The Last Page

by David J. Walker

  “Why not?” Julia asked, thinking it took guts to have a couch like that.

  “She was a narcissist,” Melissa said. “She thought only about herself. Husband, relatives, friends…they were all simply satellites…creatures she saw through the prism of her own ego. Frankly, I didn’t know she had any friends. Your mother must be quite…unusual…to have put up with her.”

  Julia restrained herself from defending her mother. “Your father must have loved her. They were married for…what?... six years?”

  Melissa’s lips tightened. “I didn’t say narcissists weren’t charming. ‘B’—that’s what I call her—could be appealing when she wanted. It was as if…as if she cast a spell over Dad. For a while. But when the spell ended, he was miserable. It was because of B that he killed himself.”

  Julia wasn’t sure what to say. “Um…is that B-e-a? Or B-e-e?”

  “Neither. Just the letter ‘B’… and not for Barbara, but for Bitch. Class-A Bitch. Always demanding that my father—and I—rearrange our schedules to suit her. Eat at the restaurant she wanted, see the movie she wanted. And everything bad was always someone else’s fault. Usually my father’s. Certainly never her fault. I’m surprised Dad lasted as long as he did.”

  “You didn’t live with them?”

  “God forbid.” Melissa raised her hands as if to shield herself from the thought. “She made it clear she didn’t want me around. I was a threat. I reminded Dad of the way his life used to be. Oh, at first I tried to get along. I’d go out of my way to pick her up at the library at the end of the day. My dad thought she’d appreciate that and it might help us get along. But it didn’t work. Nothing did.”

  “You sound bitter.” And pretty damn bitchy yourself.

  “You’d be, too,” Melissa said. “I’m still furious at how much Dad suffered. Anyway, when he realized how he was changing, I guess it was all too much for him. That woman deserved what she…I mean…she got what was coming to her.”

  Julia leaned forward. “What do you mean?”

  Melissa fingered the fringe on a white blanket that was draped over the back of the couch. “Just that she’s gone, and she can’t harass anyone any more.”

  Is that all? Julia wondered. “Melissa, when was the last time you saw Barbara?”

  “Saw her?” She played with the fringe on the blanket. “At my father’s funeral. Over a year ago.”

  Julia hesitated. “And the night she died, where were you?”

  Melissa stiffened. “What are you suggesting?”

  “I…well…I’m not comfortable with how she died.”

  Melissa cocked her head. “You don’t believe she had a heart attack?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Hold on a minute.” Melissa drew herself up. “Are you implying she was… murdered?” When Julia didn’t answer, she added, “And that I know something about it?”

  Julia kept her mouth shut. Melissa looked like she was about to kick Julia out.

  Instead, Melissa broke into a grin. “Well…I sure wish I did have something to do with it.” Her grin widened. “Really, you think B was murdered?”

  Julia was taken aback. “It’s a possibility,” she said. “Barbara was desperate to talk to my mother that night. She left her messages saying she might be in trouble, but she had to act soon.”

  “Sounds like B, all right.” Melissa nodded. “The Drama Queen. ‘I won’t back down.’ How many times did I hear that?”

  “Still, someone didn’t like something she was doing. The question is who, and why. And whether they did something about it.”

  Melissa nodded. “Hey, I’d have stood in line to get rid of that woman. But I was at the symphony the night she died.”

  “Were you with someone?”

  Melissa looked down. “No. I…I went by myself. Bought my ticket at the door.” She looked up. “I might have the ticket stub somewhere. But I don’t think I have to show it to—”

  “Oh, no. Of course not,” Julia said. “I believe you.” And I can check it out if I need to.

  * * *

  Julia drove away from Melissa Morgan’s house, reviewing what she’d learned. One, that the woman had clearly hated Barbara. Two, that she seemed to have an alibi for the night Barbara died, or at least one that could be checked.

  Surprisingly, though, there was something else Julia had learned. She didn’t like grilling Melissa Morgan. She didn’t enjoy invading people’s lives, throwing out accusations. She’d never make it as a detective or a private investigator. Ironic, since so much of criminal law depended on investigative work.

  She called her mother on her cell. Mavis reminded her that she and William were going to Apple Tree Theater in Highland Park that night. Her mother had asked a few days ago if Julia wanted to join them, but she’d declined. Now, she wished she’d accepted. She’d decided that she better get used to William. Besides, she was at loose ends, and the theater would have been an appealing diversion. She disconnected and checked the time.

  Mid afternoon. Still plenty of time left in the day. Reluctantly, she turned the car around.

  EIGHT

  The Windbrook Library had an active “Friends of the Library” group, volunteers who supported library projects, advocated for reading and literature, and helped create community outreach and programs. But most of all, the Friends raised funds, and one of the group’s linchpins was Karen Templeton.

  Julia didn’t actually know Karen, but had heard about her. She was said to be a whirlwind of a woman. She had one child, a daughter who’d gone to school with Julia at New Trier and was now a struggling actress in New York. Besides her work with the Friends, Karen was an officer of the Junior League, and was active in her church. On top of all that, according to Mavis, she’d recently started working as a designer at the old Marshall Field’s in Lake Forest. Of course it was—sad to say—Macy’s now, but at least the Lake Forest store was the only Macy’s in Chicagoland without an ugly red awning.

  Karen had lovely blond hair that would never see gray—if she and her hairdresser had their way—and a sculpted body that spoke of grueling workouts at the Community Center. She also happened to be the ex-wife of Malcolm Templeton. And Malcolm had been Barbara Adams’s boyfriend.

  Julia pulled up to Karen’s home, a small but elegant white house with black shutters just off Sheridan Road. The lawn and grounds were immaculate. Not a stray leaf in sight, the bushes trimmed, urns of yellow mums flanking the front door. The house lay deep in the shadow of tall oaks which still held their leaves, and Julia could see a light burning behind a drawn window shade. That was a good sign.

  But the person who opened the door when she rang wasn’t Karen Templeton. It was a young man, tall, dark, and very buff. He seemed about the same age as Julia, and he looked at her with undisguised curiosity. “Yes?”

  “Hi. I’m Julia Fairbanks, and I’d like to speak to Karen.”

  He tilted his head. “About what?” His tone wasn’t unpleasant, but not friendly, either.

  “It’s personal, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah. Well then, I’m sorry. She’s not available.”

  Julia shifted her feet, noticing the ghost of a smile on the young man’s lips. He seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. “Well, perhaps you could ask her to call me?”

  “Again, what is this about?”

  Who is this guy? A nephew or something? Julia did her best to stay polite, but it was getting difficult. “As I said, it’s a personal matter.”

  “Well then, sorry.” The smile disappeared, and he closed the door.

  Julia stood there, stunned, not quite believing what had happened. She hadn’t even thought to stick her foot in the door this time. She headed back to her car and was about to start the engine when a blue BMW pulled into Karen’s driveway.

  The door opened, and Karen Templeton climbed out.

  Julia got out of her car. “Ms. Templeton?”

  Karen was retrieving a bag of groceries from the back seat. She stopp
ed and turned around. “Yes?”

  “I’m Julia Fairbanks.” As she spoke, she noticed one of the window shades going up, and saw the young man peering out at them. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Mavis Fairbanks’ daughter, Julia.”

  Templeton smiled. “Oh yes. I know your mother…and William. What can I do for you?”

  Julia cleared her throat, nervous. “It’s about Barbara Adams’s death.”

  At that, Templeton’s smile disappeared. She shifted the bag of groceries from one arm to the other. “What about it?”

  “As you know, my mother was close to Barbara.” Julia repeated what she’d said to Melissa Morgan about closure. “The thing is, I’m…I’m not comfortable with the way she died.”

  “Comfortable? About a death? What are you getting at?”

  “I know Barbara wasn’t someone who…whom everyone liked. But just before she died she was worried about something. So worried that she left several messages for my mother, that very night. Something about ‘trouble,’ and ‘needing to something.’ And…well…I know she—”

  “You know that she stole my husband, and that he and I are now in the middle of an acrimonious divorce. And you think her death, or her being ‘worried,’ has something to do with me.”

  Julia felt her cheeks get hot. “Well... I thought—”

  “You have some nerve, you know that?” Karen’s face sparked with anger. “Coming here and accusing me—” She stopped. “Just what are you accusing me of?”

  Julia raised her hands. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I just wanted to find out if you had any idea what those messages might have been about.”

  “Look, young lady, I don’t have to answer your questions. And I resent the fact that you’re skulking around my house. People are entitled to privacy. Get out.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry.” Julia was shocked at Karen’s overreaction, and—recalling JJ’s comments—wondered if maybe the woman had been drinking. “I just wanted—”

  “You just want to make trouble.” Karen’s eyes narrowed. “But you just leave me the hell alone. What I do is my business, you got that, honey?” She turned and hurried to the front door. As she reached the stoop the door opened, and the young man appeared. Karen handed him the bag of groceries. He set it aside and slipped his arms around Karen in what was definitely not a nephew’s hug. Karen reached back with her foot and closed the door.

  * * *

  Driving away, Julia felt discouraged. Her “investigation”—talking first to Donald Finstead, then Melissa Morgan, then Karen Templeton—had gone on a sliding scale from useless to disaster. All three had good reasons to dislike, even despise, Barbara Adams. In fact, Julia was beginning to wonder just what her mother saw in Barbara. But did any of those three hate her enough to kill her?

  Finstead saw her as an obstacle in his career; Melissa Morgan considered her an evil stepmother; and Karen Templeton was furious that Barbara had stolen her husband. Still, Finstead didn’t seem passionate enough to kill anyone. Melissa Morgan, although glad Barbara was gone, claimed to have an alibi. And Karen Templeton? Was she really angry about losing her husband? Or was she relieved?

  Julia suddenly remembered how wrong she’d been a year ago about the D’Amato case. Joel D’Amato had been shot dead outside his mother’s Windbrook home. The young man had been accused of burglary, and Julia,convinced his murder was mob-related, had spun a complicated tale of stolen goods, loose lips, and vengeful mafiosi. Then the police arrested D’Amato’s best friend, who confessed that he’d killed Joel in a disppute over cocaine.

  So much, Julia thought, for her intuition.

  She drove south along Green Bay Road. Maybe she should just give this up. She clearly wasn’t a detective. Barbara was dead. Nothing could bring her back. And frankly, with the exception of Julia’s mother, and possibly Barbara’s cats, no one seemed to be too concerned.

  But dammit, what about those frantic messages? Those weren’t imaginary. What could be so important as to merit Barbara’s “acting soon,” even though it might mean “causing trouble for herself?”

  JJ said Barbara made him drag a lot of boxes out of storage. Julia couldn’t imagine Barbara’s anxiety having anything to do with her job, but she wasn’t getting anywhere looking into the woman’s personal life.

  She should go back to the library…and talk to JJ again.

  NINE

  That evening Julia hid in the women’s washroom until she heard three raps on the door. That was the plan they’d set up, and when she went out JJ was waiting for her. He led her quickly to the door to the basement. He unlocked it, and she followed him onto a small metal platform at the top of the basement stairs.

  She reached instinctively for a light switch, but found none.

  “I’ll get it.” He reached up to a switch on the wall high above the door jamb and turned on the lights. “I put that switch up there myself, as a temporary fix till the electricians could bring in conduit and mount it where it belongs,” he said. “That was twenty-five years ago.” He started down the steps. “Close the door behind you. I think everyone’s gone, but I don’t want anyone knowing I let you down here.”

  “I understand.” She pulled the door closed and followed him down the steps.

  “And oh,” he added, “watch these steps. They’re tricky.”

  She shuddered as she pictured Barbara Adams tumbling down this same stairway, banging her head against the steps and landing on that concrete floor. The steps themselves were steel grating, like fire-escape stairs. They weren’t really deep enough for Julia to easily get her feet on them, and she held on to the railings on both sides.

  It was a long way down, and when they reached the bottom they were in a combination janitor’s work space and boiler room. It was pretty large, about the size of an ordinary classroom, with a very high ceiling.

  “I’ll get those boxes out for you, but just wait here a minute,” JJ said. “It’s nine-fifteen and I gotta take one more swing through to make sure everyone’s gone. Won’t be long.” He headed back up, and he hadn’t even reached the top of the stairs when Julia started feeling alone.

  “JJ,” she said, “leave that door open, would you?”

  “I don’t— Well, okay,” he said, his voice hushed. “But you’re not s’posed to be here, y’know? So don’t make any noise.” Then he was gone.

  She looked around. The walls, like the floor, were concrete, and perhaps the ceiling too, but it was lost in darkness above the hanging fluorescent light fixtures. If there were any windows high in the walls they didn’t let any light in, but of course it was dark outside. Only the security lights were on in the library itself, and they were dim, so hardly any light came through the open door.

  It was definitely eerie down here. Was this where that little boy whose nanny went looking for a book had wandered to? He must have been too young to be creeped out.

  The space was cluttered. Cardboard cartons, some open, sat on the floor. A small bicycle—a kid’s two-wheeler—rested upside down on its seat and handlebars, one wheel removed, waiting for JJ to put it back on. A plunger stood upright in a bucket.

  A steady, business-like hum came from the boiler itself. To the right of the stairs, it sat on a concrete platform maybe six inches above floor level. To her left, against the wall opposite the stairs, was a wooden workbench. If the floor was a bit cluttered, the workbench was as neat and orderly as her mother’s kitchen. There were glass baby food jars lined up in a row, filled with screws or nuts or whatever, and boxes and bottles of cleaning supplies, everything orderly. Above the bench, hand tools—saws of different shapes and sizes, a couple of hammers, a large wooden mallet, screwdrivers and pliers—hung from hooks on a pegboard.

  Another fluorescent light fixture hung directly over the workbench, lower than the other two fixtures. That light was off. Beside the bench were a broom, shovel, rakes, mop, bucket,
and cleaning equipment, all lined up against the wall. JJ probably knew exactly where everything was.

  Where was he?

  Over near the boiler was a door. Stuck to it with thumbtacks was a little sign made from an index card. She went closer and saw the words on the card said: NO ADMITTANCE. It was the only door she could see down here, so it must be the door to the storage—

  “Hello? Is anyone down there?” It was a man, calling down from the door at the top of the stairs. Mr. Finstead!

  She instinctively opened her mouth to call back, then caught herself. She stayed perfectly still, knowing he couldn’t see her from where he was.

  “JJ?” Mr. Finstead called. “Are you there?”

  She waited, hearing nothing but her own breath, and the hum of the boiler, and the jangling of Mr. Finstead’s keys.

  Finally, after a very long several seconds he did just what she was afraid he’d do. He turned out the light and closed the door. And she heard the click of the lock.

  * * *

  Julia had been in dark rooms before, but nothing like this. The absence of light was terrifying. Dizzying, in fact, and she stretched out her hand toward the door to steady herself. But the door wasn’t there! She reached out with both hands, stretching into nothing but air, even when she took a small step.

  She stood still. She’d just wait here for JJ to come back. It was so dark and—she couldn’t help it—she wondered what other living things might be down here. She couldn’t remember anyone ever saying they saw a mouse in the library, much less a rat; and she’d never seen a single insect or spider among the book stacks. But this was a basement, and there were corners down here where light never penetrated, and in those corners—

  Stop it! she told herself.

  She tried to calm down. JJ would be back any minute. She wondered how long she’d been waiting. Her watch didn’t have a luminous dial. Her cell phone was in her purse, and her purse was in the Miata. She closed her eyes and she could see more color and movement than she could with her eyes open. Where was JJ?