The Dead Key

by D. M. Pulley

  CHAPTER 28

  Friday, December 1, 1978

  The late bus dropped Beatrice at the end of Doris’s street. Her bag was heavy with Max’s files and keys. Who’s the thief now? It was a small comfort to know she had something to trade for her aunt’s key. That is, if she ever saw Max again.

  Beatrice climbed the crooked stairs toward her aunt’s door with her eyes at her feet. It wasn’t until she reached the top steps that she realized the door wasn’t shut. A sliver of light was gleaming at her. She froze. She knew she hadn’t forgotten to lock it, and she always turned out the light. She dropped to her knees with a hand over her mouth. The walls were paper thin, and the apartment was tiny. She held her breath and listened. Her heart pounded out the seconds as she watched the doorway for moving shadows.

  After several minutes had passed, she crawled up the last three steps on her hands and knees and pushed the door open wider. Inside, the room where she slept had been torn apart. The cushions of the couch were flung onto the floor. The three drawers in the kitchenette were pulled out and dumped on the ground. The refrigerator door was standing open. Paper, pots, pans, and silverware covered the ground.

  She shot up in alarm. All of her clothes had been violently ripped from the hangers and were piled on the ground next to the radiator. The bed in Doris’s room was thrown up against a wall, and the worn quilt and sheets had been torn from the mattress. Dresser drawers were smashed around the room. Doris’s trampled underwear covered the floor. The closet door had been thrown open and all of its contents tossed out. The mink, the tweed suits, the hatboxes, the go-go boots all were in a knee-deep pile next to the bed.

  Beatrice snatched up the fur coat protectively. A burglar would have taken the mink. It didn’t make sense. She picked up the photograph of young Doris and Ilene off the floor. The glass was cracked. She cradled the picture frame and fur coat, sinking to her knees.

  An empty dresser drawer lay smashed on the ground next to her. Beatrice stared at it until she couldn’t see anything but her own tears. Who would do this? Why? Then something occurred to her. Her aunt’s letters and bank files were gone. She looked behind the mattress leaning against the wall and around the floor. They were nowhere to be found, and yet she had left them all on the bed in plain sight.

  Beatrice backed out of her aunt’s room. The kitchen drawers, the cushions, the medicine cabinet in the bathroom—they’d all been emptied and tossed on the ground. Someone had been looking for something. Her aunt’s purse was splayed out on the couch frame. The lining had been ripped out; the seams had been cut. Even her cigarette pack had been pulled apart. Then Beatrice realized her aunt’s key ring was gone. An image of the safe deposit key, the key Max had stolen, flashed in the back of her mind.

  She couldn’t stay there. Someone had Doris’s keys. They might be back. They might have noticed that Doris didn’t live alone. Beatrice grabbed her old suitcase off the floor. She stuffed all of the clothes and toiletries she could fit in the bag. She fought it closed and dragged it to the open door. The frigid air outside had begun to fill the room, but Beatrice couldn’t feel a thing. She yanked the full suitcase thumping down the stairs and into the snow. She ran back up to the open door and scanned the ruined insides of the apartment once more before slamming it shut.

  The bag left a trail in the snow behind her, until she reached the end of the street. Calabria’s Diner, where her aunt had worked, was still open. There was nowhere else she could think to go. She picked up the heavy suitcase and tried to walk with some composure the half a block to the restaurant.

  Beatrice pushed the door to the diner open and was greeted by a warm blast of air and the sizzle of the fryer in the back. The restaurant was half-full. Beatrice dragged herself over to a booth and shoved her overstuffed luggage under the table. She collapsed onto the vinyl seat and put her head down on the coffee-stained Formica.

  A few minutes later, a pair of orthopedic shoes walked up beside her. It was Gladys.

  “Beatrice, honey. How are you doing? How’s your aunt holding up?”

  Beatrice lifted her head and forced a weak smile.

  The old woman nodded and put a hand on her shoulder. “Can I get you something, hon? It’s on the house.”

  “Soup?”

  “Coming right up.” Gladys squeezed her shoulder and walked away.

  The room around her was distorted with overwhelming smells and sounds and buzzing yellow light. She might throw up, she realized, and buried her head in her hands. She couldn’t call the police. What would she tell them? She’d been robbed, but the burglar only took some old love letters and keys. She didn’t even have proof she lived there—she wasn’t on the lease. Worse yet, it wasn’t legal for her to be living on her own at all. She was still technically a minor. The police might drag her away to a foster home or worse. She dug the palms of her hands into her eyes to plug the tears.

  The smell of food forced them back open. Gladys had brought a bowl of soup, a plate of fried chicken, a salad, and a Coke. It was a feast.

  “You just let us know if we can do anything to help, okay, honey?” The sweet old woman patted her hand.

  Beatrice nodded, afraid to speak.

  As she ate, the wheels slowly began to turn in her mind. She had to do something. She couldn’t call her mother. She wouldn’t call Max. Then a light clicked on in between her dark thoughts. She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a business card. It read “Detective Anthony McDonnell.” Tony had written a second phone number on the back. The clock that hung over the lunch counter read 8:16 p.m.

  “Do you need anything else, honey?” Gladys asked, waddling toward her.

  “Do you have a pay phone?”

  CHAPTER 29

  Max’s brother Tony answered the phone after six rings. “Hello?”

  “Detective McDonnell? This is Beatrice . . . Max’s friend.”

  “Right. Beatrice.” She could hear him smiling. “Is everything all right?”

  “Well, no.” Her voice cracked a little. “Can you meet me at Calabria’s Diner?”

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Can you wait?”

  “Yes. I’ll be here.” She was relieved that he didn’t ask questions. She wasn’t quite sure what to tell him.

  Beatrice returned to her chicken and soup and ate until she couldn’t stomach any more. She picked at the salad and tried to figure out what to tell Tony. She needed help. She didn’t have anyone else to call, but she wasn’t sure she should trust Max’s brother. Max had stolen her aunt’s key.

  Beatrice glanced down at her handbag, still heavy with the things she’d taken from Max that evening. The huge ring of keys lay at the bottom. Then there was the file of notes hidden in shorthand, and another file she’d pulled out of Max’s desk at the last minute while the security guard tapped his foot.

  She pulled the mystery folder out and examined the label. It read, “Box 447.” Inside she found a typed form on First Bank of Cleveland letterhead. It was addressed to the State of Ohio. The title read “Custody Transfer.” The form listed the box owner as “Beverly Lerner.” It gave her last known address and social security number. The date of repossession was listed as June 16, 1973. A catalog of contents was provided. Beatrice scanned the list and saw that Box 447 contained birth certificates, a will, and fourteen diamonds. Her eyes locked on the word “diamonds.” The karat size was given for all fourteen, and each diamond was bigger than the last, with the largest being estimated at six karats. Box 447 had once contained a fortune.

  She pulled out the folder of Max’s handwritten notes and searched until she found it. Box 447. Max had tried to reach Beverly on June 1 and couldn’t find her. The phone had been disconnected. Max’s note at the bottom of the page read in shorthand, “State has no record of repossession.”

  She turned her eyes back to the bank form letter. In smaller print there was a paragraph f
ull of lawyerly words turning over custody of the box contents to the state for “holding or auction.” The letter was signed by “William S. Thompson, Auditing Department.” She traced the signature with her finger and realized it had been stamped onto the form letter as was done with so much other standard correspondence. She searched the bottom of the sheet for the processor’s initials and found them in the lower left corner. They read “DED.” Doris?

  Behind the custody form, Beatrice found a single sheet of paper labeled “Note to File.” It was a typed record of Max’s phone call to Beverly. The final note read, “Customer nonresponsive.” The initials at the bottom of the page read “MRM.” Max had typed the record.

  Beatrice sat back in her booth and chewed on her straw. Max had been given the assignment to audit the safe deposit boxes by Mr. Thompson after an irate customer claimed that her box had been repossessed unfairly. Max proceeded to call customers, presumably ones who were no longer paying their fees or whose boxes had been reclaimed, to verify their whereabouts and the validity of a repossession. Max had a drawer full of organized files documenting repossessions. After an irate customer came forward demanding her possessions, Max had been convinced something was not right at the bank. She had even asked Tony to open an investigation. Max followed up on the notices herself and found out that the state had no record of any transfers. Fortunes had vanished. Now Max was gone. Max had taken her aunt’s key while Beatrice was sleeping and then up and quit her job the next day.

  “You look deep in thought,” a husky voice said from across the table. Tony slid into the seat across from her.

  “Oh. Hi.” Beatrice hadn’t realized how much time had passed. She’d planned to put everything away before he arrived.

  “What is all this?” he asked, looking at the piles of papers.

  “Oh, it’s just work stuff.” She shook her head and gathered up the papers as if they were of little interest. “I sort of fell behind at the office. My aunt’s been ill.”

  She hated using Aunt Doris as an excuse. Sympathy wouldn’t help. She didn’t check to see whether his eyes softened on her behalf. She just shoved the papers back into her bag as quickly as she could manage. When she looked up, he was waving Gladys and her coffeepot over.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your aunt.”

  “Thanks. She’s over at University Hospitals. I don’t think she’s going to make it.” Beatrice bit the inside of her lip. It was the first time she’d said it out loud. Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes.

  Tony slid his hand across the table to hers and gave it a gentle pat. “I’m so sorry.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. His hand was nearly twice the size of hers. He pulled it away when the coffee arrived and went to work doctoring his mug with cream and sugar—three heaping spoons of sugar. Beatrice cracked a small smile.

  “What can I say? I guess I like things sweet.” He winked at her. “So, what can I do for you, Beatrice?”

  She knew the question was coming. She still didn’t know what to say about the missing key or the bank letters, so she began slowly. “Someone broke into my aunt’s house.”

  The good humor drained from his face. “Are you all right? Were you home?”

  “No, I was at work.”

  Maybe his concern for her safety would keep him from asking too many questions. Tony took out a small pad of paper and a pen. Maybe not.

  “What’s the address?”

  She told him.

  “Your aunt’s name?”

  “Doris Davis.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “I . . . I don’t think so.” She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to tell him about the love letters and the files from the bank. She should have never snooped and found the papers in the first place.

  “Did your aunt have any valuables you may not have been aware of? Cash? Jewelry?”

  Beatrice immediately thought of the safe deposit box key. If her aunt did have any valuables, they were undoubtedly hidden away in a vault at the First Bank of Cleveland. The only other person besides her aunt who knew about the key was Max. “I don’t think so. There was a mink coat, a TV . . .”

  “Were they taken?”

  “No.” Her tiny frame was dwarfed by the height of the table, and she could feel herself shrinking in the detective’s eyes. She couldn’t afford to look like a lost twelve-year-old, and sat up taller. She forced out a stronger voice. “It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “No,” Tony said, making small notes on his pad. “It doesn’t.”

  “That’s why I thought to call you. It just doesn’t seem like a normal robbery.”

  He studied her carefully. Being Max’s friend, she prayed he would trust her. She batted her eyes just a little. Flirting couldn’t hurt. It seemed to work to her advantage, as the focus of his eyes softened.

  She released the breath she’d been holding. “I really appreciate you meeting me here, Tony. How’s Max doing?”

  He flipped his notepad closed at the change of topic and sipped his mug of sugared coffee.

  “I haven’t talked to her for a few days. She’s on vacation,” he said, and then paused. “I thought you knew that. Aren’t you two pretty good friends?”

  “Vacation?” She frowned. “No, I didn’t know that. Where did she go?”

  “Cancún.” He looked at her sharply. “Did you two have a fight or something?”

  “No. Well, sort of. I guess we did,” Beatrice said, stumbling. “Where is Cancún?”

  “Mexico. She’ll be gone a couple weeks. Said something about needing to get away for a while. Now that I think of it, she wanted me to give you this if I saw you.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a small key.

  Beatrice’s eyes swelled at the sight of it. It was labeled “547.” He dropped it into her palm.

  “What’s that for anyway?”

  Beatrice wiped the astonished look off her face. “Oh, this? . . . It’s for my locker at work. I thought I had lost it!”

  “I have no idea why she thought I might see you. I told her she was nuts. But you know Max. She’s gonna get what she wants one way or another.”

  In some fit of remorse, Max had given her Doris’s key back. Maybe Max was a friend after all. Maybe Beatrice was the one who shouldn’t be trusted. She had snooped in Max’s things and stolen an entire ring of keys. Worse, Beatrice had betrayed Max’s project to Mr. Halloran.

  “Listen, I’ll check into your aunt’s break-in, but without anything missing it’s gonna be hard to get anyone to do much. Cleveland’s a big town with big problems. Most B and Es don’t go very far.”

  “Do you think it’s safe for me to go back tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t. Besides, if the burglar knows you and your aunt are away, they may try to go back and even squat there. Drug addicts love a free place to stay. It may be our best chance at catching the perp. I’ll swing by there a few times in the next week or so. I’ll let you know what I find out. Do you have another place to stay?” he asked, raising an eyebrow like he suspected she was only sixteen.

  “Me? Sure! Of course. I’ll just go stay with my cousin for a few days.” Beatrice panicked as she nodded. She didn’t know why she said it. The words just came out, and she couldn’t take them back. Lies were becoming second nature.

  The matter was closed. “Where can I reach you?”

  “Uh, you can call me at the bank. I practically live there anyway.” She gave him her extension.

  He paused and studied her face one last time as if he was trying to decide something. This was the moment where he would call her bluff and haul her off to juvenile detention. Instead, he simply nodded and stood to leave.

  “You take care of yourself, Beatrice.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Beatrice dragged her heavy suitcase through the snow all the way to th
e hospital. She’d seen families sleeping in the waiting rooms as she’d come and gone after work. She decided it was her best chance at shelter for the night. She made her way up to the intensive care unit, where her aunt had been lying for over a week. It seemed like years. The nurse didn’t look up as she pulled the bag behind her and into her aunt’s room. Beatrice found the small closet in the corner reserved for patients’ personal items. She stuffed her suitcase inside and forced the door closed. It would have to do for the night.

  She collapsed into the stiff vinyl chair next to her aunt’s pillow and put her head on the edge of the bed.

  “Someone broke into your apartment,” she whispered in the dark.

  She confessed it all to Doris, hoping the shock of it might wake her up. The apartment, the letters, the key, the missing fortunes, Max fleeing to Mexico—Beatrice told her aunt everything. The woman didn’t move.

  Sometime after 1:00 a.m. a loud beeping sound woke Beatrice up. She startled at the alarm and grabbed Doris’s hand. Air was still rattling in and out of the tube in her mouth. Her sunken chest was still moving up and down. A nurse floated into the room. She turned off the alarm and changed the bag of saline hanging from a hook over her aunt’s shoulder.

  “Miss, I’m sorry. Visiting hours are over,” the nurse said in the scolding voice Beatrice had grown accustomed to at the hospital.

  Beatrice took the elevator down to the main lobby, where an old man was snoring in a chair. She curled up on a hard bench, using her purse as a pillow. She laid with one eye open for most of the night. Some point after 5:00 a.m. she abandoned her vigil and drifted off to sleep, until the doctors and nurses changed shifts two hours later.

  Beatrice spent the weekend lurking in the hospital. She ate in the cafeteria, washed up in the public restrooms, and slept where she could. It was a blur of fluorescent lights and hushed voices. She spent most of her time sitting with Doris, trying to figure out what to do next. Eventually, she’d fall asleep in the chair, simply too exhausted to string her thoughts together.