Sweet Dreams, Irene ik-2

by Jan Burke

  “Oh, I asked Paul all about you the first time I laid eyes on you. He seems to think Frank Harriman has a corner on the market.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Oooh — that serious, huh?”

  “At least that serious.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll back off,” he said, laughing. “Let’s see now. You’ve still got that curious look in your eye, even though I’ve made you mad. Now, what does Irene want to know? Let me guess.” He rinsed a stack of dishes and handed them to me. “She wants to know, ‘How could this ratty-assed biker be my friend Mrs. Fremont’s son?’ Am I right?”

  I blushed. He laughed again.

  “I am right! Okay, here goes. Life story of Jack Fremont, prodigal son of Althea and John Fremont, Senior. I barely remember John Senior — died when I was five. Left us well off, though. So I became a much doted upon, rich spoiled brat — the apple of my mother’s eye. And totally uncontrollable.

  “You might say I had been something of a surprise. She was told she couldn’t have children, and at forty, found herself pregnant with yours truly. Dad was fifty, so I’m sure he felt like quite the old rooster. But as I said, he died not long after. Heart attack. Have this impression of a big guy holding me on his knee while he smoked a cigarette and drank a gin martini. But I couldn’t have known what a gin martini was when I was five, so who knows where that comes from.”

  He looked over at me, as if to see if I was still interested, and went on.

  “So much for the early years. As I got older, I got wilder. Got mixed up with what every parent in Las Piernas knew was the wrong crowd. Hell, I was one of the ones that made it the wrong crowd. And at fifteen, I got a girl pregnant. Cindy Larabee. Seeing a chance to have her marry into money, her daddy all but pulled out a shotgun. My mother made sure I did the honorable thing.”

  “You were married at fifteen?”

  “Yep. My mother supported us, of course. Old Cindy had me by the balls then, and she knew it. She knew that all she had to do was have that grandchild and Althea Fremont would take care of her for the rest of her days. I mean, the minute I said, ‘I do,’ the woman was transformed into the meanest thing on two feet. Cindy was a bitch. No other word for it.”

  He paused while he rinsed off a plate and then reloaded the sink with dirty dishes.

  “Well, all this marriage and pregnancy stuff scared the hell out of me. Nothing like feeling your life has come to an end when you’re fifteen. So I ran off; baby wasn’t even born yet. Mom found me and hauled me back. She did it again and again.

  “When Paul was born, I stuck around for awhile. It was really exciting to me at first, but I couldn’t stand playing house with Cindy for long. She made my life miserable. So when I turned eighteen, I took off again, and this time I was too old to haul back home.

  “I wandered around for about twelve years, dropping by every now and again. Caught glimpses of my boy growing up. Mom hated me then.

  “I even tried to get back together with Cindy when Paul was in high school, mainly because I’d started thinking that I was his age back when he was born. I wanted to know my son.”

  He stopped washing, but didn’t look up at me. He seemed to tense up for a minute. Just when I was about to ask him what was wrong, he started washing again and went on with his story. But his sarcastic tone was gone now.

  “It was a big mistake. I didn’t have anything to offer either one of them. Cindy was still a nasty-tempered little shrew, and a drunk to boot. The night I left, she went on a bender. Died in a car accident — only good part of it was she took out another drunk.

  “Anyway, if Paul didn’t hate me before, he surely did then. He was really messed up by the whole deal.”

  He stopped washing again, staring off into space. His voice, when he continued, was much quieter.

  “Kid even tried to kill himself.” He shook his head. “When my mom told me about that, I really felt like a piece of shit. I thought to myself, ‘Jack, you should be the one to kill himself. The world would be a better place. You’ve given your mother and that poor boy nothing but grief.’ But I don’t know, self-destructive as I’ve been — and believe me, I’ve pulled some dumb stunts — that just isn’t the way for me.”

  He drew the back of his hand across his forehead, then looked over at me, trying to read something in my face. I suspected he wondered if I had passed judgment on him in some way. I’ve never been qualified to cast the first stone, so I was merely waiting for him to go on.

  “Paul decided he wanted to live with his cousins, and did for almost a year. Boy, is that bunch something. Cindy’s sister can’t keep her pants on long enough to button her fly. She had five boys, all by different fathers. Married and divorced a couple of them. I think she figured that my mom would give her money for looking after Paul, and when that didn’t happen, out he went. My mother took him in again.

  “So anyway, here I am, six years later. Been back in Las Piernas four months. I’ve learned that my son has grown into a fine young man, much better than his dad.” His voice grew quiet. “And I made peace with my mother before she died. I guess that should be enough for anyone who’s been as irresponsible as I have.”

  He didn’t look as though it was enough. He seemed tired.

  “What brought you back?”

  He looked at me and grinned. “Well, well. So you are a little curious about me, even after I’ve told you my life’s story. Good sign.

  “Let me see. What brought me back to Las Piernas? I suppose if I tell you it’s the only place I ever come back to, you’ll say I’m hedging. So what’s the answer? Hmm…”

  He dried his hands on a towel.

  “Well, in a roundabout way, a knife fight brought me back. I don’t kid myself that you haven’t noticed the scar. But like they say, you should see the other guy. Only he’s dead. Mom’s lawyers got me off and Mom’s doctors patched me up. And without boring you with a lot of details, I’ll just say I realized then that I wasn’t going to live forever. Ironic, isn’t it? Her doctors said she’d live to be a hundred, and they didn’t give me a snowflake’s chance in hell. But here I am, and she’s gone.”

  We had finished the dishes. He looked completely worn down, and his weariness changed him in some way I couldn’t quite name. There was something charming about this maverick. I was thinking that just as the guy with the corner on the market came walking into the kitchen.

  Frank gave me that look of his that says he’s just taken something in, some observation that he wants to chew on for a while. But all he said was, “Pete and Rachel want to leave. Are you ready to go?”

  “Sure.” I turned to Jack and shook his hand. “Thanks for talking to me.”

  “My pleasure,” he said with a grin.

  Frank was looking between us when the door opened again. It was Paul Fremont.

  “Frank,” he said, “you can’t leave yet. Grandmother’s lawyer wants to know if we can have the reading of the will now. Would that be okay?”

  Frank was openly puzzled.

  “I’ll take you and Irene back to the church to get your car,” Jack offered. But seeing Frank’s look, he added, “Didn’t you know? My mother named you in her will. You’re a beneficiary.”

  “No, I didn’t know,” he said. It was clear that he was totally surprised. He looked uncomfortable in the extreme. As if to find an out, he turned to me and said, “I guess you need to get to work, don’t you?”

  I nodded, and seeing his lost look, wished I could stay longer.

  “Let me just walk Irene out to Pete’s car,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” Paul said, then added, “By the way, Irene, I meant to ask earlier — how’s Sammy doing?”

  I had no choice but to keep weaving my tangled web. “She never showed up. I’m quite worried about her.”

  Frank steered me out of the room before I had to dig myself in any deeper. We decided to exchange car keys — I’d take his car from the church, which was not far from work. He�
�d get a ride home from Jack and use my car if he needed to go anywhere.

  We went outside, where the rain had become a fine drizzle. He put an arm around my shoulder and walked me toward the car.

  “Frank, if you need me to stay—”

  “I’ll be okay. Really. I just wasn’t expecting this. Don’t worry about me. You’ve got an election to write about.”

  “Want to meet me for dinner?”

  “Okay. Where will you be?”

  “Let’s see. At first, probably at the Montgomery campaign gathering. At the Cliffside Hotel. Can you meet me there around seven? Not much will be going on until after the polls have been closed for an hour or so.”

  “Okay. I’ll call the dining room at the Cliffside and make reservations for us. And I’ll feed Cody.”

  “What more could a woman ask for?”

  “You could probably think of something if you tried.” He gave me a quick kiss when we reached the car, and I left with Pete and Rachel.

  In the car, I reached into my purse and pulled out Sammy’s journal. I handed it over the seat to Pete.

  “This the missing kid’s diary? I told Frank that Bredloe would never believe that story about the cat hiding it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s the truth. Remind him that this is the cat that once landed a set of scratches on the face of his fist-fighting detective. Even if he’s mad at Frank, he’ll believe you.”

  “You got him all wrong, Irene. Bredloe likes Frank. He’s going along with the suspension for Frank’s benefit — give him a chance to cool off a little. By the way, I don’t know what you said to him, but I think he’s doing better today.”

  I smiled, thinking of what Frank and I had said to one another.

  Rachel saw me and grinned, thinking something else entirely, I’m sure; but after all, she was close. Pete looked over at her. “What? What did I miss out on?”

  “Who knows? It’s just nice to see Irene smile, so I smile.”

  He wasn’t satisfied, but said, “Well, Miss Cheshire Cat, I suppose you want me to call you about the plate number Frank gave me.”

  “Right,” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “Oh, so what’s the big problem?” Rachel chided. “It’s not like she couldn’t track it down — it would just take her a little longer.”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it,” he growled.

  “Via, non t’arrabbiare.”

  “If you’re going to start speaking Italian to one another, please provide a translation.”

  “I told him not to get mad. I think Pete feels like we gang up on him when Frank’s not around to even things out.”

  “Damn right I do. I feel outnumbered when I’m around either one of you — even one at a time.”

  “Caro, you can’t mean it,” she said in a honeyed tone.

  He turned bright red. I wondered when he would take Rachel home to meet his Italian mother.

  We reached St. James and pulled up next to Frank’s old Volvo.

  “You be careful, Irene,” Rachel said as I got out of the car. “Frank told me about last night. Call if you need us — don’t go wandering around on your own, okay?”

  I thanked them and said good-bye. As they drove off, I could see them through the car’s rear window, having one of their typical conversations — both talking at once, gesturing to one another. It’s a wonder they didn’t wreck the car.

  21

  WHEN PETE CALLED ME that afternoon, I was working on two different versions of the election story. In one, Montgomery won; in the other, Henderson. I left a couple of open paragraphs at the beginning for victory or concession speeches, vote tallies, and quotes. But the rest of each article would capsulize what had been written about the race in the last few months: background on the candidates, highlights of the campaigns, analysis of their areas of support.

  “Got the registration on that limo,” Pete said. “Our boys were interested in this too. It belongs to Malcolm Gannet Enterprises. Carlson will not be thrilled if he finds out I told you that.”

  “Malcolm Gannet. Well, what do you know.” Gannet was a real estate developer. His group had changed the skyline along Shoreline Boulevard, and he had made a mint doing it. Mrs. Fremont had been actively antidevelopment, fighting a largely hopeless battle to preserve some of the examples of the 1920s and 1930s architecture of downtown Las Piernas.

  “Something else, Irene.”

  “What?”

  “I talked to Hernandez about the little door prize you got last night.”

  I braced myself. Dr. Carlos Hernandez was the coroner. “And?”

  “And it’s definitely a human heart. Human blood, too.”

  “Oh. Well, I guess I knew it would be.”

  “Sure. But the logical conclusion is, whoever it belongs to ain’t doing so hot right now. So until we figure out who put it on your doorstep, you better watch out. Are you listening to me, Irene?”

  “I’ve heard every word.”

  “Yeah, but I know you. Hearing is not enough. Listen, for once. I know you want to get nosy about this, Irene, but it just isn’t smart. We can handle it.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Look, you don’t see me walking down there and trying to be a reporter. So don’t you go trying to be a cop, okay?”

  “They’re just trying to scare me, Pete.”

  “So be scared, would you?”

  “It makes me angry.”

  “Crimeny. You got anger? Go see a shrink. And while you’re there, ask him why you don’t have the sense God gave a rabbit!”

  “Via, non t’arrabbiare. Did I say that right?”

  “Pronunciation needs some work,” he said grumpily. “So you want it in Italian? Ti sto avvertendo! — I’m warning you!”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Shit. I’m wasting my breath.”

  “Probably.”

  “Shit.”

  “Bye, Pete. I’ll be careful.”

  I went back to my stories. Stacee and I also put a piece together on GOTV or “get out the vote” workers. Those folks who call you two dozen times on election night to make sure you voted. We were covering the system, from the professional campaign consultants to the leagues of volunteers who do everything from going door to door over a precinct or two to driving people to their polling places. We filed that story in the late afternoon.

  I had some time to kill before going down to Cliffside, so I tracked down our real estate editor, Murray Plummer. Murray is the Clark Kent of real estate writers. With his baby face and oversized glasses, he looks like he just got out of a high school physics class. But he always manages to keep up with — if not one step ahead of — the wild and woolly world of commercial real estate in our town. He has published stories about deals before the principals have finished reading each other’s faxes. I’ve often wondered how well his abilities could be used in other kinds of reporting, but he will have none of it. He loves his work.

  His section comes out three times a week, so when I found him, he was finishing up material that would run in Thursday’s paper.

  “Hello, Irene. Where’ve you been lately?”

  “Election time, Murray. You know where I’ve been.”

  “I guess I do, and I don’t envy you. Take a look at this copy — what do you think? We’re featuring the Sheffield Project on Thursday.”

  “That’s the one someone wants to put up over by the cliffs? Where the old Sheffield Estate used to be?”

  “Yes, they plan a luxury hotel.”

  “Is it a done deal?”

  “Not by a long shot. There will be a hue and cry that will keep City Hall busy for a couple of years and make certain lawyers and consultants very rich.”

  “I’ll want to read it. Listen — what can you tell me about Malcolm Gannet?”

  His eyebrows went up behind the rim of his glasses. “Malcolm putting some money behind someone? He may be a gambler, but he’s usually pretty sure of his prospects when it co
mes to city council influence.”

  “Maybe,” I said, realizing he assumed I was investigating a political story.

  “Well, let’s see. You know what he’s done downtown, and he certainly doesn’t need to worry about what he can get approved there, so you’re probably more interested in the Lower Shore Project. I hope they come up with a better name for it, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said, bluffing along.

  “Okay, so from the boardwalk to the pier, he’s been buying up properties. Life will be easier for him now that poor Althea Fremont is gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, she fought him like a tiger on the Planning Commission. He was able to get past her on downtown, but when it came to the beach properties, she really organized her neighbors. Lots of people down there think it’s too crowded as it is, and they didn’t want to be looking at Gannet’s high-rise condos where they now have an ocean view. And a lot of beachgoers like things as they are.

  “But you know, even if she had lost every vote, she still had old Gannet over a barrel. Her husband, John Fremont, bought up all kinds of beach property ages ago, when it could be taken for a song. Even after John died, she never let go of an inch of it. It’s in a patchwork with the Gannet properties, so between her and some of the others, he can’t get a large enough parcel together to build like he wants to.”

  “So why did he keep on trying?”

  Murray laughed. “You don’t know Malcolm Gannet. He believes in getting his way. It was a standoff. Two old buzzards waiting to see who’d go first. I guess it was Althea, which is too damn bad. Not that I’d blame whomever she’s passed it on to for selling out to Malcolm. You could retire on what five percent of that property is worth now.”

  “Strange thing is, I saw Gannet — well, I saw his limo — at Althea Fremont’s funeral today.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. It was odd. He didn’t seem to want anyone to know he was there. I mean, he wasn’t exactly hiding, but he didn’t come out of the car for the graveside service.”

  “Ah, that’s Malcolm all over. Mr. Mysterious. I know very little about him personally. Just the odd rumor, probably spread about by some of his vanquished rivals.”