by J. D. Griffo
Hesitating only slightly, Helen grabbed the package from Sal and felt as if she had just taken candy from a baby. She knew that Sal wanted to get rid of the box for purely selfish reasons, so he could no longer be connected to Beverly, but she also knew that she was accepting it for the same selfish reasons, so she could get closer to the truth.
“On one condition, Sal,” Jinx said. “I mean Father Sal.”
Breathing deeply and trying to control his temper, Sal replied, “And what would that be, Sister Maria?”
“This . . . transaction stays among the three of us,” she replied. “No more breaking priest-civilian confidentiality. No more clandestine counseling. We don’t want to hear that you’ve gone blabbing to the police that you gave us evidence.”
Once again Sal’s pallor turned ashen. “You think whatever is in there could be used as evidence?”
“I guess you’ll never find out,” Jinx answered smugly.
* * *
When they returned to Alberta’s kitchen, Jinx was still wearing her nun’s outfit and Helen was still wearing a proud smile. “She’s a lot tougher than we were at her age, Berta,” Helen beamed.
Alberta looked at her granddaughter wistfully. She was incredibly proud that Jinx had grown into such a confident, self-assured woman, and she hoped one day she’d get to congratulate Lisa Marie for being such a good parent. Until then she had a job to do, which was finding out who killed Lucy. She was about to get one step closer.
“Oh, Madonna mia!” Alberta exclaimed. “Look at this!”
The three women didn’t need to be ordered, they were already circling around Alberta and looking inside the box, stunned to see three TV Guides staring back at them.
“This means Beverly must have stolen the collection,” Jinx said.
“But why would she send three TV Guides to a priest?” Joyce asked.
Suddenly cold and unsteady, Alberta sat down, the enormity of the situation finally hitting her. “Don’t you see? This was her way of confessing that she killed Lucy.”
CHAPTER 16
Il blu è il colore più solitario
As Alberta’s comment hovered above them just as Lucy’s body had hovered on top of Memory Lake, the four women shoved the unpleasant thoughts from their minds as they tried to make sense of the three TV Guides. But at first glance none of them could deduce what the three celebrities gracing the covers had in common or how their images could be connected to Lucy’s murder.
“These TV Guides have got to form some sort of clue,” Joyce suggested. “Separately they don’t mean anything, but together they may help us solve this crime.”
“The John Wayne reference is obvious,” Alberta offered. “Marion’s named after him, so it makes sense that it would be included.” She was about to pick up the TV Guide with the photo of the Duke on the cover when Jinx grabbed her hand to stop her.
“Don’t touch it, Gram,” Jinx said. “I know it’s wrapped in plastic, but you could still muss up any fingerprints that might be on it.”
Each TV Guide was in a protective plastic covering like a Ziploc bag, which was standard practice among collectors to prevent magazines, comic books, or any kind of ephemera from getting damaged. Alone, it didn’t mean much, but it did give further proof that these were part of Lucy’s larger collection, because if they were just random TV Guides someone had found, they would be less likely to be covered.
“Sorry, lovey,” Alberta said. “I keep forgetting I have to think like a detective.”
“We’re all learning how to do that, Gram,” Jinx replied. She then pointed to the TV Guide in the center of the box, “Who’s that woman? She’s very familiar, but I can’t remember why.”
Helen laughed heartily, “Which is why you stink at being a nun.”
“What are you talking about, Aunt Helen?”
“That’s Peggy Wood,” Helen answered. “She played Mother Superior in The Sound of Music, so she’s basically your boss.”
“I loved her in that movie!” Jinx exclaimed. “But she looks so young in that photo.”
“Before she was urging Maria to climb ev’ry mountain, she was the star of her own TV show,” Helen explained. “It was called Mama, kind of a sitcom that took place at the turn of the century.”
As Alberta, Joyce, and Helen reminisced about the long-forgotten show and the early days of TV in general, which they agreed were much better than the types of shows that passed as entertainment today, Jinx was busy searching for information on her smartphone. Alberta thought Jinx looked odd still clad in her nun’s outfit feverishly searching on her phone—an ironic mix of old versus new, but nonetheless unsuccessful in finding more details.
“I can’t find anything useful about Beverly’s mother online,” Jinx reported. “Just that her name was Anna, she died in 1991, was predeceased by her husband, and survived by her only daughter, nothing else.”
Alberta walked to the other side of the kitchen and stood before the many bottles of flavored vodka that decorated the counter. She wasn’t sure what the occasion called for and couldn’t decide between peppermint or strawberry. Neither sounded right and she knew there had to be another choice. That was it!
“I don’t think it’s about Beverly’s mother,” Alberta suggested. “But Marion’s.”
“Now look who’s starting to think like a detective!” Jinx exclaimed. “Do you remember her name, Gram?”
“Oh, Madon, no, not really,” Alberta replied. “Wait yes! Yes, I do!”
“What was it?” Jinx asked.
“Something German!”
“Well, that narrows it down,” Helen answered in her trademark snarky tone.
Unfortunately, technology failed them again and Jinx wasn’t able to find an obituary about Marion’s mother. Taking off her wimple, Jinx untied her hair from its bun and let it fall loose over her shoulders. She looked even stranger now as her long black wavy hair fell over her tunic. Worse, she felt less like a detective than she did a nun.
“I got nothing. Gram, can you remember anything at all about her?”
Alberta closed her eyes and pressed two fingers to her forehead as if the pressure would release a memory. It worked.
“She used to make those pfeffernüsse cookies and Marion would bring them to school on International Foods Day,” Alberta shouted triumphantly.
“I stand corrected, that really does narrow things down,” Helen said. “It doesn’t help us at all, but it does bring an air of specificity to the investigation.”
“Also too, it brings with it an air of hunger,” Joyce added. “I could really go for some pfeffernüsse right now. Does Entenmann’s make any?”
“I don’t think so,” Alberta replied. “But how hard can they be to make?”
“Are you forgetting that you stink at baking?” Helen reminded her.
Grabbing a cookie tray from the cabinet next to the stove, Alberta said, “No, but if I can learn how to be an amateur detective, I can learn how to be an amateur baker.”
The kitchen instantly turned into a bustling factory of culinary delight, if not necessarily expertise. Alberta arranged the flour, sugar, and spices on the counter as Joyce retrieved a carton of eggs and butter from the refrigerator. Helen, still skeptical, foraged through the cabinets above the kitchen counter until she found the extra virgin olive oil and a small bottle of multicolored sprinkles. She knew pfeffernüsse didn’t call for multicolored sprinkles, but they might make the cookies look better than they would most certainly taste. All thoughts of baking, however, were interrupted by Jinx’s outburst.
“Oh, Madonna mia,” Jinx cried.
“Honey, if you’re going to shout in Italian, you really have to work on your accent,” Helen reprimanded. “Maybe watch that Meryl Streep in the movie about the bridges.”
“I found Marion’s mother!” she cried again.
“On your phone?” Alberta asked.
“Where else?” Jinx commented. “I mean, seriously, what did you people do before the In
ternet? How did you learn anything?”
“From the library, the Funk & Wagnalls—” Joyce replied.
“Funk and what?” Jinx questioned, not sure if she heard her aunt correctly.
“Never mind,” Joyce said. “What did you find out?”
“Guess who used to bake an award-winning pfeffernüsse?” Jinx shouted. “Helga Wasserman Klausner, that’s who!”
“Helga!” Alberta exclaimed, pounding her fist on the kitchen counter and causing the flour to rise up like a cloud. “I told you her name was German.”
“And her maiden name is Wasserman,” Joyce pointed out. “As in Wasserman & Speicher.”
All thoughts of making or eating pfeffernüsse were put on hold as this new revelation filled the women with a curiosity that displaced any hunger pains. There were coincidences in life that linked random occurrences and then there were facts that when connected could hardly be considered random. If Marion’s mother’s maiden name was one-half of the name of the company at which her son worked, it could only mean that Marion was more than just running the company, it meant that he owned the whole damn thing.
* * *
While walking back to her desk with a fresh cup of French vanilla coffee on Monday morning, Alberta set out to see if she could really turn coincidence into fact, and the best way to legitimize rumor and innuendo was to interview someone who lived for gossip.
“Hi Denise, how have you been?”
“Busy as usual, Alberta,” she replied, closing one file and then opening up another. “How about you?”
Seizing the opportunity, Alberta accepted Denise’s casual pleasantry and turned it into an invitation to enter her office. She swung the door behind her a bit harder than necessary so that it almost closed as she sat in the chair on the other side of the HR executive’s desk. From Denise’s forced smile, Alberta knew that she didn’t want any company, but she also knew that Denise could never pass up the chance to chat about fellow employees. Especially if those employees were higher up the company ladder than she was.
“I heard an interesting rumor the other day,” Alberta started. “About Marion.”
Immediately, Denise’s attention was captured. She made a pronounced effort to try and keep her eyes focused on her file, but she kept twirling the strands of her short black bob, which was something Alberta had noticed she did every time she talked about the personal matters of the professionals she worked with. It was her tell, and Alberta wasn’t about to let her mark off the hook.
“He’s much more than just the CEO, isn’t he?” Alberta asked.
Twirling her hair rapidly, Denise couldn’t resist engaging in the conversation and gave up all pretense of being interested in her work. “I told you Alberta, no, I warned you, that Marion has what some might like to call, enhanced interpersonal skills,” Denise said. “Personally, I cannot confirm or deny, but that’s what the scuttlebutt’s been since I started.”
Slyly, Alberta turned around to make sure that no one, especially Marion, was standing in the doorway before she continued. “No, I’m talking about his familial relations, specifically his mother, Helga Wasserman.”
Denise’s jaw literally dropped, and she was silent for several seconds. During the silence her face turned beet red. “Why do you care about Marion’s mother?”
Alberta should’ve been silenced by Denise’s harsh tone, and it was clear that she was about to cross a line. But what other choice did she have? Slink out of Denise’s office like a coward or lift her foot up and step right over that line. Proudly, Alberta continued, “It seems that Marion’s mother is the founder of Wasserman & Speicher.”
Denise glared at Alberta for a moment and Alberta felt as if she was going to be thrown out of the office with an official reprimand going into her personnel file. But the look evaporated and Denise simply shook her head, saying that she had never heard of such a thing nor did she think that the real estate firm was a family business. “I was told that the parent company was based somewhere in Germany,” she disclosed. “But I couldn’t even tell you the name of the town.”
For some reason Alberta didn’t believe Denise, but could hardly find fault with an HR executive who didn’t disclose company secrets. She did, however find Denise’s dismissive attitude unnecessary. “If you don’t have any more rumors to spread,” Denise said, “We both should really get back to work.”
A few hours later, as Alberta and Joyce sat side by side on the Adirondacks facing the lake sipping fresh-brewed iced tea, the former Wall Street executive proved that she still had more business acumen than Denise would ever be able to acquire.
“I called a few of my old colleagues, and I can confirm that Helga Wasserman Klausner is indeed the founder of Wasserman & Speicher,” Joyce announced. “Which makes Marion a lot more than just a flunky.”
“But why would he keep something like that secret?” Alberta asked. “Especially from his own human resources department.”
As Joyce closed her eyes to let the sun warm her face, she explained one of the primary rules of corporate America to Alberta: Businessmen typically kept information close to the vest and didn’t like to reveal secrets that rivals could use against them. It was called survival of the fittest in the concrete jungle. While it was unusual to keep the fact that his real estate firm was a family-run business, it was a smart strategic move that allowed him to be viewed as merely another employee, objective and a high-level cog in a wheel instead of an emotionally invested son who had inherited the family empire from his mother without having had to work hard for the title. Staying autonomous gave him power.
“It’s almost as if he approaches business the same way he approaches his personal relationships,” Alberta considered. “He’s as detached from his company as he was from Beverly.”
Joyce reached out to hold Alberta’s hand. “Looks like my favorite sister-in-law is growing up.”
Alberta gave Joyce’s hand a squeeze and laughed. “Come now, Joyce, we all know Helen’s your favorite.”
Their raucous laughter seemed to stir up the breeze, and both women reveled in the cool wind, their friendship, and the faint smell of honeysuckle that suddenly wafted over them. They inhaled deeply and smiled. Even though they were still haunted by the fact that someone their age who lived nearby had been murdered, they knew they had so many reasons to rejoice. They were healthy—God bless—near family, and while they might be in the sunset of their lives, they got to see the sun set every night over their favorite lake.
“That’s it!” Alberta exclaimed. “Memory Lake!”
“I know, honey,” Joyce replied, patting Alberta’s hand. “I love it, too.
“No, the third TV Guide, it has to do with Memory Lake,” Alberta said. “Where Lucy was murdered.”
Alberta went on to explain that the first two TV Guides more than likely related to Marion, his nickname and his mother, and the third TV Guide, depicting an image of Lloyd Bridges as the star of the late 1950s TV series Sea Hunt, had to do with Memory Lake.
“That’s a brilliant deduction, Alberta,” Joyce proclaimed, “but how do they all work together?”
Grimacing, Alberta stared out at the lake as if the body of water would feed her the answer. It didn’t. “I don’t know, but we’re getting closer, Joyce, I can feel it,” she said. “The one thing that bothers me is Beverly. I’m not convinced that she just disappeared.”
Joyce confessed that she shared the same uneasiness. “You think she might be dead too, don’t you?”
“God forgive me, but I do,” Alberta said quietly. “I was thinking that maybe we should contact her accountant, the one who sent Father Sal the package. What do you think?”
“I have a better idea,” Joyce said, standing up abruptly. “I think I know someone who might know more about Beverly’s disappearance than she’s letting on.”
Once again Beverly’s condo was locked, and once again Ruthanne came to the rescue. This time, however, she was much better dressed than the last time Jo
yce saw her and without a hatchet.
“I’m so sorry, Ruthanne, but it looks like you’re on your way someplace fancy,” Joyce said, schmoozing with the building manager.
Blushing, Ruthanne ran her hands down her skirt and actually pivoted from side to side to show off her jacket-and-skirt combo that was a very intense shade of pink. “Do you like it?” she asked. “I just picked it up at that new boutique in town.”
“You’re a liar.”
Joyce was arguably more stunned by Alberta’s outburst than Ruthanne was.
“Alberta . . .” Joyce said, the word wringing out between clenched teeth in three very long syllables. “Ruthanne here is our friend.”
Waving her hand dismissively in the air, Alberta continued. “You didn’t just buy that outfit and you know it. Now, tell me where you got it, and don’t lie to me.”
Flustered, Ruthanne stammered nervously. When it was clear she couldn’t come up with a cover story, she confessed. “Oh, all right already, don’t get your bowels in an uproar! It’s Beverly’s, but it serves her right! She hasn’t returned any of my calls and she hasn’t returned here so I . . . well I . . . borrowed some of her clothes. But even if she does return, she won’t miss this one, she has five of the same outfit all in different colors.”
“Were there any in navy?” Alberta asked gravely.
“No,” Ruthanne replied. “And trust me, I looked. It would look lovely in navy and really set off my hair.”
Without saying another word, Alberta turned and left. Joyce muttered their good-byes to Ruthanne and assured her that they wouldn’t tell anyone that she had gone on a shopping spree in Beverly’s closet. Her secret would remain with them. Inside the privacy of her car, Joyce turned to Alberta and wanted to know what her secret was. She could tell from Alberta’s frightened expression that she was not at all upset that Ruthanne was wearing Beverly’s clothes and that something else much more frightening was going on.
“Alberta, what’s wrong?