Death on a Silver Platter (6 page)

“That’s okay, Zander. She didn’t know about the trip.”

“Will you be staying long?”

“A few days.”

“I’ll see to it that your room is made up. Your luggage?”

“It’s out in the car.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve only got one bag. Say, why are there so many cars outside?”

Zander stiffened his already ramrod-straight back. “Your niece . . . had an accident last night. She’ll be staying here with us for a few days.”

“An accident?”

“I think you should talk to your sister.”

“Is Elaine here?”

“She’s out on the patio with Tracy and Mick. And Tracy’s therapist.”

“Her
therapist
?”

Zander looked around, then gave a knowing nod.

His manner was so odd that Danny wasn’t sure what to think. Out of loyalty to his employer, Zander tended to be very closed-mouthed about family matters—that is, unless he’d been drinking, which was his only obvious flaw. Getting Zander smashed used to be a favorite family game with Danny, Elaine, and Alex. He was a hoot after a few too many Manhattans. He liked to disco dance, tell off-color jokes, and occasionally a bit of gossip would leak out. Alex figured he was gay and said he thought that was revolting, but every now and then Zander would talk about one of his sexual exploits in fairly vivid detail. It was always a woman. He was either lying, or they’d misjudged him.

“Where’s my mother?” asked Danny.

“She’s in her study.”

Zander seemed to be in such a rush to get somewhere, that Danny let him go. Instead of heading out to the patio to talk to his sister, he decided to announce his visit to his mother. She was, after all, his main reason for coming.

Danny found her standing at the window, looking out at an immense oak tree, one his father had planted on the east side of the house. She was frowning, deep in thought. Last summer, her hair had been white. Now it was blue. Tomorrow it would be red, or brown, or gray. His mother was always changing the way she looked, as if she was never satisfied with her appearance. She’d been an attractive, even exotic-looking young woman who had aged into a heavyset, thick-lipped, sour old woman. Danny still remembered the sweet times he’d spent with her as a child. She’d been diabetic and asthmatic for many years, and it had changed her. Or maybe something else had, but the sweetness he knew had faded long ago. Her children referred to her now as The Judging Machine.

Simply put, Millie Veelund was a bigot. She preceded most of her pronouncements with “I’m not prejudiced, but—” African Americans were all lazy and deserved to live in the projects. Jews might try to fool you, but they were only out for money—a stab at Ruth, Danny’s wife, who was Jewish. American society was going to hell because of drugs and homosexuals, oh, and intellectuals. One must never forget the evil influence of intellectual-ism—a stab at Danny
and
his wife. Public education was a disaster and should be abolished—another stab at Ruth. The American Civil Liberties Union was a pack of communists. All left-handed people were suspect. Right was right, and left was wrong. His mother always laughed at that one. The spirit of Joe McCarthy was alive and well and living in Minnesota. Margaret Thatcher was her political hero, as was Ronald Reagan, except that he was involved far too much with the Jews over there in the Middle East. Then again, he’d taken on the labor unions and won. He had a good heart.

Millie Veelund was Archie Bunker without the twinkle. She used religion and politics like a flamethrower. She was human Agent Orange. Danny hated her. And he loved her. And that was the problem.

“Hi, Mom,” he said, his voice breaking awkwardly into the silence.

She turned to him and her face lit up. Taking a few steps toward him, she said, “Daniel, I’m so glad you came. Did Elaine call you?”

“Elaine? No.”

“Then . . . how did you find out about Tracy?”

“I just learned about it from Zander. He said she’d had an accident, but he didn’t elaborate.” He shut the door. “What’s going on?”

“It’s just . . . heartbreaking. I mean, we all knew she was depressed. She has been for years, but her problems started to come to a head last summer. You must have noticed it.”

Danny hadn’t. He didn’t even know she’d been talking to a therapist.

After giving Danny a kiss, she sat down on the sofa, folding her hands in her lap. She looked defeated. Exhausted. Danny noticed that her ankles seemed unusually swollen. Her health wasn’t good, but then, neither was Danny’s. For years he’d felt that they’d been in a race to see who would kick off first. Except he’d recovered. Four years ago, the doctors had pronounced him cancer-free. Nobody recovered from old age.

Nodding for him to take a chair opposite the sofa, Millie continued, “It happened last night. Tracy and that boyfriend of hers stopped by Elaine’s house, supposedly just to talk, but Elaine wasn’t home. I guess Tracy had been crying about something, which isn’t unusual. They sat and watched TV for a while, then Tracy said she wanted to take a bath.”

“And?” prompted Danny, seeing that this was difficult for his mother.

“She locked herself in the bathroom and slit her wrists.”

He was stunned. “Why didn’t Mick try to stop her?”

“He didn’t know what was happening. But apparently he got concerned so he called Elaine. She came home and they broke the door down. Tracy was unconscious by then. She spent the night at the hospital getting blood transfusions. This morning her therapist suggested that Elaine check her into a facility. You know . . . a—”

“Facility.”

“Right.” She touched the back of her hair. “She said Tracy shouldn’t be alone, but Tracy wouldn’t have any of it. Elaine finally talked her into staying here for a while, not that she didn’t resist that, too.”

“Why doesn’t she stay with Elaine?”

“Because . . . that’s where the suicide attempt happened. The therapist didn’t think it was a good idea for her to go back there. Besides, I can provide her with round-the-clock supervision.”

“God,” said Danny, shaking his head. “Elaine must be devastated.”

“She is.”

“Why is Tracy in therapy?”

“I wish I knew. Tracy insists that it’s her life and that it remain private.”

Danny just looked at his mother. He didn’t know what to say. “And what does the therapist think about what just happened?”

“She’s out on the back patio talking to Tracy right now. As far as I’m concerned, all those people are a load of bunk. Useless. Tracy might as well talk to a witch doctor. She was better off before she went to that woman.”

“What’s her name?”

“Jhawar. Dr. Durva Jhawar. That’s not American, is it? It’s foreign. I thought she might be Spanish, but she’s too brown to be from Spain. Not the sort of person I’d ever hire. I hold her, at the very least, partially responsible for Tracy’s current condition. But,” she sighed, “Elaine doesn’t agree with me,
as usual
. I’m just her mother and what does a mother know?”

Danny could feel a rant coming on. He tried to distract her. “Does Alex know about the suicide attempt?”

“I called him first thing this morning. Elaine asked me to.” His mother looked at him hard, then cocked her head as if something had just occurred to her. “If you didn’t come home because of Tracy, why are you here?”

“I needed a break from my book.” He lied with such ease he amazed himself. Had he always been such a good liar?

“Is Ruth with you?”

“No.”

She seemed to brighten at that. “I’m planning a family dinner tonight. I think we need to be together. Seven o’clock. Alex will be here, too. And Roman. Alex has an announcement he wants to make. I told him that tonight might not be such a good time, but he insisted it couldn’t wait. I’m so happy you’re here, Daniel. Elaine and Tracy will be, too.” She seemed genuinely glad to see him. And that made his reason for coming all the more difficult. He hated fighting, hated the churning stomach that raw, angry words always caused, but this time, he would demand closure. He had to know where his mother stood.

“I think I’ll get settled in my room,” he said, rising from his chair. “Maybe take a nap. It’s been a long day.”

“Good idea. I asked Tracy to come see me when the therapist left.” She glanced at her watch. “She should be here anytime.”

Danny moved over to the sofa and kissed her on the forehead. Her skin was paper thin. He was bewildered by how much her physical presence still tugged at him.

She took his hand. “You can stay for a while, can’t you?”

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. That’s something I need to talk to you about.”

She studied his face.

“We’ll talk later, okay?”

“You’ll stay for a few days though, won’t you?”

“Sure. A few days.”

“Tracy’s suicide attempt has taught me something, Daniel. Whatever time we’ve got left on this earth, we have to make it count.”

“Yes,” he said, gazing down at her. “My thoughts exactly.”

7

Sophie sat on the window seat in her parents’ apartment, looking out at the Mississippi River. It was nearly seven in the evening and the sun had almost set. Only a few minutes earlier the city beyond the river had been bathed in a warm peach light. But that was all gone now, replaced by a velvety violet blue.

Sophie still had the cell phone in her hand. After talking to Elaine and hearing what had happened to her daughter, she couldn’t seem to move. Just the thought of a loved one attempting suicide was like lead in her heart. It seemed pretty obvious that this wasn’t just a cry for help. Tracy truly meant to end her life. Apparently, in the hospital, she’d said it was all a mistake. She’d been drinking. She was depressed and couldn’t shake it off. She wouldn’t do it again. She promised, over and over. But how could you ever believe it? thought Sophie. How could you ever live another moment of your life without wondering where your daughter was, what she was doing, what she was feeling?

Under the circumstances, Elaine seemed to be doing remarkably well. She believed her daughter, said she felt it was a onetime event and that it wouldn’t happen again. Tracy would be staying at Prairie Lodge with Elaine’s mother for a while, until she was stronger. Elaine was upbeat about her daughter’s mental health, and yet, in her voice, Sophie could hear the strain. She tried to back away from the request she’d made last night. Her father could easily get the specs on the log houses when he returned from the Far East. But Elaine wouldn’t hear of it. She invited Sophie out for lunch. Tomorrow. She said to come to the main house at noon. Tracy’s therapist gave orders that Tracy not be treated as if she were an invalid— or crazy. But how
did
you treat a young woman who’d just tried to kill herself? Surely some alteration in behavior was to be expected. Life might go on, but it would be anything but normal.

Sophie glanced up at the sound of a knock on the door. Bram’s daughter, Margie, opened it a crack. “Can I come in?” she asked.

Sophie saw that she was holding the paint sampler, the one maintenance had given her just this morning. She looked flushed with excitement, impatient to talk about the colors for her new apartment. Sophie would have preferred to discuss it another time. Her hesitance had less to do with Tracy than it did with her misgivings about Margie. Since last night, Sophie had spent some time thinking about Margie’s move to the Maxfield. She felt uneasy about it. At the same time, she felt guilty for feeling that way.

“Sure, come on in,” said Sophie, forcing a smile. “I was just checking out my parents’ place, seeing what needs to be done before they get back.”

“God, I love this apartment,” said Margie, looking around. “I remember now. I was here the night your dad announced his retirement, the night he gave the Maxfield to my dad and you.” Still looking around, she added, “If I lived in a place like this, I’m not sure I’d ever leave it.”

“Your apartment downstairs is a lot like this one.”

“But without the view, the formal dining room, and the balcony. And it’s much smaller. Actually, it’s a little cramped.”

She wasn’t even paying for the place and she was already complaining. Stop it, thought Sophie. Cut her some slack. She was probably as uncomfortable in Sophie’s presence as Sophie was in hers. “But you don’t have any furniture.”

“Sure I do. Well, maybe not tons, but what there is, is arriving next week. Dad said he was going to take me out tomorrow morning and buy me a new couch, one that folds into a bed. But it’s going to be a trick to figure out which wall to put it on. The living room’s got kind of a dumb design. Not like this apartment.”

“Well, when you own the hotel, I guess you get the best place to live.” Sophie wondered if the gleam in Margie’s eyes had anything to do with the notion that, one day, she might own the Maxfield. She’d probably conveniently forgotten about Sophie’s son.

“Dad and you own the hotel now, but your apartment isn’t this nice,” said Margie, examining a starburst molding at the top of the living room arch. “I love all this deco stuff.”

“You think I should kick my parents out?”

Margie laughed. “Nah. That wouldn’t be cool.”

“Hey,” said Bram, standing in the open doorway. “What are my two favorite women up to?”

“Colors,” said Margie, holding up the paint samples. “For my new apartment.”

Bram, carrying a gym bag, was wearing a pair of green jogging shorts, white running shoes, and a gray T-shirt. He wasn’t on his way to the office.

Sophie had a hard time believing that such a vital, fitlooking man had been in the hospital less than a year ago, fighting for his life. “You on your way downstairs?” she asked, getting up. She walked over to where he was standing, pressed a finger to the cleft in his chin and gave him a kiss. The hotel exercise center used to be the last place she’d ever find her husband. Now, he hit the machines daily. So much for what a large dose of terror could do to jump-start a fitness program.

“I thought I’d get in a workout before dinner. Anybody want to join me?”

Margie shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

“Sophie?” Bram grinned. “Come on. It will be fun.”

Sophie’s idea of fun didn’t include sweating. But then, if Bram could turn over a new leaf, so could she. Her figure had always been on the round side, even though her face, especially her eyes, reminded people of a waif in a Dickens novel. “I’ll meet you in a few minutes.”

On the way out, Margie paused next to a trestle table in the foyer. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding to the rusted metal box.

“One of my workmen found it in the subbasement yesterday. It belonged to my great-uncle on my mother’s side. Eli Salmela. See?” she said, picking it up. “His name’s on the back. I brought it up here because I thought Mom might like to see it when she gets back.”

“Looks old,” said Bram, fingering the padlock on the front.

“It is. Uncle Eli died forty years ago.”

“What’s a box that belonged to your great-uncle doing in the subbasement?” asked Bram.

“I’ve been thinking about that. I figure it must belong to my mom.”

“Then why wasn’t it in your parents’ storage locker?”

“Beats me,” said Sophie. She’d wondered about that herself.

Bram studied it a moment, then said, “Well, maybe I’m way off base here, but it seems pretty obvious to me. Your mother was trying to hide it. Most likely, from Henry.”

“Why would she do that?” asked Margie.

“Simple. She’s got a secret.”

“My mother doesn’t have secrets,” said Sophie indignantly. “She’s . . . my
mother
.”

Bram cringed. “Careful, Soph. You’re playing with universal karma. As soon as you say something like that, it’s almost a statistical certainty that you’ll learn some deep, dark, dastardly secret about your mom. Like maybe Pearl was a bank robber in her youth. Or, hey, what if she had a secret love affair with J.F.K.? Or what about—”

“You are
so
off base.”

“Maybe. But I’ll bet you money that there’s something juicy hidden inside that box.”

“Those locks are easy to pick,” said Margie, bending over to get a better look.

“I am
not
a lock picker,” said Sophie. If she’d had time last night, she might have opened it. But she’d changed her mind this morning. The lock was there for a reason. She had no business messing with her mother’s private life.

“It doesn’t look very sturdy,” said Bram, giving it a yank.

To everyone’s surprise, it came off in his hand.

“Oops,” he said, looking guilty.

“Maybe we can glue it back together,” said Sophie, grabbing it away from him.

“But, I mean, it almost
fell
off,” said Bram, assuming a soul-of-innocence expression. He started to raise the lid.

Sophie slammed it shut. “It still doesn’t give us the right to look at something that was obviously meant to be private.”

“I am suitably ashamed of myself,” said Bram with an undisguised smirk.

They all looked at one another, then watched Sophie place the box back on the table.

“Time to hit the walking machines,” said Sophie, snapping off the overhead light.

“But you
are
going to open it,” said Bram. It wasn’t a question. “Maybe not now, but before your mom gets home.”

“No,” said Sophie, her tone resolute.

“Betcha will,” he said, grinning.

“Stop looking so superior.”

“I can read you like a book.”

“Not always.”

“Come on, Margie,” said Bram, slipping his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and walking her out the door. “Let’s us
morally reprehensible
chickens leave the
righteous hen
to her ethical dilemma.”

“I’m right behind you,” said Sophie, closing and locking the door. She refused to entertain the idea that she would look inside.

And that was the end of that.

Pearl’s Notebook
March 29, 1972

I remember the next few hours with a vividness that
will never leave me. My regrets will follow me as well, because, as I said, I could have stopped what happened. I
could have prevented a tragedy. But the cost, oh how terrible it would have been—for me and my husband, for
Carl’s children, and for my dear daughter, Sophie. How
could I betray them all?

With the note Carl had received safely tucked into my
evening purse, I scanned the crowded living room to find
Henry, not that I needed to worry about him. Henry is in
his element at a party, the louder the better. He was
seated on one of the sofas, talking to several people I’d
never met. I waved at him and he waved back, but he went
on talking. That was good. I was free to find Carl.

I waded into the crowd and finally located him standing next to the bar, the one that his staff had set up in the
conservatory off the living room. He was facing away
from me, so I couldn’t see his expression. He held a drink
in his hand, but didn’t seem to be talking to anyone. With
one quick movement, he tipped his head back and finished
the drink, then held the glass out for another. When he
turned around, the look in his eyes made me shiver. The
rage I’d seen a few moments ago was still there, but it was
masked now, covered by an odd kind of blankness. Maybe
others couldn’t see behind the mask, but I could.

After downing a third drink, Carl made straight for the
front door. I followed, not knowing where he was going or
what he was about to do. The only thought in my mind
was that I had to talk to him. He was so clearly in trouble. I berated myself with every step I took. I’d never been
able to let go of him, not completely. That was my problem. My problem and his. We stayed friends when we
should have turned our backs on each other and lived totally separate lives. But the finality of that seemed too terrible. We simply couldn’t do it. Our connection was too
deep, our history too important. And then our daughters
became friends. Carl’s oldest son took a summer job at
the Maxfield, waiting on tables in the Zephyr Club. Our
lives seemed to intertwine no matter how we tried to keep
the past in a separate box.

When I stepped outside, I found that the wind had
picked up. It was one of those treacherous March nights
when a light rain could easily turn to sleet or snow. I’d left
my wrap inside, but it hardly seemed important. One of
the parking attendants had brought around Carl’s Cadillac and as I made my way down the steps from the porch,
I saw him slide into the front seat. I knew he was in no
shape to drive, so I rushed around the side of the car and
banged on the window. My wedding ring hit the glass and
that’s what finally got his attention. He squinted up at me
and rolled down the window.

“Pearl,” he said. His eyes looked glassy. “What are
you doing out here? Go back inside.”

I opened the door. “Move over.”

“What? Why?”

“Just do it.” I wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

“I need to be alone,” he said.

I reached in and turned off the motor, removing his car
keys.

“Hey.”

“Move over, Carl,” I said. “I mean it. You’re in no
shape to drive.”

He scowled at me, but finally relented.

Once he’d moved to the passenger’s seat, I got in and
started the engine. “You can be alone with me driving. I
won’t bother you. Consider me your chauffeur.” Before he
could object further, I put the car in gear and we were off.

Once we were away from the bright lights of the house,
I felt as if we’d entered a dark tunnel. The rain rushed at
our headlights, making it seem like we were going faster
than we really were. I switched on the windshield wipers,
but realized immediately that it wasn’t just the rain that
was the problem. Fog had started to form in the ditches
and creep across the road. There were a couple moments
when I wasn’t sure where the road ended and the field
began. But I kept going. We drove like that for a while, listening to the wipers slap back and forth, lulled, I think, by
the rhythm. Carl kept his eyes fixed firmly in front of him,
but I could tell that his mind was miles away.

Finally, we saw a dim light up ahead that heralded the
intersection of Polk Road and Highway 59. Carl said
there was a wide patch of grass next to the four-way-stop
and that I should pull over. I did, but I didn’t stop the engine. It had finally warmed inside the car and for that I
was grateful. I wasn’t shaking from the cold anymore, but
I was still shaking.