Patricia turned back on her way out, “Phillipena, my husband was furious when he found out that I implicated him in Morgan’s disappearance. He can be a dangerous man, so please be careful.”
“You’re not expecting him back any time soon, are you?”
Patricia absently touched her cheek. “No, he said he wouldn’t be home until this evening,” she replied, leaving the room.
I felt stricken with guilt. I shouldn’t have agreed to get involved in all this. I didn’t think through my actions and how they might affect Patricia. I was sure glad Morgan was tucked away somewhere with Alex and out of harm’s way. I had no intention of locating her. As far as I was concerned, she could sue J.J. for all he was worth, get her house, and live happily ever after with Alex in her new suburban mansion.
I was looking for different answers. Answers I hoped to find by searching the room that Morgan shared with J.J. Although I was almost completely sure James had murdered Jane and Pauline, I wasn’t completely convinced that J.J. wasn’t somehow involved. He stood to lose a lot if Alex came forward and claimed his birthright.
I started with the bills. Lots and lots of bills—all the major department stores plus a few from some hipster Wicker Park stores like Landis, Belmontos, and Psycho Babes. Cool. Morgan and I frequented some of the same stores. Although, by the looks of these bills, she wasn’t perusing the last-stop sales racks looking for good buys to resell for profit on-line.
I got down on the floor, pulled the middle drawer all the way out and looked underneath. Nothing. I opened the laptop and turned it on, hoping to find it logged onto email. No such luck. Instead, a password prompt blinked at me from a blank screen.
Next, I moved on to the dresser drawers. I pulled out all of them, but paid extra attention to J.J’s drawers. The only information I garnered was that he was a brief man—basic whites with blue elastic trim. Boring.
The nightstands proved fruitless, too. I wasn’t surprised to find a stack of smutty romances inside Morgan’s stand. The one she pilfered from the garage sale, was right on top.
I checked under the mattress, under the bed, all around the closets, and behind the artwork before moving to the bathroom where I searched every drawer, behind the towels, and even in the toilet tank. Nothing.
I stood in the middle of the bathroom with my hands on my hips. If I didn’t know better, I’d sworn the place had been picked clean. There wasn’t anything personal anywhere. No personal correspondence, address books, or even photos. J.J. and Morgan led a very impersonal, sterile life. Weird.
Perhaps the weirdest thing of all was the fact that all of Morgan’s stuff was still there, including her cosmetics. There was no way she’d planned her escape. A girl like her would never leave without her full makeup ensemble.
Of course, she could just buy more. That’s what I would do. I mean, if she wanted to disappear quickly, it wouldn’t do to drag a thirty pound bag of cosmetics out the front door.
Finally, I admitted defeat and left. I found Patricia waiting for me in the front room. She was drinking some sort of clear liquid on ice in a crystal glass. She raised it and jingled the ice in my direction.
“No thanks, it’s a little early for me.” Although, it probably wouldn’t be if I was married to the weenie boss.
“What did you find?” she asked, sipping away. She still hadn’t bothered to clean herself up.
“Absolutely nothing.”
She didn’t seem surprised.
“You said that Morgan had hired a private investigator. Do you know who?”
“No idea.”
“Do you know if she has an attorney?”
“Probably, but I wouldn’t know who.”
That was a dead end. There were only about ten thousand divorce attorneys in the Chicago area.
“It does seem like Morgan didn’t plan her escape. She didn’t pack anything. Not even her cosmetics.”
Patricia gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. “Oh, no. That means that…. Do you think she’s de—”
I held up a hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Like I said, I’m pretty sure she’s off with Alex Sokolov. I have the neighbor’s story to verify that.”
She narrowed her eyes and slammed back the rest of her drink. “You have to understand how important it is that you find Morgan before she does something to ruin my son’s reputation or provoke my husband into doing something violent.”
“Quite frankly, Patricia, I don’t think your husband needs much provocation. He seems to have a short temper.”
“James is just being protective of his son.”
“His son or his money. I mean, that’s what we’re really talking about, isn’t it? If Morgan sues J.J. in divorce court, she may get half of J.J’s company shares. Especially if they were acquired after he and Morgan were married. Most divorce courts consider anything acquired after marriage as marital property and it’s subject to equal distribution.” I knew my stuff. I had handled the portfolios of many divorcees in my professional days. I kept going, “That means any growth of the business can be attributed to spousal support. JimDogs has really grown since J.J. became CFO, hasn’t it? I mean, look at the new store they’re opening in Skokie. How many other stores have opened since J.J. came on board? Wouldn’t Morgan be entitled to her share of that growth?”
“I bet it really sticks in James’ crawl that Morgan will get shares in JimDogs,” I continued. “Especially since he thought all along that J.J. had signed a prenuptial agreement before the marriage.”
“Yes, James was careless. He never should have taken J.J. at his word. J.J. was young, stupid, in love. He let that girl trick him.”
“And now what? You think your husband has killed her?”
“I don’t know what to think. That’s what I’m paying you for. Find out. I need to know.”
I watched her extract a Gin bottle from the liquor cabinet and pour another glassful. She topped it off with a splash of tonic water—no lime. Geez, one gin and tonic like that and I’d be flopping on the floor.
I thought maybe I was starting to understand where Patricia was coming from and why it was important to her that I find Morgan alive. Patricia had lived under James’ control all these years, put up with his infidelity and who knows what else.
She was no dummy. She could see that history was repeating itself. Just like his father, J.J. was rising in the weenie business and he’d taken a mistress. Maybe she wanted to save Morgan from the pain she’d endured in her own marriage.
“Why have you stayed with him all these years, Patricia? Why did you put up with him having an affair? Why didn’t you just leave?”
She moved to the windows. The bright sun made her robed silhouette appear small and shapeless. I watched her tip back her head and drain yet another glass of gin. There was a long pause before she answered, her speech slightly slurred, “What options did I have?”
With that said, she moved back toward the liquor cabinet for a refill. I showed myself out. I’d seen enough.
Chapter 21
Shep was sitting up in bed staring blankly at the television when I walked into his room carrying two bags of Korean takeout. I’d brought the food to ease my guilt over not visiting for a couple days.
“Look,” I said, holding up the large white bag marked Seochi’s BBQ. I knew it was one of Shep’s favorite places. “I brought all your favorites: kimchi, tofu soup, and kalbi.” I crossed the room and opened the curtain, allowing some light to stream in. Shep looked tired and pale.
“Oh, yummy,” he said, with less enthusiasm than I’d hoped for. I set his bedside table with Styrofoam containers and helped him open the plastic package of silverware.
“I haven’t seen you for a couple of days. I was hoping to hear that you made progress on finding Pauline’s killer.”
I chuckled. Not because something was funny. It was more of a nervous type of chuckle. Shep’s mood seemed sour. I didn’t want to add to it by telling him I hadn’t made much progress.
<
br /> He was too shaky to balance a spoonful of liquid, so I moved the tofu soup and pushed some kalbi chicken his way.
He started fiddling with the remote attached to the side of his bed. I turned sideways so I could see the TV and still manage to talk to him. He flipped to channel three. The noon news was on. He dug into his food, eating slowly, but seeming to enjoy the chicken. At least he still had a good appetite.
The scene switched from the weather man back to the anchorwoman who was announcing the local stories of the day: the mayor was giving a statement on gang violence; there was a mid-town robbery; and uh oh … a murder in the Ukrainian Village. The anchorwoman referred to a field reporter who was live at the scene.
This is Lindsey Barnes live at the scene of the brutal murder of Alex Sokolov, a young graduate of Princeton University, who has just recently suffered the loss of his mother to cancer. Police are paying particularly close attention to this murder which they believe occurred sometime yesterday morning.
Alex Sokolov? I was all ears as the camera flashed back to the anchorwoman in studio. “Do the police have any leads?” she asked the reporter.
Yes. A witness has come forward and given a detailed description of a possible suspect who was seen prowling around the house prior to the discovery of Alex’s death.
I cringed as the screen filled with, a crude, but pretty close likeness of me. Thank goodness the old bitty suffered from cataracts, no telling how much more detail she would have been able to give the police artists. As it was, the artists had completely missed the mark on my hair. On the screen it looked like a fluffy cone of bright orange cotton candy. He’d definitely made my eyes too close together and drawn my nose too wide. No one would think that was me, would they?
I glanced sideways at Shep. He was busy with his food and not paying attention to the television.
Lindsey Barnes was back on the screen. She was standing in front of Calina Sokolov’s house with a mic in her hand.
If you’ve seen this person or have any information concerning this case, please call this number immediately.
A number ticked across the bottom of the screen. I was trying to remain casual, not wanting to alarm Shep, but the tremble in my hand caused me to spill soup down my front. I dabbed at it with a napkin, my mind racing. Alex Sokolov was murdered. When did that happen? Was he in his house dead when I was there? Where’s Morgan? Was anyone I knew calling that number right now and turning me in?
The anchorwoman came back on and wrapped up the segment with an emotional plea.
Please don’t hesitate to get involved. Call the police if you have any information. This close neighborhood of Russian immigrants has seen its share of sadness lately. Please help the authorities solve this crime.
I looked back at Shep who had given up on the food and flopped back onto his pillows. He must not have heard the television anchorwoman mention Alex Sokolov’s name, or he would have recognized it. I reached over and flipped to a different channel. “Are you in pain today, Shep? You seem really…”
“What? Like I’m in a bad mood? I’m sick of being in here.”
I backed up a little, unsure of how to handle the shift in his demeanor. “Things must be getting better. You’re not wheezing as much. I bet they’ll let you out soon.”
He sighed, making a half-attempt at a smile. “Yeah. Sorry, today’s just a down day.”
“Don’t apologize, Shep.”
Except for the whirl of machinery and the constant beeping of his monitors, the room grew uncomfortably silent. I started straightening his blankets, trying to make him more comfortable.
He placed his hand over mine. “You know, doll. I think I need some time alone today. Could you come back sometime this weekend?”
My eyes stung. “Sure, I understand,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I’ll come back on Sunday.” I leaned in and gave him a hug, hanging on longer than necessary.
I barely made it back to my parked car before I broke down. Once my sobs started, they wouldn’t stop. Like a crazed idiot, I sat there, my head against the steering wheel, my body shaking uncontrollably. Things were spinning out of control—Shep’s illness, this thing with the Farrells, the wedding. I was tempted to drive straight home, finish off a bottle of wine, and take a long nap. Deep down, however, I knew I needed to find some answers. It was the best thing I could do to help Shep.
I checked my review mirror and wiped under my swollen eyes. One thing for sure, there was no way I was going to be able to get much done with my picture plastered all over the news. There was only one thing to do. Drastic, sure. But necessary.
*
After a quick trip to the neighborhood pharmacy, I was back in my apartment, drinking a glass of wine and setting the timer for twenty minutes. The directions said to do a test run on a small portion of hair, but I didn’t have time for that. I needed to be at Stumpy’s pumpkin patch in two hours.
As soon as timer went off, I hopped in the shower, shampooed and rinsed. I started feeling nervous. I’d never been a brunette before. I had to admit, dying my hair had sounded like a good idea; but now, as I stood looking in the mirror, I wasn’t so sure. It was definitely a transformation … of some type.
I went through my basic routine: gargle, brush, pit-stick, lipstick and mascara, and lots of goop to hold in the frizzes. When I was done, I stepped back and surveyed the final results. Something was askew. I think it was my freckles. They didn’t match the black hair. I looked like a paint-by-number picture gone bad.
Oh, well. Not much I could do about it at the moment. Besides, I was only going to a pumpkin patch. Who would care?
Chapter 22
“What have you done?” It was my mother. She was standing by my Aunt Maeve who was staring wide-eyed at my new hairdo.
Both of them were wearing dark blue bib overalls. My Aunt, however, had paired hers with a flannel shirt and a pair of brown boots, while my mother wore a crisp white button-down shirt and, believe it or not, a small strand of pearls. My mother and her sister were a study in contrast; although at the moment they were both wearing the same shocked expression on their faces.
“What happened to your hair?” My sister, Anne asked, joining my little group of admirers. My other sister Kathleen was right behind her.
“You’ve gone Goth!” Kathleen exclaimed.
“I have not. I’ve just changed my hair color, that’s all.”
“Why?” Anne asked, rubbing her protruding pregnant belly.
“Yeah, what’s wrong with red?” Kathleen added.
I looked around, suddenly feeling like the odd one out. Everyone around me sported different shades of red: Mom and Maeve, a beautiful auburn; Kathleen, a head of blondish-red curls, and Anne, long straight fiery red hair.
My hand involuntarily moved to my own hair. “I well ….” I was trying to find a suitable explanation, but what was I going to say? As a red-head, I was a wanted woman. Black was my only choice. “Does it look that awful?”
They all stammered, but no one came up with a reply. That is, except Anne’s four year old who pointed at me from afar and yelled, “Look, Aunt Pippi dressed up as a witch.”
I practically shriveled with embarrassment. I wanted to run and hide, but I couldn’t because in about fifteen minutes I was going to have to practice my part in this whole fiasco. So I did the next best thing.
I walked right up to a scarecrow, stole the straw hat off his head, shoved my hair inside and pulled the drawstring tight. Then I saddled up to the keg and held out my plastic cup for a fill-up.
My Uncle Chuck was manning the tap. “Why hello there, Pippi! You’ve sure grown since I saw you last.”
My Uncle Chuck always said that, even though I was way into adulthood, he couldn’t quit commenting about my growth.
“Hi Uncle Chuck. Nice rehearsal party. Where’s Cherry?”
“Oh, she’ll be coming around the corner any minute,” he chuckled and tipped his cowboy hat.
I glanced arou
nd and spotted her—the source of over a week’s worth of angst, my cousin Cherry. I glared her down as she approached with her future hubby on her arm. Was it wrong for the maid of honor to wish so much evil and hateful things on the bride?
“There you are, Phillipena! Oh, can you believe I’m going to be Mrs. John Garcia tomorrow?”
I practically choked on my beer. I’d only met the guy briefly and forgotten his last name was Garcia. It just hit me. My cousin was going to become one of my favorite ice cream flavors … Cherry Garcia.
I struggled not to laugh as I shook John’s hand and made small talk. He seemed nice enough. Who knew? Maybe ice-cream was the way to go.
I managed a couple more cups of beer before the minister arrived and started the rehearsal. It was easy enough. All I had to do was walk, smile, hold the bridal bouquet, smile, and walk again. No problem.
Afterwards, Stumpy’s party caterers brought out large trays of sandwiches and kettles of chili. Everyone sat around discussing the next day’s events.
“It will be wonderful,” Cherry was gushing. “After we’re pronounced man and wife,” she looked lovingly into John’s eyes when she said that, “we’re going to light the bonfire.”
I perked up. No one had said anything about a bonfire. I guess that was Cherry’s alternative to lighting a wedding candle.
“Then we’ll all gather around and hold hands and everyone can give us a life blessing. After the blessing ceremony, we’ll pass out the roasting sticks and hotdogs.”
I glanced at my mother. I thought she was going to croak. I moved out of earshot and over to the food table. I decided to skip the double stacked sandwiches and instead refilled my beer. Uncle Chuck was nowhere to be seen, so I just stood by the tap and kept refilling. It wasn’t the best beer, but at that point, anything would do.
*
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in … “What happened,” I gasped. I shot straight up, wide awake. I took a second, trying to get my bearings, before jumping out of bed. I was still fully dressed.
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