Blind Spot

by Terri Persons

  Even after the effort went down in flames—leaving all the families feeling used and abused as much by their leader as by the politicians—Anna continued to idolize the snake. Sometimes Jerry wondered if his wife had cheated on him and slept with the slimy creep. He glanced down at the legal pad again, as if one last look would provide the answer to that nagging question. All Jerry saw before him were a series of names and phone numbers penned in Anna’s elegant handwriting, followed by sloppy checkmarks made in his own shaky hand. He scratched a check next to the bastard’s name and looked at his palm. Stained with ink—the pen was leaking. “Figures,” he spat, and tossed the pen and pad on the table. The impact knocked a half-empty Coke can onto the floor. Jerry watched while the brown liquid foamed and settled into the beige carpet. The cat stepped across a copy of Sports Illustrated, the telephone bill, and a grocery-store flyer to get to the cola.

  “Good kitty,” Jerry mumbled as the animal lapped up the puddle.

  Twenty-one

  Bernadette rose early Monday, intending to go into the office and work the case from the cellar, but she couldn’t pull herself away from the files long enough to get dressed. Wrapped in a bathrobe, she sat hunched over the kitchen table with the folders and a legal pad in front of her.

  She read the tab. Olson, Hale D. The name was followed by a case number. She set it to her right. She counted three more files on Olson. She flipped open the cover of the last one and saw it was a transcript of Olson’s trial—at least three inches thick. She couldn’t believe the cops up north had gone all the way back and dug up those old court documents. She appreciated their thoroughness, but nevertheless closed the file. She didn’t want to immerse herself in Hale’s ancient adventures just yet. She stacked all of Olson’s files into a separate pile and pushed them off to the side.

  She dug into the Archer files. Now and then she interrupted her silent scratching and scribbling to hiss words of contempt:

  “Disgusting.”

  By the time she was halfway through the folders, she felt filthy inside and out. She took a break to wash her face, drag a comb through her hair, and pull on a pair of sweats and a tee shirt. She went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, chugged some apple cider straight out of the jug, and put it back.

  Sitting back down at the table, she started flipping through the files again. She lifted a girl’s high-school portrait out of the papers. Bernadette had seen that shade of blond hair paired with those striking emerald eyes once before—on that woman in the hospital bed. This had to be the woman’s daughter. Dead daughter.

  Behind the color portrait was another photo—a gray morgue-shot taken after the girl’s death—and tucked behind that was a medical examiner’s report. Bernadette grabbed a pad and pen and started writing. When she got to the cause of death, she paused in her note-taking. The girl had committed suicide—a drug overdose, according to the report. Her parents found her body, in her own bed. A pang of sympathy stabbed Bernadette’s gut; she brushed it aside.

  She picked her cell off the table and called Directory Assistance to get the hospital number. When she was connected to Patient Information, she asked for the dead girl’s mother, named in the report. Bernadette became suspicious when, without explanation, she was switched to a nurse instead of the room.

  “Nurses’ station.”

  The woman didn’t sound like Nurse Big Arms; Bernadette was relieved. “Anna Fontaine’s room.”

  The voice on the other end asked gingerly: “Uh, are you a member of the family?”

  “Yeah.”

  A few seconds of silence, and then: “I’m sorry. Anna passed away earlier this morning.”

  Bernadette panicked, then scanned the report for the father of the dead girl. “Is Gerald…um, Jerry there?”

  “Already left. Asked me to tell callers the services are being handled by…” The sound of paper shuffling. “I can’t find it right now. Wait. Here it is. That mortuary on West Seventh Street. The big one on the corner. I’ve got a number.”

  Bernadette jotted the name and phone on a scrap of paper. “Thanks.”

  She punched in the funeral home, got a recording, hung up. She considered trying Jerry Fontaine at home, but thought about it some more. Perhaps she’d seen Anna Fontaine through the eyes of her spouse. She’d have to get a good look at the new widower, study his hands and his mannerisms. Something told her he wasn’t the killer, but she had to be sure. Besides, hanging around the bereaved husband could get her to the right guy.

  She hit redial, and this time a live person answered at the mortuary. Bernadette asked the man: “Anna Fontaine—has her wake been set yet?”

  She was standing in front of the open refrigerator contemplating what she could grab for a late lunch when her cell rang. She slammed the fridge door and scooped the phone off the counter. “Yeah?”

  Garcia, and he was incensed: “Where in the hell are you?”

  “Thought I’d work from home today.”

  “This ain’t the Big Easy, Agent Saint Clare. You want to work from home, you call in and make a request.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Yes, sir.”

  “You finished with those files?”

  Her eyes went to the folders on the kitchen table. “Not yet.”

  “What have you been doing all morning?”

  “The woman in the hospital bed. I tracked her down. Anna Fontaine.”

  “And…”

  “And she’s dead. Died this morning.” Before Garcia could pipe in with more questions, she quickly added: “Wake’s tomorrow. I’m going to the funeral home to scope it out.”

  “Who is…who was this Fontaine woman? What’s her connection to anything?”

  “She was the mother of one of Archer’s victims. The daughter raided the medicine cabinet after that awful verdict came in.”

  “I remember that mess. So now the mother is dead. A regular Greek tragedy.” He sighed. “Last thing we need is a grieving family calling a press conference.”

  “I’ll be respectful.”

  “Be incognito,” he said. “Put on your black suit and lean against a wall.”

  His instructions surprised her. She had been about to suggest the same tactic, expecting him to shoot it down. “Sounds good.”

  “Anybody asks, you’re—I don’t know—someone she met while she was hospitalized. You brought her pudding.”

  “Hopefully, nobody asks.”

  “Looking at the family at all? The husband?”

  She didn’t want to tell Garcia too much. “Maybe the husband. Yeah.”

  He said smugly, “Sounds like that doctor theory of yours is circling the drain.”

  “We’ll see who shows up,” she said.

  Twenty-two

  She was running late. Standing in her slacks and a bra, Bernadette was ironing an oxford shirt atop the kitchen table late afternoon Tuesday, minutes before the wake was to start. When she heard a knock, she tried to ignore it. Three more knocks were followed by an impatient bang. “Coming!” she yelled. She set down the iron, pulled on the warm cotton, and headed for the door. “This better be good,” she mumbled, buttoning as she went. She threw open the door and found Augie standing in the hallway. “August. I don’t have time to…”

  He walked around her and went inside. “How about drinks tonight at my place? I’ve got a bottle of champagne chilling in the fridge. I’ll blow the dust out of a couple of flutes, put on some tunes. We can—”

  “Can’t,” she said, the door still open and her hand on the knob. “Gotta go to a wake.”

  He buried his hands in his pants pockets and frowned. “Do my feet stink or something?”

  She stifled a grin as she took in his outfit—the same one he’d worn since the first night she met him, except that he’d exchanged the torn jeans for ratty sweatpants. She wondered if his Aerosmith Nine Lives Tour tee shirt would stand up by itself. “How could your feet smell when they get so much fresh air? I’ve never seen you in socks, neighbor. Don’t those t
ootsies ever get chilly in sandals?”

  “I’m hot-blooded.” Flashing her a wicked grin, he folded his arms in front of him. “Unfortunately, at the rate we’re going, you’ll never get close enough to feel the burn.”

  She blinked twice and closed the door. “August—”

  “Augie,” he corrected her.

  “Augie, I have to take off.”

  “Excuses, excuses. I’m busy unpacking. I’m tired. I’m visiting dead folks. I’ve got to chase after some terrorists. You’re giving me a complex.” Navigating around some boxes, he made his way to a window and glanced outside. “My view is still better.”

  She checked her watch. “I’ve got to get moving.”

  “Always in a hurry,” he grumbled. “Life’s too short. Bet you haven’t even gone for a walk by the river.”

  “I just got to town. Give me a chance.” As she fastened her shirt at the cuffs, one of the buttons came off in her hand. Mouthing a curse, she went back to her closet to find another top.

  “Looks deceptively tranquil and harmless, especially from up here,” he said to the glass.

  “What does?” She peeled off the offending oxford, dropped it at her feet, and reached for a silk blouse preserved in a dry cleaner’s bag. “What’re you babbling about?”

  “The river. It’s sort of like life in general. People underestimate it. Think it’s stable and predictable and safe to play on. They get careless and sloppy. Die.” He turned away from the glass and spotted her bare shoulders as she slipped into her blouse.

  She kept her back turned to him as she buttoned up the silk. “Promise I won’t do any belly flops off the bridges or play on the freeway. That should keep me from dying for a while.”

  “Speaking of death…anyone I know?” he asked.

  She scanned the floor of her closet for shoes and bent over to retrieve a pair of dark pumps. “What?”

  “Who died? I know everybody in town.”

  She stepped into her shoes. “Anna Fontaine.”

  “Don’t know her. Is the wake business or pleasure?”

  “Can’t talk about it,” she said, tucking her blouse into her slacks. “In fact, forget I mentioned her name.”

  “It’s business, then.”

  She fished a belt through the loops of her slacks and buckled it. “August—”

  “Augie,” he said. “Drinks after the visitation, then. You’ll need cheering up. Despite what the Irish claim, wakes are a sad affair.”

  “Sure.” She walked to the front door and pulled it open, motioning him through with her open hand. “You gotta go or you’re gonna make me later than I already am.”

  He walked across the loft and stepped out the door. He pivoted around and lifted his arms over his head, hooking his hands over the top of the door frame. “One more thing.”

  Bernadette shot a quick look at his biceps, massive and rippling and filling the entire opening. She visualized those arms wrapped around her body, and quickly banished the image. “What?” she said impatiently. “I gotta go.”

  He leaned inside and said in a low, conspiratorial voice: “You’ve got a nice back, neighbor lady.”

  She felt her face reddening and lowered her eyes. “Sorry about that.”

  He smiled. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining.”

  She raised her eyes and offered an embarrassed grin. “I’m in a rush.”

  He pulled his hands off the door frame and pointed a finger at her. “Don’t get rushed tonight. Don’t get sloppy.” He headed down the hall.

  “Where do you get off?” she muttered to his back, and closed the door after him.

  Twenty-three

  Where does he get off? simmered Jerry Fontaine.

  Jerry was just inside the front door, fishing a pack of cigs out of his pants pocket, when the snake slithered into the mortuary and glided right past him. No hello and handshake. No signing the guest book and tucking a check in the memorial-gift box. He elbowed past a crowd of others in the hallway and dove right into the throng inside the chapel. To top it off, the reptile was dressed better than the grieving husband—and smelled better than half the women in the place. Jerry got a whiff of his cologne as he whipped past. Probably expensive. Not like Jerry’s drugstore aftershave.

  Jerry went outside, lit up, and defensively assessed his funeral attire. The slate suit with its narrow lapels was dated, but his sons had reassured him that the silver tie was a contemporary width. The outfit was further redeemed by the crispness of his pressed white shirt. He reached up and laid his palm over his heart. Anna had ironed the shirt—and starched the hell out of it. There’d be no more crisp shirts at their house; neither he nor the boys had the ability or the desire to iron. That was all right. He sold preowned vehicles for a living, and people expected his ilk to look wrinkled. He tapped a tube of cigarette ash to the ground and at the same time inspected the shine on his black wingtips. He’d polished the shoes just before leaving home, having miraculously discovered the long-missing electric buffer in the front-hall closet. Anna would have credited the angels for the find, or chalked it up to one of those saints good at locating lost items. Which saint was that? He couldn’t remember. In his mind, they all melded together—except for St. Francis of Assisi. Jerry could remember him as the patron saint of animals because the fellow was always standing around with a bird on his shoulder.

  Jerry nodded to a trio of women clicking down the sidewalk on their way to the mortuary. One of the gals reached out and squeezed his upper arm as she passed him on the walk. “We’re praying for ya, Jer.” He grimaced a thank-you. They were in Anna’s prayer group. They’d sent enough Bundt cakes to the house to open a bakery, but he knew that generosity would end the minute his wife’s coffin hit the dirt. He wasn’t cut from the same churchy cloth—the fact that he was outside puffing away was testimony to that. In fact, they would probably comment on his sinful loitering the minute they got inside.

  He took a deep pull off his cigarette, released a cloud, and checked his watch. Where were the boys? They’d run off with their friends to grab some burgers and should’ve been back half an hour ago. It didn’t look good if the deceased’s immediate family was AWOL just as the wake was really getting rolling. He took one last pull and held it, enjoying the coolness of the menthol. He blew out the smoke and reluctantly threw down the butt. He turned and faced the mortuary with trepidation. It was like looking into the mouth of a beast, an old enemy to whom he’d lost his daughter and now his wife. He felt tears welling up in his eyes.

  No crying, you big baby, he told himself. Jerry stood straight, adjusted his tie, and hiked up his pants. As he headed for the door, he ventured one last look over his shoulder. No sons in sight. Worthless turds. Not like their sister. They’d better remember his cheeseburgers. Anna would have made sandwiches. So would their daughter. His heart lifted for a moment as he envisioned the two women making sandwiches together up in heaven.

  His stomach rumbling, Jerry went back inside.

  Bernadette pulled her gloves tighter over her fingers as she hurried up the walk. She put her hand on the knob, pushed open the heavy wooden door, and stepped into the lobby. As the door closed behind her, she inhaled the odors. Funeral flowers and women’s perfume and men’s cologne. Faint cigarette fumes. Beneath all of that, she detected something musty. Funeral homes always carried that musty undercurrent. If the souls of the dead had a scent, it would be that musty odor.

  She saw a hallway to the right and another to the left, with a chapel at the end of each corridor. Both rooms were jammed with mourners; the funeral home was hosting two wakes that evening. “Excuse me,” said an elderly male voice behind her. Bernadette turned around and saw she was blocking a group of older men. She stepped to one side, stumbling over an apology as they went by. She hated wakes and funerals to begin with, and attending a stranger’s services by herself was torture.

  She went deeper inside and, ahead of her, saw a magnetic sign perched on a tripod. “Gladys Johnso
n” had an arrow pointing to the left, whereas “Anna Fontaine” mourners were directed to the right. She hung a right, went down the hallway, and stopped at a podium sitting just outside the chapel. Atop the stand, a guest book sat open and ready for visitors to sign. She reflexively reached for a pen and stopped herself. Time to take away names rather than leave one. She checked and, seeing no one behind her, flipped through the signed pages, scouting for someone who’d used a doctor’s title. No luck.

  She picked up a memorial prayer card from a stack sitting next to the book. The front had a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She turned the card over and read, “In loving memory of Anna Fontaine,” followed by a prayer:

  Our Lady of Guadalupe,

  mystical rose. Since you are

  the ever-Virgin Mary and

  Mother of the true God,

  obtain for us from your holy

  Son the grace of a firm and

  a sure hope. In the midst of

  our anguish, struggle, and

  distress, defend us from the

  power of the enemy, and at

  the hour of our death receive

  our soul in Heaven. Amen.