Sisters On the Case

by Sara Paretsky

  Jake bellowed and fired twice, and I shot him in the hand because if he kept firing he might realize that someone had emptied his Smith and Wesson. Blood streamed down his face, blinding him, and his cries grew weaker. Mabel was still whimpering, ‘‘Jakey, no!’’ when he fainted and fell on her.

  I rushed out and down the stairs, clutching the valise, passing the old Scandinavian neighbor on his way up. ‘‘Help! They need a doctor!’’ I gasped.

  He began to shout, ‘‘Doctor, come quick!’’ while I ran down the front steps and melted into the morning crowds.

  My first stop was at the lawyer Kern’s office on LaSalle Street. When I sent in word that my business had to do with Lingg’s missing brooch, he consented to see me. He was intrigued by the brooch and the papers and the keys to three boxes of further evidence. When I explained that Mabel would need a good defense lawyer because his fellow policemen would try to claim that she was trying to kill Jakey instead of the other way around, he agreed to take her case if she requested his help, and meanwhile he would deposit the evidence into the vault at Merchant’s Bank.

  Next I found Mabel’s sister and told her that Mabel was in trouble and would have to move out, and to be sure to take the three locked boxes under the bed along with her gowns and clothing, and that a lawyer named Kern was prepared to defend her for a reasonable fee.

  But the police moved fast too. Mabel was in jail almost as soon as Jakey was in the hospital. Captain Schaack wouldn’t let family or friends see her, and I knew he was trying to get her to agree to his story. But as Jakey recovered he and Schaack must have realized that Mabel held all that evidence and they became more respectful. I decided it was safe to go on to St. Louis, especially since the actress with the sprained ankle was recovering and wanted her role back.

  Mr. Kern did well by Mabel and got Jakey to withdraw the charges; but I grew impatient for action against those who had hanged dear August so unjustly. Marshall Field’s pet Tribune was hopeless as usual because it favored the police version, but when I returned to Chicago after the holidays I left an unsigned note for Archie at the rival Chicago Times, telling him to talk to Kern and keep a close eye on the Loewenstein shooting case.

  Within days the Times had published Mabel’s side. ‘‘Her home was turned into a warehouse for stolen goods!’’ ‘‘Captain Schaack and ‘Jake’ Loewenstein were in the game!’’ ‘‘Other and higher members of the force said to be implicated!’’ Schaack and Bonfield sued the Times for libel, but the editors had seen the proof and didn’t back down. Heaps of newspapers were sold to a public eager to read about Lingg’s brooch, Mrs. Hill’s dress, and manufactured evidence in trials. A month later Mayor Roche suspended all three officers.

  They never caught the Haymarket bomb-thrower. A few years later in Colorado I happened across a traveling carnival that featured a tall blond lady juggler called Anna the Anarchist. I watched a moment, until sensible Aunt Mollie began to whisper in my head that it might be best not to recognize Johanna, so I slipped out the side way; but not before I’d seen that the gray balls she was juggling had been fitted out with burning fuses to look like the bomb she’d stolen from the box under Mabel’s bed, the one that had landed with such precision on the faithless Officer Degan.

  Others were also chipping away at the police story, and in 1893 Governor Altgeld looked at the trial record and fully pardoned the three anarchists who were still alive, with scathing words for police and court alike. But, hang it, life is not as neat as melodramas. Governor Altgeld was not reelected, and a new mayor reappointed Schaack and Bonfield to the force, and rich businessmen erected a statue in Haymarket Square to the police, the ‘‘heroes of Haymarket.’’ Yes indeed.

  Guardian Angel

  by Rochelle Krich

  Although Belinda believed that everything would turn out for the best (it always did), she couldn’t help feeling anxious. In part it was the exhaustion, which she hoped would diminish as her body adjusted to the new schedule.

  When the baby was finally asleep, she took a quick shower and wrapped herself in the one-size-fits-all, gray and navy striped velour robe that she’d bought in the men’s department at Macy’s. Bracing herself for the chill of the January morning, she opened the door to take in the Times.

  The phone rang. She had turned off the ringer in the bedroom, but she hurried to the kitchen extension, taut with apprehension that twisted inside her stomach and eased only a little when she saw the caller’s name in the receiver’s window. Her mother.

  Belinda didn’t want to talk to her mother, not today. ‘‘Doing anything special, Linnie?’’ her mother would ask in the carefully cheerful tone Belinda hated, as if Belinda were about to break into tiny pieces, like the cup she’d thrown against the wall—only one time, but no one would let her forget it. Her mother would want to come over (‘‘I haven’t seen you in weeks, Linnie. Is everything okay?’’), and Belinda would have to invent another reason for turning her down. And what if the baby started crying?

  In her yellow kitchen, commandeered by bottles, nipples, brushes, and a phalanx of baby formula cans, Belinda slid the newspaper out of the plastic bag that she added to the others under her sink. The bags were two-ply, perfect for disposing of eggshells and vegetable peels and chicken innards and overripe fruit oozing sticky liquids, and for masking the ammonia and fecal odors belonging to the mass of soiled diapers that was growing at an alarming rate.

  There was nothing of note in the California section. Belinda read it twice, then checked on the baby. She was still sleeping. Savoring the stillness, Belinda relaxed with a mug of hot coffee and the crossword puzzle, which she finished in less than ten minutes, in ink. The one time she had mentioned the ink to her family, her father had said, ‘‘Don’t preen, Linnie.’’

  That had stung. Belinda never drew attention to herself. She never boasted about the acts of kindness she performed, some of which she could never reveal, much as she was tempted. Like feeding meters about to expire, and visiting the ill and doing their chores. And dropping off groceries anonymously, in the middle of the night, for Mary Iverson, a widowed friend of the family who couldn’t make ends meet but was too proud to ask for help.

  ‘‘My guardian angel was here again,’’ Mary would tell Belinda, her voice quavering with delight.

  Being called a guardian angel did make Belinda feel special, but it was unfair to say she was preening.

  Her mouth stretched into another yawn. The baby, whimpering throughout much of the night, had slept fitfully and only in short bursts. So had Belinda. And while the coffee, robust and deliciously bitter, had taken the edge off her weariness, sleep tugged at her eyelids, which felt like sandpaper. If not for the baby, she would crawl back under her comforter and stay in bed forever.

  She did that sometimes, when she was between projects. Well, not forever, but for hours. There was nothing wrong with that, though her family would disagree. (One time she stayed in bed for three days, getting up only to relieve herself. She didn’t like to think about that dark period. She had promised herself it wouldn’t happen again.)

  ‘‘Kind of self-indulgent, don’t you think, Linnie?’’ her father would say, a smirk playing around his thin lips. ‘‘Slothful, in fact. Your sister wouldn’t do that. Alicia’s raising two boys, but she still finds time to chair committees and help others. You don’t find her lolling in bed.’’

  ‘‘Now, Arnold.’’ Her mother would shush him with a gentle shove. ‘‘Linnie is helpful in her own way. And she does have a job.’’ Then she would urge Belinda, again, to move back into the room she’d shared with Alicia. ‘‘This old house is way too big for your father and me, and why do you want to live all alone, anyway?’’

  And of course, Alicia (‘‘the pretty twin’’), married to a successful (and shady) real estate developer, and mother to two bratty toddlers, would throw Belinda a pitying look before imparting some of her sage advice.

  ‘‘You need to get a life, Linnie.’’ Alicia would sig
h while studying the acrylic finish on her nails. ‘‘Why don’t you let me fix you up with one of Martin’s colleagues? Or I can help you write your profile for eHarmony or another Internet site.’’

  ‘‘Every pot has its lid,’’ her father would say. ‘‘Every roaster, too,’’ he’d add with a sly wink, enjoying his cruel reference to Belinda’s large frame.

  Belinda had a life, thank you very much. She enjoyed copyediting the steady stream of manuscripts that provided her with security and some luxuries and allowed her to set her own schedule. And she excelled at what she did: finding the perfect word, correcting diction or grammar or inconsistencies or clumsy phrasing. In her desk drawer she kept notes from editors complimenting her thoroughness and expertise, and from authors thanking her for saving them from embarrassment. Some authors listed Belinda’s name in their acknowledgments. Belinda flushed with pleasure each time she saw her name in print, but she didn’t fault authors who hadn’t thought to include her. She didn’t mind the anonymity. Sometimes, she preferred it.

  Helping people, making things right. That’s what life was about, really. Whether it was fixing an author’s words, or providing groceries for a lonely widow, or making sure Megan Conway was chosen class valedictorian in Belinda’s senior year—not that pothead Jeffrey Ames, who had earned top class ranking with four years of cheating. Jeffrey had been the faculty and administration favorite, until they found the marijuana Belinda had placed in his locker.

  No, it was Alicia who deserved pity. Belinda knew for a fact that Martin was having an affair, and not for the first time.

  Careful not to make noise, Belinda opened the door to the bedroom and tiptoed to the crib. The baby had maneuvered herself into a corner and wriggled free of the blanket Belinda had taken pains to wrap her in tightly. She was fast asleep, sucking on the thumb she had worked out of the covered sleeve on the pale yellow nightgown.

  ‘‘Lilly,’’ Belinda whispered. She loved the name more every time she said it. ‘‘Lilly’’ made her think of whiteness, of all things beautiful and pure.

  Leaving the bedroom door open, and the bathroom door, too, Belinda slathered her face with moisturizer and coaxed her damp hair into shape with her fingers. She would have liked to use her hair dryer, just as she would have enjoyed luxuriating earlier under the shower’s stinging hot spray. But what if the baby woke and Belinda didn’t hear her? She had learned to her dismay how quickly a whimper could become an ear-splitting cacophony of shrieks that would turn the baby’s face a dangerous red and set her arms and legs flailing.

  Even if Belinda took Alicia up on her offer to fix her up with one of Martin’s colleagues, nothing would come of it. And what could she put in a profile for one of those Internet dating sites?

  Guardian angel, solid, dependable, compassionate, loves word games, looking for same.

  Men weren’t looking for guardian angels. They weren’t looking for ‘‘solid’’ or ‘‘dependable’’ or ‘‘compassionate.’’ They wanted sirens. They wanted ‘‘voluptuous’’ and ‘‘vivacious’’ and ‘‘sexy,’’ like her neighbor Melissa, a mother in name only to little Carrie, the precious child she neglected and had probably never wanted. Melissa never took the baby out of the apartment, never strolled her down the block. It was as though the child didn’t exist. From what Belinda had observed, Melissa was more interested in the men she invited into her bed. The bed thumped against the wall Melissa and Belinda shared. The noises made Belinda cringe and had brought her close to phoning the police several times.

  So, no, Belinda would not be posting her profile on a dating site. She knew she was dull. She knew she was plain. Her face was flat and wide. Her thin brown hair was limp and without luster. Her chin was too square, her pale brown eyes too small, the lids almost lashless even with mascara, which she rarely used because it irritated her eyes. She had learned at an early age from her father, and later from her classmates, that she would never be anyone’s favorite. She had seen disappointment on the faces of the blind dates for whom she had opened her door.

  (Even plain, unexciting women found husbands, so she had to be lacking something else. What?)

  Alicia, younger than Belinda by two minutes, had thick auburn hair that framed her heart-shaped face and green eyes that sparkled when she laughed her tinkling laugh, which she did often, especially around men. When the twins were toddlers, passersby would stop in front of the double stroller and coo at ‘‘the pretty one.’’ Belinda’s mother would say, ‘‘Both my girls are pretty.’’ She would pinch Belinda’s cheeks. ‘‘You’re a love, is what you are. You are the sweetest little girl in the whole world. Mommy’s angel. And you’re pretty, just like your name. That’s what Belinda means, pretty.’’

  The name was a jinx, Belinda had decided, directing her bitterness at her parents and sometimes at God, who had participated in the joke. She couldn’t remember when her parents had started calling her Linnie, probably to put an end to the lie.

  But now the baby had come into her life. Lilly was a gift, a miracle. Belinda would shower her with love and make certain no one ever harmed her.

  Her family would be shocked when they learned about Lilly. (‘‘Adopting a child? What were you thinking, Linnie? How do you plan to take care of that baby on your own?’’) They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t have understood about Megan Conway, either. That’s why Belinda hadn’t told them about Megan, or about her friend Jim Langdon. He wouldn’t have believed that his wife was cheating on him if Belinda hadn’t followed her several times and taken compromising photos that she’d left in an envelope at Jim’s office. Jim had a right to know. He had left his wife, and yes, he was miserable, but ultimately his life would be better, because of Belinda.

  She hadn’t decided when to let Alicia find out about Martin and his latest. Soon, she thought. Alicia had a right to know, too.

  Belinda was zipping her jeans when she heard the doorbell. Shutting the bedroom door behind her, she walked to the front door and glanced through the privacy window at a uniformed policeman.

  ‘‘LAPD,’’ the officer said. ‘‘We’re looking for information about the woman who lives next door. Melissa Heckman?’’

  ‘‘Did someone complain about her?’’ Belinda asked.

  ‘‘Ma’am?’’

  ‘‘About the noise from her apartment. I don’t like it, either. I thought about calling the police, but I didn’t. You can tell her that.’’

  ‘‘Actually, that’s not why I’m here. Can I come in?’’

  Belinda asked to see his ID before she allowed him into her living room.

  ‘‘If you’re not here about the noise . . .’’ She caught her breath. ‘‘Did something happen to her? To Melissa?’’ Her voice sounded shrill to her ears. She hoped she hadn’t woken the baby.

  ‘‘I’m sorry to have to tell you Ms. Heckman is dead. We’re talking to people in the neighborhood, hoping someone saw or heard something.’’

  Belinda stared at him and sank onto the sofa cushion, which whooshed under her weight. ‘‘Oh, my God. Oh, my God.’’

  ‘‘When was the last time you saw her? What’s your name, ma’am, by the way?’’

  ‘‘Belinda Ellinson. I can’t believe she’s dead.’’

  ‘‘The last time you saw her?’’ the officer prompted.

  ‘‘Last night, around seven. I saw her drive off, with a man.’’

  Melisssa had left the baby without a sitter, again. Belinda had rung the bell and knocked on the door. No one had answered. Melissa had left Carrie alone several times, even though Belinda was right next door. Just for half an hour or so while she went to the market, but still . . . Belinda had considered calling Child Services, but what was the point? They would warn Melissa. She would promise to do better. And then she’d go back to her selfish ways.

  ‘‘What happened?’’ Belinda asked. ‘‘How did she . . . ?’’

  ‘‘We’re trying to figure that out,’’ the officer said. ‘‘We received an anonym
ous call from a man about an hour ago. You mentioned hearing noises, ma’am. What kind of noises?’’

  Belinda felt color creeping up her neck and face. ‘‘She has lots of men friends. And, well, you know . . . There’s a lot of screaming, and other sounds.’’

  Night after night she had covered her ears to block the sounds and the accompanying images. Night after night she had tried not to think about the innocent child sleeping not ten feet from her mother’s bedroom. Belinda had seen the baby the day Melissa moved into the apartment a month ago. She had brought a bundt cake and offered to babysit, especially since there were no grandparents or other family to help out.

  ‘‘It’s just me and Carrie,’’ Melissa had said. ‘‘Her daddy’s not keen on babies. He’s not thrilled about paying our bills, either.’’

  ‘‘This man you saw her drive off with,’’ the cop said. ‘‘Do you know his name?’’

  Belinda shook her head. ‘‘Melissa and I aren’t close. She’d borrow a cup of sugar or a few eggs. We’d say hi when we saw each other. I don’t know much about her personal life.’’ Belinda hesitated. ‘‘I did hear yelling Tuesday night, when she came back. She and this man were fighting.’’

  ‘‘About what?’’ the officer said, his interest quickened.

  ‘‘I couldn’t hear what they were saying. She sounded angry. And she was crying. I’ve heard her cry before, though. I asked her about it once, and she said it was nothing, she was fine. If I had known . . .’’

  Belinda’s father would say that she should have known, that she was to blame. Alicia would, too, of course, and maybe even her mother. (‘‘Oh, Linnie. What have you done?’’)

  It wasn’t her fault.

  Belinda had assumed Melissa would be frantic when she came home and found the baby missing. That was the point, to teach her a lesson. She couldn’t have known that Melissa would call Carrie’s father, that he would drive over. She couldn’t have anticipated that Melissa would attack him the minute he stepped into the apartment. (‘‘You never wanted her born!’’ Melissa had screamed, her anguished cry penetrating Belinda’s wall. ‘‘You took her, didn’t you? You sold her! Or did you kill her? Is that what you did, you bastard?’’)