“Hard to say. The brokerage might hire a private detective to find Barry if he doesn’t show up soon. But cheer up. Things could be worse.”
“How?”
“On second thought, forget it. You don’t want to go there.
Get that list over to me today, okay, hon? And don’t worry. We’ll beat these fuckers.”
I listened to the whine of a lawnmower, the hum of faraway traffic, the call of a crow, until an electronic female voice said, “If you’d like to make a call…” I looked down. The phone was still in my hand.
An hour later, I zipped through the hardware store, raced through the bank, and charged into the grocery store. Like a tape on fast-forward, I was a blur of activity. Maybe I could outrun my fear.
Years of therapy had reduced my money problem to a simple thesis: Money is power. Power is control. I need control. I don’t know where it came from; my parents weren’t any more neurotic than anybody else’s. Neither were theirs, as far as I know. But the truth is that without the security that money brings, I feel empty inside. Scraped clean. A nonperson. That’s probably one of the reasons I married Barry.
I hurried down the shampoo aisle, hunting for Apple Blossom and Honey shampoo, Rachel’s favorite. I found the green and gold bottle easily. I was about to toss it in my cart when something made me check the price. Over four dollars. I checked the brand next to it. It was half that. I juggled both bottles in my hand. I put the Apple Blossom and Honey back.
I wheeled the cart to the beverage aisle. The house brand of diet soda was much cheaper than Coke. Resentfully, I grabbed two six packs and slid them under the cart. I pushed up to the meat counter and studied the cuts of beef, glistening and plump in their plastic wrap. Steak was out of the question. I rolled past.
Then I stopped. Already I was anticipating, accommodating, trying to make ends meet. Why? Barry sure as hell wasn’t. He was probably holed up in some beach house or lake cottage, “roughing it” with his Palm, laptop, and DVD. If he didn’t play by the rules, why should I? I backed up to the meat counter and picked out the thickest steak I could find. Then I retraced my steps and replaced the house pop with diet Coke.
I rounded the corner to the back of the store. Above me was a mirror that ran the width of the store. Angling down on shoppers, it was an inexpensive security system, designed to show shoppers’ activities in each of the aisles. I saw a few kids reflected in the candy aisle, and as I got near the health and beauty section, a couple debating the relative merits of first aid sprays. When I reached the shampoos, I put the cheap brand back and threw Apple Blossom and Honey in my cart.
Then I passed the cosmetics. I’m always on the lookout for lavender eye shadow. It hasn’t been in fashion for years, but when you’re a forty-something woman with dark hair and gray eyes, you make the most of what you have. I slowly scanned the makeup, most of it hanging from wire racks. I saw dozens of mascaras, eye pencils, and shadows in all sorts of shades, but no violet.
I bent down to the bottom shelf, and found it sandwiched between blushes and powder. I took it off the rack. It was exactly what I needed. I checked the price. Almost five dollars. Too much. I wouldn’t scrimp on Rachel’s needs, but mine were another matter. Makeup was a luxury that I didn’t need, especially now.
Except it was lavender, and I was all out. I might not be able to find it anywhere else. It was an investment; it would last for months. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted it. I deserved it. Especially now. A familiar rush kicked in.
I straightened up and looked both ways. I was alone in the aisle. I looked back at the mirror. I didn’t see any blue smocks, the uniform the store employees wore, but just to be safe, I turned my back to the mirror. I could get away with it, but I’d have to act fast. If someone approached from the other end of the aisle, they’d have me nailed. But I could do it. I could open my leather bag, pull out my car keys, and slip in the eyeshadow at the same time.
I stared at the makeup in my palm. The fingers of my other hand closed over my bag. I glanced back at the mirror. A woman was rounding the corner with a basket, aiming straight toward me. A rush of conscience struck me like the slap of a cold shower. Not today. I dropped the makeup in the cart and headed up to pay.
Chapter Twenty-nine
A sweat-soaking humidity blanketed the air as I drove downtown the next morning. By the time I arrived at Marian’s headquarters for a script meeting, my legs were glued to the carseat, and the back of my blouse was slick.
The atmosphere had ratcheted up a few notches since I was last there. Phones rang briskly, fax machines hummed, and eager snippets of conversation swept through the room.
Dory Sanchez looked up and waved at me from her desk.
I waved back and headed to the empty office, grateful they’d saved it for me, after all. After freshening up, I pulled out my copy of the script, ready to do battle, when the receptionist appeared at the door, the headphones clamped to her head like a new appendage.
“Call for you, Ellie,” she said.
“For me?” She pointed to the black phone on the desk. Who would be calling me here? I hadn’t told anyone besides Susan I was working here, and Rachel always called my cell. “Hello?”
“Ellie, it’s David Linden.” The receptionist retreated to the anteroom. I sat on the edge of my desk, trying to ignore the pleasant shiver that ran through me.
“Well, this is a surprise. How…how was the conference?”
“Oh, it was one of those off-the-shelf Andersen workshops.
Nothing I didn’t know.”
“Sorry about that. How’s the weather in Philly? Is it as hot as it is here?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’m still in Chicago.”
My pulse quickened. Stop, I scolded myself.
“I…I decided to take some vacation time and stay on for a while. Since you told me…since we went down to Lawndale, I’ve done some thinking. About my father’s death. And why my mother never told me about it.”
“It had to be a shock.”
“It was. But you and your father—well, that’s another— At any rate, I’ve decided to look into his murder. See what I can find. And since I was already here, it seemed like a good idea to extend my stay.”
“You’ve set yourself a tough assignment. It happened nearly sixty years ago.”
“I realize that. But I need to know.”
“What if the answers aren’t what you expect?”
“I’ll…I’ll manage.” He paused. “As a matter of fact, that’s why I’m calling. You’ve done this type of research before. I have a couple of ideas, but I’d like to run them by you. If you have the time. Are you by any chance free for lunch?”
Flickers of warmth hopscotched through me. “Um. Sure. I guess so.”
“Would it be all right for me to come by?”
“Why don’t I meet you? There’s a deli not far from here.”
“Would it be an imposition if I came by you? I’ve never seen the inner workings of a campaign.”
I hesitated, unsure if I wanted him to associate me with anything political. But I heard the enthusiasm in his voice. “Okay. Meet me here in half an hour.” I gave him the address. “By the way, how did you find me here?”
“Shrewd detective work.”
“David…”
“I called your house. Your daughter told me.”
Marian was still closeted in her office thirty minutes later when the receptionist buzzed I had a guest. As I went out to greet him, I noticed that she hadn’t disappeared behind her desk this time but was busily tidying up the reception area, stealing glances at David with a toothy smile. David brightened when he saw me. The receptionist lost her smile.
Leading him around the corner, I allowed myself a small smile. “David, I’m sorry. I thought we’d be finished by now, but we haven’t started.”
He looked around. “I can wait.”
“It could be a while. I hope you brought something to read.”
He
shrugged. I ushered him into the empty office. Turning around to look for another chair, I saw Dory Sanchez on her way across the room with one.
“Are you always this efficient?” I asked.
She grinned.
I made introductions and listened while she asked the benign questions ever yone does when they first meet someone. David answered cheerfully, and they struck up a conversation. I ran a hand through my hair. Dory had a way of drawing out people. Five minutes later as Dory was still chatting up David, I told myself the twinge I was feeling was silly. Then, a shadow appeared at the door. I cut my eyes. Marian, purse in hand, was watching us.
“I’m so sorry to be late, Ellie dear.” Her eyes moved from me to Dory, then to David. Dory tensed, and perhaps because she did, I did too. Marian stared at David. “And who is this?” I felt a subtle vibration in the air, some sense that the natural order of things had been disturbed. “This is David Linden. A…a friend of mine.”
“I see.” Marian examined David. Dory watched her watch him. No one spoke. Then she extended her hand. “So nice to meet you, David.” He took it.
Marian swiveled her head toward me. “If you’re ready, dear,” she said crisply, “I’m ready to go over the script.” She gave me her back and headed to her office.
When I emerged from Marian’s office, Dory was perched on the edge of the desk, her long brown legs dangling over the edge, yakking away to David. When they saw me, she jumped down.
“How did it go?” David asked.
“Not bad.” I tossed the file down on the desk. “Just a few revisions.”
He gave me a boyish thumbs-up. I smiled in spite of myself.
“Well, I’ll be going now,” Dory edged around me with a small shrug and stepped through the door. “Good talking to you, David.” The scent of her perfume, a sexy tangy smell, trailed behind her.
“Do you still want to have lunch?” I scowled. David didn’t seem to notice. “I’m starved.”
As we pushed through the door to the street, a blast of hot, heavy air rolled over us. Trucks and cars crawled past, shimmering waves of heat rising from their surfaces. Pedestrians moved sluggishly as if walking had become an unbearable task. By the time we reached the deli around the corner, the back of my neck was damp.
It was late for lunch—we seemed to be making a habit of late lunches—and the deli was sparsely filled. I inhaled deeply. I’ve never been able to identify the smell inside a delicatessen— a combination of garlic, onions, and pastrami maybe—but the blend always makes my mouth water. A hostess led us across a black-and-white tiled floor and seated us in a brightly upholstered booth. The muffled play-by-play of a Cubs broadcast, punctuated with an occasional burst of chatter, drifted over us. A waitress in a white blouse and black pants a size too small handed us laminated menus.
Still miffed at the easy camaraderie between Dory and David, I studied the menu. David pushed his shades up on his head and scanned his, too. The waitress returned, balancing plates full of food, drinks, and a silver bucket of pickles on a tray. She deposited the food at the next table, then placed the pickles on ours.
I slumped in my seat, convinced that David would rather be with Dory Sanchez. Who could blame him? She was gorgeous, sexy, and friendly. And I had no claim on him. Even if I did meet him first. And was partly responsible for his decision to stay in Chicago. Ours was just a business relationship. That was fine. It didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t dignify it by grilling him about her. I folded my hands in my lap.
“So, what were you and Dory talking about?”
He picked up a pickle, sliced it into five pieces, and popped one in his mouth. “I love these,” he said. “Don’t you?” He speared another chunk and held it out. I took it off his fork. “I haven’t told you much about myself, have I?”
I squinted at him. “What do you mean?”
“You know more about my parents than you do about me.”
“Well…that’s true, but…”
He cut me off. “People like Dory and me don’t open up easily.”
Dory and me? She was a fast worker.
“It turns out we both grew up in foster care.” I stopped chewing.
“About a year after Mother moved to Philadelphia, she married a man named Joseph Linden. I don’t remember much about him. When I was about seven, they were both killed in a car accident.” His voice was flat, as if he were reporting an approaching cold front, not a life-altering tragedy. “It was winter. There’d been an ice storm, and Philadelphia’s got a lot of hills. The car went out of control and skidded off a bridge.”
I winced.
“Since I had no relatives in the area—at least none anyone could find—I went into the foster care system. For ten years.” The waitress took our orders, repeated them out loud, then disappeared. I looked at David, not sure which question to ask first. “How…how…?”
“There’s this look that foster care kids have. I’d know it a mile away. You kind of look at someone under your lids, hoping they won’t notice you looking at them. You don’t want to be noticed, see. You just want to get by. Not make waves. Dory has that look. I guess I do, too.”
Was that why he wore shades so often? “But you’ve come so far from…from that.” I hoped I didn’t sound patronizing. “There was never any question that I would. My mother always told me that I could—no—would do anything I wanted. I was special, she said.” He let out a sound, more an exhalation of breath than an exclamation. “I believed her. Though I’ve come to realize she was saying it more for herself than for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was the proof that the bad guys didn’t win. A Jewish boy born after Hitler nearly killed us all…I was her victory. The tangible evidence that she, not the Nazis, won. She treated me like a crown prince. Not with material things, of course, because technically, we were poor. But I had unconditional love, and I never wanted for anything.” He looked down. “Until she died.”
Our meals came. He dug into a roast beef sandwich. I picked at my salad. “I was shuttled to homes all over Pennsylvania for the next ten years,” he said after a bite. “Some were good. Some weren’t.” A muscle in his jaw pulsed. “But I was lucky. I got a full scholarship to Penn State. After a year there, I transferred to U of P. I’ve been in Philly ever since.”
The waitress came over with a pot of coffee. I clamped a hand over my cup, but David nodded, and she filled his cup. He opened two packs of sugar, dumped them in, and stirred. Whatever else Lisle Gottlieb was, I thought, she had been a good mother. Her belief in her son had sustained him through what had to be a lonely, pain-filled adolescence. He had survived. He and Dory.
I pushed my plate away. “So. Tell me what your plans are.”
He sipped his coffee. “I thought I’d go to the police and see if I can get the case file on my father. Then maybe see if the detective who worked on it is still alive.”
I chewed my lip.
“I know it’s a long shot,” he said. “But he might have a son or daughter who remembers something.”
I shook my head. “What’s wrong?”
“You won’t have much luck with the cops.”
“Why not?”
“They won’t release any information. Especially since the case is technically still open.”
“But it’s been sixty years.” I shrugged.
“How do you know?”
“A few years ago, I tried to get the file of an unsolved murder for a video I was working on. I went through channels, wrote letters, even pulled a few strings, but I got nowhere. Their rationale was, ‘How do we know you’re not the perpetrator, or a friend of the perpetrator?’ I wasn’t, but it didn’t make any difference.”
David frowned. “Why not?”
“Think about it. What if the file contains a note that the detectives think Mr. Smith killed Mr. Brown, but they don’t have the evidence to charge him? If that ever got out, Mr. Smith could sue the police department for defamation. Or his heirs could.
Whether or not he was guilty. And these days, you can bet someone would.”
“But I don’t want to make the information public.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “But hey. Give it a try. Just don’t be disappointed.”
The waitress hovered nearby. David shook his head, and she disappeared. “I’d also like to track down someone who knew my mother or father,” he said. “Aside from your father, that is. Is that friend of your father’s—Barney—still alive?”
“He died ten years ago.”
“Oh.” He sipped his coffee. “Well, maybe I’ll try to find someone who worked with my mother at the mill.”
I thought about Linda Jorgenson. I should give him her name. I thought about the newsreel with Lisle and Iverson together. I kept my mouth shut.
“I can also try to track down the people my father worked for. Your father said he worked as a delivery boy?”
“That’s right,” I said.
The lines around his eyes deepened in an unexpected smile. “You know, the picture of my mother is the first thing anyone’s ever given me of her. I hope your father knows how much I appreciate it.”
“He just might.”
“My parents traveled light, you understand, so light I could pack everything they left in one box. In fact, the only thing of my father’s I have is a clock.”
“A clock?”
“It’s a model of a famous clock tower in Prague. The Astronomical Clock. He brought it back from the war.” He took another sip of coffee. “It’s supposed to be one of the oldest mechanical clocks in Europe, built in the 1400s. The dial shows the revolutions of the sun, the moon, and some stars, and stonemasons added other medallions and figures over the centuries. The Nazis destroyed it during the war, but I understand it’s been restored. What I’ve got is just a cheap copy, of course….” His voice trailed off.
I wondered how I’d memorialize my father when the time came. Somehow a Big Band anthology or box of Havanas didn’t quite measure up.
“It’s odd, though,” he went on. “Mother always told me it was valuable. But it’s not. I had it appraised; turns out they made hundreds of them during the Twenties.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t matter.”
An Eye for Murder Page 17
