by Edie Claire
Leigh resisted the urge to glare at Gil out of the corner of her eye. He could be the one to tell his wife her dream house was soon to be ashes. It was his fault, anyway.
"Don't worry about me. Everything's under control. You just worry about yourself and the baby. On second thought, strike that. Don't worry at all."
Cara smiled. "I'm trying. Everything seems better now." The look of adoration she gave Gil made Leigh feel queasy. "But my treasure-hunting days appear to be over, at least for now. Just promise me you'll tell me if anything else happens?" She looked at Leigh purposefully. "I'll be dying of curiosity, you know, and bored to death in this bed."
Gil walked over and put his hands on Cara's shoulders. "No one's going to let you get bored. I have at least six weeks' worth of stories to tell you about Tokyo."
"I'll bring you some library books," Leigh said, ignoring him. "Did you find that one by Irma Sacco, the one about the ghost that returns to avenge his father's death?"
"No," she smiled. "I never did."
"You'll like it. It has a happy ending. At first the heroine's boyfriend is kind of a stick-in-the-mud, but then the ghost puts a spell on him."
"Oh, really?" Cara grinned. "What kind of a spell?"
"He thinks he's Miss Marple."
Cara laughed heartily. "Wonderful. Bring it in."
Leigh got up to leave, and Gil hastened to open the door. "I suppose a little light reading might do her good," he said. "Thank you, Leigh. Goodbye."
Leigh let him close the door behind her, and smirked. Her original assessment had been right. He had no sense of humor.
***
She decided to make herself useful at the volunteer search headquarters, and perhaps seek inspiration about whose friendship she could impose on. St. John's fellowship hall was buzzing with activity—about a dozen people milled about talking on cell phones, arranging stacks of flyers, and making maps. Vestal Fields sat imperiously behind a long folding table, a lit cigar in one hand, a lengthy print-out in the other.
Leigh noted that he had, miraculously enough, escaped undue persecution by the media. His skills as a spin doctor were not to be sneezed at: a body had been stolen from his establishment a decade or so ago (before security measures were tightened)—he regretted the incident, but was grateful for the chance to properly reinter the deceased. Patrons could be reassured that their loved ones would be treated with only the greatest of respect...yada yada. He had been wise, she supposed. Dealing with this now was far better than dealing with a necrophilia scandal back then.
"Hello, Mr. Fields," she said sweetly, remembering her previous persona. "You're so wonderful to be doing this."
If Vestal held grudges against manipulative women, he didn't show it. He smiled broadly. "Nonsense. Mary's like a sister to me. Have you come to help?"
"Yes," she answered with a blink. "Whatever you need."
Vestal walked her over to a table set up with two fax machines. "We've sent pictures of Mary to all the hospitals in the area, now we're widening the field. Can you send the flyer to this list of places in West Virginia?"
Leigh nodded, but pretended ignorance of the fax machine. Vestal offered a demonstration, and when he was thoroughly buttered, she went in for the kill. "We've moved out of the house, you know. It was foolish, our staying there. We should have listened to you." She couldn't remember whether he had ever suggested they move out, but it didn't matter. He would take credit for it anyway.
Vestal's cheeks reddened. "I'm just glad you girls are all right. Nasty business, that."
"It's all so confusing," she continued, "especially the part about 1949. Just out of curiosity, did you know Robbie Fischer?"
The right buttons had been pushed, but Vestal couldn't deliver. "Sorry," he said sincerely. "I knew about him, of course, after the fact. But our paths never crossed."
Leigh must have looked disappointed. Vestal's eyes lit up for a moment, then he smiled in satisfaction and leaned close to her ear. "I did help embalm his parents, though; God rest their souls."
"You did?" she responded, sounding dutifully impressed. "But how old were you?"
"Seventeen or eighteen, I suppose." His face shown with pride. "I was doing some embalming myself by then. I don't remember them all, but no one could forget the Fischers. Huge scandal, you know. Huge. And him with a bullet hole in his head."
It was ghoulish to care, but she couldn't help it. "You saw the actual bullet wound?"
Vestal nodded solemnly.
"Did you think it was a suicide?" Leigh pressed.
He looked at her curiously from behind an ill-formed smoke ring. "I'm a funeral director, my dear, not a coroner. I do remember hearing that there were powder burns on his hand, and that his prints were on the gun. Sounded pretty open and shut. The rest was just a lot of tongues wagging, I always thought."
"Oh," Leigh remarked, discontent. She decided to try another angle. "Do you remember Chief Polanski ever talking about Robbie's disappearance?"
He considered, then shook his head. "I don't think so. Not something he or Mellman ever liked to talk about."
Leigh sighed. She was getting tired of hearing that.
"No, wait! Chief Polanski did mention Robbie once."
She was all ears. Vestal beamed at his captive audience and proceeded. "A ways back, maybe twenty years ago, there was a real tragedy in Avalon. A thirteen-year-old boy beaten to death by his father. It was a horrible thing. The whole town was disturbed by it, but the Chief and Mellman—they took it really hard. Being police, you know, they're used to most things. But this kid got to them. At first, I thought it was because of Mellman’s past."
Leigh's brow furrowed. "His past?"
Vestal looked at her with surprise. "Ever wonder how he got that W.C. Fields schnoz?"
She shook her head.
"The same way as W.C. Dear old dad."
Leigh felt a wave of pity for the new chief. Evidently Robbie wasn’t the only one who had grown up in a troubled home.
"Bill Mellman was a first class bast—uh, rascal. Drank too much; got mean. Used to beat up on Ethyl—his wife—pretty bad. Finally got himself stabbed to death in a bar brawl." Vestal paused and shook his head.
Apparently Chief Mellman’s dad didn't deserve a "God rest his soul."
"Anyway," Vestal continued, "I thought that's why they were so upset about the thirteen-year-old being killed, but it was more than that. Polanski told me the kid looked a lot like Robbie Fischer."
Leigh's head began to swim. "Like Robbie?"
"Physically. You know. A certain resemblance. Chief Polanski said that Robbie had been abused as well, and that the kid’s death brought up a lot of bad memories."
She considered. "Bad memories of Robbie’s abuse, or bad memories of his disappearance?"
Vestal shrugged. "Bad memories period, if you ask me. The three of them were tight, so I suppose they had some good times, but it sounds like their fathers—except for Polanski’s—made their lives pretty miserable. Things were really bad for Mellman especially, when his father was alive—then Robbie took off without a word and never came back. Eventually the boys had to face the fact that the three musketeers were now two, and that Robbie was dead, God rest his soul."
"But was he?" she wondered out loud.
His eyes twinkled. "Romanticizing a bit, aren't you?"
She was offended, and apparently looked it.
"I don't mean to burst any bubbles," he said apologetically. "But the poor boy was fourteen, and he was alone with no money in a big city in 1949. The odds weren't good."
"But not impossible."
Vestal grinned. "You really want to believe that boy is alive, don't you? May I ask why?"
Leigh didn't have an answer. Maybe she did want Robbie to be alive and well. And maybe she didn't.
***
Somewhere in the middle of Leigh's forty-second fax transmission, Maura checked in, looking worse than ever. She exchanged a few words with Vestal, then sat down on the h
ard tile floor beside the fax desk.
"Haven't you slept at all?" Leigh asked, concerned.
"I got a few hours in earlier today," Maura said dismissively. "Sleep deprivation I can do. How are things at your end?"
"I'm a faxing wizard, as you can see," Leigh answered, working as she talked. "As for the contractions and the search, they're both slowing. Gil has sicced the dogs on me—I'm no longer allowed in the house. He's had everything moved out."
Maura whistled softly. "Cara's husband is the protective type, eh?"
"You could say that. And Cara doesn't know—she thinks I'm still staying there."
"You need a place to stay?"
Leigh had hoped for an invitation. "As a matter of fact, I do. My stuff is all at my parents' place, but I'm afraid if I go back there, I'll never come out."
Maura grinned tiredly. "I can picture that. Your Mom would be happier with you under lock and key."
"Polanski?" The women looked up at an officer Leigh didn't recognize. "We've got a Jane Doe."
Maura scrambled up off the floor, then looked into his eyes. Her huge frame sagged like a dishcloth. "You mean a body," she said flatly.
The officer nodded.
Chapter 20
"Beaver County Sheriff's department pulled a woman's body out of the Ohio a half hour ago. Near Shippingport. She's on her way to the Medical Center in Beaver."
Not a muscle in Maura's body moved, and the officer squirmed a little. "We don't know much else, Maura. They said Caucasian female, approximately six feet tall. It could be anybody. But we knew you'd want to check it out."
Maura nodded. "Appreciate it," she said tonelessly. "I'm on my way."
The officer looked uncomfortable. "Do you want me to drive you? I'm on duty, but I could get—"
"No need," Maura waved him off. "I'm gone already." She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket, gave them a shake, and headed for the door.
Leigh hastened to catch up. She had to do something. "I'm driving," she said firmly.
Maura's blue eyes were weary, but the fire was still behind them. "I'm queasy enough already, Koslow. You're not driving me anywhere. But if you want to come—" She paused. "I'd like that."
A smile and a nod sealed the deal. Leigh looked over her shoulder at the small gathering of volunteers, who had ceased working and were watching the conversation in earnest. "The officer will fill you in," she announced, and followed Maura out the door.
***
They spent most of the trip in silence. Maura drove in her usual law-abiding, safety-conscious manner, but for once Leigh didn't complain. The fingers that held the wheel in a precise ten and two o'clock position were white as snow, and Maura's broad brow was dotted with clammy beads of sweat.
Leigh rehearsed a few lines of dialogue in her head, but none passed muster. She had no idea what to say. But she should say something, shouldn't she?
"I've never been to this hospital before." The words were out before she could decide against them. A stupid comment. But it would have to do.
Maura didn't respond.
She tried again. The direct approach this time. "This isn't your mother, Maura. I know it isn't. Mary is safe, somewhere. I have good instincts about this sort of thing. Really, I do."
A ghost of a grin broke the eerily calm facade, but only for a second. Leigh slumped back into her seat. Perhaps silence would be best after all.
***
They were spared the indignity of asking directions to the morgue by a local officer who spotted Maura in the hospital parking lot. "Polanski?" he asked.
She nodded.
The officer waved them over and began walking away from the front entrance and towards a side door. "I'll take you down." The women followed, descending from the friendly mauve hues of the patient areas to the more sterile-looking, white hallways beneath. The officer swung open an unmarked set of metal doors and ushered them inside. He pointed to a cubicle with a short row of vinyl-covered chairs. "You might want to have a seat for a minute," he suggested.
Leigh began to sit, but Maura stood and shook her head. "Let's just do it, okay?"
The officer nodded sympathetically, and tilted his head in the direction of another metal door. "I'll tell them who you're here to see." He slipped through the door quietly, and gave muffled instructions to someone within. In a few seconds he stuck his head back out. "They're ready," he announced.
Maura's pause was short. She pulled herself to her full height and opened the door with a strong motion. Leigh followed.
Before them, a human form covered with a paperlike sheet lay still on a steel gurney. The sheet bulged over a probable forehead, belly, and feet, but its stiff texture hid further detail. Leigh swallowed the bile that kept rising in her throat. Not counting her most recent encounter, she had never seen a body before, except at a funeral. Paul Fischer she hadn't known. The people she had known were laid out nicely, ready for the most discerning viewer. This body had been pulled out of a river. She tried to envision the face of her friend's mother, waterlogged and staring. She couldn't. It wasn't going to happen.
She moved close to Maura's side as the white-jacketed attendant reached for the sheet at the body's head. She could feel Maura take one long, shuddering breath before the barrier was removed.
Leigh hadn't intended to look. But she couldn't help it. What had once been a face was puffy, grayish skin, misshapen and eroded at its protuberances—a feast for the wildlife of the Ohio. Leigh's eyes froze on the corpse involuntarily, her thoughts halted with horror, her stomach lurching. She might have stayed that way indefinitely, were it not for the viselike grip that squeezed the blood out of her right arm. She looked up into Maura's face, which reminded her of the positive aspect of the cadaver.
It wasn't Mary.
Leigh felt a blow to her lungs, which were flattened inside her straining rib cage, and for a moment her feet didn't seem to be on the floor. Eventually, she realized Maura was hugging her. She smiled, and, as soon as it was physically possible to do so, took a long breath. "I told you so," she croaked.
'That you did," her friend conceded easily. "This woman is not my mother," she announced, her police voice back again. "But I wish you luck identifying her."
With that, Maura exited the morgue posthaste, with Leigh at her heels. An escort out wasn't necessary.
***
"Are you sure it's not too much trouble, my staying at your house?" Leigh asked, feeling guilty. She had picked up her Cavalier at St. John's and stationed it, and half of her belongings, on the street outside the Polanski's modest duplex.
"If it were, I'd tell you," Maura insisted almost cheerfully, leading her up to the open porch. "Honestly, Koslow, the house is too damn quiet. I can't stand to be here anymore. And I need to get in a few hours sleep before my shift tonight."
"Tonight?" Leigh asked, disbelieving. "You have to go to work?"
Maura shrugged and opened the front door with a key. "Mellman's letting me search for Mom on the clock, but I've been using my own time so far. In fact, my weekend just ended. If you don't mind, I thought I'd grab a bite and sack out until eleven."
"Don't worry about me," Leigh said, entering. "I can fend for myself. In fact, I can fend for you, too. What are you hungry for? I can make anything that comes in Styrofoam and requires a tip."
Maura didn't answer, but turned her back and walked into the small kitchen that bordered the L-shaped living/dining room. She returned with a purple flyer. "Beijing Gourmet," she said with a smile. "Moo goo gai pan, if you please."
Leigh smiled back. "Done."
The cartons were cardboard, but the tip was gratefully accepted. Leigh looked around the tattered house, wondering where her friend usually ate. As the dark wood table in the dining area was home to a computer, she suspected the tiny metal drop-leaf against the kitchen wall. She was looking for a rag to wipe the jelly stains off its plastic top when Maura collected her food, a fork, and a can of Mountain Dew and plopped down on the couch. Leigh
followed.
The garlic chicken was the best she ever had, but unfortunately, she could only pick at it. The image of the mauled face remained before her eyes, and Maura, though she ate like a starving woman, seemed suddenly depressed, more so with every bite. Leigh turned anxious when the policewoman wadded up her fortune and threw it against the wall.
"Bad news?" she queried softly.
"You reap what you sow." Maura scoffed. "Thanks a hell of a lot, China. I needed that."
Being a master of the emotion, Leigh knew guilt when she saw it. She put down her food and faced her friend squarely. "This is not your fault."
"The hell it isn't!" Maura roared, jumping up from her seat and beginning to pace. "I didn't check on her, Koslow, did you know that? I let her go to bed right after we got home, then when the call came about the break in, I ran out. I didn't check on her then, and I didn't check on her when I got back! I just assumed my aunts would hear her if she left. What was I thinking? She could have been gone all night Saturday, not to mention last night. How could I be so careless?"
"Now, you listen to me," Leigh began calmly. "You are the best damn daughter in the whole world, and if you say another derogatory word about yourself I swear I will slap you. Who was the model child? The model student? Who fulfilled her father's every expectation and more? Who gave up her independence, a job she loved, and a place of her own to come back and take care of her mother? Who answers the same questions fifty times a day without ever losing her cool? Who reads books like this"—she held up a paperback from the coffee table—"so they know just the right way to manage a parent with Alzheimer's?"
Maura swallowed.
"You do, my dear. You're such a better daughter than me, I don't even like to think about it. Your mother's wandering was not your fault, and whether or not you noticed right away is immaterial. You've done everything you could for her, and you still are. End of discussion."
