by Elaine Viets
“Not very nice? They’re evil, Frank. Evil. He’s not some kindergartner drawing pictures of his puppy. Those are swastikas. And SS lightning bolts. A lot of people died because of those symbols. Take his pens and paper away.”
“He’s my father,” he wailed. “I can’t do that. The letters are the only thing that keep him occupied.”
“Look, you’re lucky he sent the letters to me first. What are you going to do if he sends those letters to a Jewish person? There are death camp survivors living in this city. This Nazi nut mail could drive them to suicide. You could be responsible for a death like that. Do you realize it’s a federal offense to send hate mail? The FBI could be here next. What’s the matter with you? What’s the matter with him?”
Frank looked dazed, and kept picking at his sweater. Then he said, “He didn’t used to be like this. He didn’t used to hate people. It was the accident that did it. Before that, he was a self-reliant widower. Mom died ten years ago. It was hard on Dad. They were married forty-seven years. But he picked himself up and went on. He made a life for himself. He played cards with some other retirees from the plant. He had a garden and grew beefsteak tomatoes and gave them to the neighbors. He went to church and he danced every Saturday night at the VFW hall.
“Then about two years ago, he was driving to church on a Sunday. An old lady named Mrs. Cohen had a heart attack, drove through a stop sign, and broadsided Dad’s car. Her big old Buick wiped out his Chevy Nova. Mrs. Cohen died. The accident left Dad paralyzed from the waist down. Some people can do fine in a wheelchair. Dad turned mean and bitter. Because the old lady’s name was Cohen, he’s hated Jewish people ever since. I think he throws in gays and blacks and everyone else for a little variety.
“You want to hear the funny part? They were so alike, Dad and Mrs. Cohen. She was eighty-three, and a little shaky behind the wheel. Her daughter should have taken her license away, but she didn’t want to interfere with her mother’s independence. The old lady didn’t drive more than once or twice a week. Dad was eighty-one. His eyesight was going and his reflexes weren’t so good. But he could still drive during the day and he only drove to church and the doctor’s office, so I didn’t do anything about his license, either.
“Well, we both have to live with that, Mrs. Cohen’s daughter and me. Except sometimes I think she got the best of it. Her mother is dead. I have to live with Dad. It’s awful. I hate it. I think I hate him, too. I didn’t used to. I admired the old man because he was so independent. But now he’s wearing me down, and I promised him I wouldn’t put him in a home as long as the money doesn’t run out.”
He looked down at the floor, ashamed, and went back to picking at his sweater. I softened my voice. “I’m sorry, Frank. I really am. But you can’t let him send those letters anymore.”
“I know that. But what am I going to do with him all day? When he’s bored he gets so mean, I know the sitter will quit again. It’s hell finding another one, and each new one wants more money because he’s such a difficult case. And I don’t have any more money. You don’t understand.”
I felt sick, sad, and sleazy for forcing my way into this small-time tragedy. “Fraaaank!” the Aryan Avenger called. “Get me some water, goddammit.” Frank went back to wait on his father. I let myself out the front door. So much for Francesca and the Adventure of the Aryan Avenger.
Maybe Detective Mark Mayhew was right. Ralph died of natural causes. Burt was murdered in a holdup. One unknown murderer did not kill both men for an unknown reason. I should quit searching for someone who didn’t exist. I should mourn them and let them go. I should grow up. The search on Klocke Street was one of the low points of my life.
Mayhew said it, but I didn’t hear him: Not everyone is murdered. Poor Burt died because he lived in a bad neighborhood. Poor Ralph died because he didn’t take care of himself. I owed Mayhew a lunch and an apology. Boy, was I glad I didn’t follow Marlene’s advice and tell him about the Aryan Avenger. I didn’t want to think about the razzing he’d give me.
I’d get it over with, tell Marlene I’d found the Avenger but he wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t anything but a sad old man. Oh, well. He did live on Klocke. At least some of my detecting skills were working. What time was it? I checked my watch. Not even four o’clock. My visit had taken less than half an hour. Uncle Bob’s was a few minutes away. The place was usually half empty at this hour. The dinner rush didn’t start for another thirty minutes. Marlene and I could have a quiet talk and I could have my third scrambled egg of the day.
I pulled into the lot and parked back by the alley. The lot was deserted, except for the staff cars parked by the side fence. I stepped carefully out of my car, because there was black ice on the back lot. I heard a car roaring down the alley. People drive too fast in that alley all the time, but I could tell this car was booking—moving faster than usual. I looked up and saw it swing into the lot. That car is heading straight for me, I thought, slowly. Too slowly. Why was I standing there?
Because I couldn’t believe it. Someone was actually trying to run me down. On purpose. I also couldn’t believe how big that sucker was. All I could see was the shiny bumper and grille, like an evil smile, coming straight for me. The car must have been six feet away when I finally had sense enough to jump back. The car swerved and missed me, then slammed on the brakes, backed up and went for me again. I looked around for help, but no one saw me. No Uncle Bob’s cooks looking out the kitchen. No neighbors looking out their windows. No customers pulling into the lot. I might as well be in the middle of the desert, instead of the center of the city. Unless a customer drove into the lot, I was roadkill.
The car drove straight at me again. I ran between two staff cars, Marlene’s blue Dodge and the cook’s old tan tank. I hit a patch of ice, slipped, and grabbed on to a fender. The car backed up and went after me again. This time, it looked like he was going to ram into the staff cars and squash me between them, so I ran out of there and the driver veered away. I kicked off my heels for better traction. The ground was cold. I didn’t realize I could run so fast. When your life depends on it, you can give Jackie Joyner-Kersee a run for her Olympic gold. I jumped the speed bump to the fried chicken place next door. That was a mistake. That lot had even more open space and no back windows. Now nobody could see me and the car had a straight shot at me. No staff cars and no Dumpster for me to hide behind.
I turned and ran back down the alley to Uncle Bob’s lot. The car roared behind me like a hungry animal. The driver was going to catch me. I was out of breath. My coat was heavy and I was sweating. I was going to get run down. Suddenly, I saw a big red commercial laundry truck lumbering down the alley. At last! Help. It was turning into Uncle Bob’s lot. The car couldn’t chase me back to Uncle Bob’s with that big old truck there, blocking the way.
I ducked behind the truck. I saw the white shed at the corner of Uncle Bob’s lot. I had no idea what was in the shed, but if it wasn’t locked I was about to find out. The shed looked strong enough to withstand a direct car hit. I grabbed the doorknob, threw myself in, and landed headfirst in a cart full of dirty napkins. I just lay there in the cart in the dark, trying to catch my breath.
I realized I didn’t get a license number for the car. I wasn’t sure of the color, except it was beige or gray or dirty white, probably American, maybe ten years old. I couldn’t tell you much about the driver because he was wearing a black-and-red ski mask, a beige coat, and gloves. I wasn’t even sure the driver was a he, except there was something about the set of the shoulders that made me think it was a man. But if you told me it was a woman, I wouldn’t argue with you. All I could say for sure was, somebody wanted to kill me.
Now that I thought about the chase, I did it all wrong. I should have headed toward the building and tried to get to the front door. But it happened so quick, all I could think about was getting away. I’d recovered enough to realize I was shivering, and the dirty napkins smelled like cold bacon grease and old eggs and were sticky with syrup. I was
thinking about moving, when the laundry truck driver banged open the door and said, “I’ve told you guys about using my laundry shed as a sleeping area. This isn’t a motel.”
I started laughing. And laughing and laughing and laughing. I couldn’t stop. I had tears in my eyes. The laundryman looked scared, and ran to the Deliveries Only door. Marlene came out and said, “Francesca, what the hell happened to you?”
Good question. My coat was ripped on the right sleeve and striped with black grease. My shoes were gone and my stockings were in shreds. But suddenly, I felt good. Very good. “Someone tried to kill me,” I said cheerfully. “I didn’t imagine it. Burt and Ralph were murdered, and I’m going to find out who did it.”
The next day, I had no time to look at death. I had to deal with the facts of life. Elvis was getting married, and he wanted me at the wedding. He was waiting for me when I got in to work.
Louise, the “Family” department secretary, grabbed me as I passed the copy desk. “Do you know that guy?” she said, lowering her voice and pointing. I could see him sitting near my desk, his drink-sogged nose glowing. I thought I saw a woman sitting next to him.
“Sure. That’s Elvis Fairmount, one of the South Side’s most noted barflies.”
“Looks like a drunk to me, too,” said Louise. “He insists on seeing you. He’s got a woman with him, but she looks okay. I gave them coffee and chairs.”
“Good God. After that treatment, they’re still here? Elvis must be desperate.” The Gazette’s coffee looked and tasted like something that leaked out of your car. Gazette chairs were instruments of torture. I think the paper bought them used from jury rooms.
The minute I got to my desk, Elvis popped the question: “Edna here and I want to get hitched tomorrow. We want you to be our best man—or woman—or person, however you’re supposed to say it. We need a witness. The guy who was supposed to do it had a heart attack last night. We got the license and everything. Edna’s boss is going to be one, but we need two and we can’t find no other witness on short notice. Unless you stand up for us tomorrow, we’ll have to postpone our wedding until the guy recovers.”
Elvis gave Edna a lovesick look. I’d have to be a hardhearted creature to ignore his plea. Fortunately, I was. “I’m sorry, Elvis, but you don’t want me for your witness. I’m no great believer in marriage. I’m not even married.”
“That’s okay,” Elvis said. “We aren’t that crazy about it, either. But her daughter from California wants to visit us, and she’s real religious, and she won’t stay in a house where people are living in sin. So we decided to tie the knot. We love each other and we don’t want to listen to her lecture us, and we thought maybe you could write about us if you wanted. We don’t care what you say.”
I said yes. This match was based on mutual need. They needed a witness in a hurry. I needed a quick column.
Elvis must have been in his sixties, and Edna looked ten years younger. Elvis was so skinny, I figured he kept rocks in the pockets of his brown polyester pants so he wouldn’t blow away. Edna picked out his clothes, and she kept her man color-coordinated. Today Elvis was wearing a brown suit, yellow shirt and socks, and a brown-and-yellow striped tie. Edna, his bride, sat beside him. She looked so small, so pretty and pink-cheeked. She was a delicate woman with little pearl earrings and softly crimped hair. She looked like your favorite aunt. “What do you like most about Elvis?” I asked Auntie Edna.
“He’s the home of the whopper,” she said, giggling and patting his polyester knee. I nearly fell over. I’ll never look at polyester pants the same way again. Now I knew what was weighing Elvis down.
Elvis popped the question to me Tuesday morning, and I said yes. Now it was 2:00 A.M. Wednesday, the day of the wedding. I didn’t know how the bride and groom were feeling, but I was scared for them. This was serious. These two people were going to be tied together for life. It made you think. I switched on the night-stand light and sat up in our unblessed bed.
“What’s wrong?” asked Lyle sleepily.
“I think I’m making a mistake,” I said. “Why am I helping Elvis and Edna get married? They’re living together now. If they have a fight and Edna wants to leave Elvis, or vice versa, she packs her suitcase and walks out the door. If they tie the knot, they can’t get out unless they pay some lawyer thousands of dollars.”
Lyle got up, wrapped his dressing gown around himself, and sat next to me on the bed. Monty, his big gray cat, wrapped his tail around his paws and sat on the other side. Both were ready to listen. At that hour, Monty looked the smartest of the three of us. “Ever hear of palimony?” said Lyle. “Even singles don’t always walk out now without paying lawyers.”
“I don’t think Edna and Elvis are rich enough for those problems,” I said.
“How long have they been living together?” asked Lyle.
“Two years.”
“Why are you worried? They’re not kids. They love each other and want to be together permanently. Anyway, he might find it sexy to make love to a married woman. I’d like to try it some time,” he said.
I didn’t want to joke. I wanted to worry. “Lyle, what if things go wrong for Edna and Elvis? I know he drinks.”
“She knows it, too. If she’s living with him, there are no surprises after marriage.”
“What if they have an argument some Saturday night and Edna shoots him? I’ll be responsible. I was a witness. I helped make that wedding possible.”
“She’ll be responsible,” he said. “She pulled the trigger. I’ve never seen a husband-wife murder story yet that mentions the witnesses at their wedding.”
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t answer. I just sat there.
“Francesca, Edna is not your mother,” he said, gathering me into his arms. “Some people do live happily ever after. Some marriages do work out. Theirs might. Ours would. Will you marry me?”
“No. I love you, but I can’t marry you.”
I kissed him and got out of bed. He looked sad but soon fell back asleep. Monty curled up at his feet and slept, too. I spent a restless night, wandering through the house like a ghost, wishing I had the courage to marry Lyle. I knew there was no other man for me. But every time I saw us standing before a minister, I saw myself standing at my parents’ grave. They had not been parted in death, but they should have separated in life. They shouldn’t have married at all, and I didn’t want to make that mistake.
The night matched my mood. It was typical St. Louis weather. Another false spring day had turned suddenly cold by sundown. The temperature dropped forty degrees in a few hours. Lightning flashed. The wind moaned and lashed the tree branches outside Lyle’s window. By morning there was snow, light, fluffy flakes like someone had cut open a feather pillow. The snow melted when it hit the streets, but it frosted the yards like icing on a wedding cake. By midmorning the sun was out. The snow sparkled. Elvis and Edna would have a fine day for marrying. I put on a suit and went off to their wedding.
Edna and Elvis wanted their ceremony at the Fit-Mor Footwear Factory, a depressing old redbrick building behind the railroad tracks. For Elvis and Edna, it was as romantic as the lily pond at Tower Grove Park. She was a secretary and he ran a forklift in the Fit-Mor warehouse. They met at the office copier, when he sneaked in to copy some receipts for his taxes. It was love at first sight. They wanted to marry at the place where they met. Edna’s boss, Sadie, a sweet woman in her fifties, was delighted. Sadie was as romantic as a young girl, and she appointed herself mother of the bride. Today, Sadie was a valentine in bright red from her lips to her shoe tips. She opened the office door for me.
“Francesca, I’m just thrilled you’re here,” she said. “I recognize you from your picture in the paper. It’s an honor. We’re almost ready.”
I could see frantic wedding preparations were going on. The whole Fit-Mor front office had chipped in to make this wedding work. Three women were hanging white paper bells and crepe paper streamers over the dusty metal desks. A fourth was taking all the r
isqué cartoons off the filing cabinets. Two men were unrolling a white runner down the main aisle, to cover the cracked and speckled tile. A woman arranged flowers on the file cabinets. Other office workers brought in Corning Ware bowls filled with bean dip, artichoke dip, taco salad, and mostaccioli for the buffet after the ceremony. Sadie had cooked and sliced a whole ham. Now a young guy came in toting a big bucket with four iced bottles of champagne. There were white ribbons on the handles.
I could see that Elvis was a bald-faced liar. Any one of these people would have stood up for that low-down lying groom. Wait till I saw him. I did see him, dipping into the bean dip at the buffet. Everyone else was occupied with chores at the moment. No one was near him. Good.
“Elvis, you awfully wedded weasel!” I hissed. “You lied to me. You didn’t need me for a witness. You could have asked anyone in this office.”
“Yeah, but I promised Edna I’d get her wedding announced in the paper, and I didn’t want to pay the City Gazette’s hundred-dollar fee. I figured if I got you to stand up for us, you’d write about it, and I’d get a wedding announcement for free. Besides, you’d do a better job of writing it and more people would read it,” he said, giving me his most sincere smile.
“It’s too late for flattery, you four-flushing faker. You’re starting your wedding with a lie.”
“I am not,” Elvis said, with surprising energy and indignation. “I love Edna and she loves me and I’m glad her daughter’s visit gives us a reason to get married. We want to be together forever.” He spoke with great dignity for a man waving a corn chip full of bean dip. “Besides, you’ll get your story, and that’s all you care about anyway.”
I winced. That hit home. Maybe I couldn’t marry Lyle because I was already married—to my work. I didn’t want to argue with Elvis on his wedding day. “Peace, Elvis,” I said. “I’m here. I might do the story anyway, if you give me decent quotes. And I wish you much happiness.”