Death on a Silver Platter (5 page)

6

For some deeply complicated, possibly even masochistic reason, Danny Veelund planned to board a jet tomorrow morning and fly back to Minnesota. His home was in Manhattan, a three-level brownstone on the Upper East Side, where he’d lived with his wife, Ruth, and his two daughters, Zoe and Abbie, for the past sixteen years. Abbie was in film school now in California, and Zoe had just started her junior year at Brown, so Danny and Ruth were empty nesters, which had its good and bad points.

The good was that Danny’s writing day was no longer interrupted by teenage angst of one form or another, though for the last few years the interruptions didn’t matter because he hadn’t written anything but dreck. The bad points all revolved around missing his kids. He might be accused of favoritism, but his two girls were the brightest, most beautiful, funniest, and kindest young women he’d ever met. If Danny’s father had taught him anything, it was to love your children. Perhaps that’s why, more than anything else, he had to return to Minnesota, to the family home where his mother still lived.

Daniel Reed Veelund was a moderately well known literary novelist who had written a series of books in the mid-1980s that had catapulted him to a modicum of literary fame and fortune. The fortune was pretty well gone now, though people continued to read the books. He’d struggled to write two more books in the nineties, but neither had been as successful as he or his publisher had wished. Still, because he was a colorful character in his own Midwestern sort of way, he was often invited to speak at colleges and universities, trotted out for the odd commencement ceremony, the occasional TV show. He always accepted because these public appearances made him feel alive in a way his writing rarely did anymore.

Danny knew he should be doing a dozen different things right now in order to prepare for his trip, but instead he sat before the computer in his study, leaning back in his chair, feet thrust out in front of him, hands bunched into fists inside the pockets of his corduroy pants, staring at a list of infinitely dispiriting stock prices. He adjusted his glasses, blinked a couple of times, but the numbers remained the same. His wife probably thought he was working on his new book, the one he had under contract with Random House, but the numbers wouldn’t release him from their grip.

Danny’s editor was a patient man, perhaps too patient, and had given Danny yet another extension on his newest novel,
The Fool’s Gift
, a book that was to be the crowning glory of his literary career. No one but Danny knew that after two years of hard work, all the manuscript consisted of was an assortment of character impressions, jumbled descriptions, and a few lengthy ruminations on justice, fairness, prejudice, modern medicine, the stock market, family ethics, and life in general in these United States in the second millennium. When Danny had the energy, which he often didn’t, he alternated between bouts of anger and depression. The only solution he could find was to return to the home of his youth and put things right.

As he sat staring at the screen, his wife breezed into the room.

“I’ve got you all packed,” she said, shutting the window Danny had opened just before sitting down at his desk. The room had grown chilly while his attention had been elsewhere. He hadn’t noticed. “Two sweaters, three pairs of slacks, several dress shirts, jeans, two ties— the red one and the blue one—and your new dark blue suit. You’ll have to decide on shoes. Oh, and your shaving kit—”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Danny, clicking off the screen before she could see what he’d been looking at.

Ruth studied him for a moment, threading the fingers of her right hand through the side of her short, black hair. Stepping behind his chair, she put her arms around his shoulders and kissed the top of his head. “I wish you weren’t going.”

“I know. But I have to.”

“We just visited your mother two months ago.”

“I told you. I’ve got some unfinished business I need to take care of.”

“But you won’t tell me what it is.”

He smiled. “It’s a deep dark secret.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to keep things from each other.”

Doing his best Jack Nicholson impersonation, he said, “You want the truth? You can’t
handle
the truth.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her down into his lap.

“Danny, stop it.”

He kissed her properly, passionately, tenderly. At this moment, he loved her more than he’d ever loved another living soul. She was the rock on which he’d built his life. When he was off in the stratosphere somewhere doing his work, he knew she would be waiting for him when he landed. Ruth and the girls were the best part of his world. He’d always had such grandiose notions of who he was and what he would leave behind him after he was gone. It had taken him every minute of his forty-four years to learn that his true legacy would be far less visible, and yet infinitely more meaningful than anything he’d ever written.

“What’s wrong?” said Ruth, pulling back, but only just a little.

He could see the effect his touch had on her, and it warmed him. “I don’t want to go any more than you want me to.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

She ran her hand over his beard, caressed his cheek. “You frighten me sometimes, Danny.”

“Look, Ruth. It’s simple. A writer spends his waking hours working with conflict. Conflict is the soul of character. Character is the soul of drama. And drama is the soul of life. You’re not afraid of life, are you?”

“Yes, sometimes.” She hesitated. “Tell me why you have to go back there. Why I can’t come with you.”

She could be so exasperating, and yet he found himself smiling. “Because.”

This time she pulled farther away. “Because
why
?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“My beautiful Ruth Louise Goldfarb.”

She cocked her head. “Why did you call me that? I haven’t been Ruth Goldfarb in over twenty years.”

“I can still see you the way you looked the first time I met you.”

“You thought I was a classic Jewish American Princess. Spoiled rotten.”

“I
never
thought of you that way.”

“Oh, right. You saw me as a butterfly, then. A delicate flower. For your information, buster, you were the only blind date I ever went on. My girlfriend told me you were something special, so I dressed for the Ritz and you took me to a deli for pastrami on rye. What a comedown.”

“I like pastrami on rye.” He couldn’t help but grin. “You were just being a good girl, wearing your best duds.”

“And you had on a leather jacket and ripped jeans. Mr. Grunge.”

“We were both trying to impress each other in different ways.”

She kissed his nose. “Lucky for you that you clean up pretty good. Speaking of fashion, I won’t see you the first time you wear your new suit. You’ll go out to dinner with your mother, no doubt someplace fancy. You’ll look so handsome that all the homegrown Minnesota floozies will slip you their phone numbers.”

“I beg your pardon. We don’t grow floozies in Minnesota. Just corn.”

“And
I’ll
be back in New York, teaching and worrying.” Ruth taught several classes at Columbia, including a new one on international media and communications. Given her schedule, she hardly had time to breathe.

“You’re the only woman I’ve ever wanted.” He touched his fingers to the hollow in her neck. “Do you think I should get a haircut in the morning before I leave?”

“I like your hair longer, a little shaggy. It’s the right look for a distinguished author.”

He grunted. “Whatever
that
is. I’m starting to gray, you know—or white.”

“It just makes your blond hair look even lighter.”

He hugged her tight. “I wish I saw the world through your eyes. I think it would be a far more beautiful place. I won’t be gone long, Ruthie. Maybe a week. Hopefully less.”

“I’ll put a candle in the window.”

“You do that.” He kissed her again, then whispered, “It will help me find my way home.”

The plane landed at Twin Cities International shortly after one, central daylight time. It took a little over an hour for Danny to round up his luggage and arrange for a rental car. By two-thirty, he was driving southwest on Highway 59. The Veelund property was located in Ahern County, an hour’s drive from St. Paul. In the late sixties, Danny’s dad, Carl Veelund, had purchased eleven hundred acres of less than prime prairie from a farmer. It was a section of land that was full of rocks and gently rolling hills, but not much else. Danny’s dad wanted a place out of the city where he could build his dream home. He had died suddenly the night of the housewarming party, leaving Danny’s mother to run his growing business.

Danny had been twelve at the time. Alex, his older brother, was eighteen, and Elaine, his sister, fifteen. Alex was the first to leave for college and the first one to return home to help their mother run the company. Elaine left next, following her boyfriend to Stanford, where she found she had a knack for engineering. She lost interest in the boyfriend almost immediately, but her studies consumed her, so much so that she graduated near the top of her class. After graduation she’d received a number of job offers, some of them quite tempting, but her mind was made up. She returned home and eventually took over the log house division. By then the company had become Veelund Industries, making not only log houses but also pool tables and log furniture. In the end, only Danny had left and never come back.

Business interested Danny about as much as dentistry or bricklaying. He did his duty and sat on the board of directors. That meant he had to return to Minnesota occasionally for meetings. He always voted the way his sister told him to. He trusted Elaine more than he trusted Alex, and vastly more than he trusted his mother. Veelund Industries was his father’s power and glory. Danny respected that and wanted to do his bit, albeit small, to help it continue. Every human being needed a passion. Once upon a time, writing had been Danny’s. But no more.

Turning onto Polk Road, Danny sailed along in his rented Firebird, using his last few minutes alone to ready himself for battle. His reasons for returning like this, taking his family by surprise, were born of both indignation and fear. His hands were steady, but inside he was a mess. “That’s the spirit,” he said out loud, his voice edged with sarcasm. He didn’t like to talk about his relationship with his mother, but the fact was, he’d always been scared to death of her. Not her physical presence or her intelligence, both of which he considered meager, but afraid of her judgment and disdain.

The only conclusion Danny could come to was that this reaction was hard-wired into his brain. From all outward appearances, Daniel Reed Veelund was a man of great accomplishment, one who had defied his mother at every turn, flipped her the bird with sweet disregard. But what no one seemed to realize was that his defiance hadn’t been deliberate. He’d fallen into it like an innocent lamb falling into a deep, dark ditch. This time, however, the defiance would be intentional. Clark Kent was about to take off his business suit and leap tall buildings. The logic box in Danny’s head might still cause his innards to quake, but it didn’t touch his resolve.

Turning onto Stimpson, the afternoon sun momentarily blinded him. He reached to lower the visor and only then stepped out of his thoughts long enough to notice how the sunlight had burned the autumn prairie a deep orange gold. Telephone poles with drooping wires rolled past him, marking time to the rhythm of the bumps in the road. High above, a hawk rode the thermals over the warm land. Danny understood again why his father had fallen in love with this vast, rolling earth. A landscape as spare and austere as the northern prairie was like a tonic to the mind. Here, the world was more elemental. A camera could never capture the power, or the inherent eeriness, of the Minnesota prairie. Danny felt the same tug toward this place that his father had. It was a good place to live. And, perhaps, a good place to die.

The main house, called Prairie Lodge, was located on a rise above Dog Tail Creek. The winding stream was visible from the tall, cathedral-like windows in the living room. About ten years ago, Elaine had ordered three smaller log houses built on the property to use as selling tools to show potential clients. She chose three of the most popular models—Morningstar House, Wisteria Cottage, and The Ranch House—though, for the right price, the design staff could create almost any project a client had in mind.

Turning finally onto the property, Danny could see the houses in the distance. None were more than half a mile apart. As he approached the main house, he was surprised to find so many cars in the driveway. He eased the Firebird into an empty spot along the rear of the four-car garage, parked and got out, stretching for a few moments, smelling the sweetness of the air. He wasn’t in New York anymore. His lungs wouldn’t know what to do without all the car exhaust to wheeze along on.

Leaving his luggage in the trunk, he crossed the yard and trotted up the steps to the front porch. The screen door was unlocked, so he walked in without knocking. In the back of the house he could hear voices. The TV was on in the living room, but nobody was watching it. As he stood in the entryway, Galen Zander, his mother’s personal assistant, hurried down the central stairs.

“Daniel,” he said, looking both harassed and confused. “Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Zander had begun working for Danny’s mother shortly after Danny’s father had died. At the time, she needed someone to assist her with the upkeep of the house while she was away at the office. Zander supervised the gardeners and the housekeeper. He saw to it that Danny and Elaine were ferried to school and back and taken to other activities. He even did some of the cooking. Over time, he’d made himself indispensable, becoming Millie Veelund’s personal factotum.

Zander was in his early sixties now. A small, trim man with Brooks Brothers tastes. Salt-and-pepper hair always clipped short. Clean shaven. Rigid posture. Equally rigid personality. His aura of precision and impeccable personal hygiene made Danny, and everyone else who got within ten feet of his onrushing cologne, feel like a slob.