Dearly Departed

by David Housewright

  On this particular bright, cloudless summer day, I drove with all my windows rolled down, searching South St. Paul for the Holyfield Clinic. I found it just where they said I would, a few blocks off Lafayette. It looked like a pillbox, with white concrete walls, a flat roof, and only a few windows. The parking lot was spacious and contained an inordinate number of handicapped slots; they took up all the spaces closest to the building except for one. The slot nearest the front door was reserved for R. HOLYFIELD, M.D. A new Lexus was parked in the space. I was tempted to “accidentally” scratch the paint with my keys as I walked by—revenge for seducing Alison. I might have, too, if not for the woman watching me as she leaned against the building and sucked on a cigarette, banished from her place of employment by Minnesota’s anti-smoking laws.

  Normally the Lexus wouldn’t have troubled me. I am usually indifferent to the wealth of other people. You need to be if you’re a baseball fan. But I find it obscene that the average doctor grosses over two hundred thousand dollars a year along with five weeks of vacation, yet a third of the citizens of the United States can’t afford their services, can’t afford health care at all. Like the man said, there’s something wrong.…

  With that in mind, I was surprised to find a large number of elderly patients in the waiting room. That is until I remembered that the Holyfield Clinic specialized in caring for patients fifty-five years and older. Their arthritis, hardened arteries, and respiratory ailments were Holyfield’s bread and butter. Besides, they probably all had insurance companies footing the bill, otherwise they wouldn’t have been allowed through the front door.

  Getting to see Dr. Holyfield was no easy matter. I had called earlier that morning. Before I even mentioned my name and purpose, the receptionist made it clear that no appointments could be had for at least two weeks. And when I confessed that it was a nonmedical matter, well, time is money, and Dr. Holyfield was not one to squander either. That’s when I turned nasty.

  “Look, lady. This is a murder investigation. Now, I can come over there at the good doctor’s convenience and chat quietly in his office, or I can send a few officers to drag him over here in handcuffs. Which would you prefer?”

  Most people, especially people who are accustomed to civility, are frightened by loud voices. They shouldn’t be. Loudness, what’s that? It doesn’t mean power or strength or confidence. Usually it means the opposite. No, it’s the guy who talks softly, who looks you in the eye and says what he has to say without looking away, that’s the guy to worry about. Fortunately the receptionist didn’t realize that. Instead of calling my bluff and telling me to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, she quickly put me on hold, forcing me to listen to a John Denver tune—how’s that for payback? She was back in less than a minute to inform me that Dr. Holyfield would see me for fifteen minutes at eleven o’clock. Don’t be late.

  I wasn’t.

  Dr. Holyfield was what too much money, too much education, and too much deference to his title had made him: a snob, who had little respect or appreciation for life that existed beyond the comfortable confines of his daily activities. True, I hadn’t seen him in action. No doubt he was all kindness and light. Yet I would wager my retirement fund that tree surgeons cared more for their patients than he did. At the same time, you just knew he was well loved and even adored by a whole throng of people who hardly knew him at all. Just the kind of guy to seduce a lonely, vulnerable woman like Alison.

  I purposely used his first name, calling him Bob. It’s an old cop trick. It removes a suspect’s dignity and makes him feel defensive, inferior, and often dependent, like a child seeking a parent’s approval; it also lets the suspect know who’s in charge. I don’t know why this is true, but personal experience told me that it was, especially among people who expect to be called Mister and Sir and Doctor.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Taylor. I hope you appreciate that I am on a tight schedule,” Dr. Holyfield informed me after we shook hands and he examined my photostat.

  “I do, Bob, and I hope to make this quick.”

  Dr. Holyfield waved at a chair in front of his cluttered desk. I sat before he had a chance to—another slight.

  “I haven’t much time to give you,” he informed me again and smiled. I wiped the smile off his face with my first question.

  “How long did your affair with Alison Emerton last?”

  He hesitated, then answered, “We did not have an affair.”

  “Bob, I’m going to ask you that question again,” I said calmly. “Think before you answer. How long did—”

  “I answered your ruddy question. Now, get out.”

  Ruddy? Tsk, tsk. Such language from a respected medical man. “Have it your own way, Bob,” I said, only I didn’t leave the chair. Instead, I pulled a blank subpoena from my inside jacket pocket and started filling in the empty spaces. After my conversation with the receptionist, I thought it’d be wise to bring a few, just in case.

  Dr. Holyfield, who was standing now, asked, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Preparing a subpoena,” I answered. “I’ll take it to the Dakota County sheriff, and he’ll take it to the Dakota County attorney, and he’ll take it to a Dakota County judge, who will stamp his approval on it, and by this time tomorrow you’ll be answering questions before the Dakota County grand jury. Ever been to Dakota County? Nice place. Long drive, though. I hope you don’t have anything planned for the day.”

  Dr. Holyfield considered my words for a moment, and I wondered if I had overplayed my hand. A private investigator issuing subpoenas? Yeah, right, happens every day.

  “I don’t have time for this,” he declared and moved back to his chair. “Ask your questions and be quick about it.”

  “I already asked one,” I reminded him, making a production out of returning the subpoena to my pocket, trying hard not to smile in triumph.

  “Five months,” he answered.

  “Did it begin before Alison was married?”

  “No. We had met at several health-related functions prior to her marriage,” he answered as if he was discussing a brake job. “However, we did not become … involved … until much later. Not until after her wedding. I don’t know what drew us together. Perhaps we both needed to spend time with someone who understood our problems. Alison had come to the conclusion that marrying Stephen had been a dreadful error, and at the same time I was having serious misgivings concerning my own marriage. Originally, that’s all we did: spend time together, go places, go to the zoo—I’ve lived in this state my entire life, and I had never been to the Minnesota zoo. We did not become intimate until several weeks had passed. I’m guessing we were both caught up in a fantasy that our lives were somehow different when we were together—there was no Stephen, I had no wife. In our fantasy, we were starting over, beginning our lives anew, with no attachments, no past to encumber us. Alas, it was only a silly fantasy and it ended. It ended all too soon.”

  For someone who had refused to speak with me until I leaned on him, Dr. Holyfield was surprisingly forthcoming. I encouraged him, yet I didn’t trust him.

  “How did the affair end?” I asked.

  “Stephen found out and threatened Alison with a divorce.”

  “I’d have guessed she’d have welcomed a divorce.”

  I thought I detected just a smidgen of regret when Dr. Holyfield answered, “No.” But I could’ve been mistaken.

  “She came from a family that was vehemently opposed to divorce,” he continued. “She had been brainwashed long ago into accepting the fallacy that she was married forever.”

  “How ’bout you, Bob?”

  “When Alison informed me that our involvement had to cease, I came to the realization that I owed it to myself to rescue my own marriage, and I pledged myself to that goal.”

  “Did you?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Save your marriage.”

  “Unfortunately, no. My wife also learned about the affair. I understand a friend tol
d her all about it. Our divorce was final just over seven months ago. It was acrimonious, as you might expect. There was a great deal of name calling, finger pointing, and suspicion. When it was concluded, my wife had custody of my children, my house, two cars, several IRAs, and an enormous alimony and child-support settlement. Prior to the divorce, I had made several unwise investments, so there wasn’t as much money as she expected, or she would have taken that, too. As it was, I was forced to undergo an audit; she claimed I had hidden a substantial amount of our financial assets. The court concluded that it was merely one of her unfounded allegations.”

  I didn’t do the polite thing and tell him I was sorry. I wasn’t. Instead I asked, “Was your divorce final before or after Alison disappeared?”

  “Before.”

  “Did you try to contact her after the divorce?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And how did she respond?”

  The good doctor shrugged. “The sun had set on that relationship.”

  “Oh?”

  “As I recall,” he said, looking up at the ceiling, “her exact words were: ‘I do not believe the resumption of our relationship at this time would be productive for either of us.’”

  “Her exact words?”

  Holyfield nodded.

  “How did that make you feel?” I asked.

  He shrugged again.

  “I would think you’d be pretty upset,” I told him. “After losing your wife and children, after being put in debt for the rest of your life for wanting her. Yeah, I’d be pissed off.”

  “To be honest, I was relieved.”

  “Relieved?”

  “I had just survived one relationship. I was unprepared to leap into a second.”

  “Yet you contacted her,” I reminded him.

  He had nothing to say to that.

  “Where were you the night Alison disappeared?”

  “I’d need to consult my calendar,” Bob said.

  “Why don’t you do that,” I encouraged him.

  He smiled and shrugged. “Why bother?”

  “It might supply you with an alibi.”

  “For what?”

  Was he purposely being obtuse?

  “For the murder of Alison Emerton,” I answered too loudly.

  “What makes you think she was murdered?”

  That one caught me right between the eyes.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What makes you think she was murdered?” he repeated.

  Dr. Holyfield smiled, and in that smile I saw his intentions. He was giving me a preview of his defense.

  “What do you believe became of Alison?” I asked, the dutiful straight man.

  “Alison was greatly disappointed in the life she was living with Stephen,” he answered. “I have no doubt that, given her intelligence, her drive, her beauty, she naturally hoped to achieve more.”

  “More?”

  “More money, more prestige, more power, more adventure, more … I once told her that the hardest lesson an individual can learn is to be content with who they are, to accept themselves for who they are. Alison was not prepared to do that. That’s probably why she left.”

  “Left?”

  “Do you always ask one-word questions, Holland?”

  The sonuvabitch had turned the tables on me. Now I was the student, and he was the teacher.

  “What do you mean, left?” I asked again.

  “I believe she decided to become someone else.” He smiled some more. “I appreciate that there are several unanswered questions concerning the circumstances of her disappearance. However, that does not alter my theory. In fact, I can appreciate how the difficulties she was forced to endure during those dark days might have motivated her to leave.”

  “Leave for where?”

  Dr. Holyfield merely shrugged.

  “Why didn’t you inform the police of your theory?” I asked.

  “I am under no obligation to do so. If Alison wants to start her life over, I say good luck.”

  I left Robert Holyfield’s office exactly fifteen minutes after entering it, feeling I had been played like a Stradivarius. Anne Scalasi would have been appalled. Still, what would she have done differently? Dr. Holyfield had readily admitted to having an affair with Alison, and he confessed that the affair had contributed to his divorce, to his losing nearly everything he owned. And he had admitted that Alison had blown him off when he had attempted to resume their relationship. However, he couldn’t have killed her for rejecting him because, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Alison is not dead. Goodness gracious, no. She’s pumping gas in Fayetteville, Tennessee, at a service station owned by Elvis Presley. And, as implausible as it might sound, that argument could just as easily be applied to Irene Brown’s defense. Or Raymond Fleck’s. Or Stephen Emerton’s.

  Damn.

  Reasonable doubt. Without a body, there’s always reasonable doubt—the criminal’s best friend.

  But in this case … Was she alive?

  I removed her photograph from the envelope. The eyes had changed somehow. So had the rest of her face. She looked different to me now.

  “Are you alive?”

  She had committed adultery; she had cheated on her husband. Stephen Emerton had told the truth about that. But what about Raymond Fleck? Had he also been truthful? It was hard to believe. But not as hard as it had been fifteen minutes ago. Alison was not the woman I thought she was.

  “You lied to me,” I told the photograph.

  I shove the glossy back into the envelope and drove back through St. Paul toward my office in Minneapolis, as depressed as I ever hoped to be. And angry, convinced that Alison had played me for a sucker.

  “Ahh, nuts!” I shouted, slapping the top of my steering wheel. Two days ago I had it solved. Two days ago I was the greatest detective since Eugène François Vidocq, the nineteenth century crook-turned-crook-catcher who founded the French Sûreté. Which reminded me, I really needed to return Scalasi’s book.

  thirteen

  Cynthia looked delicious in a black turtleneck sweater dress with a carefully fitted bodice and a long, sweeping skirt. You’d never have supposed that she had dressed in a feverish seven minutes flat while I monitored her progress on my watch as I paced her living room. It would have taken her six minutes except for the great “with pearls or without” debate. She went without.

  The way Cynthia acted as we drove to the theater in Minneapolis, though, you’d have thought I never took her anywhere, and I told her so.

  “Only sporting events and jazz clubs,” she reminded me.

  There’s no pleasing some people.

  “Actually, I’m amazed anything could drag you away from your precious baseball. Don’t you have tickets for the St. Paul Saints tonight?”

  “It’s like Tallulah Bankhead once said, ‘There have been only two geniuses in the world. Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare.’ Besides, the Saints are in Sioux Falls tonight. They’ll be home tomorrow, though; they’re playing Ida Borders and the Duluth-Superior Dukes. Want to go?”

  “Oh, rapture.”

  Marie Audette played Portia in The Merchant of Venice, a typical Shakespearean heroine: tough, clever, resourceful, who confounds her rivals and generally saves the day—but only while disguised as a man. And, of course, she is never recognized until the final scene, even by her lover. I pointed at Marie when she ascended to the stage.

  “She gave us the tickets,” I told Cynthia.

  “Shhhh!” Cynthia hissed.

  She shushed me several more times during the performance, punctuating her entreaties for quiet with sharp jabs from her elbow. Yet try as I might, I could not stop fidgeting. I couldn’t stop shuffling through the notes in my head—apparently making quite a racket of it—searching for the one clue that would determine who actually had killed Alison Donnerbauer Emerton.

  I had liked Irene Brown. But that was yesterday. Today, Dr. Bob, the jilted lover, looked good, except there was nothing to tie him to the scene. A
nd both Raymond Fleck and Stephen Emerton still rated high in my estimation.

  “Nuts,” I muttered under my breath.

  “Shhhhh!” Cynthia hissed at me.

  I tried hard not to believe Dr. Bob’s theory. I didn’t want to believe it. Alison wasn’t the kind to run away from her problems. No way. She would have stared them in the eye and taken them on. Yes, that’s what my Alison would have done. My Alison. But was my Alison the same Alison as the woman in the photograph? I had seen things in her face, emotions that touched me. Yet were they real? Was that the face of a woman who committed adultery? Twice? Apparently it was.

  I shook my head, tried to clear it. Instead, my mind’s eye superimposed Alison’s photograph over the stage; I was looking at it and through it even as I watched Marie Audette going about her business. And I knew. Of course the emotions weren’t real; the photograph had been taken to promote a play, to reflect a character Alison was playing. What was the line Jon Lovitz used to say on Saturday Night Live? Oh, yeah.

  “It’s acting!”

  “Sheeesh,” a voice behind me answered.

  Stop it, Taylor, my inner voice told me. Get a grip. Start thinking like a detective. Be objective, dammit. “Be objective,” I muttered.

  Cynthia’s elbow almost cracked my rib. I didn’t blame her for being miffed. We were at a critical juncture in the play, the scene where Shylock the Jew is demanding his pound of flesh, and Portia, disguised as a hot-shot arbitrator from Padua, says he can have it, just so long as he does not “shed one drop of Christian blood.” Shylock is a louse, of course. Yet I always figured he got the shaft. I mean, no one put a gun to Antonio’s head, made him take the loan, and if he couldn’t pay the vig, well … Still, I enjoyed watching Marie, standing center stage like a gunfighter waiting for the bad guy to slap leather, beseeching Shylock “to cut off the flesh” if he dared. But my concentration wouldn’t hold, and soon I was reflecting on my list of suspects again.

  Irene Brown. Raymond Fleck. Stephen Emerton. Dr. Bob. Hell, all things considered, even Mrs. Donnerbauer could be considered a suspect.

  I squirmed in my seat some more, asking myself, Who put the note on my windshield telling me to quit the investigation? Not Irene. Not Raymond. Both were guests of the Dakota County Sheriff’s Department at the time.