Grave Expectations on Dickens' Dune

by Anna Celeste Burke

  The chair in which I sat, in the sunroom Midge had added to the cottage, was part of a pair of high-backed armchairs upholstered in a gold toile. Two loveseats arranged in an L-shape, opposite the armchairs, sported a solid color in a deeper gold. Botanicals, plaids, and stripes were used in throw pillows, but there were no precious fabrics and not nearly as much lace and florals as were evident in Charly’s Brontë Cottage. Like all the other cottages in our circle, including my own, books were everywhere.

  In addition to the glorious sunroom in which we sat, I envied two things about Midge’s cottage. The first was an amazing stone fireplace in the great room that was original to the cottage when it was built in the sixties. The second was Midge’s enchanting garden, which sprawled out before us with a view of the golf course beyond.

  “I had no idea Midge had such a green thumb,” I’d exclaimed when I first stepped into the conservatory, with its high, angled glass roof a few weeks ago.

  “Why wouldn’t she?” Neely had asked. “Midge has dedicated her life to the healing arts. Don’t let her brusqueness fool you, she’s skilled at nurturing and restoring what’s good in the world around her.” Neely’s words were easy to believe. Although Midge currently had no canine companion, she had no qualms about having us bring our dogs to her home.

  Domino and Charly’s spunky Jack Russell Terrier, Emily, were loose in the backyard. They were both being very well behaved, lying in the shade produced by an arbor covered in purple blooms. The garden was a stunning testament to Midge’s command of the ground on which her two feet were so firmly placed. It also revealed a more poetic side that explained Midge’s devotion to English literature, and a fleeting flirtation with the theater when she was younger. Charly spoke, and the tone in her voice abruptly ended my contemplation of Midge’s garden and the golf course beyond.

  “I said we don’t have much more business to take care of before Judith arrives, but I do have one more issue we need to get out in the open.”

  “Don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us, please, Charly!” Marty exclaimed.

  3 Heavenly Compassion

  “Dead, men and women, born with Heavenly compassion in your hearts. And dying thus around us every day.” ~ Bleak House

  ∞

  “Yes, tell us, please! I am so relieved. I was afraid I was going to have to rough up you two before you told us what was going on with all the sidelong glances and a warning to stay away from Dickens’ Dune. What’s up?”

  “That isn’t what I was going to say next. If you insist, I’ll let Miriam give you a quick rundown on an incident at Dickens’ Dune this morning. I’m not convinced it has anything to do with the disappearance of Judith’s ex-husband, or I would already have asked Miriam to share her experience with us.”

  “Charly is being kind. What she means is that she’s trying to keep me from embarrassing myself, given my unprovoked panic this morning,” I sighed deeply and then rushed through a brief account of what had gone on. I included what I’d seen when I stopped at the bunker and how that related to the history I’d found online.

  As I retold the story, it seemed even more ludicrous for me to have run like a scared rabbit. Dangerous, too. At one point, when I’d peeked over my shoulder to see if the guy was barreling down the hillside after us, a snake had slithered across the unkempt trail.

  “Are you sure you’ve seen him before?” Carl asked.

  “I think so, but I must be wrong since I can’t say where. If Charly can get a name by checking on the license plate, maybe that’ll jog my memory. In the meantime, she’s asked the security guards at the gate to notify us if anyone driving that car asks for access to the golf course or wants to dine at the clubhouse.”

  “Well, your description of that bunker is disturbing enough to give me the willies long distance,” Marty added, rubbing her arms as if she’d felt a sudden chill. “It’s a murder den if I ever heard of one!”

  “I agree. Surely, the police would have examined the place, thoroughly, if Allen Rogow was attacked anywhere near there,” Neely responded, with her voice rising as if her comment was actually a question.

  “I can tell you more once I get a copy of whatever police reports are still around. As we learned when we investigated Cookie DeVoss’s disappearance in the early seventies, the County Sheriff’s Department and Forensics weren’t anything like they are today. Even a decade later, when Allen went missing, the department wasn’t equipped to collect evidence as well as it is today. If the incidents had occurred more recently, I’d already have the police reports, but it’s a cold case that was opened before the information was stored electronically. The files are probably in boxes on a shelf somewhere.”

  “There must be a few people around who remember the incident. Public access to that old bunker was closed off not long after he vanished. Whatever happened there, must have had something to do with the decision to close it. If that’s the case, we might be able to find someone who remembers details about what happened and how that figured into the decision to place the bunker off limits,” I suggested.

  “As unappealing as the location seems to be to us, Allen might have considered it a refuge,” Midge suggested. “Homeless Vietnam vets often felt safer hidden away in a place like that.”

  “As far as outdoor sanctuaries go, the old bunker seems to have seen more traffic than most,” Neely commented.

  “Allen wasn’t a recluse if he wasn’t just using drugs, but also dealing them,” Carl added, “he might have chosen that spot as a place to do business without being observed by the authorities.”

  “That’s very perceptive, Carl. It brings me back to what I wanted to say to you. If Judith brings it up, fine. If not, you’ll have the information as context for whatever she does share with us.” Charly’s words hung in the air as I picked up the fine cup of Darjeeling tea Midge had prepared.

  “I’m not sure it’s mentioned in the articles you found about Allen’s disappearance, but there’s a reason an ex-convict knows so much about him. He was among the last of the U.S. troops to leave Vietnam. According to Judith, Allen was a changed man when he returned to California from Vietnam near the end of 1974.”

  “Hold on,” Carl interrupted. “The last troops left in 1973 after the fall of Saigon. Why didn’t Allen Rogow return to California until a year later? Was he a POW?”

  “You’re right about the troop withdrawal,” Charly replied and was instantly cut off by Joe.

  “Wow, you’re firing on all cylinders today, amigo! Why didn’t I think of that?” There was a pause that ended when Neely snorted.

  “You don’t really want any of us to come up with witty retorts to that question, do you?” Joe shrugged, made eye contact with Neely, and then shook his head no. Charly continued.

  “Judith expected Allen to return home in 1973,” Charly replied. “When he didn’t show up, she began trying to track him down. She finally got a cryptic letter from him. He wasn’t a POW. He was in a German hospital being treated for gunshot wounds that had nearly killed him. Judith says she couldn’t get a straight answer from him or anyone else about how the shooting had occurred or why she wasn’t notified that he’d been wounded. When he arrived back in the states, Allen explained that he’d also been hospitalized for mental health problems. Probably post-traumatic stress disorder, although he didn’t call it that, and she wasn’t sure what diagnosis he was given.”

  “I can guess at what she meant when she said Allen was a changed man. My cousin returned to Ohio in bad shape. He struggled most of his life after that,” I said. “It must have been hard for her.”

  “It was hard, which is another reason I’m not sure how much detail she’ll want to go into today. Her distress was obvious as she explained it to me. They had young children at home, and Allen wasn’t only unstable but, on occasion, he would erupt in angry outbursts. What she didn’t know right away was that he’d developed a dependency on pain killers.”

  “As a result of his treatment for the gunshot wo
unds or was he using drugs before he was injured?” Midge asked.

  “Allen told her he was given pain medication in the hospital and tried to kick it but couldn’t do it. A bullet had permanently damaged his knee and, apparently, the pain never went away. She’s not sure if his drug use was strictly because of the knee injury, though. When she confronted him about his drug use, it was because she’d stumbled across a stash of marijuana as well as all sorts of pills.”

  “If you’re right about PTSD, he wouldn’t have been the first vet to self-medicate in an attempt to deal with his troubled mind as well as his physical pain,” Midge added. “Carl’s point about dealing rather than just using drugs, is a good one since that’s one of the ways some addicts support their habit.”

  “That’s a good guess about what was going on. Allen was arrested and spent two years in the state prison for drug possession and dealing.”

  “To get a two-year sentence in prison rather than probation or jail time, must mean that wasn’t his first offense or they caught him with lots of pills,” Midge added.

  “I came to the same conclusion. Judith said she wasn’t aware of any earlier arrests, but who knows? Maybe a buddy bailed him out, and he kept the incident from her. I’ve asked for his arrest records, too. If I can get them, I’ll be able to give you more details,” Charly assured us.

  “Now I get it! That’s what you meant when you said you could explain how an ex-convict knows so much about Allen and his secrets!” Joe exclaimed.

  “It does. I urged Judith to meet with us and share whatever she feels is important for us to know. I assume that will include some disclosure about Allen’s drug problems and the time he spent in prison. If not, I’ll bring it up. Our meeting is more about being supportive and building trust rather than grilling a witness or a suspect in a crime.” Charly looked at each of us, and then stopped and fixed her gaze on Joe and Carl.

  “Okay, so no ‘bad cop’ today.” Carl elbowed Joe and shook his head no.

  “No ‘cop’ at all!” Charly added. “We want to display compassion—‘Heavenly compassion’—to steal a couple of words from Charles Dickens.”

  “I got it. Compassion is my middle name,” Joe replied and turned toward Carl. “You’d better keep those boney elbows to yourself if you want her to trust us.”

  “Trust must be difficult for Judith after all she’s gone through,” I said.

  “Yes. Her ex-husband’s secrecy got to Judith at least as much as the problems he revealed to her. She quit trusting him.”

  “Who could blame her? With young children to protect, she didn’t just have her own safety to consider. It must have become more than she could bear. I assume she divorced him and that’s why you refer to him as her ex-husband,” I suggested.

  “Allen was the one who initiated divorce proceedings, not Judith, shortly after he was released from prison. It wasn’t too long after the divorce was finalized that he disappeared. When you hear her talk about it, you’ll be able to tell how much she’s still longing for closure. Judith was haunted by the possibility that he’d committed suicide and blamed herself for agreeing to the divorce.”

  “It can’t be any more pleasant to learn that he was murdered, but maybe it’ll put an end to that old guilt,” Marty commented.

  “How awful to have him return from Vietnam, and lose him again to prison, divorce, and then have him vanish altogether. I don’t want to ask if you already have an answer for us, Charly. Did the police ever consider Judith as a suspect in his disappearance?” I asked.

  “An ex-wife is always on the list,” Charly replied. “Judith claims she’d taken the children to Anaheim for a vacation to Disneyland. He visited the children before they left for Anaheim, and that was the last time she and the children ever saw him. I assume the police checked out her story right away. That would have given her a solid alibi.” For some reason, I felt relieved to hear that, even though from what Charly told us about Judith, it was hard to imagine her as a killer.

  “I hope she hasn’t spent her entire life ruminating about his disappearance and deceitfulness,” I said, in part chiding myself about how much time I still spend trying to fathom my husband’s secret life.

  “Judith is a strong woman who understands life is hard. She eventually remarried. No matter how it felt at the time, I bet Allen Rogow regarded divorce as an act of ‘Heavenly compassion.’ It took her a while to come to grips with the fact that the man she married returned so badly broken by whatever role he’d played during the war.” I sensed something more in what Charly had just said. I wasn’t the only one.

  “By ‘whatever role he played,’ I take it he wasn’t an ordinary Army Private First Class as his obit claimed,” Neely said. Charly hesitated to respond.

  “I’m not sure yet. Allen Rogow never trained for or became a member of Special Forces, so that’s not the issue.” Midge spoke up when Charly paused.

  “If Allen Rogow was involved in Special Operations of some kind, that wouldn’t necessarily be in his public record,” Midge responded. “What is it they’re not telling, or you’re not telling us, Charly?”

  “He doesn’t appear to have had any special training or specific skills that might have earned him a Special Duty Assignment. However, Judith claims he received Special Duty Assignment pay for over a year before the end of the war.”

  “Does that have anything to do with Leonard Cohen’s claim that Allen took secrets he’d promised to keep with him to his grave?” Carl asked.

  “It could be. Sorting that out is only one challenge for our investigation. Judith was certain his Special Duty Assignment had something to do with his injuries and the mental anguish that tormented him. I’m doing what I can to find out more through ties I have outside the criminal justice system.” Charly shrugged as I pondered what secrets her past held.

  “If Leonard Cohen wasn’t the only person who knew Allen’s secrets, given how unstable he had become, someone could have decided to shut him up before he could give them up,” Marty suggested.

  “His secrets didn’t have to be about Vietnam. Dealing drugs comes with the need to keep plenty of secrets,” Joe said. “For all we know, a buyer or a supplier killed Allen when a drug deal went bad.”

  “It’s too bad Judith wasn’t in the room when Leonard Cohen made that confession,” Neely added. “Did he say why he didn’t come forward sooner?”

  “Judith would have asked lots of good questions like that, including who told him Allen was murdered and where he was buried,” Marty huffed. “Surely, she quizzed the nurse to whom Leonard Cohen made his confession and asked her questions like that.”

  “We need to speak to his nurse regardless of what questions Judith or the police have asked her—if they’ve bothered to follow up,” Midge asserted. Charly nodded in agreement.

  “That’s a good idea. Before she leaves today, let’s make sure Judith gives us the nurse’s name,” Charly said, making a note for herself.

  “I’d like to know more about Leonard Cohen. Who was he? What do we know about him and why he was sent to prison?” I asked. “What if his nurse wasn’t the only person with whom he shared his regrets? Did he have any close associates or friends who visited him? How about a wife or some other family member?”

  “I haven’t asked Judith any of those questions. All she told me was that Leonard was adamant that his nurse contact Judith and let her know what had happened to her ex-husband, that Allen loved her, and none of his troubles were her fault.”

  “That must mean he and Allen were close,” I commented. “Are you sure they met in prison?”

  “Once she understands how eager we are to help, I can’t believe she won’t at least bring up the fact that he and Allen were inmates at the same time. Given the secret life Allen led, she may not know how they met, but let’s ask her.”

  As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Judith had arrived. Midge hurried toward the door with Charly at her side. We sat in silent anticipation. I stared out the window as a fo
ursome of golfers stopped on the fairway, stepped from their carts, and walked to the tee. The public course draws a steady stream of guests now that the summer visitors have arrived. Usually, golfers at play made me happy. Today, though, I was uncomfortable about how easy it was for outsiders to gain access to our “gated community.” Apparently, Midge’s suspicions had gone in a different direction during our silence.

  “Leonard Cohen’s sudden gesture of ‘Heavenly compassion’ seems to be an odd way of making amends if that’s truly what he was doing,” Midge asserted.

  “He could have hoped to get long-delayed justice for his murdered friend. Under the law, his deathbed confession could be introduced into court as new evidence. It’s not regarded as hearsay,” Carl pointed out.

  “Confessing someone else’s sins isn’t exactly what I’d call a deathbed confession,” Neely interjected. “He didn’t say he killed Allen. In fact, we don’t even know if the information he disclosed was based on firsthand knowledge of what happened to Allen.” I wanted to hear the rest of what Neely had to say, but my phone rang.

  I dug the phone out of my purse and answered it even though I didn’t recognize the caller’s phone number. The sudden windfalls that had improved my financial situation hadn’t stopped me from searching for a bookkeeping job. Maybe someone was following up on one of the applications I’d left around town.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Miriam Webster, please.”

  “This is she,” I responded. Click! The call ended. I held out the phone and looked at the caller’s number.

  “What is it?” Neely asked, apparently reading the confusion on my face. “A wrong number?”

  My mind raced down several paths at once, trying to figure out how best to answer Neely’s question. It couldn’t be a wrong number since the caller had asked for me by name. Was the man’s voice vaguely familiar or was my imagination running wild again?