Dead Guy's Stuff (23 page)

Jane slipped the jar into her pocket and peeled off the gloves.

"What is it you think we're looking for?" Jane asked.

"It's usually a notebook with names and dates. Amounts of money paid off? Bookkeeping done in some novel way, I suppose," said Oh. "In a case I worked on years ago, a man had one of his assistants tattooed with the name of the man who had hired him to commit a crime."

"Why would that be proof of anything? I could get Tim's name tattooed on my… somewhere… and say that he did something, but it wouldn't prove anything, would it?" Jane asked.

"But how embarrassing for Mr. Lowry to have to deny it," said Oh. "And if he did do it, it certainly makes everyone look in his direction. When he makes a slip, everyone is watching."

"Seems ridiculous, if you ask me," said Tim, who had come in behind them. "All of these businesses in Kankakee, these taverns and restaurants… Who cared if they ran a little gambling thirty or forty years ago?"

Jane looked into the showroom where Nellie was lecturing Munson about how to be a decent cop. Oh's and Tim's eyes followed hers.

"People like my mother and father and all the rest here didn't want their names dragged through the mud. They didn't realize at first it was going to tie them up for all this time. Gus was smart. He played the right people, knew he could count on them to stay quiet to protect their families."

Munson waved the three of them in and pushed them along with Nellie toward a uniformed officer to whom he gave instructions to drive them back to the EZ Way Inn.

"How does Munson know you, Mom?" Jane asked. "He called you Nellie."

"Everybody calls me Nellie. We know all the cops. We've been robbed about twenty times. Besides," Nellie said, "your dad always said we should know the cops and stay on their good side because sooner or later one of them would be the chief and sooner or later he might run for mayor. Back when we got our liquor license, it paid to know how to stay on everybody's good side."

"That's right. Dad always had matchbooks that supported the democratic candidates on the bar right next to the matchbooks for the republicans," Jane said.

"Have to treat them all the same," Don said, when they got back to the EZ Way Inn and Jane pointed out pamphlets on the bar from two opposing candidates for county sheriff. Jane laughed at the way Nellie almost let Don hug her. It reminded Jane of the way Nick avoided the appearance of family human contact.

"You had to support all the candidates because you didn't know who was going to win. Saloon keepers always want to be on the side of the winner. That way, if you were a little late closing on a Saturday night, you could catch a break. Course, it doesn't matter anymore. Our customers are all too old to stay up past ten, so we close well before legal hours now," Don said. "Unless a ball game on the West Coast goes into extra innings, everybody's home safe in bed by eleven."

Munson had been talking to Bobby Duff, whose head could not hang any lower on his neck. When Munson stood up and gave him a slap on the back, Bobby nearly pitched forward into his glass of beer.

"That is a sad case, everybody in his family gone, all committed suicide."

"Not his father," Jane said, not ready to reveal any new information, she added, "Not Duff."

Munson groaned. "Another murder, Mrs. Wheel?"

"Yup. Someone hacked off his finger, then set him up in the car to make it look like a suicide," Jane said. "And I'm beginning to think I know who."

"Will we be sharing today?" asked Munson.

"Couldn't have been Stuart or his clowns," Nellie said. "Too young."

"If Detective Oh can get some information, I think we can figure out who Stuart and the duct tape twins work for," said Jane. "If there were any young cops or lawyers working on the Bateman case or at the time of the Bateman case who went on to higher things— elected to office in the city, someone now a judge or something— I think we could find some connections."

"How did you come up with that?" Tim asked.

"It's what Mom said about Dad. Got to be nice to all the cops because they all end up moving up. Once you get 'up' you got something to lose. You said part of it, too, Tim. Who cares about all the nickel-dime gambling that went on years ago? Unless you were a part of it forty years ago and now you want to keep a judgeship or vote against more riverboat gambling in Chicago?"

"May I get some change for the pay phone?" Oh asked. "I don't want to use my cell phone for this call."

Nellie shook her head and took him by the arm.

"I'll be damned," said Don, "she's showing him the private phone. I've never seen her do that for anyone."

"You have a private line here?" Tim asked.

"See?" said Don.

"Detective Munson," said Jane, "I know it's a hassle to open up cases, but I think Duff was murdered because he was going to talk. When his wife committed suicide, he decided to give up the information he had. Whoever killed him cut off his finger as a warning to the other saloon keepers."

Jane looked at her father, who had been watching her with wonder and admiration.

"No one ever knew for sure. The finger seemed like a message, but no one knew for sure whether it was a rumor or it had really happened. The kids, you know," Don cocked his head in the direction of Bobby Duff. "He was young, still in high school, and Lilly, well, it seemed like Lilly might be able to escape it all, but she came back."

Jane was close to saying something about what Lilly had found in the shanty basement. She'd wait. Maybe what Lilly had found out wasn't really anybody else's business. Bobby hadn't read the letters yet, but he had said something that led Jane to her conviction that Duff was murdered. "He said he wanted to give it all up," Bobby had remembered. He didn't mean give up on living, he meant giving up information. Duff's mistake was drinking too much and talking about doing it for too long. Someone got to him before he could name names.

Since the EZ Way Inn wasn't officially open, it wasn't really a problem to shoo out the regulars who were drawn like magnets when word got out that something was going on at Don and Nellie's. There were, after all, police cars parked in the lot, and customers felt it was their duty to come over and find out what was going on.

Francis, who felt like he had been in on everything from the beginning, although he had no idea what was going on, what beginning he witnessed or how whatever he didn't know could possibly end, took charge, ushering folks out the door, saying in his best television cop voice, "Show's over. Let's go."

Don himself escorted Francis to the door, thanking him for all of his help, his steady support in a crisis. He turned to Nellie as he left, "Are you going to have pie tomorrow?"

"Don't you think maybe we ought to quit before all our customers are as senile as Francis?" Nellie asked Don.

Munson finished with his questions and notes. He shifted his weight back and forth, left foot to right, and finally took Jane by the arm and led her away from her parents.

"My dad was a cop back then. He's dead now, gone ten years, but he kept a diary. Sometimes I read in it, you know, just to feel closer. He didn't like the investigation on Duff. I remember he said that Duff wouldn't have done that. Half-ass drunk, maybe, he'd say, but he wouldn't have left his kids that way." Munson paused. "He was Catholic, you know."

Jane nodded, waiting for Munson to continue, not wanting to say anything that might break the spell of him trusting her with what seemed to be a great confidence.

"When Louella killed herself, Duff couldn't get the old priest that was at Saint Pat's to bury her in the church. It just about killed him. He wouldn't have committed suicide is what my dad always said."

"It might make a lot of difference to Bobby Duff if he knew that his dad didn't really want to leave him," Jane said.

Munson nodded and clapped a paw on her shoulder. He even nodded to Oh, who came out of the backroom reading over the notes he had taken while using the backroom phone.

"I've just got phone numbers to call back later when people have had time to check some names and dates," said Oh.

Don suggested that they all go to the house, have some lunch, and give Nellie some time to recover from her ordeal, which everyone knew meant that Don needed a nap. Nellie was glowing with vim and vigor, as if she had found the secret to the fountain of youth— doping and duct-taping thugs who were dumb enough to mess with her.

Tim shook his head. The McFlea, he reminded everyone, opened tomorrow, and he needed to make sure everything was in order. He was going back to his shop to pick up all the flowers the amateur decorators had ordered for their rooms and stop at the Jewel to pick up a frozen apple pie.

"You and Francis and your pies," said Nellie.

"Not for dessert, Nellie, for perfume," Tim said. "At one o'clock when the McFlea opens, that fresh-baked apple pie aroma will put an already sure hit over the moon."

"Just goes to show you," Nellie said, as she watched Tim leave, "you don't have to be as old as Francis to be senile."

22

Autumn in New York. April in Paris. Moonlight in Vermont. Everyone knew there were seasons, times that matched romantically with geography. Songwriters crowned these places, these months, these times of day in their lyrics, and they stuck as the memories that launched a thousand nostalgic flights of fancy. No one yet had written the Ballad of Illinois in September, the definitive tribute to the turning leaves and their crunch underfoot, the drumbeat of acorns, the crisp cut of light through a window, the whiff of smoke and frost in the clear air.

Autumn in Kankakee was not memorialized, not a song destined to be sung. If Jane could compose, she decided, as she lay awake in her childhood bedroom in her parents' house, she would make her signature song "September in Kankakee." It was her favorite place to be— for a day or two anyway— in her favorite month— all thirty days that it hath. Part of it, she knew, was the memory of sharpened pencils and knee socks, the joy of going back to school after a muggy summer spent lying on the floor holding down the pages of comic books with both hands in front of the oscillating fan, waiting for August to end.

September. Crack open the seal on a brand-new crayon box, inhale the magical bouquet, and spill out the burnt umber and goldenrod and raw sienna and ochre— all the colors that they wore down to a nub on Fridays in Sister Ann Elizabeth's second-grade room recreating the September to October trees outside their windows. Memorize the answer to "Why did God make me?" for catechism class. Look out the window, Sister. God made me to see this.

Jane reached for the phone and dialed Tim's number. He answered with a sound somewhere between hello, what, and go away.

"Huway."

"Can you see out your window from bed?"

"Huway."

"Has there ever been a song written about Kankakee?"

"Kan-ko-kee, ke-ko-can-who-can-we-can-kan-ko-keecan."

"That's a football cheer."

"It's 7:39 A.M. My repertoire isn't fully downloaded and operational," Tim said.

"Shouldn't you be up basting turkeys and baking pies to perfume the McFlea?" asked Jane.

"I've got everything timed. Grand opening's at one. Everybody coming?"

"That's the plan."

* * *

Nellie was sliding eggs on to Don's plate when Jane joined them in the kitchen. Nellie still tied an apron over her clothes when she cooked, even though the sweet shirtwaist dresses Jane remembered her wearing had given way to jogging pants and sweatshirts. Don had the
Kankakee Sunday Journal
spread out in front of him. Nellie shuffled the pages aside as she placed two slices of toast next to the bacon and eggs.

"How do you want yours?" Nellie asked, already holding an egg over the pan.

"Just toast," Jane said, brushing her hand over the top of her dad's steel gray crewcut as she passed by his chair on her way to the toaster.

"It's Sunday," Nellie said.

Her mother had always spoken her own language in her own rhythm. To be conversant in Nellish, one had to be proficient in a kind of mental leapfrog. Nellie never bothered to fill in the gaps between her comments. You either followed along or you didn't. Some people might say Nellie didn't listen, but Jane knew that wasn't true. She filed away everything everyone had ever said. If pink was your favorite color when you were five, you would be reminded, as you rejected a rose-colored prom dress, that "Pink is your favorite color"; and, in your forties, when you came around to the flattering glow that wearing pink cast, Nellie was right there behind you in the fitting room saying, "Pink was always your favorite color." Nellie listened all right. It was just that in the land where Nellish was spoken, she didn't answer, respond, or recognize any words that weren't part of her own agenda for the day, the week, the rest of your life.

Jane knew, that in Nellish, what her mother meant, what another mother might say, was, "I know you don't normally eat a big breakfast, dear. Nor do we. On Sundays, though, it is our habit to cook a big hot breakfast, which might consist of eggs, bacon, potatoes, and not have another meal until dinner. Wouldn't you like to join us in our hearty, delicious, and special occasion meal?"

Maybe no mother would say exactly that,
thought Jane, but somewhere between Nellie's grunts and non sequiturs and Jane's fantasy mother who was always gracious, articulate, and affectionate, there had to be a happy medium. Would Nick think she had landed there? In that happy medium of motherhood between one's own parents' shortcomings and fifties television perfection?

Jane shook her head again and put two pieces of bread into the toaster.

"Are you two ready for the McFlea today?"

"I'm not sure your mother should go," Don said. "What if that Stuart decides to show up and get even with her for capturing his friends?"

"He doesn't give a rat's ass," Nellie said. "Those guys were losers, and he's better off without them. He knows that. They're probably what gave him reflux."

"Did you give Tim all the ledgers and account books?"

"Everything you gave me is over there," Don said. "Munson called while you were in the shower. They picked up Crandall last night at his motel. Didn't say why he bolted yesterday. Said he panicked, has a history of claustrophobia and anxiety. Gave Munson the name of his doctor to verify and offered to pay me twice what the bathroom window would cost to repair."

"What did Munson do with him?"

"He had nothing to hold him on really, besides the damage to the EZ Way," said Don.

"What about blackmail?" Jane asked.

"Who's he blackmailed? He might have planned on carrying on the family business, but he hasn't done anything yet."

"How about our front window?" Nellie asked.

Don and Jane both looked at her.

"He's willing to pay for the bathroom window, but what about the front window? The brick?"

"That was Bobby," Don said.

Nellie and Jane looked at him.

"How did you know that, Dad?" Jane asked, trying to remember if she had mentioned it to her father last night when they had all been working out their plans and roles for today's McFlea McSting, as Tim had named it.

"While you were off taping up the bad guys, Bobby started crying in his beer and apologizing. He thought he'd be able to take over the blackmailing business. Poor sap."

"Dad, how much do you figure the total take of the blackmailing business was? I mean how much was everyone paying? Total?"

"I added it up. Altogether it was $875 a month until last June. Old Pink was paying $150 of it. When he died, Pink Junior said he didn't give a damn if his dad had run roulette on the front lawn, he wasn't paying Duncan any more than the rent listed on the lease."

"How'd Duncan take it?" Jane asked, half listening. She was thinking about how much chaos $875 a month had caused. Did any of them realize what a paltry sum they were fighting over?

"Told Pink to expect a grease fire within the year, then just laughed," Don said. "No one knew if he was serious or not. Pink told us at the meeting we had the other night that he just laughed right back at him and said he was insured, Duncan could do whatever he wanted; it was his building. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he was selling them all to us; maybe he was going to torch everything."

Jane reminded Don and Nellie to be at the McFlea by noon. At one, the school bus would start dropping off paying visitors who were parking at the high school. Jane was certain they could accomplish what they needed to in an hour. She packed her car and headed off to the McFlea, formerly the Gerber house, future Tim Lowry casa.

It was a glorious day, sunny and golden. Jane longed to roll down the windows and sing that September in Illinois song, if only someone would write it. She parked next to Tim's mustang in back and went in through the open kitchen door. Tim was studying the kitchen left to right, east to west, top to bottom.

"Beautiful job, Janie," Tim said. "I didn't really pay too much attention yesterday when I came through and checked after the duct tape twins were here. You did good."

"Will you keep it like this?" Jane asked.

"It's a little fabric-y for me," Tim said. "I'm not sure what I'd get rid of, though. Love the hanky curtains, love the pot holders. Tell you what, how about doing a kind of display with some of this stuff down at the store. I'm taking over the frame shop next door, and I'll have my own little antique mall. You and me, okay?"

Bruce Oh came in on the last sentence, putting his wallet away and shaking his head. "Inexpensive taxis here in Kankakee. I'm sorry, Mr. Lowry, I think Mrs. Wheel is going to be my business partner, yes?" he asked.

"What? Selling vintage neckwear?" Tim asked, sounding defensive, but in reality, admiring today's tie with its pattern of question marks and exclamation points within diamonds and squares. Where did Oh's wife find them?

"Mrs. Wheel is not only a picker of things, Mr. Lowry, she seems to spot motives and murderers, too," Oh said. "I'm hoping she might agree to join my consulting business."

"A detective? A PI? Jane Wheel, girl sleuth?" Tim said. "No way."

"Don't fight over me, boys, let's just see if this plan works today," Jane said.

The plan, she had explained to Oh, Tim, Don, and Nellie last night, was simple. Every bit of Bateman and Duncan's stuff that might hold the key to the blackmail would be set out as part of a tableau somewhere in the house. Since none of them knew what to look for, what these alleged records looked like, they'd let everyone else have a go at it. Someone would lead them to the blackmail records and the murderer.

"
If
there was a murderer," Tim reminded Jane. "No weapon, no evidence, no reason for anyone to believe Duncan was murdered. Heart failure, right?"

"We're baiting traps," Nellie had said, nodding her approval. Nellie heartily approved of snapping the heads off rodents.

"Yes," said Oh. "There might be a few people who thought the blackmail money that Duncan collected would make a nice income. Bobby Duff and Bill Crandall, for example. But if someone killed Duncan, if someone caused that heart to fail," he said, looking at Tim, "if someone killed Duff Senior for that matter, there was more to those records than a small monthly income."

"People don't want their names in the papers," Don said, "not respectable people."

"Or
disrespectable
people, Daddy," Jane said. "That's the key here. Somebody whom Duncan and maybe Bateman had something on had more to lose than $150 a month."

"Not Bateman," said Nellie, using a paper towel to wipe a fingerprint off the jar that held Oscar's finger. "If Bateman was in on it all, why's his finger in here?"

No one answered. Bateman's finger rolled gently in the jar, participating in the discussion as best it could until it slowed and pointed at Jane. You'll find out, it seemed to say, you'll find out.

* * *

Jane, Tim, and Oh finished arranging flowers and baking apple pie and walked through the house, trying to imagine it as paying visitors. Each volunteer designer had printed display cards for their room, listing their finds, where they'd got them, and how much they'd spent.

The downstairs powder room was a riot of pastel poodles. A pink, crocheted poodle toilet paper cover, a collection of three paint-by-number Fifis placed on the wall opposite the mirror. When you checked your lipstick or hair in the mirror, poodles were standing on your head. Tim planned on paving this room over first after the McFlea. "I mean," he said to Jane, "could we be more obvious? A florist with a poodle motif? Please!"

The bedrooms were fabulous. One had a scrounged set of almost-matching thirties wood furniture painted to look like tiger eye maple. The faux finished dresser and chest were from the same set, and the double bed, the almost match, had been found taken apart in the basement of a house sale in Limestone, a few miles west of Kankakee. The pieced wool coverlets piled on the bed had been purchased at a church rummage sale for ten dollars each. Every square was hand embroidered with a name. In the corner, someone had stitched "1967." Not exactly antique, but distinctive and warm and just the right finishing touch for this room.

Another bedroom was a little girl's fantasy. Tim had told his decorators to envision a family of four, a son and a daughter, and to plan accordingly. He would be redoing anyway. This hideaway was so perfect, Jane hoped Tim would leave it long enough for her to use it once as his house guest. Gauze fabric, yards and yards of it picked up at a rummage sale, was draped over the window alcove. Inexpensive Christmas lights had been layered in the fabric and when turned on by a simple added floor switch, the window seat became a fairyland retreat. Starlit fabric was hung over the bed as well, a wooden platform put together by Marla Dorndon and her husband, who had collaborated on the "girl's room" and were sure to get the most oohs and aahs on the tour.

The hall was a large room in and of itself, and one of the teachers from McNamara had offered to tackle it. She had found an old desk at a yard sale with matching rolling wooden chair and put it in the corner of the large square space. The desk was almost square itself with a kind of rail around it. Jane went over and sat. A lift on the blotter area revealed a flip-up manual typewriter built into the desk.