by Mark Zubro
Veronica turned to all of us. “I don’t understand what is going on.”
I said, “The cops are acting oddly. The attorney for the Grums consulted with the police about their investigation?”
Achtenberg nodded. “That’s certainly the impression I got from all that.”
Scott asked, “The Grums have that much power in this community?”
Achtenberg raised an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? Murder and politics in this county? They don’t have “that much power” as you so quaintly put it. They have all the power.”
Scott asked, “To actually cover up a murder, to direct a police investigation?”
Achtenberg said, “I talked to my one contact in the sheriff’s department as I was driving over. He was terrified to talk to me. Terrified. Something is not right. All I got from him was that the murder happened at the campaign headquarters, and that it was a single gunshot to the head.”
Veronica gasped.
I asked, “Do you want us to stop talking about this?”
Veronica wiped her tissue over her forehead, got another one from the box on the desk, pressed it to her face. When she finally looked at us, she said, “I just want to get through this. I want to know what is going on. Are you saying they…they…that sounds like an execution.”
Achtenberg took her friend’s hands. “When I was out in the hall with the cops they were oddly aggressive about your movements, Veronica. I mean, yeah, the wife is always a suspect, but there just seemed something off kilter about it to me. At the same time they seemed awfully deferential to the Grum family.”
“Could they have enough influence to steer a murder investigation?” I asked.
Achtenberg said, “Yes.”
Veronica said, “They wouldn’t do that.”
I wanted to shout, yes they would, don’t you get it yet? What I did say was, “We need to examine every possibility. We don’t want false accusations starting.”
The thought struck me that maybe the family had started making accusations, had already tainted the cops, the investigation, or leaked bizarre nonsense to the media. I had no doubt they’d accuse Veronica if it served their interests.
Veronica stood up. “I have to get to the kids. I don’t have much money.”
I handed her all the cash in my wallet.
I said, “We found at least one bank that Edgar had funds in. The account had both your names on it.” I dug out the statements we’d found from First State Bank of Harrison County. She glanced over them. I asked, “Do you have the check book for that, an ATM card?”
She shook her head.
“Scott and I will look for them.”
Veronica put her hands to her face. “I can’t handle any more of this. You guys handle all that money stuff, please. I’ve got to be with the kids.” She stood up, squared her shoulders, marched to the door, opened it, paused, turned to us, and said, “I want the Grums out of my house.”
“We’ll help,” I said.
Achtenberg said, “Let me handle it.”
At the door, we met my mom and dad and the kids. Mom said, “We were just coming to see what was going on.”
Veronica said, “We’re for sure staying here.”
I said, “We’re going to invite the Grums to leave.”
My mother said, “Good.”
For her a very strong comment.
But when we got to the living room, all the Grums, their lawyer, and the detectives had departed. The same or similar lone cop car sat in the driveway.
Veronica, my mom and dad, and the kids headed to the kitchen.
Achtenberg, Scott, and I returned to the office.
FIFTEEN
Wednesday 10:00 A.M.
The three of us sat and looked at each other for a moment.
I said, “This is screwed up.”
Achtenberg said, “If I know the Grums, it’s going to get worse.” She shook her head. “I’ll never know what Veronica saw in him.”
I said, “I completely agree. She must have complained about him.”
“Mostly she defended him. When we had coffee, she’d say that he rebelled against the family. That he wasn’t like them. That he wanted to get out from under them.”
I added, “I never saw any evidence of that.”
“Nor did I.” Achtenberg sighed. “They met because of me. I will always regret that.”
“How’d that come about?” I asked.
“A bunch of us friends were going out. Veronica and the rest of us were in The Evil Hawkeye bar in Iowa City. One of the women had a blind date. Turned out to be Edgar. She saw him for what he was and was trying to ditch him. Veronica and he met. And the rest is misery. And yes, I know, she loved him.” Another sigh.
I said, “Well, really, you weren’t directly at fault.”
“For the misery of her life, even a glancing sort of responsibility is enough for guilt.” She shrugged. “Love. Who knew?”
We both nodded. Scott handed out napkins and small slices of Kringle to Enid and me and took one for himself. It was pecan, the best kind. I swallowed it in two bites. Mom had remembered to pick up the Kringle from Racine. Count on mom to get the best pastry ever invented at a time like this. I took a sip of coffee from one of the cups mom and dad had brought in earlier. I felt I needed both caffeine and sugar at that moment.
Scott asked, “What did you mean, if I know the Grums?”
She said, “You know them, right?”
Scott and I gave summaries of what we knew about their role in the county.
After we finished, Achtenberg said, “That’s the Veronica version, mostly true. There’s the private, rumored version.”
“What’s that?”
“Vileness through the decades, the kind that doesn’t make headlines. For example in the fifties and early sixties the Grum family and their cronies led the fight to keep this county white, and if not all-white, then very segregated. Another example, in Chicago, the Democrats went to Daley for inside help. In Harrison County the Republicans went to the Grums for the same thing. People around the Daleys might go to jail, might be convicted, but the Daleys were never indicted, arrested. Same with the Grums. They always kept their noses clean. Politicians were bought off, deals were made, problems swept under the carpet, but I have no specifics. Certainly no proof of criminally indictable activity. If anybody does, I’ve never heard of it.”
Scott said, “I’ve read a number of history books on the Civil Rights movement in the fifties and sixties. None of them mentions marches or demonstrations here that I remember.”
As we talked I offered more Kringle around. Enid declined. Scott and I took more. You had to scarf down Kringle when you got the chance. You never knew when you might be facing your last chance at Kringle.
Achtenberg said, “My dear, it was then, and it is still going on. Nowadays the Grums try to be more circumspect. They work very quietly, deviously – a little zoning change here, a required lot size law there. Federal money comes in for high-density development, but poof, the money disappears. An Interstate highway moves a few miles this way or that and somehow where it goes or doesn’t go always seems to redound to the Grums’ benefit or help with their racist inclinations.”
Scott said, “And they get away with this?”
“The most recent lawsuit against a perceived racist move by the County board was filed five years ago. It will probably be going on for at least five more years. They fought change then. They fight change now. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t come. Just makes it harder.”
We spent half an hour going through Veronica’s papers and the family Trust documents we’d found so far and devouring the rest of the Kringle and coffee. We agreed that after Scott and I sorted the rest of the mass of papers in the closet, we’d go over what we found with both her and Veronica. When we were finished, Achtenberg nodded in satisfaction. “As far as I can tell, Veronica should be okay. If this copy of the Trust is up to date, Veronica does inherit some, but a great deal more passes
directly to the kids.”
“The kids get that kind of money? Patricia is only six.”
Each child got over five million dollars.
“No, Veronica is the trustee in conjunction with Mrs. Grum.”
“Like equal voting stock?” Scott asked.
“Sort of. It’s not clear who has the final decision. Veronica could be in some trouble, but I don’t think a lot.”
“We found some insurance policies. There could be more. Would Veronica get that money?”
“If she’s the beneficiary.”
She was.
“How about bank accounts?” I asked.
“Depends whose name is on the accounts.”
“I don’t know if we found all the policies or all the accounts.”
“Keep looking. The Trust is clear on a lot of the contents. You saw the list. For instance, a quick glance shows that most of the sculptures in this room are in the Trust, but not the boxes of stuff in that closet. When you find more information on all the accounts, the sources of income, and the deed for the house or documents on it, we’ll know more.”
I pointed at the grizzly. “That’s a family heirloom?”
“The document we do have is incredibly specific about what belongs to whom, but it’s ten years old. How much of the money is Edgar’s? If his name is on it, and it is not named in the family Trust, it’s now Veronica’s. His will is clear. This house and land are his. None of the money and property in the family Trust have any connection to Veronica. Just her kids.”
“So they can’t throw her out?”
“No.”
“But she’s going to need income to pay the bills, the mortgage.”
“Look carefully at the investments you found. Are they in the Grum Family Trust or in Edgar’s name?”
“We’ll sort it out,” Scott said.
Achtenberg stood up, picked up her purse and briefcase. She said, “Good. I trust you guys. Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can find out what the police are doing. I’ll be back this evening.”
SIXTEEN
Wednesday 11:00 A.M.
Scott and I spent the next hour sorting papers. We talked some at first. One of the first things I said was, “What was that not our “blood” crap?”
“Sounds mostly like they’re trying to protect their money, and it’s an easy shorthand for hating a relative or two.”
A lot of the work was mindless, really, especially once we had a system going. At first often, but then less so, we’d consult with each other about the placement of a particular item.
Edgar’s bank records indicated he had numerous accounts in a bunch of different banks, some of them with addresses in the Cayman Islands. I took a sheaf of statements from one bank and showed them to Scott.
We paged through six months of them from one bank. At the end, I said, “I don’t get these. Where did he get the deposits to his accounts if he had such lousy jobs? If they were electronically deposited, there’d have been records. If he was depositing them with cash, why and where and who was he dealing with in that much hard cash? Why aren’t cops looking through his financials?”
Scott said, “Somebody must know something about them, although Veronica says she doesn’t.”
“It could also be as innocent as him having investments that gave him regular interest or capital gains payments.” I fanned the stack of bank records. “These don’t say where the money came from, just that it existed.”
“Do we care where it came from?”
“I don’t unless it has some effect on Veronica.”
Scott swept his hands around at all the papers. “Makes you think.”
“About what?”
“Death. What it will be like when we’re old. When we’re sitting on rocking chairs on a porch waiting for the sun to set. When we die. I don’t know if I’d want to live without you.”
I got misty eyed. I walked over to his side of the desk and pulled him close. I said, “It’ll be a long time before we’re sitting on rockers on a porch at the Old Gay People’s home.”
“Forever with you sounds good.”
“Sounds perfect to me.”
We embraced. His warmth and strength were always a joy to me. His smell was intoxicating.
Then back to work, box after box, mounds of papers getting higher and higher.
Maybe the saddest thing I found was in the bottom box in the front on the farthest right of the closet. It contained papers and memorabilia from Edgar’s childhood: birth certificate, report cards, class photos, Valentines received, high school diploma, letters of recommendation to colleges. In second grade he’d won third prize in a spelling bee contest. The most consistent thing in his report cards were the checks in the sections, Does Not Work and Play Well With Others. Some things never change.
I said, “This is sad.”
Scott came over and looked.
I said, “This is it? This is the sum total of the honors he received?”
“You don’t have to win a lot of honors to be a good person. The vast majority of teams don’t win the championship.”
“I know that, but the high point of your life is in second grade? And that was third place?”
“Maybe there’s more.”
“I hope so.” I pulled more memorabilia out of the box. One was a certificate for third place in the county checker championship when he was in sixth grade. I said, “This is just sad more in kind of a nostalgic way rather than a you-didn’t-win-a-championship way.”
“Well he married Veronica. That had to be a good thing.”
“That’s true. I wonder where the wedding stuff is. Or probably Veronica has that somewhere.”
SEVENTEEN
Wednesday 11:10 A.M.
Scott and I took a break from sorting papers. We found the rest of the family in the kitchen. The two boys sat at the table with electronic game devices in their hands. Patricia sat in my mom’s arms. They were discussing dolls and flowers and dresses. Dad was washing dishes while Veronica was wiping and cleaning.
The phone on the kitchen counter rang. The Caller ID said it was the gate keeper. I answered. He said, “I’ve got five more deliveries. I can’t keep all this stuff here.”
I asked, “What deliveries?”
“Food, flowers, gift baskets. Mr. Grum said to hold them here. I don’t have room for all this.”
“Can you bring them to the house.”
“All of them?”
“How many are there?”
“A bunch. They’ve been arriving for a couple hours. People wanted to stop in too, but Mr. Grum said not to let them in. I think they were Mrs. Veronica Grum’s friends.”
I said, “Mr. Grum is no longer here. He was never in charge. I am. Bring them on up. If you want, I’ll come down and help you with them.”
If they were friends of Veronica bearing gifts, I thought they might bring her some comfort. If she didn’t want visitors or the gifts, we’d keep them out. It was certainly not Mr. Grum’s decision to make.
I put my hand over the receiver. “Your friends have been stopping by. Bringing food, gifts. Do you want them to come to the house?”
She thought for only a second or two. “Yes, having people around will help, people I know and who are friends.”
She grabbed a paper towel and dabbed her eyes. So much for Grum’s isolationist’s nonsense. I told the gate keeper Veronica’s wishes.
Scott and I met the guy at the door five minutes later. He had a van full of gift baskets, flowers, even two casseroles. We stored the food in the fridge and the other stuff on the counters. The kitchen had a twelve-foot-by-three-foot island in the center.
Scott collected cards and names and began a list. Scott would remember that Veronica would need these if she wanted to send thank you notes.
EIGHTEEN
Wednesday 12:02 P.M.
People, casseroles, and condolences began to accumulate. A few of the visitors brought their kids, which turned out to be good. They knew Veronica’s
children and could help keep them occupied without constant, direct adult supervision.
Sometimes they arrived without benefit of security checks. I learned these were from the neighborhood.
Scott and I went back to paper sorting. About an hour later I was on a bathroom break. The living room and kitchen were filled with men and women bustling about organizing, eating, drinking, cleaning, or comforting Veronica. At least one Grum cousin, aunt, uncle, or daughter-in-law that I knew was in there with them.
I ran into Azure Grum in the hall. We exchanged sympathetic greetings. Azure was the one at the wedding who spilled the beans about who the minion had been sent from to try and stop Scott and me from dancing. While talking with her at the wedding, she’d given me all kinds of fairly useless and perfectly nasty gossip about the Grums.
Azure was short and thin. She’d married into the family so she wasn’t in imminent danger from the Grum family fat curse. She wore a white sweater over a long-sleeve, gauzy-white summer blouse, and baggy jeans.
I said, “Thank you for coming over in the middle of the night.”
“Thankfully the kids didn’t wake up. I’m always willing to help Veronica.” She beckoned me down the hall out of ear shot of the others. She said, “I feel so sorry for Veronica. She had it tough in this family.”
“How so?”
She looked back toward the kitchen, nodded toward a room nearby. We entered a room which was a mini-movie theater with a wide screen at one end, large comfy chairs facing it in the middle. The shag rug was green and the walls painted gold. The plush velvet covered chairs were in plaid patterns of green and gold. Heavily curtained sliding glass doors led outside. Yes, the curtains were green and gold.
The room had a Green Bay Packer shrine on the wall opposite the screen. The pictures went back to the days of Curly Lambeau and George Whitney Calhoun and the founding of the team, plus photos and/or portraits of all the team’s quarterbacks from Norm Barry to Aaron Rodgers. I knew this because my nephew, Gerald, their middle child, had spent one long hour explaining it to me while Veronica, he, and I had been waiting for Edgar before we could leave for a family outing.
