Dial M for Meat Loaf (14 page)

24

Homicide. The word had a smell to it. It was dirty. Urban. Not the kind of thing that happened in Rose Hill. Plato had seen the headline in the morning paper, and the word was so huge and black and ugly, it nearly jumped off the page and punched him in the gut.

Plato stormed into Byron Jenny’s office shortly after ten on Saturday morning. He’d made it crystal clear last Wednesday that no further mention of his father was to be made in the
Rose Hill Gazette
. Jenny had thumbed his nose at him. He’d connected the blackmail to the murder with the headline GRUESOME HOMICIDE TIED TO BLACKMAIL OF EX-MAYOR JOHN WASHBURN
.

“Can I help you?” asked Jenny, looking up from his tea.

Plato flung the crumpled Saturday edition across the desktop.

Jenny turned the paper around. “Today’s edition. One of our better efforts.”

“I gave you a direct order. No more coverage of my father’s legal problems.”

“Is that what you call murder? A legal problem?”

“I’m your boss. You do what I tell you.”

Jenny pursed his lips. “I’m a professional journalist, Mr. Washburn. I don’t take orders that compromise my judgment.”

“You
have
no judgment, you pedantic prig.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve got the execrable instincts of a tabloid hack.”

Jenny rose from his chair, meeting Plato’s eyes. “Careful. You’re about to exhaust your vocabulary.”

“I want your resignation.”

Slowly, Jenny pulled open the top desk drawer. He slipped his hand inside and took out a typed sheet of paper. Crumpling it into a ball, he tossed it at Plato’s chest. “There it is.”

Plato had expected an argument. A little healthy groveling. But Jenny wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. Fine. It was his funeral. “Don’t expect a letter of recommendation.”

Jenny glared at him, then threw his head back and laughed. And he kept laughing. Louder and louder. His face contorted. Tears leaked out of his eyes. He was a braying mule. A human gargoyle.

Plato stuck a finger in each ear to stifle the sound, but the laughter was like a virus seeping into his brain, making his instincts boil out of control. Before he knew what was happening, he had his hands around Jenny’s neck. He was squeezing and squeezing, enjoying the sensation of power, the look of Jenny’s face as it turned a deep purple. Jenny fought to push Plato away, but nothing could stop him. If he wanted, he could snap Jenny in two.

And then he let go.

Jenny fell backward into his chair, gasping for breath. “You’re insane,” he said, ripping his bow tie off and massaging his neck.

Plato loomed over him. “Maybe I am,” he said mildly, even cheerfully. “If you’re right, you better not mess with me or my family again. You got that?”

Jenny looked up at him, swallowing with some difficulty. After a moment, he gave a grudging nod.

“Clean out your desk and get out.”

Half an hour later, Plato pulled his car into his parents’ backyard. As he trotted up the back steps, a delicious smell tickled his nose. He’d been secretly hoping that nobody would be around today, that he’d have the house all to himself, but with Bernice still in town and his mother spending her days at home now, he knew it was unlikely.

After his run-in with Jenny, he felt uncharacteristically loose and lighthearted. He’d always shied away from confrontation before. Who knew it would be so much fun?

“Oh, good,” Bernice said as Plato entered the kitchen. “You got my message.”

“What message?” he asked, noticing that his mother was sitting at the kitchen table next to a man he’d never met before. Both of them had plates of food in front of them.

“I’m testing meat loaf recipes again today,” said Bernice, getting another plate out of the cupboard. “I called your house last night and talked to Kevin. You weren’t home, so I told him to be sure and tell you that I needed you to stop by this morning. I need another taster.”

On the counter, Bernice had lined up six plates of meat loaf. As he bent over to sniff the first one, he said, “I’d be happy to help.” The fact that he hadn’t received the message was just more proof that he was invisible at home.

“Oh,” said Bernice, handing him the plate and a fork. “I should introduce you to a friend of mine. Plato, this is Angelo Falzone. Angelo and I met while I was doing research on the New York club scene for my latest book.”

The two men shook hands.

“You from New York?” asked Plato, taking in Angelo’s shiny gray suit and gaudy gold jewelry. People dressed a certain way are never wrong, he thought to himself. Angelo was that kind of man. He looked rich and confident—and connected. He looked like a mobster.

“I was born in New Jersey,” said Angelo, resuming his place at the table. “But I was raised in Brooklyn.”

You could cut the New York accent with a knife. Plato took an instant dislike to him.

“Dish yourself up some food,” said his mother. “I know which one I like best.”

“How are you feeling today, Mom?” asked Plato, breaking off a piece of each loaf.

“Remarkably fine,” she said, dabbing a napkin at her mouth. “Your father had a good night. When he sleeps peacefully, so do I.”

Bernice watched expectantly as Plato tasted each piece.

“This one,” he said, finally, pointing his fork at the first loaf.

“We all agree then,” Bernice said with a triumphant smile. “Good. Now, I’ve got six more meat loafs coming out of the oven in a few minutes. You’ll stay, won’t you? I really need your help.”

“It’s a dirty job,” Angelo said with a smirk. “But somebody’s gotta do it.”

Trite,
Plato thought, setting his plate down. He leaned back against the counter. He might not have Angelo’s easy self-confidence, but he was feeling pretty pumped this morning. He’d dealt with one asshole; he might as well deal with another. “How come you’re in Rose Hill?”

Angelo shrugged. “I like to travel. I’ve never been in Minnesota before, but Bernice made it sound like a place I should visit. So—” He spread his arms. “Here I am.”

“That’s it?”

“What more do you want?”

“What do you do? For a living, I mean?”

“I own laundromats.”

“In New York City?”

“In and around, yeah.”

He looked pretty flush for a guy who owned laundromats. “Must be a good business.”

“I do all right.” He adjusted his diamond pinky ring.

“Mr. Falzone has been entertaining us with stories of his childhood,” said Plato’s mother, flashing him a look that said “stop the third degree.”

“I’ve had a . . . colorful life,” said Angelo, smiling at Bernice. “What can I say?”

Plato watched his sister. What was this guy to her? “Well, I’ll let you get on with your stories. I’ve got a few calls I should make. If you need me, I’ll be in Dad’s study.”

As he walked past his sister, he could see the relief in her eyes. She was glad he was going. My God, he thought. She’s sweet on the guy. Bernice was totally inexperienced when it came to men, and this proved it. Falzone was too slick to be anything other than a shark in pimp’s clothing. What did she think she was doing, getting mixed up with a man like that?

Charging purposefully through the living room, Plato was filled with disgust. He was the black sheep in the family, and yet here was his sister, bringing a man like that into their parents’ house. Was nothing sacred? It irritated him to no end that Bernice and his mother were buzzing around Falzone like bees around a flower. But then, if they were occupied, it gave Plato the opportunity he was looking for.

Entering the study, he stepped up to the bookshelf that ran in back of his father’s desk. Pushing the desk chair out of the way, he ran his finger down the first row of books. Then the second.

He was halfway through the third row when a voice behind him said, “Looking for something?”

Plato whirled around. It was Falzone. He was leaning against the door frame, chewing on a toothpick.

“Yes,” said Plato testily. “I’m looking for a book.” He bent back down and resumed his search.

“Not having much luck, huh?”

“It’s here. I’ll find it.”

“What’s the title?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s called
Total
Resistance
.”

“No kidding?”

Something in Falzone’s voice made Plato turn around. “You’ve heard of it?”

“What’s your father doing with a book like that?”

Plato felt his neck retract into his collar like a turtle’s into its shell. Why hadn’t he made something up, said he was looking for
Harry Potter and the Magic Vacuum
Cleaner
, or whatever the hell those books were titled. Now he had to give him an answer. In this case, the easiest way out of an uncomfortable situation was to tell the truth.

Sitting down in his dad’s office chair, Plato stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle. “It’s like this. Before my father’s stroke, he was into organic food, alternative medicine, vitamins. He even thought he might start grinding his own wheat. He began sending away for mail order this and that, started getting interested in storing food in bulk, just in case we were ever overrun by starving Canadians or Mexicans demanding their fair share of wheat berries. Over time, he got on a few really crazy mailing lists. That book was sent to him with a bunch of information on building a secret food bunker. I’m sure he never read it. He just stuffed it in his bookcase and forgot about it.”

“And so . . . you’re looking for it. Why?”

Because I’m a fraud, thought Plato. Just like my dad. “Because, when I grow up, I want to be a terrorist.”

Falzone reacted with a slow grin. “I guess it’s always good to have a goal.”

November, 1965

Dear Gilbert:

She’s dead, man. My wife, Laura. She’s gone. Just got
back from her funeral. I’m sitting here at the kitchen
table and I feel like I’m suffocating. My bags are packed
and in the car. I have to get out of here. Her sister looked
at me with such hate today. I think she might know the
truth, but hell, I’m not going to confirm it for her!

What am I going to do, Gil? I screwed everything up.
I’m just like my dad. God, I never wanted this to happen.
I loved her so much. I wanted to protect her. But, the
truth is, I hated her, too. I’ve never said that out loud to a
living soul. I told you about our problems, didn’t I?
What’s wrong with me? I can’t do anything right.

J. D.

25

Late Monday afternoon, Cora was back, rumbling down the county road to Melvin DuCharme’s cabin. This time, she was packing not only a shotgun, but a metal detector. She’d driven to Marshall on Saturday, rented the detector from Jiffy Rents on Pearl Street. No way was her little adventure going to get back to her friends in Rose Hill now. This was private business, and Cora intended to keep it that way.

Pulling up to the cabin shortly after two, she got out and walked around for a while, the loaded shot-gun tucked under her arm. It was one of Kirby’s. She’d never paid much attention to his gun collection before, thinking that all he owned were fancy rifles. She was pleasantly surprised to find an old shotgun in the gun cupboard, one very much like her father’s. She knew how to use a shotgun. If there were any more Peeping Toms or bears in the woods, they’d be messing with an
armed
old woman this time.

Finally, feeling confident she was alone, she yanked the metal detector and the shovel out of the backseat and headed for the dead willow. She could hear the crows making their usual racket long before the tree came into view. “Knock it off,” she yelled, but they kept right on. They probably thought she was invading their territory. She probably was, but if she got lucky, she wouldn’t stick around long.

It was another hot day. Sunlight fell slantingly through the hazy trees. The sharp tang of drying mud greeted her as she leaned the shotgun and the shovel against the willow and slipped her arm into the cuff of the metal detector. After switching it on and adjusting the dials like that man at the store had told her to do, she took the map and a compass out of her pocket. She paced it off just as she’d done last Friday, then held the round search coil two inches above the dirt and dried leaves. She watched the needle on the viewfinder as she walked slowly around the area. If Kirby had used a wooden box, or something plastic, she was up the creek without a paddle. But it hardly seemed likely he’d bury greenbacks in anything other than completely water-tight metal.

Halfway through her first pass, the needle twitched. Cora backed up and covered the area again. The needle moved into the red. “Bingo!” she shouted. It was only four feet or so from where she’d been digging on Friday, but four feet was the same as a mile.

Rushing back to the tree, she disengaged herself from the metal detector and grabbed the shovel. A few minutes later, she was the proud owner of a mud-encrusted jackknife. “Fudge,” she growled angrily, tossing it away. She’d never even considered the possibility of other metal items out there for her to find.

An hour later, she counted up what she’d discovered. Six beer caps. Three shotgun casings. A nail clipper. A rusted hand trowel. An Indian head penny, a quarter, and two bent nails. And, of course, her biggest find of the day: the jackknife.

Sitting down with her back against the willow, she studied the map again. What was she doing wrong? She must be missing something important. And that’s when she saw it. It was a little scratch at the bottom of the page. Something she’d overlooked before because it meant nothing to her. Now she wondered about it.

BKWDS

It was written so small, she could hardly make it out. But it meant something, she was sure of it. She repeated the letters out loud. “B . . . K . . . W . . . D . . . S.” She stared at them, scrunching up her face in thought. And then it hit her.

It was an abbreviation for “backwards.” If she reversed every direction, that’s where she’d find the buried treasure!

Pushing herself up with some difficulty, she slipped her arm into the metal detector cuff and repeated the directions, only this time, she reversed them. “Sixteen paces due south of the Devil’s Tree. Due west four paces. Northwest nine paces. X marks the spot.” She walked it off, using the compass as a guide. Then, turning on the detector, she felt a rush of excitement as she started her search again.

This time, the needle hit red almost immediately.

Cora began digging. About two feet down, she hit something hard. Using the rusted hand trowel, she carefully removed the earth from around it. She wasn’t positive, but it looked like a thick metal pipe, about fifteen inches long and maybe eight inches in diameter. Each end was enclosed by a rounded metal cap. By the time she’d freed it from the dirt, she realized it was extremely heavy. It was just like Kirby. He loved muscling things around. Even from the grave he was trying to make her feel puny.

Cora took the shovel and leveraged one end of it out of the hole. The cap appeared to be screwed on, so she tried to twist it off, but it wouldn’t budge.

Out of pure frustration, she stood up, grabbed the shovel, and gave it a whack. Her fingers stung and she felt the metal reverberate all the way up to her shoulders. But when she tried to twist off the cap a second time, it moved in her hand. A second later she was pulling money out of the hollow cylinder with both hands.

“Pay dirt!” she shrieked. The crows shrieked with her. Easing down onto the dirt, Cora counted the packages of hundred dollar bills, ten of them in all. Each package contained one hundred bills. One hundred thousand dollars. She was breathless! Ecstatic! Sure it was a rotten shame that Kirby had to die over it, but at least it wasn’t lost for all eternity.

Reaching one last time into the cylinder to make sure she’d gotten every last dollar, Cora realized there was something else inside. She carefully drew out a large manila envelope. Inside, she found a bunch of smaller envelopes with letters inside, all written to a man named Gilbert Struthers.

“What’s all this about?” she whispered, deciding to read the one postmarked July 1960. The letter was from a man named J. D. What he wrote wasn’t particularly interesting. He talked about getting married, becoming a salesman. Just newsy stuff. Looking back at the envelope, she realized this Gilbert Struthers was in prison. Interesting. These letters must be the goods Kirby had on John Washburn.

Cora might have opened a couple more, but she was starting to get nervous. Here she was, sitting out in the open with one hundred thousand dollars in her lap. She could read the rest of the letters later.

Scrambling to her feet, she cradled the money in her arms and hurried back to her car. She wished now that she’d brought a bag. After tucking the bills safely away in the trunk, she returned to the willow, lowered the metal cylinder back into the ground, then covered it with dirt and leaves. She tossed the bits of metal junk she’d found into the river, saving the penny for good luck, then hustled back to the car.

She was really on edge now. She should be on top of the world, but she was just plain scared. She had to get home and find a good hiding place for the bills. An odd thought crossed her mind briefly. She wondered whether the money would turn out to be a blessing or a curse. But how could one hundred thousand dollars be anything other than fabulous?