I heard footsteps and slapped the folder shut, diving into a chair on one side of the table. I was opening my notebook with what I hoped was a serene expression when Kubik marched in. He looked at the file, then at me, and glared. “You didn't look at that file, did you?”
I widened my eyes. “Does that have something to do with our meeting? Oh, gosh, I wish I had. But you'll tell me what's in it, won't you?”
“I'll tell you whatever it's appropriate to tell you. This is a death investigation, Miss Monn (I had once insisted that Kubik use the German pronunciation of my name, mainly for yuks) and it is still in process, and we are not yet ready to report any findings to journalists.”
“But I'm not really here as a journalist. I'm here as an investigator. I was hired by a certain party to look into the death of Sister Joanna Yardley, and since that investigation has begun, Sister Francis has died mysteriously and someone tried to run me down. Don't you think that's rather important?” I asked.
Kubik did me the service of looking surprised before glaring at me again. Really, this guy was just a softy at heart. “Did you report the incident? The—what—car that tried to run you down?”
“Yes, it was a car. I'm afraid I was too shocked to get the number, make or model. It just seemed rather a coincidental thing, to be almost hit by a speeding car on a quiet residential street—right outside my own home, in fact. And yes, I'm reporting it to you.”
“You'll have to file a report through the proper channels,” he said stubbornly. “After that, we can factor it into the overall investigation.”
“Won't that take longer? I mean, if someone is out there killing people, and trying to kill other people, wouldn't it be faster if I just told you, so that you could put it all in that file there? Maybe it would help you catch the perp,” I offered.
“You have told me. What else do you need to know?” asked Kubik.
Since I already knew of his vast charms, I didn't feel insulted by his lack of loving care upon hearing of my near death experience. Kubik was not warm and fuzzy. “Are the police considering turning this death investigation into a homicide investigation?” I asked.
Kubik shrugged. “If we alter the nature of the investigation, we'll make a statement to that effect. What else?”
Much of what I'd wanted to know had been in the file, but I didn't want Kubik to be suspicious. One thing had been bothering me. “Did Sister Francis suffer much? Before she died?”
Kubik flipped open the file, his face wooden. He skimmed for a while, rather slowly, I thought. I wondered if he needed bifocals. He seemed to be getting into that age bracket. “Death was almost instantaneous, report says. She was DOA at the hospital. Her extreme age worked against her, doctors suppose.”
“I see. Thank you. Did she say anything? Before losing consciousness?”
“That is not something that can be revealed to—” Kubik bit off the end. I assumed he wanted to say, 'the likes of you' or something of that ilk. “—to anyone other than the police at this time. This is not an open investigation.”
Kubik closed the file and sat back in his seat, stretching and giving me a nice glimpse of his substantial gut. “Now I have a question for you. What were you doing at the high school that day? You spoke with Sister Francis specifically.” His tone suggested great suspicion, and I wanted to say, 'Oh, nothing—just dropped off a few nut brownies and a bag of cashews.' However, I felt I'd grown since my last run-in with Kubik.
“I wanted to ask her some questions about Sister Joanna. We weren't able to talk much, since she was in class. We made an appointment to meet later. Unfortunately, that didn't happen.”
“No.” Again, the tone implied that it hadn't happened because I had viciously murdered Sister Francis. Or was it just me? The guy seemed like a very bad cop. I wondered, as I had once before, if he just suspected everyone who walked past, in hopes that one of his suspicions would turn out to have validity.
“Well,” I said breezily, looking at my watch. “Is there anything you can tell me, Detective Kubik, about the death of Sister Francis?”
He shrugged. “Nut allergy. Possibly an accident, possibly not. You probably know just as much as I do at this point,” he said.
Thanks to the handy file, I thought to myself. “Well, thank you for your time.” I stood up.
Kubik scowled at me in what, for him, was probably a fond goodbye. “We'll be in touch, Miss Monn.” He flipped open the file and began to read it with great ostentation. The message: I've already forgotten you.
At six thirty I was dressed and ready; my coat lay waiting on the couch, and in its pockets were my camera and my notebook. The former was for Jack, the latter for the unexpected. I was looking once more at a letter Joanna had written to her mother two weeks before her death. It was the only one that had seemed strange to me, so I'd put it aside. It read,
Dear Mom,
Thank you so much for the cookies you made for my class. They wolfed them down in no time, but then of course they sang poorly, with all those crumbs in their throats. They love your thoughtful little gifts, though, and they look forward to them. So sweet of you, Mom.
I've been sort of blue this week, not really sure why. I've been a little disillusioned, something to do with school, but I've been dreaming again. You know the kind. They're sad, always sad, and they stay with me during the day. Or perhaps it's the music we've been singing. It's some rather mournful stuff that we've been practicing this week. But beautiful. Sometimes I think the sad music is the most beautiful of all, don't you?
Now listen to me and my depressing tone! As if our Lord wanted us to use the gift of life for moping!
You have a wonderful week, Mom, and I'll see you this weekend.
Love and Kisses,
Rachel
There was nothing specific about the letter that bothered me, other than the proximity of its creation to the time of her death, and the generally negative tone. Did Joanna already suspect the drug dealer at this point? Was that the disillusioning “something at school?” And what about those dreams? She seemed to suggest that her mother knew about them.
I consulted my watch. It wouldn't take long to get to the concert. I ran to my notebook, flipped to the phone number section, and dialed the Yardleys.
Rebecca answered. “Hello, Mrs. Yardley, it's Madeline. I have a quick question for you.”
“Of course, dear.”
“I was reading a letter Rachel wrote to you, two weeks before she died. She says that she feels sad, disillusioned, and she's been dreaming again. She says you know what she means by that.”
Rebecca gave a thoughtful sigh. “Oh, well, I did and I didn't. Rachel's dreams were often spiritual. She generally took great comfort from her dreams, as though they gave her wisdom. But sometimes, she said, they just reminded her of the inevitability of pain and suffering.”
“So—you're saying that her dreams were—”
“Well, I'm not entirely sure, dear. They were hard for her to explain to me, but they were very important to her, you see.”
“Why?”
“Well, I suppose because she felt they were from God.”
“So her dreams—they were real visions?”
“I don't know, dear. Her father and I encouraged her to keep a dream journal, and she said she did. But we never found it with her things.”
"And you received all of her things? None of them would be left at the convent, or . . . somewhere?"
“I believe so, hon. Some kind women, colleagues from school, or maybe ladies from the Women's Guild, I can't remember—came to help Francis sort through it, there wasn't much. I told them that they could give some of it to Goodwill, but I specified the things that I wanted. I don't suppose I mentioned a journal, because I wasn't thinking about it. I assumed they'd give me everything personal like that. We weren't ready, at the time, to go and look at her room. We never had to, as it happened.”
“I see.” But I didn't. And I wanted that dream journal, or something,
that I could hold in my hand and look at, some evidence—"Ah!” I said.
“Yes, dear?” Rebecca said curiously.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I spilled something,” I lied. “Thank you so much for the information. I'll have the envelope back to you soon. Have a good evening.”
“You too, dear.” We hung up, and I ran to my bookshelf, scouring the titles.
“Come on, come on,” I said, fingering the paperbacks. “Why didn't I ever alphabetize you?”
I found it on the bottom shelf. The Great Gatsby. I ran to my coat, put the paperback in with my notebook, and left for the concert, and the longest evening of my life.
Chapter Thirteen
The Sneaky Moon parking lot was almost full; I crunched into a spot that others had avoided because it wasn't fully plowed. I ran toward the entrance, getting snow into my high heels. I'd dressed up for the occasion, for Jack. I wanted him to be proud of me and to see that I was proud.
Inside it was cozy and warm. Little Italian lights dangled from the rafters and climbed trellised walls. Everything was made of cedarwood: the booths, the bars, the floors and stairways, and it gave the place a fragrant and refreshing aura. Right now the restaurant was packed with people, and Juan and Jack were warming up. The strumming sent a jolt of nervousness into my stomach, and I immediately sought my family. I saw my mother waving from an elevated booth near the stage; I made a beeline for it.
There was an open dance area in front of the stage, and many young people already sat there. A line of girls with long legs and impossibly high breasts walked giggling out of the bathroom and deposited themselves in the front row of the groundlings. Among them was Adelaide, and I wondered if all of these girls had crushes on Juan. Then I heard someone call, “Go, Mr. Shea!” and I realized that Juan wasn't the only sex symbol on the stage.
Slightly miffed, I joined my mother, father, Fritz, Gerhard, Sandra and Veronica. The booths were large and long, and we all fit together. I took off my coat, tucking it behind me. My mother took one look at my low-cut black sweater and said, “Madeline! Everyone can see your breasts.”
I grinned at her. “Not my breasts, Mom, just a hint of them.” I took her hand in mine and said, “I love you, Mom. And I love you, Dad.” My parents exchanged a glance that was half confusion, half gratitude; I turned to my brothers and told them I loved them, too. Only Gerhard actually said it back to me. Sandra smiled approvingly; Veronica was busy mutilating some saltines that she'd pulled out of the bread basket. The table in front of her was littered with crumbs.
“Are you excited about tonight, honey?” asked my father.
I looked at him with searching eyes. He looked handsome and healthy. His gray hair was combed back from his forehead. There was no sign of a receding hairline, which my brothers were always happy to note (though I'd told them I thought baldness came from the mother's side, and Shoe had been bald as a billiard ball). His face was pleasing and kind, and he wore, for him, a rather sporty ensemble of a polo shirt with a sweater vest and a pair of jeans.
“Yeah, I'm excited. Are you?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, your mother and I have been looking forward to this.” He put his arm around my mother and they kissed each other. My parents were rarely demonstrative but always affectionate. I felt a twinge of something like happiness, watching them. I got out my camera and took their picture, then one of Veronica, who mugged for the camera, and a couple of shots of Jack and Juan warming up.
I had been keeping an eye on the door, hoping to see Sally and Tommy. When I finally spotted Sally, I was surprised to see not only the man I assumed was Tommy Watson, but Tag Taglieri and a woman who was probably his wife. So, they had double dated, I thought grimly as I handed my Nikon to Fritz, excused myself and headed toward Sally.
I spared a glance at Jack, but for the moment he only had eyes for his instrument. Occasionally he would say something unintelligible to Juan, and then they would go back to their tuning, their ears to their guitars as though they were waiting for the strings to speak.
I reached Sally and said hello, forcing a smile for Mr. Taglieri. He introduced his wife, Maria, and Sally introduced me to Tommy, who had obvious charisma. I could feel its power when he shook my hand and winked at me. I always mistrusted winkers, but I felt I should trust Sally's taste in men.
I told Sally hastily, “Listen, they're about to start, but I saw an empty booth there by the wall. I'll come and join you at intermission.” Sally nodded, and I jogged back to my family.
As I turned away, I felt the sudden numbness of shock. Something had just dawned on me, something I hadn't noted in all the noise and bustle. Mr. Taglieri's wife, Maria Taglieri, was an attractive older woman with dark hair, streaked with grey. The head I'd seen on his shoulder the night before was red—I was almost positive the hair was red. I thought of the time he'd spent talking outside, talking in the cold driveway, not even wearing a coat. Was that so the redhead could run out the back?
When the lights in the restaurant dimmed and a bluish spot came up on Juan and Jack, my heart plunged into my stomach. Jack smiled at his audience. He had a lot of star power, did Jack. If he ventured out to L.A. he could really hit it big, I thought proudly.
They began to sing. Their first song was Heart of Gold by Neil Young. This was the perfect venue for Jack, because the Sneaky Moon liked to feature folksy artists, and their audience came for that reason. The crowd clapped at the beginning and the end. When the noise had died down, they sang Leila, the acoustic version. I always thought this song was a great example of how things mellow with age, even Eric Clapton. Listen to version one, where he's screaming the words and the guitar is screaming, too, and you really can't understand much of what he's saying; then in version two it's slower, more melodic, more understandable. Jack and Juan were on fire. The high school girls were screaming with adulation, and Juan was starting to preen like the lone rooster in the chicken coop.
They sang I Can't Tell You Why by the Eagles; Juan sang lead on this one, and his tenor was so impressive that even I was ready to swoon for him. They sang tunes by the Dixie Chicks, Dire Straits, Allison Krause, Willy Nelson, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and they closed the first set with If I Fell, by the Beatles.
I was blushing with pride and admiration when the two of them walked off the little stage and went in the back room for a brief rest and some liquid refreshment. I accepted my family's compliments, and then we all dispersed: Fritz to talk to the stage techs, Gerhard to get a milk at the bar for Veronica, my father and mother to say hello to friends across the room, and I to chat with Sally and meet Tommy Watson.
I joined their table, where people seemed a bit tipsy and ready to laugh. I'd found The Great Gatsby in my pocket at my parents' booth, and had been scanning Chapter 7 between songs. For some reason I still had it in my hand, so I hid it in my lap after I took a seat next to Sally. So far nothing really stood out for me in Gatsby. They all go to New York City. Eventually Tom confronts Gatsby, and Gatsby asks too much of Daisy, and she lets him down, and he's disillusioned: he loves her more than she loves him. Then they ride back in different cars. Could that be what Francis meant, the different cars? And Tom finds Myrtle dead, and Nick speaks with Gatsby at the end, and Gatsby is watching Daisy's window in a solitary lover's vigil.
Tommy was obviously the life of the party, and was telling a story when I arrived; he broke off so that everyone could compliment Jack and congratulate me; I accepted on my fiance's behalf. “I'm very proud of him,” I told them. Eventually Tommy launched back into his story, which ended with a big punchline and a laugh from everyone.
I smiled and said, “So, do you double-date often?”
This earned a guffaw from those assembled. Tommy took pity with an explanation. “Tag and I haven't seen each other since the last time I subbed, which was almost a year ago. So when I saw him the other day, I said he and Maria should come out with us on Saturday.”
“Thank God,” said Tag's wife, “or I'd be sitting at home wat
ching ESPN!”
More laughter. I was starting to notice how much funnier everything was to people with a little booze in them. I was trying to think of a question to ask of those assembled, but I felt constricted. I'd wanted Tommy on his own, not Tommy with my prime suspect. The last thing Tag wanted to do, I was sure, was talk about Sister Joanna on his evening out. What I really wanted to do was ask if he was having an affair. Again? I absently riffled the pages in my lap.
“What are you reading?” asked Mr. Taglieri pleasantly.
I hesitated. They all knew, these people at the table, what Sister Francis had said. Which would make my reasons for reading the book quite obvious. I was scanning my mind for an alternate title when Sally playfully grabbed it. “The Great Gatsby,” she called out. Sally was the one person who probably didn't know the significance of the title.
I blushed and didn't look at anyone, pretending to be interested in the currently empty stage. No one spoke for a moment; then Sally finally said, “Geez, I didn't realize Fitzgerald was such a conversation killer. I always thought he livened up the parties, back in his day.”
I met her eyes, which were confused and now a little worried. I smiled. “He did. But that's because they were all drunk. Maybe we need to get drunker,” I said lightly. “I think I'll go order a drink. Can I get anyone something?”
Tommy Watson stood up. “I'll help you, Madeline.” Surprised, but pleased, I led the way to the bar, where I ordered a White Russian, my first drink of the evening, and Tommy ordered a couple of beers for Sally and him. He faced me, leaning on the bar, while we waited for our drinks.
Lovely, Dark and Deep (The Madeline Mann Mysteries) Page 15