A Quiet Death

by Marcia Talley

  Nick screwed up his face, as if I’d just asked him to solve a particularly difficult equation. ‘I was only at Lynx News once, on the Friday before . . . well, before I met you.’

  ‘Why did you go there, Nick?’

  Nick chortled. ‘Don’t play dumb with me, Hannah. You know very well why I paid a visit to Lynx News. I wanted to see John Chandler.’

  ‘Your father.’

  And the truth came out, in one breathless burst. ‘Yes, my hotshot father who’s too famous to see anybody unless they make an appointment first! That woman, Meredith whatever, she came down to meet to me, but said I couldn’t talk to Chandler. She told me he was taping a show, but I didn’t believe her. Then she asked how she could help. I didn’t know how best to get the great man’s attention, so I gave her a photocopy of one of Zan’s letters to Mother.’

  Nick had been leaning forward in his chair as he delivered his speech, but when it was done, he collapsed, melting into the upholstery.

  ‘What did Meredith say when you gave her the letter?’

  ‘She asked who Lilith was, so I told her. She kept me standing in the lobby while she stared at the letter, people coming and going, swerving around us, and I’m feeling like a fricking salesman or something. After a bit, she told me she’d see to it that Mr Chandler got the letter, took my contact information, said Mr Chandler would be in touch, blah blah blah. Of course, he never called. Big surprise.’

  Nick blinked rapidly, and I thought he might be fighting back tears. ‘I swear to you, Hannah! That’s the first and only time I saw that woman. Until you told me just now, I didn’t even know she was dead!’

  Actually, I could believe that. By the time Nick was out of the woods, the story had left the headlines.

  ‘Murdered? Jesus. That’s terrible!’ he said.

  I finished my wine and set the glass down. ‘What will you tell the police when they show up?’

  ‘Just what I told you.’

  ‘And what if they say maybe you telephoned Meredith, asked her to come out and meet you on that day?’

  Nick made a fist and pounded it lightly on the table. ‘No, no, no, no! That simply didn’t happen! I was totally at the Library of Congress. Somebody will remember seeing me there.’

  He opened his mouth, took a breath and I thought he was winding up to tell me something else, but he slammed his lips shut instead.

  ‘At least we agree on one thing, you and I, Skip.’ I raised my empty glass. ‘John Chandler is your father, isn’t he?’

  Nick simply nodded, not looking directly at me, but at the ridges and swirls on the textured wall, still absent-mindedly twirling his wine glass.

  ‘What a pair!’ I said, referring to Zan and Lilith. ‘He’s denying and your mother’s not telling, but facts is facts is facts.’

  ‘Amen!’ Nick said, hoisting his glass. He raised it to his lips and emptied the remaining wine in one gulp, then slammed the glass down on the table. If there’d been a fireplace in the room, no doubt he would have dashed the glass against the hearth and shouted Prost!

  But Nick was in no mood for celebrating. ‘Do you know what it’s like to be rejected? No father, an absentee mother, and a fossil of an uncle who squeezed every nickel until the buffalo pooped? Spending every Christmas with the families of friends because my mother was living . . .’ He whipped his glasses off and massaged his eyes. ‘Well, I’m not going there.’

  I could only imagine. I came from a close-knit military family that moved, together, all over the world. Even when our father was deployed, we stayed in touch with cassette-tape recordings sent back and forth through the mail. It hadn’t seemed important when we lost the tapes in one of our many moves, but I would give anything to hear my late mother say ‘I love you’ again.

  At that moment, Nick looked so lost and vulnerable that my own motherly instinct kicked in, big time. I pictured Lilith’s house as I had last seen it. Thanksgiving dinner hadn’t been prepared in that kitchen for a very long time, perhaps not since the early pilgrims.

  ‘Do me a favor, will you, Nick?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Let me take you to dinner downstairs. It’s an Indian restaurant. I’ve looked at the menu, and I think there’s a chicken vindaloo with my name on it.’ Holding my wine glass, I popped up from my chair and whisked his empty glass off the table. ‘Let me rinse these out.’

  In the bathroom, I ran hot water into the glasses, swirled it around, then dumped it out, shaking off the excess drops over the sink. As I reached for a towel on the rack behind the toilet, I noticed scraps of paper on the floor. Neatnick that I am, I bent down for a closer look.

  Each piece was a ragged one-half inch square. I scooped up a handful and examined them closely. ‘Waiting for’ was written on one scrap; ‘I dream’ on another; ‘Venice we’ on a third. I recognized the handwriting. It was Zan’s.

  The scraps were from a photocopy, not an original letter, I noticed with relief. When I checked the trash can, I found thousands more bits which, had they been put together, would chronicle Zan’s love for a beautiful young woman named Lilith. Leaving our wine glasses sitting on the edge of the sink, I picked up the trash bin and took it out to Nick. ‘What’s this?’ I asked, practically waving the bin under his nose.

  Nick smiled ruefully. ‘That’s what Hoffner and I had our little disagreement about.’

  ‘Photocopies of your mother’s letters?’

  ‘Yeah. Before the crash, he had the originals, but I felt uncomfortable about that, so he made copies. For security, he said. He gave me back the originals. That’s why I was carrying them that day.’

  ‘I’m puzzled. Why did Hoffner want the photocopies? They’re not his letters.’

  ‘Well, I hired him to find my father, so I guess he figured he needed copies of the letters in order to do his job.’

  I shook the basket. It rustled like a cheerleader’s pompom on homecoming night. ‘Why did you tear the photocopies up? I’m assuming this is your work.’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t need them. I know who my father is, and that’s all I wanted to know. Whether he’ll ever get around to acknowledging me or not doesn’t change that fact.’

  ‘You said there was a disagreement between you and Hoffner.’

  ‘Hoffner was pissed. He had some hare-brained idea that Chandler . . . Well, never mind.’

  ‘Please, Nick. Go ahead. I’m interested.’

  Nick seemed to be gathering himself together. With the business end of his cane, he repositioned his footstool. Then, using both hands, he lifted his braced leg and rested it on top of the stool. That done, he leaned back, looking considerably more relaxed than when I first entered the room.

  ‘This is how it went down,’ he began. ‘Hoffner showed up to take me to physical therapy. He noticed that I’d taken the photocopies out of his briefcase and torn them to bits. He totally flipped out. Swore like a trucker – fuck this, screw that – then walked out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘Want to know the truth?’ he continued.

  Of course I did.

  ‘Hoffner ordered me to chill out. Said there was more money in bleeding Chandler than there was in the measly amount we might get out of the Metro settlement. He was planning to blackmail my father. Hoffner wouldn’t call it that, of course. He was always running on about manning up, taking responsibility for one’s youthful mistakes. That’s a good one! And this is my favorite: making it up to me financially, all those years of struggle without a father. Yada yada yada.’ Nick laughed out loud. ‘Hoffner’s a big-time bullshitter, once he gets going. Anyway, I told Hoffner that I didn’t need to be compensated for being deprived of a father in my formative years. I wrote Hoffner a check for what I owed him, and told him to fuck off, so he did.’

  ‘Where is Hoffner now?’ I asked, growing increasingly uneasy.

  ‘Do I look like somebody who gives a shit?’

  Nick rose to his feet with difficulty, supporting himself on the cane, his hand clu
tching the brass knob, knuckles white, his arm trembling. ‘Come on, Hannah. Now that I’m up, didn’t you mention something about chicken tikka?’

  ‘Vindaloo.’

  ‘Whatever. Grab those wine glasses and let’s roll!’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The vindaloo was still burning its way though my small intestine when I got home around eight.

  Paul uncurled from his spot on the sofa and rose to meet me. ‘So, I graded exams today. How was your day?’

  I gave him a peck on the cheek, then dragged him down on the sofa to sit next to me. ‘It’s all coming together now, Paul. It was Hoffner who had Zan’s letters. Although I can’t prove it, I think he called Meredith, arranged to meet her somewhere, told her he wanted money to keep his mouth shut about Chandler’s love child, something went wrong and she died. Hoffner panicked and gave the letters back to Nick at the Library of Congress, figuring if he didn’t get caught with the letters, no problem.

  ‘Now I find out from Nick that he’d made photocopies of some of the letters. Hoffner had a fit when Nicholas destroyed them. Why?’

  ‘That’s easy, Hannah. Because he still needs them, that’s why.’

  ‘The only thing that makes sense is that Hoffner planned, or even still plans, to blackmail Chandler. Nick even suggested that in a not so subtle way.’

  I was playing with a loose thread on Paul’s ragged sweater, the one he kept rescuing from the Goodwill bag, when something occurred to me. ‘I’m going to call Jud Wilson.’

  ‘Hannah, it’s too late.’

  ‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘And I don’t have his cell. I guess it can wait until tomorrow.’

  Paul’s arm snaked around me. ‘Come here.’ He kissed me and said, ‘You taste like curry.’

  ‘Vindaloo,’ I said. ‘Extra spicy.’

  ‘Ooh, hot kisses.’

  ‘You should experience it from my side.’

  The next morning, I called Jud, left a message saying it was important I talk to him. In five minutes, he returned the call.

  ‘Jud, did that guy on the LC tape, James Hoffner, ever show up at Lynx News?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’

  ‘Is there any way to reach Chandler, other than through you?’

  ‘Sure. If you have his private number. Or his cell.’

  ‘What if you didn’t have his private number? How would one reach him?’

  ‘Dunno. Wait until he left the building and corner him, maybe. Or . . .’

  ‘Or, what?’

  ‘Go through his wife.’

  ‘Where’s Dorothea today, do you know?’

  ‘Mrs C. is always out and about. Sometimes hard to pin her down. Right now she’s flitting around town trying to wheedle donations out of businesses for a vintage hat party and jewelry sale that’ll take place next spring.’

  ‘Do you have Doro’s cell?’ I asked, starting to panic.

  ‘Nope. I can give you the home phone, though.’

  ‘Jud, I’m going to try to track Doro down, but I really, really need to talk to John. It’s important. Can you put me through?’

  ‘Sorry, Hannah. Would if I could, but he’s out of the office today. Off the radar.’

  ‘Damn it. Where?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue. When he called this morning, he said he had some sort of family emergency.’

  ‘Did he say what?’

  ‘He rarely does.’

  ‘Do me a favor. Call his cell and leave a message. Tell him James Hoffner is on the loose and he’s in a bad mood.’

  ‘Sure.’ Jud took a deep breath, puffed it out into the receiver. ‘You think Hoffner killed Meredith?

  ‘Of course. Don’t you?

  TWENTY-SIX

  I was having a gorgeous, rejuvenating early-morning soak in a tub of lavender bubbles. I had just tipped a mug of coffee to my lips when my iPhone rang, vibrating like an electric shaver on the edge of the sink. I set the mug down on the bathmat and fumbled for the phone.

  ‘Hannah, it’s Lilith Chaloux.’

  ‘Lilith, how are you?’

  ‘I was wondering if you are free today. I need some moral support.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘That man, James Hoffner, keeps calling and bothering me. Nick must have given him my number, damn it.’

  ‘Hoffner’s a creep, but what can we do?’ Quite likely, he was a blackmailer and a murderer, too, but what good would it do to share my suspicions with Lilith? It could only alarm her further.

  ‘He says he has a proposition to discuss with me. I don’t want to discuss anything with him, but he says it will be to my advantage. He’s coming over today. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘Why don’t you simply leave, Lilith? Go shopping at the Queenstown Outlets for the day? I’ll be happy to join you.’

  ‘That will only delay the inevitable. He doesn’t give up easily.’

  Lilith had hit the nail on the head. I pictured Hoffner in his green pickup truck, engine idling, waiting at the intersection of Taylors Island and Deep Point, watching for Lilith’s Toyota to appear in his rear-view mirror. ‘Do you want me to call the police? Say he’s harassing you?’

  Lilith drew a quick breath. ‘It’s not harassment yet. Besides, I’m just getting back on good terms with my son, and I don’t want any setbacks in that department. Hoffner seems to have Nicholas’s ear, so, as much as I dislike the man, I don’t want to alienate him.’ She paused for a moment, the air on her end of the line filled with the babble of a television. ‘I’ve never approved of the people Nicholas likes to hang out with and I don’t suppose I will start to approve of them now.’

  ‘It’ll probably please you to hear, then, that Nicholas has fired the creep.’

  ‘The first sign of common sense I’ve seen in the boy.’

  Realizing my bath was going to be cut short, I pulled the plug. There was no way I’d leave Lilith alone with Jim Hoffner, at least not intentionally. With the phone anchored to my ear, I stood and fumbled for a towel. ‘It’ll take me about and hour to get there, maybe an hour and fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Hannah!’

  ‘My fee is high, Lilith. You might just have to paint me a picture some day.’

  ‘Hannah, I would be delighted!’

  I drove as fast as the speed limit allowed – and at times a bit faster – making it to Lilith’s cottage outside Woolford in a little over an hour. Her Toyota was in the drive. I pulled up behind it, pocketed my iPhone which had been recharging in the console, and climbed out.

  The sun slanted through the trees, but a bit of early-morning chill still clung to the air. I regretted running out of the house so quickly that I’d forgotten to put a fleece on over my T-shirt and jeans.

  Lilith had told me she’d be in her studio, so I jogged through the woods in that direction, but when I stuck my head into the studio and called out, she wasn’t there. She wasn’t on the patio either, or sitting on the dock near the water.

  Lilith had telephoned from her house. I knew that because I had heard the television. Surely she didn’t intend for me to meet her there! But if her car was in the drive, I reasoned, she had to be around somewhere.

  I jogged back to the house and let myself in through the kitchen door. ‘Lilith! Are you here?’

  There was no answer.

  I listened to the silence, made even odder by the fact that I couldn’t hear the television. ‘Lilith?’

  Following the path Lilith had made through the disaster that was her kitchen, with one eye constantly on where I was placing my feet, I stepped carefully into the central hallway, calling her name. She wasn’t in the shambles of her living room, or anywhere in the wreck of the hall.

  The door to the bathroom was closed. Fearing Lilith had taken a tumble in the tub, I knocked, pushed it open, but she wasn’t in the bathroom, either. ‘Lilith!’

  While wending my way out of the bathroom, I was distracted by a noise. Was somebody calling my name? I high-stepped cautiously over a pile
of folded towels, but didn’t see – until it was way too late – the Charmin UltraSoft 2-Ply Jumbo Pack just on the other side. My foot came down on the Charmin, slipped out from under me, and suddenly I was flying head-first across the narrow hallway. My forehead came to a sudden stop against the doorframe of what might have been, in a previous life, a linen closet, knocking me silly.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ I shook my head, trying to dissipate the stars that were doing colorful loop-de-loops behind my eyeballs. With my fingers, I explored the knot on my forehead, already beginning to swell.

  Feeling stupid, I struggled to my feet, leaning against the wall for support. I imagined my obituary: Hannah Ives, late of Annapolis, died in a tragic accident when she tripped over a twelve-pack of toilet paper. How embarrassing. Paul would never forgive me.

  ‘Lilith!’

  This time, I thought I heard a reply. The door to the guest bedroom stood ajar, but Lilith wasn’t in among the ruins. Still massaging the bump on my head, I staggered over to the master-bedroom door and pushed on it hard, but it refused to open. ‘Lilith!’ I called.

  ‘I’m in here!’ Her voice, normally soft, was now only a whisper.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere!’ I rattled the doorknob, turned it, pushed, but the door still wouldn’t budge.

  ‘I was searching for the TV remote, so I started moving boxes and suddenly everything fell in on me.’ Lilith was in tears.

  Oh dear, the domino effect. Having been in Lilith’s bedroom, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Borrowing a move I’d seen on a dozen cop shows, I stepped back, then rammed the door with my shoulder, but only succeeded in creating a one-inch gap. I put my lips to the opening and called out, ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I think my ankle’s broken,’ she wailed. ‘Oh, God, it hurts!’

  ‘I can’t get the door open, Lilith! What’s blocking it on your side?’

  ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid! I’m so embarrassed, Hannah!’

  ‘Lilith, don’t worry about that now. Can you crawl over to the door?’