by Edie Claire
Leigh broke in with desperation. "Are you saying that Anita died after falling down the stairs?"
"She landed smack on her head and broke her neck, so they said." Mrs. Rhodis went on, unperturbed. "She was dead when I got there."
Leigh suppressed a shiver. She wondered if she could ever walk up Cara's beautiful carved oak front staircase again without thinking of a broken body lying at its base.
"The boy," Mrs. Rhodis said sadly, shaking her head, "he was in a state. Almost hysterical, I'd say."
"You mean Anita's son?" Cara prompted.
"Robbie, yes." Mrs. Rhodis answered. "He was about fourteen then. Nice boy. I always liked him, though he was a little on the quiet side. That night he was blubbering like a baby, talking gibberish. He just sat right there on the floor where she'd fallen. Just sat there. The police couldn't get a thing out of him."
Leigh tried to imagine the scene. It wasn't pretty. "Were the police suspicious of foul play?" she asked.
"They weren't then," Mrs. Rhodis answered matter-of-factly. "But I was." She cradled her chin in her hand and focused on a spot on the ceiling. "Norman told them she'd been carrying two laundry baskets down the stairs and lost her footing." Mrs. Rhodis scoffed. "There were clothes all over the place, so the police weren't arguing about it. They didn't see what I saw, but they were just men; one has to make allowances, you know."
The younger women's eyes flickered automatically to Mr. Rhodis to register his reaction. His head was resting at an odd angle on the chair back and his eyes were closed.
Mrs. Rhodis took a long swig of lemonade. Finally she patted her lips dry with a handkerchief and resumed her story. "I didn't believe Anita was going down the stairs with those clothes. I looked at them—they were clean. Most were still half folded. Now, what woman you know goes upstairs, loads up two baskets with clean laundry, then brings them down? She might have been taking them up, but how could she fall up the stairs? She was in the family way then, but she wasn't all that big, and she was never the klutzy type. And why would Norman lie about which way she was going? Didn't make sense." Adith Rhodis shook her head with authority. "Just didn't make sense."
Leigh looked at Cara, who appeared deep in thought. She wondered how much of this story her cousin had heard before. "What do you think happened?" Leigh asked their hostess.
"Well," Mrs. Rhodis answered proudly, "I think she was pushed. Maybe an accident," she conceded, palms held out defensively, "and maybe not." She leaned closer to her audience and spoke in a whisper. "Maybe it was murder."
Leigh wondered if Mrs. Rhodis had ever been an aspiring actress.
"I never believed Norman's version of what happened," the older woman continued in a normal tone, leaning back in her chair. "I'll tell you what I think. I think he threw those clothes around after the fact, that's what I think." With another dramatic pause, she blew her nose into her handkerchief.
Leigh wasn't sure she liked admitting it to herself, but what Mrs. Rhodis said did make an eerie kind of sense. She had no trouble imaging that an 1949 police squad might not take too seriously a young neighbor woman's rantings about "clean" laundry.
"So there wasn't ever an investigation?" Leigh asked.
Cara broke in with a reply. "Well, there was," she said cryptically. "You need to hear the rest of the story. After Anita's body had been taken away and the police had gone, the men got into a fight."
"The men?" Leigh asked.
"I didn't know what was going on," Mrs. Rhodis said, jumping back in with enthusiasm. "I just knew it was loud. I could hear Norman yelling and Robbie screaming, and then, the noise just stopped. I finally went to bed, but I didn't sleep too well. Bud was out like a light, as you might imagine."
Leigh and Cara glanced at Bud. He snored.
"About two or so the next morning," Mrs. Rhodis continued, "is when I heard the gunshot."
The women's attention quickly returned to Mrs. Rhodis, whose eyes flickered down just long enough to take stock of her audience, then went back to the ceiling. "I woke up Bud," she began. "But of course he hadn't heard squat. And afterwards it was real quiet. I could see lights going on, and once I thought I heard Paul's voice, but that was it. After a while, I decided enough was enough. I called the police back out again."
"It was Norman," Cara broke in eagerly. "The police found him lying in bed with a bullet through his head."
"Suicide, they said," Mrs. Rhodis said quickly, her voice carrying a trace of annoyance at having been scooped. "His hand was still on the gun."
"What did Paul say happened?" Leigh asked.
"He said he was asleep," Mrs. Rhodis answered, not sounding convinced. "He said he didn't know anything."
"What about Robbie?" Leigh probed further.
Mrs. Rhodis' eyes moved to her lap. She took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt again. "Robbie was already gone when the police got there," she said sadly. "And nobody's seen or heard from him since."
Leigh swallowed. "You mean, he just took off? And no one knows what happened to him, even now?"
Mrs. Rhodis shook her head solemnly. A morbid silence descended on the porch, broken only by an occasional pant from Pansy. Leigh noticed that the wind had changed, with the fumes from Neville Island suddenly hanging heavier in the air.
It was Cara who broke the silence. "I don't remember asking you before, Mrs. Rhodis," she inquired softly. "Was it Robbie you heard talking to Paul after the gunshot?"
Mrs. Rhodis shook her head. "I don't remember hearing another voice. But you can't hear all that easily from here unless somebody's yelling. I asked Paul about it more than once, but nobody could ever get a straight answer out of him. He just said he was sleeping when it happened and that after he found his father he couldn't do anything but sit there on the bed. That's where the police found him, anyway."
"Did you believe him?" Cara asked.
Mrs. Rhodis stroked her Adam's apple with a few spindly fingers. "I can't say I did," she answered finally. "I had no reason to think he was lying—he just never struck me as the honest type. His father was a soulless lout, and apples don't fall far from the tree, I always say." She took a deep breath and sighed. "Norman lied about how Anita died. Maybe he pushed her accidentally, then shot himself from guilt. But I can't see that happening. He was a cold bastard—and it wouldn't have been the first time he'd hurt Anita." Mrs. Rhodis' face turned hard. "I saw the bruises. Nobody said much about that sort of thing back then, but I knew. And it got worse once she was expecting, if you can believe that." She paused. "It wouldn't surprise me if he killed her, and Robbie shot him. Robbie was a good boy; he loved his Momma."
Adith Rhodis stopped speaking for a moment and looked off into the distance. "None of us know what we're really capable of, if we get pushed far enough."
Leigh waited for Mrs. Rhodis to say more, but Cara nudged her cousin in the ribs with an elbow. "Excuse me," she said politely, "but I'm afraid Leigh and I will have to go now. Junior here," she patted her belly, "is telling me it's time to eat again."
"Oh my," Mrs. Rhodis said dramatically, breaking from her trance. "Can I get you something, honey?" She quickly rose from her seat.
"Oh no," Cara said with a smile. "We've taken up too much of your time already. It's been fascinating hearing the story again—thank you."
Mrs. Rhodis cackled. "Now, Cara dear, you know I'd give an arm and leg for a visit by two nice young ladies, especially some with fresh ears for me and my stories!" She tossed her head towards her husband's sleeping form, then leaned toward Cara conspiratorially. "God knows that one's heard 'em enough!"
When Cara put her hand on the arm of the loveseat rocker and pushed herself to her feet, an ear-piercing shriek erupted from the floor. The poodle ran circles around her owner’s legs, creating a noise shrill enough to break glass.
Cara went white with horror. "Oh, Pansy! Did I step on you? I'm so sorry!" She turned apologetically to Mrs. Rhodis. "I'm such an ox these days. I can't see my own feet, much less anyone els
e's!"
Mr. Rhodis, whose capacity for deep sleep evidently had limits, rejoined the conscious and leaned over to scoop Pansy out of orbit. Once the dog was settled in his lap, the cacophony subsided.
"Don't worry, honey," Mrs. Rhodis said kindly, her arm on Cara's shoulder. "Bud and I step on her all the time, poor thing!"
Leigh tried, but failed, not to be slightly amused. Psychic, eh?
Cara offered the poodle a conciliatory scratch behind the ears, and Pansy accepted the gesture somewhat sulkily. Mrs. Rhodis looked at her pet with adoring eyes. "She's a spoiled one, that," she said. "It's a wonder she don't explode with all those table scraps Bud keeps giving her! Why, if she had to live on the piddling amount I feed her, she'd starve to death, poor thing. I keep telling Bud—"
Mrs. Rhodis' voice trailed off as she headed back through the house to lead them out. Cara waved goodbye to Mr. Rhodis and followed.
As Leigh turned to join them, Mr. Rhodis jerked his head and beckoned her closer with a crooked finger. "Pssst!"
Leigh stepped to the side of the old man's chair and leaned down.
"Don't you believe a word she says," he said in a rusty voice, giving Leigh a wink. "She gives this dog two Reese's peanut butter cups every day. Right in the middle of As the World Turns."
Chapter 11
Cara lay down on the couch as soon as they returned to the house, and Leigh started worrying. “I’m fine,” Cara insisted. “I just need to lie down for a while, that’s all. Later, we’ll search.”
“Search?”
“For the will, of course! Or whatever Paul Fischer hid here.”
Leigh was silent for a moment. “Aren’t you just a teensy weensy bit afraid to take at face value the word of a woman who thinks her poodle should have its own psychic hotline?”
Cara smiled and shook her head. “Pansy’s poor record with the daily number is immaterial. Adith Rhodis remembers every detail of that night like it was yesterday. Trust me.”
Trusting people had never been Leigh’s long suit. As soon as Cara had eaten and lain back down for a nap, Leigh set out for her old stomping grounds—the University of Pittsburgh main campus.
“Pitt,” as it was affectionately called, was in the academic enclave of Oakland, on the opposite side of downtown Pittsburgh. Leigh turned onto Forbes Avenue with a sinking feeling.
What was she thinking? No sane person drove into Oakland in the middle of a weekday. The Cavalier crept along for blocks in bumper-to-bumper traffic, narrowly avoiding the scores of students and white-coated hospital types who jaywalked with impunity. She couldn’t help watching the students, backpacks in tow, with a pang of jealousy. Her college days had been good ones. The journalism curriculum had been less than taxing, giving her plenty of time to waste with her two constant companions—Maura the Wonder Cop and Warren Harmon, future President of the United States. They were an odd trio, but they knew how to laugh.
She sighed as she turned—by necessity—into the high-priced museum garage. She and Maura didn’t get out too much anymore. And she hadn’t seen Warren since—since when? Somehow, there was always work to do. She sighed again as she left her car and walked the short distance to the Carnegie Library. At least the grown-up, working Leigh could afford a decent parking spot, she rationalized.
For a while, anyway.
She walked into the library and automatically tilted up her head to admire the colorful murals on the arched ceiling. As she climbed to the second floor, her feet sunk comfortably into marble steps worn concave by generations of students. She took a right into the microfilm and periodicals room, collected the Pittsburgh Press and Pittsburgh Post reels for August, 1949, and settled in front of a viewer with a smile.
No stranger to the process, she quickly slid in the Post reel for the second week of August, and turned the crank. The format was cluttered, the writing style antiquated. But in a matter of seconds, she had found it.
AVALON MAN SHOT DEAD AFTER WIFE'S FATAL FALL
Woman Breaks Neck; Husband Shot in Bed; Teenaged Son Missing
Anita Fischer, 33, died last evening shortly after falling down the staircase of her home at 1133 Ohio River Boulevard in Avalon. Her husband, Norman Fischer, son Robert, and stepson Paul were in the home at the time and were questioned by police. Avalon Police Chief Ronald Reese said that Mrs. Fischer appeared to have lost her footing while attempting to carry two full laundry baskets down the stairs.
Hours later, police were again summoned to the Fischer home after Norman Fischer, 46, was found dead in his bed, a gunshot wound in his temple.
Son Discovers Father's Body
Paul Fischer, 24, stated that he discovered his father's body after being awakened by the sound of a gun shot. He told police that he saw no one else in the home at that time. Anita Fischer's son Robert, 14, was not present when the police returned after the shooting. His whereabouts are currently unknown.
Wound Possibly Self-Inflicted
Although County Detective Alfred P. Richardson stated that a revolver was found near Norman Fischer's body, he would not speculate as to whether the wound was self-inflicted. District Attorney Ralph Phelps said that no charges relating to the deaths had been filed. Phelps put out a plea urging Robert Fischer to come forward for questioning.
Happy Family
Anita and Norman Fischer, both previously widowed, had been married to each other for 3 years. The couple and their sons had lived in the Avalon home since the spring of 1946; Chief Reeves stated that the Avalon police had had no previous reports of disturbances at the residence.
The article was accompanied by a grainy picture of Anita and Norman standing behind a cake, presumably on their wedding day. She looked young and happy, a tiny thing with dark hair and eyes. Norman's light eyes betrayed little emotion, his lips twisted into a distinctly unnatural smile. Leigh disliked him immediately, though more because of Mrs. Rhodis' accusations than the picture. Anyone could take a bad picture. She ought to know.
She flipped the microfilm ahead a few days, but the story had been poorly followed. A blurb the next day stated that Robert was still missing; no charges had been filed. One letter to the editor presumed that a freaked-out Robert had murdered both his parents, and that the younger generation's lax standards of discipline were to blame. Another speculated that the incident was merely an accident followed by the suicide of a distraught spouse, and that the public should let the sons grieve in peace. Leigh scanned meticulously through two weeks' worth of news sections, but found no more. The Press had carried a similar story on the afternoon of the thirteenth, with several short follow-up articles, but Leigh learned nothing new. Apparently, no charges were ever filed.
She grabbed the reels with the relevant articles and paid to have them copied. Perhaps Cara’s instincts were worth something. Mrs. Rhodis might be an eccentric, but nothing was wrong with her memory.
***
Cara's front door was blocked by a large package wrapped in brown paper, and Leigh approached it carefully. She didn't consider herself paranoid—but in light of the last two days, caution seemed prudent. Cara's name and address were clearly visible on top of the box, along with a smattering of bizarre symbols and elaborate stamps. On closer inspection Leigh realized—with relief—that the symbols were Japanese characters. A present from Gil.
So why hadn't Cara answered the door? She wasn’t still asleep, was she? Leigh picked up the package, which felt like it housed lead shot, and balanced it on a hip. She opened the door with her key and walked in. Yep. Cara was up. A look at the security box in the foyer told her the system was off, and the buzz of a power tool echoing down the stairs explained the unanswered doorbell.
Aunt Lydie, of course.
She followed the sound to one of the spare bedrooms on the second floor, where Cara stood peering up into a closet. Inside it was the lower half of Lydie Dublin, standing on a stepladder.
Leigh put the package down with a thump. "Should I ask what's going on here?" she yelled from t
he doorway.
"Leigh!" Cara called enthusiastically. "Did you find out anything?"
"Plenty. But what are you two doing?"
The buzzing noise stopped, and her cousin's answer was interrupted by a voice from above. "There's nothing here, honey!"
Cara swung round to look back in the closet. "Are you sure?" she said, disappointed. "There must something!"
"Sorry, dear." Lydie answered, stepping down. "It's like I suspected. That section only bulges out to cover the vent pipes from the downstairs bathroom. There's nothing up there that shouldn't be."
Cara pouted. Lydie laid down the jigsaw and a flashlight and dusted her hands on her smock. She was the image of Leigh's own mother, but with certain significant differences. Her eyes sparkled more than scorned, and her naturally gray hair was—today—cherry red. "Leigh honey, nice to see you! Your mother and I are so glad you're staying over."
"I'm glad, too," Leigh answered. Lydie probably was glad her daughter had company. Frances, on the other hand, was probably just relieved someone would be around to call paramedics if Leigh electrocuted herself with a microwave.
"Mom's been checking out some dead spaces I've found," Cara explained. "No luck so far, but there are plenty of other places we can check."
Lydie looked at her watch. "I'm afraid that's all for today, honey. I've got a class this afternoon, you know."
Cara smiled. "Yes, I know." Ever since Mason Dublin's untimely departure—with another woman—Lydie had worked two and sometimes three jobs at a time to support herself and to pay her daughter's way through school. Now Cara was returning the favor.
Lydie packed up her tools and left them in a corner of the bedroom. "I'll come back tomorrow morning if you want." She gave her daughter a hug. "Are you sure you'll be all right? You know you can always come sleep at the house."
"I'll be fine, Mom. You know how I feel about staying here."