by A W Hartoin
The article went on to discuss Sample’s life in general with plenty of quotes from co-workers and friends. I scanned without really reading until my eyes latched on to the words “University of Nebraska at Lincoln.”
Holy shit. Aunt Tenne was right.
Sample graduated from the university three years before with a degree in marketing and was recruited by a local firm. I wrote down Sample’s graduation date and the firm name. I twirled the end of my pen in my mouth, listening to the clink of it against my teeth. It could’ve been a coincidence. Dad used to come home and have a stiff drink after chasing his tail all day. He’d say, “I can’t believe it’s just a coincidence. I can’t believe it.” That kind of thing happened more than you’d think. Dad went through a period when Mom thought he might develop an alcohol problem. Dad said it was amazing the amount of connections people had when on the surface they appeared to have no common variables at all.
So Gavin was in Lincoln right before he died and happened to call a church where a bride who graduated from Lincoln was about to be murdered. So what? Weird things happen. Of course there was the missing S file and that made it harder to dismiss. In spite of myself I wanted to hear what Chuck thought. Maybe he’d run across the same connections I had. If he wasn’t such a sleaze, I would’ve called him. I knew where that would get me. We’d insult each other. He’d make a comment and I’d have to shower it off. Then he’d take my information and use it with no quid pro quo. Pass on the Chuck experience.
I called Uncle Morty instead, expecting little better, but at least there wouldn’t be any sleaze.
“Hi, it’s me,” I said.
Uncle Morty grunted a response, so it was going better than expected. He might’ve gone straight to curses.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
Grunt.
“I took a ton of pics. You want to see them?”
Double grunt.
“I talked to Mom. Dad’s sick as a dog, but they’re coming back ASAP.”
Grunt.
“So…I could use a little help.”
Silence
“I need some background on Rebecca Sample, the bride that got murdered. I need some addresses, friends, family. Maybe check out her credit cards. See if she’s been to Lincoln recently. I think there’s a connection between her and Gavin. You know the drill. So…can you do that?”
“You Fiked me,” Uncle Morty said.
Michael Fike was my dad’s first partner. He couldn’t stand Dad and ditched him whenever he had the chance. Dad got ditched so much the squad started calling it getting Fiked.
“Um, well, that’s one way to look at it,” I said.
“Give me another,” he said.
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“Say you’re sorry for Fiking me.”
“I didn’t Fike you,” I said and a voice behind me said, “Who got Fiked?”
I screeched and fell out of my chair. Aaron stood in the kitchen doorway eating a Twinkie and wearing a hairnet.
“What are you doing here?” I said, picking myself off the floor with as much dignity as I could muster.
Aaron looked at his Twinkie and then at me. “Eating.”
I smacked my forehead and said to Morty, “Aaron’s here.”
“Yep.”
“You sent him?”
“Yep.”
“Thanks a million,” I said.
“The least I could do. Now what do you say?” Uncle Morty’s tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. He was actually mad.
“I’m sorry I Fiked you.”
“You sound real sincere.”
“Yeah, it was such a terrible thing.”
“You left me with a bunch of old broads.” Uncle Morty slammed something and let out a string of curse words.
“You seem to have survived intact,” I said.
“Just barely.”
“What’d they do, force-feed you Metamucil and file your bunions?”
“Shut up,” he said.
“So about Rebecca Sample?” I asked.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll email the stuff to Tommy’s address.”
“Thanks.”
Uncle Morty grunted and hung up. I supposed my weak sorry hadn’t quite made up for a drunken afternoon with The Girls.
Aaron got another Twinkie out of the freezer and sat down across from me. He’d brought supplies. That could only mean he’d been instructed to stay a while.
“Did you bring extra drawers?” I asked.
“Huh?” Aaron looked confused and I thanked the heavens. If he didn’t have a change of underwear, I could Fike him sooner rather than later.
“Who’d you Fike?” he asked.
“Uncle Morty.”
Aaron snorted into his Twinkie and I saw a wheel, just one, turning behind his eyes. It was a rare sight and I was transfixed for a moment. He was probably thinking of ways to torment Morty at their next Dungeon and Dragons meeting. Morty was their Dungeon Master and Aaron thought Morty was giving his magical troll (or whatever he was) a bad shake in the game. Aaron thought revenge was in order. I thought the chances of him making Morty feel stupid were slim.
“I’m going to bed,” I said.
Aaron didn’t answer. He continued to chew placidly as a cow and blinked as if blinking required concentration.
“So I’ll see you later.”
More blinking.
“Night,” I said.
“Night, night, sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” said Aaron, his mouth full of Twinkie.
I went upstairs and paused briefly to listen for Aaron leaving. He didn’t, but I imagined I could hear him chewing all the way to the third floor.
The third floor was my domain. It consisted of four large square rooms all interconnected by a series of arched doors and a walk-in closet in the center of the four. I never moved out of the nursery. That’s what my mother called it, the nursery. When I went to college, she threatened to move out my stuff, but she wouldn’t, if only to avoid carrying my junk down three long flights of stairs.
I went into my room. My main room, I should say. It was the one the stairs led up to. My queen-sized white wicker bed dominated with a matching desk and wall unit. My high school memorabilia was still in evidence as were the mountains of teenager clothing I’d left in the closet. The other rooms were filled with toys, four sets of bunk beds for my slumber parties and books, lots of books.
I went into the closet and rummaged around to find a tattered football jersey. I stripped and pulled it over my head. I sniffed the sleeve and felt a longing in the pit of my stomach. The boy smell. It was amazing how his scent lingered in the fabric after years of wear and washing. David was still in there and still in me, it would seem.
I cranked up the air-conditioning to obscene levels and got into bed pulling the covers up to my chin. Thoughts of Dixie, downstairs in The Oasis, crept into my head. I wondered if she was awake or if she was dreaming of her Gavin, gone as David was to me. I couldn’t imagine her loss, but I’d had a hint. A mist of tears filled my eyes when I thought about her down there, alone. I fell asleep, crying for Dixie and David or maybe it was for me.
Chapter Eleven
I WOKE IN sunshine streaming in from the two windows on either side of my bed. I’d forgotten how bright it could get if the shades weren’t down. Quarter to seven. Damn, it was early, especially since I didn’t have to go to work. I took off David’s jersey and tucked it under my pillow the way Mom instructed me a thousand and one times. She hated it when I left my pajamas all over the place. She thought I should know exactly where they were, not that losing them bothered me. I found a pair of wrinkled tan shorts that mostly fit and a white tee with only one hole.
I slipped on my old worn-out kimono and ran down to a guest bath. A boiling hot shower turned me bright red while I resisted the urge to inspect my thighs for telltale dimpling. Once my hair was dry and pulled back in a barrette, I looked in the mirror and sighed. It was hopeless. I was ti
red of looking like me. I thought about dying my hair red, black, or brown, but it’d been tried.
My mother attempted to disguise herself and pictures in our family albums bore the evidence of her failures. She looked weird or obvious. She once told me, as I picked up a hair color called Copper Penny, that people only noticed her more when she changed her hair and that was no good. I didn’t buy the dye and resigned myself to being blond. Being blond wasn’t so bad. It had its advantages, none of which would be evident at the muffler shop I was going to.
I walked past Mom’s bedroom door. It was closed. Hopefully, Dixie was still sleeping and not crying. I didn’t hear anything, so I crossed my fingers and ran downstairs. High doses of caffeine were in order. I went straight to the coffeemaker, rubbing my neck as the scent of hazelnut filled the room.
“Smells good.”
I jumped and screamed, “Ahh!” My cousin, Chuck, and Aaron were sitting at the kitchen table. An anvil formed in my stomach when Chuck’s scent enveloped me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I yelled.
Chuck put his hands behind his head and pushed his chair back on its hind legs. “Waiting for you, of course.” He smiled, but it wasn’t friendly.
“And what about you?” I asked, pointing to Aaron.
Aaron stopped and looked at the Pop-Tart he was about to shove in his mouth.
“Never mind,” I said. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to ask.
Aaron ate his Pop-Tart in one mouthful and chewed, never taking his eyes off me.
“How’s it going?” Chuck asked.
“Swell. What do you want?” I asked.
“Where are you going so early?”
“Muffler shop, if you must know.”
“What?”
“Dixie needs a new muffler. I’m taking care of it.” I poured myself a cup of coffee and blew the steam at him.
“Right. You’re up at seven a.m. to buy a new muffler.”
“Yeah, I am. What’s it to you?”
“What were you doing at the church last night?”
“What church?”
“Cut the crap, Mercy. I know you were there. What I want to know is why.”
“If you’re so smart, figure it out.”
Chuck dropped his chair onto the floor and slammed his fist on the table. Aaron jumped, but kept chewing.
“You’re pissing me off now,” Chuck said.
“So what’s new?” I said.
“Leave it alone. I’m not fooling around. They are not going to be happy if you impede this investigation, and they will have you charged.”
“They? They who? And what investigation am I impeding anyway? If you think I’m doing something wrong, go ahead and arrest me. In the meantime, get out.”
“Do you have to be so difficult?” Chuck asked.
“Yes. Get out,” I said.
“I think I’ll have some coffee first. If you don’t mind.”
“I do mind. Get out.”
“Nah.” Chuck stood up and stretched. He walked over to me and reached over my shoulder for a coffee cup. His breath smelled like my dad’s, beer and wintergreen gum. He brought the cup over my shoulder then reached for the pot with his other hand. It didn’t bother me at all, I swear. I hardly noticed his pecs.
“Want some more?” he asked.
“I made it, didn’t I?”
He topped off my cup and reached for the sugar over my shoulder again. I slipped under his arm before I did start to notice all sorts of things.
“That’s not very neighborly of you,” he said.
“It would’ve been neighborly to tell me about the website,” I said.
“What for?”
“So I could get an injunction or something before it went too far.”
Chuck stood and watched while I fried an egg, made toast and started to eat. “Won’t work, I tried,” he said softly.
“You tried?” I asked.
“I did.” Chuck moved closer and my anvil got heavier.
“Yeah, well, I still don’t want to be neighborly with you.”
“Yes, you do.” Chuck stood and watched while I fried an egg and made toast.
“Aren’t you going to offer me any?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“So when’s Gavin’s funeral?”
“I have no idea. Straatman’s are trying to strong arm Aunt Miriam over some sort of short notice fee. Gavin’s still at the morgue.”
“Let me know. I’d like to be there and remember what I said.”
“It’s seared into my memory,” I said.
Chuck saluted me, gave Aaron a pointed look, and left through the pantry. Aaron watched me eat and devoured three more Pop-Tarts.
“Don’t you have to go to Kronos?” I asked.
“We don’t open until eleven.”
Great.
I cleaned up, threw my purse over my shoulder. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”
“Yep,” said Aaron, but he didn’t move.
I went out the back door and reset the alarm. The day was glorious, blue skies with a couple of white puffy clouds for effect, my favorite kind of day. I walked down the brick walk that I’d spent a significant portion of my childhood weeding and paused to smell the bluebells with their perfect waxy forms and light scent.
I went on, meandering this way and that through the flower beds to the garage. I’d left it unalarmed and unlocked. Dad would kill me, if he knew. Lucky for me he was barfing his brains out thousands of miles away. I got in my truck and twisted around watching the garage door go up. I turned back around, put my truck in gear, and my passenger door opened.
“No, no. What are you doing, Aaron? Seriously?” Aaron climbed in next to me, shut the door and put on his seatbelt.
“Aaron, hello?”
“Morty said you need some watching.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’m going to fix Dixie’s muffler. You’re going to work.”
“We don’t open till eleven.”
“I don’t need watching. Morty was messing with you.” I banged my hands on the steering wheel with each word.
“I don’t think so. You need help.”
“I don’t need help, really,” I said.
“Which muffler shop?”
Christ almighty.
“I don’t know. I have to get the car first.”
“There’s a good one on I-70.”
“Fine.”
And there it was, short of physically booting Aaron out of the car, I had a babysitter.
Chapter Twelve
GAVIN’S GRAND MARQUIS sat in the St. James Emergency parking lot untouched by the police crime lab techs.
“We can’t break in,” said Aaron.
“We’re not. I have Dixie’s keys,” I said.
I unlocked the driver’s door and popped the trunk. Dad kept his briefcase and any loose material in the trunk. It was harder to get at that way. Gavin did the same. His trunk was neat and organized with a toolbox, jumper cables, first aid kit, a shopping bag with a Nebraska sweatshirt and a cookbook, and his briefcase. The briefcase was new, a birthday gift from Dixie, but it was the same style he carried throughout his career. It looked more like an English professor’s case than a retired cops with soft buttery caramel leather and brass buckles.
I picked it up, shut the trunk, and went up front to Aaron, who sat in the passenger seat chewing a wad of grape bubble gum and smacking his lips.
“What’s that?” he asked as I slid Gavin’s briefcase behind his seat.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“Isn’t that evidence?”
“Must not be or the cops would’ve taken it.”
Aaron gave me a smile and blew a huge bubble. He directed me to the muffler shop that he knew well. I couldn’t imagine why. His scooter had its original muffler and it could be heard for miles around. The shop was a mom-and-pop affair with no waiting. Pop recognized
Gavin’s car and knew what it needed. He didn’t know Gavin was dead. When we told him, he got quiet and said the new muffler was on the house and he’d get right on it. I walked him out to the car, got Gavin’s briefcase and handed over the keys.
Aaron and I went into the waiting room, a standard automotive repair shop waiting area with dirty cracked linoleum, orange plastic chairs, and multiple vending machines. I bought a can of iced tea with a disgusting lemon additive and found the cleanest seat in the place. Aaron sat down next to me in what looked like an old spill of soda that nobody bothered to clean up. He leaned back, crossed his ankles, and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.
I hesitated. I didn’t want to go through the case with Aaron watching me, but it was too late. He’d report back to Morty every single thing I did, so I might as well be up front about it.
I unbuckled the case and rifled through Gavin’s stuff. There were two manila folders labeled Sendack, Doreen. The rest of the case didn’t yield anything interesting. It contained a bottle of Tylenol, some tissues and a notebook. The notebook was brand new and didn’t have so much as a doodle. I was surprised that Gavin hadn’t free-handed some notes. I’d filed plenty of his scribblings in the appropriate folders.
“Maybe he had a second notebook,” I said.
“What?” said Aaron.
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
I opened the first of Doreen Sendack’s files. It was the support case Dad mentioned. Doreen was trying to get a line on her ex-husband. He owed thirty thousand dollars for the support of three children he hadn’t seen in over two years. Bart Sendack was a swell guy that ran out on his wife and had been dodging her ever since. Doreen heard through a cousin that Bart was living in Lincoln. Gavin must’ve gone there to check out the lead. Bart’s picture was included in the file. He was thin with a long, narrow face and buzz cut. He’d have been handsome, if he gained thirty pounds and changed the hair.
