run out of babies to kiss.
There were four cars parked in her driveway. I strode resolutely to her front door and banged on the door knocker. By God, nothing would stop me from confronting this woman at last.
Except maybe Oxymoron. He opened the door. "You!" he cried out, clenching his fists. "You're fucking asking for it."
"I want to talk to her."
"Tough shit."
He started to shut the door in my face, so I said quickly, "Tell her I know who she slept with last night."
That stopped him. "What?"
"You heard me. Tell her."
Oxymoron stared at me uncertainly, then shut the door.
I stood there and waited. A minute passed. I was about to bang the knocker again, but then the door opened. This time Susan Tamarack herself was standing there. She was dressed in a black suit, sort of a combination campaigning/mourning suit. Very versatile. She was perfectly made up, her eyes flashed angrily, and she looked beautiful.
"That was you last night?" she hissed.
"That was me."
Without another word, she motioned me inside. We walked past several pairs of curious eyes in the living room. They all belonged to middle-aged men in suits with briefcases at their sides. It looked like the GOP had sent Susan some political consultants to help with her campaign. Did they hear my line about knowing who Susan slept with? I wondered what kind of spin they would put on their candidate's affair with her father-in-law.
I got the feeling Susan was wondering the same thing as we went down the hallway toward the bedrooms. She led me to the very last room, I guess so we'd be as far away as possible from her entourage. It was a guest room. She sat down on a chair and I sat on the edge of the bed.
We eyed each other. A wisp of soft black hair came loose and fell over her cheek. "What do you want from me?" she said, her voice hard.
I hardly knew where to begin. "How long have you been sleeping with Jack's father?"
&n
bsp; She threw me one of those hate-filled looks that I was so expert at inspiring. "You're gonna tell Shmuckler about this, huh? And your friend at the Saratogian. You're trying to destroy me."
I steeled myself against the sympathy I felt. "You don't like that question, here's another one. Did you kill your husband?"
She barked out an incredulous laugh. "Why would I do that?"
I ticked off the possible reasons on my fingers. "He was beating you. You were having an affair with his father. He was having an affair. Pick a reason. Any reason."
Actually, after all the conflicting stories I'd heard, I wasn't so sure the Hack was having an affair. But the widow didn't dispute anything I said, just sat there with her large eyes growing even larger. Finally the shock wore off long enough for her to ask, "How do you know all that?"
"Never mind how I know."
"I never told anyone about Jack hitting me."
"Why not?"
"He would've killed me."
I raised an eyebrow. Was she setting up a battered wife defense for herself, in case she got busted for her husband's murder?
"Well, he might have," she said stubbornly. "And besides, he was running for Congress. If I told people what he did, it would've ruined his campaign."
"So? Why should you care about his campaign?"
"Why should I care? I loved him."
"Oh, really. How long have you been having sex with his father?"
She grimaced. "Don't put it like that. You make it sound so disgusting."
"Why don't you explain it to me?"
She bit her lip—to keep from crying, it looked like. "The man is dying. I love him."
"Pretty liberated love life."
"Look, you have no idea what my life was like," Susan said bitterly, but at the same time something in her voice begged for understanding. "My husband could be very sweet sometimes, but he was a volcano, you know? Getting totally mad for no reason. And when he started running for Congress, he got worse. One night he wanted me to iron his pants and shine his shoes for the next day, and I told him I was too tired. And he hit me."
