“You told me you were going to the police.”
“I did. They referred me to a shrink. You.”
That took him back. “Oh, yeah. I’m the preferred provider for their network.”
“This detective sure was insistent that a schizophrenic like me needed your kind of help.”
“But you decided you’d help yourself.”
“If the police won’t do their job, I will. And Mike, listen. I heard something important.”
He sighed. I felt his chest move against me and realized we were dancing. Close. Amazing. The perfect disguise, and it was working. No one, not Wanda, not Bruiser, was paying me any mind.
He was a good dancer. He guided me in that smooth way Johanna, the Y dance instructor, insisted the two men in the class attempt. I didn’t realize, after that, it could be so easy.
Not that our accord at dancing to Hoagy Carmichael extended to the rest of our relationship. He said, “When you eavesdrop, you always hear things you think are significant. That’s the nature of one-sided experiences. There’s no context–”
“The context is he knew Wanda before. His was the phone number on her cellphone bill. And she just said it. She rode his Maypole.” I looked up. Innocently. Really. “You know what that means?”
“I can guess. So what? Is that illegal?”
“Yeah, I bet it is, here in Indiana. Anyway, he’s talking about things that really are illegal. Like he said that she’d already married one old rich dude, and that only worked out with his help.” I had to catch my breath as that hit me again. “What did he help her with?”
Mike’s arms tightened around me. I didn’t take it as a sign of affection, considering his expression. “For all you know, he introduced them. Maybe that’s all he’s talking about.”
I ignored that. “And he threatened to tell Will about her past, and her son’s daddy. Who is somewhere in maximum security.” When he didn’t react, I added, “An inmate. Prison. Just the sort of ex someone trashy like her would have.”
“I never figured you for a snob.”
“Me? A snob?” I gazed at him with disbelief. “My father was a carpenter. He took a lunch pail to work every day. I’m as working class as they come. But my family was respectable. I’ll bet you Wanda grew up between the service station and the saloon.”
“Right. No piano lessons for the likes of her. She didn’t deserve it like you did.”
I didn’t like this, so I changed the subject back to where it belonged. “Birds of a feather. Look at who she hangs out with. Bruiser, for example.” I made a note to find out the bartender’s real name, and how often he’d let that temper get out of control. I could see it all too clearly, like that video playing in my head—Bruiser and Wanda in that stuffy little office, crowding Don, terrorizing Don . . .
I shivered, and briefly, for just a second, Mike’s arms closed in tighter on me. “Be careful.”
His tone wasn’t as comforting as his arms. Good. I’d rather respond to the criticism than the concern anyway. “You don’t need to worry. You’re not my protector.”
For a moment he said nothing at all. Finally, he replied, “You’re right. I’m not.”
I felt a wrench, and realized inside me, the old Weak Woman had momentarily throttled the new Warrior Woman. Weak Woman wanted a Strong Man. Warrior Woman regained control and said cheekily, “Just as well, because you’ve got your hands full with your little girl.” I watched over his shoulder as Brad took my seat. “How old did you say she is?”
“Twenty.” He turned me swiftly so he could see what I was seeing. “Not old enough.”
“I’ll divert Brad, if you stop giving me those looks.”
“It might be more efficient to haul him out of that chair—”
“You’ll never hear the end of the oh-dads then. Besides, it’d scotch her chances for the internship.” The sax took up a new tune, and I smiled. “I’ll tell him this is our song.”
Mike frowned. We were still dancing, slower now. “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face?”
“It was always the last song they played at parties when we were at Brown.”
“Oh. Ivy League,” he said. “Well, I went to Illinois, and our last song was Let’s Get It On.”
He made me laugh. He often did that when we were discussing something serious. “I’ll occupy Brad, you take Sarah home.” That would get him out of my life, at least for the evening.
The singer started singing, and Mike released me. She’d barely gotten to the second verse before I had Brad on the dance floor, brazen hussy that I was. For once, I wasn’t thinking of Don as I imagined melting into a man’s arms—not Brad’s arms either, so light and friendly and respectful—but strong arms, protective . . . demanding. As the song ended, so did my reverie, and I murmured, “Thanks,” as Brad’s hands dropped from me.
Vince said he was ready to go, and so was I. But as I was rising, I heard my name. Will was striding between the tables. He had discarded his expensive jacket, and I could see the Gap emblem on his t-shirt pocket. “Let’s dance.”
I didn’t like his tone. I didn’t like his date. I didn’t even like the song that struck up, some half-hearted Sinatra ballad. But I saw Wanda emerging from a curtained alcove, her gaze roaming the room, searching for Will, and I couldn’t help myself. I followed him out on the dance floor.
Will growled, “Who was that guy you were dancing with? Not Munssen. The one before.”
“Mike Warren? His daughter wants to get on as a symphony intern with the symphony.”
“His daughter? So where’s his wife?”
“She’s dead.”
“Huh. So what’s he to you?”
I wasn’t about to tell him Mike presided over the death of my marriage, and besides, it wasn’t any of Will’s business. “We just know each other. They were sitting at our table.”
“Are you going out with him?”
Oh, that adolescent term again. “No. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Maybe it is. Maybe you were with him because of Wanda.”
I thought he might have figured it out, my eavesdropping, Mike’s intervention. Then I squeezed the denseness out of my head. He couldn’t know that. “What do you mean?”
“You know. To get back at me for bringing Wanda here.”
“Oh. Well, that would have been a good idea, if this were the eighth-grade homecoming dance. But it’s not, and no, I didn’t. I danced with him because he asked.” Mike hadn’t bothered to ask, but that was beside the point. “And I liked the song.”
“So it’s okay that I came here with Wanda.”
I wished I could tell him what Wanda said about playing him. I wished I could say, in my loftiest voice, My dear sir, it’s a matter of the greatest indifference to me what you do and who you do it with. Whom, I mean. I opted for something neutral. “It’s your life, Will.”
As the music ended, he flashed his crafty pirate smile. “It’s not what you think.”
I was about to say if he wanted to waste time on the likes of Wanda, he was welcome to her. But then I happened to look towards Wanda. She was standing rigid, exactly where she had been when the music began, and her eyes were blazing with hatred. Murderous hatred. At me.
If I’d had any doubt that she was capable of what I thought she was capable of, it was erased then. That’s what her eyes were telling me: If she’d had a gun, she’d have shot me down.
Chapter Thirteen
ONLY THE SOUND of the delivery truck roused me the next morning.
“I got it, Mom!” I heard from below, and groggily went to the bathroom to dip my face in a sink full of cold water.
When I was finally awake and dressed, I ventured downstairs. Tommy was sitting on the floor of the hall, a big open cardboard box at his feet. Surrounding him
on the oak floor were baseball caps. He had two on his head, the Orioles and the Blue Jays, and another in his lap. And he was crying. Hard and furious and silent.
“Oh, baby,” I whispered, and went to kneel beside him and touch his shoulder. Everything had been going so smoothly with Tommy; with all the driver’s ed excitement, we could almost pretend that nothing had changed about his life, except that his dad didn’t show up to get him for the weekend last night, and this morning the caps arrived.
I got my arms around him, felt the tears on my t-shirt. “They’re from your dad.”
Tommy pushed me away and leapt up. “Send them back.” Then he plunged out the door.
Slowly, I gathered the caps and stacked them, two stacks, one for each league. I looked around for a note, but found none. What would it say anyway? Here’s all that’s left of your dad?
I shoved the box into the hall corner and went into my home office for my second-Saturday chore of paying the bills online. It was more difficult than usual. This was the first month I’d had to do without child support, and as a preview of the future, it was dire. The list of debits mounted on the bank’s webpage as my account balance receded. Finally, I yanked out the checkbook for my money-market account. I was delving into capital to pay the monthly bills, a big no-no, like using a credit card to pay for your groceries. That way insolvency.
Next month, it would be better. Tommy’s Social Security should be starting, and Lynn and O’Brian would have all that money coming in from the farmhouse project. And anyway, I was going to prove the insurance company wrong, and get Tommy’s college fund funded, and . . . I dropped my head onto the checkbook. I had to prove the insurance company wrong.
“Mom?” Tommy was at the door, his face was shining with a heavenly light. “That guy is here. The one with the Lamborghini. He said he’ll take me out, if it’s okay. Like just past Jamie’s house.”
In something of a daze, I followed him out to the driveway. There was Will, leaning against his cherry-red Diablo, the evilest cool-looking car in the world.
“Hey, Meggie. I was driving by and saw your house.” That was a lie. Our street was a dead end coming off a no-outlet lane. No one ever just drove by. “Okay if I take the kid for a ride?”
I couldn’t understand it, but there it was. Will wanted me, enough to take my grubby teenager in his half-million dollar car. Damnit. It wasn’t fair. He was willing to pay for it, in ways both obvious and subtle, and all I had to do was give in and let him buy me.
I even liked him. A lot. But—
“Please, Mom? Please?”
“Just a few minutes, and then time to mow the lawn. But wait—let me get a picture.”
I yanked out my phone and got a couple of shots of Tommy through the open window.
“Thanks,” he called out as they sped off, gravel spewing. “You’re the best mom in the world.”
Being the best mom in the world has its burdens. I had to hurry and call Jamie and Lily and tell them to go out to their front yards and wait for Tommy to cruise by.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, the car was back. Obviously, Will was on his best behavior. Tommy burst out of the car. “Mom, it was great. He let Jamie and Lily ride with us!”
I gave the mean little two-seater a searching study. “Where did you put them?”
“Jamie was on the floor, and Lily—” Tommy’s face blossomed in a blush. “—sat on my lap.”
Ho-kay. This wasn’t the time to ask if everyone wore a seatbelt, I guess. “That’s great, honey. Be sure and thank Mr. Bowie.”
“Thanks! You made my day! I want a car just like that.” He flashed his great open grin at Will and took off into the house, where I knew he’d haul out the weekend edition of the newspaper, the one with all the car ads.
“Gee, Will, thanks a bunch. Now I have to sell my house to finance his car.”
Will laughed and opened the passenger door. “Come on. Let’s you and me ride for a bit.”
I hesitated. I knew why he was being so nice to Tommy, why he was smiling so kindly. But I guessed he was due sometime. “Let me get my purse. I need to go to Target anyway.”
I insisted he stay in the car as I ran into Target, for fear that the car would be stolen right out of the parking lot. It’s a terrible responsibility, a car like that. And a terrible inconvenience too. When I came back, the big box in my arms, I had to shoo away the half-dozen kids and dozen adult men who were gathered around listening to Will explain the cams and the horses and the vectors and how many light years it could cover in a minute.
And my box only fit straddled across my lap and sticking over onto Will’s.
But then he jammed out of the parking lot, and I felt that throb of tiger-like power under me, and I understood why men wanted cars like this. It was all sex. They’d get a woman in this seat, and she’d feel those vibrations, and by the time they got home she’d be helpless with desire.
I squeezed my legs shut as tight as I could and said, “Thanks for the ride, Will.”
“Well, I kind of felt like things were left hanging last night. Thought we needed to talk. About the Wanda thing.”
“I don’t want to talk about her.” Except in a homicide trial, maybe.
“It’s business, that’s all. She can get me off this lawsuit, but it’ll cost her. I thought if she got to know me, she’d be more likely to help me out. So when she invited me to the symphony thing, that was my chance. I would have rather gone with you. You believe me, right?”
It was all so . . . distasteful. Will playing Wanda. Wanda playing Will. Will making those googly eyes at me and telling me I was the one he really wanted. So I didn’t answer.
Tommy was waiting for us out in front, just sitting there on the wooden porch step, waiting. His eyes lit up as I got out. “Mom, wasn’t it great? But you don’t want to know how much it costs. I mean, it’s waaaay expensive.”
“Tell me about it, kid.” Then, with an ominous “I’ll call” to me, Will drove off, with Tommy gazing worshipfully at his gravel dust.
Then he ran down to Jamie’s to recount every single second of their great adventure. I took the box in, got a screwdriver, and got to work. By the time Tommy came in, the hat tree was recognizably a hat tree, albeit minus one hook. Of course the kit was two screws short.
“Where do you want it?” I asked as he stopped dead in front of me. “Your room?”
Some of the glow left his eyes, but not much. Tommy was in charity with the world. “How about the family room? I mean, it’s a good collection. It should be on display, don’t you think?” And he picked up the box full of caps and followed me through the hall, calling out “Left, left!” or “Right, Mom!” whenever the hat tree in my arms threatened to smash into the wall.
As we stood there, arranging the hats on the various hooks, I asked as casually as I could, “Honey, what’s Travis’s last name?”
Tommy shot me a wary look. “Travis? You mean Wanda’s son? It’s Patterson. Why? Did you think he took Dad’s name?”
“Oh, I was just remembering him at the funeral. A cute little fella.”
“Yeah, he’s okay, for a little kid. I used to help him build Legos.”
There were volumes in that laconic admission, the hint of a relationship between them that I never even imagined, and maybe even a bit of regret. “Do you want to visit him?”
“Nah.” That came so quick, the prospect must have worried him as much as it did me. “I just played Legos with him, that’s all. It’s not like we were buddies or anything.” He jammed a White Sox cap onto an American League hook. “Mom, why didn’t Dad get custody of me?”
This was so out of the blue I stuttered before I could find an answer. The truth was, at the slightest hint that there might be a custody dispute, I gave up my quest for a better financial settlement. Don’s attorney never broug
ht up custody again. “Uh, we both thought you’d be better off in your own home, and in the same school and neighborhood.”
“But I could have done that, if Dad had stayed here and you’d moved out.”
Without thinking, I said, “But I’d never move away from you.” I heard the implication there—that Don hadn’t felt the same way—and covered it up with a nervous laugh. “That’s why I made dorm reservations for your first year of college. I’m taking the room right next to you.”
“Real funny.” He put the Expos hat on the top of the tree—he was already that tall—and made one of his sudden declarations. “It’s not that I wanted to live with Dad. There wasn’t enough room there for me. But I thought, you know, if we’d seen more of each other, maybe . . . “
“Maybe what?”
He replied quickly, “Maybe I’d feel better now.” He backed away from the tree. “Is that all the hats? I’m hungry. What’s for lunch?”
After lunch, I ran a search in the local paper’s archives for Wade Patterson, and turned up a single article from five years back: He had been sentenced to twelve years for armed robbery.
Hmm. Now if it turned out he’d been paroled in time to push Don out of the building . . .
But when I called the state pen, they said Mr. Patterson was still in residence, and I could speak to him only if he put me on his approved phone list. So Wade was safely behind bars and couldn’t have provided muscle for Wanda. Not that she needed it, given her lats and delts and gym-rat boyfriend. Just as well. I’d just as soon stay off Mr. Patterson’s approved phone list.
I put the phone down and went back to my questions list. Without physical evidence, it was back to the list of means, motive, opportunity, and circumstantial evidence.
The next morning, I made Tommy ride his bike to driver’s ed (“But, Mom, bikes are so un-cool!”) so that I could supervise the first phase of the deconstruction of the farmhouse. But all day, that list nagged at me, and after a late lunch I headed to the library and methodically tracked down three stories about Don’s death and highlighted the information. Ross had spent the evening with Mrs. Ross in a popular Jergen Street nightspot . . . stopped by his new project . . . not known why Ross was in the unfinished area . . . time of death between ten p.m., a quarter hour after he left the club, and eleven p.m.
Until Death Page 18