by Matt Goldman
He said, “Look. The thing you got to understand is Robin did not hate Todd. Sometimes she said she did, but the truth is they’d just grown apart. He was re-upping his membership in the old boys’ club, and she had grown into a more thoughtful place. I don’t mean considerate. I mean full of thought. The house on the lake doesn’t mean anything to her. She has a fucking inner life. She doesn’t care about everyday bullshit.”
“Did she want to divorce Todd because of you?”
Kjellgren took a gulp of kombucha then said, “Nah, man. They had grown apart, and his politics embarrassed her. I’d even say his politics disgusted her. Guess it’s happened to a lot of couples. My parents almost split up over a few issues. People fall for the shit they see on TV and dig in. A waste of energy if you ask me.”
“Did Todd’s politics anger Robin?”
“Dude, that is a stupid question. His politics offended her. She lost respect for him and his money. No more love. No more romance. That is all. And that’s how I know she didn’t kill Todd.”
“Or have him killed?”
“Never. No need. She didn’t give a shit about that life. And don’t be a fucking dick and judge my net worth ’cause I’m covered in paint. I shit out a piece of metal and get fifty grand. Robin was just trying to … what’s that bullshit word … de-couple. In like a constructive way. You know what I mean?”
“Did you ever meet Todd?”
“No. Robin invited me to a party at the house. We were still just friends then, but I knew how I felt about her and didn’t want anyone, especially Todd, to pick up on that. I’m not skilled at hiding how I feel. I didn’t expect anything would happen between us, but I didn’t want to send the wrong message.”
He wiped his forehead with his arm and said, “Fuck it’s hot. Between the torch and shitty air-conditioning … I hate this fucking time of year.”
“It won’t last. It never does.” Arndt Kjellgren took no solace in my Buddhist tagline. “What do you do for fun besides make art and see Robin?”
He looked at me with contempt. “What, are you writing my online dating profile?”
“If you don’t want to cooperate then don’t cooperate. I don’t care. Just doing my job.”
“You know, dude? You’re kind of an asshole.”
I guessed what he’d said was true—he really couldn’t hide his feelings. I said, “Really? I don’t get that much. But I’ll take it.”
He said, “I don’t know what else you want to hear.”
“Nothing,” I said. I stood. “I’ve heard plenty. Thanks for the kombucha. Good luck with your next visit from the cops.” I turned and walked away.
Arndt Kjellgren said, “Wait. What next visit from the cops?”
I opened the door and walked out.
8
I was thinking about my Micaela sighting and obnoxious artists while blasting The Suicide Commandos in my hockey mom mobile as I pulled into my loading dock. I shut off the Volvo then pressed a button on the car’s ceiling. The loading dock door shut behind me. I got out of the car, and she was standing there. She said, “I need a drink.”
“How did you get in here?”
“I walked in when you drove in. You didn’t seem to notice.”
“Yeah well,” I said, “I have a bit of a space-out problem. Didn’t we agree on rules of contact? And the rules were no contact?”
Robin Rabinowitz wore white shorts, white Birkenstocks, and a pink sleeveless top with a deep V-neck. She said, “I take your rules as a suggestion. A suggestion I don’t like very much. I can’t be alone, not after what happened to Todd.”
“You must have friends.”
“None who can protect me.”
“Didn’t the police offer to post someone outside your house?”
“Yes, but then I’d be trapped there, and I hate feeling trapped.” Her eyes got big again. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine fear or a trick she’d learned to gain sympathy. Robin was a little too smooth, too coquettish, although the play seemed less for love and more for things like getting out of a speeding ticket or convincing a private detective he should be her bodyguard. “And I can’t be sequestered from Arndt.”
“That explains how your boyfriend knew who I was.”
“I heard about your visit.”
“When? I was there ten minutes ago.”
“He called right after you left. Said he didn’t like you very much.”
“Huh. I adore him.”
She smiled and twisted her Birkenstock’s cork sole on the concrete floor. “Can we sit down and talk?”
“I thought you needed a drink.”
“You don’t have anything here?”
“I have alcohol. I don’t have air-conditioning.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Really? It’s so hot in here a camel would mind. But all right. Come on.”
I led her up the sweaty concrete steps and into the kitchen. She said, “Awesome place.”
“It’s home. At least for a little while longer. So, I have Irish whiskey, gin, vodka, and this.” I opened my industrial fridge. I had a few bottles of sauvignon blanc. Micaela’s drink of choice—too sweet for me—but I kept them in case we ever ended up at my place. We never had. I pulled out a bottle and showed it to her.
She said, “Cold wine sounds good. What are you having?”
I looked at the clock. 5:30. I don’t like to drink before the sun sets. It’s easy in the winter when the weak ball of fire disappears in the afternoon, but not so easy in the summer when Minnesota’s northern latitude keeps the sky light until 10:00 P.M. I said, “I’ll have a little Irish whiskey. You sure you don’t want to go somewhere with air-conditioning?”
“I don’t mind the heat,” said Robin. “I’m good here.”
I poured the wine and Irish then we sat on the soft furniture in my makeshift living room, an assortment of Craigslist finds and what I had in the tiny shitbox I moved out of almost two years ago. I said, “I hear Todd’s funeral is tomorrow.”
“It was supposed to be. But they won’t release his body until the autopsy is done.”
“What about shivah?”
“It’s at Todd’s parents’. His ex-wife and kids will be there. The family never embraced me. I don’t want to go, but I suppose that would look bad.” I agreed with a glance. “This is a mess. I’m not going to have a normal life for a long time.”
The sounds of afternoon rush hour filtered in through the coat factory’s high awning windows. Robin slipped out of her Birkenstocks and said, “Is it okay if I put my feet up?”
“Have you had your shots?” She smiled. “For your protection. I don’t know where most of this furniture has been.”
She said, “I’ll take my chances.” She set her brown feet and painted toes on a sage green corduroy ottoman, the fine gold chain still around one ankle. She sipped her wine and said, “Good vino.”
“I never touch the stuff. I’ll take your word for it. How did it go with the police today?”
“Well, it wasn’t anything like what I’ve seen on Law and Order. They were nice. No one slugged me in the stomach or threw me against the wall. They asked basic questions. I told them everything I told you.”
I felt flushed from the heat, humidity, and whiskey. I took off my shoes.
“How did they respond when you told them about Arndt?”
“They were interested, that’s for sure. They’d already talked to him. Cute ankle socks.”
“Thank you. Do you think the police were harder on Arndt than they were with you?”
“He didn’t think they were bad.”
“How did he take the news that I asked you not to see him for a while?”
“He wasn’t thrilled about it.” She raised her empty wineglass. “Do you mind if I get a refill?”
“I’ll get it.”
“No. You sit.”
The widow of fourteen hours walked toward the kitchen then disappeared behind a wall of books, which was the only int
erior wall other than the few in the corner that defined the bedroom and bathroom. I heard the fridge open and a moment later she returned with the bottle of sauvignon blanc and my bottle of Redbreast. “I hate having a second alone.” She poured the drinks and reclaimed her spot, bare feet up on the ottoman.
“Two’s my limit. I have dinner with a young lady tonight.”
“Oh? Someone special?”
“Emma Ellegaard.”
“Molly’s daughter?”
“She’s going through some teenage stuff. They asked if I’d talk to her.”
“’Cause it takes one to know one?”
“I suppose.”
We talked for another hour. I asked Robin how her attorney, Nellie Chang, did at her meeting with the police. Robin thought she did fine. Everyone was so pleasant. Robin didn’t stop talking and didn’t stop drinking—she killed the bottle of wine. Finally, after a silence of a few minutes, she said, “Well, I guess I should go to that goddamn shivah.”
I said, “You’re not driving anywhere. Take a Lyft or a cab.”
“Maybe I’ll just call and say I’m too upset. I can’t keep it together. I need the funeral before I can face people.”
“I’d buy it.”
Robin’s eyes got big and wet again. She said, “Can I stay here while you’re gone?”
She was tired, drunk, and scared. Of what, I’m not sure, but she was scared. I couldn’t send her out into the world that way. I said, “Of course. I have cheese and crackers and takeout menus. Or I can order you something when I’m at dinner with Emma and bring it back. I doubt we’ll be there long.”
“You know,” said Robin, “I think I just want to shut my eyes.”
I stood, walked over to her, and held out an open palm. She placed her hand on top of mine. I said, “Thank you. But I want your keys.”
She shut her eyes. “They’re in my purse in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
I told her where the bathroom was and to make herself at home, took the keys from Robin’s purse, then left to meet Emma Ellegaard.
9
I slugged through traffic crawling west on 394 to meet Emma Ellegaard at Crave, a decent link in a chain restaurant with a varied menu leaving little for a fifteen-year-old to complain about. I considered using my road time to call Micaela and confront her about her non-trip to New York but decided I’d wait for her to contact me. I did connect with Ellegaard to tell him about my visits with Arndt Kjellgren and Robin Rabinowitz. We planned to meet for breakfast with Molly so I could give them my uneducated assessment of their daughter, then at the office to catch up with Annika.
St. Louis Park’s shopping and eating area called the West End is not on the west end of anything, including St. Louis Park. It’s in the middle of the first-ring suburb. It’s an outdoor mall, which contains restaurants, shops, a multiplex, and monstrous parking ramps. Across the road is a Home Depot and a Costco and a fake pond with an aeration fountain that attracts geese and ducks year-round.
Emma Ellegaard was standing by the hostess stand when I walked in. She had her mother’s smile and dark hair and her father’s blue eyes and gawky limbs. She wore old jeans and a denim work shirt.
“Hi, Mr. Shapiro.” She gave me a hug.
“Emma, stop growing. It’s getting embarrassing.” She smiled. I said, “And I know your parents make you call me Mr. Shapiro, but I’ve never liked that, so tonight please call me Nils or Shap or hey you. Cool?”
She nodded, then the hostess walked us to our table. We caught up with small talk about school and volleyball then ordered dinner from a perky young woman with a Miss Minnesota smile who’d gotten too much sun over the weekend, her peeling skin splotched pink within the tan. I’ve had plenty of three-hour dinners, but didn’t want to have one with a fifteen-year-old, so I jumped right in when the server left. “So, Emma, your parents are pretty upset. Do you think whatever’s going on with you is as big of a deal as they do?”
She shook her head and twisted her mouth into what was both somehow a smile and frown. “They’re so weird. I don’t get it.”
“Well, you know their concern isn’t because they hate you, right? It’s not their goal to make you miserable.”
“Yeah…” She shook her head again.
“But what?”
“They want me to be just like them. It’s so not fair. Olivia’s like them, and good for her, but I’m different. They don’t get me. They think I’m…” She paused, searched for the word, then said, “messed up.”
“You can swear if you want. I don’t care.”
“Really? I think that would be weird.”
“I’m not saying you have to swear, just that you can. I won’t think any less of you.”
“Would you swear around me?”
“If you started it, hell yes.”
She laughed and said, “You’re weird, Shap.”
“I’ve been called worse. So, I know you stay out past curfew sometimes. What else are they upset about?”
“Ugh. Like everything. My hair. My clothes. I like thrift shop stuff. My mom thinks it’s gross. The music I listen to. The people I hang with. My Twitter and Instagram. My fingernail polish. It’s like stop. Enough.”
Someone brought a basket of bread that also contained chip-like cracker things that stood high and pointed like stalagmites. I took one and broke off a piece then said, “Are you drinking?”
She looked away then shrugged and said, “I’ve tried it.”
“Pot?”
“Tried it.”
“X?”
“No.”
“Anything else? Coke? Meth? Speed?”
“No. Just had a few beers and smoked pot two times.”
“Did you like it?”
She shrugged. “It was okay.”
“All right.”
Curiosity all over her face. She said, “All right?”
“Are you a drug addict?”
“No.”
“A drunk?”
“No way.”
“Then all right.”
“I don’t get it.”
“When you get your driver’s license, no drinking and drugs if you have to get behind the wheel. No exceptions.”
“I know.”
“I believe you. Let me ask you this, Emma. How would you want your mom and dad to behave if it were up to you?”
“What?”
“If you were the boss of everything, how would things be different at home?”
She looked down and shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you want them to understand better?”
When she looked up, her eyes were wet. “I just want them to not make such a big deal out of everything.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I get that. That’s fair. But what would you do if one of your sisters was doing something that concerned you? I know they’re younger, but what if they were hanging with the wrong crowd or just fucking something up that they shouldn’t? Or they were just being mysterious or evasive? What if you found a joint in Olivia’s jacket pocket? Would you let it go? Would you say something to her?”
She nodded.
“You’d probably be way cooler about it than your mom and dad. Probably take Olivia to a restaurant like this and have a talk with her.”
She laughed and wiped away her tears. The waitress brought our meals, sensed the gravity of our conversation, and left. We ate for a while without talking about anything other than the food, then Emma said, “Everything just sucks.”
I said, “Agreed.”
“Really?”
“Hell yeah. But that’s life. It’s about the journey. You know where you are. You see where you want to get to. But life doesn’t make it easy. So you got to deal with shit. So what? What else do you have to do?”
“That’s your philosophy?”
“At the moment, it is,” I said. “Listen, I’m the oldest of three kids. I tried not to get in trouble because that would open my parents’ eyes to a long list of possible
wrongdoings and make it a lot harder on my brother and sister. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. Don’t get in trouble.”
“More like don’t get caught.”
She laughed. “Oh my God, I can’t believe that’s the advice you’re giving me.”
“And as far as school goes,” I said, “the reason to do well is not because your parents want you to. The reason to do well is so you have choices when you’re older. If you end up emptying those portable toilets at construction sites for a living, then great. But do it because you want to, not because you have to.”
Emma thought about that for a full minute, took another forkful of stir-fry, then said, “Thanks, Shap. I mean, seriously.”
“I don’t know much, Emma. Ask anyone. But I do know if you try to pretend to be someone you’re not, it’ll mess you up in all sorts of ways. So be who you are, but be nice about it. You don’t realize it yet, but you got really lucky in the parent lottery. And whether you like it or not, your sisters look up to you. Look out for yourself like you’d look out for them.”
She started to say something, but stopped, nodded, smiled, and wiped away another tear.
We ordered chocolate globs for dessert, ate them while bullshitting about this and that, then I drove Emma home to Plymouth. I didn’t go in, but texted Ellegaard and Molly it went well, and I’d fill them in during breakfast.
I returned home and found Robin passed out on my couch. Her face was swollen, and her eyeliner smeared. She’d worked her way through a second bottle of sauvignon blanc and was either drunk or in a diabetic coma. I wondered who this woman was and why she was in my coat factory. She might have been so used to playing the pretty-girl card that she couldn’t stop herself. Maybe she thought if she could just keep playing that card, she’d be okay, whether or not she had anything to do with her husband’s death. Playing the pretty-girl card was her go-to move. Her comfort place.
