Adjusted to Death

by Jaqueline Girdner

  “Are you okay?” she asked as she returned to the room with a blanket.

  I attempted a smile. “Fine, just a little tired.”

  “You’re probably coming down with something,” she said, her intent gaze on my face. She felt my forehead. “No fever,” she pronounced. “Red Zinger, Mellow Mint or Dr. Chang’s?”

  “Dr. Chang’s,” I answered. “Maggie, why are you here?”

  “Eileen ordered me to come,” she admitted, a pale pink blush spreading underneath her freckles. “She really chewed me out about my insensitivity. And I realized she was right. I’m really sorry, Kate.” Her wide-open eyes looked into mine. “I’ve been way out of line. I should never have asked you to find the murderer.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. I was too drained to judge her harshly. It was easier to forgive her.

  “No, it’s not. And I shouldn’t have accused Wayne either.”

  I let that one go by without absolution.

  “Eileen said it couldn’t be Wayne,” she continued. “Even if it was, I should have kept my mouth shut.” She sat down across from me and twirled a strand of her hair, her eyes focused on her lap. “I get real excited. I read a lot of fiction—”

  “Romance novels?” I couldn’t resist asking. The deepening of her blush was answer enough. She kept her eyes averted and continued. “Eileen says that judging without knowing the facts is the same kind of thing that leads to racism and homophobia, and she’s right. I want to make amends—”

  But before she could finish her sentence the whine of the teakettle turned into a scream, and Maggie jumped up and galloped into the kitchen like one of Pavlov’s dogs. After a minute she returned with a cup of tea and set it down on the table.

  “I want to make it up to you.”

  “You don’t have anything to make up to me,” I said.

  “But I do, Kate,” she answered, tapping my arm for emphasis. I winced and drew away.

  “Is your arm hurt?” she asked, concern in her eyes once more, and a pinch of suspicion.

  “I knocked it getting out of the car,” I lied.

  “Shall I take a look at it?”

  I shook my head. She shrugged her shoulders and went on. “Eileen and I would like to take you out to dinner tomorrow night.”

  I remembered my evening appointment with Valerie. “I’ve got a date,” I said. I could tell by the way Maggie was wriggling in her chair that she wanted to ask if my date was with Wayne, but she practiced uncharacteristic restraint. I softened toward her. “How about lunch?”

  “You’ve got it,” she answered, her face brightening. “Twelve o’clock. Meet us at the office. There’s a great little place down the street that serves tofu burgers and vegetarian tostadas.

  “And,” she continued, “I want to give you free chiropractic treatments for a while.”

  “How are you planning to get Renee to go for it?” I asked.

  Maggie’s eyes narrowed. She pulled her shoulders back before speaking. “Renee does a real good job. But I am the boss.”

  I burst into laughter before I could stop myself. Maggie added a good-natured chuckle to my squeals.

  “Well, some of the time I’m the boss,” she said with a lop-sided grin. Then her face grew serious again. “There’s another thing I need to tell you about. Eileen and I decided you should know.”

  “What?” I prompted impatiently.

  “Renee says she knows something about Wayne that will convict him.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. Maggie jumped to her feet and began pulling on a clump of her hair.

  “Jeez, I’m sorry. I was afraid to tell you, but Eileen thought I should. That’s one of the reasons I suspected Wayne in the first place.”

  “But what is it that Renee knows?” I asked, managing to keep my voice below a shout only by digging my nails into the arms of my chair.

  “I don’t know. She won’t tell me.” Maggie was tugging at her hair with one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. Her voice grew more shrill with each sentence. “Sheesh, I’ve bugged her for days now. She won’t tell Eileen either. And it’s no use you asking. She says she won’t say anything to you, or Wayne. And, whatever it is, she’s told the police!”

  - Fourteen -

  Maggie stared down at me, her eyes like a deer’s caught in oncoming headlights. Looking at her, I could understand why the messengers of bad news were slain. Especially when they brought the news with the best of intentions. I gripped the arms of my chair tighter, gulping deep breaths in an effort to calm myself.

  “What’s Renee’s home phone number?” I asked Maggie through clenched teeth.

  “Renee won’t talk to you—” she began.

  “Just give me the phone number,” I snapped.

  “Sheesh, Kate,” she said.

  I threw off my blanket and stomped to my telephone. I yanked the telephone directory from underneath it. The receiver clattered off the hook. I replaced it with a bang, and began thumbing through the directory pages with a great show of purpose. I couldn’t remember Renee’s last name. But Maggie didn’t know that.

  “It would be easier if you gave me her phone number,” I said, my tone a half-conscious imitation of the stocky Reagan.

  Maggie fumbled in her coat pocket and brought out a crumpled list of names and numbers. She handed it to me without further comment.

  My conversation with Renee was short and shrill. When I asked her what it was she knew about Wayne, she told me it was none of my business. When I persisted, she told me that she would call the police if I tried to talk to her again. Then she hung up on me.

  Maggie remained watchful but blessedly silent when I slammed the receiver down. Her freckles stood out in bold relief against her unnaturally pale skin, and her hair had been tugged into a frizzy horizontal clump on the side of her head. I found a glimmer of pity for her in my heart. She must have seen that glimmer.

  “I blew it again,” she said. I withheld comment. “I shouldn’t have told you.” Her shoulders slumped. “Can I say I’m sorry one more time?”

  “It’s all right.” I sighed. It was my mother’s sigh of the martyr.

  “I’ll go now,” she muttered. She pulled her hood back up over her hair and walked to the door, dejection evident in each heavy step.

  “Thanks, Maggie,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow for lunch.”

  “Really?” she asked, and turned toward me, her face brightening.

  “Yes, really. Now get out of here while you can,” I said, infusing my tone with a lightness that I didn’t feel.

  Once she was gone I fell back into my naugahyde chair and tried to figure out what Renee might know about Wayne that could convict him. The old fear about Wayne came back. Just a whiff, but it was enough. Was he a murderer? I shook my head, rejecting the idea. I refused to believe it. But, what if he was? Did I still want him? What a thought! Where were the days when dandruff was enough to nix a relationship? I got out of my chair and began to pace. C.C. sashayed in and dropped herself onto her back in my path.

  All right, let’s assume Wayne is innocent, I told myself as I stepped over C.C.’s supine form. She took a swipe at my foot. Did Renee have a piece of evidence that she was misinterpreting? Something she saw or heard that wasn’t what it seemed? That was certainly possible. I considered what Maggie had made of Wayne’s attraction to me. But Renee didn’t seem to have Maggie’s imagination. On the other hand, she probably had enough imagination to turn some innocuous act into a murder threat, like the psychology students who were convinced their professor had been threatened with a gun, when, in fact, only a banana had been pointed at him. The power of suggestion. I was beginning to feel better.

  And what if she was lying? I could imagine one very good reason for her to lie. Pinning the murder on Wayne was certainly a way to divert suspicion from herself, the only other suspect who had had any established personal relationship with Scott. The police would certainly weigh that in before accepting her testimo
ny at face value. I was calm enough now to flop back down in my chair. Was Renee the one who had broken Scott Younger’s neck? She looked very good to me. Who knew what had really gone wrong between her and Scott? C.C. yowled her agreement and jumped into my lap.

  “Should I tell Wayne?” I asked her. Her ears barely twitched at the question. She clawed my thighs happily without answering.

  I picked her up and held her in the air so I could see her face. “Will it only drive him crazy?” I asked. Or get Renee killed, a dissenting inner voice suggested. C.C. squirmed out of my arms and onto the floor.

  Then she was back in my lap, clawing again. I held one of her paws and smiled, thinking how Wayne had subdued her clawing the night he had taken me to dinner. I remembered his halting invitation, the ride to the restaurant, and the black Cadillac which had followed us.

  I jumped out of my seat, dumping C.C. on the floor. The black Cadillac had been following Wayne!

  I moved quickly to the phone and dialed Wayne’s number. As it rang I watched C.C.’s indignant backside disappear through the cat-door. Wayne answered on the second ring.

  “Hoped you’d call today,” he said. The warmth in his voice seemed to caress me over the line. But I wasn’t in the mood for a warm caress.

  “Two men in a black Cadillac questioned me today,” I said.

  A short silence followed, then a soft, “Oh God.”

  “They wanted some ‘pictures.’ Do you know these guys?”

  “Be right over,” he said. His voice had hardened. The phone went dead.

  I folded my blanket and fought back tears and doubt. It was too much. First, Renee’s vague accusation and then the connection between Wayne and the black Cadillac. Angrily, I shook away all thought and gathered up my forgotten paperwork.

  I didn’t get very far on order forms. Wayne arrived on my doorstep within fifteen minutes. His curly hair was ruffled, as if he had pulled on his sweater in a hurry. His shoulders were stiff, his expression unreadable.

  “Okay?” he asked. I looked up at him looming in the doorway.

  “‘Okay’ what?” I snapped, irritated by his one-word sentence and my own fear.

  “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” His voice was tight, his eyes intense under his heavy brows. Concern or anger? Or both?

  I rubbed my arm.

  “What did they do to your arm?”

  “Nothing. Dammit, I’m alright!” I exploded.

  The rigidity of his posture melted. He dropped his head down until his chin touched his chest. Then he sighed.

  When he brought his face back up it held a softer expression. “Can we start over?” he asked.

  I nodded, ashamed of my outburst. “Let’s sit down,” I said. “I’ll tell you the whole thing.”

  We took our positions in the swinging chairs. I described the break-in at my house, my interrogation at the hands of the two Reagans, and my realization that the black Cadillac was the same one that had followed Wayne on Thursday night. My neck tightened up just talking about it. He listened intently without interrupting me.

  “They visited me too,” he said, once I had finished. His voice was steady and clear now. “Friday morning while I was out. They weren’t as tidy putting things back at my place. Books, files, magazines, all over the floor. Whole place was ransacked. Took me most of the day to clean up.

  “They pulled me off the road as well,” he continued. “Wore the Reagan masks. Wondered if they knew I was a Democrat for a second.”

  I choked down a laugh.

  “So what happened?” I asked. “Did they tell you what they wanted?”

  “Uh, no,” Wayne answered. He was blushing now, his eyes lowered.

  “Why not?”

  “I took their guns away. They ran off before I could ask.” His words were delivered in a low voice, the words barely audible.

  “How the hell did you get their guns from them?” I asked.

  “Karate,” he answered. “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? You beat the bad guys and you’re sorry!” I began to laugh. My muscles relaxed a little. A mental picture of Wayne routing the Reagans was delicious.

  Wayne looked up and smiled hesitantly. I walked over and put my arms around his neck. His now familiar scent drifted up toward me, and with it a wave of tenderness. But there were still too many uncertainties. No time for tender feelings. I returned to my chair.

  “So, what do you know about these guys?” I asked. My tone was nonchalant, but fear was tightening the muscles of my neck again.

  Wayne closed his eyes for a moment, sighed and then looked at me intently. “Like to go for a walk?” he asked.

  I looked out the window into the unappealing grey drizzle. “Why a walk?”

  “Might know what the goons were looking for. I think I do. But it’s a long story. A walk would help.”

  I put on my coat and boots quickly, impatient to hear the story. We headed out into the drizzle. The cold damp air burned into my sinuses. Wayne began to speak as we crushed across the gravel of the driveway.

  “It goes back a long time,” he began. “All hearsay. Scott told me bits and pieces. He was through with this stuff before I met him.”

  I nodded my encouragement. We headed up the road, past tall fences, overgrown lawns, and gaunt fruit trees to which a few scattered leaves still clung. There were no sidewalks. We squished along the muddy roadside path in rhythm, our eyes on our feet.

  “Scott was dealing drugs to students, just starting to make big money. Didn’t sell hard drugs. Another organization did that. One night, two goons visited him with a proposition. Join their organization or get out of the business. Scott refused to join. Always a loner. He hired two bodyguards.

  “It wasn’t enough protection. Couple of months went by. He got an explosive device in the mail. Wasn’t set to go off. The letter said it was just to show him what they could do.”

  “Who were ‘they’?” I asked. “The Mafia?”

  “Scott never said. I got the feeling they were local boys. Not actual members of The Family. Mob methods, though.

  “Letter that came with the bomb arranged a meeting between Scott and the boss of the local organization. The boss came and visited Scott at his house. All very friendly. ‘Join us. You’ll like it. Be part of the family.’ Scott said he’d consider it. The boss made a mistake, though. Told Scott he had two kids going to Crocker himself. Part of the ‘one big family’ routine. Scott took his picture too, with an automatic camera over the doorway.”

  Wayne stopped walking and turned to me. “You’re not going to like this part. Wasn’t right. But it happened.” He resumed walking and I walked with him, watching my boots tromp in the mud as I listened to the story.

  “Scott got the boss identified from the picture. Hired a couple of detectives who tracked the kids down. Boy and a girl. Then threw a party. Scott’s parties were events. Live music, light shows, catered food, drugs. Later, he added art work, subtracted the drugs and charged people to come. But in those days, no one would refuse an invitation.

  “The kids didn’t refuse. They couldn’t figure out why they were so lucky. Once they got to the party they were separated. Got stoned. Real stoned. Didn’t know how to handle drugs. Scott thought that was funny, their father a drug dealer and they couldn’t handle drugs.” Wayne’s tone was hard and bitter. I shivered in the cold, at the memory of the man who had thought that funny.

  “Girl found herself naked with a gang of men who introduced her to group sex. Boy got two gay men. Won’t tell you the details. You can imagine. They weren’t forced. Scott said he merely fulfilled their fantasies. Maybe he did. But there were photographs, lots of photographs. He took them himself.

  “He sent copies of the photos to the boss, with a letter telling him that Scott had endowed a trust to give maximum publicity to the pictures in case he died, went missing or became disabled. School, porn magazines, friends, relatives, whatever.”

  “What happened?”

  “The boss bac
ked down immediately. Said ‘fine, live and let live.’ Scott kept the student trade. The boss kept the hard stuff. Scott didn’t let go of his bodyguards, though.”

  “But what happened to the kids?”

  “Sent to the East Coast with chaperons. The girl eventually got married. The boy became a diplomat. Some African country. Scott kept in touch with the boss. They actually seemed to respect each other as time went on. Once Scott got out of the drug game he told the boss there was never any trust set up to publish the pictures. But that he still had the pictures.”

  “God, Scott was an evil man,” I burst out. “Didn’t he ever stop to consider the hell that he put them through?”

  “No. Never could understand him on this one. He really was a good man most of the time. But he saw this whole incident as a personal triumph and nothing more. His biggest triumph, beating the boss at his own game. Insisted the kids weren’t harmed.”

  We reached the main road and stopped walking. I looked into Wayne’s face. It was closed to me.

  “How can you still defend Scott?” I asked angrily.

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  I turned away from him.

  “Any of the slime rubbed off on me?” he asked softly.

  I didn’t answer, but it had. I began walking up the path by the main road. Wayne followed behind me.

  “So those are ‘the pictures,’” I said after we had walked two blocks in silence.

  “Think so.”

  “So it’s simple. Give them the pictures,” I said, stopping in my tracks.

  “Couple of problems with that. First, I burned the pictures the day Scott died.” I turned to look at him. The slime seemed to be slipping away. He saw the look.

  “Forgave the sinner, not the sin,” he said and turned his eyes from me once more. “Second, I don’t know who the boss is. Scott never mentioned his name. I burned his picture with the others.”

  “What are we going to do?” I asked.

  “Thanks for the ‘we.’ Don’t know why you’re even involved, though. Why do they think you would have anything to do with this?”

  I thought. And I remembered the black Cadillac across the street when Wayne had dropped me at my house Thursday night.