Death on a Silver Platter (4 page)

4

A yellow ball of lamplight glowed inside the living room as Elaine hurried up the walk to her front door. This far away from the city, the stars seemed so much brighter, the dark so much darker. She felt a shiver of dread, not knowing what she’d find once she went inside.

The brilliant coldness of the night sky confirmed what Elaine already knew. She was adrift in an indifferent universe. Utterly alone. It seemed amazing to her that, as a child, she’d gazed up at the same sky and felt comforted—by a God who lived in the heavens and loved her, by the feel of her father’s hand as it curled protectively around hers, and by the limitless possibility of her own life. How could such a promising fairy tale have gone so wrong?

Pressing her key into the lock, Elaine wondered if her daughter’s behavior was simply manipulative and thoughtless, as it had been so many times before, or if this was the crisis, the one her daughter’s therapist had warned might be coming.

Tracy was a young woman who was hungry to be loved, and yet, at the same time, she managed to push everyone away. Between temper tantrums, she was either sulky, blaming and easily angered, or flip, unwilling to take anything seriously. Even her grandmother, who had always been able to get through to her, seemed at a loss. Tracy’s therapist explained that this behavior was typical, a symptom of the trauma Tracy had been through. Elaine was willing to believe that this long-ago trauma had formed a great part of who her daughter was, but she refused to sit idly by and watch her sink deeper and deeper into passivity and despair.

Entering the house, Elaine found the front room empty. Upstairs she could hear a TV, so she followed the sound. Mick, eating a pizza, was sitting in the den, his boot-clad feet propped up on the coffee table. He was wearing his usual T-shirt and jeans. The T-shirt changed periodically, the jeans never did. Even the food stains remained in the same place, suggesting he had one pair and he never washed them.

“I thought you said this was an emergency,” said Elaine, shoving his feet off the table. “Where’s Tracy?”

“Jesus, chill, okay? She’s still in the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you kick the door down like I told you to? You said she was crying hysterically.”

“Look, Mrs. Veelund, she calmed down, okay? When I came back from getting her a glass of water, she’d locked herself in. She wasn’t crying anymore. She said she just needed some time alone. I get that, even if you don’t. We talked through the door while she ran a bath. I told her I might order a pizza and she said to go ahead. You may not believe this, but I care about your daughter. I don’t like to see her hurting any more than you do.”

“Right.”

“It’s true,” he said, wiping a napkin across his mouth. “I don’t care what you think of me.”

Mick Frye was twenty-eight, two years older than Tracy. He worked part-time selling hot dogs and beer at the Metrodome in downtown Minneapolis. He lived with his parents, but from what Tracy had said, he’d been spending more and more time at her apartment near the U. He had a degree in business administration but seemed disinclined to find a regular job. He kept talking about going on for his M.B.A., but so far he hadn’t applied to grad school. His weekends at the Metrodome seemed to provide him with enough money to live on—that and the money Elaine gave him to be a companion to her daughter. Beyond that, he seemed to have no visible aspirations.

Tracy and Mick had been “dating” for almost a year. Before Mick had entered the picture, Tracy had lived like a recluse, refusing to have anything to do with the opposite sex. At the same time, she seemed immensely jealous of her friends’ relationships, so jealous that, over time, she’d cut them all out of her life. Elaine saw it as a clear indication of how deeply Tracy yearned for what she didn’t have.

Before Elaine hired Mick, she made sure that he understood the ground rules. There would be no sex—period—on penalty of losing his sweet financial gig with Elaine. Tracy’s therapist explained that Tracy was deeply uncomfortable around men, and terrified of being pressured sexually. She needed time to heal, to talk things through in a safe setting. A friendship bond with a guy her age might be therapeutic, but since Tracy never went out socially, and had stopped taking classes at the U, it wasn’t likely she’d find someone to form that kind of bond with. That’s when Elaine got the idea to provide her with what she needed—a “safe” relationship.

For a time, Elaine felt it was working. Mick had taken things slowly at first, making a nonthreatening impression on Tracy. During the last few months, however, the two of them had grown quite close. Mick maintained that their relationship wasn’t physical. Taken all in all, he wasn’t a bad young man, just unkempt by Elaine’s standards, and lazy. He had a good heart and seemed to genuinely like Tracy, which was more than Elaine could say for herself at the moment. Intuitively, he seemed to know when to back off and when to stick close.

Mick Frye was actually quite a hunk, which was why he first caught Elaine’s eye. Upon closer examination, the crew cut and the tattoos didn’t appeal. With his puppy dog eyes, his penchant for obscure German poetry, and his genuine interest in Eastern philosophy, he wasn’t the norm, and Elaine knew that would appeal to her daughter. He could carry on a decent conversation, sometimes displaying knowledge of the most arcane topics, and he seemed to have a lively intelligence, one he directed at everything except earning a living. He was also quite clever. It was this part of his nature that Elaine didn’t entirely trust.

“Go see for yourself,” he said, pointing a pizza slice at the hallway. “She’s fine. I mean, I just talked to her a few minutes ago, after the pizza came. She said she didn’t want any. I’m saving her a couple pieces anyway, just in case she changes her mind.”

Elaine was disgusted. She’d cut her dinner short for nothing but another one of her daughter’s tantrums. Charging down the hall, she rapped her knuckles on the bathroom door.

“Tracy, is everything all right? Mick called and said you’d been crying.”

She waited.

When there was no response, she said, “Look, I understand that you want some time alone, but I need to know you’re okay.”

Mick ambled into the hallway and stood behind her, his hands stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. “Come on, Trace. Let her off the hook.”

Still no response.

“Maybe she fell asleep,” said Mick, scratching the side of his neck.

Elaine knocked harder this time. “Tracy? It’s your mom. I’m not playing this game. Answer me!”

Nothing.

“Tracy. Answer me now. If you don’t, we’ll break the door down.”

“It’s a pretty heavy door,” whispered Mick. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

“Tracy!” Elaine was shouting now. Her heart was hammering inside her chest. “Answer me, damn it!”

She turned to Mick. “Use your shoulder. Break it down. Something’s wrong, I can feel it.”

Mick stepped closer. “This is really silly, Trace. Just say you’re all right.” When no response came, he bent down and threw himself against the door—once, twice, three times. It didn’t budge. He glanced at the hinges. “Get me a hammer and a crow bar.”

Elaine kicked off her high heels and raced down the stairs to the kitchen. She found a hammer in the bottom cupboard drawer. Rushing outside, she flipped the light on in the garage and found the crowbar hanging from a rusted nail. When she returned to the second floor, Mick was talking to Tracy, still trying to get her to answer him. Elaine handed him the tools.

Mick wedged the crowbar into the tiny space between the door and the jamb and pushed and pulled with all his might. He was sweating, cursing. The look on his face told Elaine that he understood the seriousness of the situation. He stripped away the wood, chunk by chunk, lever-aging his way in until the lock finally gave. Pulling the door free, he stepped back and allowed her to enter first.

Tracy was lying in the bathtub fully clothed, the water surrounding her stained a sickening red. Her eyes were closed.

“She cut her wrists,” said Elaine, her brain switching to autopilot. She plunged into the tub, lifting her daughter up and back until her chin was no longer perilously close to the water. “Wake up, honey. Wake up.” She slapped her daughter’s cheeks, trying to get a rise out of her. “Come on, baby. Just open your eyes.” She felt for a pulse at her neck. “Jesus. It’s so weak.” Twisting around she cried, “Call nine-one-one!”

“Is she still alive?”

“Yes. Get out of here! Make the call!”

Mick backed away.

Elaine climbed out of the tub and scoured the medicine chest for bandages, but everything she found was too small. The blood was still pumping out of the cuts. Soaking wet, her knit dress hanging around her ankles, she ran back down to the kitchen and grabbed some duct tape from under the sink. There was very little left, but it would be enough. It had to be.

On the way back up the stairs, she peeled off two long strips. After drying Tracy’s wrists, she pressed a towel hard against them, trying to stanch the flow of blood, but it was no use. Holding her breath and willing the blood to stop, she slapped the duct tape around the cuts, winding the silver strips as tight as she could. It seemed to work for a moment, but then the blood began to well up from around the edges of the tape. She held Tracy’s hands above her head, thinking that might help, but the blood just ran down her arms. She remembered something about tourniquets, but she didn’t have one, and wouldn’t know how to use it if she did.

“Damn,” she shouted, looking around wildly.

Spotting a single-edged razor on the floor by the tub, she grabbed it and hurled it at the tiled wall. It bounced back and hit her face, nicking her just below the eye.

“Stupid stupid stupid!” she screamed, whirling around and nearly slipping on the wet floor. She couldn’t do anything right.

“Tell them to hurry!” she yelled, jumping back into the tub and cradling her daughter in her arms. “It’s going to be all right,” she whispered, squeezing her hand around one wrist, then the other. “Mama’s here, honey. Mama’s here.”

5

On the way back to the Maxfield, Sophie had some time to ponder her evening at Chez Sophia. Seeing Nathan again had left her feeling oddly empty.

Sophie wasn’t an unhappy woman. Far from it. She adored her husband, her son, her life, her career. And yet the ruins of that long-ago love for Nathan Buckridge remained fixed in the deepest part of her being, a spidery silhouette of what once existed but could never be again. Perhaps that feeling, related as it was to both defeat and resignation, would never go away. Revisiting the past, however, attempting to make it live again, was a fool’s journey. And Sophie wasn’t a fool.

She hoped.

On her way through the lobby of the hotel, she hoisted up Ethel, the black mutt who had shared Bram’s and her life for almost a decade. Ethel had become the de facto hotel mascot. She sat on a large paisley pillow in the downstairs lobby eyeing the guests with disdainful ennui. Because she moved more slowly than any other living being and was therefore no threat to anyone, because she had great tolerance—not to be confused with affection— for all life forms, and finally, because she could lie comfortably for hours at a time with only an occasional twitch to prove she wasn’t dead, she was perfectly suited for the job. The hotel staff took turns taking her for walks so she could perform her daily ablutions. All in all, Sophie figured it was a pretty good life for a dog.

When the elevators opened, Sophie stepped off and set Ethel down on the hallway carpet. Ethel was putting on weight in her old age. She liked to be cuddled and carried, but Sophie was tired, stuffed with food, and in no mood for weight lifting. Unlocking the door to her apartment, she waited for Ethel to amble inside. It was going on ten. Sophie had assumed that Bram would be home by now, but since Ethel was in the lobby, it meant he was still out. That was fine with Sophie. She needed a little time to relax and unwind. She would take a shower, then make herself a Campari and soda, and spend a few more minutes forgetting about Nathan.

Walking into the living room and tossing her purse on the couch, Sophie saw that Bram’s checkbook was lying open on the coffee table. That was odd. She picked it up, thinking that he’d forgotten to put it away. She was about to open the top drawer of his desk when she saw that the inside door to the balcony was open. She could hear Bram’s voice talking softly, but because all the lights were off outside, she couldn’t see the person he was talking to. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in through the screen. Out of curiosity, Sophie glanced at the receipt from the last check Bram had written. It was to his daughter, Margie, for ten thousand dollars.

Sophie pushed through the screen door out onto the patio.

“The Prodigal finally returns,” said Bram, standing up to greet her. He kissed her lightly, then nodded to his daughter who was leaning against the iron railing. The lights of downtown St. Paul spread out behind her.

“This is a surprise,” said Sophie, giving Margie a welcoming hug.

For the past few years, Margie Baldric had lived in Austin, Texas. Prior to that, she’d gone to college at St. Cloud University in central Minnesota, where she received her B.A. in computer science. She’d lived with Bram and Sophie early in their marriage, when they had a house in the Tangletown area of south Minneapolis. Margie didn’t enter college until a couple of years after high school. Bram didn’t want to push her. He felt it would be better if she found her own way. During her first three years at St. Cloud, she’d lived with her boyfriend, Lance, but had dumped him her senior year in favor of a new boyfriend, Kurt Melling. Kurt was also getting his degree in computer science. After graduation, they’d moved to Austin, his hometown.

Margie wrote occasionally. She called a couple of times a year. But her favorite form of communication was e-mail. That’s how she and her father kept in touch. Margie was a fiercely independent young woman, with an abundance of spunk, strongly voiced opinions, and intolerances. Sophie found her somewhat arrogant and hard to read, but still, she admired her determination.

Early in their relationship, Sophie had come to the conclusion that Margie didn’t like her because she thought Sophie was attempting to replace her mother. In her more honest moments, Sophie had to admit that Margie was probably right—she was trying too hard. Since her first husband had been awarded custody of their son, Rudy, Sophie’s confidence when it came to kids was already on the floor. She tried to make things right, to make it clear in every way possible that no one could ever replace Margie’s mother, who had died when Margie was twelve. Still, the waters of discontent never seemed to abate.

During the last few years, Sophie had been forced to conclude that she and Margie simply didn’t like each other. They got along, for Bram’s sake, but they would never be close.

Margie had the same vivid green eyes and chocolate brown hair as her dad, although on her, the elements came together to create a far different impression. Her face wasn’t as square as Bram’s, it was more of a classic oval, like her mother’s. Her makeup was usually tasteful, although she tended to like heavy, dark-colored lipstick— mahogany, deep purple, dark black-red—which Sophie found a bit cadaverous. The nose ring had been added in the last few years, as had the tattoo that ringed her upper right arm. She cultivated a calm, “soul of reason” exterior, one that belied an intense, sometimes anxious, and always judgmental interior. Tonight she was dressed in a white cotton sweater and tight black leather pants. On her well-muscled, slim body, the clothes looked terrific.

In three months, Margie Baldric would turn twenty-eight. Sophie wondered if she’d changed any, if she was as tightly wound and volatile as she used to be.

“What brings you to Minnesota?” asked Sophie, sitting down on one of the lounge chairs. She assumed it had something to do with the ten thousand dollars.

“I’m coming home,” she said, smiling at her father.

Bram added, “She’s starting a business with a friend of hers.”

“What kind of business?” asked Sophie. “A friend from school?”

“Carrie Sontag,” replied Margie, flicking some cigarette ash over the edge of the rail. “I met her in Austin. Remember I told you I was working for a wedding planner? She was the right hand to the guy who owned the place. I did the computer stuff in the back room and she worked with clients, coordinating services like catering, flowers, wedding cakes, hall rentals, all the details that go into making a really memorable event. We saw how much money he was making every month, and how little he was paying us, and we thought, hell, why do we need
him
?” She laughed, then held the cigarette to her mouth and took a deep drag.

Thus, the ten thousand dollars, thought Sophie.

“But here’s the deal,” said Bram, turning to his wife. “Margie flew in just a few hours ago. Came straight here from the airport. She doesn’t have a place to live yet, so I thought—”

“Of course,” said Sophie. “She should stay at the Maxfield until she gets settled. I’ll call down and arrange a room.”

“No,” he said, elongating the word. “I was thinking more along the lines of something else. See, Margie’s worried about me—about my health, which is apparently the main reason she decided to come home. I’ve told her over and over again that I’m fine, better than ever. But she says she wants to spend more time with her old dad, and of course, that’s an offer I can hardly turn down. So I checked, and one of our apartments is vacant right now. I thought, wouldn’t it be nice to have Margie live here with us permanently? In her own apartment?”

“I wouldn’t want to get in your way,” said Margie, tucking her hair behind her ears. “But I’d love living here. This place is awesome.”

“What do you say?” asked Bram.

He looked so expectant, so eager, Sophie could hardly say no. “Sure, that’s a great idea.”

He cleared his throat. “She can’t afford the rent until she gets on her feet, so I’ll take care of it.”

Sophie knew what he wanted. He wanted her to say it was fine to waive the rent. And of course, it was. Margie was family. The hotel was Bram’s as much as it was Sophie’s, so discussing it with her, asking her permission, was just a formality. Still, Sophie had the distinct sense of being railroaded. She felt as if the whole situation had been manipulated
by
Margie
for
Margie, that it had nothing to do with spending more time with her father. On the other hand, Sophie couldn’t think of a good reason to say no.

“You’re family, honey,” said Sophie. “You stay here as long as you want. When you get your business up and running, we can talk about rent then. The apartment will have to be cleaned and painted before you move in. Actually, I think maintenance was scheduled to start on it next week.”

“Could I pick out the paint colors?” she asked, drawing one last time on the cigarette, then flipping it over the rail.

“Sure you can,” said Bram. “Anything you want.”

“Fabulous! Oh, Dad, thank you
so
much.”

“Thank Sophie, too.”

“Thanks to
both
of you. Really. This is totally amazing. Wait until Carrie sees this place. It’ll blow her away.”

“Where is she staying?” asked Sophie.

“With her boyfriend, Kevin. He drove up last week and rented them a town house out by Southdale. Kevin’s in banking. He’s already got a job up here—at Wells Fargo. I’m boyfriendless at the moment.” She shrugged. “Which is fine with me.”

Bram reached over and took hold of Sophie’s hand. He looked almost as happy as his daughter. Sophie felt guilty now for entertaining negative thoughts about Margie. For good or ill, she was home to stay. Sophie hoped that, in time, she and Margie could become family not just in name but in fact.