by Mike Faricy
I found a grand total of four articles from which to glean Bernadette Driscoll information. One was her obituary. She’d been born in Buhl, Minnesota a small town up north on the Mesabi Iron Range. It seemed her claim to fame in life had been she was married to Gaston Driscoll. Where Gaston was an extrovert with a thumb in uncountable pies, Bernadette Driscoll, from the little I could find, seemed to come across as damn near a recluse.
They had been married for thirty-two years. No children. Apparently she loved her English Springer Spaniels. Other than her obituary, she was mentioned only in passing in three other articles. Based on what I read, her most notable accomplishment had been her attendance at an American Kennel Club show back in 2007.
My phone rang and as I answered I stood and glanced over the grey cubicle walls to see if I could spot Madeline. I could not.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“Hi, Dev, I’m just checking in so you can relax. I’m out of my meeting,” Marsha said.
“How’d it go?” I asked, then checked my watch. It was close to two.
“What a charmer!”
“Really?”
“If you’re into that sort of thing. I’m not, especially under these circumstances.”
“So he took you to lunch?”
“Actually, no, he didn’t. He tried, but I told him I had an appointment then we proceeded to chat. Let me rephrase that, he proceeded to wax eloquent about how wonderful he was. I just had to sit there and pretend to be interested for the better part of an hour.”
“You learn anything?”
“Only that he’s a more pompous butt-head than I thought. I expect to hear from him in a day or two.”
“You made another appointment with him?”
“No, but I gave him my card and wrote my private number on the thing while he tried to look down my blouse. He’ll call.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because, you’re all the same. The only time he took his eyes off my boobs was when I was crossing my legs.”
“He was probably trying to figure out what bra color you were wearing.”
“Red date underwear, not that it’s any of your business.”
I was beginning to understand why Marsha was so sure Driscoll would call her back.
“Look, I just wanted to check in and give you the update. You learn anything?”
“Maybe, nothing earth shattering, but I think I’m beginning to see some coincidences and I don’t really believe in coincidence. Driscoll mention his wife?”
“No, but I really didn’t expect him to. Why?”
“She died in a boating accident a few years back. Might just be an unfortunate incident, I don’t know…”
“Gee, just like on CSI. Cool. Look, I’m dancing the dinner hour, four ‘til midnight so I better run.”
“Dinner hour goes ‘til midnight?”
“You’d be surprised,” she said and hung up.
I went back to my research. I couldn’t find anything else on Bernadette Driscoll. That left me feeling sorry for her, although I couldn’t describe exactly why. I read a couple of dozen more rave reviews about Gaston before I decided to pack it in and rejoin society as I knew it, at The Spot. Madeline was nowhere to be seen, so I signed myself out in the log book and left. On the way over to The Spot I phoned Catherine Lindquist and left a message.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was a sunny, pleasant morning despite my lingering at The Spot until well after midnight the night before. I barely had a chance to make the office coffee when my phone rang.
“Haskell Investigations.”
“May I speak with Mr. Haskell, please?”
The woman on the other end sounded clipped and precise. My first thought was who was suing me now?
“You got him,” I said, resigned to my fate.
“Mr. Haskell, I’m returning a call you placed yesterday afternoon at four-twenty-seven.”
Other than calling Louie and telling him to meet me at The Spot, the only call I made yesterday afternoon was the message I left for Catherine Lindquist.
“Catherine Lindquist?”
“Yes.”
She’d been on the line for all of ten seconds and I’d determined she wasn’t going to be much fun. Then again, given the fact I wanted to discuss her sister’s death that was probably a foregone conclusion, so I plunged ahead.
“May I call you Catherine?”
“What is this about?”
“I wanted to talk to you about your sister.”
“Helen?”
“Yes, I’m a private investigator. I’m working on a case where Helen had a passing involvement with an individual while she worked in the HR department at Touchier & Touchier. I don’t…”
“Those awful people…are you working for them?” There was an immediate edge to her tone.
“Hardly,” I said, playing the angle. “The individual I’m working for was let go from Touchier some years back. It gets rather involved from there. I just wonder if I could meet with you personally?”
“I wouldn’t have any information about that situation or anything else that went on at that dreadful place. After all, Helen worked there, not me, thank God. She gave her heart and soul to those criminals, poor thing. I’m sorry, but I don’t believe I can be of any assistance to you in this matter. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor, but I…”
“Actually, I’m investigating what seems to be shaping up as a similar circumstance to your sister’s. It sounds like you believe she was treated unfairly. The investigation I’m involved in may be heading in a similar direction.”
There was a very long pause.
“Miss Lindquist?”
“I don’t wish to discuss this matter over the phone,” she said.
“I could meet you somewhere…your home or a public place of your choosing if that would help make you feel comfortable.”
“Not my home. Do you know the St. Paul Grill?”
“I do.”
“I could meet this evening for a short while. Six o’clock would work best for me,” she said.
“I’ll be there. I’ll mention you to the hostess and she’ll point you in my direction. If for some reason she doesn’t, just call me at this number and I’ll stand up and wave.”
“Very well, six o’clock. But, I warn you, Mr. Haskell…if this is some sort of scam or it turns out to be another attack on what’s left of Helen’s reputation, I’ll have no problem turning on my heel and walking out.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The St. Paul Grill was located, not surprisingly, in the St. Paul Hotel. The Grill was one of the city’s trendier restaurants, able to comfortably cater to the casual designer-jean and golf-shirt crowd as well as the starched-collar and club-tie set. Although in these times ties, especially club ties, seemed to be few and far between.
I arrived fifteen minutes early. My phone impression of Catherine Lindquist was a woman who wouldn’t tolerate tardiness and was quite capable of sipping a single glass of Perrier with a twist of lemon for most of the night. I’d donned a sport coat and my cleanest, dirty shirt for the occasion.
I was shown to a table near the large bank of windows. The table had a starched white tablecloth and two starched white napkins. Two black wooden chairs with burgundy and gold-stripped-cushion seats were positioned directly across from one another. There was a small votive glass in the center of the table, holding a burning candle with the wine menu resting just in front of it.
“Would you care for a beverage, Sir?”
He sort of looked like Bruce Willis, only taller and with some hair.
“I’d like to wait. Someone is joining me.”
“Very
good.” He nodded and seemed to fade away.
It was still a little too early for the dinner rush, but the bar area was filling. What I presumed was the courthouse crowd drifted through the door in groups of twos and threes, looking ready to relax after a long day of making life miserable for those of us less fortunate. Over the course of the next fifteen minutes the noise level increased perceptibly.
I spotted her as she approached the hostess. She had close-cropped blonde hair and the same upturned nose as her sister’s obituary photo. She was maybe five-six with an extremely slim figure. The sort of figure most women would describe as really cute and most men wouldn’t notice. She had some sort of limp outfit that seemed to hang on her and effectively hide whatever slight curves she possessed. The color was so light blue it almost looked grey and must have carried the ‘boring’ label. She had cinched the thing around her narrow waist with a thin navy blue belt.
I waved as the hostess pointed in my direction. Catherine Lindquist nodded acknowledgement, but didn’t smile. She seemed to take a visibly deep breath before plunging in my direction.
I was on my best behavior and stood as she approached. She glanced from side to side like she was walking point for a platoon in the field. No one bothered to give her or the shapeless outfit a second look.
“Mr. Haskell?” She stood with her hands cupped together, heels touching and her feet spread at a perfect forty-five degree angle. As she said my name, she looked like she should be in a receiving line standing next to the Queen.
“Very pleased to meet you. Call me Dev. May I call you Catherine?” I asked, extending my hand. I felt like I was in some junior high manners class and she was the battleaxe instructor.
“You may,” she said after a short consideration.
“Thank you for coming. Please, please sit down. May I get you something?”
“Perhaps just a sparkling water with a twist of lemon.”
I knew it.
“Two sparkling waters,” I said to the waiter hovering just within ear shot. He nodded and ran off.
She looked at me…actually, no she didn’t. Her blue eyes turned into lasers and she bore holes in me. I was thinking of asking her how she was related to Detective Norris Manning when she interrupted my thoughts.
“You said this was about my sister and someone who was at Touchier with a similar circumstance. It wouldn’t happen to be Daphne Cole, would it?” she asked, then leaned back as the slightest hint of satisfaction spread over her face.
I waited for the smugness to set in, giving myself a mandatory five count before I responded.
“No. Daphne Cole? Who’s that?”
“Oh, I just thought…well, I’d received a call from her, maybe a year, year-and-a-half ago.”
The waiter suddenly appeared and set our sparkling waters and a bowl of bread crusts on the table.
“Would you mind if I took some notes?” I asked, taking a notebook and pen from my coat pocket, hoping their appearance would make it more difficult for her to say ‘no’.
“That depends on what you choose to write. I’ll find it acceptable for now,” she said, then took a barely perceptible sip of water.
I wrote the name Daphne Cole at the top of the page, then set my pen down.
“Catherine, before I ask you about Daphne Cole or your sister, let me tell you what I’m looking into and you tell me if any of this strikes a chord. Other than a one time mention of your sister, Helen. I know of nothing else associated with her. But there is possibly a bit of an unfortunate coincidence, I think…maybe. Let me explain and then you tell me. Fair enough?”
She nodded, then raised the glass of sparkling water to her lips. About the time the water touched her lips she set the glass down. I couldn’t see her doing tequila shots with Marsha anytime soon.
I proceeded to tell her Desi’s story. I told her about Desi’s education, her hard work, and eventually I got around to her affair with Gaston Driscoll. I explained how Desi thought she was set up, how Driscoll cut her loose, let her twist in the wind until everything she’d ever worked for was lost. She interrupted only once, just after I told her about finding Desi’s body and calling the police.
“She’s the woman I recently read about in the paper. I felt like calling the authorities again, but I’d given up on that. The last time I phoned, they told me in no uncertain terms that I was crazy.”
I finished my tale by telling her about reviewing case files and finding her name listed in Helen’s obituary. I didn’t mention Marsha or her appointment with Gaston Driscoll and I didn’t mention Karla.
“So, then who’s paying you?” she asked when I finished.
“No one,” I replied, which was technically true since I still had Karla’s check in my wallet. “I met with Desi only once. She told me her story with something close to a religious fervor and asked me for help. She told me I was her last shot. Looking back I think I was her only chance. She was broke, desperate, no one believed her and then there was Driscoll’s shining reputation stacked up against her more tarnished one. So I looked her in the eye, and I told her I wasn’t interested. She shook my hand and walked away. Shortly after that, someone murdered her. I was her last shot and I blew it. Who’s paying me? With all due respect, Catherine, I think I owe a God damn debt.”
“And you believe that if you catch the fellow who murdered her, that will even the score?” Her eyes were back to boring in on me like lasers.
I thought about that. Would catching the bastard even the score? Not really. The damn sparkling water suddenly wasn’t cutting it. I signaled a waiter, then looked across the table at Catherine Lindquist.
“Look, nothing I can do is going to even the score. I believe I screwed up, big time. But I hope I can nail whoever killed Desi, and then I’m going to deal with whoever is ultimately responsible.”
“Sir…” The waiter nodded. He’d heard my last statement and looked just a little nervous.
“Jameson, on the rocks,” I said, then looked across the table to see if she understood what I had been trying to say.
“Ma’am?” the waiter asked.
“Maker’s Mark,” she said. “And you can take this.” She pushed her glass of sparkling water toward the edge of the table, then redirected her attention to me once the waiter departed. She suddenly seemed to relax a bit.
“I think Helen might have mentioned that dismissal. I believe it was her first experience with that sort of thing. You know, a dismissal and escorting someone out of the building. At least I think it may have been her first experience on that high a level. If I recall, she mentioned this woman, your friend Desi, was in line to be made partner. Helen was rather upset by the whole thing. It was quite the news all around the firm from what I gather. Well, and then of course the charges and the poor woman’s subsequent trial. Actually, I think it may have either been the beginning or the cementing of her relationship with that dreadful Driscoll. Although, she gave me no indication of that fact at the time.”
“Relationship?”
We chatted on about things in general. Catherine did most of the talking and although her information on Touchier & Touchier wasn’t current it was better than the information I didn’t have. Eventually we ordered dinner.
I’d finished a second Jameson and was busy cutting into my dinner steak, listening to Catherine.
“Once I learned of Helen’s affair with that Driscoll person, I repeatedly warned her. In fact, I warned her so often it became a point of contention between the two of us and we didn’t need that. What we needed was one another. Then Driscoll took another bed-mate, and just like I had warned, Helen found herself on the outside looking in. The next thing you know she lost her job and her world collapsed like a house of cards. No job, no income, the economy was shot, she had a mortgage, everyone was out of work. Do you know how many people were hiring in
those days, let alone hiring for their Human Resources department? Exactly zero, no one.”
I nodded.
“Helen told me once that she had spoken with a friend at a large insurance company out in Omaha or Des Moines or somewhere. She was one of something like seventeen-hundred people applying for the entry level position they had. She said they eliminated her application because she was too qualified. Can you imagine? Too qualified, my Lord. She worked so hard, so damn hard.”
I nodded. A couple of nearby tables were suddenly watching us.
“She eventually lost her home. Of course, her job had been who Helen was. It allowed her to do all the other good things that she did. And she was a good person, Mr. Haskell, a very good person.”
“Is that when she began drinking?”
Catherine looked at me for a good long moment. She just stared. Actually, she was looking through me. I had the feeling she could see my very soul. Finally, she shook her head.
“My God, as if life wasn’t cruel enough. Helen didn’t drink.”
“But they found that open bottle in her car. Her blood alcohol was almost three times the legal limit. Why else would she have gone…”
“I’m telling you Helen didn’t drink. She couldn’t. She had some sort of reaction to alcohol, almost like she was allergic to it. She would get violently ill. We used to laugh as girls.” Tears were suddenly welling up in her eyes. “Helen was the perfect double date. I could pound them down and she couldn’t drink. The next morning she’d be able to tell me everything that had happened the night before. Three times the legal limit? In thirty-plus years she couldn’t drink half-a-glass of wine before she was throwing up.”
“But the autopsy results…I mean, they were pretty conclusive.”
Catherine shook her head. “Autopsy results,” she scoffed. “Look, I can’t tell you what happened. All I know is she didn’t drink, and by the way she couldn’t swim either. She was afraid to even be around boats, scared stiff. So to suggest she consumed that quantity of alcohol and then drove out on a frozen lake in March, in the middle of a spring thaw? It’s just not credible, it’s preposterous.”
