Mortal Friends

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  The intercom system posed a special challenge for Amber. After a week, she still wasn’t quite sure what numbers she had to punch to buzz my office. One morning, she came running up the steps, announcing, “There’s, like, this old guy here to see you?” ending that sentence, as she ended almost all her others, with an inquisitive inflection.

  “Did you get his name?”

  “Oh, I forgot. I’m like really sorry. But he’s in, like, this, like uniform…?”

  I heaved a weary sigh and got up from my desk. “Try and ask who it is next time, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure! I almost did. And then, I, like, forgot?”

  I walked downstairs hoping it was the “like” police coming to cart Amber away. I was astonished to see Maxwell standing there in his chauffeur’s cap and coat, holding the cookie tin. He was red-faced from the cold.

  “Maxwell!” I cried. “How nice to see you!”

  He nodded sheepishly. “I’m just in the neighborhood with Mr. Poll, and, uh, I been meaning to return this to you,” he said, handing me the tin. “Cookies were delicious like you said. Just like back home. Better even.”

  “That’s so sweet of you, Maxwell. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to thank you, ma’am,” he said with great sincerity and what I thought was a hint of nostalgia. “You were always kind to me.”

  He said this in such a way that it made me think that perhaps the new Mrs. Poll was not always kind to him.

  The Rolls was parked outside the shop at a meter. I was dying to ask him what Bob was doing in the neighborhood, but I felt awkward mentioning him. Maxwell inquired after Rosina. I told him she was down in Uruguay, getting married. I introduced him to Amber. They shook hands. I couldn’t imagine what the staid chauffeur made of Miss Gold Lamé in her halter top, stretch pants, and big hoop earrings. But he seemed to take it in stride.

  “Amber, Maxwell. Maxwell, Amber. Amber…you see that beautiful car out there?” I said, pointing out the front window to the Rolls. “That’s Maxwell’s car.”

  “Oooh, like, wow! That is like so hot!” Amber said, peering out the window for a closer look.

  I winked at Maxwell. He was asking me about Rosina and her marriage when Amber said with alarm, “Hey, there’s, like, this guy out there, looking in the car…?”

  Maxwell rushed to the window. It was Bob, clearly searching for Maxwell. Bob gazed directly into the shop. I wasn’t sure if he saw me, but I knew he saw Amber. You couldn’t miss her. She looked as out of place as a kewpie doll in a museum. Bob ogled her for a few seconds, then continued up the block in search of his driver.

  “Darn, I gotta go!” Maxwell said hurriedly. “Nice to see you again, Miss Lynch.”

  Maxwell ran after Bob and escorted him back to the car. I could see Bob chewing him out as Maxwell opened the door for him. Just before ducking into the car, Bob glanced back at the shop. I thought he caught a glimpse of me, but I wasn’t sure. Amber gave him a little wave.

  “That other old guy’s real cute,” she said. “You know him?”

  “I used to.”

  I watched the car drive off.

  “So, like, that’s, like, the older guy’s car, right?”

  “Right.” I sighed.

  “Really nice, huh? What is it?”

  “A vintage Rolls Royce—probably old enough to be your grandfather.”

  “Cool.”

  A little later on, Amber came up to my office and said, “Um, Ms. Lynch, I have, like, real bad cramps. You think maybe I could, like, have the afternoon off, if that’s okay?”

  “Sure. Absolutely. You go home and rest. And if you want tomorrow off, take that too! By all means.”

  “Actually, I gotta go over to my friend, Julie’s, tomorrow, ’cause, like, um, we’ve got this thing tomorrow night, um—”

  “Whatever, hon. You just go. And don’t you worry. Come back whenever you feel like it. I’m sure I’ll survive without you. Oh, and if you want that cookie tin, feel free…”

  I couldn’t wait for Rosina to get back home.

  The next day, Amber didn’t show up, much to my relief. She didn’t show up the day after that either. I was manning the shop by myself, figuring out a gentle way to fire her, when who should walk in but Senator Grider. He was wearing an ill-fitting navy blue suit, a white shirt, and a red-and-white polka-dot tie. He was taller than I remembered, nearly six feet. He had a stringy, taut physique and a lopsided but athletic gait, like an arthritic ex-marathoner. I was surprised to see him, as abrupt as he’d been the last time we spoke.

  “Well, well, well, Senator…. And what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “My niece is getting married, and I need to get her a present.”

  “Great! I can definitely help you there. Do you have a price range?”

  “Well, she’s my only sister’s only child, so I guess I kinda better splurge. Say twenty dollars?”

  I paused. “You’re kidding, right?”

  He paused. “Yup. Just wanted to see if you’d notice…. Nice place you got here. Homey. Well, fancy homey. My wife liked antiques. I don’t really understand them myself. To me a chair’s a chair. Long as you can sit in it comfortably, it doesn’t have to look like something you’d win at a fair.”

  “Shall we look around for a present for your niece? Do you have any idea what she might like?”

  “Dorcas is like her mother. No matter what you get her, she’s gonna hate it.”

  “I have a suggestion…. Is Dorcas registered anywhere?”

  “Registered?”

  “Yes. Brides usually register at a certain store to avoid getting things they don’t like. They pick out things they need and want, and people buy those things for them. That way everybody’s happy.”

  He guffawed. “Dorcas won’t be happy till Judgment Day. But it’s a fine suggestion. I’ll ask her mother where she’s registered.”

  “Not that I want to do myself out of a sale,” I said. “So if you see anything you think she might like, feel free.”

  He looked down and shuffled his feet. “Truth is, I do see something I like…. Well, uh, what I mean is, I didn’t just come here for Dorcas.”

  “No?”

  “Nope…”

  Silence.

  “Why did you come here? To find out more about Cynthia Rinehart?” I actually knew why he’d come, but I didn’t let on.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s a play on at the Kennedy Center—Ah, Wilderness! Like to see it?”

  I found his shyness quite endearing.

  “When?”

  “Thursday night?”

  I thought, What the hell? Why not?

  “Okay. Thanks. I’d love to.”

  “You would?”

  “You seem surprised.”

  “I guess I am, kinda. But I’m very honored and happy too. One thing, though…I have to meet you there. I can’t pick you up. I’m liable to be late, so I’m gonna leave a ticket for you at the box office. That okay with you?”

  “That’s fine.”

  “Good. Very good. So, uh, see you Thursday night, then. That’s three days from now.”

  “Yes, I know when Thursday is. Right after Wednesday. See you!”

  He paused at the door. “Guess who’s from Nebraska?”

  “You.”

  “Aside from me. But anyway, I’m not originally from Nebraska. I’m from Kansas originally, but we moved to Omaha when I was two years old. Fella you’d never think came from the sticks. Guess.”

  “I just can’t imagine.”

  “Fred Astaire.”

  “Really? I never knew that.”

  “Very few people know that. If I could come back as anybody in the whole wide world? Know who I’d come back as?”

  “Let me guess…. Fred Astaire?”

  “Nope, Teddy Roosevelt, trust buster. But after that, Fred Astaire. Fred wasn’t a dancer. He was dance itself. Whatever you are, you wanna try and be the thing itself…. Who would you come
back as?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.”

  “You think about it and give me your answer Thursday night. And I’ll tell you if I think it’s a good choice for you.”

  “I look forward to your opinion.”

  On his way out the door, Grider did an unexpectedly agile little buck and wing, an attempt to imitate Fred Astaire. As he tapped his way out the door, he tipped an invisible hat to me and smiled. He almost tripped but caught himself, and with a flourish of his hand cried, “See ya!”

  Zachary Grider was quirky, awkward, and dour, with flashes of whimsy that were bright and unexpected, like the sun glinting off a piece of rusting metal. The thing I liked about him most, however, was that he was the exact opposite of Bob Poll. I was actually looking forward to our date.

  Amber didn’t show up for work the following day either. I can’t say I was unhappy. That was the perfect excuse I needed to let her go. I did call her, however, just to ascertain what her plans were and if she ever intended to show up again. There was no answer at her house. I left a message on her cell.

  Gunner came into the shop later that afternoon. I was surprised to see him because of his penchant for secrecy. I knew right away from the look on his face that something really bad had happened.

  “What?” I said.

  “There’s been another murder in Rock Creek Park.”

  “Jesus! You think it’s your guy again?”

  Gunner nodded. “Oh, yeah. It’s my guy all right.”

  “Have you checked up on Bob Poll? I hope he doesn’t have an alibi.”

  Gunner hesitated. “Is there a young woman working here named Amber?”

  “Yeah. Rosina’s down in Uruguay getting married. Amber’s her replacement. Why?”

  “Is she here? I’d like to talk to her.”

  “No. She hasn’t been here for a couple of days.”

  “When was the last time you two spoke?”

  “Two days ago. I called her this morning and left her a message…. Wait…Don’t tell me—”

  It’s hard to explain how I felt at that precise moment—kind of like someone had poured molten lead into me.

  “You think it’s Amber?”

  Gunner shrugged.

  “Jesus! Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure now,” he said.

  “Jesus…Oh, that poor girl. This is terrible. Oh, my God.”

  I started to hyperventilate. Gunner took my hand and held it until I calmed down.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “You gonna be okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “Can I get you a glass of water or something?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  He let go of my hand and began pacing around the shop. “Listen, Reven, I need to talk to you about something…. There are going to be a lot of police officers coming around here to ask questions.”

  “I know. I’m dreading it.”

  “If they ask you about the task force, you can certainly say you know me and that we’ve spoken. But I doubt they’ll ask, and if they don’t I wouldn’t bring it up. See, technically, the Park Police have jurisdiction over crimes where the bodies are found in public parks. The Park Police are part of the Department of the Interior, i.e. the federal government. They don’t really appreciate our special task force. It’s a territorial thing, like the FBI and the CIA. My tree’s bigger than your tree—you know. I’d hate for them to interfere with some of my leads.”

  “I won’t say anything. I promise. I certainly won’t tell them about Bob Poll.”

  “I wouldn’t. Not just yet.”

  “But you should know that he saw her.”

  “Who?”

  “Bob saw Amber through the window two days ago. Maxwell came here to return a cookie tin to me, and Bob was standing right outside, looking into the shop. Amber waved at him and thought he was cute.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Interesting? You know, I’m beginning to think you may be right. You better check and see if he has an alibi, that bastard.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m on it…. I gotta go. Remember—keep it simple. Just answer the questions.”

  “Mum’s the word,” I said. “But Gunner, I’m a little scared.”

  “That’s why it’s so important we don’t blow this thing. We gotta get him. And we don’t want anyone tipping him off.”

  The truth is, I was terrified. Death had come much too close. However, I trusted Gunner and felt flattered that he considered me such an important part of his investigation.

  The next day, officers from the Major Crimes Unit of the U.S. Park Police came to interview me, along with some detectives. I told them everything I knew about Amber, which wasn’t much. I said she hadn’t worked for me that long a time, and that I knew very little about her. I didn’t even know where she lived. I told them she mentioned a girlfriend named Julie and a party she said she was going to. I didn’t mention Gunner. They said they’d be in touch.

  Amber Corey was considered to be the sixth known victim of the Beltway Basher. Like the others, she was a slim, dark-haired woman who had died as a result of ferocious blunt force trauma to the head and whose body was found partially clothed in the woods of a public park. And, like the others, she had a connection, however tenuous, to Bob Poll.

  Chapter 28

  If it hadn’t been for Violet, I never could have gotten through the next couple of weeks. I think Amber’s murder caused me to have a mini nervous breakdown. I forgot how much she had annoyed me and only remembered her as a sweet young woman who was simply trying to do her job as best she could. It’s one thing to have a safe armchair read about a serial killer, and quite another to actually feel his breath on your neck. This monster had invaded my life. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I might be next. If Violet and Gunner were right about this psychopath, Amber had been picked deliberately, not at random. And if the killer knew her, he knew me.

  I told Violet I was terrified to be alone in my house, and she promptly invited me to move into her guest room.

  “Until you feel safe,” she said.

  “I’ll never feel safe again,” I told her.

  Tee was home for the weekend when I arrived at the house. He was the spitting image of Grant—a sandy-haired, fine-featured boy with the same standoffish attitude of his father. He was very polite and respectful, but he generally kept to himself, playing endless video games and texting on the phone. He called me “Aunt Rev.”

  I was dying to ask him what he thought of the split between his parents, and his opinion of his incumbent stepmother. But he was one of those kids who didn’t invite chummy chats with adults. He did, however, seem older than his fourteen years. I think he found his mother and me vaguely amusing. He liked to hear stories about our school days together. Sometimes I got the feeling he was watching the two of us together as if he were watching characters in an old-fashioned play. Aloof as he was, Tee seemed much more sophisticated and savvy about life than we were at his age. Occasionally, flashes of Violet’s macabre humor popped out of his mouth. Like the night before he went back up to school, and we all had dinner together. We were talking about the murders when Tee turned to his mother and said pointedly, “Well, at least one person’s happy about them. Right, Mom?”

  It was so true. The flurry of excitement kicked up by the case was about the only thing that could have taken her mind off Grant and Cynthia.

  The media pounced on the story. I got my fifteen minutes in the sun all right—buried alive with honey on my head and a swarm of reporters buzzing around me night and day. I refused to talk to any of them, but I read every scrap they wrote about the case. It turned out that Amber Corey was a party girl with several boyfriends. Police suspected she’d been killed after a party she’d attended in Adams Morgan. One article suggested she’d worked at King Arthur’s. I knew Gunner would love that.

  Violet was more interested in the way she died.

  “She was raped with a foreign object
that tore apart her insides, then smashed on the head. Or maybe he smashed her first, then he raped her. Anyway, it’s just like all the others,” Violet said. “It’s definitely the same guy.”

  I have to say I found Violet’s interest in the physical details of the crime a little off-putting. There is such a thing as too much information. I just couldn’t stop thinking about poor Amber’s last moments. It made me ill, imagining what she’d gone through and the terror she must have felt.

  “She must have known not to go into Rock Creek Park alone…. That big desolate tract of woods? She was dumb, but not that dumb. It just doesn’t make any sense,” I told Gunner.

  “She was murdered somewhere else and dumped in the park,” Gunner confided.

  That little fact hadn’t been in any of the papers. Neither had the fact that, like all the other girls, Amber had a link with Bob Poll. Given the way Bob had treated me, I was ready to admit I had no idea who he really was and finally take Gunner’s suspicions about him seriously. I told Violet that I was coming around to the idea that Bob Poll might actually be the killer.

  With Tee gone, Violet and I had the house to ourselves. It was kind of like being back in school again, except there was no homework—if you don’t count having to watch forensic shows with the hostess. Bill Kurtis of American Justice and John Walsh of America’s Most Wanted were her heroes. Law and Order and C.S.I. were mandatory viewing.

  “Did Grant approve of your preoccupation with crime?” I asked her one night after a marathon of cold case shows.

  “He didn’t care. Grant didn’t notice all that much about me, you know. I remember once I asked him which of two dresses he liked best. I put one on. He looked at it. Then I went back into the dressing room, counted to sixty, and came out in the exact same dress. He looked at me, said, ‘The other one,’ and went back to his book. He wasn’t very interested in me, now that I think about it. I wonder if he really looks at her,” she said wistfully.