Murder Ink

by Betty Hechtman

  Rachel’s parents had gifted her a condominium in the building when she started working. She very proudly had told me it was the only thing she had accepted from them and that when they wanted to give the couple a bigger place when they got married, she’d refused. Her parents had a place in the building as well, though theirs was really more of a pied-à-terre since they owned a mansion in Highland Park.

  I wasn’t sure which balcony Rachel had fallen from, though I suspected that it was the one attached to her apartment, and was therefore glad that Mrs Parker had said we’d meet at their place. I wondered how Luke managed to continue living there with the constant reminder of what had happened.

  The elevator made a rapid ascent and I felt my stomach clench when I got off on the thirty-second floor and walked down the hall to the Parkers’ apartment.

  I’d written pieces for celebrations of life before, as I preferred to call them, but they had been for people who’d had full lives. There was sadness, but acceptance. There would be none of that for Rachel.

  Mrs Parker answered the door. I knew her first name was Camille, but even in these days of informality, I couldn’t imagine calling her anything but Mrs Parker. I gave her a once-over though I tried not to be too obvious. I couldn’t help it – I was always observing people, thinking how I would describe them. I don’t mean an autopsy description – height, weight, hair and eye color – you know, what writers are warned to avoid. I looked for something that gave a clue to who they were. So in Mrs Parker’s case the fact she had brown hair with a lot of highlights that were probably painted in, wore designer jeans and an untucked white shirt, along with simple diamond stud earrings, wouldn’t be what I was after. There was something brittle and cold about her. I’d noticed it when I’d met her before and now a pained tension about her eyes had been added.

  She greeted me with a smile that stopped at her mouth and brought me inside. The living room wall was all windows and I had an instant view of the balcony and beyond to the southern part of the city. My first impulse was to look out at the view and see if I could see my neighborhood. But then reality hit, and I focused on the balcony. I sucked in my breath as I looked at the transparent barrier. It gave the illusion that the balcony was just hanging in space. I thought of Rachel’s balcony and realized that it looked the same.

  Mrs Parker noticed me looking at the patio and steered me toward a pair of off-white couches that formed a conversation area.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, offering me a seat.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and she went to answer it. I saw Rachel’s husband, Luke Ross, come in. The last time I’d seen him he was getting pelted with rose petals as he and Rachel headed off for their honeymoon. He’d definitely looked a lot happier then; now his mouth was set in a straight line. There was a casualness about his demeanor and his soft blue jeans with a navy sweater reflected it. I don’t know why I looked at his feet, but his shoe choice was well broken-in tan ankle boots. As for the autopsy description, he was tall with a nice build, had dark blond hair and hazel eyes.

  A look passed between Mrs Parker and Luke as she showed him to the couch. She tightened her mouth as if to tell him to stay quiet. There wasn’t even a hint of a greeting smile between them and it seemed pretty clear that there hadn’t been a big welcome to the family feeling after the wedding. I didn’t know what Luke did for a living, but I’d gotten the impression that whatever it was didn’t go along with the Parkers’ reputation.

  I began by offering my condolences to the pair and they both nodded in what seemed like a studied pose of sadness. There was no offer of a drink or even small talk. Mrs Parker made it clear from the start this was no social gathering and got right down to business.

  ‘Mr Parker and I were pleased with the job you did on Rachel’s wedding vows and we’d like you to write something for her memorial service,’ she said.

  ‘You mean something for the officiant to read?’ I said, thinking of what I’d done before, but she shook her head.

  ‘Actually, we want you to create something we can give out at the service. A biography that will show what her life was like and hopefully divert attention from how it ended.’ Luke threw her a sharp look and she returned it. ‘For now, her cause of death is listed as inconclusive. I’d leave it that way, but Mr Parker wants it to be labeled as accidental.’ She let out a heavy sigh. ‘It will still be a black mark for the family. If she’d died from some disease it would be so much easier.’ Her mouth retracted into an angry expression. ‘Even in her death, Rachel always made it so difficult.’

  Did she really say that? I held in my surprise at her comment. She’d lost her daughter and all she really seemed to be was angry. I knew something about loss. I searched through my old feelings looking for any signs that I’d been angry. No, I’d just been heartbroken and sad.

  ‘The funeral was private, but we’re planning a memorial service in three weeks for all of our friends and business associates.’

  So, it would be the same crowd that had been at her wedding, which had included city officials and even the mayor. I started asking about specifics like how long they wanted the piece to be, what form it should be delivered in and lastly, the money.

  Mrs Parker seemed clueless about the length and left it up to me. All she said about the style was tasteful. They would take care of the printing and binding as they wanted it to be an actual small book. When it came to the money, it was a repeat of what I’d gone through with the wedding vows. Rachel had wanted to be generous, but Mrs Parker, like so many rich people, seemed to think I should be so honored to do work for them, that I would work almost for free. Honor didn’t pay bills. I stood my ground until she finally agreed on a fair amount. But of course, to be paid on delivery and any expenses I incurred were my responsibility.

  She went to the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen and came back with a stack of photo albums. ‘This should give you some background. And it would be good if you placed some photographs in the copy.’ They seemed rather unwieldy and I asked if she had something I could use to carry them. Seeming a little put upon, she rummaged through the kitchen and came back with a reusable grocery bag from Trader Joe’s. The way she looked at the print on it, I was sure she hadn’t been the one who’d shopped there. She left me to load the albums into the bag.

  ‘I may need to speak to you later,’ I said. ‘And you as well.’ I turned to Luke who’d remained silent the whole time. ‘And possibly Mr Parker.’ Camille Parker shook her head.

  ‘I suppose if you need some details, we can talk again. But leave Mr Parker out of it.’ I thought she might give a reason, but she left it at that. I suspected she either was protecting him or she just wanted to run the show. She turned to Luke and told him to walk me out. Got it. Our visit was over.

  He appeared relieved as he stood and guided me down the short hall to the door. We walked out together and headed to the bank of elevators. He pushed the down button for both of us.

  He stayed silent until the elevator arrived and even as we rode down the few floors to his. Then as he started to get off, he leaned against the door, holding it open.

  ‘Rachel treasured those vows you wrote for us,’ he said. ‘Almost every month we’d go out to the tip of Navy Pier and she’d have us read them to each other again.’

  I could just see it in my head. The old pier had been a lot of things, but lately had been revitalized into a destination with restaurants and amusements. The tip offered a view of the skyline and the shore and was one of the most romantic spots in the city.

  I thought he was going to leave it at that, but since he was still holding the door open there was clearly something else on his mind. He finally let out a sigh. ‘It’s too bad that Rachel and you didn’t keep in touch. She could have really used a friend.’

  Before I could answer, he’d stepped out onto the floor and the elevator door snapped shut before it began to descend. What did he mean by that?

  TH
REE

  I never tired of the view of the lake and cars moving along the Outer Drive and automatically took a seat on that side of the Metra train for my trip home. But if I looked out the window on the ride, none of it registered. I was still lost in thought about my two appointments. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with Evan and Sally. In the past, I had always had a relationship to build the letters on. But this time the letter was going to have to create a relationship.

  And then there was Rachel. I couldn’t get Luke’s comment out of my head. If he’d intended to make me feel guilty, he’d succeeded. Was he trying to imply she’d still be alive if I hadn’t lost touch with her? I wished I’d explained that I was usually a person non grata once I’d fulfilled my purpose. And why put it all on me? She had my phone number. Then I chided myself for even thinking of that last part.

  The whole experience made me believe that Luke thought it wasn’t an accident – that she’d propelled herself off the balcony. Could that be? How could Rachel have gone from a bubbling bride to such a dark place in a year?

  As my surroundings came back into focus, I realized with a start that we’d reached my stop. The conductor was already calling all aboard. I made a run for it. The door slid shut behind me and the train began to pull away.

  I followed the crowd down the platform and took the stairs down to the street. The sun drenched me in light when I came out from the viaduct. I took in the scene in front of me and thought of how different my neighborhood was from Lakeshore East. For one, Hyde Park was much older and to my way of thinking more of a real neighborhood.

  Some people thought Hyde Park was almost like a small town within the city. Really a college town, as the main campus of the University of Chicago was located there.

  There were a few high rises, but most of Hyde Park was made up of three-story walk-ups and houses in assorted architectural styles. Rambling Victorians on the block ran along the Metra tracks, while elsewhere streets were lined with more modern box-like townhouses.

  As usual there was plenty of foot traffic. Two women wearing U of C T-shirts jogged by me. I noticed several people outside Powell’s Bookstore checking out the freebies. It was a neighborhood tradition to leave books there for anyone to take.

  I crossed 57th Street and started down the block that had a mixture of residential and commercial with the stores and restaurants mainly on the ground floor and apartments above. A woman with a fresh crew cut was just coming out of the hair salon on the corner. I considered stopping at the small market, but I had the bag full of albums and decided to pass for now.

  As soon as I turned onto my street the noise level went down. The leaves on the tall trees that lined the block had turned a bright yellow as if they’d swallowed the sun. A small gust of wind sent a shower of them around me.

  I glanced up at my building, thinking of the glass tower where the Parkers lived. They were as different as night and day. The word vintage was thrown around when describing my building, which was a nice way of saying old – like over one hundred years old. Still, the butterscotch-colored bricks look bright and the white columns on either side of the front were freshly painted.

  I went into the vestibule and checked the mail. There wasn’t a doorman, just a locked glass door that was commonly called a buzz door, because a tenant could push a button in their apartment which released the lock with a buzz to let a guest in.

  The three flights of stairs were good exercise, particularly since I spent so much time sitting. I was only slightly breathless when I opened my door and went inside. Sunlight was streaming in the living room window and the room felt uncomfortably warm. I opened the door to my front porch to let some air in. I looked out on it suddenly seeing it differently. I always thought of it as a porch, but wasn’t it really a balcony? It was confirmed when I checked the dictionary. Yes, I had a paper one and still used it instead of checking online. It turns out that a porch is connected to the entrance to a building whereas a balcony was like this – an enclosed platform attached to a building.

  I stepped out on it, thinking of Rachel and her much fancier building. My balcony was more spacious than hers and shared with the next-door neighbor. There was a low wrought-iron fence between my side and theirs, which didn’t afford any privacy. For the moment it didn’t matter. The apartment was up for sale and was vacant.

  I felt a little queasy when I walked to the railing along the front. It barely reached past my waist. I stepped back rather than looking down to the street and went back inside leaving the door open.

  I glanced around the living room that was as familiar as the back of my hand. I groaned inwardly at my mental use of a cliché. Writers were supposed to know better. This had been my family home until I moved out, and then when my father died, I inherited it and moved back in.

  Sometimes I looked at the room and thought of all the events that had happened in the same space over the years. I could see myself dressed in frothy pink for my fifth birthday. Then it was Christmas Eve and we were having our usual gathering. I could almost smell the cardamom coffee cakes my mother always made for the holiday. Memories of seasons flew by. I imagined the radiators chugging as the snow fell outside the window and piled up on the balcony. Then it was summer with the languid air blowing in from outside.

  I saw myself lugging in the small fragrant pine tree I’d gotten for the holidays at the shopping center. I was nine and had taken it upon myself to make sure we had something to decorate since everything had changed. Time went forward to spring and I saw myself hunched on the couch when my father broke the news that my mother had died. I sobbed into the scarf she had taught me how to crochet.

  Then time fast-forwarded more years and I was dressed for my wedding. I stopped the mental movie right there and shook my head to get rid of the memories. I needed to deal with now.

  I took the shopping bag of albums and went into my office, which was right off the living room. It had French doors that I left open so that it was almost like an extension of the living room.

  A long hall ran from the living room back to the dining room and beyond there was the kitchen and a small bedroom and bath left from the days when it was common to have a live-in servant. I was still finding surprising things, like the pipes in the ceiling left from when there were gas lights (closed off now) and there was a bell in the dining-room floor meant to summon that live-in servant.

  Other apartments in the building had been remodeled and updated, but mine was mostly original. I still had a claw foot bathtub and a decorative pedestal sink.

  I pulled out the albums and put them on my desk along with my notes about Evan and Sally. I really wanted to get started on a letter for him, but I needed to talk to him first and find out exactly what he had in mind. Even then it was going to take my whole arsenal of inspirational devices to find the right words. But there was no reason I couldn’t start on the piece about Rachel. I started to look through the albums but was overwhelmed by the volume of photographs. I’d never done a memorial booklet before. When I’d accepted the project I hadn’t really thought about how I would do it. But now I was filled with concerns. Mrs Parker had talked about a biography illustrated with photographs. That seemed cold and dry and I thought there had to be another way. But it also had to be something that Mrs Parker would find acceptable. I decided to let it simmer in the back of my mind for a while. I put the albums back into the plastic grocery bag. When I looked out the window, it was getting dark.

  I went around the apartment turning on the lights, realizing I’d forgotten about dinner and now it would have to wait because it was Tuesday, which meant the writing group would be meeting.

  Originally, I’d had three groups a week meeting to work on their writing, but I had gotten it down to just one. I was not only a pen for hire, but I guess a writing coach for hire as well. I might be stuck on my own fiction, but I was great at helping other people with theirs.

  I sighed when I glanced at my partial manuscript on my shelf. All those page
s equaled ten chapters of book two of detective Derek Streeter’s adventures. I pulled out the last page I’d written and read it over. It was half blank and I remembered that when I could think of anything for Derek to do or say, I’d started writing my feelings. I’m starting to panic. I can’t breathe and when I do it hurts. Every word seems to suck. The whole thing sucks. I’m finished. Done. What am I going to do? I cringed as I read my words. Would I ever be able to write the rest of it?

  I had briefly thought of showing it to the group and getting their opinion, but wised up before I did. If I let them critique my work, it kind of blew my position of authority, and whatever justification I had for charging them for my opinion. They put me on a pedestal and thought I knew the secret sauce to writing. Besides, there was always tomorrow. Maybe the words would start to flow again. A girl could dream. I shut off the desk lamp and went to the dining room to get ready for my group.

  FOUR

  Ed Grimaldi was the first arrival. He was always the first one there and was anxious to get started as usual. He was in his sixties, favored blue track pants and T-shirts. Like a lot of people in the neighborhood, he worked for the university. I didn’t know exactly what he did, but it had to do with maintenance. He lived down the street and his wife had convinced him to join the group. I suspected it was mostly about getting him out of the house for a while. He was obsessed with reality shows where men and women got to pick mates or dates. His work in progress was fan fiction based on his favorite show, The Singleton. It was a competition where a bevy of women vied to be the one picked by the current bachelor. It was hardly all sweet romance either. There were options for the man to take one of the women to Getting to Know You Suite, which probably should have been called the Getting It On Suite. Whatever went on there was off camera, of course. Not so in Ed’s version.