Mourning In Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  “She had a serious disappointment,” I told her. “I’m sure she’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “My dad would say, ‘As long as it’s not life-threatening, you should get over it.’”

  It seemed like a good rule to me.

  A John Philip Sousa march rang out from my purse. My ring tone of choice for the summer. It was one of many cell phones that rang intermittently around the great lawn, so I wasn’t as embarrassed as I might have been otherwise. I was proud that I’d learned how to program my cell phone ring tone and was no longer at the mercy of my tech-savvy granddaughter. I even took the trouble to change it according to the season.

  I clicked the phone on.

  “Aunt Gerry? Are you at the high school ceremony?” Skip asked me, with no prelude.

  “Yes.”

  “Is your friend Rosie Norman with you?”

  “No. Are you calling from Seattle?”

  “Do you know where she is right now?”

  “No, I don’t. I suppose she might be in this crowd.” I stretched my neck and scanned the crowd. Being tall has its advantages at times like this, but given Rosie’s small stature, it didn’t help me much in this gathering. “I don’t see her. We left the Duns Scotus before she did this morning. Why are you looking for her?”

  “I thought I’d give you a heads-up. One of the BMOCs in your reunion group was found dead this morning.”

  “BM—”

  “You know, Big Man On Campus. David Bridges.”

  My throat went dry. I thought everyone in my vicinity would notice how my knees had become weak. I cupped my hand over my mouth, conscious of Maddie at my side. Happily, Henry Baker and Taylor were approaching and were a distraction for her. Maddie had made sure to save seats for them, and had been on the lookout for her new friend.

  “David Bridges is dead?” I whispered the question to Skip.

  “Okay, well, I guess that’s it,” he said. “I knew you were traveling with Rosie to the reunion so I thought you might know her whereabouts.”

  “Whereabouts” sounded much too official to suit me. “Where are you, Skip?”

  “I flew in early this morning. Glad to be back in the sun. It rains even in August in Seattle.”

  “Why are you asking about Rosie’s whereabouts?”

  As if I didn’t know. Nephew or not, when a homicide detective tells you about a death, probably the next person he mentions has either been murdered or is a key suspect.

  “You’ll hear an announcement about Bridges’s death pretty soon,” Skip said, avoiding my question. “We’ve alerted Frank Thayer.”

  How? Where? Who? Why? came rushing to my lips.

  “You have to tell me something, Skip. You called me, after all.”

  Skip answered, albeit only the simple questions. “Bridges was bludgeoned to death with his trophy, but even though the body turned up in Lincoln Point, we’re not sure yet where it happened. Do me a favor, Aunt Gerry, and just forget everything for now, okay?”

  He clicked off before I could agree or not.

  In too few years, David Bridges had gone from BMOC to “the body.”

  What reason could the LPPD possibly have to suspect Rosie? Surely she hadn’t broadcast her severe disappointment last night—who else could have known besides me, Cheryl, and David? Skip wouldn’t have zeroed in on her without some evidence, however.

  There I went, leaping ahead unjustifiably. Skip had simply asked where Rosie was, hadn’t he?

  I thought back to Maddie’s observation, quoting her father. Had Rosie’s disappointment been life-threatening after all?

  ALHS principal Frank Thayer stepped up to the podium in the nick of time, before I had to make polite conversation with Henry and Taylor, who’d just taken their seats next to Maddie. I gave them each a wave and as friendly a smile as I could manage in my state of distress over David and over Rosie.

  Frank tapped the microphone on the makeshift stage. “Testing, testing” came out, along with static.

  Among the dignitaries on folding chairs behind him were his wife, Paula, and key people in Lincoln Point administration. At this distance I could still recognize members of the Faculty Senate, some of whom were first-year teachers during the end of my career, and others of whom I’d known for many years. They all seemed unaffected by the extreme noontime heat, not even waving their programs in front of their faces as Maddie and I were.

  I pretended to be listening with rapt attention to Frank’s uttering of the fascinating, “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

  Frank’s voice carried all the way back to those of us at the edge of the high school property, where the parking lot ended at Civic Drive. Skip’s office was in the building complex in front of us; Rosie’s Books stood across Springfield Boulevard to our left. Understanding the connection between the two locations at the moment made me dizzy. Given the urgency in Skip’s tone, I couldn’t shake the conclusion that my friend Rosie was suspected of killing David Bridges.

  Rosie was high on my list of babysitters for Maddie, and one of the first people I called when I finished a book and wanted to discuss it.

  She couldn’t have done it. That was that.

  Rosie’s behavior so far this weekend seemed uncharacteristically immature and dramatic, to be sure, but that was a long way from having murderous intentions. Just for drill, I indulged in a worst-case scenario—if Rosie Norman were going to kill anyone, the victim would have been Cheryl Mellace. Poor David had been much more civil to Rosie in the doorway of his hotel room, even inviting her in for a drink. It was the petite, popular Cheryl who’d mocked her so mercilessly.

  Frank called us to order, his voice booming over the PA system. The crowd quieted, and I knew it would grow even quieter in a moment.

  “Welcome to the future site of our new athletic field and modern stadium. It’s great to see so many Lincoln Point residents and friends. I want to extend a special welcome and thank-you to the alumni of the thirty-year reunion class. Your fund-raising drive gave us the largest single contribution to the project.”

  Loud applause, whistling, and the cheering appropriate to a stadium erupted. I tried to imagine my tutoring sessions in the library with an even better PA system at full volume like this at game time.

  When the noise died down, Frank began what must have been one of the most difficult addresses of his career—announcing the death of a classmate. “And now I have a very sad duty. I’ve just learned that one of our most illustrious alumni and a friend to all of us, David Bridges, who was to address us today, has passed away unexpectedly.” Frank stepped away from the mike. I imagined how shaken he must be. “That’s all we know at the moment,” he continued, with a shaky voice.

  A mixture of gasps and groans rippled through the crowd. I hadn’t looked at the program carefully, finding it more useful as a fan, so this was the first I’d realized that David was to speak. I wasn’t surprised, however. I knew that more than just his own classmates had appreciated David’s fame as a football star. I thought of the large number of glassed-in cases in the ALHS hallways that were dedicated to displays of sports trophies and photographs of teams in action. Even all these years later, top athletes like David were embedded in the school’s memory and credited with giving the school status in the county.

  How would his fans and friends react if they knew that David didn’t just pass quietly away, but died at the hands of a murderer?

  Maddie tugged my arm. “Grandma? Do you know that man? Isn’t that the one Mrs. Norman talks about on crafts night?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  Maddie looked up at me, squinting into the sunny sky. “I heard you say Uncle Skip’s name, you know, on that phone call. Was it about the man’s death? Did he call you for help investigating? You know how helpful I can be,” she said.

  Maddie had adopted the perfect combination of techniques used by her father and his cousin at that age. My son, Richard, used intimidation, drilling
us with questions that demanded straight answers. Ken and I were sure he was going to be a prosecuting attorney some day, not the orthopedic surgeon he became. His cousin, Skip, took the calm road to getting what he wanted. He remained soft-spoken, teasing, and charming, your best friend—who ended up a cop. Go figure.

  I had to remain strong in the face of a young opponent who’d mastered both approaches.

  “There’s nothing for us to do, Maddie. All we know is that the man passed away.”

  She sank back in her chair and picked up her fanning, appeased for now.

  I caught Henry’s eye. He seemed to be aware of my conversation with Maddie. We shared looks of sadness and confusion. He stroked Taylor’s head, his fingers reaching to her ears, as if to protect her from any further unpleasant news.

  But there was no more information coming from the stage. Frank closed by asking us all to take a moment of silence to think of David and to pray for his family and loved ones. While we reflected, the high school band played a few somber notes, sounding like a modified “Taps.”

  Barry Cannon, class president and Rosie’s current best friend among her classmates, it seemed, stepped to the mike. “We’re all stunned and very sad. Frank—Principal Thayer—gave us the word only a couple of minutes ago.” Murmurings continued to ripple through the crowd as Barry’s voice cracked, then recovered. “The officers of the thirty-year reunion class have decided to hold the banquet tonight as planned, because we think David would want us to be together.” Barry had a stentorian voice, for someone so small in stature. He seemed to break down, but rallied and went on for a few more minutes, his closing remarks advising us to take every opportunity to enjoy life, since “you never know.”

  Several other speakers stepped up to the podium, expressing gratitude to the chief donors and predicting great victories for the teams of ALHS in the new facility, but all in very moderate tones, more befitting a memorial service than a happy groundbreaking ceremony.

  I tuned out most of the rhetoric, my mind on Rosie and the investigation. Usually I’d be bothered by the oppressive heat, but today that was a distant second to the discomfort I felt over David’s murder and Rosie’s situation.

  I wondered if the LPPD was ready to arrest Rosie or if they simply wanted to question her. I was itching to know how Skip had glommed on to her in the first place? Had the police interviewed David’s reunion classmates already? I tried again to think if there was something untoward about her behavior at the cocktail party, something that would have been picked up by her party-going peers. When I’d literally bumped into David, all had been cordial. The only ones who were aware of Rosie’s unhealthy obsession were the members of the crafts group and Cheryl. I didn’t know all of Rosie’s other friends, but I doubted she’d advertised her wishful thinking far and wide.

  Finally the group of dignitaries gathered around the shovel. I’d forgotten that’s why we were here. Tall as I was, I still couldn’t see the little ceremonial plot where the earth would be turned over. I knew the deed had been accomplished only by the smattering of applause as the crowd dispersed, its mood somber.

  “Grandma?”

  I realized I’d spaced out again. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Food to the rescue, a time-honored Porter tradition.

  “Why don’t we all head for bagels at Willie’s,” Henry said. “My idea, my treat.”

  Problem solved.

  On the way out of the grassy area, I saw a small knot of thirty-year alums. Among them was Cheryl Mellace, wearing an eye patch. On me, the sight of a plastic cup with gauze sticking out the sides would have looked repulsive, as if I’d become a member of the Cyclopes, but it seemed to make Cheryl even more alluring. I doubted she’d chosen it as an accessory, however, and wondered what was wrong with her eye.

  “I’ll just be a sec,” I told the other three in my own party and wandered to Cheryl’s group. Henry and Taylor were more help than they could have imagined in allowing me to dodge Maddie’s scrutiny.

  A much subdued round of greetings came my way from the small clutch of men and women that included Cheryl Mellace. “I’m so sorry about your friend,” I said. “I know David meant a lot to all of you.”

  The murmurings in response seemed heartfelt. I focused on Cheryl, looking for a more intense reaction, but saw none. I looked at the patch over her eye. “I hope that’s not too painful,” I said.

  Her one good eye glared at me. “Thanks for asking,” she said. There was no doubt in my mind that she remembered my presence outside David’s hotel room when she delivered her insults to my friend.

  “And I hope your last evening with David was a good memory,” I said.

  Cheryl gave me one more angry look, then she sniffled and buried her face on the chest of the man next to her, no one I recognized.

  “She and David go way back, Mrs. Porter,” he explained, patting Cheryl’s back. “They were very close.”

  “I know.”

  Like so many establishments in Lincoln Point, from banks to car rentals to dress shops, Bagels by Willie had an Abraham Lincoln connection: Lincoln’s third son, named after his uncle William. Willie died of what was likely typhoid fever when he was Maddie’s age.

  That didn’t explain the bagel shop’s New York décor, dominated by a set of black-and-white photographs of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and other New York City landmarks, but not everything had to make sense.

  I went through the motions of greeting patrons I knew. My GED student, Lourdes Pino, took my order for an asiago cheese bagel and tried to start up our usual bantering about the peculiarities of the English language.

  “Don’t put flour on a flower” was her offering today. Ordinarily I’d respond in kind, but today I had nothing to counter with. “I’ll see you next Tuesday as usual, Mrs. Porter?” Lourdes asked, as if seeking assurance that I wasn’t withdrawing altogether from our relationship.

  I nibbled at my bagel and tried to tune in on the enjoyable chatter among Henry, Taylor, and Maddie, about the miniature apartment building and other woodworking projects that, on another day, would have fascinated me. I perked up a bit when I heard mention of a half-scale (only a half inch to every foot of life size) rocking chair and a dining room table with an inlaid wood design.

  Maddie took up the slack for me, making up for my drifting attention. Except for frequent cell phone text messages, she kept the conversation going. First we had to deal with e-mailing, then ubiquitous cell phoning, and now text messages. One more high-tech way to stay connected had invaded the environment.

  During one moment of halfhearted listening, I thought I heard Maddie say she’d like to buy one of Henry’s rockers for her dollhouse at home in Palo Alto. I had the feeling I should step in and monitor my granddaughter’s interactions, but I didn’t see any harm. I trusted Henry not to take advantage of her in these dealings. In fact, in any negotiation with Maddie, I always worried about the other party.

  Maddie and Taylor, who had proclaimed themselves BF, best friends, left to get ice cream for all of us. Lucky for Lincoln Point residents, Sadie at the ice cream shop two doors down and Johnny, who ran the bagel shop, were good friends who allowed each other’s customers to supplement different parts of the meal.

  “I’ll have my usual chocolate malt,” I’d told Maddie.

  Henry had said, “Surprise me.”

  “They seem to get along so well,” I said, for lack of a good transition to adult conversation.

  “Did you notice that they were TMing each other while we were talking?”

  “And they probably didn’t miss a thing,” I said.

  I was proud that I recognized the abbreviation for text messaging, but not pleased that most of the interaction at the table had gone right by me. I was glad it was Henry who opened the topic that had captured my attention.

  “David Bridges. I can’t believe it,” he said, scratching his head, full of brown hair that was barely starting to thin. “I wonder how it happened. A heart att
ack, do you think? We saw him just last night and he looked great. He couldn’t have been more than . . . what? . . . forty-seven or -eight?”

  I couldn’t meet his gaze. I pushed a bagel crust around with my cream cheese knife. “Not more than that,” I said.

  The news would soon be the talk of the town, but I wondered how soon citizens without relatives in the Lincoln Point Police Department would know that David’s was not a natural death, that he’d been bludgeoned with his own trophy. The crowd at Willie’s included many people from the abbreviated groundbreaking ceremony, but with so little information released, there wasn’t much to talk about. Most of the snippets of conversation I heard had more to do with the one-hundred-degree temperature than with the death of David Bridges.

  I didn’t feel I could share what I knew, little as it was, with Henry, but I needed someone to talk to. My head ached from the stress.

  There was only one sure way to ease the tension.

  I knew what I was about to do was sneaky. Maddie would never forgive me. Not until I took her to Ghirardelli’s this afternoon, anyway.

  I looked around at the crowd and leaned over the table. You never knew where there was a mole. “Henry, I have a big favor to ask.”

  “Hit me with it,” he said.

  Bad choice of words. I swallowed hard.

  “I have an important errand to run that I can’t take Maddie to. Would you mind taking her home with you and I’ll pick her up later?”

  Henry’s eyebrows went up a tad, surprised, but he recovered nicely. “Can I have your chocolate malt?”

  I liked his style.

  Chapter 5

  A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I reminded myself, so I was on my way to get more. There was no use having a nephew, one whose hand you’d held crossing the street not that long ago, on the police force if you couldn’t take advantage of it.

  I walked the few blocks down Springfield Boulevard, past the high school and the now-deserted groundbreaking site, to the police department, part of the civic center complex along with the city hall and the library. On my way down the street and up to Skip’s second-floor cubicle, I rehearsed.