by P. B. Ryan
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She frowned. “I was married before. To a man of color. He abused me. He felt emasculated because I had a better-paying job than he did.” She stopped, pursed her lips. “It’s more a woman thing than a race thing. I’m a person. I won’t be a man’s property ever again.”
“But Rich isn’t like that.”
“I know. But it’s been hard coming to Buffalo. It’s a conservative, blue-collar town. And this is a very white neighborhood. It would be difficult for Richard to live here with me as his wife.”
“He loves you.”
“It’s more complicated than just love.”
I hesitated, almost afraid to voice my next question. “Are you going to leave him?”
Her eyes flashed in anger; then she shook her head and picked up another egg, carefully dipping it into the glass of dye. “You’re braver than your brother. He’s afraid to ask that question.”
“Don’t leave him because of me. I’ll go before I let that happen.”
Tears brimmed her eyes. She reached for my hand. “Jeffy, nothing you could do would come between us. You could be the glue that ultimately holds Richard and me together.” She smiled at my puzzlement. “It’s okay, you don’t have to understand. I don’t even understand. But, like those visions you have and hold as truth, I hold this as truth.”
I didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but then we were hugging each other and I felt better.
“What’s going on?” Richard asked, entering the kitchen.
Brenda and I pulled back, looked at one another, and smiled.
“Nothing,” I said and took another sip of my coffee. “Nothing at all.”
“Sit down and draw a caduceus,” Brenda told Richard, the somber spell broken.
“What on earth is that?” I asked.
“The medical symbol. A snake and staff,” he explained, taking his seat. He turned to her. “And why would I want an Easter egg with a caduceus on it—if I could even draw one?”
She held up one of the eggs decorated with my artistry. “Because this is the sorriest example of an Easter egg I’ve ever seen. You have to be better at it than your brother.”
He shrugged and picked up the wax crayon. “It’s blunt.”
“So sharpen it.” I handed him a paring knife. “Hey, guys, I’m going out with Maggie tonight. Should I tell her about this psychic stuff?”
“Yes. If it’s going to make a difference, you want to know before you get too involved,” Brenda advised.
“Just do what feels right,” Richard said. He frowned at the crayon. “How am I supposed to draw something as complicated as a caduceus when the crayon is clear wax and I can’t see what I’ve drawn?”
“Draw a tulip. It’s easier,” I said.
Richard’s artistic endeavors were no better than mine, I noted with satisfaction, but the egg-coloring project was a success if only for the fun we had.
We finished about five, which gave me an hour before Maggie arrived.
I showered and changed and found myself sitting on the stairs by the front door like a dog awaiting its master. I admit it, I was looking forward to my night out. Since I still had cash left from my tax return, the evening would be on me—not her.
With time on my hands, I thought about Rob Sumner. He knew—or suspected—a lot more than he’d let on. I prayed for sudden insight so I’d know what part—if any—he’d played in his father’s death. Not that I believed he participated in the murder, but I couldn’t shake the feeling he was somehow involved, however indirectly.
And perhaps Sharon’s next victim?
Now where did that come from?
I was still pondering different scenarios, with Rob at the center, when the doorbell startled me. I jumped to my feet and opened the door. Maggie stood on the steps, poised to ring the bell again. Her unzipped, iridescent, down jacket seemed to waver between lavender and blue. Dressed in jeans, boots, and an emerald green sweater, she looked terrific.
“Hello!” She took a step forward and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Good to see you looking better.”
“Glad to be feeling better.” I held on longer than absolutely necessary, soaking up that wonderful, peaceful aura she seemed to emit. I stepped back. “Come on in.”
“Sorry I’m late. Lily had a crisis. She ran out of whiskey and her boyfriend was coming over. Elderly love.”
I suppressed a smile.
She looked around the grand entry hall. “Great house. I could kill for a tour.”
“It’s not mine, or I’d say yes. But I’ll bet Brenda could be talked into it. Come on. They’re in the study.” I didn’t bother to take her coat as we were going to leave in only a few minutes. Maggie followed me through the long corridor to the opposite end of the house. Richard sat behind his desk; Brenda was on the couch facing the fireplace. “Rich, Brenda, this is my friend Maggie Brennan.”
Richard stood. “Hi, Maggie, I think I recognize you from the bank.” He held out his hand to shake hers.
Brenda came up behind her.
“This is Brenda.”
Maggie turned and blinked, momentarily startled. I may have forgotten to tell her Brenda’s black. “Oh. Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand.
“We’ve heard a lot about you. I understand interior decoration is a hobby of yours?”
“Yes. You have a lovely home.”
“In desperate need of updating. Would you like a tour?”
Smiling, Maggie glanced at me. “I’d love one.”
The women disappeared and I scowled at Richard. “Well, I won’t be eating dinner for a couple of hours.”
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing me into the empty wing chair in front of his desk.
He took his own seat and started flipping through pages of what looked like bank statements. “Counting your millions?”
Richard frowned. “Take my word for it, having a lot of money is a burden.”
“I could get used to it.”
“I doubt it. I’m forty-seven years old. Brenda doesn’t want to get married, and she certainly doesn’t want children. So what am I going to do with all that money in one lifetime?”
“Give it away.”
“I’ve been meaning to. Grandmother got burned by a bogus charity. I guess that’s why I’m stalling. I haven’t even invested the money, much to my accountant’s dismay. It just keeps growing, even though most of it just languishes in bank accounts.”
“Give it away,” I repeated. “Make it a business. Check out every charity. If it’s legitimate, send them money.”
“I’d have every charity in town kissing my ass.”
“Give it anonymously.”
He looked thoughtful. “Maybe.”
“Just leave me a million or two, okay?”
“I thought you liked your independence?”
“I do. And I’m kidding.”
He shrugged, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ll leave you a million anyway.”
“Don’t hurry and die on my account. I kind of got used to having you around.”
“Seriously, Jeff, years ago I offered to send you to college. That offer’s still open. Or I’ll set you up in business, if that’s what you want.”
“Look, Rich, you could buy me my own insurance agency, or a McDonald’s franchise, but then it wouldn’t be mine. It wouldn’t be something I’d earned.”
“I can lead you to the road to success. You’d have to stay there on your own. You’d do it, too. You have integrity, Jeff. And my offer stands.”
“Then how about a compromise? I’m going to need transportation to find a job. Maybe in a couple of weeks we could go look at cars. But I’ll pay you back. It’s important to me to pay my way. Understand?”
He smiled. “Too well. You’re as bad as Brenda.” He collected the papers in front of him, put them into a file folder, and deposited them in his desk.
“What about you? What do you w
ant to do?”
He shrugged. “Brenda’s got her heart set on volunteering at a women’s clinic. But a clinic that also handles abortions is a little too high-profile for me. I want to help people, but I don’t want to be a target.”
“How about opening your own clinic?”
He shook his head. “All my money wouldn’t be enough to fund it. Plus the logistics are beyond comprehension. That’s why we’ve looked into working for an established clinic.”
“Do you really want to volunteer your time?”
“I might like to work at UB’s clinic. And maybe teach.”
“What does Brenda think?”
“I’ve bored her with it for so long she cringes at the mention of UB. But I always thought of the place as home. I know that sounds silly, but I do.”
“No sillier than having visions and trying to solve murders. In fact, it sounds a helluva lot saner to me.”
“The problem is nothing can compare with my job at the Foundation. I worked with some of the greatest minds and computer equipment.” He shook his head ruefully. “So much of my life was tied up in my work that I didn’t have time for anything else—except Brenda, and she shared that work.”
“So, you’re not a shrink.”
“No, but I’ve done my share of counseling other people.”
Including me, I thought. “So what stage of grief are you in now?”
“Acceptance. Thanks to you.”
“You mean my pitiful life made you realize how good you’ve got it?”
He looked stricken, until he realized my sarcasm held no animosity. “Actually, yes.”
I shrugged. “I’m glad one of us got something out of this experience.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Give yourself time. It’s taken me a year to get this far.”
“Then talk to Brenda about UB. She’s cool.”
He smiled. “You’re right, she is.”
Maggie’s boot heels tapped on the parquet floor. Laughter preceded their entrance.
“Are you ready?” I asked Maggie.
“Sure.” She nodded at Richard. “Hope to see you again soon.”
Brenda and Richard waved to us as Maggie backed out of the driveway, making me feel a bit like a kid out on a first date. She headed toward Main Street, then turned right, heading away from the city. “Where are we going?” I asked.
She gave me a wry smile. “Nowhere fancy. Just good, cheap food.”
Chapter 20
“What do you recommend?” I asked, peering at Maggie over the top of my laminated menu.
“The fish fry, of course.”
Mike and Ann’s Tavern wasn’t fancy. Plastic flowers in plastic vases decorated each table. No one seemed to mind—every seat was taken. But it wasn’t only the good food that had attracted Maggie.
“I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” she explained. “This was the first smoke-free bar I came across. That doesn’t matter now that the laws have changed. But this is still the best place I know for a fish fry.”
“I had a feeling you didn’t like being around smoke.”
“Who does? If I’m exposed to it for even a few minutes, I suffer for days. I just have bad lungs.”
My eyes wandered down the front of her sweater. I wasn’t disappointed in what I saw. She cleared her throat and I looked away, pretending to study the daily specials.
The beer-battered haddock, fries, coleslaw, and fresh-baked rye bread were excellent, and the portions were generous. Too generous for me. Maggie assured me her dog would do justice to the leftovers.
We talked while we ate. Maggie had so many interests and amusing stories to share. In comparison, I felt like the dullest man on earth. I gave her the rest of my history—how I’d lost my job at Travelers, then used all my savings just to survive. I told her about landing the new job and how life was on the upswing until the mugging.
It seemed like every sentence I uttered began with, “I used to....” I used to play racquetball. I used to dabble in photography. I used to target shoot.
I used to have a life.
“My sister Irene says you’re a loser. That I should run away from you as fast as I can.”
My stomach tightened. She’d said the words with such lightness that it almost sounded like a joke. But her sister might be right.
“Then why didn’t you cancel tonight?”
Maggie’s gaze held mine. “Because the day I met you, when you shook my hand, I felt—” She stopped, as though having trouble putting her thoughts into words. “I felt something.”
I had, too. I liked it. I wanted more.
She hesitated, then reached across the table and touched my hand, reigniting that same spark of something inside me once again.
We sat there, amidst the dinner crowd bustle, staring at each other. Smiling at each other. Studying each other. Then a shadow darkened her deep blue eyes. She released her hold, reached for her coffee cup, and lowered her gaze. “There’s something I should have told you.”
I swallowed dryly. “Oh?”
“Matt and I were ... together for a while.”
Oh shit. And I’d told Nielsen to concentrate on Sumner’s ex-lovers. I worked at keeping my voice level. “You had an affair?”
She placed the cup back in its saucer and toyed with her spoon. “It was right after Gary left.” Her face seemed to crumple. “When your husband leaves you for another man, you feel like a failure as a woman. Matt and his never-ending string of compliments made me feel desirable again. But it wasn’t long before I felt pretty darn cheap.”
For a moment I thought she might cry. Then she took a breath and straightened in the booth. “Matt took advantage of me when I was vulnerable. I’m not making excuses for myself. I should have known better. When I finally realized what I’d allowed to happen, I was angry. I broke it off and Matt took his revenge. He got me transferred back to the secretarial pool where I started. It took me four years to move up to the top floor again, and he made my life hell once I made it back, too.”
Her anger and resolve, stretched across the expanse of table, touched me. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
She wouldn’t look at me. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”
I studied her troubled face as she tried to distance herself from the hurt.
“I don’t think less of you. I think less of him.”
Her smile was thin-lipped and embarrassed.
I needed more from her. But how could I get it without seeming as big a jerk as the man who’d used her? “What about Sumner’s children? Ron Myers said the youngest son has a drinking problem.”
“Michael went to rehab after he showed up drunk at school toting a loaded gun. I’m the one who made the arrangements to get him into a place near Albany. Matt’s daughter, Diane, is the only sane one in the family.”
“What’s with Rob?” I asked. “When I spoke to him yesterday, he was pretty hostile. I got the impression he really didn’t want anyone looking into his father’s death. Like he might’ve known something about it.”
“I don’t know. Matt was great at damage control. I wondered if Rob got caught stealing or maybe selling drugs a couple of years ago. He was in some kind of trouble, but it all blew over.”
“Did Sumner confide in you about such things?”
Maggie shook her head. “He didn’t respect me—or any other woman. I once heard him tell one of the guys that women were only walking twats. I know that’s vulgar, but that’s what he was.”
I frowned. The more I learned about Sumner, the more my revulsion grew. But I needed to find out more.
“I’m trying to get in Sumner’s head—get a better understanding of him. Does that make sense?”
She nodded.
“Then tell me, where does one have a clandestine affair in Buffalo?”
“We’d meet at his condo. I don’t think Claudia knew about it. I don’t know if he owned or rented it. It might even belong to the bank. You wouldn’t believe the as
sets they have.”
Someone dropped a couple of quarters in the jukebox. Elvis began singing “Suspicious Minds.”
Maggie leaned forward, and spoke louder. “I found a duplicate key in his desk while cleaning out his office.” She patted her purse beside her. “I don’t know why, but I took it.”
My eyes widened as a whole range of possibilities blossomed in my mind.
She smiled coyly. “Wanna take a drive?”
o0o
The condo was in a tract of ubiquitous clones in Tonawanda off Sheridan Drive. If you came home drunk on a Saturday night, you’d probably never find your own place.
Maggie parked in the short drive and killed the lights and engine. No porch lamp shined at number three twenty-two. It wasn’t much to look at. A double garage took up most of the front of the place. The entrance was a white steel door. A round, leaded window was the only source of natural light on the south side of the first floor, although double dormered windows were centered on the story above.
We got out and I looked around. No neighbors peeked out to watch us. Not even a barking dog cut the silence.
Maggie headed for the front door, stuck the key in, and reached for the handle.
A sick feeling welled in my stomach.
“Wait! Do you have gloves?” I met her on the steps, could hardly see her eyes in the dark.
“What for?”
“If the cops haven’t been through here already, we don’t want them finding our fingerprints when they come.”
“Good idea,” she said, and pulled a pair of knit gloves from her coat pocket. I held the cuff of my right glove between my teeth and pulled it on my hand, as she fumbled with the key in the lock.
The condo was dark. I waited until she shut the door behind us before patting the wall in search of a light switch. I found it, and a crystal chandelier flashed to illuminate the entry. I took in the stark white walls, tiled entry, carpet and sectional furniture in the room straight ahead: the place reminded me of a hospital. No art or photos decorated the hall. To the right, a staircase led to the loft above. The place felt cold, like no one had been there in weeks.