by Gail Lukasik
“Did your son write you letters? Send photographs?” Maybe Lawrence Browning had known Brownie, and he might have mentioned him in a letter.
“Yes, but I don’t know if I want you to see them. They’re personal.”
As much as I needed to see the letters and photos, I didn’t know if I wanted to see the pain revisiting them would cause Mrs. Browning. But then again, if I could find the connection between Brownie and Mrs. Browning’s son Lawrence, maybe I could find out who Brownie really was and possibly what happened to Mrs. Browning’s son.
“You don’t have to show her anything,” Father Stan piped in. “You know that.”
Thanks, Stan. I closed my eyes for a moment and thought about how I could persuade this grieving woman to help me, especially with her spiritual guide protecting her from the likes of me.
“I understand your reluctance, Mrs. Browning. I really do. But think about this. The man who was using your son’s name has a family, and they don’t know what happened to him either. And maybe if I discover who he was, I might get more information about what happened to your son.”
She turned her head and studied my face, then she looked at Father Stan. “What should I do, Father?” she pleaded.
“I think you should follow your heart.”
That was a surprise. Maybe my words had swayed the hovering Father Stan as well.
“I live just around the corner,” she said, easing herself up from the sofa.
The house was a modest brick bungalow, cream colored with a clipped lawn, one tree in the center like an island, and a statue of the Virgin Mary planted amid a foundation flowerbed surrounded by yellow and orange annuals.
“Everything is in the basement,” Mrs. Browning explained as she flipped on the light switch and proceeded down one flight of stairs to the lower level. The house smelled stale and airless.
The room where she led me was covered in brown speckled carpet and paneled in knotty pine. Against one wall was a floral sofa. On the opposite side of the room was a built-in bar. There was an ancient exercise bike, a TV with rabbit ears, a table and two chairs and two homemade cabinets, painted yellow, next to the sofa.
Mrs. Browning went to one of the cabinets and pulled out a gray steel box. “My husband kept everything in here.” She patted the box. “He would come down here and read Lawrence’s letters over and over again. Or sometimes he’d just sit here holding them. There aren’t many. Only ten. He went missing after only four months.” She shook her head sadly. “I’ll be upstairs. Just holler when you’re done.” She handed me the box and left the room. I could hear the slow shuffle of her feet on the stairs.
The letters told little about Lawrence Browning’s experiences in Vietnam, except to repeatedly reassure his parents that he would come home safe and sound. Even his comments about the photos he’d sent were brief: Me and some guys playing football; Charlie and me; Some guys in my unit. Clearly he was shielding his parents from the realities of war. Though the last letter struggled to put a good face on what he was going through, the effort was almost as painful as the truth might have been. Disappointed, I put the letters back in the box and went through the faded colored photos. Since I didn’t know what Lawrence looked like, I took the photos upstairs to ask Mrs. Browning.
She was sitting at her kitchen table, a mug held between her hands, staring out the window at her backyard. She was so lost in thought, she didn’t hear me come into the room, and I cleared my throat, not wanting to startle her.
“Did you find anything useful?” she asked, turning around in her chair.
“Not in the letters.” I sat down and spread the photos out on the table. “Could you point Lawrence out to me?”
“That’s him, there.” Her red-polished nail rested briefly on the photo. Lawrence Browning looked impossibly young with his blond hair and soft features. Even his attempt at a mustache made him look fragile. He had a broad, trusting grin and a pug nose.
“Do you know who this is?” I asked, indicating the photo where he had his arm around the shoulder of another man. “In a letter, he calls him Charlie.”
She shook her head. I showed her a few more photos of Lawrence with other soldiers, and she couldn’t identify any of them.
The photos told me nothing about the connection between Lawrence and Brownie. And it was impossible to decipher if Brownie was one of the men in the photos. One or two were about his height and coloring. But the photos were so blurry and discolored, they were indistinct.
“Thank you so much for your time,” I said, gathering the photos into a pile and getting up from the table.
“So the letters and photos were no help?” she asked sadly.
“No,” I said reluctantly. “And there’s nothing else your son sent you?” Sometimes people had to be nudged, as if they needed permission to remember.
Her eyes looked away and when they returned to me, they were filled with anguish.
“This young man came to our house about five years after Lawrence went missing.” She paused. “That would have been nineteen seventy-five.”
“What did he want?”
“It was the strangest thing. I don’t know. He asked me if I was Lawrence Browning’s mother. When I said yes and asked him what he wanted, he said something about Lawrence being a good soldier who didn’t deserve what happened to him. Then he left.”
“And he never gave you a name?”
“Yes, he did. But I don’t remember it. My husband tracked him down. Wait here a minute. I’ll get it for you.”
When she came back, she was holding a white leather address book stuffed with bits of paper and rubber-banded. She put on her large framed glasses and started searching through the loose papers. “I know it’s in here. Just give me a minute.”
Eventually, she found what she was looking for. “There it is. Anthony Rossi. And his address and telephone number are there too.”
I flipped open my notebook and took down the name, address and phone number. Anthony Rossi lived in Cedarburg, Wisconsin, a few exits north of Milwaukee.
“Maybe you’ll have better luck than my husband did.”
“What do you mean?”
“He never would talk to Larry, and when he went to where this young man lived, no one answered the door.”
Was it possible that Anthony Rossi was Brownie Lawrence? Had he come to tell Mrs. Browning what happened to her son and return his dog tags?
“Could I borrow one of these photographs of your son? It might help me find out what happened to him. I’ll give it back to you.”
“Just don’t lose it.” She gazed off toward the window. “I have so little left of my son.”
When I returned to the truck, all the windows had snoot marks on them, and Salinger was throwing her body against the door, barking and complaining. There was a note tucked under my wiper blade. “You should be ashamed of yourself leaving your dog in a car.” Give me a break. All the windows were open at least six inches. I crumpled the note up and threw it on the floor. “See the trouble you get me into with your big mouth?” I scolded Salinger, who started licking my face in retribution.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed. “You’re forgiven.”
I slipped her leash over her neck and took her for walk. While she sniffed the grass, then did her business, I called Anthony Rossi’s number. A robotic voice told me the number was disconnected.
As I headed north on Highway 43, I debated taking the exit to Cedarburg, the last known address of Anthony Rossi. He probably wasn’t at that address; he might not even be alive. But then again, what did I have to lose except time? I glanced at the car’s clock: 12:35 p.m. Plenty of time to track down Harper Kennedy and show her the gold key and get ready for my “date” with Jake.
Cedarburg turned into a fool’s errand. No Anthony Rossi at that address or listed in the area phone book. The woman who opened the door said she’d bought the house from a Sam Wetzel two years earlier. She had no idea who’d owned the property prior to Wetzel. Surprisi
ngly, she still had Wetzel’s phone number and forwarding address in Seattle, Washington.
I wrote Sam Wetzel’s information in my notebook and left. Before getting back on the highway, I pulled over at a gas station and called Wetzel. He answered on the fourth ring. After explaining why I was calling, he said, “I bought the house in nineteen eighty from Jean Rossi. That would be Anthony’s mother. I believe she moved to Florida to be with her daughter. Sweet lady. Her husband had recently died. That’s why she was selling.”
My heart did a flip-flop. “Did you ever meet Anthony Rossi?”
“Yup. He came to the closing with his mom. What happened to him after that, I don’t know. I know he didn’t go to Florida.”
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because Jean told me so. I wanted to send him some of his personal stuff that he’d left in the house. Or maybe I should say he’d hidden in the house. See, I found this box shoved behind the hot water heater. Why he put it there, I have no idea. When I called Jean and asked her how to contact Tony, she told me to mail his things to her because she didn’t know where he was. I thought that was odd. But I didn’t say anything.”
“Do you remember what was in the box?”
“His dog tags, insignias, purple heart, two photos, one of him in his uniform and another of him and his army buddies, a silver peace sign necklace and another necklace of different colored beads and—here’s the shocker—a Silver Star for valor. When I thought about it later, I figured he was like so many of those guys who fought in Vietnam who didn’t want any reminders. Too many bad memories. But why the heck didn’t he just throw the stuff out? Why he’d leave them behind?”
“Maybe it was his way of starting over?” I surmised, wondering if this was an important piece of Brownie Lawrence’s life story—or should I say, Anthony Rossi’s life story. “How come after all these years you remember what was in that box?”
“Beats me. It just all came back to me when you asked about it. I mean, the guy was awarded a Silver Star. That’s a big deal. I guess it just stuck in my mind.”
For a moment neither of us said anything. Then Wetzel broke the silence. “Anyway, do you think Anthony is your guy? What was his name?”
“Brownie Lawrence. I don’t know. Sam, do you have a fax machine?” It was a long shot. But what did I have to lose?
“Yeah, at my business. In retirement I’m running a coffee shop. What else in Seattle, huh?”
“I’m going to fax you a photo of Brownie Lawrence. Just let me know if you see any resemblance to Tony Rossi. Like height, body type, that kind of thing. And do you still have Jean Rossi’s contact information?”
“Naw, sorry. Threw all that stuff out.”
“Thanks for your help. I’ll fax you that photo today.”
“One more thing,” Wetzel interjected. “I don’t know if it’s any help. But Anthony had been a medic. One of the insignias in that box was a medic insignia. If I remember anything else, I’ll call you. I always enjoy a good mystery. Got a pile of them by my bed.”
As I got back on the highway, my mind was spinning with possibilities. If Brownie was Anthony Rossi, and that was a big if, I’d have quite a cautionary tale. A Vietnam vet who’d been awarded the Silver Star, trained as a medic, whose fall from grace had been as dramatic as his recovery. Then to fall again.
“There’s no way he’d drink sweet cherry wine, I’m telling you.” Ken’s words echoed in reply.
Had he fallen, or had someone given him a push? I wondered.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After a brief stop at the Gazette to fax Brownie’s photo to Sam Wetzel, I decided to go by the BT on my way home. Harper Kennedy was avoiding my calls. She had to be on the grounds because the evening’s performance of MOV was at eight p.m.
Though it was nearly five p.m. on a Friday, traffic was light. So I eschewed my summer shortcut and took my chances on Highway 42. Near as I could tell, the media had cleared out, probably moving on to the next scandal, celebrity wedding or divorce. Nate Ryan was already old news. Of course, if his tox screen showed anything suspicious, the press would be back with a vengeance.
There was no answer at Harper’s apartment. Where was she? I left her yet another voice message about needing a quote about Ryan. “Call me ASAP. It’s urgent,” I stressed dramatically. I was starting to sound like an actor. Flipping the phone shut, I wandered around the grounds. Maybe I’d run into her.
The late afternoon heat was so intense, even Salinger seemed unusually subdued, walking so sedately I let go of her leash. As I followed the path around the ticket office, Salinger suddenly let out a sharp bark and, before I could grab her lead, bolted to the beer garden where Rich was sitting outside under an umbrella, Dixie beside him.
I watched the two dogs greet each other with a few inappropriate sniffs, and then settled down, one on each side of Rich. I wasn’t in the mood for Mr. Flirty Pants, but what choice did I have? Reluctantly, I joined the group.
“How’s my favorite reporter?” Rich asked, slowly looking me up and down. I’d left my suit jacket in the truck and my ivory scoop-necked silk blouse clung to my chest. Rich probably thought I’d worn it just for him.
“Hanging in,” I said, glancing off into the distance as if I were looking for someone else, which I was.
“I see you brought backup this time.” He ruffled Salinger’s fur. “Want a cold one? It’s on the house.” He gave me a wink that made me cringe.
“Thanks, but I’m still on the clock,” I said. Though a cold one was exactly what I wanted, accepting a free beer from Rich came with strings attached.
“Kinda like a cop?” He tilted his head up at me, grinning. His dark mustache glistened with tiny sweat beads.
“Kinda.” I winced at the comparison that hit a little too close to home. Like most of the county, he probably knew about my past interferences with police investigations.
“Hey,” he said a little too enthusiastically. “I meant to tell you. I knew that guy who died.”
Who was he talking about? “Nate Ryan?” I asked stupidly.
“No, the one you wrote about in the paper. Lived over on that nature land up by Marshalls Point.”
“You mean Brownie Lawrence?” I stared down at him. Now he had my interest.
“Yeah, that guy. He and his buddy helped out with the landscaping here. In fact, they did most of those plantings for the Shakespeare garden I showed you. Shame about him dying like that. He was a real hard worker and did what he was told. But that other one, jeez. Talk about attitude. I couldn’t tell him anything. Finally, I fired him.”
“Why? What did he do?”
“Mouthed off to Nina. She criticized how they’d replanted the hostas. He called her a bitch. And that was the end of him.”
“When did this happen?”
“About two weeks ago. I told the other guy he could stay on. Then when he didn’t show up last week, I just figured he didn’t want the job anymore. I didn’t know he was dead. It didn’t say in your article, but do you know how he died?”
Not wanting to comment on Brownie’s death or prolong our conversation, I shook my head and shrugged. “Have you seen Harper Kennedy around?”
“Try the cafeteria. Last I saw she was headed that way.”
“Thanks. C’mon girl.” I patted my thigh a few times to rouse Salinger who, instead of standing, burrowed her head into the sparse tufts of grass.
Rich chuckled. “I’ll watch her for you till you get back.” Though I could have picked up Salinger’s leash and taken her with me, she looked too content.
“I won’t be long,” I said and started to leave.
“You heard Bob took off?” he called after me.
I turned around. “No. What happened?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? He must have left while everyone was at the after-party. ’Cause the next morning, all his stuff was cleared out and he was gone.”
“Didn’t anyone call him?” I stepped back under the shad
y oak tree.
“I left messages on his cell. But he never called me back.”
“What about his family?”
“Alex talked to them. I guess Bob texted them that he needed some time to get his head straight and would be home in a few weeks.”
Something about his story didn’t ring true.
Rich slipped the red bandana from around his neck and swiped at his face and balding head, totally missing his damp mustache. “This heat is about to kill me.”
“Bob told me he needed this internship to graduate. Why would he leave?” I asked. I couldn’t believe Bob would take off like that.
“That’s what I told Alex when he was ragging on about the kid and how he was going to write a letter to his college and really fix his ass. Sometimes Alex can be a real jerk.” There was a sharp edge to Rich’s words.
“Something must have happened for him to leave like that,” I speculated.
“I think he screwed up one too many times and didn’t want to face the music. Don’t get me wrong. I like the kid, but he was kinda in a haze sometimes, if you know what I mean.” He pretended to puff on an imaginary cigarette.
“Haze? You mean marijuana?” Bob hadn’t struck me as a druggie. A nerdy college kid with an adolescent sense of humor, but not a druggie.
“He told me he saw some ghost-like figure hanging around the Moyers’ cabin last week. I told him to lay off the weed.”
“There was that weird nightgown in the closet. You saw it. Maybe that’s what he meant.”
“Like I said, in a haze.” Again, he mimed inhaling and exhaling a joint.
For all his creepy flirtatiousness, I thought, as I walked toward the cafeteria, Rich had his finger on the pulse of the BT’s comings and goings.
When I strode into the BT cafeteria, Harper Kennedy was sitting alone at a corner table gazing out toward the bay, clutching a sweating glass of ice tea.