What the Dead Leave Behind

by David Housewright

  I merely shrugged.

  “You might as well tell me, dear,” Randall said. “By this time tomorrow, I’ll know everything there is to know about you.”

  “Except what I’m doing for Evelyn.”

  “We’ll see. So, Candy’s friend. That surprises me. Very cold, that one. Dry as day-old toast.”

  “Ms. Randall—”

  “Call me Pamela.”

  “Pamela, are you always this—what’s the word?”

  “Bitchy?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Only on special occasions.”

  Her smile brought a pleasant glow to her face that reminded me inexplicably of a candle set in a mason jar on a table in a dimly lit coffeehouse with a trio strumming guitars and singing folk music from a tiny stage. There was something comforting about it that I couldn’t reconcile with her catty behavior.

  “I’m confused, dear,” Pamela said. “I don’t like being confused. Things seem to be going on with the Szereto Corporation, and I don’t know what. I’d like to get the truth. I’m not sure Evelyn is giving it to me. You see, I’m an outsider. I wasn’t there at the beginning, not like Candace Groot. When I bought into the company after my husband died, Mr. Szereto was already an old man, his best years behind him. And I stayed in, actually increased my position during the amusement park ride that was his son, Jonny. I was content back then to remain a silent partner like the vast majority of shareholders in the vast majority of businesses. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit quiet now while my investment goes down the tubes because of some Szereto family tradition or misplaced loyalty to a dead man.”

  “Didn’t the Szereto Corporation just have one of its best years ever?”

  “What do they call it—the calm before the storm?”

  “Seems like a good time to sell, then. Take your profit and put it in Barek Cosmetics. Oh, wait. They lost money this year.”

  “Aren’t you a clever boy?”

  “Isn’t it a conflict of interest to be on the boards of competing companies?”

  “They don’t compete so much as complement each other, Szereto appealing to a higher demographic and Barek, admittedly, selling to the low end.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. In any case, as a member of the Szereto board of directors, isn’t it your privilege to call for a meeting and demand answers?”

  Pamela thought that was awfully funny.

  “Demand answers from Evelyn?” she said. “You don’t know her very well at all, do you, dear?”

  “Truthfully, I met her for the first time yesterday.”

  “Well then, let me give you a piece of advice; take it or leave it as you will. I don’t know yet what you’re doing for her, but whatever it is, watch your back.”

  Pamela waved her hand, dismissing me just as she had the others. I stood. She surprised me a little when she also stood and offered her hand. I shook it.

  “I look forward to meeting with you again,” she said.

  “It would be my pleasure,” I said, although I really didn’t mean it.

  *   *   *

  I kept searching for Evelyn Szereto. Eventually I discovered myself in the largest kitchen I had ever seen.

  “What are you doing here?” Candy Groot asked.

  There were about two dozen people in the kitchen, most of them dressed in white smocks and laboring over stoves and ovens, yet she was the only one to notice me.

  “I’m looking for Evelyn,” I told her.

  “She’s indisposed.”

  “Is she?”

  Candy spoke with the grave dignity of a drunk attempting to act sober.

  “As I informed you earlier,” she said, “the woman does not attend her own gatherings.”

  “She asked to speak with me.”

  “You may converse with me instead. Feel free.”

  I could see past Candy to a staircase on the far side of the kitchen that apparently led to the second floor. I set my hands on her shoulders and smiled as I slowly rotated her out of the way.

  “Perhaps later,” I said.

  I started for the staircase; to hell with Jack’s rules. Candy took hold of my arm. She looked at me with intense eyes that I bet were blurry inside, and I thought, A tightly wound spring letting go. Why should that surprise me?

  “McKenzie,” Candy said. “Do you like black-and-white movies?”

  The question caught me off guard.

  “Yes, I do,” I said.

  Candy wobbled a little bit. She tightened her grip on my arm to steady herself. It occurred to me that she was an attractive woman. In the past few days I’d met several attractive women who had pushed past the sixty-year barrier, and I wondered if that was a thing now, women aging so well. Or had it always been that way but being both young and self-centered I hadn’t noticed before? In any case, I thought it boded well for mine and Nina’s future.

  “Some of the people I work with,” Candy said, “especially the younger people, they say they won’t watch black-and-white movies; they say they have never even seen one. I like them, though, the black-and-white movies you see on TCM, with heroes and villains clearly delineated, and the good guys always triumphing over the bad guys simply because they are good. Yet the real world—it’s in color, isn’t it, the real world?”

  “It certainly is.”

  “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to that. Was it an invitation? It could have been, the way her wide, wet and shiny eyes stared at me. Or was it merely the lament of a lonely woman searching for someone to confide in?

  “Candy, what are you doing here?” I asked.

  “In the kitchen? At the party?”

  “No, here. Here. In Minnesota in winter. I was told that you own ten percent of the Szereto Corporation. That makes you a wealthy woman. Beaucoup bucks, right? What the hell are you doing here? Why haven’t you retired? Why haven’t you taken your money and run off to an island somewhere; catch some rays on a white sand beach while sipping cold drinks with paper umbrellas served by tall men with ready smiles? Why don’t you go get your groove on instead of doing Diane Dauria’s bidding; instead of taking shit from people like Pamela Randall?”

  Candy took a deep breath that sounded like a sob. “I tried to tell you before,” she said. “It’s all I have.”

  “But it shouldn’t be.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Candy…”

  “I need another drink,” she announced.

  Clearly that wasn’t true, yet she released my arm, turned, and walked out of the kitchen in search of one just the same. I made no effort to stop her.

  *   *   *

  I climbed the staircase. I was near the top when I heard Evelyn’s voice.

  “Stop what you’re doing,” she said. “I mean it. Stop—don’t, don’t do that—my guests…”

  Despite her words, the sound of her voice suggested that she wasn’t in distress, so instead of going into full-blown cop mode and bounding up the rest of the staircase, I moved cautiously.

  “I said—no—stop it, Jack…”

  I peeked around the corner.

  Evelyn was standing in the corridor, her back against the wall, her eyes closed, while Jack pressed his body hard against hers. She was making no attempt to escape. Jack’s mouth was nuzzling Evelyn’s ear; his hand was between her legs, the hem of her expensive gown bunched up around her waist. I couldn’t actually see Jack’s hand from where I was standing, although Evelyn’s halting moans gave me an idea of what he was doing with it.

  He said something, only his words were muffled by Evelyn’s hair.

  “Things couldn’t be going better,” she said. “Why ruin it?”

  Jack mumbled a reply that I also couldn’t hear except for a name—he called her Eve, the name Evelyn used when she worked as a model.

  “I promised you, didn’t I?” Evelyn said. “Just not—oh, there, there, right there, oh, oh
… Happy … Happy Jack…”

  I spun around and retreated down the staircase back to the kitchen, thinking there were some things that you just can’t unsee.

  Whatever she wanted to talk about, my inner voice told me, Monday will be soon enough.

  *   *   *

  I arrived at the front door just in time to see Diane Dauria making her good-byes to a half-dozen people I didn’t know. As she stepped through the door, I hurriedly handed my three-digit ticket to the young man in the tuxedo. He took longer than I would have liked to retrieve my trench coat; I didn’t bother slipping it on until after I stepped outside. I couldn’t see Diane, yet the debate was raging in my head—go to Rickie’s so I could be with Nina at midnight as promised or follow her.

  I moved quickly down the long driveway. I still hadn’t made a decision until I saw Diane about fifty yards ahead, her back to me, her hands in her pockets. She was also moving quickly along the parked cars; I didn’t know if it was the cold that propelled her forward or if she was late for an appointment. The fact that she was leaving the Szereto holiday party early made me wonder.

  I decided to follow Diane. She’s probably driving to the Hotdish gathering in New Brighton anyway, I told myself. That was practically on the way.

  I had arrived at Mrs. Szereto’s party before she did, so my Mustang was parked closer to the house. I was able to slip inside, start it up, and turn it around before Diane reached her own vehicle. I waited high on the driveway with my headlights off until she had a good head start and then began following at a discreet distance.

  Diane led me along the narrow, twisting roads of Lake Minnetonka, eventually catching Highway 12, which became I-394 as it approached Minneapolis. So far, so good, I thought, until she caught Highway 100 and drove south more or less in the opposite direction of New Brighton. Soon we found ourselves in Edina. I remembered Diane had informed me that she had moved to the upscale suburb soon after she had been promoted.

  The woman’s going home, I told myself, yet I kept following just the same. I glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Still plenty of time to get to Rickie’s.

  A couple of lazy turns later, we were on a tree-lined boulevard dotted with mini-mansions. Diane slowed and turned into the driveway of one of them. Lights on either side of the concrete apron flicked on automatically, and the large door of the attached garage opened. I kept driving straight until I reached an intersection. I managed to pull a U-turn just as Diane parked her car. I stopped on the street, powered down the driver’s side window, and turned off the Mustang, extinguishing all of its lights. Diane emerged from her vehicle; the overhead garage light made it easy to spy on her as she headed toward the door leading to her fine house. A moment later the garage door closed.

  There were lights already on in the house, two downstairs and one upstairs, as if that would fool your average working thief. Another light came on in the back of the house. I kept a pair of binoculars in my glove compartment for just such occasions. I was looking through them when the living room light came on. Diane had left her drapes opened, and I was able to see inside. She had unbuttoned her long, charcoal-colored wool coat, giving her ample breasts plenty of room to breathe, yet had not taken it off. She went to her window and looked out, glanced at her watch, and looked some more.

  She’s waiting for someone, my inner voice told me. A date to take her to another party?

  Part of the question was answered when another vehicle turned onto the boulevard; its headlights reflected off my side and rearview mirrors. I scrunched down in my seat as the car passed me and pulled in to Diane’s driveway. Diane left the window and disappeared from sight.

  A woman emerged from the vehicle; I jotted down its license plate number. She was wearing a long winter coat similar to Diane’s and a wide-brim felt hat, hunter green in color with a green and blue hatband that reminded me of the ribbon and bow on an elegantly wrapped gift. Because of the hat and the low light, I could see very little of her face. All I knew about her was that she was about five-six and white.

  The woman followed the sidewalk to the front door. Diane opened it before she reached the stoop, yet did not turn on the overhead light. She held the storm door open, allowing the woman to slip past her inside the foyer. If they spoke I couldn’t tell. Diane closed the storm door and turned to her guest. The two women embraced, and I thought, Maybe Stuart Mason is right, maybe Diane is a lesbian.

  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, my inner voice said.

  The inside door was quickly closed, and I lost sight of both women. I glanced at my watch. If you want to get to Rickie’s before midnight, I told myself, now’s the time to leave.

  I was distracted, though, when the two women appeared in the living room. Neither of them had removed her coat; the woman in the hat stood with her back to me. Diane folded her arms across her chest as they spoke and then unfolded them quickly, holding her hands up for her guest to see as if she were attempting to make a point. The other woman didn’t move much at all except to reach inside the bag draped over her shoulder and retrieve a white six-by-eight envelope. She passed the envelope to Diane. Diane carelessly tossed it on the sofa behind her without bothering to look inside.

  The two women hugged again, only there didn’t seem to be anything sexual about it. Diane smiled, draped an arm around the woman’s shoulder, and moved her out of sight. A few moments later the front door opened. The two women embraced once again, and the woman with the hat left the house and climbed into her car. Diane stood at the door until she drove away.

  *   *   *

  I glanced at my watch, told myself that if I disregarded the existing traffic laws—and was distracted yet again. This time a vehicle approached from the opposite direction, a black Toyota Camry. It also pulled in to Diane’s driveway.

  What the hell, my inner voice said. Suddenly we’re at the Union Depot?

  A man got out, slightly shorter than I was and thin. His coat was opened and his head was bare, and he moved to the front door as if he were tardy for a job interview. Again Diane opened the door without bothering to switch on the overhead light. Only by this time she had removed both her coat and her heels.

  The man stepped inside, and they hugged.

  The embrace was all sexual.

  So, not a lesbian, my inner voice said.

  His head was behind hers, so even with the foyer light I couldn’t make out his face.

  The door was closed, and I decided it was time to leave. Yet I couldn’t resist one last peek through the binoculars when the couple appeared in the living room.

  The man—and I use the term loosely—was Critter Meyer.

  “Are you kidding me?” I said the words aloud, even though there was no one to hear. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Diane slipped Critter’s coat down off his arms and dropped it on the floor. They kissed as if they had done it before; their hands explored each other’s bodies through their clothing as if they had done that before, too.

  So, what are you upset about? my inner voice asked. If it was an older man and a twenty-one-year-old woman, would you be so outraged?

  No, no, that’s not it.

  Well, then?

  He’s Katie’s son and she’s Katie’s friend.

  Probably nothing good will come of it, but it has nothing to do with you.

  No, it doesn’t.

  Yet it pissed me off just the same, go figure.

  The light was extinguished in the living room, and a few beats later I saw another, much dimmer light appear through the window of what I presumed was an upstairs bedroom.

  I started the Mustang.

  You know what? my inner voice said. Recreational sex or true love, who are you to judge? After all, it’s winter in Minnesota. It’s cold out there.

  I put the car in gear and drove toward St. Paul.

  *   *   *

  I was fifteen minutes late by the time I arrived at Rickie’s, and yes, I risked a
rrest getting there. I found Erica inside the front door at the hostess station. Her smartphone was pressed to her ear. I could hear her speaking as I approached.

  “You say that, Robin,” she said. “Except you’re the one who decided to spend the holidays in Florida with your parents.”

  She saw me approach and said, “Hang on a sec.” She wrapped her arms around my waist, and I wrapped mine around hers.

  “Happy New Year, McKenzie,” she said.

  I kissed her cheek.

  “Happy New Year to you, too, sweetie. Where’s your mother?”

  “In her office.”

  “Is she mad?”

  “Probably.”

  I stood for a moment, listening to the jazz coming from the big room, debating what I was going to say. Behind me, Erica had resumed her conversation.

  “That sounds like some Christmas present if you need to deliver it in person,” she said. “I can send you yours in the mail.”

  I went to Nina’s office, knocked on the door, and stepped inside without waiting for an answer. She was sitting behind her desk, staring at her computer, her cheaters balanced on her nose. Damn, she was beautiful.

  “I am so sorry,” I said. “I got caught up in what I was doing, and time just…”

  Nina’s response was to remove her glasses, rise from her chair, circle the desk and take me into her arms.

  “As long as you come home at night in one piece,” she said. “That’s all I care about.”

  We kissed as if we were the only people in the world and preferred it that way.

  ELEVEN

  Noon New Year’s Day found me doing one of the things I enjoyed most in the world—resting comfy-cozy against my large blue cushion with the Minnesota Twins logo beneath Nina’s Steinway and listening to her play. She had earned a few bucks when she was a kid working happy hours and Sunday brunches, using the cash to help pay her way through college, yet had given it up when she became involved with the jerk that would soon become her ex-husband, gave birth to her daughter, and began building Rickie’s. She started playing again about the time Erica went off to Tulane; I gave her the piano as a housewarming gift when we finally moved in together about a year ago. As far as our relationship went, it was the best investment I ever made.