Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries)

by Buckley, Julia

  This brought on lots of catcalls and other sophomoric behavior, including a few guys yelling “Oooh, Jeremy,” like we were all in a high school cafeteria. I guess some things never change. The man who stood up looked vaguely pleased by all the teasing, as if somehow their attention made him cool. While he walked toward me I took quick note of the unclean nature of the room and the people in it. One large man stood up, grabbed a newspaper, and told the room at large that he was “going to the can,” whereupon he disappeared behind a grungy looking door in the corner. I winced inwardly and looked upon the young man who now stood before me.

  “I'm Jeremy,” he said, offering his hand. I shook it. It was surprisingly large, and his handshake was firm. “Do you mind if we sit at the table? I only have about fifteen minutes to finish my lunch.”

  I nodded. “No problem. I'll ask, you eat.”

  Jeremy approached the table with the least amount of people. Two men sat there smirking at us. “Get the fuck out,” Jeremy said good-naturedly to them. “I've got an interview with this pretty lady reporter.”

  “Eat me,” one said, placidly taking a bite of his sandwich, but in a moment they surprised me by gathering up their lunches and moving to a different table. The one who hadn't spoken cast a final glance at me before he plopped himself down in his new location.

  The room was warm; I took off my jacket and set it on the seat beside me, suddenly nervous. I had the premonition that Jeremy wouldn't want to talk.

  “God, you'd think these guys worked in Alaska,” I said to my lap as I dug for my notebook in my purse.

  “Oh, yeah.” Jeremy laughed, a pleasant sound. “They're a bunch of sex-starved assholes, I have to say. It's because they have no concept of how to treat a woman.” He said it with the superior tone of a man who didn't suffer from that malady.

  “That's not a problem for you, huh?” I asked with a smile.

  Jeremy shook his head. “I got married five years ago. My high school sweetheart. She's got no complaints, that I know of.” He smiled with simple, almost endearing, egotism.

  I imagined Jeremy had been quite a catch in high school. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and a mysterious, brooding expression that girls just love. He was probably thinner then; now he was bulky with the muscle that his job required, but his face still retained a certain sensitivity. I watched him take a huge bite of his sandwich, then jotted down the fact that he was married.

  “What's your wife's name?” I asked.

  Immediately he looked wary. “Why?”

  “Oh, just for my notes. I jot down the personal facts just as background. It doesn't really have any bearing on what we're doing, I suppose.” I smiled sweetly at him.

  “What's your husband's name?” he countered, digging into his bag of chips.

  “Jack,” I said, meeting his glance.

  “You've got pretty green eyes,” he said solemnly. “And her name is Cheryl.”

  “Cheryl. Were you guys the same year? And you went to St. Roselle, right?”

  “Yeah. I remember your name, remember hearing it on the p.a. sometimes. Madeline Mann, please come to the office,” he trilled, mimicking the voice of the secretary at our high school. “I remember that. I think you were a senior when Cher and I were freshmen or sophomores. If it was sophomore year, it was already after my sister was dead.”

  His eyes flicked away from mine when he mentioned his sister, and his voice became curiously lifeless.

  I didn't want to rush into things. “So you went to St. Roselle's. I suppose you were right in between me and my brother Fritz. He went there, as well.”

  “I remember him, too, I think. He had red hair. He was a real spaz, but everybody liked him because he was funny. He used to do these crazy things to make guys laugh.”

  I nodded. “He still does. Now he gets his attention singing in a band. So, how old were you when you . . . heard about Joanna?”

  He looked at me again, with a flash of anger. "Her name was Rachel. Rachel Yardley. I never understood that whole name change thing. I think it's weird that nuns do that. But she didn't mind—she let me call her Rachel, and that's what I called her."

  I tried to take notes unobtrusively as I talked, which was hard to do. “Did you see a lot of her, your sister?”

  “She came by once a week or so. Had dinner with us or whatever. It was always kind of weird, her sitting there in her black and white. It always felt bizarre to me, like a Halloween costume. But she was cool with it, I have to say. She never acted like she had it on, or walked around with her hands folded like a goddam hypocrite. Sorry,” he said, realizing what he'd said. “She was a real person, she'd roll up her sleeves and play catch with me in the backyard. I mean, we got along when all was said and done.” He shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth and chewed reflectively. Some of the men had started to leave, and Jeremy glanced at the clock.

  “When you heard about her death, did you have any suspicions that it was foul play?” I asked abruptly, realizing that my time was short.

  Jeremy eyed me warily. “That's kind of a funny question. No, I don't think I thought that. I was upset, of course. She was my only sibling. She was older than me by ten years, but still—” He wasn't looking at me. "Why would someone—I mean, is that what you want to know?

  “Well, it's part of what I'm looking into. They never solved the hit and run, of course, and one question would be was it random or intentional.”

  “It's just—” Jeremy's eyes roamed everywhere on the wall behind me. “It's just a dumb idea. My sister was great. No one would want to kill her. She was a nun, for God's sakes.”

  I pretended to be doodling on my pad, but I wrote an abbreviation for “reluctant" down. Jeremy seemed unwilling to discuss Joanna/Rachel's death at all. “Right,” I said. “Of course. And yet that's not unheard of, someone of the cloth being murdered. There was something in the Chicago paper the other day, a priest who was killed because drug addicts broke into his rectory. He'd known them, it turned out, worked with them during the day in a counseling program.”

  This bothered Jeremy. The story was true, but I admit I was manipulating him, trying to raise the issue of drugs.

  “Well, that wouldn't apply here.” He was angry, defensive, but trying to hide it. “My sister was beyond stuff like that. And everyone who knew her loved her. She had this way about her, she had a—”

  “An aura?” I asked thoughtfully.

  “Yeah. She had an aura,” Jeremy said, half mockingly.

  “So you never heard or read anything about people suspecting foul play?” I asked. “Or let's say—could she have ever counseled someone on drugs?”

  Jeremy's eye twitched, and he flexed his sizable arm muscles over his head. “Why exactly are you asking all this now? My sister's been dead ten years.”

  “It's something that I'm looking into,” I said vaguely. “I thought you'd be a good person to ask.”

  He looked at the crumbs on his tin foil and said, “Are you thinking I had something to do with her death?” His tone was the biggest surprise. It was almost resigned.

  “Why in the world would I think that? You were only fifteen. You loved her, not to mention the fact that you couldn't drive.”

  He didn't answer. He shrugged, and said, “So you're looking to do some kind of expose?”

  I dug in my heels. “Why would you think I thought you were involved?”

  Jeremy ventured a glance at me, then looked away. “I don't know. It seemed like that was what you were saying. People imply—whatever. And no, she didn't know anyone who did drugs.” This was obviously a lie; his face twisted strangely when he said it. He shrugged again. Something was bugging him, and he was all avoidance. I suddenly understood why Rick Astor got bad vibes.

  “Jeremy, listen, if there's something you want to tell me—I mean, maybe there's something about her death that bothers you, too.”

  I could swear that his eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. But he wasn't going to cooperate. “So,
you're looking to do some kind of expose?” he repeated.

  “No, no, not at all. It's mainly the hit and run I'm looking at. Just trying to figure out some things about that person who was never apprehended, really. There might be a chance to find the driver, even after all this time.”

  A big man suddenly stood in the doorway. “Jeremy! Finish up and get your ass in the truck. We gotta beat the snow.” He disappeared after this brief edict.

  “You're telling me you really think someone ran her down on purpose?”

  “I'm suggesting it's a possibility; nothing concrete has ever been—”

  “So you're going to dig around in her life, see if anyone had some kind of grudge against her, is that it?” His voice had increased in volume, and a few bulky men craned their thick necks in our direction.

  I almost groaned. I suddenly noted how powerful he was: the bulging muscle in his neck and shoulders. “Um—that's basically it, in a nutshell. Of course I'll be as unobtrusive as possible,” I said, grinning at him to hide my nervousness.

  He reached out suddenly, I thought perhaps to strangle me, but it was merely to grab a napkin out of a dispenser on the table. He jotted something down with my pen, which he took unceremoniously from my hand. “These are my numbers, home and cell phone,” he said. “You find anything remotely interesting, I want you to let me know.” He gave me a no-nonsense look and shoved the napkin toward me.

  I took it. “Thank you. I'll certainly do that. And I appreciate—”

  “Gotta go,” Jeremy said, and stood up. “It was nice talking to you, Madeline Mann.” His flirtatious tone was back when he said my name, and I wondered if this was just another way to try to distract me.

  I jotted down my final notes, copied Jeremy's numbers into my notebook and then strolled to a large garbage can at the end of the room to toss out the napkin. I put my coat on and zipped it up, smiled at the men who were openly staring at me, and said, “Have a nice day, now.”

  I walked distractedly to my car, already doing some serious thinking. Jeremy Yardley, in a word, had a secret. Something was worrying him, something connected to his sister's death. It might be as simple as saying something mean the last time they were together, but would that guilt last ten years? He was worried, and that worried me.

  When I paused to breath in fresh air, I felt the first snowflake land gently on my nose.

  I reached my car and found that all of my tires were flat.

  Part Two

  Dark

  Chapter Six

  If you're going to have car trouble, it's good to have it at a public works garage. All the men pitched in to help me, quite chivalrously, and I had four new tires in no time. Before Jeremy left I asked him if he knew why anyone would want to slash my tires. He looked genuinely surprised. I had to file a police report, too, which took some time and was obviously sure to go nowhere.

  When I returned to the office, angry about the vandalism but softened by the genuine kindness of Webley's public servants, the snow was falling steadily, pretty as lace. It was happy snow, Suzy Snowflake snow, and, as of yet, not hazardous. I walked toward the door trying to catch one on my tongue, and I laughed when I succeeded. Some things just take you straight back to childhood, I thought almost happily as I trudged down the hall of the old house the Wire calls home.

  Before I reached my office Adelaide, our phone sales girl, stepped out of her little cubicle and barred my path. “Hi, Madeline,” she said.

  “Oh hi, Addy. Are you out of school already?” I asked, consulting my watch. It was only one-twenty.

  “I'm a senior, remember? I get out early twice a week,” she said, flipping her pretty caramel-colored hair over her shoulder and shaking her head, as though I were quite the dummy.

  “Oh—right, right. This is your early day. Yeah, those special senior privileges at Webley High. We never had them at cruel old St. Roselle. You know—”

  “Well, anyway, Madeline, I wanted to ask you something.” Adelaide's voice was intense with whatever agenda she had, and my reminiscences were apparently not needed for this conversation. I liked Adelaide, but like most teenagers, including, I suppose, myself at her age, she was extremely absorbed in herself and her own undeniable beauty. She had deep brown eyes and that light caramel hair, a tiny yet shapely body that grown women can never achieve again, no matter how they might try, and a large stable of attractive clothing that her part-time job at the Wire helped her to buy. Mom and Dad, she had once confided, were taking care of the college expenses, so the job was for fun money.

  “This funny thing happened today,” she told me. “I was walking down the hall with my friend Danny—”

  “Oh, have I met him?” I asked, ready to be the friendly adult.

  “Danny's a girl,” she said, fixing me with a that-was-your-second-dumb-mistake expression. “Anyway, I was telling Danny about something that happened at the Wire, and this boy walking by stopped right by me and said, 'You must know Madeline Mann.' And this boy just happened to be Juan O'Leary.” She nodded at me, waiting for some significant connection to be made in my brain.

  “Uh—okay. That's nice. So Juan O'Leary knows you work at the Wire.”

  I glanced past her longingly at the door of my office, where more work awaited me.

  “Yeah, but the thing is, it was Juan O-LEARY.” She emphasized his name, clearly hoping to jostle my poor dying mental equipment. “He's really cute and like, outrageously popular at Web.” This was the cool name for Webley High. “He was talking to me. And he told me that I should ask you for a message. I mean, I don't think he's ever even looked at me before!”

  Knowing Juan, and seeing Adelaide, I greatly doubted that was true. Now I remembered Juan's little conversation with me in the kitchen. “Juan said he was in your math class,” I said, hunting in my purse for my notebook. “So I'm sure he's looked at you a lot.”

  “WHAT?” she screamed. “You talked to JUAN? About ME? Oh my GOD!” Adelaide was jumping around like Rumpelstiltskin when things didn't go his way. “When did you—I mean, how—I mean, Ohmygoshdoyouthinkhelikesme?” she asked breathlessly, grabbing me with great force.

  I pointed. “You're actually pinching my flesh, and it hurts.” I mean, first things first. She drew her hand away, still gazing into my eyes. Sighing, I realized that for whatever reason I'd been chosen as the love ambassador for these hormone-crazed teens. “Yes, Juan O'Leary most likely is madly in love with you, and God knows why, but instead of just telling you himself, he asked me to tell you that there's a coffee house at the Sneaky Moon this Friday night, and Juan will be playing there, and he would like you to come and hear him.”

  I endured another of Adelaide's piercing screams, and Bill Thorpe, our editor, looked out of his office and glared at us. “Sorry,” I called. “True love revealed.” I felt a bit resentful, because in all my life I'd never felt as intensely happy as Adelaide apparently now felt. Nothing had ever made me scream with quite that caliber of joy.

  “Oh my gosh, Madeline,” Adelaide said, whispering now. “I just can't believe that Juan O'Leary likes me!”

  “Why not? You're pretty and nice. Why wouldn't he? Why wouldn't everyone?” I asked impatiently, trying to pass her now.

  Adelaide blocked me again, flicking her hair this way and that, and batting her thick lashes. “Madeline, what should I wear? I mean, if you had a date, what would you wear?” she asked, as though this were an unlikely scenario, but I was the youngest she was going to find in this tomb of an office building.

  “As a matter of fact, Addy, my boyfriend is playing there, too, and I haven't thought yet about what I'd wear, because I don't really care that much. I'll probably wear jeans. The last thing you want to do is overdress, or look too, uh—”

  “Slutty?” she asked excitedly.

  “Right. Now let me by, for gosh sakes, I have tons of work to do.”

  Adelaide flew off on the wings of love, and I tried again to make it down the hall, but was waylaid by Bill.

&n
bsp; “Madeline,” he called, and I turned right into the room that was his office.

  Bill's office was painted a happy blue, and he had a lovely view of the side yard, where he'd placed a bird feeder, and where about twenty wrens were now fighting in the snowfall over whatever Bill was serving today. I tore my glance away from the feathery fracas and said, “Yes?”

  “You got a call from Sister Moira today. They transferred her to me, and we spoke briefly. She'd like a call, when you get a chance.”

  “Well, geez, if she wants miracles she should use her connections,” I groused, sitting in a chair. “I haven't even talked to all the relevant people yet.”

  “Who have you talked to besides Astor?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his eyes.

  I filled him in on my discussion with Jeremy Yardley, and perhaps more significantly, about the slashed tires. His eyebrows went up and stayed there.

  “Your thoughts?” he said tersely, when I was finished.

  “Well, I haven't entirely collected my thoughts, but I'll admit to weird vibes. They don't necessarily mean murder, but something's not right. He seems worried. That's about all I can say right now. Rick Astor felt the same, but we could both be totally wrong. Aside from that, someone slashed my tires, and yesterday I got a call, a whispery call, telling me to stop investigating. It was funny, really.”