What the Dead Leave Behind

by David Housewright

  “Sometimes I do Nutella with apple slices,” Erica said.

  “Much better.”

  “What do you want to talk about?” Malcolm asked. “Rickie said you wanted to talk.”

  “I met a friend of yours today.”

  “Who?”

  “Steve Geddings.”

  “Steven?”

  I gestured at Erica to make sure I had her attention.

  “That’s the name of the guy you punched in the face the other day,” I said. “If you see him again, watch yourself. He hasn’t gotten past it.”

  “That’s because I’m a girl.”

  “What did Steven want?” Malcolm asked.

  “He didn’t say,” I told him.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s been following me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. He followed me yesterday and again today when I went to see Katie Meyer.”

  “You spoke to Mrs. Meyer?”

  “We had coffee at the Bru House. I like her very much. She seems to genuinely care about her friends. That, apparently, includes you.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That’s not terribly important.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “What’s important—why is Geddings following me?”

  “How should I know?”

  “You and I aren’t going to get along very well if you keep this up.”

  Malcolm slipped quickly off his stool and turned toward me. “Are you calling me a liar?” he asked.

  “Let me guess. You’re outraged by the allegation.”

  His fists clenched, unclenched, and clenched some more.

  “Mal,” Erica said. “McKenzie’s trying to help you.”

  “I really am,” I said. “I’ll keep at it, too, if you would just explain why so many people don’t want me to help you.”

  “Who?” Malcolm asked. “Who doesn’t want you to help?”

  “Apparently, Critter and Steven Geddings for a start. Tell me about the fight again.”

  “I told you—that has nothing to do with my father.”

  “The fight at the Bru House. What about the one before that?”

  “Before that?”

  “Someone punched Critter,” I said. “Punched him several times. His nose was swollen, and his lip was bruised.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “When we met, your knuckles were scraped and bloody.”

  “I hit a wall.”

  “Because you were angry with your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because she said to get over what happened to your father?”

  “Yes. McKenzie, I mean it. This thing with Critter has nothing to do with my father.”

  “What does it have to do with?”

  “It’s personal.”

  “Then why is Geddings following me?”

  “I don’t know.” Malcom thought about it, then spoke in the form of a question. “Maybe they’re hoping you’ll lead them to me?”

  “Really? They’re searching for you? Are you that hard to find?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would they be looking for you?”

  “I don’t know. I keep telling you. I don’t know why they’re following you. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  “What about her?”

  “She wants me to stop trying to help you, too.”

  “I know. She doesn’t think any good will come of it, and … and she said it makes her sad.”

  “Why?”

  “I heard the stories, McKenzie, about my father hitting my mom. She never told me, but I heard. Sometimes I think that’s all he left behind when he died, the stories.”

  “What about Dauria?”

  That made him pause.

  “Diane?” he said.

  Diane? my inner voice repeated.

  “She also made it clear I should go away,” I said.

  “Why would she care?”

  “I don’t know. Why would she care?”

  The look in his eyes suggested that he didn’t have a clue.

  “Sit down,” I told him. “Relax.”

  Malcolm returned to his spot at the island. Erica passed him the box of vanilla wafers. He took one, but not to eat. It was just something to hold.

  “Something else you should know.” I took the stool next to Erica. “There’s a possibility that your father’s murder is connected to a second killing.”

  Malcolm froze in place, not moving a muscle except for what was required to snap the cookie in half. His eyes grew wide, and his voice climbed two octaves.

  “What killing?” he asked.

  “A couple of years ago—”

  “Where?”

  Erica reached across the table and touched his hand. He pulled it away.

  “In St. Louis Park,” I said. “The former president of the Szereto Corporation.”

  “The beauty company?” Erica asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where Mal’s father used to work?”

  “Yes. A man named Jonathan Szereto Jr.”

  “Oh,” Malcolm said.

  “What do you know about it?” I asked.

  “Nothing, really. It’s just—what you said just caught me by surprise is all.”

  “You’re not surprised anymore?”

  He dropped the remains of the vanilla wafer on the countertop and brushed the crumbs from his hand.

  “I don’t know why I reacted that way.” Malcolm was smiling at Erica when he said, “This whole thing has me pretty messed up.”

  Erica smiled back.

  She stopped smiling when she noticed Malcolm’s eyes lock on something over her shoulder. She turned to look. Nina had emerged from the master bedroom and moved across the living area. She was wearing a fitted scarlet gown that accentuated the imagination, and for a moment I was back in the Minnesota Club watching her shove a miscreant down a flight of stairs. She had worn a different dress then, only it was the same color, and it stopped my heart. I had no idea what she was looking for—I mentioned the dress, right?—but she apparently found it, turned, and walked back into the bedroom. Malcolm followed her every step of the way.

  Erica reached across the island and punched him hard on the shoulder.

  “Oww,” he said.

  “Were you perving on my mom?” Erica asked.

  “No. What? No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Erica,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I was perving on your mom.”

  “Gawd. You’re both disgusting.”

  “Who’s disgusting?” Nina asked. She was now walking through the kitchen area while fixing an earring to her earlobe.

  “Men,” Erica said.

  “Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. If you’re coming with me, you’d better change.”

  “I should leave,” Malcolm said. He said it to Nina, not Erica.

  Erica grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. I nearly stopped them to ask more questions, but didn’t. They made their good-byes, and Erica all but shoved him out. She walked past us on the way to her room.

  “Honestly, Mother,” she said.

  She went into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

  “What did I do now?” Nina asked.

  “You became the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  “That hasn’t been true since Rickie turned sixteen.”

  “She doesn’t know how pretty she is. She only knows how pretty you are.”

  “I’m not that pretty; never have been.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Nina hugged me. I hugged her back. For the fourth or fifth time that day I reminded myself how lucky I was.

  “What are your plans for tonight?” she asked.

  “I have a few things to do, but I promise to be at your side when the ball drops.”

  “That’s
all I ask.”

  “I have a question, though.”

  “What?”

  “Do I look like Bradley Cooper?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  NINE

  I arrived fashionably late to Evelyn Szereto’s New Year’s Eve party—which meant I was forced to park well down her private driveway. I was wearing black dress shoes, and my feet chilled long before I reached her front entrance even though the temperature was in the low thirties—cold nearly everywhere else but practically balmy in December in Minnesota. A man wearing a tuxedo opened the door for me, said “Good evening, sir,” took my trench coat, and handed me a ticket with a three-digit number. Clearly he was help hired for the evening. What annoyed me, his tux looked better on him than my double-breasted job did on me.

  There was no one at the door working security; no one checking my name off of a guest list. I saw Jack McKasy, though, standing at the bottom of the staircase and scrutinizing the proceedings with a keen eye. He looked better in a tuxedo than I did, too.

  When his gaze fell upon me he grimaced like a man who had just lost a bet. He jerked his head as if he wanted me to come toward him, so I did.

  “Mrs. Szereto said if you showed up she wanted to talk to you,” Jack said.

  “Where is she?”

  “Upstairs.”

  I attempted to move around him and climb the stairs. He pressed a hand against my chest. There was a lot of strength in the hand, and it stopped me cold.

  “No one goes upstairs,” he said.

  “You said—”

  “When she comes down you can talk to her. No one goes upstairs. That’s the rule.”

  “I certainly don’t want to break any rules.”

  “Don’t fuck with me, McKenzie.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Mrs. Szereto said you killed a guy. That’s doesn’t scare me.”

  “How long have you worked for Evelyn?” I used her first name so Jack would think we were closer than we were.

  “What do you care?” he asked.

  “Just wondering. She seems to confide in you, trusts you.”

  “I’ve been here about three years if you gotta know. It was the kid who hired me, Jonny.”

  He refers to Jonny as a kid, even though he was at least a decade older, my inner voice told me.

  “Jonny wanted me to take care of the grounds, the house,” Jack added. “Do whatever heavy lifting needed to be done cuz he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it, get those soft hands of his dirty. Sometimes I ran errands, drove him around. After he got killed, I stayed on. The ladies, they know they can depend on me.”

  “You’re the only staff member?”

  “They have people that do the cleaning, the laundry; a cook that comes and goes. I’m the only one that lives in.”

  “You have a room above the garage?”

  “You have a problem with that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Yeah, well, people look at you when you say that like it’s something terrible. Like you’re one of them serfs from the Middle Ages. One guy, he told me I was an indentured servant. I didn’t even know what that was, had to look it up. Only it’s the nicest apartment I’ve ever had; I don’t care if it is above the garage. These are the nicest people I’ve ever worked for, too. You don’t fuck with them, McKenzie, or I’ll fuck with you, I don’t care how many people you’ve killed.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You’d better.”

  *   *   *

  I wandered. Mrs. Szereto’s house was much larger than I realized when I visited the day before. ’Course, I had been in only one room. There seemed to be about twenty, each of them painstakingly decorated in the colors of Christmas. It reminded me of the James J. Hill House, the mansion built by the railroad tycoon on Summit Avenue in St. Paul. Nina made me go with her to listen to ghost stories on Halloween a few years ago. We got lost.

  People flowed from one room to the other like a meandering river, searching for faces they recognized and then stopping when they found one, forcing the river to alter course around them. The men all wore tuxedos or elegant suits; the women were attired in gowns and posh party frocks, most of them black, many looking as if they had never been worn before. They looked very festive among the overstated Christmas decorations. A woman in red vest and green tie, who didn’t look old enough to drink, found me in the crowd and offered a glass filled with champagne from the tray she carried. I took the champagne and said, “Thank you.” She smiled in return, and I wondered if she thought I looked like Bradley Cooper, too. Probably not.

  I sipped the champagne, wishing it were ale—you can’t take me anywhere—and wandered some more. I discovered a huge room that had been converted into a dance hall with a prefabricated wooden floor and a temporary stage where a seven-man orchestra was channeling Count Basie. The floor was filled with couples dancing as if they knew how to swing and others who moved as if they only listen to rock and roll. Straight-back chairs lined the walls. Candy Groot was sitting in one of them, an empty champagne glass in her hand. I walked up to her. She saw me coming and turned her head away.

  No one’s happy to see you tonight, my inner voice said.

  “Ms. Groot,” I said.

  “Mr. McKenzie.” She stood and looked at me. “I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I was very rude.”

  “Please, Ms. Groot—Candy. The fault was all mine. I am so sorry if I caused you even a moment of pain. I promise it was not my intention.”

  She stared as if she weren’t quite sure what to make of my remarks. She reached out a hand and rested it on my arm.

  “It wasn’t you who caused me pain,” she said.

  “I’m sorry just the same.”

  Candy stared some more and smiled a sad sort of smile. It bothered me, thinking that I was responsible for the sadness.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re very kind.”

  My response was to give her hand a quick squeeze. She lifted the hand from my arm and ran her fingers under the lapel of my tux.

  “Very nice,” she said.

  “This ratty old thing?”

  Candy thought that was funny. She was wearing a black velvet dress with a hem that touched her knees.

  “You look lovely,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Not dancing?”

  “Waiting for Ms. Dauria to arrive and then Mrs. Szereto’s speech.”

  “Mrs. Szereto is giving a speech?”

  “Every year she comments on the state of the company; tells people what percentage of their salaries they’ll be receiving in profit sharing. That’s when the party really takes off. You’ll notice that everyone is pretty much behaving themselves now.”

  “Actually, I hadn’t noticed.”

  “They’re all drinking Mrs. Szereto’s champagne. After the speech is when the bars open. There’s one in nearly every room. The place will be like a zoo.”

  I can hardly wait, my inner voice said as I drained my glass.

  “You know how in The Great Gatsby, Gatsby threw these huge, elaborate parties yet rarely attended them himself?” Candy asked. “That’s Mrs. Szereto. She’ll make a grand entrance, give her speech, chat briefly with a few of the executive staff, and then poof, she’ll be gone.”

  “She doesn’t like to socialize with the help?”

  “Actually, I think she does it for the benefit of the help. They won’t need to be afraid of misbehaving in front of the chairperson.”

  “What about the president?”

  “Ms. Dauria has a fairly benign attitude about it all—what happens in Mrs. Szereto’s house stays in Mrs. Szereto’s’s house. Why are you here, McKenzie?”

  “Evelyn invited me.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “Seeing what there is to see. You’d be surprised how much of what I do is a matter of just showing up.”

  “You know my feelings on the subject.”r />
  “I do.”

  Candy took my hand as if she wanted us to be friends despite our differences.

  “Let’s get some more champagne,” she said.

  *   *   *

  We made our way out of the ballroom. Fellow employees nodded at her and said “good evening,” and Candy nodded and said “good evening” in reply, yet she didn’t pause to speak to anyone, and no one seemed intent on speaking to her until our path was blocked by a woman wearing shoulder-length hair that she had colored Marilyn Monroe blond to hide the gray and a shiny, low-cut black dress that screamed “think of sex.”

  “Candace, dear.” The woman gave Candy an air kiss on both cheeks and stepped back. “How good to see you.”

  “Ms. Randall.”

  Randall turned her attention toward me.

  “And who might you be?”

  Candy was still holding my hand. She lifted it for the woman to see.

  “He’s with me,” Candy said.

  “No doubt, no doubt.” Randall ran her fingers under the lapel of my tux just the way that Candy had earlier. “I bet he’s expensive.”

  I didn’t know if I should be insulted or flattered, so I just smiled and nodded my head

  “Good evening,” Candy said. She meant to lead me away. Once again, Randall blocked our path.

  “Wait,” she said. “I need to speak to Evelyn.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be down at any moment.”

  “In private.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “My, my, haven’t you become the liberated vixen, speaking disrespectfully to your elders.”

  “You got the elder part right, anyway.”

  “I need to speak to Evelyn.”

  “Then go speak to Evelyn.”

  “I want you to arrange it.”

  “No.”

  “Candace, dear—”

  “Pamela, dear. I don’t work for you.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be working for the Szereto Corporation, either.”

  Candy snorted—actually snorted—and pulled my hand. This time she succeeded in leading me away. I glanced at Randall over my shoulder. She didn’t seem angry so much as confused.

  “Look at you,” I said. “Standing up and talking back.”

  “There was a time when I wouldn’t have had the nerve to do that.”

  “I like it. Who was that woman?”

  “Pamela Randall. She’s one of the minority shareholders.”

  “I don’t pretend to know anything about business, but aren’t you supposed to be nice to shareholders?”