Cheated By Death

by L. L. Bartlett

  “Can we talk for a few minutes?” I asked.

  Emily’s smile was tentative. “Sure.”

  Some of the women glared at her—like she was fraternizing with the enemy—but Emily set her sign down on the ground as I handed her a cup. We walked down the block to a bench that overlooked Main Street.

  “The whipped cream is probably all melted by now.”

  “That’s okay,” she said, removing the cover and taking a sip of the steaming cocoa. “Mmm. Good.”

  “Where’s Hannah?”

  “Preschool. She loves playing with the other kids.” She eyed the envelope on the bench beside me. “Is that for me?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Yeah. I hope you like it.”

  She opened the clasp and took out the photo. I’d dipped it in sepia toner, shading it a warm brown, and then mounted it on black art board.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful. Thank you.” She studied the picture for a long moment. It was good, but then I’d had an equally good subject. My lens had caught Emily as she’d crouched to adjust her daughter’s hat, her smile filled with a mother’s love.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She replaced it in the envelope, and set it beside her.

  Traffic whizzed past and we sat for long moments in awkward silence. I cleared my throat. “Why do you come to the health center?”

  She swallowed, her mouth going slack. “A few years back I almost made a terrible mistake.”

  “Hannah?”

  She nodded. “My parents wanted me to have an abortion. They said I was ruining my life. The truth is they were embarrassed. They didn’t want their friends to know how their daughter had shamed them.”

  “But you didn’t go through with it.”

  She shook her head. “It would’ve been easy. Just make an appointment and show up. But I wanted to keep my baby. I was a sophomore in college. Old enough to know better. My boyfriend dumped me. My father threw me out of the house and I ended up on welfare.”

  “Things are better now, though, right?”

  She nodded. “I finished my degree last semester, but I haven’t found a decent-paying job, yet. I get some child support from Hannah’s father. Right now I work part time in a book store.”

  “Sounds like a busy life.”

  She nodded. “Not half as exciting as working for the newspaper.”

  “I’m just freelancing,” I said, kind of the truth. Had Pony-tail told the others he’d seen me?

  She sipped her cocoa as I gave her a much abbreviated version of my life history. If I could figure out a way to touch her, I might get more information out of her.

  “You’re here on a regular basis,” I pressed, hoping my tone seemed casual.

  “It’s part of our prayer vigil. Some of our older members can’t take the cold, that’s why I’ve been here more lately.”

  “Just how organized is your group? Do you have regular meetings?”

  “We meet weekly at the church. Then there’s the phone chain,” she answered. She looked at me with sudden suspicion. “We’re not a bunch of kooks. And we’re not dangerous.”

  “Are you sure of that? Have any of those people ever been arrested?”

  “We take that chance every time we picket. Being arrested doesn’t mean you’re violent.”

  “I guess that depends on why you’re arrested. Your movement hasn’t always been violence free. Acid drops, clinics bombed, doctors and nurses shot. And it’s insidious. It starts out with small things—like writing slogans in lipstick on people’s cars. Egging their windshields.”

  “I heard about that, but I don’t know who did those things. It wasn’t any of us.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No one in our group believes in violence. We believe in the sanctity of all life!”

  “What about that guy with the Pony-tail?”

  “Lou Holtzinger?”

  “Yeah. He vandalized my car last night.”

  “How do you know it was him?”

  “He came to the bar where I work part-time. He left me his calling card. Is he really a member of your church?”

  She looked away. “He hasn’t been with us long. Just since he—” She lowered her voice. “—got out of jail.”

  “For what?”

  She wouldn’t look at me. “Stealing cars. Something like that.” She stared at her quickly cooling cocoa. “He joined us in good faith. If he’s breaking the law I’ll . . . I’ll have to tell Reverend Linden. He’ll have to decide what to do.”

  “Maybe the police should talk to Bob Linden.”

  Emily stood, her cheeks flushing. “Look, I’m tired of being branded a nut just because in the past some people in the movement got carried away. Hannah’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I just want to make sure other women don’t make a terrible mistake.”

  “And I admire your conviction.”

  She looked away, biting her lip as her eyes welled with tears.

  “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m only here because I’m worried about my friend. Maybe we’re here for different reasons, but we can still be friends, can’t we?” I held out my hand to her, willing her to take it.

  Emily looked down at me under her fringe of blonde bangs. “I guess so.” She reached for my hand, wrapped her cool fingers around mine.

  I opened myself to her fading anger, embarrassment, and curiosity—about me. Her pulse was racing, her sudden smile shy. Too soon she withdrew her hand, sat down again, and avoided my gaze.

  I’d pushed her too hard, too fast, and I hadn’t gotten any information on Bob Linden—but I did have Pony-tail’s name.

  It was time to make nice once again.

  “I’d like to take your portrait sometime. It’s not my specialty, but I think you’d make a great subject. I could take one of you and Hannah. Sort of an early Christmas present. What do you say?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She looked to where her friends were still shuffling in a circle on the sidewalk across the street from the Women’s Health Center. “I’d better get back.”

  “Sure.” I stood, tossed our cups into a nearby trash barrel. “Can I see you again?”

  She looked at me shyly. “I’ll be here Thursday. Maybe we could go for coffee.”

  I gave her a smile. “I’ll plan on it.”

  Sam Nielsen was at his desk at the newspaper. After a little persuasion, in the form of coffee and a vending machine candy bar, he did a search of the paper’s database and let me read everything they had on Robert Linden. He’d been married to the same woman for thirty-seven years, had four children, and six grandchildren. He was an expert marksman, a decorated Gulf War veteran—no doubt the cause of his Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome—active in his church and the Boy Scouts. Not very helpful.

  Notes attached to the file indicated Linden had once been considered militant, but after some of the more publicized violence, he’d softened his rhetoric and was now considered a moderate.

  I didn’t find anything on Lou Holtzinger. I needed to get to the courthouse and look up his criminal record and see if any of the other protesters were ex-cons, too. But I didn’t have time that day. I hoped I wouldn’t have to visit every township to gather complete information. The thought of all the upcoming legwork made me realize how much I missed my resources at the insurance company.

  I wasted another hour getting my headlight replaced. By the time I got home, the mailman was heading down the street. I parked the car and jogged to the mailbox. Sure enough, at the bottom of the stack of junk mail was that familiar envelope. Holly was waiting behind the pantry door, her tail wagging with excitement as I entered the house. I let her out before settling at the table. I didn’t bother to remove my jacket but quickly donned a pair of latex gloves and slit the envelope.

  The one-word message chilled me: DIE!

  CHAPTER

  11

  Detective Bonnie Wilder of the Amherst Police Department studied the three let
ters. I guessed her to be in her early forties, looking more like a sedentary librarian than a cop. A gold band encircled her left ring finger and silver roots graced the base of the part in her dark hair.

  “This is unusual,” she said, looking up at me over the rims of her gold-frame glasses. “You say you’re the target’s brother-in-law? Why didn’t she come in herself?”

  “She doesn’t know about the last two letters. She’s pregnant. My brother and I didn’t want to upset her.”

  “She’s going to be pissed,” the detective predicted.

  Despite the knot in my stomach, I managed a weak smile, appreciating her laid-back attitude. “Yeah.”

  “Of course by opening these, you’ve tampered with the U.S. Mail. That’s a federal offense.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  She shook her head and proceeded to bag the letters and envelopes separately. “I’ll send these to the lab and see what they come up with. What else have you got?”

  I handed her an envelope with copies of my photos. Post-It notes identified each of the subjects. While she scrutinized them, I unfolded the list of license plate numbers I’d taken at the First Gospel Church and the record of the prank phone calls. I told her about the incidents at the clinic’s parking lot, Brenda’s run-in with Reverend Linden, and my own encounter with Lou Holtzinger the night before. Tom said he drove a truck. I was willing to bet it was the same one I’d seen at the church—the one with the gun rack.

  “You said you’re a bartender?” she asked.

  “I used to be an insurance investigator.”

  “A pretty good one by the look of this stuff.”

  “I knew I’d eventually bring it to the police. I had to wait ’til I’d collected enough to interest you.”

  “Oh, I’m interested—and the FBI may be, too. But I need to speak with your sister-in-law before I can open a case file.”

  I glanced at my watch. “How about right now? She’s at the Williamsville Women’s Health Center.”

  “Dammit, Jeffy, why didn’t you tell me about this? I’m a grown-up, too,” Brenda protested, glaring at me. As Wilder had predicted, she was pissed.

  Brenda and Detective Wilder sat in the visitor chairs in Tim Davies’ stark office, while I held up the wall next to a file cabinet. The clinic’s security chief’s small office reminded me of prison cell, thanks to its gunmetal furniture and walls.

  Photocopies of the three letters lay on the edge of the desk before Brenda. She turned her worried gaze back to Detective Wilder. “What happens now?”

  “Tell me everything.”

  Brenda recounted what I’d already told the lady cop, giving it a different spin, but essentially the same information.

  “Could the letters, phone calls and other incidents against you be racially motivated?” Wilder asked.

  I looked up, suddenly remembering Patty’s stupid remark the week before. I’d forgotten to mention that.

  “No,” Brenda answered and sighed. “I haven’t had any trouble. Neither has my husband—at least not that I know about. We keep a pretty low profile.”

  “I’d advise you to stay that way until we figure out what’s going on,” Detective Wilder said. “Have you had problems with neighbors? Kids? Any traffic mishaps? Perhaps a death in the family?”

  “No.”

  “What about your ex-husband?”

  “It could be him. I haven’t talked to him since last Tuesday.”

  “What precautions have you taken?” Davies asked.

  “Jeffy walks me into work,” Brenda said.

  “We’re having a security system installed on Friday,” I added. “The phone number was changed as of today, too.”

  “We’ll have a talk with your ex-husband,” Detective Wilder said. “And I’ll see if we can get a patrol car to pass the clinic every hour or so during the day, and around your house in the evenings. A police presence should keep the protesters from getting cocky. It’s possible someone’s just trying to scare you. But I’d advise on the side of caution.”

  Brenda’s smile was tight. “Thank you.”

  “Have you mentioned these calls and incidents to other staff members?” Detective Wilder asked.

  “No. They’re just as nervous as me. I figured if clinic security knew about it, that would be enough.”

  The detective nodded. “Is there a reason someone would single you out?”

  “Nothing I can think of.”

  “What about that TV interview?” Davies said.

  Brenda blinked. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

  “What interview?” Wilder asked.

  “When the school year started, I went to several high schools to talk to pregnant teens about prenatal care.”

  “Not abortion?” Wilder asked.

  “No.”

  “We got flack from several churches, including The First Gospel Church,” Davies said.

  “I knew there had to be a connection,” Wilder said. “Otherwise why would Reverend Linden be here?” No one had an answer. “I’d like to speak to some of the other women on staff.”

  “No problem,” the security chief said. “I’ll take you around now, if you like.”

  “I’ll keep in touch,” Detective Wilder promised, placing her business card in front of Brenda on the desk, then she and Davies left us alone.

  Brenda stared at the worn carpet, nervously twisting her wedding band.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I’m just really annoyed.”

  “Then why not do us all a favor and resign.”

  She looked at me. “I did—this morning. Friday’s my last day.”

  “Good.”

  Her expression soured.

  “Hey, Rich and I aren’t just being bossy, overbearing men. We care about you.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Well, do you?”

  She glared at me, then her angry expression melted into an ironic smile. “Of course I do. But what am I going to do, sit at home all day worrying that some kook is out to get me?”

  “Rich will be working at the clinic full time for the next few weeks. I’m sure they’d be glad to see your smiling face every day, too.”

  “I suppose. But I like this job. I feel like I make a difference here.”

  “You can make a difference in a safer place.” I handed her her coat. “Now, come on. Let’s get out of here.”

  We both saw the long white florist’s box sitting on the front doorstep as we pulled up the drive. “They’ll be for you, of course,” I said, as I shut off the engine and withdrew the key. “No one ever sends me flowers.”

  “Richard’s such a romantic,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “You get them. I’ll let the dog out.”

  Holly was happily sniffing the grass in the back yard—no doubt on the trail of a squirrel—by the time Brenda retrieved the box from the step and headed for the back door. I didn’t even have a key to the front door, I realized, and wondered if she did.

  I held the door for Brenda and wondered why Richard had ordered the flowers to be delivered instead of giving them to Brenda himself.

  I switched on the lights while Brenda shrugged out of her coat, tossing it onto a chair. She stood over the box on the kitchen table, wriggled the ribbon off the end, removed the lid, and drew back the green florist’s tissue. She gasped.

  “Gorgeous, huh?” I asked, taking off my jacket.

  She shoved the box aside as though scalded and turned away—a wave of her shock smacked me headlong.

  I looked into the box and felt cold. A dozen black roses, with wicked thorns still gracing their slender stems.

  YOU WILL DIE, was the message on the letters she’d received. Now this.

  I snatched the envelope from among the tissue, and yanked out the card: “Who’s sorry now?” No signature.

  “My God, who’s doing this?” she managed, voice hushed to almost a whisper, and sank into one of the
wooden chairs.

  I snatched the box lid and turned for the phone, punched in the numbers under the gold-embossed logo. I waited as it rang: one, two, three, four times.

  “Castlerock Florist. Can I help you?”

  “Yeah. What kind of sick bastard sends black roses?”

  There was a pause. “There is no true black rose,” the woman said. “But I think I know the order you’re talking about. Would you verify the address, please?”

  I gave her the information. “Who ordered them?” I demanded.

  “Please hold while I look it up.”

  Brenda stared at the ceramic tile floor, her right hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with fear. I’d almost swear she’d paled.

  The woman came back on the line. “They were ordered this morning by a Mr. W. M. Morgan.”

  “Have you got an address?”

  “Sorry, sir, I can’t give out that information.”

  “Thanks, anyway.” I hung up the phone and stared into the box. The florist was right. They weren’t really black—more a deep purple.

  “It was Willie, right?” Brenda asked.

  “Yeah. Who’s sorry now?” I repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? His not-so-subtle reminder that you and he are black and Richard isn’t? Or a thinly veiled threat?”

  Brenda wasn’t listening. “I didn’t think I’d have to call Detective Wilder so soon.”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. She retrieved the card from her purse and gave it to me.

  The lady cop hadn’t yet returned to the station. I left a message, asking her to get back to us.

  I hung up the phone, heard Holly barking, and went to let her in. Brenda got up from her chair, drew the kitchen drapes against the deepening twilight.

  “Did you hear from Patty today?” she asked, as Holly trotted in and planted herself in front of the fridge, waiting for a snack.

  “No. I guess I’d better check my messages,” I said, and turned back for the phone. I called my own number, punched in the retrieval code. One message. I had a feeling I didn’t want to hear it.

  “Jeffrey? It’s Patty.” Her voice sounded flat, resigned. “Dad slipped into a coma this morning. You’d better come to the hospital if you want to see him before the end. Bye.”