"Linda Thompson found it yesterday when she went by to get Mary's burial clothes. By the telephone. How the hell did you guys miss it?” I could have told him their telephone was in the kitchen, and he'd growled us all out of there, but I saved my breath. “Linda . . . She knew about the first marriage, but she didn't know about a baby. She doesn't think anybody did."
"Maybe she's just too young to know all the gossip about that generation,” I suggested.
"I hope so. If Jim knew . . .” He beckoned for the envelope and its contents. I handed them over and he put them back together, turned around, and popped them in the safe. “Probably doesn't matter."
But it did, I thought.
I had another hour before quitting time, so I went back to the office and went to the Atlanta online obituaries. Anthony Montelli's confirmed that he was survived by a son, Carson. That was all. I thought about going to the Norseman's, but the visitation was at seven, and I didn't like to attend with alcohol on my breath. I was driving home when I saw Matt Stark, walking her dog. I nodded and pulled over.
"Get in, I'll give you a lift."
"The purpose of this is to give that damn dog exercise,” Matt complained as she climbed in. “How's Jim?"
"Not good. Pretty incoherent."
"Poor old bastard. I know he didn't set out to kill her."
"You think it was an accident?"
"Well, it sure as hell wasn't murder."
"How about suicide?"
Matt looked at me over Whisper's wagging tail. “Why would she do that?"
"She'd been diagnosed—"
"Yeah, with breast cancer.” Matt waved a hand, scattering cigarette ashes all over my car. “We all knew about that. She had a long talk Saturday with Charlene Oldham about mastectomy versus lumpectomy. She was handling it just fine. We'd worked out shifts to help her and watch Jim and everything was taken care of."
"But—"
"Like I said, an accident. Although I reckon I'm going to have to tell you, ‘cause you're going to hear it from others, he has been getting violent.” I raised my eyebrows. “Well, not violent, but sometimes when he gets frustrated, he throws a tantrum. Because of the Alzheimer's. That or he gets really depressed. Mary was a little worried.” I interpreted that to mean that Mary must have been scared to death. “I told her if it ever got out of hand to call me, because I could handle him and I would."
I pulled up into Matt's driveway and stopped the car. “Maybe she just couldn't handle any of it anymore."
Matt made a face. “Bull. You didn't know her. Mary had guts. She wouldn't let anything knock her out. Not Jim's condition, not breast cancer, and certainly not hearing about the Italian stallion kicking the bucket.” I suppose I was staring like an idiot, because she added, “Mary's ex?"
"How'd you hear about that?"
"Francine Parsons, how else? She told us the same day Mary shared her diagnosis. She would,” Matt grunted, and opened the door, pushing Whisper into the yard. “You don't know the story. Well. Back forty-five years ago, a bunch of us went to West River to the Ellsworth Air Force Base for spring break. Not that any of us were in college, but we went anyway, and saw the flyboys. Me, Mary, Charlene, Eloise, and Francine. We all went to a big dance out there. And we all got pretty tight. Francine threw herself at Tony—God, he was gorgeous—but he'd seen Mary and that was that.” Matt took a deep drag of her cigarette, finishing it. “We had a great time. We stayed till the place shut down, and we all went in different directions when we left. And I was the first back to the motel!” She bellowed with laughter. “First time that ever happened in my life!"
"And then Mary married this guy Tony."
"Oh, yeah. She came back with us to Laskin, packed her bags and took a bus right back to Ellsworth. I think they got married the next day. He was moving out to . . . crap, I can't remember. But they moved there together. It was a little over a year later she came back home. Said he was a mean drunk. So she divorced him and married Jim Olson, who worshipped the ground she walked on."
"Why would Francine have kept track of Tony?"
"Well, I don't know why she kept track of Tony, but I do know why she kept track of Mary. Francine's Jim Olson's sister. She never did appreciate Mary coming into the family.” She got out of the car. “Thanks for the lift. See you at the visitation. Oh, and let Jim know I'll be down to see him as soon as he's allowed visitors."
"I will."
I headed home, thinking. Jealousy compounded daily. Sounded believable to me. But Francine wouldn't have sent a letter from her son.
* * * *
The visitation was packed. Francine Parsons, who I finally realized was one of my mother's bridge pals, the one I disliked the most, came up to me and announced that she was going to go down to Yankton, get Jim Olson, and bring him up to live with her. I said I thought that would be a fine idea, if she was up to it.
"As if I couldn't take care of my own brother!"
She huffed off, and Linda leaned toward me. But what she was going to say was lost because at that moment, Carson Montelli walked in.
It had to be him: a short, dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, fortyish man. Everyone stopped talking and stared. Even Randy Walworth was struck dumb for a minute. Then he went over and handed him a program. The man looked down, read it, and his shoulders began to shake. He was crying. Randy murmured a few words, the man said something back, and Randy glanced around with that coyote look he gets when he gets a new scrap of gossip.
Linda and I were near enough to hear Randy say, “If you'll come with me, Mr. Montelli, I'll take you in to see her.” He whisked him into the visitation room, and was back in a moment to announce, loudly, that the prayer service would begin in five minutes.
Usually after the prayer service, everyone greets the relatives, and goes into the coffee room, and talks a mile a minute. The sound is like migrating geese. This time, it was all whispers, and sounded more like snakes. It was Francine who exploded.
"Son! She never had a son!"
"Are you sure you'd know?” Montelli asked, politely but firmly. “She left us all completely behind."
"She would have said!” Francine was turning purple with rage.
Montelli shrugged. “Maybe she was ashamed that she abandoned a baby. I've never understood it myself. I know . . . I admit my dad was a son-of-a-bitch—” Gasps went up. “—but I've never understood why she didn't take me with her. I would have liked to know her at least. While she was still—” And then his face crumpled again.
I went up to him and clapped my hand on his back. “It's a hard thing you're going through. You got someplace to stay?"
Montelli wiped his eyes and nodded. “Laskin Motel."
"Good. You go back and you have a good rest, and tomorrow we'll talk."
"Did you know my mother?"
"All my life,” I said. “I'll pick you up, take you to breakfast. Officer Grant Tripp."
I would have said that Montelli's eyes wavered for a moment, but when a man's been crying as hard as he'd been, it's hard to tell.
After Montelli left, Linda said quietly, “No will."
"Huh?"
"Aunt Mary and Uncle Jim never made a will. They talked about it, never did it."
I nodded. “That's fairly common.” After all, I thought, it didn't matter. Or did it? I saw Jim Barnes and excused myself for a minute. “Jim, what's the law about intestate inheritance? If there's a child?"
He gave me a long legal explanation that could be condensed down to the kid gets half. I thanked him, and he went off with his latest wife. Bob was on duty later that evening. I could ask him to keep an eye on Montelli—but then I thought, why bother. He wasn't going anywhere. Not yet.
* * * *
Over breakfast, Montelli explained that a few years back he'd done a search for his mother and found out that she'd remarried and was still in Laskin. “I never contacted her because my dad was still alive, and . . . I just knew it wouldn't be any use. I thought, though, that maybe after he died .
. .” He shook his head.
"I hope you don't mind my asking, but do you have some proof that you are who you say you are?"
Montelli nodded and pulled out his driver's license from his wallet and a large manila envelope from his briefcase. The Georgia driver's license was for Carson Montelli, and it was certainly his picture on it. The envelope had a certification of birth: Carson Montelli, born July 24, 1964, same date as the driver's license, place of birth, Trenton, New Jersey—"My dad was stationed at McGuire Air Force Base at the time."—father Anthony Montelli, mother's maiden name Mary Johnson.
I nodded. “Tell me about your dad."
"Hard drinker, hard liver, mean temper. Anything my mother might have said about him was probably true. I still don't understand why she left me with him . . ."
He whined about that for quite a while, and to be honest, I tuned out most of it. I wanted to know what he wanted. Money, of course. But my mind went around like a hamster in a wheel while, his voice droned on like a mosquito.
Finally he stopped. He said he wanted to drive around and see the sights. I told him to check out Lake Howard, right outside of town. After he left, I went back to the office and made a couple of phone calls. One of them was to Bob, who promised to keep an eye on him.
Montelli went for his drive, and then went to see Linda, who sent him on to Jim Barnes. Later, he came into Mellette's Lounge. I was in the next booth, finishing a burger. I gave him a little nod and ignored him. He was working his way through a tough steak when Jonasson came in. Montelli looked up from his carving as Jonasson sat down across from him. This time his eyes were definitely shifty.
"Mr. Montelli?” The man nodded. “I'm Detective Jonasson."
"Is there something I can do for you?” he squeaked.
"You can explain how your mother was born in Newark when Mary Johnson Olson was born right here in Laskin."
Montelli put down his knife. “What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about your birth certificate. What you showed Officer Tripp was a short form. You know, we kind of get to know people up here, living with them all these years, and Mary Olson wasn't the type to leave a baby behind with a man like your dad. And it occurred to Officer Tripp as soon as he saw the paperwork, there's got to be a million Mary Johnsons in the world."
I'd finished my burger, so I moved over and sat down next to Jonasson. I smiled at Montelli and said, “I had an Uncle Dave, married three times and each time to a Sarah. Just liked the name, I guess. Sure made it easier for us in the family."
"So Officer Tripp, he got the New Jersey Vital Records to fax us the long form. And there you are. It says that your mother was Mary Catherine Johnson, born in Newark, New Jersey."
Montelli looked sick, but he tried. “Look, I didn't know that. I just—"
"You didn't know? You didn't check? You thought this might be your mother?” Jonasson almost spat, but didn't. “Tell us the truth. What happened to your Mary Johnson?"
"I don't know!” Montelli yelped. “She left too. They all did. I just thought—"
"You'd try it on?” I asked. Jonasson frowned at me, and I shut up.
"Mr. Montelli, no matter how you look at it, what you're trying here is fraud—"
"I tell you, I didn't know she wasn't my mother!"
Jonasson ignored him. “However, it hasn't gone too far, and I'm willing to overlook it.” Montelli's face eased up slightly. “What worries me is that a woman we all know and love has been shot in the head. And I wonder if maybe you came to town kind of early—"
"I never shot anyone!” he squealed. “I never was here in my life before yesterday!"
Jonasson shook his head and turned to me.
"Bill Jorgenson up at the C-Mart, he says you stopped in for gas three days ago,” I supplied. “And Mrs. Hopewell, she lives across the street from the Olsons, she says she saw a car a lot like yours parked out back that same day."
"They're wrong!"
"They're reliable,” Jonasson assured him. “Now, you might have come then, or even a day before that. I mean, if you're going to try to inherit money from a woman who's never seen you, wouldn't it be better if she never sees you at all?"
"I didn't kill her! I didn't kill anyone! I swear to you, I wasn't—"
"Bill Jorgenson and Mrs. Hopewell."
"I read about the death in the paper,” he stammered. “I was in Omaha. I drove up to see—"
"Just to see?"
"All right. I went by the house. It was unlocked, so I went in, and I looked around. The bed . . .” Montelli turned green and pushed his steak so it was under Jonasson's nose. “And then I left."
"But first you dropped off an obituary and a letter. By the telephone.” He nodded. “You got any proof that you weren't here before Wednesday?"
"How can I prove it?"
"Gas receipts would help. You don't strike me as the type that would pay cash."
Montelli scrabbled in his briefcase like there was gold in there. I kept a hand on my gun, just in case. Some people are fools. He came up with a handful of receipts, and it flashed through my mind that it would be interesting to see whose name was on the credit cards. He tossed them across the table.
"You might as well go ahead and finish your steak while I do this,” Jonasson commented, reading through each receipt carefully. He didn't. He just kept his eyes riveted on Jonasson's hands, filing the receipts in order by date as he read them. Finally he put them down. “You're pretty organized. That's good. Probably saved you from being arrested. For murder, at least."
"Does this mean I can go now?"
Jonasson nodded. We watched as Montelli scrabbled up the receipts, his briefcase, and headed for the door. “Don't forget to pay for your steak,” Jonasson called out. Montelli pulled out money and slammed it down by the cash register.
We both sighed. It had been fun to rattle Montelli's cage, but that was all it was. Francine Parsons had been in while I was waiting for the fax and told us the bitter truth. It had come out down in Yankton: Jim Olson had found out about Mary's breast cancer and, depressed and confused, had tried to commit suicide. Mary had tried to stop him. In the struggle, she had been shot. Matt Stark had been right. An accident. A tragic, senseless accident.
"It would have been nice to arrest Montelli,” I said.
"Oh, somebody'll arrest him somewhere. He only thinks he's smart. Doesn't look ahead.” Jonasson glanced at me. “Unlike some people.” He got up and went home.
Copyright © 2010 Eve Fisher
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Fiction: THEY CALLED HER THE GUNGIRL by O'Neil De Noux
She stood shivering in the rain while he changed the tire of their faded green Packard. She turned her wide, dark eyes toward my headlights as I slowed my DeSoto to pass along that deserted stretch of Highway 90 on the New Orleans side of the Rigolets narrows separating Lakes Catherine and Borgne from Lake Pontchartrain. Lightning forked and her yellow dress flashed in momentary brightness. I pulled in front of the Packard and took my umbrella back to her.
He looked up at me as he tightened the lug wrench.
"Need any help?” I asked, passing the umbrella to her. The rain picked that moment to let up. Typical south Louisiana weather, storming one second, no rain the next.
"We got it now,” he said, moving the wrench to the next nut.
"You should keep your lights on,” I said. “Almost hit you.” The Packard was half on the blacktop.
I waited for him to finish with the tire. Had to guide her by the elbow away from the highway when a car zoomed on the other side of the road, spraying water high into the night sky. She looked around twenty, him too. Both were drenched, lips quivering although it wasn't a bit cold. The late September rain was a warm rain, warmer than the most of the showers I'd taken in the army.
"Thanks,” he said, opening the door for her. He stood a good four inches shorter than my six feet.
She gave me a lingering look as she climbed in. It wasn't flirty, bu
t her eyes locked on to mine for a long moment before he shut the door. I went back to my car and the Packard followed me. The highway turned into Chef Menteur Highway, then Gentilly Boulevard. I took a left at Elysian Fields and the Packard went straight. When I pulled up in front of my building on Barracks Street, I glanced at my Bulova—three a.m.
At ten a.m., I sat behind my well-worn mahogany desk with my feet up, a mug of coffee and chicory in one hand and the morning paper in the other as I read about the poor, underrated, underdog Brooklyn Dodgers, which my Yankees beat in game one of the 1947 World Series, five to three. I'd listened to the game on the radio, but I liked to read the sports reporters’ commentary the next morning. Apparently 73,365 fans filled Yankee Stadium to witness DiMaggio, Berra, Rizzuto, and company do what they do best. Win. Five runs on four hits. Not bad.
Flipping back to the front, I spotted the headline prominent doctor murdered near rigolets, and I sat up.
Just below was the subhead “Green Car Seen Leaving."
Dr. Lucas Waddell of the Eye-Ear-Nose-and-Throat Clinic on North Claiborne Avenue was found lying outside his fishing camp on Lake St. Catherine with three bullets in his chest. An elderly neighbor heard gunshots, saw two people run to a green car, possibly a Buick or Packard, and drive off. The witness couldn't identify the two with the rain coming down but was sure one was a woman in a yellow dress. The coffee churned in my stomach. I picked up the phone and called my friend, Frenchy Capdeville, NOPD Homicide Division.
* * * *
Frenchy flipped his cigarette into the gutter, sending sparks into the air, as we stepped away from his black prowl car parked at the corner of Orleans and Royal Street. I stretched and glanced at St. Anthony's garden behind St. Louis Cathedral. A flock of pigeons rose from the obelisk commemorating some French sailors who died here during one of our yellow fever epidemics. It always looked out of place, an Egyptian obelisk behind an old European cathedral.
Lieutenant Frenchy Capdeville stood five nine, medium build. Picture Zorro with a wide nose, rumpled suit and ever-present cigarette dangling from his lips and that's Frenchy. He even had the pencil-thin mustache and curly black hair. I was dressed in my light gray suit, sky blue tie, black-and-white Florsheims. My dark brown hair was recently cut and Brillantined with a crisp part down the left side. I'm not sure which former girlfriend described my eyes as Mediterranean brown, but my face, properly square jawed, was clean shaven.
AHMM, July-August 2010 Page 8
