by Julie Hyzy
As soon as we cleared the double-door entryway to the chapel, Lucy let out a tiny squeal of excitement. She’d spied Mrs. McGillicuddy, another elderly neighbor who always invited her over to help with chores and baking. Lucy adored her.
I caught her as she was about to sprint, reminding her that we needed to pay our respects first. I knelt at the side of the casket and did that “pretend to pray” thing.
Lucy looked at Mrs. Vicks with curiosity.
“She doesn’t look like anybody killed her.” Lucy’s stage whisper was loud enough for everyone to hear. “She just looks like a regular dead person.”
She did. I knew from neighborhood scuttlebutt that she’d been stabbed. The rumor mill, however, came up short on accuracy. Diana had sworn she’d seen a slice in Mrs. Vick’s neck, but according to our local police-contact, Russ Bednarski, who said he heard it on the QT, she’d been run through the heart, multiple times. I had to put my money on old Russ, since there was no indication of mortician work done around her throat area.
As it was, she seemed, as most dead people do, to be a heavily made up sleeping person whose cheeks have gone slack at the sides. She had that pinkish tone to her skin, both from the caked on makeup and the spotlights directed from above the casket. Her hands were folded, looking puffed, like two blown-up latex gloves, one atop the other. A wine-colored rosary, strategically placed to look natural, reflected the light in tiny glitters.
I patted Lucy’s hand, and stood, “Mrs. Vicks’ son, Bart, is here. We have to say hello.”
She sidled close. “Do I know him?”
I whispered, “Yeah, we met him at Mr. Vicks’ funeral. He came in for that.” Lucy shook her head, clearly unsure. I continued. “I think he moved away when we were kids. He probably won’t remember us.” I made our way toward a large middle-aged blond man in a black suit standing two floral arrangements away from the head of the casket. He stared at a far wall, swaying. All I knew about him nowadays was that he lived up north in a small Wisconsin town, but beyond that, Mrs. Vicks hadn’t often spoken of him. He finished talking with other neighbors and turned to us, the next participants in the receiving line of grief.
I held out my hand, “Accept my sympathies,” I began.
He took my hand, but I got the impression my words hadn’t registered. He stared at me for a couple of beats without saying anything and I wondered if the odor emanating from him was bad cologne, or if he’d been hitting the bottle. His small eyes shifted back and forth between Lucy and me, as if deciding something.
I put him in his early fifties. His head was shaped like a wide cylinder, his flat crew-cut hair exacerbating the image. He would have benefited from a chiseled jawline, but his second and third chins sagged and covered most of the collar of his gray shirt.
“You’re Alex.” His eyes took me in, head-to-toe. “Grew up some, huh?”
I tugged my hand back, with some resistance, and once free, used it to propel Lucy forward. “And this is my sister Lucy. We’re very sorry about your mother,” I began again.
“Yeah.” He lifted his chin and stepped forward in an almost confrontational move. “I heard you were there right before it happened.”
Bart’s small eyes squinted at me, the deep folds of wrinkles in the extra fat of his face making them look piggy-ish. I couldn’t make out their color. Light blue. More gray, maybe. Very pale. I decided he was a mouth-breather, since it remained open, his lower lip hanging sausage-like and wet as he waited for my reply.
“I was there—”
“Yeah, and you work for the newspaper, right?”
“No—”
“Diana, there, told me you did.” His eyes flicked over to the sofa where Mrs. Vicks’ roommate and my Aunt Lena huddled. “Hey,” he said, louder, lifting his chin Diana’s direction now. “She don’t work for the newspaper. What are you trying to pull?”
In a reflexive gesture, to correct things before they got out of hand, which they looked about to do, I placed my hand on his arm. Mistake.
He jumped at my touch.
“I work for television,” I said, pulling my hand away.
His expression shifted. “You do?” A quick look at Diana, possibly meant as apology, and then he was back to me. “Good. Then maybe you can pull some strings.”
I felt my own mouth go slack. I shut it immediately.
He attempted a smile. “What I mean is, we’re old friends, right?” As he said that, his glance raked over me again. “And I’m thinking that if you have some ‘in’ with big-wigs downtown, maybe you can help me out how I can get everything settled here.”
Lucy whispered that she was going to talk to Mrs. McGillicuddy and scampered off, leaving me alone with Big Bart.
“It’s not like I have an ‘in’ with investigations—” I began again.
“I’m not talking about the cops,” he said chopping the word short in a laugh. “Like they’re really going to try to find out who did this. I know better. I know these big city types. Just another one for the books.”
I thought about Detective Lulinski, and despite the fact that he and I hadn’t hit it off, I’d gotten a clear impression that he had every intention to get this one solved as expeditiously as possible. “To be honest—”
“I’m talking about this probate sh—” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “Crap. You know what I mean. I know my ma had a will. She and my dad took care of that way back when I was a kid. And I tried to get in her safe deposit box where she worked, to go get it, and they wouldn’t let me. Said it was sealed because she was dead. And wouldn’t even tell me how to get around that.”
I was getting tired of being interrupted at every comment. I said nothing.
Not that he noticed.
“And you have to know lawyers and big shots, if you’re in television.” He pointed a fat finger a hair too close to my chest. I backed up. About to start talking again, his tongue darted out to catch the little bubbles of spit that had gathered at the corners of his mouth. “Get one of them to look into this for me, okay? I don’t know anybody down here and I’m kind of in a hurry to get it all done, you know?” His eyes glanced around as though just remembering where we were. “I mean, losing your mother is real hard.” His expression strove for earnest; his voice lowered. “I’m just looking to put this behind me. You understand.”
I opened my mouth to say something—something like how I knew that his grief had to be all-consuming right now but that there was nothing I could do to help him, but he stared at me and moved a half-step forward.
“Right?”
From over my right shoulder a deep voice said, “Barton Vicks? I’m so very sorry to hear about your mother. She was a wonderful woman.”
David Dewars stepped up, reaching to shake hands with Bart as his left hand reached out sidewise to skim my back. It was a protective move, and I had no doubt he saw himself as my knight in shining armor come to rescue me. He shot me a conspiratorial wink that Bart didn’t catch and I stepped away from both of them, happy to extricate myself from the situation, but knowing I could have handled things myself just fine, thank you very much.
Aunt Lena was escorting Diana to the ladies’ room and Lucy happily trailed after them. There was nothing like a women’s restroom to provide a bit of sanctuary. I decided to join the little group.
Inside the tiny, three-stall room, I was startled when I caught a look of Diana’s face under the harsh fluorescent lights. Her flaccid face had gone red in patches and what little mascara she’d put on today had pooled beneath her eyes, making them look small and grotesque. Despite her relative youth, her ensemble of mismatched blacks with tell-tale deodorant streaks adorning each side of her shirt served only to emphasize her frumpiness.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
Mistake again.
She opened her mouth to speak, but hiccupped instead, heralding a high-pitched profusion of sobs. Lucy, ever insistent on trying to help people not be sad, put her skinny arms around Diana�
��s dark-clothed back and said, “She’s in heaven, now. She’s happy and watching over you.”
Diana seemed to take comfort in Lucy’s words and they both sat on a small divan near the door.
Aunt Lena had busied herself with wetting some hand towels and began to wipe at Diana’s face to clear away some of the mascara-mud.
I’ve never been good at consoling people in situations such as these. I know that no matter what I say or do, that person’s loved one is dead. Gone. There is never anything that can be said to make that better. When I try the old familiar line about the deceased being “in a better place,” I feel like a hypocrite. So, mostly I just say I’m sorry and that’s it.
Right now, I stood staring at Lucy and at my aunt. Both, without any prompting, seemed to know precisely what would help Diana. I felt inept and useless. “Anything I can do?” I asked.
My aunt smiled at me from the sink area, almost as though she understood my discomfort. “I made cookies,” she said. “They’re in the coffee room. How about you make sure they’re all put out properly?”
Thankful for a job, and even more thankful that I didn’t have to stay here and help in this claustrophobic room amid Diana’s wails and sobs, I headed out.
The coffee room. I’d been to this place enough times that I knew exactly where it was. As a kid, I’d called it the cookie room. Tucked into the building’s back corner, the area was set apart from the mourning chapels by both style and sound. In here the stuffy furnishings gave way to real comfort.
Round tables were set in three of the four corners. Designated cookie areas for each of the occupied chapel guests, apparently. There was a long bar-type configuration along one wall, complete with microwave, refrigerator and two sinks. The cabinets held all sorts of supplies, from Styrofoam cups and sugar packets, to a bag of suckers for little kids here under duress.
The sofas lining the walls were occupied by talkative folks, no longer worried about keeping their voices down, or their demeanor subdued. People chatted and poured coffee from the gurgling coffee makers.
I caught a glimpse of a Tupperware container I knew to be Aunt Lena’s. Full of her specialty, shortbread cookies, it hadn’t yet been opened. I took a look at the plentiful offerings on table assigned to Mrs. Vicks’ visitors, and moved some of them around, as though I knew what I was doing.
I hadn’t known how to comfort Diana, I didn’t even think to bring goodies for the wake tonight, and right now, I stood here looking down at assorted cakes, cookies, brownies and lunch meats interspersed with condiments, and I knew there was some order, or setup that I should put them into. Something that escaped me entirely.
Mrs. McGillicuddy came in. We spoke briefly and exchanged comments regarding the brutality of Mrs. Vicks murder. All the while she talked, she futzed with the table and totally rearranged it all. Right before my eyes, it became appealing, clean and efficient.
“Wow,” I said.
She looked at me surprised. “What?” Heading to the counter top, she started to wash her hands.
“The way you did that.”
As if the whole arrangement business had been done without a second thought, she glanced over at the table, shrugged. “Did what?”
Just then David Dewars walked into the cookie room—and I didn’t think he was looking for pecan clusters. He blinked from behind his small round glasses, his head turning this way and that, till he spied me.
“Alex,” his voice boomed above the chatty din.
I moved toward him just to keep him quiet.
“I’m pleased to see you again,” he said. His right hand gestured around the room. “I just wish it were under different circumstances.”
“It’s nice to see you, too” I said, in a low voice.
Mimicking my tone, he asked, “Have you been here long?”
He’d moved even closer—the man smelled great. “Not really,” I said. “I see you met Bart.”
His mouth twisted sideways and he gave what could have been a small snort. “That guy.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
Glancing both directions, just like in a suspense film, he brought his face closer to mine. Mrs. McGillicuddy had moved to a group of white-haired women chatting in the corner. “I heard him badgering you as I walked in.”
“You mean about helping him with the probate problems?”
“Yeah. I find it just a little bit transparent, don’t you?”
Transparent? Since I had no idea what David was talking about, I said, “Well—” hoping he’d take the ball and run with it.
He didn’t let me down.
“I mean, come on.” Settling so that his backside rested against the long counter, I recognized the move for what it was. He liked being able to watch the comings and goings of those around him. He folded his arms across his chest. Dressed in a dark suit rather than a tux this time, he cut no less of an impressive figure. I wondered if he folded his own navy blue handkerchiefs, or if they came that way. An identical match to his navy blue tie, he was the picture of the perfect mourner.
He settled himself a little more, and he brought his head a little closer to mine. “Mrs. Vicks didn’t have an enemy in the world. She was truly one of the worthy souls I’d ever encountered.”
Worthy? Interesting choice of words, I thought.
He smiled at me, and added, “Present company excepted, of course.”
I made a murmur-like sound, hoping he’d take it as whatever response he expected, since I had no idea how to reply to that. I was having that problem a lot with Mr. David Dewars. He confused me. I decided to direct the conversation, at least to feel a bit more in control again. I got the feeling I knew where he was going anyway.
“Are you implying something?”
His eyes flicked around the room—wary—before settling on mine. I couldn’t read him. He always seemed to have a glint of humor lurking behind those deep brown eyes. “Who else had the means, the motive, and the opportunity?”
“You think her son did it?” I asked. “What possible motive?”
I leaned my left hip against the counter, and he moved closer. Too close for such a warm environment, but a second whiff of his cologne I caught was very nice. Man, did this guy ever do anything wrong? He was Mr. GQ, or, owing to his age, Mr. GQ’s . . . uncle. In either case, I wanted to find fault with him, but other than his imposing nature, which no doubt served him well in the business world, I couldn’t.
He leaned in and spoke softly into my left ear, his eyes keeping watch on the rest of the folks in the room. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but Mrs. Vicks had a trust fund accumulated.”
I leaned away far enough to make eye contact with him.
He shot me a meaningful glance, then bent closer to tell me more. His breath was warm and minty as it brushed past my cheek. “Payable on her death, in full, to . . . guess who?”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “Barton Vicks?”
He nodded, but he wasn’t finished. His right arm reached around my shoulders, pulling me a bit closer. “The fund is in excess of fifty thousand dollars.”
I shot him a quizzical look. “Fifty thousand is hardly worth killing a person for,” I said.
“Not much to you, maybe,” he said, “But our friend Bart . . .” He came so close he could have kissed me. For half a second, I wondered how I would react if he tried, “has a gambling problem. Evelyn told me that in confidence.”
“Still,” I said.
His eyes scoped the room, but he still stayed so near I could feel his breath tickling past my ear. I had a feeling he did that on purpose. “The guy’s always in trouble . . . he owes money . . . To a man like that fifty thousand can look like salvation.” He leaned back finally, and as he did so, his hand skimmed the back of my arm. “This is all off the record, of course.”
“Of course,” I said, automatically. Then, as I processed the information, I shook my head, “You should tell the police about it.”
“I have told them,” he s
aid. “But I thought you ought to know, too. Just keep it to yourself, okay?”
“Why tell me?”
“I heard Barton ask you to look into things. I figured that’s what you’d be doing anyway—am I right?”
“Honestly? No.”
He didn’t try to hide his surprise, as a matter of fact, he seemed to amplify his feelings, but whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by Mrs. Wozniak who reached an arthritic hand between us for a grab at the coffee pot. In her late eighties, she’d come to this country as a teenager but had never quite embraced the English language.
“Co to jest?” she asked me, indicating the powdered cream.
I explained, in Polish, what the flour-like substance was used for, and took small pleasure in noting David’s reaction to my speaking the language.
Mrs. Wozniak made a sound, “Hmmph,” that transcended any language, and hobbled over to the refrigerator where she scavenged till she came up with a carton of half and half, that she held up to me in triumph.
“You speak Polish?” David said.
I nodded.
“But you . . .” he faltered and I was glad to see it. “I mean, I don’t want to sound indelicate, but your last name certainly isn’t Eastern European. And, to be honest, you’ve got the look of the dark Irish about you.”
“I know,” I said. “A story for another time.” I made no secret of the fact that I was adopted, nor of the fact that my father had had our last name changed from Szatjemski to St. James when I was little, but it wasn’t David’s business, and this wasn’t the time nor the place for such divulgences.
“Good,” he said. “I will look forward to hearing it.”
Subject closed, I nodded.
“Back to Mrs. Vicks.” He removed his glasses, and pulled a white cotton handkerchief out of his right pants pocket to clean them. One of his eyes narrowed and a slow smile spread across his features. He winked. “You mean to tell me that you’re not the least bit curious—that you’re not considering poking around to find out what you can from your contacts?”