What the Dead Leave Behind

by David Housewright

  “It’s ten o’clock.”

  “That’s my point.”

  “If you must know, I’m going to brunch.”

  “On a Tuesday?”

  “People have brunch on Tuesdays.”

  “They do?”

  “Just because your idea of brunch is hanging at Mom’s club on Sunday morning chugging mimosas and listening to jazz.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  Erica asked about my wrist again. My impression, she thought I might have left something out when I told her the story the night before. I hadn’t, but that was then. Now I had Ronald Cardiff’s driver’s license sitting face up on my desk. Unlike Rebecca Denise Crawford, he had been an easy research subject, appearing on all manner of Web sites. Turned out Cardiff had been a boxer back in the day, a middleweight who went by the name “Kid Cardiff,” which explained his stance when he came at me in the parking lot. He had a twelve-and-twelve record, then became a sparring partner for Caleb Truax when Golden was coming up. Age forced him out of the game, Father Time being the one true undisputed champion, and he went on to tend bar in a couple of decent spots over on the East Side. His skirmishes with the law had all been of the public intoxication and disorderly conduct variety. His biggest jolt was a thousand-dollar fine for tuning up a couple of guys that had been unimpressed by his ring record in an exceedingly loud and challenging manner. What I couldn’t do was connect him to Crawford or Szereto or anyone else I was investigating. I thought maybe his partner was the link and wished I had taken the time to learn his name.

  “You’re sure it had nothing to do with Malcolm,” Erica said.

  “Pretty sure.”

  “Well then, try to stay out of trouble. I’ll see you later.”

  “Who are you going to brunch with—just in case your mother asks?”

  “Malcolm.”

  “Ahh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you seen him lately?”

  “You mean have I seen his new body art? We’re just friends, right? That’s what I keep telling him, so if he wants to let some MMA pug mark him like that, what’s it to me, right? I’ve got no right to complain, right? Doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends, does it? I’ll be seeing him at Tulane, anyway; all the people we have in common down there … McKenzie, am I an idiot?”

  “I never thought so.”

  “Sometimes I think so.”

  “Do me a favor. Ask Malcolm if he knows what happened to Katie Meyer.”

  “Who’s Katie Meyer?”

  “Friend of the family. Ask him and then tell me how he reacts.”

  “Is this going to cause a scene?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Then I’ll be sure to get a table in the center of the restaurant. McKenzie, men can be such—morons.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Women, too.”

  “Make sure he picks up the tab.”

  “Oh, I will.”

  *   *   *

  An hour later, Jack McKasy led me into the Szereto house. We passed through the living room to a den that I had missed the last time I was there. It was a man’s room—leather, wood, stone, and books, a cluttered desk, and a cabinet with rifles, shotguns, and a few handguns behind a glass front. There was a bar in the corner. On one wall, an elegantly dressed man of advanced middle age stood casually next to a straight-back chair; the king comfortable in his domain. On another was an equally huge oil painting of a beautiful young woman wearing an ivory gown and a knowing smile; Evelyn Szereto forty years ago. She seemed to be staring at the man and he at her across the expanse of time and space. Today’s Evelyn stood waiting in the center of the room when we entered, her makeup and clothes model-perfect, a slight grin on her face that was very close to the one in the painting.

  “I have to admire your audacity, McKenzie,” she said. “Very few people would dare blow me off like you have the past couple of days.”

  “I assure you, Mrs. Szereto, I have nothing but your best interests at heart.”

  “Uh-huh. Thank you, Jack. You may go.”

  The dynamic had changed since I had seen the two of them together New Year’s Eve. So much so that Jack’s response to being dismissed was to hug Evelyn’s shoulder and kiss her cheek. He was looking directly at me when he said, “I’ll see you later, darling,” before leaving the room.

  Evelyn frowned and shook her head slightly as if the gesture had upset her yet she didn’t know what to do about it. She decided to put it on me.

  “This is what comes from your snooping around,” she said.

  “It’s only snooping if you learn something you’re not supposed to.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then I apologize, although Jack seems happy that your relationship is no longer a secret.”

  “No longer a secret from you. I have no desire for the rest of the world to know my business.”

  “The rest of the world won’t hear it from me.”

  “I’ll hold you to that. Now that you do know about Jack and me, though, what do you think?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Yes, McKenzie, I do.”

  “You could do better.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “My experience, the best relationships are between equals.”

  “I have money and he doesn’t, is that what you’re thinking?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “The other part—he’s so much younger than me?”

  “That factors into it as well.”

  “I’m surprised at you, discriminating because of age. McKenzie, you’re a prude.”

  “Seems I’m becoming one as I get older, God help me. Except that’s not what I meant. Older women and younger men—I’ve been seeing a lot of that lately, and I don’t care. Just the other day I told a woman who’s approximately your age that she ought to go out and get her groove on.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Angela Bassett? How Stella Got Her Groove Back?”

  “Oh, yeah. The movie. But if not that, McKenzie, what did you mean?”

  “I have already been told today that I have a cynical and suspicious nature.”

  “You think Jack’s only with me for my money? After all these years? What a terrible thing to say.”

  “I didn’t actually say it. Besides, isn’t that what you thought when Vanessa started seeing your son?” I gestured at the painting of the middle-aged man. “Isn’t that what people thought when you became involved with Mr. Szereto? And so on and so forth?”

  Evelyn gazed at the painting.

  “I actually posed for my portrait,” she said. “The artist painted Jonathan from a photograph. The man never could sit still for very long. He was angry about the things some people said when we married, although he never showed it. There was nothing to gain by lashing out, he said. Time would change people’s opinion of us. I told him that it was all right, I didn’t mind; told him that the only opinion I cared about was his. Except I did mind. It hurt, the things people said about us. Or rather what they said about me. No one seemed to care that an older man married a much younger woman. It was the other way round they objected to. I’ve never forgiven the world for that bit of hypocrisy. Does that surprise you, McKenzie? That I would carry a grudge all these years?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Surprises me, sometimes. Are you going to tell me about your arm?”

  I did.

  “Does this Crawford creature work for me?” Evelyn asked.

  “On and off.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Tell me—was Jonny trying to sell the Szereto Corporation?”

  “God no! Who would tell you such nonsense?”

  “It seems to be common knowledge.”

  “It’s common knowledge that buyers sometimes come sniffing around. The Europeans
. Many companies that are successful but comparably small, like ours, generate that kind of interest. That’s why it was so important to Jonathan that the family maintain two-thirds of the voting stock, so it would be easy to rebuff such rumors.”

  “Two-thirds with Candy Groot.”

  “She’s been with us for so long now, she might as well be family.”

  “So when the Europeans made their offer, it was Jonny who turned them down.”

  “Yes.”

  “I was told that it was Vanessa who said no, after Jonny was killed.”

  “I don’t know where you got your information, McKenzie, but you had better go back and get some more.”

  “Okay.”

  “What exactly are you implying, anyway?”

  “Could someone have believed the rumors that the Szereto Corporation was up for sale? Someone outside the family? One of your shareholders, for example?”

  “Like who?”

  “Pamela Randall.”

  “She knows better.”

  “Some guy, I think his name is Neil.”

  “Tall man, dyes his temples gray?”

  “Sounds right.”

  “Neil Lohn—one of those people who do nothing all day but look for things to complain about. He’s made it clear on several occasions that he doesn’t care for how we run the company, doesn’t believe in profit sharing.”

  “If that’s how he feels, why doesn’t he sell his holdings?”

  “Because we’re making him money.”

  “How much money would he make if you sold Szereto?”

  Evelyn paused.

  “The short-term rewards would be enormous, but not as great as the long-term gains he’d receive if we didn’t sell, though,” she said.

  “Yet he still would have been unhappy that Jonny refused to sell the company.”

  Evelyn paused some more.

  “A lot of shareholders would prefer that we chase the quick buck. But you know what? McKenzie—do you know who Ricky Nelson was?”

  “Pop singer from the fifties, wasn’t he? Fifties and sixties?”

  “He had a great song late in his career, “Garden Party,” where he sang you can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself.”

  “Words to live by.”

  “Especially if you’re rich, like us.”

  Yeah, I’m sure that’s what Ricky was thinking, my inner voice said.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of talking since I arrived,” I said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You called me, remember? You said you wanted to tell me what was on your mind.”

  “Oh, yes. It was nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I just wanted to check on your progress.”

  *   *   *

  I didn’t believe her. Evelyn had wanted to tell me something and then changed her mind. It had to be because of something I told her. I reviewed our conversation during the long drive from Lake Minnetonka back into downtown Minneapolis but couldn’t think what it was. I thought Pamela Randall might have part of the answer, so I drove to her condominium about a mile from mine on the other side of the Mississippi. An earnest young man in a well-pressed blue suit passed me from the security station in the lobby to her door on the top floor. Pamela pulled open the door with a yip of welcome and the kind of seductive smile that Rebecca Crawford had tried for but had been unable to manage.

  “Come in, dear, come in,” she said.

  Her hair was piled on her head, and she was wearing an oversized man’s blue dress shirt with a button-down collar, plenty of paint smudges, and nothing else that I could see except the single strand of pearls around her neck and the red polish on her toes. She took my hand the way Candy Groot had at the New Year’s Eve party and led me through her condo; unlike Nina and me, she had plenty of rooms. Eventually we found ourselves in a corner studio bathed in natural light that was littered with paintings, many of them unframed. A floor easel had been set near the glass, along with a table covered with painting supplies and a stool. There was a half-finished canvas on the easel.

  “My sanctuary,” Pamela said.

  “Nice.”

  “I have embarked on a career as an artist. This is my fourth, by the way. Careers, I mean.”

  “Nice,” I said again.

  “There’s a poet named Jenny Joseph who wrote that when she’s an old woman she’ll wear purple. To hell with that. I’m not waiting till I’m old. I’m going to wear purple now. In fact, my panties are purple. Do you want to see?”

  “I told myself when I woke up this morning that there wasn’t enough sexual tension in my life.”

  Pamela thought that was awfully funny. Instead of lifting her shirt, though, she pulled me over to the easel. A combination of paint and pencil drawings revealed a picture of a fifteenth-century queen sitting on her throne, her legs pulled up under her gown, her head resting on her knees, and smiling at a young courtier who was doing his best to entertain her. Meanwhile, an older man, who was also wearing a crown, stood watching from a distance, stroking his beard as if he were wondering if there was something going on. It reminded me of a painting I had seen before. I couldn’t remember its name, but I remembered the artist—Edmund Leighton.

  “What do you think?” Pamela asked.

  “You’re channeling the Pre-Raphaelites.”

  “A little bit. I’m trying to give historical scenes, medieval and Regency, a modern sensibility. I’m impressed that you would know that.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but from time to time, I’ll even read a book.”

  “Smartass.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She released my hand and made herself comfortable on the stool, letting the tails of her shirt slide up her bare thighs. Standing in front of her I could see down her shirt, and sitting in the only empty chair in the room would let me see up it, so I found a spot on the wall that I could lean against and not see anything. Pamela seemed to enjoy my discomfort and added to it by running her fingertips gently over her pearls.

  “What’s the line?” she asked. “I know nothing about art, but I know what I like.”

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Do what, dear?”

  “My ego appreciates the gesture, but I’m in a committed relationship.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Good for you.” Pamela folded her hands in her lap. “But committed relationship—not with Candy Groot?”

  “No.”

  “Or the little princess?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I don’t think Nina Truhler would approve.”

  That raised an eyebrow.

  “I said if you gave me a day I would learn everything there is to know about you,” Pamela said. “You’re a bit of a scoundrel, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “According to the newspapers, you’ve been involved in a number of sordid incidents, yet you were never quoted directly. Why is that?”

  “I’m anxious to keep a low profile.”

  “That makes you a rarity in today’s YouTube world, doesn’t it?” Pamela made a production out of crossing her legs. “It’s with great pride that I tell you that most men love to talk to me.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  She made a rueful face that quickly gave way to a practiced and charming smile.

  “Obviously, you didn’t come here to hit on me, more’s the pity,” Pamela said. “So tell me, dear, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “What can you tell me about Jonathan Szereto Jr.?”

  Pamela stared at me, her eyes slightly narrowed the way some people’s do when they’re trying to read something that’s very small.

  “Are you asking on Evelyn’s behalf?” she said.

  “You might say I’m looking for a less personal perspective.”

  “You’re unsure Evelyn is telling you the tru
th, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, is that it?”

  “She’s his mother.”

  “Mother to the boy king. He would never have turned me down like you did. Jonny was what my generation called a womanizer.”

  “He was married.”

  “So?”

  “His wife was extraordinarily attractive.”

  “So? McKenzie, you should know, cheating isn’t about what you have. It’s about what you want, and men like Jonny want everything they can grab hold of all the time.”

  “He was that selfish?”

  “He was that much of a narcissist. Exactly what do you want to know, anyway?”

  “I overheard your conversation with the gray-haired gentlemen Friday night,” I said.

  “I know. I’m surprised they didn’t hear Neil in Taylors Falls. What about it?”

  “From what he said, I got the impression that the Szereto Corporation had been up for sale at one time.”

  “A lot of people thought that; the minority shareholders. Things were happening at the company—budgets were slashed, pay frozen, training ignored, travel moratoriums issued, more work being outsourced. Senior leaders started jumping ship and weren’t replaced. Web site and marketing material wasn’t being updated. Reviews and sales goals were pushed back. There was no buzz, no new initiatives, no future plans.”

  “I was told that was all a result of very poor management.”

  “Could well have been,” Pamela said. “A lot of the shareholders, myself included, thought so at the time, which didn’t make anyone happy, believe me. But then we heard that Jonny had approached the Europeans.”

  “They didn’t come to him?”

  “He went to them to gauge their interest.”

  “Evelyn denies it.”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “If Jonny was actually attempting to sell the company…”

  “I wouldn’t trust Evelyn as far as I could throw this building, but you might need to give her the benefit of a doubt on that one. News of an impending sale gets out; more often than not a company’s value will rise. Jonny could have been attempting to goose our stock price.”

  “For what purpose, if he wasn’t selling?”

  “Improve the company’s profile, make it easier to raise capital, convince vendors and customers to accept long-term contracts—a lot of reasons. Nothing came of it, though. I knew it wouldn’t at the time. The family actually selling the Szereto Corporation? The old man would have rolled over in his grave.”