by Sandra Balzo
‘Just . . .I don’t know what evidence they have. In fact, I don’t know if they’re absolutely certain Rachel was murdered.’ I looked into his dark eyes. ‘Is there any chance it was suicide?’
Stephen’s face crumpled. ‘I thought of that. I don’t believe Rachel would kill herself. But with the pregnancy and the situation with Ted and all . . . who knows?’
‘If she decided she didn’t want the baby, might she have considered an abortion?’ I asked.
‘Never,’ Stephen said. ‘My mother would have killed her.’
He realized what he’d said and held up his hand. ‘Figure of speech.’
‘I know,’ I assured him. ‘But I assume your mother wants grandchildren.’
‘More heirs, than grandchildren. But, yes. And she knows she’s not going to get them from me.’
‘No?’
‘Nope. Vasectomy when I was twenty-one.’ Stephen turned a little red in the face, but he plunged on, looking down at the table. ‘Rachel and I used to call ourselves hostages to the Slattery fortune. Who would wish that on our kids?’
‘Whatever are you talking about, Stephen?’
Eve Whitaker Slattery was at my elbow. I pulled it off the table.
‘Why is she here?’ she demanded, apparently meaning me.
Now, I’ll be honest. Mother Slattery scared the snot out of me. Any minute I expected a second set of incisors to telescope out of her Botoxed lips and devour me, à la Alien.
Still, no one calls me ‘she’. Not when I’m sitting right there.
‘She,’ I said, ‘is having dinner with he.’ I pointed at Stephen.
‘She is,’ Stephen agreed solemnly.
‘While your sister lies dead at the hands of her husband?’ The fact that she was pointing a well-manicured finger at me indicated that the ‘her’ was me.
‘Mother, I told you—’
‘First of all,’ I said standing to take advantage of the three or so inches I had on her, ‘he is not my husband, he is . . . was Rachel’s husband. Secondly,’ I continued, before she could interrupt, ‘I don’t believe Ted had anything to do with Rachel’s death.’
I was at a loss for the slam-dunk third point, so I sat back down, picked up the napkin that had fallen when I stood up and smoothed it across my lap.
Stephen cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Mother, we were just talking about Rachel. Since we were the last ones to see her alive, we were trying to piece together what we know.’
We were? I was sort of hoping this was a date – an insensitively-timed one, perhaps, but a date nonetheless. Even if I had planned to pump Stephen for information, myself.
‘In fact,’ Stephen continued pointedly, ‘Maggy was just asking me if I thought that Rachel could have killed herself.’
Mrs Slattery held up her hands to quiet Stephen, looking around to make sure no one had heard. ‘That is . . . is . . .’ For the first time, a crack appeared in the classy facade.
Eve abruptly stepped over and jerked a chair away from the other occupied table. Placing it at ours, she sat down. The blonde at the table tore herself away from playing footsie with her companion long enough to look up, annoyed. Seeing who the chair-stealer was, though, she shut her mouth and went back to Junior.
‘Rachel would never kill herself,’ Eve whispered. ‘Not over that husband of hers. She was a stronger woman than that. Besides, she had the baby to think about. That child was our only chance to pass on the family name, God knows.’
I met Stephen’s eyes, but he seemed unaffected. Apparently he was accustomed to his mother’s jibes.
‘When was Rachel due?’ I asked.
‘October,’ Mrs Slattery said. ‘The baby would have been born in late October.’
I did a little mental arithmetic. It had been a while since I’d figured out due dates and such. ‘So she was less than three months along,’ I said. ‘Maybe more like two and a half.’
‘Excuse me.’
Yet another unwanted visitor at my elbow. This one was Pavlik. ‘I don’t mean to interrupt, but Mr Slattery said I could find you here.’ He was speaking to Eve Slattery.
‘I hope you’ve come to tell me you’ve charged that man with murder.’ She threw me a look.
‘I’m afraid just the opposite,’ Pavlik said. ‘The Milwaukee district attorney didn’t have enough to hold Mr Thorsen. We had to let him go. I wanted to tell you in person.’
I knew Pavlik well enough to know that telling her in person, especially in a public place, hadn’t been his idea. Maybe the county executive or some bigwig in the DA’s office, but not Pavlik.
‘You what? You let the man who murdered my daughter go free?’ She wasn’t actually yelling, but she still had the attention of the couple next door. I also caught sight of a head peeking over the foliage that separated us from the common folk.
Pavlik tried to calm her down. ‘Since the crime must have occurred in Milwaukee, it wasn’t up to me or to anyone else in Brookhills County. But even if it had been, I don’t think there’s currently enough evidence―’
Eve Whitaker Slattery rose to her full five foot two. ‘Don’t you think for a moment, young man, that your district attorney and county executive won’t be hearing about this. Stephen – come with me,’ she said imperiously, and swept off.
Stephen stood up. ‘I appreciate your coming by and letting us know personally,’ he said to Pavlik. Then he turned to me. ‘I should probably go and do damage control. For everyone’s sake.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Go.’
Pavlik and I watched Stephen, hurry out, stopping only at the hostess stand for a hurried conversation. Presumably he was making sure I wouldn’t be left with the bill. Not that it hadn’t been worth the price of admission.
Show over, the blonde and Junior headed for the bar.
Pavlik sank into the chair Mrs Slattery had vacated.
‘Never give women bad news in public places,’ I said, pouring wine into an empty water glass for him.
‘I thought it was supposed to keep them quiet,’ he muttered, picking up the glass and setting it back down again.
‘It doesn’t work.’ I took a sip of my wine.
‘No shit.’ Pavlik eyed me. ‘You are just all over this case. You want to tell me why you’re here?’
‘I’m a friend of Stephen’s and we were having dinner.’
‘You just met Stephen three days ago and you were pumping him for information.’
That, too. ‘Only because I didn’t have you to pump.’
Pavlik didn’t rise to the bait. In fact, I didn’t think Pavlik would be rising in my vicinity anytime soon. He pushed back from the table and spread his hands. ‘You have questions? Ask me.’
His eyes weren’t blue, but they weren’t nearly as black as the lake beyond the lights of the city, either. They were official gray – dirty Chevy gray, I had called them when we first met. Not to his face, of course.
‘OK,’ I said, pushing back my chair to try to match his level of detachment. ‘Isn’t it possible that Rachel committed suicide?’
‘No.’
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘I know that for a fact.’
For someone who offered to answer questions, he wasn’t being very forthcoming. ‘How?’
He pushed the chair back even farther. ‘Because suicides don’t beat themselves in the face, kick themselves in the stomach, die, and then jump in the water.’ He stood up. ‘Any other questions?’
Nope. That should about do it.
Chapter Thirteen
Rachel, pregnant, had been beaten in the face and kicked in the stomach. On television they would say that indicated a crime of passion. That the killer was someone who knew her well.
It was an absolutely hideous crime and I could understand Mrs Slattery’s anger at Ted’s release. No one else had been implicated. If Ted hadn’t killed Rachel, who had?
I let Frank out when I got home and went to the computer. Sensing my mood, he lay down q
uietly next to my chair as I logged into e-mail.
I’d tried not to involve Eric in too much of this, but I really wanted to ‘talk’ to him now. E-mail or instant message would be perfect, since it would give me time to consider my answers before I pressed ‘send’.
But my ‘E-Buddy’ icon indicated Eric wasn’t online, which meant he was out. That was OK. We always had texting.
I punched in: ‘How’s everything?’ Eric had explained to me that I didn’t have to use a salutation, like ‘Hi Eric’ or a signature like ‘Love you, Mom’, because the phone only belonged to one person and the message indicated who it was from. Even so, I added the ‘Love you’ part every time. I’m still a mom.
I’d barely had time to set down the cellphone before it beeped. ‘New text’ showed in the window. I pressed ‘View’.
‘Anything new on rachel’
I sat there for a second looking at the screen. The only thing new was that I knew how she died. I didn’t want to tell him that. Not now.
I pressed in: ‘Not that I know.’
‘Ok ill check with dad’
At least Ted had been released, so he could text back. ‘Need anything?’ I asked.
‘Im broke can you transfer money’
I turned back to the computer and brought up the screen with our accounts on them. Sure enough, his checking account was down to $4.03. His available balance was ‘$.03.’ Good cash flow management.
I transferred fifty dollars from my not-so-flush-itself checking account into his. Then I punched in: ‘Just transferred fifty. Make it last. Love you.’
I hit ‘send’.
A minute later: ‘Thanks i get said Friday’
As I said, texting isn’t perfect. The word was supposed to be ‘paid’ not ‘said’.
The ‘love you’ that followed, though, came through just fine.
I surfed and did e-mail for a couple more hours. As I started to shut down the computer, I noticed that my e-mail box for ‘MTEThorsen’, my pre-divorce screen name (Maggy, Ted, Eric – MTE – get it? Clever, no?), had 893 e-mails in it. When I’d created my new account ‘NoTed’, I hadn’t closed out the old one, figuring the forwarded jokes and Viagra ads needed a place to call their own. I tried to clean it out regularly, but it had been a while.
I double-clicked the icon and the list loaded, newest e-mails at the top.
The most recent subject line was ‘Buy OEM Software.’
What in the world was OEM software and why did everyone on the Internet want to sell it to me? I pushed delete.
Next down, I was invited to ‘Make all your wishes come true’ and, below that, ‘Stop smoking today!’. Sandwiched between ‘Check out the e-card a friend sent you!’ and ‘Ashamed of your size? Megadik can help!’ was an e-mail address I recognized.
Ted’s.
I double-clicked it open. The header contained the e-mail address of pretty much anyone Ted had ever met. It was the list he used to forward jokes. But this was no joke.
‘I’m sorry,’ the message read, ‘but I can’t go to jail. I love you all. Goodbye.’ It was signed simply ‘Ted’.
The time stamp said it had been sent at four forty-five this afternoon. I’d barely finished reading it when my cellphone rang.
‘Mom?’
‘Eric?’ I checked the clock. Midnight. And he was calling, not texting.
‘Mom, I texted Dad and didn’t hear back. I checked e-mail when I got home and I have this hinky one from him.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘I just opened it, too. I don’t want you to worry. I’ll call and make sure everything’s OK.’
‘I tried, both the cell and the house. And I texted. He’s not answering.’ I could hear the panic brimming in my son’s voice, ready to spill over. ‘What is Dad sorry about? Why would he be going to jail?’
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t told Eric that Rachel’s death had been a murder and that Ted was a suspect. I guess I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to.
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ he demanded.
‘I’m sorry, Eric, but I guess I was trying to protect you. Rachel was . . . killed.’ Was that weenie enough for you?
My kid’s no weenie, though. ‘Killed? You mean Rachel was murdered? Is that why Dad says he can’t go to jail? Do the cops think Dad killed her?’
‘I . . . I think they do.’
‘What a load of crap.’
Suddenly Eric sounded like a man, instead of the scared child I’d heard in his voice. Who was I kidding? The scared child I heard in my own voice.
‘I know, but―’ I started.
‘Does he have a good lawyer?’ Eric interrupted. ‘Did you get him a good lawyer?’
Ted was no longer my responsibility. I knew that and Eric knew that. But if I abandoned Ted now, it was like abandoning Eric. And even if I was afraid that part of my married life was a lie, it sure didn’t involve Eric.
‘I’m going over there right now,’ I said. ‘I will find him. If he doesn’t have a lawyer, I will make sure he gets one.’
But that wasn’t my biggest worry now. My biggest worry was that Ted’s note was a true goodbye. As in, forever. I was afraid that I was going to find Ted dead in the beautiful home on Wildwood Drive.
‘Mom?’ The little boy was back in his voice.
‘Yes, sweetie?’ I was digging through my purse for my car keys, the cellphone stuck between my ear and my shoulder.
‘You think he’s OK, right?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean, Dad wouldn’t . . . ?’
‘No, he wouldn’t.’ I said firmly. ‘Not your father. Not ever.’
I guess you never stop trying to protect your kids.
The first thing I noticed as I pulled around a parked car and turned into the driveway of the house was that the Miata was gone.
The second was that there were no lights. It wouldn’t necessarily have concerned me, but not even the front porch light was on.
Since there are no streetlights on any of the residential streets in Brookhills, most people leave their front lights on all night to provide some illumination. A totally dark house is an invitation to burglars, even in the quietest neighborhoods. Actually, especially in the quietest neighborhoods.
As I pulled up the driveway, my Escape didn’t trigger the motion-sensitive floodlights on each side of the garage door either. Despite the fact the neighbors were exactly four-tenths of an acre away on each side (Brookhills building regs), I was spooked as I got out of the car.
Closing the car door as quietly as I could, I felt like I was the trespasser. And I was. While my son would have a right to be here, I had zero standing now – zip.
Weird how two people who swore to ‘forsake all others’ could simply walk away, but their kids were stuck with their parents and their respective families forever. Stephen Slattery could worry about his kids becoming hostages to the Slattery fortune, but that sure beat being hostage to Ted’s mom’s lutefisk every Christmas.
It was silent as I approached the house. The classic night sounds of southeastern Wisconsin suburbia – the wind in the trees, the hoot-hoot of the Great Horned Owls, the swish-swish of the in-ground sprinkling system – all were eerily absent.
Not even a yapping chihuahua to be found. I was still hoping, though, that Ted would open the door as I stepped up on to the porch.
He didn’t. Not even leaning on the doorbell for the count of twenty got any reaction from either Ted or ChiChi. I stepped around a cedar planter to reach the window. The smell of peat moss and soil wafted up from the container as I peered in. Rachel must have been getting ready to plant.
I could only make out shapes in the living room. Most of them looked benign enough. Couches, chairs, tables, lamps. No huddled bodies on the floor. No silhouetted chandeliers swinging under the weigh—
A hand dropped on my shoulder. I whirled, letting my training take over. ‘Fire!’ I screamed.
Pavlik looked at me. ‘Fire?’
‘Geez,’ I said, putting my hand to
my chest. ‘You scared the hell out of me.’
‘But “fire”?’ Pavlik repeated.
‘That’s what you’re supposed to yell when you’re attacked,’ I explained. ‘People pay more attention to that than “help”.’
‘True,’ Pavlik said. ‘Especially sheriff’s deputies with guns.’
Pavlik signaled and a floodlight illuminated the front of the house. The light came from the car I’d seen parked when I turned into the driveway. There were ten or twelve deputies surrounding the house with their hands on their gun holsters.
Lucky I hadn’t yelled ‘ready, aim’ before I screamed ‘fire’. ‘You had the house staked out?’
Pavlik shrugged. ‘Homicide suspect. We like to keep track of them.’
I gestured at the men watching us. ‘You need a dozen deputies and the sheriff for that?’
‘No, we had two deputies in the car. The rest came with me.’
I was trying to see his eyes, but since his back was to the light, they looked like black pits. Gave me the creeps.
‘You heard about the e-mail?’ I hazarded.
‘Stephen Slattery is on your husband’s joke list. As, apparently, are you.’ His tone made it clear that he didn’t consider this a joke either.
‘Ex-husband,’ I corrected automatically, even though I knew from experience that Pavlik was just working me. ‘I picked up the message about a half hour ago.’
‘You should have called it in.’
‘I know,’ I admitted, and I did know. I just didn’t do. ‘But Eric called me in a panic.’
‘Your son was on the list, too?’ I heard concern in his voice. Pavlik had met Eric only once, but the two had hit it off. Even if they hadn’t, Pavlik wouldn’t like the idea of a kid getting news like that.
‘I had to tell him the whole story. Then I came over here to look for Ted. I . . . Eric was afraid that―’
‘That his father had killed himself,’ Pavlik finished.
‘Yes.’ I was uncomfortably aware of all the time we were wasting. ‘Now can’t you break the door down or something?’
‘We could,’ Pavlik said as a deputy strode up the driveway toward us, ‘but it would be easier to use a key. I had someone stop by Stephen Slattery’s place and pick up a spare his sister left with him.’
