Deadly Blessings

by Julie Hyzy

  “But what if something’s happened to him?” I said. “How will we know, if the police aren’t out looking for him? We can’t just sit around and wait and hope for the best.”

  Bruno took a moment to finish his cigarette, then stubbed it out into a Star of David-shaped glass ashtray. When he spoke, he did so slowly, answering my protest with careful patience. “No, of course not. I have a few contacts who will be able to let me know if he’s turned up at all. And he will, I’m certain.”

  He must have read the skepticism on my face because he interrupted before I could open my mouth. Indicating me, he turned to Sophie and asked. “She is a friend?”

  “Yes,” Sophie answered. “I trust her.”

  Wow, I thought. After only one day. I must really have an honest face.

  Bruno took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “We’re able to do a lot of good for new immigrants here,” he said. “I’ve been around long enough to realize, however, that it’s sometimes better to ask forgiveness than permission.” He smiled. “Matthew is one of my kids. One of the many young people I’ve sponsored from eastern Europe who came here for a better life.” He folded his hands together on the desk, leaning forward on his arms. “A police investigation would uncover Matthew’s place of work and since he’s not … officially … on their books it would ruin our relationship with that company. It’s a small company, but over the past few years they’ve given over a dozen young men a good start.” His eyes squinted at me. “I’d hate to lose that valuable contact.”

  I tried again. “I think I’d feel better, and I think Sophie would feel better,” I shot a glance her way, urging support, “if we could do something in the meantime.” Sophie was watching Bruno, as though measuring his reaction to my words. I continued, “Waiting is always the worst. Is there anywhere or anyone you can think of that I can check with?”

  “Not at the moment,” he said, shaking his head. His second chin wobbled, trying without success to keep up with the movement of the first one. “I’d be more than happy to keep in contact with both of you, though. I’ll call up a few of the other boys and see what they know.” Glancing at both of us in turn, he asked. “How does that sound?”

  Sophie nodded, but I was unconvinced.

  Bruno continued. “Matthew is an intelligent young man, but a bit hot-headed, as anyone who knows him can attest. I’m very concerned that he didn’t come home last night. That’s not like him. He might be afraid to face you, Sophie, if he got into another scrape.”

  “But,” I began, whether or not Sophie was going to back me—unfortunately, in times like this, I have no “off-switch” when answers don’t make sense and I want to know more, “what if he’s hurt? In the hospital? How will we know?”

  Sophie’s eyes widened as I spoke and I regretted worrying her further, but I still would have felt better if we contacted the police. Of course, maybe even Matthew would argue that losing his job was worse than spending a night in the hospital—or the slammer.

  “I understand your concerns. You’re completely correct. But, again, I have many contacts.” He tapped at a small gold cross pin he had attached to his collar that I hadn’t noticed earlier. “One of the perks of the job.”

  A voice came from my far left. “Father?”

  “There you are!” he said. “Where have you been?”

  I followed his gaze, as did Sophie, to a second door that led to an adjacent room I hadn’t noticed earlier, tucked as it was in the corner behind a wing chair.

  The fellow who entered appeared bewildered by our presence. He blinked several times, switching his focus between me and Sophie as he came forward. I put him mid-fifties, scrawny, with a full head of slicked-back black hair so uniform in color that it had to be dyed. He wore a red plaid cotton short-sleeve shirt and gray polyester pants.

  He still hadn’t answered Father Bruno’s question.

  “Emil,” the priest said again, “were you … in back?”

  Closer now, it began to dawn on me that wherever “in back” was, Emil had been hitting the sauce there. His head slightly bent, he glanced at the two of us through nervous eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “You need something?”

  “No,” Bruno said, “but these young ladies rang the doorbell twice. I wondered where you were.”

  Emil crinkled up his face in exaggerated apology. Why people under the influence believed they needed to react big, was beyond me. Drunks tended not to be subtle. “Oh man, I’m sorry.” He scratched his head and moved close enough to lean his hip against the desk. Father Bruno’s face told me he was not amused. I caught the mixed tang of alcohol and body odor and leaned back a little. “I was doing some of that paperwork that’s been piling up. Hey!” he said, his eyes focusing for a moment. “That you, Sophie?”

  Her body had gone rigid and she averted her eyes.

  Emil’s face split into a grin and I winced. His crooked teeth, brown around the edges, were tiny. Too short for his gumline, they looked as though someone had painstakingly cut them all in half.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he continued.

  “Emil,” Bruno interrupted. “Sophie’s brother Matthew … you remember him, don’t you?”

  He nodded, again with extra effort.

  “Matthew seems to be missing. He didn’t call here at all recently, did he?”

  Emil shook his head. “No, Father, I haven’t heard from him.”

  “No messages you forgot to give me?”

  “No, sir, none. None at all.”

  Sophie and I stood at the same time. She positioned herself close, and I felt her fingers grasp my elbow with a tiny tug. Her overbite seemed even more pronounced now, as she bit her lip. “I think we go, okay? Maybe Matthew call home already.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I need to get back to work, too.”

  Father Bruno stood, polite man that he was, and held up a finger. “Ms. Szatjemski, why don’t you give me your address and phone number.” He handed me a pen from a stand on his desk, and a pad of Post-It notes. Noting my raised eyebrows perhaps, he added, “Would you like me to keep you informed as well?”

  “Sure,” I said. “This is my parents’ number. I’m staying there.” Sophie grabbed my right hand as soon as I finished writing, her tugs becoming more insistent as Emil moved closer and spoke to her in low tones behind me.

  “Where do you work?” Bruno asked me, canting his head in curiosity.

  “In an office downtown. I’m a secretary.” It was my usual cover story, one I often used when I started investigating features. The lie fell from my mouth out of habit. Probably burn in hell for that. Right now our attention needed to stay with Sophie and Matthew. A mention of my affiliation with Midwest Focus and that might shift. I gave Sophie’s hand a squeeze, so she wouldn’t contradict me, but she appeared to be oblivious to the conversation, intent instead on getting out the door.

  I shook my head as we left. My boss thought I was busy with hair care stories, when really I was trying to steal back the Milla Murder story from the new hotshot on our staff. In the process of all this, I’d lied to a priest, and I’d agreed to help a young woman whose brother had gone missing. Wow, I was having a busy day.

  Chapter Seven

  I wanted to call Lucy from home in the morning, but my sister wasn’t much of an early riser, and I needed to get rolling again on this hair story. As a researcher, my job was to take tons of information and winnow it down to a precious few ounces. Which meant my full scope of information was due on William Armstrong’s desk by the end of business today, and I still had another woman to interview.

  Other than Wilda Lassiter’s bald and blue-headed incident, I didn’t have much to go on. After Sophie’s frantic phone call, I asked Jordan to reschedule my third hair victim, Angela Cucio. She’d been accommodating, thank goodness. I hoped that bode well for today’s chat. Since I had nothing from Tammy Larken other than the bad taste left in my mouth from our brief, unpleasant conversation, I needed to make sure this next i
nterview soared.

  I’d made it back to the office yesterday to be greeted by Fenton, nearly apoplectic with anticipation over the file I promised him. It took me just over fifteen minutes to gather and copy all the information, but the way he behaved you’d think he waited a year. Bass had provided him with plenty of basic facts. And while nothing stopped him from researching the story on his own, Fent had spent the entire day waiting for the folder. I was certain he’d been disappointed to find that I hadn’t swooped in like the good fairy and left him a fully-written report inside. Too bad.

  His scriptwriter was going to have a tough go, but David Gonzales was a talented guy. I wouldn’t have minded being assigned to him, now that Tony was gone. But I figured that maybe this William might be good, too. I’d find out soon enough.

  I flipped through my calendar to see when my next free day might be. Lucy always liked to have the date to look forward to, and I knew how much she’d been counting on seeing me this Saturday. Even though I was pretty anxious to grab my junk out of Dan’s place, now that we’d made the decision to split, my letting Lucy down gave me a queasy sad feeling, as though I was making a poor choice and I knew it.

  The Wrigley Building across the river showed nine o’ clock through a lingering mist that looked to be burnt off any moment by the sun rising over the lake. Time to talk to Lucy. I picked up the receiver.

  My door opened, without an announcing knock. “Alex?”

  Fenton actually called me by the correct name. I was impressed enough to hold off dialing, but I kept the phone close to my ear in a “don’t make this long” maneuver.

  “What’s up?”

  “I talked to Bass. He’s giving me an extra week on the Millie story.”

  My lips compressed as I bit back correcting him on Milla’s name once again. I’d have to stop in by Gonzales to make sure the poor girl’s name wasn’t massacred in Fenton’s notes. “Another week?” I asked, and I know incredulity squeaked out in my voice. “This is one of the hottest local stories out there. Why in the world would you want to hold it for a week?”

  Fenton was wearing yet another pair of Dockers, dark gray this time, with a pink golf shirt. It had one of those “I paid a lot for this item” logos embroidered in yellow on the chest, small enough that I couldn’t quite make it out, but from where I sat it looked like a pig being hoisted up by its middle.

  He flipped his hair back, jutting his chin out in an insolent way. “Because,” he said giving an impatient wiggle, “you haven’t been exactly forthcoming with information. I’m in a bind here, you know.”

  I stood up, and although the room stretched between us, I noticed he took a tiny step backward. Just enough to make me feel like I had an edge. “Guess what, Fent? I’ve got a story to research too. So, your best bet is to figure out how to do your job and get it done. Nobody here is gonna hold your hand.”

  “You know, that’s another thing.”

  “What?” I asked. He backed out of the doorway to allow me to pass.

  “The way you talk to me. I’m Genevieve Mulhall’s nephew, you know.”

  “Yes, I’m fully aware. And I remember Hank telling us to treat you like everyone else. Just like any other member of the team. And you know what? Each of the players on this team holds up their end, and I don’t think we should start making exceptions. Do you?”

  His brown eyes blazed.

  I made a show of looking at my watch. “I have another appointment scheduled soon. For my story.”

  “The hair care story.” His mocking voice dripped derision.

  “The hair care story.” I answered him in kind.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s obvious they know which of their researchers to give the important stories to.”

  This guy was a total idiot.

  “You can look at it that way,” I agreed, forcing a smile on my face to let him know just how pissed I was. “But then it only reinforces the fact that you won’t need my help. Not one little bit.”

  I’ve always wanted to flounce away from someone. It’s such a neat, strong action. So, I shot him another insincere smile saying, “And next time you come to my office, remember to knock first,” and turned my back in a grand gesture of dismissal, not realizing that William the scriptwriter was right behind me, yet again. I flounced all right. Right onto his left instep while the knee of my other leg rammed into his thigh.

  “Geez!” I exclaimed. I was so embarrassed that my immediate reaction came out sounding annoyed rather than apologetic.

  “I’m sorry,” William said, grabbing me by the elbow, keeping us both from falling to the ground in a heap. He managed to keep me upright and still hang onto a manila folder tucked under his right arm. Chalk one up for being coordinated. Him, not me.

  I heard Fenton snicker.

  I backed away, murmuring my excuses, feeling clumsy and off-kilter.

  “I was just coming to see you,” he said to me. His eyes flicked over my head. I turned and watched the Nephew retreat back to his office. “But if you were on your way out …”

  Totally frazzled, I stood there, attempting to collect my composure. “No, actually, I was just trying to shake Fenton.”

  He gave a look then; his eyebrows raised a notch and his mouth twitched. It could have been amusement, or it could have just been an acknowledgment that I’d spoken. I wasn’t sure, but I headed back into my office after checking with Jordan to be sure my nine-thirty hadn’t cancelled, and motioned William to follow me.

  “Come on in,” I said, with an expansive gesture toward the two chairs by my desk. Having met him only twice and both times being under less than ideal conditions, I felt an inexplicable need to impress him. As if to prove I wasn’t quite the twit that I appeared to be at first, or even at second glance.

  “Hmm. Different setup,” he said, taking in the side-set desk. “Interesting chair.”

  The black leather chair behind my desk was about as comfortable as they come. High-backed, with cushy arms, it came with the office and it was beginning to show its age.

  “Yeah. It’s a keeper.”

  The man, it seemed, didn’t smile often, or maybe it was just that he didn’t like me much. Not that I could blame him at this point. But I got a better look at him as he settled himself across from me. Just as handsome as I remembered, maybe even more so now that I could assess him without little streaks of panic distracting me.

  “So,” I began, “How are things going, so far?”

  “Good.”

  “Starting to settle in?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  His brevity unnerved me a little. It made him harder to read, but I got the distinct impression that there was more to him than met the eye. Still waters run deep, so they say. Mr. Armstrong carried himself with an air of confidence that I found compelling; I sensed there was much more to this man than his laconic responses would suggest.

  I tried again. “Is it a lot different here than at theDaily Times?”

  Amusement. I swore I caught a flicker of amusement in his eyes. As though he knew I was trying to jump-start conversation, and he was having fun watching me flounder. “I’m adjusting.”

  I waited.

  “I worked at the Times about eight years, wanting to write, but copyediting mostly. I knew when I started that there was a hierarchy in place and that if I wanted to make a name for myself, I’d have to play by their rules. I knew that, and I was prepared for it.”

  He gave a self-effacing shrug. “I wanted a feature column, worked hard to get one, and did lots of writing with no byline because my boss at the time promised that my cooperation and team spirit would pay dividends down the road.”

  “But …”

  “Yes. But.” He raised his eyebrows in a helpless gesture.

  William Armstrong was anything but helpless. I’d gotten the lowdown on him over the past couple of days. From everything I gathered, he was a respected and valued team player. No shortage of glowing reviews there. There was however, one sm
all glitch.

  No one would tell me why he left the newspaper. Like it was some big secret. Or maybe, no one knew.

  I’m nothing if not direct. “But,” I repeated. “You left. How come?”

  The breath he expelled as he leaned backward, told me this was a difficult subject. “It’s a long story.”

  I opened my hands. “I’m a good listener.”

  “Some other time, perhaps.” His blue eyes seemed to intensify, almost as though he was gauging my trustworthiness.

  “Okay, then. Whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a nod. And then, he smiled.

  When he did, his entire face transformed. Tiny crinkles near his eyes and around his mouth deepened. I could tell these were lines that got lots of use; it just so happened that I was seeing them for the first time. I felt my stomach flip-flop as my face began to warm. Yowza. I’d better hope he didn’t smile at me too often or I’d never get anything done.

  “About this hair story,” he said, his eyes traveling down to the manila folder on his lap. “I thought maybe you could bring me up to speed? Give me an idea of what else is coming? I have some information. Not a lot.”

  I wondered that he had any at all. I hadn’t done my homework on Wilda Lassiter’s interview, yet. “What do you have?”

  “Let’s see.” He dug out a sheet of paper, and placed it at the edge of my desk. “Ah, yes … Ms. Tammy Larken.”

  “Tammy Larken?”

  “The name rings a bell with you?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was making a joke, or slamming me. His face was back to being devoid of expression, so I decided to tread with caution. “How do you know her?”

  “She came to visit me yesterday—around noon. Apparently she made a trip down to the studio to see Gabriela, based on your suggestion.” I cringed; I could tell this anecdote wasn’t going to have a happy ending. “What you didn’t know when you sent her, was that Gabriela had rescheduled the shoot. Nobody there but a couple of techs.”