A Fatal Four-Pack

by P. B. Ryan

  “Yeah?” he demanded.

  I handed him one of my cards. “Don Feddar? My name’s Jeffrey Resnick. I’m looking into Matt Sumner’s death, and—”

  “Too bad he didn’t die sooner. We’d have all been a lot better off!”

  I wasn’t sure how to reply.

  “Can we talk?”

  He nodded at the baby. “If you can stand her crying.”

  He gestured for me to enter. I followed him through the house. Toys were strewn about the place. Dust bunnies thrived in the living room, and the kitchen floor looked like it hadn’t been mopped in months. He sat the baby in the high chair and cleared a stack of laundry off a chair for me.

  He tossed my card on the table without looking at it. “I’m currently a house husband,” he said, shoving a teething biscuit at the baby. She grabbed it in her chubby hand and stuffed it in her mouth. Her cries faded to whining. “I haven’t worked since December twenty-third. Wasn’t that a nice Christmas present for the wife and kids?”

  “I heard. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “You wanted to know if I murdered him, right? If I was going to do it, I’d have done it months ago. And no, I don’t hunt.”

  “I heard the police already grilled you.”

  “Grill is right. They had me down at the station in Orchard Park for six hours a couple days after the murder.” He shook his head, sat down, and continued folding laundry. “I told them, the night Matt was murdered I was at Tracy’s dance recital. She’s my oldest. I got over a hundred witnesses. I took the video of all the kids. I’m duping copies for a bunch of the parents. Anyway, it didn’t matter to the cops that I have an alibi. They figured I could’ve had someone else do the deed. Yeah, and how was I supposed to pay for it?”

  A little girl about three, dressed in a miniature jogging suit with Sesame Street characters marching across her shirt, came into the kitchen. She latched onto Feddar’s leg. “Daddy, I don’t feel good.” He grabbed another teething biscuit from the box on the table and handed it to her.

  “I heard you got fired for approving loans without proper documentation.”

  Feddar nodded. “Matt disputed that the signatures on the loans to Walker Construction were his.”

  “He accused you of faking his signature?”

  “It was my word against his, and he was a vice president. Lying bastard.”

  “Was that the first time it happened?”

  He shrugged “Upper management only cares about their own—and the bottom line.”

  It sounded like run-of-the-mill corporate bashing to me, but I didn’t doubt him. I’d seen some pretty ruthless managers in the insurance business, managers who’d denied claims on a whim. It sickened me, but I was a small cog in a big machine. That’s why I was sacrificed when others with less experience were saved.

  “Could Sumner have had it in for you?”

  The little girl dropped her biscuit on the floor and tried to climb onto his lap. Feddar kept pushing her down, but she wasn’t easily deterred.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Was he friendly with others in management?”

  “Only to the extent that it involved business. I don’t know what he did in his spare time, other than—” He broke off, looked at his children. “F-U-C-K-ing any woman desperate to get out of the secretarial pool, although it wasn’t so bad the past few years. He was afraid of a sexual harassment lawsuit.”

  I thought about Maggie having to work under those conditions.

  “He’d gone as far as he was going to go in the company,” Feddar continued. “I got the feeling he was bored. I know he had a younger woman on the side for several years, but he saw other women, too.”

  “Did he brag about it?”

  “No, but I know she had a child. I heard snatches of conversation. I got the feeling he was fond of the kid. Hard to believe a snake like that could have a heart buried under all that flab. That softness for little kids was one of the reasons he did so much charity work. Katie here is prone to ear infections—she’s got one working now. Matt always asked about her.”

  “How old is she, three?”

  “Three and a half.”

  Jackie was four—only a few months difference.

  “I got the impression Sumner didn’t get along with his own children.”

  “That’s true. He couldn’t accept teenage rebellion. He was a strange man. He did a lot of good—raised a lot of money for good causes, but he could be such a bastard, too.”

  “Daddy, you said a bad word. I’m gonna tell Mommy,” the little girl scolded.

  “He did have a certain charm, though,” I pressed.

  “Oh, yeah. Never forgot a name or a face. It worked well for him in business and in his charity work. He could remember how much a contributor gave from year to year. That was a big part of his success. He could flatter you and make you believe lies were truth.”

  “Could he have been blackmailed?”

  “Matt was too smart for that. He would’ve found a way to wheedle out of it.”

  The baby’s biscuit was soft and gummy and she methodically smeared it through every inch of her sparse hair. Feddar picked up the child at his knee and draped her over his shoulder. She quieted, wrapping her small fingers around the folds in his shirt.

  “Did he drink?” I asked.

  Feddar laughed. “He couldn’t handle it. I once saw him fall face-first—drunk—into a plate of linguine. That was at a Christmas lunch, and we’d all had a few. Funniest thing I ever saw, but no one dared laugh. One of the women felt sorry for him and drove him home. He came on to her in her car. Needless to say, that was the last time she played Good Samaritan.”

  “I’m getting an uneven picture of this guy.”

  “He missed his calling. He should’ve been an actor. He was a sleazebag, but it was amazing to see him charm women. He was good with all the clients, and if he wanted to encourage young talent at the bank, he’d do it. If you went to his alma mater, he practically kissed your ass.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Notre Dame.”

  “You didn’t go there?”

  “Hell, no. Buff State.”

  “Daddy, I don’t feel good,” the little girl murmured.

  “I know, sweetie,” he said and patted her back. “The only good thing that’s come out of all this is that I spend more time with my kids. But I’m not much good at housework. My wife is supporting us now, but when my unemployment runs out, I’ll have to find something. We can’t live like this and keep the house.”

  I nodded. If Richard hadn’t rescued me, I might’ve become another statistic on the homeless front.

  I thanked Feddar for his time, and made a hasty exit.

  The day was winding down, and I was tired. I used Richard’s cell phone and finally got hold of Linda Sumner, Rob’s wife. When I explained I was looking into her father-in-law’s death, she suggested I come over about six-thirty, after Rob came home from his job as assistant manager of a pizza parlor.

  With nothing else to do, Richard and I headed for home to kill an hour before going out one last time. It gave me time to write up my interviews with Kaminski, Schmidt, and Feddar. I missed my computer. I had writer’s cramp by the time I snagged my chauffeur to leave.

  At precisely six-thirty we arrived at the little duplex on the fringes of Kenmore. I pressed the doorbell and waited. Finally Rob Sumner jerked open the door. While I’d seen a picture of him in his father’s office, it had obviously been taken several years earlier. He looked about twenty-eight, with a beer gut years in the making. His close-set eyes and sullen expression reminded me of a schoolyard bully.

  I introduced myself, but he didn’t invite me inside. Despite the cold, he stood in his shirtsleeves—his hands jammed into his jeans pockets.

  “My mother warned me you might be by to badger me.”

  “That’s not my intent. I’m looking into your father’s death. I hoped you could clarify a few things.”
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br />   He scowled. “What do you want to know?”

  “When did your relationship with Sharon Walker end?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “I’m looking into the connection between the Walker Construction firm and your father.”

  “You think someone at Walker could have murdered Dad?”

  “It’s possible.”

  He thought about it for a moment, then answered. “Sharon and I went together for a couple of years. I met her at a party my dad threw for some of his clients. She came with her father. We got to be friends. We went out for about two years.”

  “When was this?”

  “Six, seven years ago.”

  “Did you have her added to the list of those allowed in the church?”

  “Why would you need to know that?”

  “Do you know who the father of her child is?”

  “No, I don’t! And what’s more, I don’t care. Look, what’s this got to do with my father’s murder?”

  “Do you still have a relationship with her?”

  He took a step forward, forcing me back. “Hey, I don’t need you coming around here saying things to upset my wife.”

  I kept my voice level. “I only told your wife I was looking into your father’s murder.”

  His eyes flashed in outrage. “I don’t need any more trouble.”

  So, there was trouble in newlywed paradise.

  “What kind of trouble, Rob? Do you know something you haven’t told the police? Did someone threaten you?”

  “No,” he shouted, but his furtive glance convinced me he was lying. “Look, don’t bother us again. Or next time—!” He raised a fist, shook it at me, then stormed into the house.

  I stared at the closed door for long seconds before I turned and walked down the driveway and climbed into the car.

  “I was ready to call 911 that time,” Richard said. “What was he so steamed about?”

  “I’m not sure. But you know, I got a funny feeling he was covering up something about his father’s death. He knows—or suspects—something. And I swear he lied to me about the timing of his relationship with Sharon Walker.” I let out a long breath, leaning back in the seat. My conversation with Rob had shaken me more than I cared to admit.

  Richard backed the car out of the driveway. “You look beat.”

  “I feel beat—like I put in a whole day.”

  “You did.” He headed for home, down streets that, despite the gathering gloom, were beginning to look familiar again.

  “Look, tomorrow’s Good Friday—a holiday for most of the city. Why don’t you take the day off, too?” Richard said. “Relax—have some fun. Is there something you’d like to see or do now that you’re home? Niagara Falls? Toronto maybe?”

  I thought about it for a moment, remembering Maggie’s suggestion. “Well, I would like to go to the Broadway Market.”

  Richard shrugged. “Sure.” He looked puzzled. “Why?”

  I looked at him, incredulous. “You mean you’ve never been there on Good Friday?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been there.”

  “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It is a working-class haven.”

  “Now let’s not get nasty,” he said, his amused tone making me smile. “Seriously, Jeff. Take a day off. Will it really make a difference?”

  “Probably not. And from everything I’ve found out, the victim deserved what he got.”

  “It’s not your place to judge.”

  I made no comment. But if what he said was true, why had God, or the fates, dragged me into this whole mess? Sumner’s small act of kindness—buying that crummy vase for my mother’s birthday—had indebted me to him. An out-of-proportion debt, but a debt nonetheless. I suppose no cosmic rule said I had to like the truth I uncovered. And deep down I knew this little mystery had kept me going. Without it, I might’ve given up entirely.

  “A day off?” I repeated, the idea beginning to appeal to me. “Okay, Rich. You’ve got a deal.”

  Chapter 19

  The morning started with sunny skies and warm temperatures, the kind of day that makes you mistakenly think winter’s gone for good. As a kid a trip to the Broadway Market on Good Friday had been a tradition for me. Though grown, I was no less delighted.

  Richard seemed nervous about taking the Lincoln to that part of town, but Brenda didn’t seem to care, so we took her car. Cars jammed the side street, waiting to get in the ramp garage. We circled around, looking for a place to park, and ended up on the roof.

  We walked down three flights of stairs and entered the Market. Young and old people of all ethnic backgrounds packed the seedy-looking warehouse space. The market’s worn, concrete floors and walls of peeling paint couldn’t dispel the holiday spirit.

  Stalls and kiosks were scattered across the floor and clustered around the edges of the room. Vendors sold wooden Ukrainian Easter eggs, tacky ashtrays, cigarette lighters and other trinkets, Lotto tickets, and Easter plants. We passed meat counters where people lined up four or five deep, waiting to buy their holiday roasts or fresh Polish sausage.

  You don’t mess with a woman bent on shopping, and Brenda had a purpose. Richard and I were soon separated from her in the crowd. I wandered the place in a pleasant fog, comparing the present-day Market with the one I remembered. Paranoia struck when I remembered Sophie Levin’s warning about danger in even innocent situations. I found myself searching the crowd for a woman with a small boy. Not shadows of my past, but Sharon Walker clutching her crossbow, dragging her young son behind her.

  Pausing at a candy counter, I studied the offerings. “Are you getting anything for Brenda?” I asked Richard.

  “She doesn’t go in for that kind of silliness.”

  “Well, if you don’t buy her something, I will. Then I’ll look like a hero on Easter morning.”

  He frowned, then bought her a two-pound box of assorted chocolates. But he made me carry the bag so she wouldn’t suspect anything.

  By the time we caught up with Brenda, she was loaded down with grocery bags—more food than the three of us were capable of eating. “That’s the beauty of owning a freezer,” she quipped. “Now what else do we have to get?”

  “A butter lamb,” I said.

  “Which is?”

  “Butter in the shape of a lamb. It’s a Polish Easter tradition,” Richard explained.

  “What are the pussy willows for?” she asked, seeing a woman pass by with an armful of them.

  “Dingus Day,” Richard said.

  “Yeah. You buy them and hit Richard with them on Easter Monday. Then you go to a tavern, drink beer, and have fun.”

  She looked skeptical. “Why?”

  “It’s Polish tradition,” Richard said.

  “But you’re not Polish,” she said.

  “I’m half Polish,” I said.

  “Well it doesn’t show,” she teased good-naturedly. “Oh, eggs! We have to get eggs.”

  “What for?” Richard asked.

  “Coloring, of course. And we have to get the dyes, too.”

  Richard looked at me and frowned.

  “You can be such a stuffed shirt, Richard,” Brenda said. “But Jeffy and I are determined to have fun.”

  “I’m not opposed to having fun. I’m just not very artistic.”

  “You don’t need to be, my love.” She patted his cheek and he faked a smile. Then she started off in the direction of a poultry stand. “It’s all settled—egg coloring after lunch. Wait until you see what I got. We’ll have a feast guaranteed to clog your arteries.”

  We got the eggs, and the dyes, and started for home. And lunch was a feast. Brenda laid the cold cuts on a platter and we made deli-type sandwiches out of ham, tongue, sliced beef, bologna, and liverwurst. She bought Polish rye bread with caraway seeds and set out a jar of horseradish that brought tears to the eyes and cleared our sinuses. For dessert, she bought fresh placek—that wonderful, sweet, crumb loaf—and sugar cookies, which tasted terr
ific with hot, strong coffee. I ate more in one sitting than I’d eaten in months. For the first time in a very long while, I felt happy, and it was the company as much as the good food.

  After eating too much, we all felt logy. I volunteered to clean up while Brenda and Richard headed for the bedroom and a nap. I was glad to give them a chance to be alone. I’d been monopolizing too much of Richard’s time.

  I hit the mattress, too, but sleep didn’t come quickly. I kept thinking about Sharon Walker, her crime, and the small boy who’d witnessed it. And wondered what in hell I could do about it.

  o0o

  I must’ve dozed off, because the next thing I knew noises from the kitchen woke me.

  Brenda sat at the table. The eggs were in a shallow bowl, already boiled and cooled. She measured water into four old-fashioned glasses. “Hey, Jeffy, sit your butt down and let’s decorate these eggs.”

  “Coffee,” I rasped. “Got any instant?”

  “Not in this house. I’ll make some while you fix the colors and start dunking.”

  I read the directions and dropped dye tablets in the glasses. Then I picked up the transparent wax crayon that came in the package and took an egg in hand.

  “What’re you going to draw?” she asked.

  “An Easter cross.”

  “Draw flowers, too.”

  “But all I can make are dumb-looking tulips.”

  “Just make it pretty.”

  She brought over two steaming mugs. After two weeks, she knew just how I liked my coffee. We sipped our coffee and dipped eggs like a couple of contented children. I debated spoiling the mood, but something had been nagging me.

  “Brenda, why don’t you and Richard get married?”

  The joy of the moment left her face. She stared at the glass of blue colored dye, taking her time to mull over the question.

  “Jeffy, there’s a lot of guilt involved when you love a white man,” she said, her voice soft. “Some of the worst racists I know are African-Americans. Some in my own family.”

  “Your mother?”

  She nodded. “For most of my life I’ve worked in the white world. Two—possibly three—other people of color worked at the Foundation in Pasadena, but that’s all. I know I was hired as a token black, but that’s where it ended. I worked damn hard and I earned every cent of my pay. And I was paid well. I don’t need Richard’s money. I have my own and I spend it.”