Make it a math problem, I told myself. Let's say “T” is a married man. If she'd slept with him, T was likely a first name. John Taglieri was a J, but everyone called him "Tag". Tommy Watson had been married to Sally back then. So he was a married "T". Father Fahey was her close adviser. His name was Thomas. And he was "married" to the Church. Could Rachel have had an affair with one of these three men? Did T really refer to a man at all? And what was T "involved" in? Was that about Joanna looking into the drug transactions? Did she suspect her ex-lover of dealing?
With a sigh, I had to acknowledge that I'd never been good at math, especially not story problems, and extra especially not problems with missing components. Where x is this and y is that, then confusion reigns supreme.
Those three men had more than their initials in common. They had all known Joanna as a student, and they had all been at the lunch table with Sister Francis. I needed to meet Tommy Watson, but I probably wouldn't get to do it until the coffee house. I knew Sally was bringing him as a date.
I rubbed my eyes, then looked at my watch. It was after noon. I left the church, and the serenity of the choir, behind. I grabbed a quick salad at McDonalds, then found a directory in Webley's last remaining phone booth—with a door that closed, rather than one of those lonely units stuck on a brick wall—and looked up Peter Wallingford.
I needed more information, so I was going to my last resort: Fritz's source. I needed to talk to Smudgy.
Chapter Eleven
I had asked my mother once if she believed in God. It was in those teen years when I was sort of trying to tick her off with everything I said, anyway, like when I'd asked if she would believe me if I told her that I was pregnant by divine intervention. Like Mary. Through gritted teeth my mother had said, “No, I would not.” But I'd really wanted to know about the God thing, and when I asked, my mother smiled. “We all have questions, sometimes, Madeline; no one has proof. As a girl your age I had many questions.”
“So how did you get answers?” I persisted.
“I never had facts,” she said. “I had children. The moment I saw Gerhard's little face, I saw the only evidence of God that I needed. You'll see, Madeline, when you have babies. It was the same when I saw your sweet face for the first time, your little bow mouth and your shining eyes. My only daughter.”
She had started to get mushy, and I was getting uncomfortable.
“You know,” she continued, “you were the only one of my children who didn't cry when she was born. You looked straight at the ceiling and you blinked at it. The nurse was washing you, and you stared at that ceiling as if something were up there. Your father and I were laughing; it was such a joyous moment.” She paused, and then said, “Perhaps you were seeing God, Madeline.”
“Yeah, right, Mom,” I said scornfully. I'd dripped with scorn as a teen. I'd always remembered that conversation, though. I was thinking of it as I walked toward Smudgy's shop.
Smudgy, aka Peter Wallingford, was Fritz's age, and managed a comic book shop in Webley called Superhero Junction. I got this info from his mom, with whom he lived in town.
I arrived at the Junction around one o'clock, and found that I was the only customer.
The place was dingy, but packed with comics, action figures, and memorabilia. I admired an Indiana Jones poster tacked on a wall slathered with posters. There's just something about Harrison Ford's danger face that makes a girl go tingly. I shrugged it off and sought Smudgy behind the counter. I vaguely remembered Smudgy, because as a teen he'd had the occasional Saturday lunch at my house, and he and Fritz would take turns reciting long passages they'd memorized from movies they liked, such as Star Wars or The Holy Grail. Then they'd fall all over the place laughing at their own brilliance and inventiveness.
Peter/Smudgy looked young, but he'd grown a beard and shoulder length hair. He was attractive enough facially, his dirty-blonde hair giving him a sort of Bjorn Borg appeal, but without the muscles. He still lived up to his nickname, but now it was newsprint staining his skin. I imagined he read comics for most of the day.
“Hey, Peter,” I said.
He pointed at me. “Your hair, man.”
“Yup. Dyed it.”
“It looks totally pretty. Very Betty.”
“Who?”
“Ya know. Betty and Veronica. The Archies. You're Betty. There's this huge resemblance.”
I shuddered. Fritz and his friends had whiled away many an hour of painful puberty drawing nipples on the breasts of poor Betty and Veronica—as if their exaggerated figures weren't already delineated enough in those cartoons. Not to mention that few women wear their nipples outside their clothing.
I changed the subject. “Listen, I wanted to ask you about Sasa. Back at St. Roselle.”
Smudgy laughed. “Why, man? That club was so bogus.”
“What do you mean?”
He rubbed at his eyes, as though I'd brought tears of mirth with my shenanigans.
“It was just a dumb club, man. We all sat around and talked about why drugs were bad, and Mr. Tag would warn us not to use. Which was so bogus.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Tag was a total user! He was a fuckin' Vietnam Vet! Sorry.” He blushed slightly. “Plus he'd tell us not to use, and to warn us against pushers, but—” he shook his head, smiling. He picked up a Captain America figure that stood guarding the register and holding Superhero Junction business cards behind his patriotic shield. He examined the toy carefully, perhaps checking for defects.
“But what?”
“Well, whatever.” He set the figure down, looked at me. “Why are you asking out of the fucking blue? Sorry.”
“I'm investigating a crime. Mr. Tag's name came up, and the name of the club, so I'm just asking.”
“Well, I'll tell you. It doesn't dawn on you so much when you're stoned. But now that I'm out of there, I think—how convenient that he gave us all this info about the pusher. 'Stay away, because he's known to do this, and to get you through an older kid, and to use this format of collecting money, and to be a dangerous dude.' Now I'm thinking, well, it was him. By warning us against it, he got us all interested, and he managed to give us all the information. Know what I'm saying? It was the perfect gig. But he was a great actor, man.”
I was shocked, despite my own suspicions of the same thing. “Why are you so convinced?”
He clapped his hands loudly and laughed. I wondered if he were high at the moment. “He was a vet, man. He spent half the meetings telling us the world sucked and people were ungrateful bastards. Not in those words. He was totally out for revenge, if you ask me. The world owed him, so why not take it in the form of money, man?” He nodded wisely at me.
I nodded back, thinking. I walked about the shop for a while, not wishing to offend Smudgy with an early exit. Could it really be true? Could a respected teacher be a drug dealer, as well? Of course. There were teachers on the news all the time who abused their positions with crimes of all sorts. Teachers who had affairs. Teachers who sold drugs. Teachers who ignored school policy. If I was right, then Tag Taglieri was all of those.
I bought a Betty and Veronica comic for Jack (maybe he'd see the resemblance) and a Wonder Woman action figure. She could hold my business cards, and inspire me with her lasso of truth, her deflecting bracelets, her awesome outfit. I thanked Smudgy for his input and for my purchases. He thanked me, sent his regards to Fritz, and picked up what he'd been reading. Star Wars. Some things never change.
Chapter Twelve
Back at home I parked on the street, since I knew I'd be going out again, and stepped out of the car. For some reason I thought of my notebook, which I'd tossed on the opposite seat. I dove back in, shut the door, and felt a powerful rush of air go past me, then saw the car speeding past, the car that would have hit me if I hadn't jumped inside my own. The speed and nearness of it literally shook my Scorpio. The other car was gone in seconds, careening around the corner with a squeal. I'd been too shaken to look for a license number. I
thought the car might be blue.
I sat in my Scorpio for a time, waiting for my drumming heart to slow its rhythm, staring at my car's For Sale sign from the cold interior. I wasn't foolish enough to rule out the idea that this had been intentional; then again, who would believe it was related to Joanna? The police? Jack would, I supposed, but I didn't really want to discuss it with him, what with the "you're going to get yourself killed" speeches that were always at the ready these days. A part of me wanted to believe it was just an accident anyway. I tried to get out of the car, but my limbs had the wet noodle feeling that one endures after a shock. I lay back against the seat, cold and frightened, willing myself to be calm. Maybe it was just a crazy driver after all—someone on a cell phone, or eating at the wheel, or lighting a cigarette. Once I'd even seen someone reading a book while driving. What really kept me in shock was the fact that I'd decided, at the last minute, to get back in. Did I have a guardian angel? Was Shoe watching over me? Was Joanna? In any case, I was faced with a near death experience, and the problem of who I could confide in about it.
I finally decided to just let it go. I'd be more careful, more watchful now, in case someone was really after me, but since I had no information to offer the police, and I'd had an unpleasant run-in with the Webley P.D. just a few months before, I figured I'd leave them out of it. Or maybe I'd mention it to Kubik at today's appointment just to hear his lovely sarcastic voice tell me what an idiot I was.
When I got in I locked the door after me and put on a comforting pair of slippers. I padded to the answering machine and found a message from Cindy:. “Madeline, I've gotta get to work, but I just remembered! You have met Sister Joanna. Remember that nun who came to the chapel, who gave you the note about your dad's surgery? That was her, remember? You told me at the time, and said it was the choir nun, and that she was nice. Just thought I'd tell you. Hey, I found my bridesmaid's dress! It's lavender, as assigned. I hope it's the same shade as Sonnet's and the other girls. Later.”
First, about the dress: I didn't want to make my bridesmaids come to fittings and disagree about dresses, so I simply gave them a color: lavender. I figured it would look fine. My mother had conceded in this, and acknowledged the thoughtfulness of it. Arcelia was a police detective I'd met two months before, and I'd asked her, in light of our new friendship, to be in the wedding, as I had a girl named Jamie Lanford. Sonnet, like Cindy, was a friend from high school, and Sally, my fifth bridesmaid, was my friend and confidant at work. Sonnet was a redhead, Cindy and Sally were blondes, Jamie a brunette, and Arcelia a raven-haired woman. This was just a coincidence, but I thought it would look nice in the pictures.
Regarding the first part of Cindy's message, I had to hearken back to that day. I mostly remembered the note from the office: opening it and reading it. But it was true, there was a sympathetic presence there in my memory, and she had spoken to me. And if it had been of great importance, I had probably written about it in my diary.
My high school diary was a strange little book. Months and months could go by without entry, and then I would suddenly pour forth ideas about the happenings of many weeks. All entries tended to center on Tim Ashbaugh, the boy I was desperately in love with for most of my high school career. We had the on-again off-again type of relationship that Taylor and Burton did, and almost as much fighting. This made for exciting journal entries.
I doubted there would be much about my father, because some things are too deep to bring out even with a pen.
I foraged in one of my drawers and found two little books, one of which said “High School.” I flipped through it. My high school writing was neat and tiny, and I'd packed this volume full of all sorts things, both innocuous pranks and meaningful exchanges.
I scanned the dates until I came to the spring of my junior year. Cindy, as usual, was right. I read, “I was really impressed by Sister Joanna. It was so sweet of her to sit with me in the chapel, and to tell me the good news about Dad. She said that life is full of little resurrections, and that my father's health would prove that was true. She said that she knew Dad would not be troubled by a recurrence. Of course she was just saying that, but I felt so much better. After school I called Dad and I told him, too. He was still groggy from the anesthesia, but he said it was nice of her.”
I snapped the book shut and let out a huge sigh. It was true. I had buried huge portions of my life because I couldn't bear to look at them. I was a burier. It was time that I started facing things, and facing people.
I sat for a moment, thinking about Joanna. She'd said "resurrection" to me, too. And she'd said my father's cancer would not return, and as of yet, it had not. Had Joanna been blessed with the gift of prophecy? Did I believe in that?
I thought of my father—especially how hard he worked. My father wasn't a giant of a man; he was only five foot ten, and his hands were small. But they were so capable, so loving. They'd fixed every broken thing in my childhood, soothed my skinned knees, stroked my hair. I remembered how Abel Yardley had judged me worthwhile because he'd met my father. How my father and I, since I was a teenager, had "ice cream dates" once a month. He orders butter pecan, without fail. He says, when all is said and done, there is no other flavor. I thought of how scared I'd been when I thought my father would die. I would lie on my bed and listen to my parents talking in hushed voices, making plans, I believed at the time, for any eventuality. I cried into my pillow, thinking that there could be no life without him. But my father had lived.
I don't spend much time reflecting on my family. On my bed, diary in hand, I asked myself why, and realized that they are too precious to me, somehow. They are like the objects people save for "someday" and put away in a box. I love my family, and they love me, but that love is not something we talk about, or, to be honest, acknowledge, with anything other than togetherness.
I snapped my diary shut and wiped away the accumulation of tears in my eyes.
I looked at my watch. I still had to get to the police station before the concert. Tonight I would see Tommy; perhaps he would fill in some missing clue that would help me put the whole case in perspective. There was so much, suddenly, that I needed to do. I was determined to tell everyone at the concert, my family, and Jack, that I loved them. Especially my parents, who never heard it, and must have longed for it deep down. I wanted to talk with anyone at the concert who might have information I could use; and I needed to look at Joanna's writings once more before I returned them to the Yardleys.
I pulled out my concert outfit, selected some makeup, and dumped Joanna's manila envelope full of letters on my bed. Somehow I would do it all.
My appointment with Detective Kubik was at 4:00. I went to my car, looking carefully around the street before getting in, then carefully scanning the area again before pulling out. I got to the police department with a couple of minutes to spare. I hadn't yet dressed for the concert, but I'd done my make-up; I hoped Kubik wouldn't think I'd gotten all dolled up for him. I imagined he'd be even more unpleasant if he flirted with someone.
My dislike of Kubik had begun back in the fall, when he'd grilled me about the death of Logan Lanford, an old friend of mine, and because of some vague evidence at the scene, Kubik had harbored a suspicion that I had somehow been involved in my friend's death. It hadn't endeared him to me.
As he had done during our last meeting, he kept me waiting in a boring little room for several minutes before he deigned to enter; this time, though, there was a file sitting on the scarred table. An underling had obviously left it there at Kubik's request, but I doubted it was supposed to be left alone. I strode to a chair in front of the file and sat down. I peeked at the title: “Sister Francis McMann.” Ohhhh, did I want to open that folder. I jumped up, pulled at the door, and peered into the hall. No one there, and no sound but the clacking of computer keys.
I shut the door quietly and dove back toward the file, flipping it open and speed reading for all I was worth. So far, apparently, not a lot had been gleaned about Francis's
death, but the police had done some things I hadn't thought of. First, they determined who had brought her the brownie that had caused her death; apparently it was sitting at the main office on a little plate with Francis's name attached, and the main office sent a student to deliver it to her. The student was now receiving counseling, it said in a footnote. Wow, some compassion, I thought. Whatever peon had been assigned to type this report had made a point of finding that out.
They had investigated all treats that had been brought in, such as the treats for Judy's birthday, the ones served at the lunch table. Those cupcakes and brownies, however, had been nutless, and Francis had sampled some at the time and not become ill. They were in the process of working with the school cafeteria in trying to determine who had purchased nut brownies at lunch that fateful day, but it was taking a long time, because instead of “brownie" on the school's register tape, it was simply rung as “bakery.” This could have included any number of items, and almost every student and faculty member who went through the line bought some kind of dessert. It's the American way.
Detectives were interviewing students who were with Francis in her classes that day, as well as teachers who had interacted with her; office staff had not seen who left the brownie.
I was ready to shut the folder when I saw my name: Madeline Mann. It was underlined in red, obviously by Kubik, who had that weird hatred of me. The note said, “Sister Francis was visited in her class by a woman the office identified as Madeline Mann, a local reporter for the Webley Wire. Mann has received some celebrity of late with her work in exposing corruption in the mayor's office, and in tracking down the killer of Webley resident Logan Lanford. Mann was shot in the process of trying to apprehend Pamela Fey, Lanford's murderer. Her stories about the subject filled the Webley Wire for more than a week, and were picked up by several news organizations. Her employer, Bill Thorpe, claims that readership of the Wire is up dramatically since Mann's story broke. Mann's reason for visiting Francis McMann was not clear; an office worker reported that Mann had been rather vague, and had mentioned being an alumna of the school.”
Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries) Page 14