Blood Ties (8 page)

“Tell me about it later. I've got to get back to campus.”

“Why did you come home?”

“To make sure you were all right.”

*   *   *

Half an hour later, Madeline opened the door to a handsome man whose blond hair seemed to owe more to art than to nature. His smile was radiant, if questioning.

“Tell me you remember me.”

“Maurice! Maurice Dolan.”

“Right the first time. I thought of calling first.”

“Come in, for heaven's sake.”

“That's as good a reason as any.”

“How many years has it been?”

“Please.” He laughed and studied her. “I won't say you've aged well, but you look wonderful.”

“I'll make coffee.”

How weird it was that the past seemed suddenly to be rushing into the present. While she made coffee, he looked around the house. He liked the study.

“You married a professor.”

“I suppose that's obvious.”

“Sometimes I think I was meant for the academic life.”

She managed not to smile. What an unlikely professor he would have made. She poured the coffee, and they sat in the living room. He liked the living room, too.

“And you have kids.”

“Four sons.”

“Hostages to fortune. Isn't that the phrase?”

“And you?”

“Still singular.”

She sipped her coffee. “I saw Catherine Adams.”

“At the memorial for Fleck?”

“Were you there?”

“Catherine and I came together. Nathaniel was a mutual friend.”

“I might have guessed that you live in California.” She added, “The tan.”

“Tell me everything.”

She was trying not to react to the remark about Catherine—the name filled her with murderous thoughts, after what Mark had told her—but Catherine figured prominently in Maurice's account of his life. They were partners of a sort in a driving range.

“So you went to the memorial. Did you know Fleck?” Maurice asked.

“Of course I know his books.”

“Of course? I've never read them. I suppose if you know the writer that is an impediment.”

“How so?”

“The man gets mixed up in the make-believe.”

“You knew him well?”

“We golfed together at least once a week.”

“Catherine golfed.”

“She still does. As often as not, we were a threesome.”

“I'm surprised she never married.”

“So is she. But Nathaniel was elusive.”

“She paid him quite a tribute at the memorial.”

“Ah yes. Well, poetic license. Catherine could write novels herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes Barkis isn't willing.”

“Barkis being Nathaniel.”

“I wondered if he had looked you up.”

Suddenly the banter they had engaged in seemed menacing. Madeline had succeeded, she thought, in masking her surprise at the things he said, but this question was unnerving.

“Why on earth would he do that?”

“Catherine thought he might.”

“Did she suggest it?”

“Hardly. I think she saw you as a rival.”

“Now, that is funny.”

“I'm glad.”

He looked around the room as if he wanted to protect it from something. How much did he know? If Catherine had told her secret to Mark, she might have told anyone. Of course, except for the outcome, it was no secret from Nathaniel, but she could not have regaled Maurice with the tale of her old roommate. Still, it was difficult to think of Maurice as the menace Nathaniel had been.

“When do you return to California?”

He opened his hands. “I have family here, you know. My parents are still alive, thank God. They have put up with a good deal from me. I only wish I could make it up to them.”

“How could you do that?”

“By marrying and having a family.”

“So this Barkis is willing?”

“Oh, not with Catherine. She wouldn't be their idea of a daughter-in-law.” He smiled wickedly. “Nor mine of a wife.”

“As I remember, you were once quite sweet on her.”

“Oh, that comes easily. Marriage is another thing.”

“So your parents will have to wait.”

“There is my sister, Sheila, of course.”

“She has a family?”

“One. A daughter. All grown up suddenly.”

“That happens.”

“I always had trouble in that department.”

“Is that what brought you back, to see your family?”

“Oh, I just tagged along with Catherine.”

“Your business partner.”

“My, it is good to see you and to see you so settled and happy.”

“Thank you.”

He stood. “Well, I'm off to Fox River.”

“Fox River?”

“The family.”

“And your suddenly grown-up niece?”

“Ah, Martha. She's the only one who never scolds me.”

“Martha.”

“Martha Lynch.”

Somehow Madeline managed the good-bye. She thanked him for thinking of her, for stopping by, said she was sorry he hadn't met her husband and four boys. She watched him lope out to the four-wheeler at the curb. A jaunty wave and then he was gone. Madeline sank into a chair. Martha Lynch!

8

The hit-and-run that seemed not to have been a hit and run intrigued Cy Horvath, and he decided to pursue the matter. All the publicity about the late author made him even more curious. There was no suggestion of an explanation of what he had been doing in the vicinity. He lived in California. What had brought him to Fox River? Now the center of gravity had become the campus of Northwestern, and Cy decided to look in on the memorial.

The grief of others always looks exaggerated, but in this case the excess of praise, most of it given by writers who had not even known the deceased, save through his work, was noteworthy. Catherine Adams was a fascinating figure. Once bereaved widows had flung themselves on the funeral pyres of their lost loves. Now they mounted the podium and talked about themselves. Indeed, much of what the woman said turned on her devotion to Fleck over the years, with the faintest suggestion that he had never really deserved it. Cy was struck by her recollections of their student days at Northwestern.

When the memorial was over, he left the chapel and walked the campus walks. A lovely campus, so near to Fox River, and yet he had never been there before. Of course, Northwestern athletics were the pits; every now and then a run of success, then obscurity returned. Ara Parseghian had coached here and repeatedly beat Notre Dame, which eventually hired him. The last good coach had gone on to Colorado, where he was now enmeshed in some kind of scandal. The students Cy passed did not look as if they gave a damn about the fortunes of their football scene. He came to a building identified as the alumni center and went in.

A ruddy-faced fellow hurried in after him and announced over the reception counter that the memorial had been huge. “We'll feature it in the alumni magazine.” He turned to Cy as if to have his decision endorsed. Then he pushed through a half door and disappeared into an office labeled
DIRECTOR.

Cy followed him. The man turned in surprise. Cy showed him his identification. “I am investigating Nathaniel Fleck's death.”

The man collapsed into the chair behind the desk on which a name plate announced
MILFORD HAMPTON.
A look of meditative wonder came over his face. “An amazing thing. None of the speakers referred to the way he had died. My God.”

“What a way to go.”

“It was a hit-and-run?”

“That's what we thought at first. Now that's unclear.”

“Unclear!”

“Death was not caused by being struck by a vehicle.”

“But I read that the maniac climbed the curb and chased him down the sidewalk.”

“What I am wondering is what was he doing in the area.”

“There I can help you.”

“Good.”

“He was here, in this office, just days ago. He was anxious to look up old classmates.”

“Is that difficult?”

“Not in the case of males. Women marry and change their names. I have Computing working on a correlation system, but it's not an easy matter.” He looked beyond Cy. “Women don't bond with an institution the way men do. Often when they marry we don't know, and for years we're mailing things to their parents' home. A total waste.”

“Did Fleck have any luck?”

“He did. Another classmate had given him the married name of the person he was curious about.”

“A woman.”

“What are we talking about?”

“Who is she?”

Suddenly Hampton became wary. “I'm not sure I should give out that information.”

“We don't have many leads, Mr. Hampton.”

“But what possible relation could this person have to his being killed in Fox River?”

“Probably none. But until I know that I will wonder. It's a nuisance getting a court order…”

“Oh, all right.” He rummaged around on his desk and came up with a printout. “It's lucky I haven't thrown this out.” He scanned the piece of paper. “Here it is. The classmate he was interested in is now Mrs. Lorenzo.” He looked up as if Cy had won a bonus. “She is the wife of one of our professors.”

“So she lives right here in Evanston.”

“That's right.”

Cy had his notebook out and waited, pen at the ready. He wrote down “Madeline Lorenzo” and the address. “The husband is Mark Lorenzo. He's in philosophy.” He frowned. “I hope you don't mean to give them any trouble.”

“No.”

“And there should be no need to say how you learned this?”

“Mr. Hampton, he probably looked her up and this will come as no surprise at all.”

Hampton seemed relieved. He shook Cy's hand. “You should have seen the memorial for Nathaniel Fleck.”

“I did.”

9

When Bernard Casey first drove Martha up the long drive to his parents' home in Libertyville, along what seemed a mile of white fencing that separated the drive from vast green acreage on either side, she was astounded.

“It's a farm!”

“Well, a horse farm.”

“This is where you grew up?”

“To the degree that I did.”

She saw a group of horses far off, large ones and one or two little ones on spindly legs tagging along after their elders. The trees on the far horizon seemed more blue than green, and there was the sweet smell of grass.

“How do you keep it mown?”

“Oh, the horses do that.”

If Martha had expected a farmhouse, she had another surprise in store. The term “mansion” is seldom used now, save in historical applications, but the size and grandeur of the Casey home made even the huge and ostentatious houses in the newer suburbs seem modest. The drive brought them under the porte cochere as the doors opened and Bernard's father and mother came out to greet her. Long planned, somewhat dreaded by Martha, this was her presentation to the family.

Of course, she had often seen Bernard's father in the firm's offices, an imposing figure at the end of a corridor, coming in and out, cheerily saying hello but continuing to move toward his inner sanctum, unlikely to be seen again by mere paralegals.

“Vexilla regis prodeunt,”
Willa had hummed, after Casey senior was out of sight.

“Shame on you, Willa.”

“I was thinking of Dante's use of it, not the liturgical.”

Willa was a constant surprise. “What does it mean?”

“The standards of the king go forth.”

“How do you know these things?”

“My dear, I am a graduate of St. Mary's College, the sister school of Notre Dame. Of course you've heard of Sister Madeleva.”

“Did she play football?”

Willa gave her a look. The institutions of higher learning in South Bend, Indiana shared in the reverence with which Willa held her religious beliefs.

“Is Mr. Casey a Notre Dame alumnus?” Madeline asked her.

“Senior? No. He couldn't afford it.” Willa's voice dropped to a whisper. “DePaul.”

“Shame.”

“It was a better school in those days,” Willa said loyally. “Mr. Casey rose from nothing to what he has become.”

The posh offices in the Loop had not prepared Martha for the Casey estate in Libertyville. It helped Martha relax to remember Willa's remark about Mr. Casey's humble origins. And Bernard's parents could not have been nicer. First, there had been a tour of the farm in an open Jeep with Bernard at the wheel and his father beside Martha telling her what they were seeing. When they came back to the house, Mrs. Casey took Martha around, speaking deprecatingly of the rooms through which they passed, all looking like pages in a magazine. Martha was struck by the brightness of the interior, the huge windows that framed scenes of the farm. In what Mrs. Casey called the family room, with its big fireplace and timbered ceiling and more huge windows, there were trophies everywhere, little bronze horses mounted on marble, each adorned with a metal plaque recording the achievement it represented. That was where they all sat for coffee.

“Lynch,” Mr. Casey said.

“My father is George Lynch.”

“The physician?”

“A pathologist. We live in Fox River.”

Casey senior nodded. Martha had the impression that he already knew all about her family. He said that he had heard of her father. Martha found herself telling him of her father's decision not to join the staff at the Mayo Clinic, and of her grandfather, also a medical man.

“And what was his name?” Mrs. Casey asked.

“Oh, he's very much alive. Dolan.”

“Henry Dolan?” Mr. Casey sat forward.

“Yes.”

He turned to his wife. “They're members of the club.”

“Vivian Dolan is your grandmother?”

“You know her?”