“You know what you two need?” I said. “Someone to manage quality control. But never fear. I’ll be happy to taste-test all those cookies for you.”
“Listen to this,” Nina said.
“You can only have a couple of the coconut macaroons,” Erica said. “I’m going to freeze the rest and take them back to Tulane with me.”
“They don’t have coconut macaroons in New Orleans?” I asked.
“Not the way Mom makes them, dipped in chocolate. Try one.”
I did. Delicious.
“What else do we have here?” I surveyed the counters where the cookies were set to cool. “Peanut butter blossoms, snickerdoodles, gingerbread, cinnamon pinwheels, walnut balls—hey? Where are the sugar cookies?”
“In the oven, you philistine,” Nina said.
“Want me to put sprinkles on them for you?” Erica asked.
“Wouldja? But no frosting. I hate it when they’re frosted.”
Nina rolled her eyes.
“I spoke to Malcolm,” Erica said. “He called right before you got home. He said that he told you to drop the investigation; said it like I was supposed to make sure that you did. I’m sorry about all this, McKenzie.”
“Don’t worry about it. These are different.” I pointed at small, round chocolate cookies topped with chocolate glaze and white sprinkles. “What are these?”
“Mostaccioli,” Nina said. “New recipe. Try one.”
I did. Both mother and daughter watched while I chewed.
“These are amazing,” I said.
“You can’t go by him,” Erica said. “He likes everything you do.”
“It’s such a pain,” Nina said.
“I don’t know how you put up with it.”
“What can I say? It’s the burden I carry.”
“You see me standing here, right?” I said.
“McKenzie, what happened with Malcolm last night?” Erica asked. “Do you know?”
“No. I take it he didn’t tell you.”
“He refused to talk about it. I made out a list like you asked of all the people I know that Malcolm knows. The only names I could think of are my friends that I introduced him to or people at Tulane. It didn’t occur to me until now that he’s never introduced me to any of his friends from around here, which is odd. Most of the men I’ve known, they like to show me off.”
Nina’s head came up. “Beware of men like that,” she said.
“You say that the same way you tell me to drive carefully when it rains and wear a hat when it’s cold.”
“We lose most of our body heat through the top of the head. Everyone knows that.”
“You are such a mom.” Erica hugged Nina playfully and kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re cute, too. Isn’t she cute, McKenzie?”
“Yep,” I said.
The ringtone on my cell phone is the opening to “West End Blues,” a fifteen-second trumpet cadenza during which Louis Armstrong altered the course of American music. Erica heard it and said, “Haven’t you changed that yet?”
And they call me a philistine.
Caller ID said that the caller’s name had been blocked, never a good sign. I answered the phone anyway.
“McKenzie,” I said.
A male voice spoke with as much menace as it could muster. “You don’t know me but I know you,” it said. “I know where you live.”
I forced myself to sigh heavily. I had been threatened over the phone before and figured I was about to be threatened again. I found the prospect unnerving, so I did what I nearly always did when someone shoved me out of my comfort zone—I shifted into smartass mode.
“Okay, but make it good,” I said.
“What?”
“Your threat. Pretend that you’re on America’s Got Talent and you really want to wow the judges. Ready? Go.”
There was a long pause.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“You’re not a policeman. No one is going to care if something happens to you.”
“And…”
“Keep your nose out of what is none of your business and you won’t get hurt.”
“Could you be more specific? I have my nose in so many different things these days that are none of my business.”
“You’ve been warned.”
“Nope, nope, sorry. Just not a convincing performance. My advice—get more practice, clarify your message, come back and try again.”
The phone went dead.
“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”
I slipped the cell back into my pocket.
“Did someone just threaten you?” Nina asked.
“Yeah, but it was a weak attempt.”
“Why?” Erica asked. “Why did they threaten you? Was it because of Malcolm and his father?”
“I honestly don’t know. Maybe they’ll tell me next time.”
“Next time? You think they’ll call again?”
Nina hugged her daughter with the same playfulness with which Erica had hugged her.
“You act like this is something new,” she said. “Believe me, it happens all the time.”
THIRTEEN
It was quiet. Too quiet. I preferred noise, even at 9:00 A.M. I thought of putting on some music, one of the vinyl records recorded by New Orleans jazz bands that Erica gave me for Christmas—along with a Preservation Hall Jazz Band T-shirt—and cranking the volume all the way to eleven; I had speakers hidden in nooks and crannies throughout the condo. Only Erica was still in bed because she was a college kid home for the holidays and never roused herself before noon, and Nina was still in bed because she owned a high-class saloon and often didn’t return home until the wee hours of the morning. You’re thinking, There is such a thing as headphones. Nina bought me a set a long time ago, except I hardly ever use them. Music just doesn’t sound the same coming through headphones or earbuds, I don’t know why.
So I sat, uncomfortable in the silence, staring at my landline, wondering if I should call Detective Clark Downing of the New Brighton Police Division or wait for him to contact me. I had sent him a text containing the license plate number I wanted him to check. He said he’d get back to me on Monday. Well, it was Monday.
I reached for the phone, removed it from the cradle, and heard a ping. My first thought—when did the phone start pinging? My second—my PC was announcing that I had received an e-mail. I hung up the phone and checked my account. Sure enough, it was from Downing. The subject line read: license plate number. The body copy read: I got nothing. How about you?
I opened the attachment. It told me that the license plate belonged to Rebecca Denise Crawford and listed her address in St. Louis Park. Date of birth: 02-07-1989. Sex: F. Eyes: BRN. Height: 5'6". Weight: 125. She was listed as an organ donor. She had no criminal record, not as much as a parking ticket.
I ran the name through various search engines on my computer to learn what I could about her and came up empty. There were a surprising number of Rebecca, Becky, and Becca Crawfords out there—at least I was surprised—yet none with the middle name Denise and a Minnesota address. She didn’t have an account with Facebook, Pinterest, Twitter, Instagram, or any other social media outlet that I could find; nor was she affiliated with business sites such as LinkedIn. She had not uploaded a résumé on any of the more prominent job sites; nor was she listed in the alumni directory of any of Minnesota’s forty-four colleges and universities. After a while I became so frustrated that I broke down and processed her name and address through a few of the for-profit people-finder Web sites and discovered that they were no more efficient than I was.
This is a woman who values her privacy, my inner voice told me.
I did a property tax search through the Hennepin County Web site to assure myself that Crawford, Rebecca D. did, in fact, own property at the address in St. Louis Park with an estimated market value of $284,000.
The D gave me an idea. I searched again, this time looking for R. D. Crawford. Most of the hits were for addresses fo
und on a dozen different Crawford Roads scattered throughout the country or for roads located in the various towns named Crawford. I kept at it, though, and found several Roberts, one Roberta, a couple of Richards, and a dress store in Atlanta that didn’t explain what its initials stood for. I was about to lose heart when I came across the Web site of a graphic design company in Chicago that promoted itself by displaying the work it had produced for its better-known paying clients—including last year’s annual report for Barek Cosmetics, Inc. Among the sample pages it displayed was the report’s table of contents, with these lines.
Photographer: Montgomery Leddy
Writers: Sarah Carrell, Charles Martin
Contributors: Renee Bennett, R. D. Crawford, Peter Sisco
I had to let that sink in for a moment.
Is this the same person? my inner voice asked.
I went to the official Barek Cosmetics Web site. It provided a ton of information about its products—there were quite a few of them—and the stores across the country where they could be purchased, yet nothing about the parent company itself; not even its location. There was a Wikipedia page, except it only told me that Barek was founded in 1974 and its headquarters was in Minneapolis. It did provide a link, however, labeled “corporate inquiries.” I clicked on it and was directed to a page that offered additional links for distributor and affiliate information as well as employment information. The page also listed the company’s address and an 800 number. I dialed it. A metallic voice told me that if I knew my party’s extension I should input it now or otherwise wait for an operator. I waited. Barek apparently didn’t like the song “The Girl from Ipanema,” because it played the absolute worst cover of it that the company could find. Eventually, an operator came on and asked for the name of my party.
“Rebecca Crawford,” I told her.
A moment later, the operator told me she did not have a listing for Rebecca, but there was an R. D. Crawford in the Department for Research and Development.
“Yes.” I tried hard to contain my excitement. “Rebecca Denise Crawford.”
“Please hold.”
A moment later a woman said, “This is Rebecca.” Before I could say anything, she added, “I’m unable to answer the phone right now…”
I hung up without listening to the rest of the message.
At some point during all of this, Nina had materialized in the kitchen area and poured herself a cup of coffee. She was watching me from the island. I don’t know if it was my smile or the way I did a little dance behind my desk, but she asked, “What?”
“I love detective work,” I told her.
* * *
What do we know? my inner voice asked.
We know that Rebecca Denise Crawford works R&D for Barek Cosmetics.
We know that she and Diane Dauria are passing notes during late-night meetings.
We know that Barek Cosmetics has accused the Szereto Corporation of stealing trade secrets.
We know that Diane is anxious that we know.
How is this going to help us find out who killed Frank Harris or Jonny Szereto?
That we don’t know.
What do we know?
You keep asking that.
Well?
We know that Malcolm was keen on finding out what happened to his father until he met someone on New Year’s Eve who gave him a hickey.
Who?
He won’t tell me. Or Detective Downing. Or Erica, for that matter.
Who would he tell?
I thought about that long and hard before I came up with an answer—his mother.
Now the big question—why do you still care?
Good question. I felt a little like a historian working a Rubik’s Cube, twisting the sides this way and that until it gave me a clear picture of what happened at such and such a time in such and such a place—but to what purpose? Usually with my cases—I didn’t know what else to call them—I had a goal in mind, a specific outcome. But with Malcolm quitting on me, who was I helping? Who was I protecting? Who was I punishing? What good was I doing?
Well, you did promise Evelyn Szereto, sorta.
I went to the closet for a hat and coat, telling Nina that there were a few things that needed doing. She told me that she and her daughter had reservations for an English high tea complete with finger sandwiches and pastries at a shop in Anoka.
Nina raised her voice. “Assuming Erica ever gets up.”
Erica replied from her bedroom. “You don’t love me.”
“It should take most of the afternoon, so we might not be here when you get back.”
“Save a scone for me,” I told her.
* * *
I had no idea what kind of reception I would receive when I rang Jayne Harris’s bell. I steeled myself against the possibility she would tell me to get lost and slam the door in my face. Instead, she seemed delighted to see me, even gave me another hug.
“I didn’t thank you properly for what you did last Friday,” Jayne told me. “Dropping everything to help the way you did. It was so generous.”
“I was relieved beyond words that it all worked out as well as it did.”
Laying it on a little thick, aren’t you, pal? my inner voice said.
“Come in, come in,” Jayne said. “It’s so gray today. They say there’s a twenty percent chance of rain. Rain. Do you believe that? Not snow. Rain—in Minnesota—in January.”
She didn’t really care about the weather, I decided. It was just something that women in Minnesota often use as an icebreaker before engaging in an important conversation. With men it’s usually how badly they expect the Vikings to suck.
“How is Malcolm?” I asked.
“He seems fine. Happier than he’s been … well, for a long time. It’s like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders.”
“I wonder why.”
“He won’t tell me. When I ask, he giggles. Twenty-one years old, for God’s sake, and he giggles like a girl. Is that the reason you came over today, McKenzie? Because you want to know why?”
“Don’t you?”
“No.” Jayne took a deep breath and closed her eyes. They snapped open with her exhale. “Yes. For a long time I didn’t care. I saw how not knowing affected Malcolm, and I still didn’t care. Now he seems at peace with what happened to Frank, and I realize that I never have been; that I was just pretending. I don’t know what to do about it.”
“Where is Malcolm?”
Jayne waved absently at the door. “Out,” she said.
“Did he tell you where he was New Year’s Eve?’”
“Does it matter?”
“It might matter immensely.”
“He said he was with Sloane—Sloane Dauria. She arrived just as he was leaving. He told her that he was tired of the party and was going home. She said she didn’t want to be surrounded by a lot of people either and invited him to her apartment. He accepted. Wouldn’t you?”
“At his age? Probably.”
“They rendezvoused at the park and then drove to St. Paul together. McKenzie, you should have seen his body, the hickeys on his chest and—the girl marked her territory. She’s worse than her mother. No, that’s not fair. Sloane’s just—we say ‘red-blooded American boy.’ Well, Sloane is a ‘red-blooded American girl.’ Maybe that’s why Mal is so happy all of a sudden, because he spent the night with her. What do they call it? Emotionally focused therapy?”
“Among other things.”
“Maybe I should get out there myself; find someone to take care of me like he did. Like Diane did. Diane—what a mess.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad.”
“How’s Katie taking it?”
“Hard to say. The woman is incapable of hate. She gets as angry as anyone, only it never lasts for long because she can’t bring herself to hate the thing she’s angry at. If it was me, if Diane had slept with Malcolm—McKenzie, you don’t still believe I killed my husband, do you?”
I couldn’t eliminate her as a suspect. Not yet, anyway. But her name was so far down on my list that I was able to say no and make her believe it.
“Malcolm doesn’t seem to care anymore. Either that or he’s put up a façade like the one I’ve been hiding behind for the past year. I care, though. It’s time I admitted it. McKenzie, if you could find out what happened to Frank for me…”
“I’ll do my best.”
* * *
I don’t take money from the people I do favors for. Still, I told myself, it was nice to actually have “a client.” Made me think I was doing all of this for someone’s good and not just to satisfy my own morbid curiosity.
Jayne had given me Sloane Dauria’s address, and I drove into St. Paul looking for it. The search took me to Merriam Park, where I grew up. There was the house where I lived with my father after Mom died, the Church of St. Mark where the funeral services were held and its companion elementary school, the corner where the Burger Chef used to be, the library now New! and Improved!, St. Thomas University, the Merriam Park Recreational Center, and across the street the house where Bobby Dunston lived with Shelby and their two girls; the house where he grew up, where I often sought refuge from my loneliness.
I thought of stopping in. They plus Nina and Erica made up the extent of my family. Without them, I would feel outnumbered.
What the Dead Leave Behind Page 18
