Her Brother's Keeper

by Sara Hoskinson Frommer

  “Margaret!” Of all the center regulars, Margaret Duffy was the one she most welcomed seeing today. Long retired from teaching in Oliver’s public schools, Margaret had been Joan’s sixth-grade teacher when her family had lived there during her father’s sabbatical. When Joan had arrived in Oliver and needed a job, it was Margaret, a member of the center’s board, who had recommended Joan for the director’s job there. She’d been a staunch friend ever since.

  “They told me you were back at work. You holding up all right?” Margaret came in and settled her ample figure on the sturdy visitor chair.

  Joan never needed to hide her feelings from Margaret, who probably would have seen right through her if she’d tried. “Some of the time. One minute I’m fine. Then I fall apart.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I had such mixed feelings about him when he was alive, and now . . .” She didn’t know how she felt now.

  “He was a complicated kid, too.”

  Of course. Margaret was the proverbial elephant. “Tell me what you remember about Dave, would you, Margaret:?”

  “He took the high school by storm, especially the girls. Broke up a bunch of steady romances, and then of course your family left town, and we were left with the aftermath.”

  “That bad?”

  “Maybe not, but we felt the repercussions all the next year. A lot of parents would have been after his scalp if it’d been around to go after. Not literally, but they weren’t happy.”

  “But you taught my grade, not Dave’s.”

  “Oliver’s a small town. I knew those kids. And their parents.”

  Of course she would have. Come to think of it, Margaret was the person whose brain she should be picking.

  “Margaret, was any of that fallout serious enough to lead to what happened to Dave?”

  “There were boys all over town with murder in their hearts, but I can’t see it lasting this long.” Margaret smiled. “They had a better chance once Dave was out of the way.”

  “Do you remember a big boy named Bud?”

  “Bud Snarr? He was closer to your dad’s age than Dave’s.”

  “No. This was a boy who bullied me when I was riding my bike home from school. Dave rescued me a few times. I don’t know how old he was, but he seemed enormous to me. He yelled anti-Semitic garbage at us—seemed to think Zimmerman was a Jewish name. For all I know, it might be, but I think it’s just German. Means carpenter. Oh, and his index finger–part of it was gone.”

  Margaret sat very still for a moment. Then she said, “That sounds like one of the Fleener boys. There was one they called Bud—I think he was a Junior, named for his father, but I don’t remember his father’s name. And the boy I’m thinking of had cut the end off his finger. Caught it in a door, he said, but with that family, you never knew for sure.”

  “Where is he now?” Joan asked.

  “Oh, heavens. Could be anywhere. Those kids didn’t generally finish school, much less go on. Some of them got in trouble. I wish I could remember Bud better. But from what little I do remember, he might be the one who bothered you.”

  “Thanks, Margaret.” At least she had a last name to suggest to Ketcham.

  After Margaret left, she called him, but he was out. She was tempted to ask for Fred, but settled for leaving Ketcham a message. “Tell him Margaret Duffy thinks the Bud I remember might be Bud Fleener.”

  The woman answering the phone promised to tell him. “You have our sympathy for your loss,” she said. “I know they’re doing all they can.”

  Surprised, Joan thanked her.

  Chapter 18

  At home that night, Joan tried Pete’s phone, but it didn’t answer. Of course. She had his work number.

  It left her twiddling her thumbs, though, because she didn’t even know a last name to check his home number. Why hadn’t she asked him? Suddenly she wanted in the worst way to know who had killed Dave. Not Fred’s mother. No matter how bad it looked, Joan was sure Helga Lundquist hadn’t stabbed anyone. She believed what Helga had told Fred, that she had only removed the knife in an attempt, however mistaken, to keep it from killing him.

  But someone had stabbed him in that kitchen. Had Helga seen it happen?

  She called upstairs to Fred, “I’m going to walk over to Ellen’s.”

  “I’ll come along.”

  Mother-henning again, she thought, but she didn’t argue. It was dark outside, and besides, he might come up with something useful. For one thing, he’d been there when Dave died. Or had he? Was Dave already dead when Fred got the call? She didn’t know.

  They didn’t talk much on the way through the park. The dog barked when they came to the gate, and it seemed wise to wait for someone to calm it down before barging into the yard.

  Joan was half expecting Laura, but it was Ellen who came out and greeted them. “Hush, dog!” she said, and it did. “He won’t bite,” she told them.

  “That’s what Laura told us,” Joan said. “But I didn’t want to put him to the test.”

  “A watchdog can be mighty useful,” Fred said. Just what Dave had said.

  “With no man in the house, I’m glad he’s grown up to make so much noise. The neighbors probably don’t appreciate him as much as I do, though.”

  “Far as I know, they haven’t complained to the cops.”

  “That’s good. We do our best.” Holding the dog’s collar, she opened the door and waved them into the living room. “It’s not as neat as it was for the wedding, I’m afraid.”

  “You should see my house,” Joan said. In fact, she thought Ellen’s always looked neat. Now that it was a bed-and-breakfast, the family things had been moved to their rooms, in the back of the house. What was left looked comfortable, but it was unquestionably an adult space, with no sign of Laura or the other children.

  “So, what brings you back?”

  “I want to do something, anything, to help figure out what happened to Dave. I mean, I know what, but not how. Or who.” She slipped an apologetic look at Fred. “I’m not trying to steal Sergeant Ketcham’s thunder. He has resources I can’t match. But I can’t sit back and wait. It’s driving me wild.”

  “What do you want from me?” For the first time, Ellen sounded prickly.

  “Could we talk through what happened in the kitchen? Maybe even go in there again?” The thought still turned her stomach.

  “You know I’ve been through this ad nauseam with the police,” Ellen said.

  “And so have my staff.”

  “I know. It’s not fair to ask you. But I can’t stand not knowing more.” Joan fought down the shrillness in her own voice.

  Ellen looked up at Fred.

  “I’m not part of this case,” he told her. “Because of Mom, they kicked me off it.”

  “I wondered why I hadn’t seen you with the others. Thought maybe it was because of the wedding.”

  “No. And tonight is Joan’s doing, not mine.”

  For a long moment, she looked at Joan. Finally, she yielded. Without a word, she led them back to the kitchen.

  Even as recently as she’d been in it, Joan had forgotten how industrial the new kitchen looked. Stainless steel sinks and a stainless steel island out in the middle of the room, shining pots hanging above it. No clutter, nothing cutesy, all business. The knives supported by magnetic strips on the wall looked ready for business, too. She shuddered. Which one had killed Dave? Or was it even there?

  As if reading her mind, Ellen said, “Don’t worry—they took that one away.”

  “Yes, they would, wouldn’t they?” Where to start? What could she ask to learn anything at all? And why did she think she could learn what the police so far had failed to find out? Or had they? Maybe they knew plenty, but hadn’t released the information yet.

  “It’s so—clean. I mean, I already knew it was clean.” She could only imagine how it had looked when Fred had arrived to find Dave dying on the floor. Or dead.

  “Where was he when you found him?” she asked Fred.<
br />
  “Over there, face down.” He pointed to a spot on the floor, and she saw that the outside door was only a few feet beyond that spot.

  “And that door wasn’t locked?” She knew she’d been told, but she was having trouble keeping all of it in her head. Delayed something-or-other, she thought.

  “No,” Ellen said. “I told the police we needed to be able to go in and out. Take out the garbage, for instance. It’s not practical to keep it locked during the day, but you can bet we’re doing it now. Means we all have to carry keys and stop to unlock when we come back in from the garbage cans or carry in groceries or whatever. Big nuisance.”

  “Who was in the room when Dave was attacked?”

  Ellen glanced apologetically at Fred before answering. “Only your brother and Mrs. Lundquist. They were getting along swimmingly. He was very sweet with her, and she seemed most at home in the kitchen, so I was happy to let her help with little things. They were putting together the salads for your rehearsal dinner, which we didn’t end up using, of course.”

  “You’re very kind,” Fred said. “She likes being useful, no matter where she is. Even now.”

  “Where was everyone else?” Joan asked. She’d heard all this before, but she couldn’t seem to keep it straight.

  “We were shorthanded that day, even though I’d hired a couple of people who help us out for special occasions like that. Chrissy was helping me set up the dining room, but Patty phoned to say she was feeling puny and would make it in when she could. I’m afraid I wasn’t very sympathetic.”

  No wonder, Joan thought.

  “So Dave and Helga really were useful.” Ellen looked at Fred again. “I’m sorry. She liked me to first-name her.”

  “I’m glad you understood that,” he said.

  Joan was looking around. “Other than being shorthanded, was everything else pretty smooth?”

  “That day, yes. I didn’t want to worry you about it, but the wedding cake was late arriving at the church the next day. I about had kittens till Catherine finally showed up with it. She wasn’t answering her cell phone, and that’s hardly the kind of thing you can whip up on the spur of the moment.” She smiled.

  “It looked beautiful,” Joan made herself say, and it had. So Catherine Turner had dragged her heels after all. But if she’d done it to annoy Joan, it hadn’t worked, because Ellen had protected her from knowing it.

  “I’ll try not to hold it against her. And Patty arrived in time to help me clean up in here before the rehearsal dinner.”

  “I’m so sorry you were put through that,” Joan said.

  “Oh, I was miffed enough at Patty to make her do most of it,” Ellen said. “Once the cops left, of course. They took their sweet time.”

  “I was surprised they didn’t delay us longer,” Joan said. “Just as well, though. Elizabeth was fit to be tied.”

  “Your daughter has my sympathies, with a mother-in-law like that.”

  “Mine, too. I did a whole lot better.” Joan smiled at Fred.

  “Helga’s a sweetheart,” Ellen said. “There’s no way in the world she would have hurt your brother, I don’t care what people say.”

  “I know. She thought she was helping him.”

  “Is she doing all right?”

  “I think so,” Fred said. “She’s completely forgotten the whole thing—probably even the wedding, by now. But one good thing has come of it. I don’t think the family’s going to put up any more resistance about getting her diagnosed. Maybe there’s treatment that will help for a while, anyway.”

  On the walk home, he asked whether going had been worth the trouble.

  “I probably shouldn’t have bothered Ellen at night,” Joan said. “But somehow I feel a lot better. Does that make sense?”

  “No. Does it need to?”

  She laughed. “No. Probably going to see where Dave worked doesn’t, either, but I’d really like to do that.”

  “I’m game,” Fred said. “Tomorrow?”

  “Or the next day. There’s no huge rush about it. But I feel better knowing we’re going to make the trip.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I still don’t know. In Illinois somewhere—I looked up Pete’s area code—it’s 815, and that’s in Illinois.”

  “Not the same as Bishop Hill, but not too far away, if you’d like to see my folks.”

  She checked his face, but couldn’t guess what he was thinking. “Not really, if you don’t mind. I want to keep my mind on Dave this time.”

  “Could be in Pontiac,” he said. “That’s where Dave was in state prison.”

  “I think his address was Pontiac, now that you say it. I should have looked at my Christmas card list, for heaven’s sake. Maybe Pete was the friend who had Dave’s post office box key.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I wonder how they knew each other. Oh, Fred, you don’t think Pete’s an ex-con, too, do you? But he could just as well be someone Dave knew from high school. Or the U of M.”

  “Mm-hmm.” His face was straight.

  She’d ask Pete, and she’d have to wait till business hours in the morning to do that.

  * * *

  As she might have known it would, Tuesday morning turned out to be particularly busy, with one minor conflict after another brewing at the senior center. Joan wasn’t able to close her office door to call Pete until after eleven, but it would be an hour earlier there, with Illinois on Central Time. So why did she feel so anxious?

  Pete himself answered.

  “This is Joan Spencer, Pete. Dave’s sister.” She forced calm into her voice.

  “Great. Can you hold a minute?” He muffled the phone, but she heard him yell instructions across the room. “Sorry. The new guy—Dave’s replacement, but he’s not as good—just started a big job I can’t afford to have him mess up. Do you know anything more about Dave?”

  “Not really. But I’m wondering if you have the key to his place. I’d like to come see where he lived. In fact, do you know, did he have a will?”

  “Not that I know of. I never heard him talk about it. But yeah, I have his key. He gave it to me when he left town. Almost like he was expecting trouble, you know?”

  “You think?” She’d have to tell Fred. No, Ketcham. Both of them, really.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think. It blows my mind that anyone would kill Dave. Why, for God’s sake?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to help them figure out. That’s part of why I want to come. And . . .” She didn’t know how to say it. “And I suppose I just want to see where he lived. We’d been out of touch for so long. I hadn’t even caught up yet.”

  “Anything I can do, I’ll be glad to. When do you want to come?”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Good enough. I gotta work, but it’s easy to find the shop.”

  She jotted down the directions he gave her. “Thanks, Pete. And . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Never mind. I’ll ask you when I get there.” She hung up without asking how he and Dave had known each other. Somehow, it didn’t seem right over the phone, with him at work. So was she, for that matter. Remembering, she quickly noted the time of the call. She’d pay for it when the phone bill came.

  She could hear Margaret saying, “Oh, that’s not necessary,” but paying for her personal calls let her make them without a qualm. In the months leading up to the wedding, she’d made more than usual. It had made the whole thing possible. Not for the first time, she was glad to have the kind of job that made it possible to be in charge of her own time. She suspected the center ordinarily came out ahead.

  The phone shrilled in her ear. Jolted, she picked it up. Before she could answer properly, Alex Campbell started talking.

  “How could you let me read that in the paper?” she raged.

  “I’m sorry?” What was she talking about? Had Joan missed something or other about the orchestra in this week of all weeks? It wouldn’t surprise her at all.


  “You had to know how important your brother was to me! But I had to read—”

  Joan quit listening to Alex’s tirade even as she could hear that it was continuing. In her own confused emotional response, anger battled with grief and the urge to laugh. Who but Alex could call her, not to sympathize with her on the death of her only brother, but to berate her for not thinking to notify a woman he’d scarcely met? Or had he? Had Dave and Alex actually dated? Hard to imagine, but then, all kinds of things in Dave’s life were hard to imagine. He’d certainly been charming to her at the rehearsal.

  “Well?” Alex was demanding.

  “Alex?”

  “Who did you think it was?”

  The giggle rose in her throat, and she choked it back. “Oh, Alex. It was terrible.”

  “Exactly.” The demand was still there—I’m waiting, her voice said.

  “I still can’t talk about it. I’m sorry. I know you’ll understand.” A bare-faced lie.

  It worked, though. “Of course. Now what are you doing about it?”

  “Whatever the police tell me to do. I’m not discussing it with people.” Lie number two, though at least that one was closer to the truth.

  “Not anyone?”

  “I’ve talked a little with the minister.”

  “Well . . .” She could hardly argue with that. “You let me know if there’s any way I can help.” Alex? Offering help? Unheard of.

  “Thank you, Alex.”

  She hung up, limp. It was tempting to ask Alex to take over her managerial chores for the coming concert, but she wasn’t about to risk laughing or crying in the woman’s ear. She’d be able to do what needed doing, she was sure. Besides, she could imagine the mess Alex would make of her work, if she even made the attempt.

  No question about it, getting out of town for a day would be a good move.

  Chapter 19

  As it turned out, arranging the short trip took a minimum of fuss. Andrew would be at home to answer the phone and check messages. The last thing Joan wanted was for anyone who mattered to her to worry.