Remember Me, Irene ik-4

by Jan Burke

“Claire, I’m worried about you. Maybe you should get away for a while.”

  “I’ll be okay, Irene. This was just a hard day. Tearing down the cabana, thinking that Ben might have been involved in some scam. But this won’t last forever.” She stood up, walked over to a box of tissues, and took about ten of them out in rapid succession. “It’s much harder for someone like me to run away,” she said, tears starting to roll. “Not understanding why Ben did what he did is eating me alive. I knew he hit rough patches, would feel overwhelmed sometimes, even a little blue. But he would always let me comfort him, let me help him. This time, he just shut me out. Left me behind, to face whatever it was he couldn’t face. To be honest, I’m really pissed off at him for that.”

  I listened to the ticking of the clock on the fireplace mantel while she cried quietly. When she got to the tenth tissue, she blew her nose in an indelicate trumpeting style, looked up at me, and said, “Thanks, I’m much better now.”

  I was about to ask her what she was thanking me for when my beeper went off.

  “Damn it all to hell, I thought I had this thing set so it wouldn’t do that,” I said, fumbling through my purse until I found it. After watching me spend another fifteen seconds trying to figure out how to get the sucker to stop making that annoying sound, Claire reached over, took it from me, pressed a button which silenced it immediately, and handed it back. She was smiling.

  “I hate these things!” I said, not a little irked to notice that the number on the display was Wrigley’s direct line at the paper. “Show me how to fix it so it won’t beep.”

  She took it back from me, saying, “This type won’t shut off, but I’ll set it so it will vibrate instead of beep. Go ahead and use the phone if you need to make a call.”

  “I don’t. It’s that toad, Wrigley, wondering why I didn’t have you page him to join us for lunch.”

  “Oh, God, I used to see him at all the charity fund-raisers. What a creep. No wonder you want to shut this thing off. But isn’t he your boss?”

  “My boss’s boss. Don’t worry, I didn’t plan to set you up for a lunch date with him.” I paused, then said, “You could help me with a little scheme, though.”

  When I explained my plan, she laughed. “I love it. Can I get Aunt Emeline and Alana to help out?”

  “Please do,” I said.

  I was on my way out of the house when I remembered something else I had been meaning to ask her about. “Claire, are you sure there wasn’t anything else in that first envelope, the one that held the photo of Ben giving Lucas the scholarship check?”

  “No, there was nothing else. Why?”

  “Lucas’s mother saw him put a typewritten letter into the envelope. Have you come across anything like that?”

  “No, I haven’t.” She appeared to be lost in her own thoughts for a moment, then said, “I’ll look more carefully.”

  “What were you just thinking?”

  “That perhaps Ben burned it that night.”

  I wasn’t happy to realize how likely that was. Claire had stopped Ben when he tried to burn the photograph. Lucas’s letter may have already gone up in flames.

  I LOOKED AT MY WATCH and realized I’d have to hurry to get to Roland Hill’s offices in time for my appointment. I tried to clear my mind of concerns about June Monroe and Claire Watterson, to think of the best approach to use with Hill if he was as cool and remote as Corbin Tyler. I glanced at the stack of binders on the seat next to me. I would be parking in another parking garage, but still, I didn’t want to leave them out. I didn’t want to take them in with me, either. Risking being late, I pulled over and put them in the trunk. Acting a little paranoid, perhaps, not to do that in the parking garage, but I decided I just didn’t want anyone to see me locking something away.

  I was a little more at ease; this was unlike my secret meeting with Tyler. I had told Lydia where I would be, and Hill’s secretary wasn’t being sent home. A state senator’s aide had been instrumental in setting up this appointment. The two meetings would be nothing alike, except that in each case, I might be visiting a killer.

  Maybe it was that thought that led me to call Frank from the building’s lobby and leave a voice-mail message. “I’ve got a pager now, Harriman, in case you ever want to literally give me a buzz.” I left the number. “I’m meeting with Roland Hill. See you tonight.”

  Like Tyler Associates, the offices of Hill and Associates were also on the top floor of a tall building, but the similarities ended there. Hill’s company also occupied several other floors. Hill’s were much busier than Corbin Tyler’s; no fewer than two dozen people were working in open cubicles as I walked in. Most of them were on the phone. The first receptionist sent me on to a second receptionist.

  The second receptionist worked in a much quieter area. The business attire was more expensive and the offices more private. This receptionist smiled and led me through a maze to a secretary, politely introduced me, and left.

  This was the secretary who had made the appointment. She greeted me warmly, took my coat, and asked me if I would care for a cup of coffee. When I declined, she took me in to see Mr. Hill himself.

  His office was more spacious than Corbin Tyler’s, but didn’t have much of a view. At one end of the room, the top of a credenza was loaded up with golfing trophies.

  Roland Hill looked like an upgraded version of Booter Hodges. It struck me that Booter probably tried to emulate Hill’s look. He fell short of the mark. Hill was a big man, and he didn’t seem to be carrying an ounce of fat on him. His face was wrinkled in a way that made people say “has character” instead of “old.” His skin was light brown, his hair white and full. His eyes were pale blue. He was a handsome old devil, with a smile that promised you had just met the person who would become your new best friend.

  “Hello, Ms. Kelly,” he said. “How are you doing?”

  He had a firm handshake. He seemed perfectly at ease.

  “I’m fine, Mr. Hill. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  “First, please call me Roland. May I call you Irene?”

  Not to be ungenerous, I nodded.

  “I apologize for delaying this interview, Irene. I know it has presented a hardship for you in your work, but I had conflicting concerns. I didn’t wish to disappoint you, but I have loyalties to consider. Allan Moffett has been a terrific city manager. You understand?”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “I love Las Piernas,” he said. “Do you?”

  “I’ve lived here almost all my life, Mr. Hill.”

  “Roland, please. Well, yes, but do you love it? Do you want it to thrive as a community, or wither and die?”

  “Mr. Hill—”

  “—Roland — I want to see it thrive. I want it to grow — in all the best ways. It takes a certain amount of vision on the part of the citizens of this community to ensure that happens. Allan had vision. That’s why we were at the restaurant that night. To pay homage to a man of vision.”

  “Has Mr. Moffett mentioned to you his reasons for abandoning that vision so abruptly?”

  “Is that what you’d call it?”

  “You must admit that Allan Moffett’s resignation was unexpected.”

  “Only by those who don’t know him well. Those of us who do are aware that Allan has grown weary of the tremendous burden of that office.”

  “You’re saying you were expecting this announcement?”

  “Absolutely. Oh, perhaps not right down to the hour and the day, but I knew it was coming, Irene.”

  “Roland, let’s be honest with one another. If you weren’t surprised by Allan Moffett’s resignation, you knew more about the city manger’s office than the mayor himself.”

  He smiled. “Entirely possible.”

  “Which brings me to another set of questions,” I said quickly. “Have you received a photocopy—”

  “—of myself and a group of other individuals going out on Ben Watterson’s boat for a pleasant day of fishing? Yes, ma�
�am, I have.”

  I couldn’t quite hide my surprise, and he grinned.

  “I’m hoping you can explain that to me, Irene,” he added.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, word is, you’ve discovered who sent the photo and why he sent it. He came by here one day, but my receptionist turned him away. From what she told me about him, I gather he was some crazy bum.”

  “No. A man who worked on studies that you profited from.”

  “Really?” he said, unperturbed.

  “Really.”

  “Well, Irene, if that’s the case, I should thank him for that, and for reminding me of happier days with Ben.”

  I thought of asking him what he knew of Ben’s suicide, but decided I couldn’t bear to hear the sunshine version. I was already annoyed with his salesman’s tricks — using my first name constantly and asking more questions than he answered. “You certainly accentuate the positive, Roland.”

  “I’m not one of those people who will tell you that a positive attitude is all that’s required, Irene. Hard work and remaining aware of your customer’s needs are also important, don’t you think?”

  “Would you happen to know where I can find Nadine Preston these days?”

  “I’m sorry, Irene, I can’t. I really had no reason to think about her until that photograph arrived. I only met her a few times, many years ago, when she was dating Andre Selman.”

  “And you remember the name of one of Andre’s dates? That’s remarkable.”

  He smiled. “I understand your point. I do have a good memory; it has allowed me certain advantages in business. But Nadine also worked with Andre Selman. That’s why I remember her.”

  “Her, and not the man who became — what did you call him? ‘A crazy bum,’ I believe?”

  He shrugged. “I vaguely remember Andre’s first assistant. He joined us on one or two of the fishing trips. But of course, his appearance was quite different then.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t see him. That your receptionist turned him away.”

  “I didn’t. I should have said that his appearance, as it was described to me, would not have led me to make the connection.”

  I stayed there for another half hour, mainly just to irritate him. I had already figured out that he was not going to give me a straight answer on anything. I think he started to realize what I was up to, and I saw the first little crack in the happy armor. Nothing verbal, just his eyes. Not anger, not frustration. Emptiness.

  I asked for my coat and left.

  In the parking garage, I opened the trunk of the Karmann Ghia, half afraid I’d find it empty. The binders were still there, along with the usual items I stored there. I moved the binders into the front seat, and headed back to the paper.

  By the time I got back to the parking lot of the Express, it was clear the staff meeting had already started: every parking space was taken. I pulled into the alley next to the building and tried to hug the wall as I parked there. I didn’t plan to be in the office long, so with luck, the car wouldn’t get towed. I thought of leaving the calendars in the car, but in this alley, they might invite a break-in. Maybe in the trunk again? No, I decided against that, too. If the car was towed and I somehow lost track of them, I’d never forgive myself. Claire would never forgive me, either.

  From the corner of my eye, as I fumbled with the binders in one hand and the car keys in the other, I caught a splash of color moving nearby. I glanced back and dropped my keys. Two Toes was standing not six feet away from me.

  25

  “YOU CAN SEE ME!” he said, seeming as surprised as I was. I nodded. Alone in an alley with the man Frank had warned me about, who had bruised — if not killed — Lucas. Not good.

  “That’s because I chose to appear!” He stabbed a finger in my direction. “Why’d you call the cops on me?”

  “I didn’t call the cops on you!” I realized I was squeaking. I thought again of some of the self-defense moves Rachel had taught me, but none of my extremely rudimentary training covered what to do when your arms were full of binders and your keys were on the ground in front of you. But acting panicked could not improve the situation, so I took a deep breath, backed up a step from him, and said in a much lower voice, “You told me where Lucas’s — the Prof’s — body was, and the police decided they’d like to know what happened to him.”

  “I told you what happened!” he shouted. “You should have told them. I was there! I’ll tell you one more time. Are you listening?”

  I nodded again. If I scream, will you kill me? I wondered.

  When he spoke again, his voice was much softer, as if he were telling a story to a child. “It was a cold, cold night. Wind and rain. All the children went to Jerusalem, and there was no room at the inn. The Prof couldn’t stay, they turned him away.” He smiled at the rhyme, then went on. “I watched him go to the Chinese Wall. He was seeking shelter where the angels are. The angels and I, we watched over him. I wanted his magic. I needed it to stop the voices in my head. The guardian angel came to him, but then the angel left.”

  “Guardian angel?” Should I go for the keys? Drop the calendars and run? Throw the calendars at him, pick up the keys and run? I was so preoccupied with evaluating these meager options, I didn’t bother correcting him about what he had said to me the last time I saw him.

  “The one that watched over him wherever he would go. He talked to the angel, and the angel went away. I followed the angel down the stairs. The angel went outside. It scared me to watch that angel. Made me have to go to the bathroom.” He paused, then said, “I went back up to wait for the ring. I waited all night, then I heard him fall. I found him.” He motioned toward his forehead. “His head bled. His head bled,” he repeated, as if enjoying this rhyme as well, then grew solemn again. “He was ready for the angels. He needed to be prepared. I was the willing servant of the Lord. God said the Prof didn’t need the ring. God said I could take it. He made me an angel.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out the ring, dangling it before me on the chain.

  “Was God in the room, too?”

  “No, God is in my mind. You are my assignment.” He glared at me. “You were the first one I helped, and you called the cops on me!” he shouted. “They defiled the Prof’s grave!”

  I tried to think of a way to get him to forget about that. “No, they didn’t, and being an angel, you know that. You’re just testing me, aren’t you? You know they just took him to his mother, so that she could bury him.”

  It must have worked. He grinned. “I like being your guardian angel.”

  “My guardian angel?” I repeated, my mouth going dry.

  “Yes, I’ll watch over you. I’ll even give you the magic ring. Here, you take it,” he said, stepping toward me.

  I backed up again.

  He suddenly cocked his head, as if hearing something. He tossed the ring at me, and it landed near my keys. He turned and ran.

  Shaking, I bent to retrieve the keys and ring. I held them tightly as I leaned against the car, waiting for the fear to leave me. I heard footsteps and whirled around, but it must have been someone walking past the alley at the other end. I looked back in the direction where Two Toes had gone, but didn’t see him. After a moment, I started walking toward the newspaper offices, but Two Toes’ voice came from above me.

  “This is your guardian angel speaking!”

  I yelped and looked up. He was on a metal ladder, one which led to the roof of a neighboring building, an old two-story brick place.

  “Don’t park there, you’ll get towed!” he shouted, and scrambled up to the roof and out of sight.

  Receiving such sensible advice from my self-appointed guardian angel, I felt a sudden urge to laugh aloud. I fought it, not out of fear, but because I didn’t want to belittle him.

  I was still scared of him and knew he was capable of hurting me. But so far, he hadn’t done anything but try to help me, and I wasn’t going to repay that by laughing at him. I opened my palm
and looked at Lucas’s ring.

  I walked into the building, went into a restroom, and splashed cold water on my face. I gathered the binders and ring and went to my desk. The newsroom was relatively empty; most people were still in the meeting. I stared up at a wall clock, waited for a slow fifteen minutes to go by, and called the police.

  “HE’S LONG GONE,” Reed Collins said. He gave me a hard look as we stood in the alley next to my car, but it didn’t win him any confessions. He frowned and pulled out his notebook. “Tell me again what Mr. Jones said to you.”

  Mr. John Jones, I had just learned, was Two Toes’ rather unremarkable legal name. It would take some getting used to. I repeated my guardian angel’s explanation of the events at the Angelus.

  Reed kept frowning. “Can you make anything out of that?”

  “It’s hard to say what he means. Reality is just one ingredient in whatever he recalls. God knows what else he tosses into the batter before he bakes a memory.”

  “But you understood him when he told you where to find the body.”

  “Guesswork.”

  “So guess again,” he said, looking at the roof-tops — and probably silently cussing me out.

  “He was telling me about the night Lucas died. I think he followed him from the shelter. That’s probably what he meant by ‘no room at the inn,’ because there was plenty of room at the Angelus.”

  “So this would have been Thursday night,” Reed said.

  “Yes.” Thursday. The night of Allan Moffett’s dinner meeting. I remembered how cold and rainy it was that night.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “The story gets a little weirder from here,” I said. “He mentioned the angels at the Angelus, but then he also said there was a guardian angel. He spoke of this guardian angel a little differently. I think he meant someone else was following Lucas.”

  “So his story is that this guardian angel left Monroe alive.”

  “Right. But he heard Lucas fall, and if you believe him, Lucas was dead by the time he reached him. Two — er, Mr. Jones — hears voices, and believes that God told him to help himself to the ring.”