“What was the new address?”
“A post office box in Sarasota, Florida,” Mrs. Cooper said.
“Was Sanborne her maiden name or her married name?”
“Maiden. Her married name was Jarski.”
“Do you have an address for her prior to her divorce?” I asked.
“Yes. Mrs. David Jarski, 418 Linder Street, Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Cooper. You’ve been a great help.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Royal.” She hung up.
I then put in a call to the reference librarian at the Des Moines public library. These people provide a wealth of information if you simply ask. I asked the lady who answered the phone to check the criss-cross directory for me and tell me who lived at 418 Linder St. She put me on hold for a minute and then told me that David and Lisa Jarksi occupied the home in question.
I called Delta and made reservations for a flight from Tampa to Des Moines, with a change of planes in Cincinnati. I would leave the next morning. early. Then I called K-Dawg and told him I would be out of town for a few days. On the island, you never leave without letting someone know. Otherwise, they’d worry.
Years before, a very bright lawyer named Fred Peed, had told me that whether you were a first class lawyer or not, your clients thought you were, and first class lawyers always fly first class. I still subscribed to that bit of philosophy, even though it made no economic sense. In this day of frequent flier mileage everybody flies first class. It is not the luxury it once was, but the seats are bigger and the drinks are free.
I took the airport shuttle van up to Tampa, taking the Sunshine Skyway Bridge across the mouth of Tampa Bay, through St. Petersburg and back across the bay on the Howard Frankland Bridge. Pelicans were diving into the bay for their meals, and I smiled, remembering the story a friend told, of explaining to some Midwesterner that the Pelicans were committing suicide when they dove headfirst into the water.
The Tampa airport is a marvel of passenger amenities, and you never have to walk more than a few feet from parking to plane. We made it in plenty of time, and I boarded after a minimal hassle with the security measures.
The flight was uneventful. I was wearing my lawyerly navy blue pinstriped suit, with a powder blue button-down shirt and a maroon and white striped tie. I always got better service on planes if I dressed the part and rode first class. I know, I’m a little preppie sometimes.
I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to approach David Jarski. I couldn’t just knock on his door and accuse him of killing his ex-wife. But, he was the best bet I had for the murderer. No one else would have had any motive to kill Connie, and I didn’t think her murder was random. Not with the body showing up at Logan’s apartment.
The only thing I could figure was that Jarski had somehow found Connie on Longboat and had followed her the night of her death. If he had sat outside Moore’s while we had drinks, it would have been no problem to follow her down to the marina. He must have waited there when he saw Logan’s boat come in. Maybe he was just stalking her and had become enraged when he saw Logan having sex with Connie. This would be the kind of thing that could send a batterer into a murderous rage.
I thought that I should use some subterfuge to meet Jarski and get some idea of his movements during the third week of April. If I could put him on Longboat Key during that time, I could make a pretty good case that he murdered Connie. I didn’t have to prove he did it, just prove enough circumstances to put a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury that tried Logan.
I got to Des Moines shortly after noon and rented a Chevy Cavalier from Hertz. I got directions to the Merle Hays shopping mall from the counter girl at the rental car terminal and headed there. I found what I was looking for in the middle of one of the side concourses of the mall; a machine I had seen in every mall I had ever been in. I put a dollar in and manipulated the touch pad and in a minute had four very professional looking business cards that identified me as Matthew Royal, General Agent of Princeton Insurance Group, with offices on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.
I found Linder Avenue on the city map I purchased at the first gas station I came to after leaving the mall. It was on the north side of town, near Interstate 35, part of a neighborhood probably built before World War II. The houses were mostly bungalows, lining streets shaded by large overhanging Elm trees. The sidewalks were swept clean, except for an occasional tricycle or small metal wagon. It looked like a neighborhood that was being recycled; older people moving on or dying and the younger folks with their kids moving in. It was not a wealthy neighborhood, but it was pleasant in the Spring sun, reflecting low level prosperity and neighborliness.
The Jarski home at 418 was typical of the other houses on Linder Avenue. It had a fresh coat of white paint, and the dark shingle roof seemed fairly new. A long porch ran along the entire front of the house. At one end was an old fashioned porch swing suspended from the ceiling by light chain. There were large flower pots on either side of the front door, filled with a flowering green shrub of some sort. A small bicycle with training wheels sat at the other end of the porch, seemingly unafraid of being stolen. A driveway ran up the side of the house to a single car detached garage at the back of the house. The door was closed, and I could not tell if a car was there.
I parked in front of the house at the curb, and sat for a moment thinking of how to approach a wife killer. It was hard to imagine violence in this quiet neighborhood, and I didn’t think Jarski would kill me on sight. I decided that I looked like an insurance agent, and would just feel him out to start with.
A knock on the driver’s side window startled me. I turned quickly to see an aging lady in a floppy hat, holding a rake and showing a large smile. I rolled the window down. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. But Dr. Jarski’s not home.”
“Dr. Jarski?”
“The man who lives here. That’s who you’re looking for isn’t it?”
“I didn’t know he was a doctor.”
“He’s a Ph.D. Teaches history out at the community college. That is who you were looking for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t know him. I was hoping to catch him at home.”
“Well, he usually gets in about 3:30. He picks Lisa up at school and comes home.”
“Lisa?” I asked.
“His daughter. She goes to the elementary school over on Redmond St.”
“What time does his wife get home? I’d really like to talk to both of them.”
“Oh, she’s dead, poor thing. About four years now.”
“Did you know her?”
“Connie? Sure, they lived here for a couple of years before she died. She was real sweet. Took good care of her family.”
“I don’t mean to pry. Its none of my business, and I planned to meet with Dr. Jarski about some insurance,” I said. “But, I had the impression that he was married.”
“Nope. I’ve lived right across the street for fifty years. Raised three sons and two daughters in that house. Knew the Popes who lived in the Jarski house for most of those years. He died, and Millie ended up in a nursing home. The Jarskies bought the house when Dr. Jarski got the job out at the college. Came here from Chicago with little Lisa. Then Connie got sick, and it took her two years to die. Breast cancer. What a waste.”
A late model Ford Taurus passed by slowly and turned into the driveway of the Jarski house, stopping just past the sidewalk. A girl of about eight got out of the passenger door and ran toward us.
“Hi Mrs. Gibbs,” she said. “I made an A on my spelling test today.”
“Good for you Lisa,” the elderly lady said. “You’re real smart, just like your daddy.”
A small man in a rumpled suit had got out of the car. He was about five eight and was balding on top. He made up for this with a thick pony tail hanging to his shoulder blades. He wore gold rimmed spectacles and did not look at all like a man who could have beat up Connie Sanborne on a regular basis. She could hav
e taken him with one hand.
I got out of the car, and as he approached, stuck out my hand. “Dr. Jarski? I’m Matt Royal.”
“How do you do Mr. Royal?”
“He came to see you David,” Mrs. Gibbs said. “I was just trying to get out of yard work and was passing the time of day.”
“I enjoyed chatting Mrs. Gibbs. May I have a minute of your time Dr. Jarski?”
“Go ahead,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “I’ve got some fresh lemonade that I’ll bet Lisa would like.”
“Come up on the porch, Mr. Royal,” Jarski said.
Lisa and Mrs. Gibbs crossed to street toward her house, with Lisa talking loud and fast about her school day. We mounted the porch, and Jarski gestured me into the swing. He pulled up a chair facing me, and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Royal?”
I handed him my card. “I’m with Princeton Insurance Group, and we’re investigating the death of a woman in Florida.”
“How does that concern me?”
“He name was Connie Sanborne. She graduated from Northwestern University twelve years ago, and according to the alumni records, was married to you.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “My wife’s maiden name was Connie Sanborne, and she graduated from Northwestern twelve years ago, but she died of breast cancer four years ago. There must be some kind of mixup.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” I asked.
“Sure. Come on in the house.”
We went through the front door into the 1930s. The room was decorated much like my grandmother’s house in Waycross, Georgia was when I was a child. The dark hardwood floor had two hooked throw rugs in big circular patterns. The sofa was humpbacked and bordered on either end by tables with cloths hanging over the sides. There was an upright Philco radio in one corner and a small writing desk against the wall next to it. On the long wall opposite the front windows sat an upright piano.
“Nice room,” I said.
“I have made a specialty of the study of the years leading up to World War II,” he said. “I often think I was born about fifty years too late. Connie and I liked the 30’s ambience.”
He walked over to the writing desk and picked up an 8 X 10 picture resting in a sterling silver frame. “This was our wedding picture,” he said. “Who would have thought it would have lasted such a short time.”
The picture was in color and had been taken in front of a church alter. Jarvis had a head full of hair, hanging just below his ears. The bride was looking up at him with a large smile. Her dark hair hung to her shoulders, black under the white lace of the cap and veil. She wasn’t the Connie Sanborne I knew.
“Let me show you a picture of the woman whose death I’m investigating,” I said, pulling the picture of Connie taken by my pool that hot summer day. “Do you recognize her?”
“No,” he said. “Can’t say that I do. Are you sure this woman graduated from Northwestern at the same time as my Connie? There couldn’t have been two people with the same name without Connie knowing about it.”
I put the picture back in the inside pocket of my suit coat. “That ‘s the information I was given, Dr. Jarski. I’m sorry to have bothered you.” We shook hands, and he showed me to the door.
I settled into my rental car, turned the ignition, placed the seatbelt in the prescribed position, and was about to leave, when I heard Jarski call to me. He was coming down the sidewalk at a fast pace, and came around to the driver’s side of the car. I hit the power button to lower the window.
“May I see that picture again?” he asked.
I dug it out of the pocket of my coat laying on the passenger seat, and handed it to him. He studied the picture intently for a minute or so.
“You know,” he said, so low I could hardly hear him. “I may know this woman. If it’s who I think it is, she had long black hair, and worked with my wife for awhile in Chicago.”
“What’s her name?”
“If I’m right, this is a woman named Vivian Pickens. I only met her once, and that was before we left Chicago. But she and Connie were pretty close for awhile. Connie gave me a list of people to notify of her death, and Vivian was one of them. I dropped her a card a few weeks after the funeral.”
“What kind of work did Connie do in Chicago?” I asked.
“She was a social worker, but after Lisa was born she stayed home.”
“Do you still have Vivian’s address?”
“I think so. Come on back inside.”
We climbed the steps to the porch and went into the living room. He went to the writing desk, opened the middle drawer and came back with a sheet of paper with typewritten names and addresses.
“This is the list of people Connie wanted notified,” he said as he handed me the paper.
Vivian’s name was next to a street address in Chicago. I noticed several other names that did not mean anything to me, and the Office of Alumni Affairs at Northwestern University.
“Did you notify the Alumni Office at Northwestern too?” I asked.
“Yeah. I made sure I let everyone on the list know. I guess Connie wanted to have her death listed in the Alumni magazine so that people she had known in college would know.”
“This is strange,” I said. “I got your address from the Alumni Office and was told that Connie’s death had been reported about four years ago, and then a few days later, they got a call from Connie telling them that she had divorced you, and that you must have sent the death notice out of spite.”
“That’s absurd,” he said, his voice rising. “Why in the world would anyone want to do something like that?”
“I don’t know, but maybe I can find out. Did you meet Connie in college?”
“No, I went to the University of Chicago to graduate school. Connie had finished Northwestern and was working at a half-way house for women near the UC campus. I actually met her while waiting for a bus one day.”
“What kind of place was the half-way house?”
“It was a place for women who had been released from prison but hadn’t completed their sentences yet. The state would send them to this half-way house, where they could go to work during the day and have a structured environment in which to live. They got job training and help in finding a job. It was really quite successful, but Connie seemed to burn out after a few years. She was glad not to have to go back to work, I think.”
“Was it run by the state?”
“No. It was run by a private foundation. I think someone had given the foundation a lot of money at some point, and it ran this place as a non-profit. It was called the Grant Settlement House.”
“Is it still there?” I asked.
“As far as I know. It had been in business for thirty or so years when Connie worked there. They’re on East 63rd Street, almost right under I-94. In fact, the address for Vivian is the same as for the Grant.”
“You’ve been a big help, Dr. Jarski. I’m sorry I had to bother you.”
“Look, Mr. Royal, I don’t know what this is all about, but if you find out that someone is impersonating my wife, I’d like to know about it.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out Dr. Jarski.”
Chapter 11
My airline guide book told me that the first flight I could get out to Midway Airport in Chicago was at six o’clock the next morning. I found a motel off the interstate near the airport and checked in. I ate a greasy country fried steak dinner in the motel coffee shop, and headed for my room. I read a few chapters of Dennis Lehane’s latest novel and went to sleep.
I got up early, dressed and drove to the airport, turned in my car and took the shuttle to the terminal. I boarded an American Trans Air flight, a small passenger jet, and was offered a cup of coffee and a sweet roll for breakfast. I arrived at Midway at 7:30, rented a car at the Hertz desk, got into a new Chevrolet and left. I took 63rd street out of the airport and drove the few blocks to the Grant Settlement House.
Just as I was parking the car, my cell phone rang. It was Logan.<
br />
“How are you, buddy?” he asked.
“Great. Look Logan, was Connie a real red head?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You saw her naked.”
“Oh. Nah. She was red on top and black on bottom. Like a Georgia football player. Why?”
“Not funny, Logan. I was just wondering. How are you doing?”
“About the same. Still moving around. Where are you?”
“In Chicago.”
“Chicago. What the hell are you doing there?”
“I’ll tell you later. Call me in a couple of days. Gotta go now.” I clicked the off button on the phone and got out of the car.
The Grant Settlement House was a four story nondescript building, set in a block of buildings that looked much the same. A glass double door had its name painted at about eye level. I pushed through the door and found myself in a small reception area that was furnished with two straight back chairs and a sofa that looked a little more comfortable. There was a green metal desk in front and to the side of a door that I assumed led to the rest of the building. A woman in some kind of uniform sat at the desk. She was about forty with close cropped brown hair going to gray. She was trim, wearing glasses and a smile. Her uniform shirt, open at the neck, had a badge and a shoulder patch with a private security firms logo.
“May I help you, sir?” she asked, smiling.
“Yes. I’m trying to find out some information about a woman who worked here several years ago. Is there someone I can see who might help me?”
“I’m sure our Ms. Turner would be the one to see. She’s the director. Have a seat and let me see if she can see you now.” She picked up a phone and turned her back to me, speaking softly. She hung up and said, “Ms. Turner will be right out.”
I took a seat on the sofa. I was still wearing my lawyer suit and tie, and felt like a professional. I wondered what kind of woman Ms. Turner would be. Probably some matronly type, I guessed. I was right. A woman of about sixty came through the door and approached me. She was a few pounds overweight with gray hair hanging almost to her shoulders. She wore a green dress, a gold wedding band on her ring finger, and no other jewelry. She was smiling and holding out her hand. “I’m Cynthia Turner,” she said. “Can I help you?”
Longboat Blues Page 8