Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

  “And that all happened last night?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And no one found her until when?”

  “Approximately twelve-thirty this afternoon.”

  “Oh, that poor woman. Will she live?”

  “You’ll need to talk to her doctor, Miss Gold. She was rushed into surgery this afternoon. She’s still unconscious.”

  “Which hospital?”

  “St. Mary’s. Intensive care unit.”

  “Have they caught the intruder?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “What was taken?”

  “Well, the Clayton police aren’t sure. You see, this wasn’t a typical breaking and entering.”

  “How so?”

  “From what the Clayton police can ascertain, the intruder took nothing from the house. Mrs. Anderson’s wallet was in her purse. There was close to two hundred dollars in there, along with several credit cards. The intruder didn’t take the money or the plastic. Although there’s clear evidence that the intruder was upstairs, there doesn’t appear to be any jewelry missing. The VCR is still there. The stereo system is still there. The televisions are still there. All the usual items are still there.”

  “Maybe she scared him away.”

  “Possible, but not likely. From the look of the house, he was searching pretty hard for something specific.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Anderson had his own bedroom. Separate, I mean, from Mrs. Anderson’s. Her room was lightly searched, but his bedroom was…well, it was pretty thoroughly ransacked, Miss Gold. I saw it myself. The mattress and box spring were slit open with a knife. Several floorboards were removed with a pry bar. Pictures were slashed. The place was a mess. It looked to me like the intruder was searching for something very specific. Probably something that belonged to Mr. Anderson.”

  ***

  On my way out I stopped at the reception desk to pick up the package from the St. Louis Club.

  “Rachel?”

  I turned to see Reed St. Germain approaching. He looked somber. “You’ve heard?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you going out there?” he asked solemnly.

  “I am.”

  “I’m going to a meeting out in Chesterfield. Otherwise I’d join you. I’ll walk you to the parking garage. Here,” he said as the elevator doors slid open.

  He put his hand on my waist to usher me into the elevator. I was keenly aware of the way his hand seemed to slide down to my hip before he moved it away.

  “I spoke to the treating physician,” he said as we started our descent.

  “What does he say?”

  He shook his head gravely. “I’m afraid Dottie has suffered a severe subdural hematoma. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

  “Will she?”

  “He says they may not know that for another forty-eight hours.”

  “That poor woman,” I said quietly, fighting to control my emotions in front of him.

  Reed sensed that I was shaken up by what had happened to Dottie. He insisted on walking me all the way to my car. He asked me nothing about my investigation. Instead, he asked gentle questions about where I had grown up in St. Louis, what high school I had gone to, whether my parents were still alive. I was surprised—even touched—by his consideration.

  I thanked him as I got into my car.

  ***

  Highway 40 was clogged with rush hour traffic when I left downtown for the hospital. The westbound traffic slowed to a crawl as I passed the Arena on the left. Up ahead near Skinker, the highway doglegged to the south and tilted up into the path of the late-afternoon sun, which hovered directly above the highway—a giant, shimmering ball of fire, as if a nuclear bomb had just been detonated over Clayton.

  Sitting in traffic was therapeutic. With my radio turned to KSHE, the Beatles’ “Back in the USSR” blaring, I tried to distract myself from what had happened to Dottie Anderson.

  Traffic had come to a complete halt. I reached for the hand-delivered envelope from the St. Louis Club that I had tossed onto the passenger front seat. Inside were three quarterly statements of account—one for something called the Abramson Trust, one for the Estate of Laurence M. O’Conner, and one for the Estate of Brock Allard Fontaine. Each was a photocopy and each showed on its face that it had been prepared by Abbott & Windsor.

  The formats of the three documents were similar—each was essentially an itemized list of payments made during the prior quarter. There were payments to appraisers, payments to investment advisors, payments for court transcripts, payments for photocopies, payments for postage, payments for legal fees. And on each statement of account there was a payment to ParaLex Support Systems, Inc. On the quarterly statement for the Abramson Trust, the entry appeared as follows:

  April 9—ParaLex Support Systems, Inc….$175.00

  (for trust administrative services)

  On the quarterly statement for the Estate of Laurence M. O’Conner, the entry appeared as follows:

  April 18—ParaLex Support Systems, Inc….$185.00

  (for estate administrative services)

  On the quarterly statement for the Estate of Brock Allard Fontaine, the entry appeared as follows:

  April 11—ParaLex Support Systems, Inc…….$190.00

  (for estate administrative services)

  Someone—Anderson? St. Germain?—had circled each of the ParaLex entries in red ink.

  As I stared at the ParaLex entries, I sorted through my own contacts within the main office of Abbott & Windsor. I could probably get the answers from people in Chicago without involving anyone in the St. Louis office. I could run this down without any more jousting with Reed St. Germain.

  ***

  As traffic started to move forward, my thoughts moved back to Dottie Anderson.

  Had the intruder been looking for Montezuma’s Executor? Or for evidence of its whereabouts? If so, who was he? Or she? Panzer had started our meeting this afternoon by offering me $100,000 to bring him the Executor, and ended by agreeing to pay $250,000. No matter what he said about famous paintings and rare wine, it was still a lot of money. Was it possible that Panzer had first tried to locate the Executor on his own? Could he have decided to hire me only after the intruder found nothing in Anderson’s house? After all, the house was searched last night; Panzer didn’t call me until this morning.

  But then again, I had called Panzer first. Yesterday. He had merely returned my call. Still, the presentation he gave today was far more than a mere returned phone call.

  Panzer was not necessarily the only one. Could there be someone else on the trail of the Executor? Who else knew about it? Panzer had mentioned that the Executor had come onto the black market about ten months ago down in South America. If that was true, Panzer surely wasn’t the only one who knew about it, or the only one interested in acquiring it. If there were others, things could get worse. As near as I could recall from Panzer’s story, every time the Executor had come on the market during this century, someone had died. If there were others out there right now in pursuit, then what had happened to Dottie Anderson might not merit even a footnote in the history of the Executor.

  Or was the burglary totally unrelated to the Executor? I reminded myself that there was such a thing as coincidence. I also reminded myself that coincidence showed up more often in mystery novels than in real life.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Weaving my hand through the tubes and monitor wires, I pressed a cool washcloth against Dottie’s forehead. The resident had been checking the monitors and making notes when I had arrived. He said her chances of survival were fifty-fifty.

  I leaned close to her ear. “Dottie,” I whispered, “this is Rachel Gold. The doctors say you’re doing super. I know
you’re going to make it.”

  I thought her eyelids flickered in response, but as I watched for a few moments they flickered again. Her arms were outside the bedcovers. I held one of her hands and looked down at her.

  She was all alone now—her son dead, her daughter lost, her marriage long empty, her husband a suicide. If she survived this brutal attack, life held little promise for her remaining years. I tried to conjure up the little girl again—little Dottie in pigtails chasing the milk truck, shouting and laughing, laughing and shouting.

  I wiped a tear from my cheek.

  And what about the insurance money I was supposed to get for her? Although I still had people to talk to (including Anderson’s doctor, I reminded myself) and evidence to locate, what I had seen so far suggested that Stoddard Anderson had been sane when he killed himself. Depressed? Probably. Distracted? Definitely. But the standard of proof for establishing insanity required far more than that. It was an evidentiary hurdle that now seemed higher than the Gateway Arch. The best I could realistically hope for was one or two pieces of evidence that would at least suggest the possibility of significant mental instability—evidence I could use as bargaining leverage with the claims adjuster. I might never be able to prove insanity, but I might find enough evidence to shake a couple hundred thousand dollars of settlement money out of the insurance tree.

  Unless. Always unless. What had caused him to take out all that insurance just four months before he died? Although the answer might be Montezuma’s Executor, it was an answer that could cause insurance problems. Did he believe he was going to die back then? Perhaps. Did he plan to kill himself back then? Let’s hope not, Rachel.

  I gently squeezed Dottie’s hand.

  Nothing felt quite right about Anderson’s involvement with Panzer and the Executor. There were many things one might expect to find Stoddard Anderson doing last winter: pressing the flesh at a Republican Party black-tie fundraiser, reviewing quarterly financials at a board of directors meeting, editing one of his anti-abortion or anti-gay-rights pieces, perhaps even sipping room-service champagne in a hotel room with a mistress. But not helping smuggle an Aztec treasure—a golden erection, for goodness sakes—across the border, possibly in violation of the law. It just didn’t compute.

  As I looked down at Dottie, I thought again of Panzer’s proposal. If Anderson had really undergone the personal and professional risks of bringing that incredible object into the country, then he truly had earned his $250,000 fee. If the Executor was already in St. Louis, and if I did find it, maybe Panzer was right. What was so terrible about turning it over to him and collecting the fee? At least I would have obtained something of value for Dottie.

  And what an experience to actually see that thing, to touch it, to hold it. According to Remy Panzer, no one in the United States—with the possible exception of Stoddard Anderson—had ever seen it. In fact, there had been no confirmed sightings of it for more than 150 years. You’d have to be cold on a slab not to respond to the chance to find Montezuma’s Executor.

  Removing the washcloth, I leaned over Dottie and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m coming back tomorrow, Dottie,” I told her softly. “I expect to see you up and around by then. I have some exciting things to tell you about. We’ve got a real adventure ahead of us.”

  I called Benny Goldberg from a hospital pay phone. I told him about Dottie, and I told him vaguely about Remy Panzer’s proposition.

  “I’m coming down.”

  “Benny.”

  “Hey, I’m not all that busy. You can take me up that ridiculous golden arch.”

  “It’s silver. And I’m okay down here.”

  “Rachel, I need a couple days’ vacation. I was thinking of Monaco, but what the hell, they don’t call St. Louie the Monaco of the Mississippi for nothing. We’ll take your niece and nephew to a baseball game. Just like last time. I’ll finally take a tour of that fucking brewery. Maybe have me a couple orders of barbecued snouts at Roscoe’s. And if we run out of things to do, hell, it’s August in St. Louis. We can always work up a sweat and go to the Galleria. Think your sister is willing to put me up again?”

  “Probably.” I was smiling. “We Gold girls have an inexplicable soft spot in our hearts for you.”

  “Anyway,” he said, “I got a phone call this morning from the dean of the law school down there.”

  “Washington U?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wow. Are they serious?” Last winter Benny had published a law review article proposing a radical new approach to resale price maintenance agreements under the federal antitrust laws. It was a brilliant piece (which I would say even if Benny hadn’t thanked me, in the very first footnote, for my editorial suggestions). During the months since its publication Benny had received inquiries from several law schools around the country.

  “Don’t know. The dean invited me to come down for a morning of interviews with some of the professors. I thought maybe I could schedule that for Saturday or Monday.”

  “That’s wonderful. You should definitely do it.”

  “I just might. So tell me again how to get to your sister’s house. I can’t remember.”

  I told him.

  “I’ve got a meeting tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “I won’t hit the road until around five o’clock. So don’t expect me until ten or eleven.”

  “Thanks, Benny.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?”

  ***

  The prospect of Benny Goldberg’s coming to St. Louis had blown away the blue fog that had descended on me with news of Dottie’s assault. I was feeling good as I took the elevator down to level four of the underground parking garage. I was feeling good as I stepped out of the elevator on level four. I was still feeling good as I spotted my car and started toward it. That’s because my mind was operating on tape delay. Nothing clicked until I actually reached the car.

  “Oh, no,” I gasped.

  Someone had bashed in the back window and the window on the passenger side in front. There were thousands of pieces of shattered glass everywhere—on the ground, inside the car, on the seats, on the floor of the car.

  I peered in the window on the driver’s side. Last week’s New York Times Magazine was still on the back seat, although now covered by a sprinkling of broken glass that for some reason made me think of the coarse rock salt that road crews spread during snowfalls. The documents I had received from the St. Louis Club—the three quarterly statements of account—were still on the front seat.

  I walked around to the back of the car. Feeling a little woozy, I put my hand on the trunk for balance. The trunk moved, and I jumped back. I tried to breathe slowly as I stared at the trunk. Someone had pried it open, breaking the lock in the process.

  I stepped forward and lifted the trunk lid, my heart racing. There had been nothing in it other than my trial bag, which had been stuffed with my notes and documents related to Stoddard Anderson. The trial bag was still there. It had been closed when I put it in the car this afternoon. It was still closed, but now all of my notes and documents were strewn throughout the trunk.

  I stared at the trial bag. Someone had smashed in the car windows, broken into the trunk, rifled through the contents of my trial bag, and then…closed it back up? My fingers twitched as I reached into the trunk for it. From the weight alone I knew the trial bag was empty. Balancing it on the rear fender, I opened it. There was nothing inside but a single, folded sheet of white paper.

  I pulled out the note and unfolded it. The three-word message was printed in big block letters:

  GO HOME BITCH

  As I slowly lowered the trunk lid, I became aware of how isolated my car was. The garage had been crowded when I pulled in. I had been forced to drive down four levels before I could find a space. Rush hour had come and gone while I was inside the hospital, and now most of the spaces on level four were empty.

/>   I looked around quickly. It was quiet and it was dark. There was no sound other than the hollow drip-drip-drip of liquid from somewhere on the other side of the garage. I got in the car, pulled the door closed, and locked it. Inserting the key into the ignition, I prayed it would start. It did.

  By the time I reached the cashier on level one, I was feeling a little better. By the time the police got there (I had the cashier call them), I felt even better. And when the crossbar lifted and I finally pulled into traffic forty minutes later (after telling the police very little beyond the outlines of my relationship to Dottie Anderson), I could almost shake my head sheepishly. How come Philip Marlowe was never spooked? Or Spenser? Being a man might have something to do with it. Nah. Being a fictional character had everything to do with it.

  ***

  Dinner with Ann and the family was a delicious break from the day’s events. You can’t imagine how good it felt to be called Aunt Rachel again. I was determined to have a wonderful evening.

  After dinner, while Ann cleaned up and Richie plopped down in front of the tube to watch the ballgame, I took my niece and nephew upstairs to get them ready for bed. I had brought each a present: a new book. Tales of Amanda Pig for Jennifer and Owl Moon for Cory. I read them the books, sang them several songs, and tucked them in.

  Richie was watching baseball highlights when I came downstairs. I joined Ann in the kitchen, where she was making brownies. Tomorrow was Cory’s treat day at baseball practice, she explained. I greased the baking pans as we caught up on our lives and Ann filled me in on our parents. As I listened to her tell me about Mom’s latest craze, I noticed something about Ann that I hadn’t seen at lunch.

  “Have you been lifting weights?” I asked.

  “Weights?” Ann responded. “Me? Are you serious? You were the jock in the family.”

  “Well, it’s just that you look more, uh, developed.”

  Ann laughed. “These?” she said, cupping her breasts. “I had my boobs done in March.”

  “Done?”

  You know, enlarged.”